"Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis," etc.,

while his wife could hardly persuade herself that all this was spoken of
Effie Deans, and by so competent a judge as the Duke of Argyle; and had
she been acquainted with Catullus, would have thought the fortunes of her
sister had reversed the whole passage.

She was, however, determined to obtain some indemnification for the
anxious feelings of the moment, by gaining all the intelligence she
could; and therefore ventured to make some inquiry about the husband of
the lady his Grace admired so much.

"He is very rich," replied the Duke; "of an ancient family, and has good
manners: but he is far from being such a general favourite as his wife.
Some people say he can be very pleasant--I never saw him so; but should
rather judge him reserved, and gloomy, and capricious. He was very wild
in his youth, they say, and has bad health; yet he is a good-looking man
enough--a great friend of your Lord High Commissioner of the Kirk, Mr.
Butler."

"Then he is the friend of a very worthy and honourable nobleman," said
Butler.

"Does he admire his lady as much as other people do?" said Jeanie, in a
low voice.

"Who--Sir George? They say he is very fond of her," said the Duke; "but I
observe she trembles a little when he fixes his eye on her, and that is
no good sign--But it is strange how I am haunted by this resemblance of
yours to Lady Staunton, in look and tone of voice. One would almost swear
you were sisters."

Jeanie's distress became uncontrollable, and beyond concealment. The Duke
of Argyle was much disturbed, good-naturedly ascribing it to his having
unwittingly recalled, to her remembrance her family misfortunes. He was
too well-bred to attempt to apologise; but hastened to change the
subject, and arrange certain points of dispute which had occurred betwixt
Duncan of Knock and the minister, acknowledging that his worthy
substitute was sometimes a little too obstinate, as well as too
energetic, in his executive measures.

Mr. Butler admitted his general merits; but said, "He would presume to
apply to the worthy gentleman the words of the poet to Marrucinus
Asinius,

                 Manu
                 Non belle uteris in joco atque vino."

The discourse being thus turned on parish business, nothing farther
occurred that can interest the reader.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH.

              Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,
                 And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
              Thence to be wrench'd by an unlineal hand,
                 No son of mine succeeding.
                                        Macbeth.

After this period, but under the most strict precautions against
discovery, the sisters corresponded occasionally, exchanging letters
about twice every year. Those of Lady Staunton spoke of her husband's
health and spirits as being deplorably uncertain; her own seemed also to
be sinking, and one of the topics on which she most frequently dwelt was
their want of family. Sir George Staunton, always violent, had taken some
aversion at the next heir, whom he suspected of having irritated his
friends against him during his absence; and he declared, he would
bequeath Willingham and all its lands to an hospital, ere that
fetch-and-carry tell-tale should inherit an acre of it.

"Had he but a child," said the unfortunate wife, "or had that luckless
infant survived, it would be some motive for living and for exertion. But
Heaven has denied us a blessing which we have not deserved."

Such complaints, in varied form, but turning frequently on the same
topic, filled the letters which passed from the spacious but melancholy
halls of Willingham, to the quiet and happy parsonage at Knocktarlitie.
Years meanwhile rolled on amid these fruitless repinings. John, Duke of
Argyle and Greenwich, died in the year 1743, universally lamented, but by
none more than by the Butlers, to whom his benevolence had been so
distinguished. He was succeeded by his brother Duke Archibald, with whom
they had not the same intimacy; but who continued the protection which
his brother had extended towards them. This, indeed, became more
necessary than ever; for, after the breaking out and suppression of the
rebellion in 1745, the peace of the country, adjacent to the Highlands,
was considerably disturbed. Marauders, or men that had been driven to
that desperate mode of life, quartered themselves in the fastnesses
nearest to the Lowlands, which were their scene of plunder; and there is
scarce a glen in the romantic and now peaceable Highlands of Perth,
Stirling, and Dumbartonshire, where one or more did not take up their
residence.

The prime pest of the parish of Knocktarlitie was a certain Donacha dhu
na Dunaigh, or Black Duncan the Mischievous, whom we have already
casually mentioned. This fellow had been originally a tinkler, or
_caird,_ many of whom stroll about these districts; but when all police
was disorganised by the civil war, he threw up his profession, and from
half thief became whole robber; and being generally at the head of three
or four active young fellows, and he himself artful, bold, and well
acquainted with the passes, he plied his new profession with emolument to
himself, and infinite plague to the country.

All were convinced that Duncan of Knock could have put down his namesake
Donacha any morning he had a mind; for there were in the parish a set of
stout young men, who had joined Argyle's banner in the war under his old
friend, and behaved very well on several occasions. And as for their
leader, as no one doubted his courage, it was generally supposed that
Donacha had found out the mode of conciliating his favour, a thing not
very uncommon in that age and country. This was the more readily
believed, as David Deans's cattle (being the property of the Duke) were
left untouched, when the minister's cows were carried off by the thieves.
Another attempt was made to renew the same act of rapine, and the cattle
were in the act of being driven off, when Butler, laying his profession
aside in a case of such necessity, put himself at the head of some of his
neighbours, and rescued the creagh, an exploit at which Deans attended in
person, notwithstanding his extreme old age, mounted on a Highland pony,
and girded with an old broadsword, likening himself (for he failed not to
arrogate the whole merit of the expedition) to David, the son of Jesse,
when he recovered the spoil of Ziklag from the Amalekites. This spirited
behaviour had so far a good effect, that Donacha dhu na Dunaigh kept his
distance for some time to come; and, though his distant exploits were
frequently spoken of, he did not exercise any depredations in that part
of the country. He continued to flourish, and to be heard of
occasionally, until the year 1751, when, if the fear of the second David
had kept him in check, fate released him from that restraint, for the
venerable patriarch of St. Leonard's was that year gathered to his
fathers.

David Deans died full of years and of honour. He is believed, for the
exact time of his birth is not known, to have lived upwards of ninety
years; for he used to speak of events as falling under his own knowledge,
which happened about the time of the battle of Bothwell Bridge. It was
said that he even bore arms there; for once, when a drunken Jacobite
laird wished for a Bothwell Brigg whig, that "he might stow the lugs out
of his head," David informed him with a peculiar austerity of
countenance, that, if he liked to try such a prank, there was one at his
elbow; and it required the interference of Butler to preserve the peace.

He expired in the arms of his beloved daughter, thankful for all the
blessings which Providence had vouchsafed to him while in this valley of
strife and toil--and thankful also for the trials he had been visited
with; having found them, he said, needful to mortify that spiritual pride
and confidence in his own gifts, which was the side on which the wily
Enemy did most sorely beset him. He prayed in the most affecting manner
for Jeanie, her husband, and her family, and that her affectionate duty
to the puir auld man might purchase her length of days here, and
happiness hereafter; then, in a pathetic petition, too well understood by
those who knew his family circumstances, he besought the Shepherd of
souls, while gathering his flock, not to forget the little one that had
strayed from the fold, and even then might be in the hands of the
ravening wolf.--He prayed for the national Jerusalem, that peace might be
in her land, and prosperity in her palaces--for the welfare of the
honourable House of Argyle, and for the conversion of Duncan of
Knockdunder. After this he was silent, being exhausted, nor did he again
utter anything distinctly. He was heard, indeed, to mutter something
about national defections, right-hand extremes, and left-hand failings
off; but, as May Hettly observed, his head was carried at the time; and
it is probable that these expressions occurred to him merely out of
general habit, and that he died in the full spirit of charity with all
men. About an hour afterwards he slept in the Lord.

Notwithstanding her father's advanced age, his death was a severe shock
to Mrs. Butler. Much of her time had been dedicated to attending to his
health and his wishes, and she felt as if part of her business in the
world was ended, when the good old man was no more. His wealth, which
came nearly to fifteen hundred pounds, in disposable capital, served to
raise the fortunes of the family at the Manse. How to dispose of this sum
for the best advantage of his family, was matter of anxious consideration
to Butler. "If we put it on heritable bond, we shall maybe lose the
interest; for there's that bond over Lounsbeck's land, your father could
neither get principal nor interest for it--If we bring it into the funds,
we shall maybe lose the principal and all, as many did in the South Sea
scheme. The little estate of Craigsture is in the market--it lies within
two miles of the Manse, and Knock says his Grace has no thought to buy
it. But they ask L2500, and they may, for it is worth the money; and were
I to borrow the balance, the creditor might call it up suddenly, or in
case of my death my family might be distressed."

"And so if we had mair siller, we might buy that bonny pasture-ground,
where the grass comes so early?" asked Jeanie.

"Certainly, my dear; and Knockdunder, who is a good judge, is strongly
advising me to it. To be sure it is his nephew that is selling it."

"Aweel, Reuben," said Jeanie, "ye maun just look up a text in Scripture,
as ye did when ye wanted siller before--just look up a text in the
Bible."

"Ah, Jeanie," said Butler, laughing and pressing her hand at the same
time, "the best people in these times can only work miracles once."

"We will see," said Jeanie composedly; and going to the closet in which
she kept her honey, her sugar, her pots of jelly, her vials of the more
ordinary medicines, and which served her, in short, as a sort of
store-room, she jangled vials and gallipots, till, from out the darkest
nook, well flanked by a triple row of bottles and jars, which she was
under the necessity of displacing, she brought a cracked brown cann, with
a piece of leather tied over the top. Its contents seemed to be written
papers, thrust in disorder into this uncommon _secre'taire._ But from
among these Jeanie brought an old clasped Bible, which had been David
Deans's companion in his earlier wanderings, and which he had given to
his daughter when the failure of his eyes had compelled him to use one of
a larger print. This she gave to Butler, who had been looking at her
motions with some surprise, and desired him to see what that book could
do for him. He opened the clasps, and to his astonishment a parcel of L50
bank-notes dropped out from betwixt the leaves, where they had been
separately lodged, and fluttered upon the floor. "I didna think to hae
tauld you o' my wealth, Reuben," said his wife, smiling at his surprise,
"till on my deathbed, or maybe on some family pinch; but it wad be better
laid out on yon bonny grass-holms, than lying useless here in this auld
pigg."

"How on earth came ye by that siller, Jeanie?--Why, here is more than a
thousand pounds," said Butler, lifting up and counting the notes.

"If it were ten thousand, it's a' honestly come by," said Jeanie; "and
troth I kenna how muckle there is o't, but it's a' there that ever I
got.--And as for how I came by it, Reuben--it's weel come by, and
honestly, as I said before--And it's mair folk's secret than mine, or ye
wad hae kend about it lang syne; and as for onything else, I am not free
to answer mair questions about it, and ye maun just ask me nane."

"Answer me but one," said Butler. "Is it all freely and indisputably your
own property, to dispose of it as you think fit?--Is it possible no one
has a claim in so large a sum except you?"

"It _was_ mine, free to dispose of it as I like," answered Jeanie; "and I
have disposed of it already, for now it is yours, Reuben--You are Bible
Butler now, as well as your forbear, that my puir father had sic an ill
will at. Only, if ye like, I wad wish Femie to get a gude share o't when
we are gane."

"Certainly, it shall be as you choose--But who on earth ever pitched on
such a hiding-place for temporal treasures?"

"That is just ane o' my auld-fashioned gates, as you ca' them, Reuben. I
thought if Donacha Dhu was to make an outbreak upon us, the Bible was the
last thing in the house he wad meddle wi'--but an ony mair siller should
drap in, as it is not unlikely, I shall e'en pay it ower to you, and ye
may lay it out your ain way."

"And I positively must not ask you how you have come by all this money?"
said the clergyman.

"Indeed, Reuben, you must not; for if you were asking me very sair I wad
maybe tell you, and then I am sure I would do wrong."

"But tell me," said Butler, "is it anything that distresses your own
mind?"

"There is baith weal and woe come aye wi' world's gear, Reuben; but ye
maun ask me naething mair--This siller binds me to naething, and can
never be speered back again."

"Surely," said Mr. Butler, when he had again counted over the money, as
if to assure himself that the notes were real, "there was never man in
the world had a wife like mine--a blessing seems to follow her."

"Never," said Jeanie, "since the enchanted princess in the bairn's fairy
tale, that kamed gold nobles out o' the tae side of her haffit locks, and
Dutch dollars out o' the tother. But gang away now, minister, and put by
the siller, and dinna keep the notes wampishing in your hand that gate,
or I shall wish them in the brown pigg again, for fear we get a black
cast about them--we're ower near the hills in these times to be thought
to hae siller in the house. And, besides, ye maun gree wi' Knockdunder,
that has the selling o' the lands; and dinna you be simple and let him
ken o' this windfa', but keep him to the very lowest penny, as if ye had
to borrow siller to make the price up."

In the last admonition, Jeanie showed distinctly, that, although she did
not understand how to secure the money which came into her hands
otherwise than by saving and hoarding it, yet she had some part of her
father David's shrewdness, even upon worldly subjects. And Reuben Butler
was a prudent man, and went and did even as his wife had advised him. The
news quickly went abroad into the parish that the minister had bought
Craigsture; and some wished him joy, and some "were sorry it had gane out
of the auld name." However, his clerical brethren, understanding that he
was under the necessity of going to Edinburgh about the ensuing
Whitsunday, to get together David Deans's cash to make up the
purchase-money of his new acquisition, took the opportunity to name him
their delegate to the General Assembly, or Convocation of the Scottish
Church, which takes place usually in the latter end of the month of May.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH.

              But who is this? what thing of sea or land--
                        Female of sex it seems--
              That so bedeck'd, ornate, and gay,
                        Comes this way sailing?
                                          Milton.

Not long after the incident of the Bible and the bank-notes, Fortune
showed that she could surprise Mrs Butler as well as her husband. The
Minister, in order to accomplish the various pieces of business which his
unwonted visit to Edinburgh rendered necessary, had been under the
necessity of setting out from home in the latter end of the month of
February, concluding justly that he would find the space betwixt his
departure and the term of Whitsunday (24th May) short enough for the
purpose of bringing forward those various debtors of old David Deans, out
of whose purses a considerable part of the price of his new purchase was
to be made good.

Jeanie was thus in the unwonted situation of inhabiting a lonely house,
and she felt yet more solitary from the death of the good old man who
used to divide her cares with her husband. Her children were her
principal resource, and to them she paid constant attention.

It happened a day or two after Butler's departure that, while she was
engaged in some domestic duties, she heard a dispute among the young
folk, which, being maintained with obstinacy, appeared to call for her
interference. All came to their natural umpire with their complaints.
Femie, not yet ten years old, charged Davie and Reubie with an attempt to
take away her book by force; and David and Reuben replied, the elder,
"That it was not a book for Femie to read," and Reuben, "That it was
about a bad woman."

"Where did you get the book, ye little hempie?" said Mrs. Butler. "How
dare ye touch papa's books when he is away?" But the little lady, holding
fast a sheet of crumpled paper, declared "It was nane o' papa's books,
and May Hettly had taken it off the muckle cheese which came from
Inverara;" for, as was very natural to suppose, a friendly intercourse,
with interchange of mutual civilities, was kept up from time to time
between Mrs. Dolly Dutton, now Mrs. MacCorkindale, and her former
friends.

Jeanie took the subject of contention out of the child's hand, to satisfy
herself of the propriety of her studies; but how much was she struck when
she read upon the title of the broadside-sheet, "The Last Speech,
Confession, and Dying Words of Margaret MacCraw, or Murdockson, executed
on Harabee Hill, near Carlisle, the  day of  1737." It was, indeed, one
of those papers which Archibald had bought at Longtown, when he
monopolised the pedlar's stock, which Dolly had thrust into her trunk out
of sheer economy. One or two copies, it seems, had remained in her
repositories at Inverary, till she chanced to need them in packing a
cheese, which, as a very superior production, was sent, in the way of
civil challenge, to the dairy at Knocktarlitie.

The title of this paper, so strangely fallen into the very hands from
which, in well-meant respect to her feelings, it had been so long
detained, was of itself sufficiently startling; but the narrative itself
was so interesting, that Jeanie, shaking herself loose from the children,
ran upstairs to her own apartment, and bolted the door, to peruse it
without interruption.

The narrative, which appeared to have been drawn up, or at least
corrected, by the clergyman who attended this unhappy woman, stated the
crime for which she suffered to have been "her active part in that
atrocious robbery and murder, committed near two years since near
Haltwhistle, for which the notorious Frank Levitt was committed for trial
at Lancaster assizes. It was supposed the evidence of the accomplice
Thomas Tuck, commonly called Tyburn Tom, upon which the woman had been
convicted, would weigh equally heavy against him; although many were
inclined to think it was Tuck himself who had struck the fatal blow,
according to the dying statement of Meg Murdockson."

After a circumstantial account of the crime for which she suffered, there
was a brief sketch of Margaret's life. It was stated that she was a
Scotchwoman by birth, and married a soldier in the Cameronian
regiment--that she long followed the camp, and had doubtless acquired in
fields of battle, and similar scenes, that ferocity and love of plunder
for which she had been afterwards distinguished--that her husband,
having obtained his discharge, became servant to a beneficed clergyman
of high situation and character in Lincolnshire, and that she acquired
the confidence and esteem of that honourable family. She had lost this
many years after her husband's death, it was stated, in consequence of
conniving at the irregularities of her daughter with the heir of the
family, added to the suspicious circumstances attending the birth of a
child, which was strongly suspected to have met with foul play, in order
to preserve, if possible, the girl's reputation. After this she had led
a wandering life both in England and Scotland, under colour sometimes of
telling fortunes, sometimes of driving a trade in smuggled wares, but,
in fact, receiving stolen goods, and occasionally actively joining in
the exploits by which they were obtained. Many of her crimes she had
boasted of after conviction, and there was one circumstance for which
she seemed to feel a mixture of joy and occasional compunction. When she
was residing in the suburbs of Edinburgh during the preceding summer, a
girl, who had been seduced by one of her confederates, was intrusted to
her charge, and in her house delivered of a male infant. Her daughter,
whose mind was in a state of derangement ever since she had lost her own
child, according to the criminal's account, carried off the poor girl's
infant, taking it for her own, of the reality of whose death she at
times could not be persuaded.

Margaret Murdockson stated that she, for some time, believed her daughter
had actually destroyed the infant in her mad fits, and that she gave the
father to understand so, but afterwards learned that a female stroller
had got it from her. She showed some compunction at having separated
mother and child, especially as the mother had nearly suffered death,
being condemned, on the Scotch law, for the supposed murder of her
infant. When it was asked what possible interest she could have had in
exposing the unfortunate girl to suffer for a crime she had not
committed, she asked, if they thought she was going to put her own
daughter into trouble to save another? She did not know what the Scotch
law would have done to her for carrying the child away. This answer was
by no means satisfactory to the clergyman, and he discovered, by close
examination, that she had a deep and revengeful hatred against the young
person whom she had thus injured. But the paper intimated, that, whatever
besides she had communicated upon this subject was confided by her in
private to the worthy and reverend Archdeacon who had bestowed such
particular pains in affording her spiritual assistance. The broadside
went on to intimate, that, after her execution, of which the particulars
were given, her daughter, the insane person mentioned more than once, and
who was generally known by the name of Madge Wildfire, had been very
ill-used by the populace, under the belief that she was a sorceress, and
an accomplice in her mother's crimes, and had been with difficulty
rescued by the prompt interference of the police.

Such (for we omit moral reflections, and all that may seem unnecessary to
the explanation of our story) was the tenor of the broadside. To Mrs.
Butler it contained intelligence of the highest importance, since it
seemed to afford the most unequivocal proof of her sister's innocence
respecting the crime for which she had so nearly suffered. It is true,
neither she nor her husband, nor even her father, had ever believed her
capable of touching her infant with an unkind hand when in possession of
her reason; but there was a darkness on the subject, and what might have
happened in a moment of insanity was dreadful to think upon. Besides,
whatever was their own conviction, they had no means of establishing
Effie's innocence to the world, which, according to the tenor of this
fugitive publication, was now at length completely manifested by the
dying confession of the person chiefly interested in concealing it.

After thanking God for a discovery so dear to her feelings, Mrs. Butler
began to consider what use she should make of it. To have shown it to her
husband would have been her first impulse; but, besides that he was
absent from home, and the matter too delicate to be the subject of
correspondence by an indifferent penwoman, Mrs. Butler recollected that
he was not possessed of the information necessary to form a judgment upon
the occasion; and that, adhering to the rule which she had considered as
most advisable, she had best transmit the information immediately to her
sister, and leave her to adjust with her husband the mode in which they
should avail themselves of it. Accordingly, she despatched a special
messenger to Glasgow with a packet, enclosing the Confession of Margaret
Murdockson, addressed, as usual, under cover, to Mr. Whiterose of York.
She expected, with anxiety, an answer, but none arrived in the usual
course of post, and she was left to imagine how many various causes might
account for Lady Staunton's silence. She began to be half sorry that she
had parted with the printed paper, both for fear of its having fallen
into bad hands, and from the desire of regaining the document which might
be essential to establish her sister's innocence. She was even doubting
whether she had not better commit the whole matter to her husband's
consideration, when other incidents occurred to divert her purpose.

Jeanie (she is a favourite, and we beg her pardon for still using the
familiar title) had walked down to the sea-side with her children one
morning after breakfast, when the boys, whose sight was more
discriminating than hers, exclaimed, that "the Captain's coach and six
was coming right for the shore, with ladies in it." Jeanie instinctively
bent her eyes on the approaching boat, and became soon sensible that
there were two females in the stern, seated beside the gracious Duncan,
who acted as pilot. It was a point of politeness to walk towards the
landing-place, in order to receive them, especially as she saw that the
Captain of Knockdunder was upon honour and ceremony. His piper was in the
bow of the boat, sending forth music, of which one half sounded the
better that the other was drowned by the waves and the breeze. Moreover,
he himself had his brigadier wig newly frizzed, his bonnet (he had
abjured the cocked-hat) decorated with Saint George's red cross, his
uniform mounted as a captain of militia, the Duke's flag with the boar's
head displayed--all intimated parade and gala.

As Mrs. Butler approached the landing-place, she observed the Captain
hand the ladies ashore with marks of great attention, and the parties
advanced towards her, the Captain a few steps before the two ladies, of
whom the taller and elder leaned on the shoulder of the other, who seemed
to be an attendant or servant.

As they met, Duncan, in his best, most important, and deepest tone of
Highland civility, "pegged leave to introduce to Mrs. Putler,
Lady--eh--eh--I hae forgotten your leddyship's name!"

"Never mind my name, sir," said the lady; "I trust Mrs. Butler will be at
no loss. The Duke's letter"--And, as she observed Mrs. Butler look
confused, she said again to Duncan somethin sharply, "Did you not send
the letter last night, sir?"

"In troth and I didna, and I crave your leddyship's pardon; but you see,
matam, I thought it would do as weel to-tay, pecause Mrs. Putler is never
taen out o'sorts--never--and the coach was out fishing--and the gig was
gane to Greenock for a cag of prandy--and--Put here's his Grace's
letter."

"Give it me, sir," said the lady, taking it out of his hand; "since you
have not found it convenient to do me the favour to send it before me, I
will deliver it myself."

Mrs. Butler looked with great attention, and a certain dubious feeling of
deep interest, on the lady, who thus expressed herself with authority
over the man of authority, and to whose mandates he seemed to submit,
resigning the letter with a "Just as your leddyship is pleased to order
it."

The lady was rather above the middle size, beautifully made, though
something _embonpoint,_ with a hand and arm exquisitely formed. Her
manner was easy, dignified, and commanding, and seemed to evince high
birth and the habits of elevated society. She wore a travelling dress--a
grey beaver hat, and a veil of Flanders lace. Two footmen, in rich
liveries, who got out of the barge, and lifted out a trunk and
portmanteau, appeared to belong to her suite.

"As you did not receive the letter, madam, which should have served for
my introduction--for I presume you are Mrs. Butler--I will not present it
to you till you are so good as to admit me into your house without it."

"To pe sure, matam," said Knockdunder, "ye canna doubt Mrs. Putler will
do that.--Mrs. Putler, this is Lady--Lady--these tamned Southern names
rin out o' my head like a stane trowling down hill--put I believe she is
a Scottish woman porn--the mair our credit--and I presume her leddyship
is of the house of--"

"The Duke of Argyle knows my family very well, sir," said the lady, in a
tone which seemed designed to silence Duncan, or, at any rate, which had
that effect completely.

There was something about the whole of this stranger's address, and tone,
and manner, which acted upon Jeanie's feelings like the illusions of a
dream, that tease us with a puzzling approach to reality. Something there
was of her sister in the gait and manner of the stranger, as well as in
the sound of her voice, and something also, when, lifting her veil, she
showed features, to which, changed as they were in expression and
complexion, she could not but attach many remembrances.

The stranger was turned of thirty certainly; but so well were her
personal charms assisted by the power of dress, and arrangement of
ornament, that she might well have passed for one-and-twenty. And her
behaviour was so steady and so composed, that, as often as Mrs. Butler
perceived anew some point of resemblance to her unfortunate sister, so
often the sustained self-command and absolute composure of the stranger
destroyed the ideas which began to arise in her imagination. She led the
way silently towards the Manse, lost in a confusion of reflections, and
trusting the letter with which she was to be there intrusted, would
afford her satisfactory explanation of what was a most puzzling and
embarrassing scene.

The lady maintained in the meanwhile the manners of a stranger of rank.
She admired the various points of view like one who has studied nature,
and the best representations of art. At length she took notice of the
children.

"These are two fine young mountaineers--Yours, madam, I presume?"

Jeanie replied in the affirmative. The stranger sighed, and sighed once
more as they were presented to her by name.

"Come here, Femie," said Mrs. Butler, "and hold your head up."

"What is your daughter's name, madam?" said the lady.

"Euphemia, madam," answered Mrs. Butler.

"I thought the ordinary Scottish contraction of the name had been Effie;"
replied the stranger, in a tone which went to Jeanie's heart; for in that
single word there was more of her sister--more of _lang syne_ ideas--than
in all the reminiscences which her own heart had anticipated, or the
features and manner of the stranger had suggested.

When they reached the Manse, the lady gave Mrs. Butler the letter which
she had taken out of the hands of Knockdunder; and as she gave it she
pressed her hand, adding aloud, "Perhaps, madam, you will have the
goodness to get me a little milk!"

"And me a drap of the grey-peard, if you please, Mrs. Putler," added
Duncan.

Mrs. Butler withdrew; but, deputing to May Hettly and to David the supply
of the strangers' wants, she hastened into her own room to read the
letter. The envelope was addressed in the Duke of Argyle's hand, and
requested Mrs. Butler's attentions and civility to a lady of rank, a
particular friend of his late brother, Lady Staunton of Willingham, who,
being recommended to drink goats' whey by the physicians, was to honour
the Lodge at Roseneath with her residence, while her husband made a short
tour in Scotland. But within the same cover, which had been given to Lady
Staunton unsealed, was a letter from that lady, intended to prepare her
sister for meeting her, and which, but for the Captain's negligence, she
ought to have received on the preceding evening. It stated that the news
in Jeanie's last letter had been so interesting to her husband, that he
was determined to inquire farther into the confession made at Carlisle,
and the fate of that poor innocent, and that, as he had been in some
degree successful, she had, by the most earnest entreaties, extorted
rather than obtained his permission, under promise of observing the most
strict incognito, to spend a week or two with her sister, or in her
neighbourhood, while he was prosecuting researches, to which (though it
appeared to her very vainly) he seemed to attach some hopes of success.

There was a postscript, desiring that Jeanie would trust to Lady S. the
management of their intercourse, and be content with assenting to what
she should propose. After reading and again reading the letter, Mrs.
Butler hurried down stairs, divided betwixt the fear of betraying her
secret, and the desire to throw herself upon her sister's neck. Effie
received her with a glance at once affectionate and cautionary, and
immediately proceeded to speak.

"I have been telling Mr. ------, Captain , this gentleman, Mrs. Butler,
that if you could accommodate me with an apartment in your house, and a
place for Ellis to sleep, and for the two men, it would suit me better
than the Lodge, which his Grace has so kindly placed at my disposal. I am
advised I should reside as near where the goats feed as possible."

"I have peen assuring my leddy, Mrs. Putler," said Duncan, "that though
it could not discommode you to receive any of his Grace's visitors or
mine, yet she had mooch petter stay at the Lodge; and for the gaits, the
creatures can be fetched there, in respect it is mair fitting they suld
wait upon her Leddyship, than she upon the like o' them."

"By no means derange the goats for me," said Lady Staunton; "I am certain
the milk must be much better here." And this she said with languid
negligence, as one whose slightest intimation of humour is to bear down
all argument.

Mrs. Butler hastened to intimate, that her house, such as it was, was
heartily at the disposal of Lady Staunton; but the Captain continued to
remonstrate..

"The Duke," he said, "had written"

"I will settle all that with his Grace"

"And there were the things had been sent down frae Glasco"

"Anything necessary might be sent over to the Parsonage--She would beg
the favour of Mrs. Butler to show her an apartment, and of the Captain to
have her trunks, etc., sent over from Roseneath."

So she courtesied off poor Duncan, who departed, saying in his secret
soul, "Cot tamn her English impudence!--she takes possession of the
minister's house as an it were her ain--and speaks to shentlemens as if
they were pounden servants, and per tamned to her!--And there's the deer
that was shot too--but we will send it ower to the Manse, whilk will pe
put civil, seeing I hae prought worthy Mrs. Putler sic a fliskmahoy."--
And with these kind intentions, he went to the shore to give his orders
accordingly.

In the meantime, the meeting of the sisters was as affectionate as it was
extraordinary, and each evinced her feelings in the way proper to her
character. Jeanie was so much overcome by wonder, and even by awe, that
her feelings were deep, stunning, and almost overpowering. Effie, on the
other hand, wept, laughed, sobbed, screamed, and clapped her hands for
joy, all in the space of five minutes, giving way at once, and without
reserve, to a natural excessive vivacity of temper, which no one,
however, knew better how to restrain under the rules of artificial
breeding.

After an hour had passed like a moment in their expressions of mutual
affection, Lady Staunton observed the Captain walking with impatient
steps below the window. "That tiresome Highland fool has returned upon
our hands," she said. "I will pray him to grace us with his absence."

"Hout no! hout no!" said Mrs. Butler, in a tone of entreaty; "ye maunna
affront the Captain."

"Affront?" said Lady Staunton; "nobody is ever affronted at what I do or
say, my dear. However, I will endure him, since you think it proper."

The Captain was accordingly graciously requested by Lady Staunton to
remain during dinner. During this visit his studious and punctilious
complaisance towards the lady of rank was happily contrasted by the
cavalier air of civil familiarity in which he indulged towards the
minister's wife.

"I have not been able to persuade Mrs. Butler," said Lady Staunton to the
Captain, during the interval when Jeanie had left the parlour, "to let me
talk of making any recompense for storming her house, and garrisoning it
in the way I have done."

"Doubtless, matam," said the Captain, "it wad ill pecome Mrs. Putler, wha
is a very decent pody, to make any such sharge to a lady who comes from
my house, or his Grace's, which is the same thing.--And speaking of
garrisons, in the year forty-five, I was poot with a garrison of twenty
of my lads in the house of Inver-Garry, whilk had near been unhappily,
for--"

"I beg your pardon, sir--But I wish I could think of some way of
indemnifying this good lady."

"O, no need of intemnifying at all--no trouble for her, nothing at all--
So, peing in the house of Inver-Garry, and the people about it being
uncanny, I doubted the warst, and--"

"Do you happen to know, sir," said Lady Staunton, "if any of these two
lads, these young Butlers, I mean, show any turn for the army?"

"Could not say, indeed, my leddy," replied Knockdunder--"So, I knowing
the people to pe unchancy, and not to lippen to, and hearing a pibroch in
the wood, I pegan to pid my lads look to their flints, and then--"

"For," said Lady Staunton, with the most ruthless disregard to the
narrative which she mangled by these interruptions, "if that should be
the case, it should cost Sir George but the asking a pair of colours for
one of them at the War-Office, since we have always supported Government,
and never had occasion to trouble ministers."

"And if you please, my leddy," said Duncan, who began to find some savour
in this proposal, "as I hae a braw weel-grown lad of a nevoy, ca'd Duncan
MacGilligan, that is as pig as paith the Putler pairns putten thegither,
Sir George could ask a pair for him at the same time, and it wad pe put
ae asking for a'."

Lady Staunton only answered this hint with a well-bred stare, which gave
no sort of encouragement.

Jeanie, who now returned, was lost in amazement at the wonderful
difference betwixt the helpless and despairing girl, whom she had seen
stretched on a flock-bed in a dungeon, expecting a violent and
disgraceful death, and last as a forlorn exile upon the midnight beach,
with the elegant, well-bred, beautiful woman before her. The features,
now that her sister's veil was laid aside, did not appear so extremely
different, as the whole manner, expression, look, and bearing. In outside
show, Lady Staunton seemed completely a creature too soft and fair for
sorrow to have touched; so much accustomed to have all her whims complied
with by those around her, that she seemed to expect she should even be
saved the trouble of forming them; and so totally unacquainted with
contradiction, that she did not even use the tone of self-will, since to
breathe a wish was to have it fulfilled. She made no ceremony of ridding
herself of Duncan as soon as the evening approached; but complimented him
out of the house under pretext of fatigue, with the utmost _nonchalance._

When they were alone, her sister could not help expressing her wonder at
the self-possession with which Lady Staunton sustained her part.

"I daresay you are surprised at it," said Lady Staunton composedly; "for
you, my dear Jeanie, have been truth itself from your cradle upwards; but
you must remember that I am a liar of fifteen years' standing, and
therefore must by this time be used to my character."

In fact, during the feverish tumult of feelings excited during the two or
three first days, Mrs. Butler thought her sister's manner was completely
contradictory of the desponding tone which pervaded her correspondence.
She was moved to tears, indeed, by the sight of her father's grave,
marked by a modest stone recording his piety and integrity; but lighter
impressions and associations had also power over her. She amused herself
with visiting the dairy, in which she had so long been assistant, and was
so near discovering herself to May Hettly, by betraying her acquaintance
with the celebrated receipt for Dunlop cheese, that she compared herself
to Bedreddin Hassan, whom the vizier, his father-in-law, discovered by
his superlative skill in composing cream-tarts with pepper in them. But
when the novelty of such avocations ceased to amuse her, she showed to
her sister but too plainly, that the gaudy colouring with which she
veiled her unhappiness afforded as little real comfort, as the gay
uniform of the soldier when it is drawn over his mortal wound. There were
moods and moments, in which her despondence seemed to exceed even that
which she herself had described in her letters, and which too well
convinced Mrs. Butler how little her sister's lot, which in appearance
was so brilliant, was in reality to be envied.

There was one source, however, from which Lady Staunton derived a pure
degree of pleasure. Gifted in every particular with a higher degree of
imagination than that of her sister, she was an admirer of the beauties
of nature, a taste which compensates many evils to those who happen to
enjoy it. Here her character of a fine lady stopped short, where she
ought to have

          Scream'd at ilk cleugh, and screech'd at ilka how,
                As loud as she had seen the worrie-cow.

On the contrary, with the two boys for her guides, she undertook long and
fatiguing walks among the neighbouring mountains, to visit glens, lakes,
waterfalls, or whatever scenes of natural wonder or beauty lay concealed
among their recesses. It is Wordsworth, I think, who, talking of an old
man under difficulties, remarks, with a singular attention to nature,

                 Whether it was care that spurr'd him,
                 God only knows; but to the very last,
                 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale.

In the same manner, languid, listless, and unhappy, within doors, at
times even indicating something which approached near to contempt of the
homely accommodations of her sister's house, although she instantly
endeavoured, by a thousand kindnesses, to atone for such ebullitions of
spleen, Lady Staunton appeared to feel interest and energy while in the
open air, and traversing the mountain landscapes in society with the two
boys, whose ears she delighted with stories of what she had seen in other
countries, and what she had to show them at Willingham Manor. And they,
on the other hand, exerted themselves in doing the honours of
Dumbartonshire to the lady who seemed so kind, insomuch that there was
scarce a glen in the neighbouring hills to which they did not introduce
her.

Upon one of these excursions, while Reuben was otherwise employed, David
alone acted as Lady Staunton's guide, and promised to show her a cascade
in the hills, grander and higher than any they had yet visited. It was a
walk of five long miles, and over rough ground, varied, however, and
cheered, by mountain views, and peeps now of the firth and its islands,
now of distant lakes, now of rocks and precipices. The scene itself, too,
when they reached it, amply rewarded the labour of the walk. A single
shoot carried a considerable stream over the face of a black rock, which
contrasted strongly in colour with the white foam of the cascade, and, at
the depth of about twenty feet, another rock intercepted the view of the
bottom of the fall. The water, wheeling out far beneath, swept round the
crag, which thus bounded their view, and tumbled down the rocky glen in a
torrent of foam. Those who love nature always desire to penetrate into
its utmost recesses, and Lady Staunton asked David whether there was not
some mode of gaining a view of the abyss at the foot of the fall. He said
that he knew a station on a shelf on the farther side of the intercepting
rock, from which the whole waterfall was visible, but that the road to it
was steep and slippery and dangerous. Bent, however, on gratifying her
curiosity, she desired him to lead the way; and accordingly he did so
over crag and stone, anxiously pointing out to her the resting-places
where she ought to step, for their mode of advancing soon ceased to be
walking, and became scrambling.

In this manner, clinging like sea-birds to the face of the rock, they
were enabled at length to turn round it, and came full in front of the
fall, which here had a most tremendous aspect, boiling, roaring, and
thundering with unceasing din, into a black cauldron, a hundred feet at
least below them, which resembled the crater of a volcano. The noise, the
dashing of the waters, which gave an unsteady appearance to all around
them, the trembling even of the huge crag on which they stood, the
precariousness of their footing, for there was scarce room for them to
stand on the shelf of rock which they had thus attained, had so powerful
an effect on the senses and imagination of Lady Staunton, that she called
out to David she was falling, and would in fact have dropped from the
crag had he not caught hold of her. The boy was bold and stout of his
age--still he was but fourteen years old, and as his assistance gave no
confidence to Lady Staunton, she felt her situation become really
perilous. The chance was, that, in the appalling novelty of the
circumstances, he might have caught the infection of her panic, in which
case it is likely that both must have perished. She now screamed with
terror, though without hope of calling any one to her assistance. To her
amazement, the scream was answered by a whistle from above, of a tone so
clear and shrill, that it was heard even amid the noise of the waterfall.

In this moment of terror and perplexity, a human face, black, and having
grizzled hair hanging down over the forehead and cheeks, and mixing with
mustaches and a beard of the same colour, and as much matted and tangled,
looked down on them from a broken part of the rock above.

"It is the Enemy!" said the boy, who had very nearly become incapable of
supporting Lady Staunton.

"No, no," she exclaimed, inaccessible to supernatural terrors, and
restored to the presence of mind of which she had been deprived by the
danger of her situation, "it is a man--For God's sake, my friend, help
us!"

The face glared at them, but made no answer; in a second or two
afterwards, another, that of a young lad, appeared beside the first,
equally swart and begrimed, but having tangled black hair, descending in
elf-locks, which gave an air of wildness and ferocity to the whole
expression of the countenance. Lady Staunton repeated her entreaties,
clinging to the rock with more energy, as she found that, from the
superstitious terror of her guide, he became incapable of supporting her.
Her words were probably drowned in the roar of the falling stream, for,
though she observed the lips of the young being whom she supplicated move
as he spoke in reply, not a word reached her ear.

A moment afterwards it appeared he had not mistaken the nature of her
supplication, which, indeed, was easy to be understood from her situation
and gestures. The younger apparition disappeared, and immediately after
lowered a ladder of twisted osiers, about eight feet in length, and made
signs to David to hold it fast while the lady ascended. Despair gives
courage, and finding herself in this fearful predicament, Lady Staunton
did not hesitate to risk the ascent by the precarious means which this
accommodation afforded; and, carefully assisted by the person who had
thus providentially come to her aid, she reached the summit in safety.
She did not, however, even look around her until she saw her nephew
lightly and actively follow her examples although there was now no one to
hold the ladder fast. When she saw him safe she looked round, and could
not help shuddering at the place and company in which she found herself.
They were on a sort of platform of rock, surrounded on every side by
precipices, or overhanging cliffs, and which it would have been scarce
possible for any research to have discovered, as it did not seem to be
commanded by any accessible position. It was partly covered by a huge
fragment of stone, which, having fallen from the cliffs above, had been
intercepted by others in its descent, and jammed so as to serve for a
sloping roof to the farther part of the broad shelf or platform on which
they stood. A quantity of withered moss and leaves, strewed beneath this
rude and wretched shelter, showed the lairs,--they could not be termed
the beds,--of those who dwelt in this eyrie, for it deserved no other
name. Of these, two were before Lady Staunton. One, the same who had
afforded such timely assistance, stood upright before them, a tall,
lathy, young savage; his dress a tattered plaid and philabeg, no shoes,
no stockings, no hat or bonnet, the place of the last being supplied by
his hair, twisted and matted like the _glibbe_ of the ancient wild Irish,
and, like theirs, forming a natural thick-set stout enough to bear off
the cut of a sword. Yet the eyes of the lad were keen and sparkling; his
gesture free and noble, like that of all savages. He took little notice
of David Butler, but gazed with wonder on Lady Staunton, as a being
different probably in dress, and superior in beauty, to anything he had
ever beheld. The old man, whose face they had first seen, remained
recumbent in the same posture as when he had first looked down on them,
only his face was turned towards them as he lay and looked up with a lazy
and listless apathy, which belied the general expression of his dark and
rugged features. He seemed a very tall man, but was scarce better clad
than the younger. He had on a loose Lowland greatcoat, and ragged tartan
trews or pantaloons. All around looked singularly wild and unpropitious.
Beneath the brow of the incumbent rock was a charcoal fire, on which
there was a still working, with bellows, pincers, hammers, a movable
anvil, and other smith's tools; three guns, with two or three sacks and
barrels, were disposed against the wall of rock, under shelter of the
superincumbent crag; a dirk and two swords, and a Lochaber axe, lay
scattered around the fire, of which the red glare cast a ruddy tinge on
the precipitous foam and mist of the cascade. The lad, when he had
satisfied his curiosity with staring at Lady Staunton, fetched an earthen
jar and a horn-cup, into which he poured some spirits, apparently hot
from the still, and offered them successively to the lady and to the boy.
Both declined, and the young savage quaffed off the draught, which could
not amount to less than three ordinary glasses. He then fetched another
ladder from the corner of the cavern, if it could be termed so, adjusted
it against the transverse rock, which served as a roof, and made signs
for the lady to ascend it, while he held it fast below. She did so, and
found herself on the top of a broad rock, near the brink of the chasm
into which the brook precipitates itself. She could see the crest of the
torrent flung loose down the rock, like the mane of a wild horse, but
without having any view of the lower platform from which she had
ascended.

David was not suffered to mount so easily; the lad, from sport or love of
mischief, shook the ladder a good deal as he ascended, and seemed to
enjoy the terror of young Butler, so that, when they had both come up,
they looked on each other with no friendly eyes. Neither, however, spoke.
The young caird, or tinker, or gipsy, with a good deal of attention,
assisted Lady Staunton up a very perilous ascent which she had still to
encounter, and they were followed by David Butler, until all three stood
clear of the ravine on the side of a mountain, whose sides were covered
with heather and sheets of loose shingle. So narrow was the chasm out of
which they ascended, that, unless when they were on the very verge, the
eye passed to the other side without perceiving the existence of a rent
so fearful, and nothing was seen of the cataract, though its deep hoarse
voice was still heard.

Lady Staunton, freed from the danger of rock and river, had now a new
subject of anxiety. Her two guides confronted each other with angry
countenances; for David, though younger by two years at least, and much
shorter, was a stout, well-set, and very bold boy.

"You are the black-coat's son of Knocktarlitie," said the young caird;
"if you come here again, I'll pitch you down the linn like a foot-ball."

"Ay, lad, ye are very short to be sae lang," retorted young Butler
undauntedly, and measuring his opponent's height with an undismayed eye;
"I am thinking you are a gillie of Black Donacha; if you come down the
glen, we'll shoot you like a wild buck."

"You may tell your father," said the lad, "that the leaf on the timber is
the last he shall see--we will hae amends for the mischief he has done to
us."

"I hope he will live to see mony simmers, and do ye muckle mair,"
answered David.

More might have passed, but Lady Staunton stepped between them with her
purse in her hand, and taking out a guinea, of which it contained
several, visible through the net-work, as well as some silver in the
opposite end, offered it to the caird.

"The white siller, lady--the white siller," said the young savage, to
whom the value of gold was probably unknown. Lady Staunton poured what
silver she had into his hand, and the juvenile savage snatched it
greedily, and made a sort of half inclination of acknowledgment and
adieu.

"Let us make haste now, Lady Staunton," said David, "for there will be
little peace with them since they hae seen your purse."

They hurried on as fast as they could; but they had not descended the
hill a hundred yards or two before they heard a halloo behind them, and
looking back, saw both the old man and the young one pursuing them with
great speed, the former with a gun on his shoulder. Very fortunately, at
this moment a sportsman, a gamekeeper of the Duke, who was engaged in
stalking deer, appeared on the face of the hill. The bandits stopped on
seeing him, and Lady Staunton hastened to put herself under his
protection. He readily gave them his escort home, and it required his
athletic form and loaded rifle to restore to the lady her usual
confidence and courage.

Donald listened with much gravity to the account of their adventure; and
answered with great composure to David's repeated inquiries, whether he
could have suspected that the cairds had been lurking there,--"Inteed,
Master Tavie, I might hae had some guess that they were there, or
thereabout, though maybe I had nane. But I am aften on the hill; and they
are like wasps--they stang only them that fashes them; sae, for my part,
I make a point not to see them, unless I were ordered out on the preceese
errand by MacCallummore or Knockdunder, whilk is a clean different case."

They reached the Manse late; and Lady Staunton, who had suffered much
both from fright and fatigue, never again permitted her love of the
picturesque to carry her so far among the mountains without a stronger
escort than David, though she acknowledged he had won the stand of
colours by the intrepidity he had displayed, so soon as assured he had to
do with an earthly antagonist. "I couldna maybe hae made muckle o' a
bargain wi' yon lang callant," said David, when thus complimented on his
valour; "but when ye deal wi' thae folk, it's tyne heart tyne a'."





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH.

              What see you there,
              That hath so cowarded and chased your blood
                          Out of appearance?
                                    Henry the Fifth.

We are under the necessity of returning to Edinburgh, where the General
Assembly was now sitting. It is well known, that some Scottish nobleman
is usually deputed as High Commissioner, to represent the person of the
King in this convocation; that he has allowances for the purpose of
maintaining a certain outward show and solemnity, and supporting the
hospitality of the representative of Majesty. Whoever are distinguished
by rank, or office, in or near the capital, usually attend the morning
levees of the Lord Commissioner, and walk with him in procession to the
place where the Assembly meets.

The nobleman who held this office chanced to be particularly connected
with Sir George Staunton, and it was in his train that he ventured to
tread the High Street of Edinburgh for the first time since the fatal
night of Porteous's execution. Walking at the right hand of the
representative of Sovereignty, covered with lace and embroidery, and with
all the paraphernalia of wealth and rank, the handsome though wasted
figure of the English stranger attracted all eyes. Who could have
recognised in a form so aristocratic the plebeian convict, that,
disguised in the rags of Madge Wildfire, had led the formidable rioters
to their destined revenge? There was no possibility that this could
happen, even if any of his ancient acquaintances, a race of men whose
lives are so brief, had happened to survive the span commonly allotted to
evil-doers. Besides, the whole affair had long fallen asleep, with the
angry passions in which it originated. Nothing is more certain than that
persons known to have had a share in that formidable riot, and to have
fled from Scotland on that account, had made money abroad, returned to
enjoy it in their native country, and lived and died undisturbed by the
law.*

* See Arnot's _Criminal Trials,_ 4to ed. p. 235.

The forbearance of the magistrate was, in these instances, wise,
certainly, and just; for what good impression could be made on the public
mind by punishment, when the memory of the offence was obliterated, and
all that was remembered was the recent inoffensive, or perhaps exemplary
conduct of the offender?

Sir George Staunton might, therefore, tread the scene of his former
audacious exploits, free from the apprehension of the law, or even of
discovery or suspicion. But with what feelings his heart that day
throbbed, must be left to those of the reader to imagine. It was an
object of no common interest which had brought him to encounter so many
painful remembrances.

In consequence of Jeanie's letter to Lady Staunton, transmitting the
confession, he had visited the town of Carlisle, and had found Archdeacon
Fleming still alive, by whom that confession had been received. This
reverend gentleman, whose character stood deservedly very high, he so far
admitted into his confidence, as to own himself the father of the
unfortunate infant which had been spirited away by Madge Wildfire,
representing the intrigue as a matter of juvenile extravagance on his own
part, for which he was now anxious to atone, by tracing, if possible,
what had become of the child. After some recollection of the
circumstances, the clergyman was able to call to memory, that the unhappy
woman had written a letter to George Staunton, Esq., younger, Rectory,
Willingham, by Grantham; that he had forwarded it to the address
accordingly, and that it had been returned, with a note from the Reverend
Mr. Staunton, Rector of Willingham, saying, he knew no such person as him
to whom the letter was addressed. As this had happened just at the time
when George had, for the last time, absconded from his father's house to
carry off Effie, he was at no loss to account for the cause of the
resentment, under the influence of which his father had disowned him.
This was another instance in which his ungovernable temper had occasioned
his misfortune; had he remained at Willingham but a few days longer, he
would have received Margaret Murdockson's letter, in which were exactly
described the person and haunts of the woman, Annaple Bailzou, to whom
she had parted with the infant. It appeared that Meg Murdockson had been
induced to make this confession, less from any feelings of contrition,
than from the desire of obtaining, through George Staunton or his
father's means, protection and support for her daughter Madge. Her letter
to George Staunton said, "That while the writer lived, her daughter would
have needed nought from any body, and that she would never have meddled
in these affairs, except to pay back the ill that George had done to her
and hers. But she was to die, and her daughter would be destitute, and
without reason to guide her. She had lived in the world long enough to
know that people did nothing for nothing;--so she had told George
Staunton all he could wish to know about his wean, in hopes he would not
see the demented young creature he had ruined perish for want. As for her
motives for not telling them sooner, she had a long account to reckon for
in the next world, and she would reckon for that too."

The clergyman said that Meg had died in the same desperate state of mind,
occasionally expressing some regret about the child which was lost, but
oftener sorrow that the mother had not been hanged--her mind at once a
chaos of guilt, rage, and apprehension for her daughter's future safety;
that instinctive feeling of parental anxiety which she had in common with
the she-wolf and lioness, being the last shade of kindly affection that
occupied a breast equally savage.

The melancholy catastrophe of Madge Wildfire was occasioned by her taking
the confusion of her mother's execution, as affording an opportunity of
leaving the workhouse to which the clergyman had sent her, and presenting
herself to the mob in their fury, to perish in the way we have already
seen. When Dr. Fleming found the convict's letter was returned from
Lincolnshire, he wrote to a friend in Edinburgh, to inquire into the fate
of the unfortunate girl whose child had been stolen, and was informed by
his correspondent, that she had been pardoned, and that, with all her
family, she had retired to some distant part of Scotland, or left the
kingdom entirely. And here the matter rested, until, at Sir George
Staunton's application, the clergyman looked out, and produced Margaret
Murdockson's returned letter, and the other memoranda which he had kept
concerning the affair.

Whatever might be Sir George Staunton's feelings in ripping up this
miserable history, and listening to the tragical fate of the unhappy girl
whom he had ruined, he had so much of his ancient wilfulness of
disposition left, as to shut his eyes on everything, save the prospect
which seemed to open itself of recovering his son. It was true, it would
be difficult to produce him, without telling much more of the history of
his birth, and the misfortunes of his parents, than it was prudent to
make known. But let him once be found, and, being found, let him but
prove worthy of his father's protection, and many ways might be fallen
upon to avoid such risk. Sir George Staunton was at liberty to adopt him
as his heir, if he pleased, without communicating the secret of his
birth; or an Act of Parliament might be obtained, declaring him
legitimate, and allowing him the name and arms of his father. He was
indeed already a legitimate child according to the law of Scotland, by
the subsequent marriage of his parents. Wilful in everything, Sir
George's sole desire now was to see this son, even should his recovery
bring with it a new series of misfortunes, as dreadful as those which
followed on his being lost.

But where was the youth who might eventually be called to the honours and
estates of this ancient family? On what heath was he wandering, and
shrouded by what mean disguise? Did he gain his precarious bread by some
petty trade, by menial toil, by violence, or by theft? These were
questions on which Sir George's anxious investigations could obtain no
light. Many remembered that Annaple Bailzou wandered through the country
as a beggar and fortune-teller, or spae-wife--some remembered that she
had been seen with an infant in 1737 or 1738,--but for more than ten
years she had not travelled that district; and that she had been heard to
say she was going to a distant part of Scotland, of which country she was
a native. To Scotland, therefore, came Sir George Staunton, having parted
with his lady at Glasgow; and his arrival at Edinburg happening to
coincide with the sitting of the General Assembly of the Kirk, his
acquaintance with the nobleman who held the office of Lord High
Commissioner forced him more into public than suited either his views or
inclinations.

At the public table of this nobleman, Sir George Staunton was placed next
to a clergyman of respectable appearance, and well-bred, though plain
demeanour, whose name he discovered to be Butler. It had been no part of
Sir George's plan to take his brother-in-law into his confidence, and he
had rejoiced exceedingly in the assurances he received from his wife,
that Mrs. Butler, the very soul of integrity and honour, had never
suffered the account he had given of himself at Willingham Rectory to
transpire, even to her husband. But he was not sorry to have an
opportunity to converse with so near a connection without being known to
him, and to form a judgment of his character and understanding. He saw
much, and heard more, to raise Butler very high in his opinion. He found
he was generally respected by those of his own profession, as well as by
the laity who had seats in the Assembly. He had made several public
appearances in the Assembly, distinguished by good sense, candour, and
ability; and he was followed and admired as a sound, and, at the same
time, an eloquent preacher.

This was all very satisfactory to Sir George Staunton's pride, which had
revolted at the idea of his wife's sister being obscurely married. He now
began, on the contrary, to think the connection so much better than he
expected, that, if it should be necessary to acknowledge it, in
consequence of the recovery of his son, it would sound well enough that
Lady Staunton had a sister, who, in the decayed state of the family, had
married a Scottish clergyman, high in the opinion of his countrymen, and
a leader in the church.

It was with these feelings, that, when the Lord High Commissioner's
company broke up, Sir George Staunton, under pretence of prolonging some
inquiries concerning the constitution of the Church of Scotland,
requested Butler to go home to his lodgings in the Lawnmarket, and drink
a cup of coffee. Butler agreed to wait upon him, providing Sir George
would permit him, in passing, to call at a friend's house where he
resided, and make his apology for not coming to partake her tea. They
proceeded up the High Street, entered the Krames, and passed the
begging-box, placed to remind those at liberty of the distresses of the
poor prisoners. Sir George paused there one instant, and next day a L20
note was found in that receptacle for public charity.

When he came up to Butler again, he found him with his eyes fixed on the
entrance of the Tolbooth, and apparently in deep thought.

"That seems a very strong door," said Sir George, by way of saying
something.

"It is so, sir," said Butler, turning off and beginning to walk forward,
"but it was my misfortune at one time to see it prove greatly too weak."

At this moment, looking at his companion, he asked him whether he felt
himself ill? and Sir George Staunton admitted, that he had been so
foolish as to eat ice, which sometimes disagreed with him. With kind
officiousness, that would not be gainsaid, and ere he could find out
where he was going, Butler hurried Sir George into the friend's house,
near to the prison, in which he himself had lived since he came to town,
being, indeed, no other than that of our old friend Bartoline Saddletree,
in which Lady Staunton had served a short noviciate as a shop-maid. This
recollection rushed on her husband's mind, and the blush of shame which
it excited overpowered the sensation of fear which had produced his
former paleness. Good Mrs. Saddletree, however, bustled about to receive
the rich English baronet as the friend of Mr. Butler, and requested an
elderly female in a black gown to sit still, in a way which seemed to
imply a wish, that she would clear the way for her betters. In the
meanwhile, understanding the state of the case, she ran to get some
cordial waters, sovereign, of course, in all cases of faintishness
whatsoever. During her absence, her visitor, the female in black, made
some progress out of the room, and might have left it altogether without
particular observation, had she not stumbled at the threshold, so near
Sir George Staunton, that he, in point of civility, raised her and
assisted her to the door.