“It’s not a matter to joke about, sir,” she said. “Though I am not a witch, I say, and will maintain, that I am a better witness to the fact of which of the twins was born first than Gorthley could possibly be.”
“Still, madam,” continued the writer, “I fear it is only a comparison between the value of two ciphers; the one may look bigger than the other, but each is equal to nothing. It is true that we men don’t know much of these things, yet—I beg pardon, the subject is a little delicate—we know that when a lady bears twins she doesn’t take the first and mark it before she bears the second; and then if she doesn’t mark it in the very nick of time, it’s of no use, because the two babies get mixed in the bath, as an Irishman would say, and their being so like as one strawberry to another, no one can say that the one is not the other, or the other not the one.”
At which mention of the word strawberry, Lady Gorthley looked to Martha, and Martha looked to her, and they seemed puzzled.
“But however all that may be,” continued the lady, “what can you say to the evidence of Peggy Macintosh, the nurse, who will swear that Martha came first into the world?”
“I cannot answer that question,” said he, with the caution of his profession, “until I see Mrs Macintosh and examine her. There is also Jean Gilchrist, one of the servants, who was present, I have her to examine also, and then we will see where the truth lies. Oh! but I forgot there is Mrs Glennie, the midwife, the woman whose word will go farthest, because she had a better causa scientiæ.”
“I know nothing about Latin,” rejoined her ladyship angrily; “but as for Mrs Glennie, she’s dead years ago.”
“Ah, indeed,” said Mr Pollock, “if that is true we will have only the nurse and the servant for witnesses, and if they oppose each other, the one for Sarah and the other for Martha, and as it is true that you always treated Martha as the eldest, and Gorthley always insisted on Sarah as being the first-born, we will have an undecidable case, a thing that never occurred in Scotland before, perhaps not in the world, for you know Solomon would not allow any impossibility in deciding the case of the baby with the two mothers. But, madam, allow me to say, that as your husband, Mr Bruce, left directions that I, as agent for the family, should get Sarah served heir, and as you insist upon that being done for Martha, it will be necessary that you employ a man of business of your own, so that we may fight the battle fair out.”
“Well,” said the lady with an expression of bitterness in her face not much in harmony with her words, “since Gorthley has left the continuance of the strife as a legacy to his widow and children, I shall go to Mr Bayne as my agent, and authorise him to protect the rights of Martha, and fight it to the bitter end—bitter, I mean, for Sarah Bruce, who will never be Lady Gorthley.”
And with these words she left, accompanied by Martha, directing their steps to the office of Mr Bayne, who, as her ladyship’s private agent, knew very well of this most strange contention which had so long been maintained in Gorthley House. Nor, probably, was he displeased at it, any more than Mr Pollock had been. Gorthley estate was a large cheese, the cats were fierce, and there was plenty for even two monkeys, so he listened attentively to her ladyship’s statement that the nurse, Mrs Macintosh, would swear in favour of Martha, but she said never a word about Jean Gilchrist.
“The nurse’s evidence will go a great way, madam,” said he, “seeing the midwife is dead; but it will be satisfactory if Mrs Macintosh could condescend upon some mark which she noticed immediately at the time of the birth, for the two young ladies are really so like each other now I often confound them, nay, they confound me so that we cannot very well imagine how they could be distinguished when brought together soon after birth.”