"None," replied Sharp. "I have it on good authority that the warrant against you was in the act of being written out, when I hurried here, as you find, to save you. Shall I prepare the commission?"
"Yes, yes! as quick as an ellwand that leaps three inches short of the yard."
And, while he continued in this extremity of his despair, Sharp set about writing out the factory—short and general—giving all powers of uplifting money, and reserving none. It was signed. In a few minutes more, Mr Thriven was in a post-chaise, driving on to a seaport in England. The news of the flight of the honest merchant, with all the circumstances, soon reached the ear of the devout spinster, even as she was weeping over the result of the interview she had had with her cruel lover. She wiped her eyes and repressed her sobs, and congratulated herself on the consequences of her devout labours. Mr Thriven was not heard of again; neither was his cash.
THE MAN-OF-WAR'S MAN.
In the calm clear evenings of June and July, when the heat of the day has been abated, it has been my custom to walk forth to brace my nerves after the cares and fatigues of the day. Pent up for these thirty years in one of the dingy shops of the Luckenbooths, I have toiled to gain wealth enough to enable me to exchange the chimes of St Giles' bells for the singing of the larks; but, alas! I fear my ears will be too hard, and my eyes too dim, ere that time come when I may seek to enjoy the melody of the songsters, or the verdure of their habitations. Gradually already have they been becoming less cheering to me than they were in those young sunny days of my apprenticeship, when I used to sally forth as soon as I had given the keys to my master. I have still, however, the impressions of memory; and this summer they are as vivid as when they were real perceptions. While sitting at my desk, I wander, in fond recollection, around Arthur Seat, and fondly think that such evenings in June may be yet for me as I have enjoyed them. Such is the folly of men of business. From the month I commenced for myself, the lark has been singing less sweetly, and my loved haunts have been becoming less and less engaging. Have the vocalists of these times degenerated, and the fields become aged? The change cannot be in me; I am still in my vigour, and a bachelor. Fifty-two is not an old man—so spoke the heart's wishes—yet this fact is otherwise. Since that period when I took the cares of the world upon my own shoulders, I have, in general, been lost to everything else around me. The incubus of the counter and desk mounts upon my shoulders, and whispers in my ears of bills and debts unpaid, or to pay; and immediately, in place of the visions of my youth, ledgers and slips of paper, spangled with columns of figures, occupy what were once the sad recesses of love. Thus hag-ridden, yet still in search of happiness, have I stalked over the loveliest of the lovely scenes that abound around Edinburgh, almost unconscious of where I have been. And what has been the reward of all my cares? I have accumulated three thousand pounds, and some properties that yield what some would call good interest; and the making of this has been the unmaking of the sensibilities of enjoyment, without which it is nothing.
Such were my reflections before I had reached the last stile next to Samson's Ribs. Early visions of Duddingston Loch had haunted me through the day; and hence I had sought again the scene that so sweetly combines the Alpine and champaign, as if they here met to embrace. I had passed up through the valley between the Craigs and Arthur Seat, and continued sauntering along the narrow road, like one cast forth by all the world, gloomy and dissatisfied—my head leaning forward, my eyes fixed vacantly upon the ground, and my hands at my back. Some maidens and their swains were dancing beneath at the Wells of Weary,[3] to the measure of their own "wood-notes wild." My heart was touched almost to tears. The demon that drove enjoyment from my walks fled, and a flood of tender recollections flowed in upon it. On that verdant spot, thirty-two years before, I had been as happy and as joyous as the group before me, dancing to the same heart-stirring air, with one I had loved with all the fervour of a youthful heart, until the chilling influence of what the world calls prudence damped my flame, but could not extinguish it. She was now the dispenser of happiness and comfort to another, and the mother of a lovely family—not so rich in what the world calls wealth; how much richer was she in peace and joy! I had for years kept her heart in suspense, until it sickened at my undecided courtship and shuffling delays. I know she loved me better than all the world beside, and would have consented to be mine, whatever had been my lot—faithful and kind to me, also a soother of my soul, in all conditions, she would have been. To riches I had sacrificed her and myself. Alas! I found now their heart-searing consolations. Again and again have I striven to persuade myself that I acted wisely in delaying our union. I at the time even took praise for vanquishing the warmth of my love, that we might feel less the delay. Alas! I knew not woman's heart. My coolness pained and piqued her; and while I was all-intent upon acquiring wealth which she was to enjoy with me, another was warming that heart which I had chilled. She was wed unknown to me. I met the marriage party in the church. What would I have given, to have been able to roll back the wheels of Time, and throw upon them all my hopes of wealth, with the curse which they deserved.
In this reverie I stumbled upon an artist. He was drawing the scene of my dreams. A few words passed. He resumed; and I gazed upon the happy group which he was ably sketching, till early recollections raised a sigh almost amounting to a groan. The stranger started, and inquired if I was unwell. The sincere and sympathising tone of his voice interested me, and I requested to have the pleasure of looking at his sketch.
"You are most welcome," he replied: "but it is a mere scratch. I will be enabled to do much better soon. I mean it for the foreground of a picture I am painting, sir. I am one of the most fortunate fellows in the world; I always get what I wish just at the moment I want it, or at least soon after it."
This speech struck me as a most singular one from the person who made it. He was apparently about thirty years of age, with an open, generous countenance, which, though not handsome, exhibited the glance of the eye and lofty brow that spoke intellect and feeling.