Part 13

"It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn," says the worthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts of the foregoing narrative, "that I was hastily summoned, by John Darling, to visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost no time in proceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture was but too true. In an easy chair, placed at an open window which faced the west, reclined the victim of a broken heart. On her pale cheek death had impressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose tint fluctuated, which was not so in her days of health and hope. Her words, when she spake, and that was seldom, seemed to come forth without her breath; and the lightest down that ever was wafted through summer's air might have slept unfluttered on her lips. I kneeled down and prayed that the gentle spirit which was about to be released from its mortal bonds, might receive a welcome to the realms of life and light. She understood distinctly that she was dying; and in token that her mind was at perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when I had finished--"Yes! oh, yes!--Heaven! he--!" The words died unfinished on her tongue, and her spirit rose to its native sky.

MORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MERTON.

BY JAMES MAIDMENT.

"Pray, sir, will you condescend to inform me by what title you presume to set your foot on my grounds? Have I not already warned you; and if I use you now severely, the blame must rest with yourself."

These words were addressed by Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour, in an evident state of excitement, to a young lad apparently about nineteen, but in reality not much above sixteen, whom he met traversing the grounds of Merton. Tom Vallance did not condescend to inform his interrogator why he had presumed to intrude where his presence seemed far from welcome, or explain why, on the present occasion, he happened to have in his hand a gun, which suspicious folks might be apt to suppose was intended to create some little confusion among the game on this well-preserved estate. He returned no very distinct answer; but some inarticulate sounds issued from his mouth, which, no doubt, were intended to deprecate the rage of the hasty and irritable baronet; but which seemed to have the effect only of heightening his ire, as he turned round to his keeper, who, with one of the servants, was at his back, and bade them secure the fowling-piece with which the youth was furnished--a command which was instantly obeyed; and the lad, not prepared for the sudden attack, was without difficulty disarmed.

"Now, my lad," quoth Sir Thomas, "you had better be off, unless you wish me to use violence; for I will not allow my property to be trespassed upon, and my game destroyed, by you and the like of you."

Tom stood firm, scowling on the baronet. At length he gained nerve enough to say--

"Give me back my gun. You have no right to rob me, nor shall you."

"But you shall submit, my little cock-sparrow. Don't suppose I want to keep your twopenny-halfpenny pop gun. Here, John, just take Master Tom by the shoulders, and turn him off my grounds; and you, Peter, carry this rubbishy thing to Mrs Vallance, and tell her it would better become her to keep her son behind the counter of her shop, to serve her customers with farthing candles and brown soap, than allow him to vagabondize about the country poaching. If he does not mend his manners, I've a pretty good guess that some of those days he'll either take a voyage at the expense of his country, or get his neck thrust into a noose."

This was certainly impertinent. It was, moreover, unjust and uncalled for; as whatever might be laid to the charge of Tom Vallance, on account of his predilection for field sports, no impeachment lay otherwise to his moral character. But Sir Thomas was in a passion; and, like all persons in that state, spoke without reflection. Naturally of a hasty and irritable temper, he had received a letter that morning which excited his ire excessively, and as, upon issuing from the mansion, the lad Vallance crossed his path, the first burst of his wrath fell on his devoted head. Tom felt deeply the insult. He had been accustomed to a shake of the head, and sometimes a sharp word; but Sir Thomas, upon the whole, used him well enough; for, as his mother had been housekeeper in the family during the lifetime of Sir Marmaduke Vavasour, who had married the heiress of Merton, the lad was looked upon, or rather he looked upon himself, as a sort of licensed person on the grounds. To be deprived of his gun was bad, but to insinuate moral turpitude was worse; and, forgetful of the rank of his tormentor, he exclaimed--

"I am no thief--I am as honest as yourself, Sir Thomas; and bitterly, bitterly, shall you rue this day. When I set my foot next time on your grounds, it will be for no good to you."

Saying this he turned on his heel, and extricating himself suddenly from the hands of the servants, cleared a ditch which opposed his retreat, and was speedily out of reach.

The passion of Sir Thomas was not lessened by this unexpected reply, followed as it was by the speedy evasion of the speaker; and, as Tom was out of his reach, he transferred his wrath to the attendants, who were scolded in the most exemplary style, for not knocking the young rascal down. After indulging some time in this agreeable relaxation, he returned to the house, looking all the while, as his men said, "like a bear wi' a sair head."

Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour was the third son of an English baronet of ancient lineage, who, by intermarriage with Isabella, daughter, and afterwards sole heiress of Reginald Bruce of Merton, in the county of Roxburgh, eventually carried that estate into his family. He had three brothers, two elder and one younger than himself. By the marriage contract, the English estate, which was considerable, was destined to the elder son, the Scotch one to the second son. Thomas got a commission, went abroad, and, after much battling about, attained the rank of General, when, by the death of his brother William, he succeeded to Merton; and, a few years afterwards, the demise of the eldest brother, who broke his neck whilst fox-hunting, gave him the extensive manor of Vavasour Castle, and the title of a baronet. The younger brother married an heiress, by whom he had one son, who, after his demise, he left under the guardianship of Sir Thomas--excluding Mrs Vavasour from all control. The uncle carefully superintended the education of his ward, became much attached to him, and, during the holidays, frequently took him to Merton, to the infinite displeasure of Mrs Richard Vavasour, who cordially hated her brother-in-law. When he grew up, those visits were discontinued, partly as he was studying for the bar, and partly to please his mother, whom he considered he was in duty bound to propitiate as much as he could--rather a difficult task, as she was a capricious fine lady, with violent and vindictive feelings. Edward was about four-and-twenty, and had formed an attachment to a lady--his equal in birth and fortune--but who did not meet with the mother's approbation. She demanded that the match should be broken off--Edward remonstrated--she persisted; and, after a war of words, matters remained precisely as they originally were, he avowing a fixed determination to make himself happy, notwithstanding Mrs Vavasour's threats of vengeance. This he accordingly did, and his mother, bursting a bloodvessel, soon afterwards died, leaving a sealed letter to be sent, after her demise, to Sir Thomas, whom she hated.

Three weeks had elapsed from the date of this interview, when, one evening early in the month of September, a party of farmers--for it was market day--were sitting after dinner in the public inn of the county town, when the landlord suddenly entered, exclaiming--

"Gracious!--a dreadful murder has just been committed. The laird of Merton has been killed in his own house!"

This announcement was received with equal astonishment and horror by those assembled; and the intruder had every possible question to answer as to the time, place, and person, that the half-muddled brains of those present could devise; and, such a babel of voices arose in sweet discord, that a gentleman, who sat in the parlour alone, and who had arrived by that day's mail, was so much disturbed as to ring violently to know why his meditations were thus so unharmoniously interrupted.

"Waiter!" said he, "why this disturbance? Cannot your farmers dine here without kicking up a riot?"

"O sir!--it's the murder!"

"What murder?"

"The General, sir, who lives at Merton, sir, found stabbed in his own sitting-room, sir!"

"Stabbed! do you say? It cannot be?"

"Quite true, sir, as I'm a waiter! And they have got the murderer in custody."

"Murderer!--impossible! What mean you?" exclaimed the traveller, hastily.

"Why, sir, the fellow that killed Sir Thomas is taken redhand, I think they call it."

"Who is he?"

"Just Tom Vallance, sir--an idle fellow to be sure, but the last person that I would have thought would do such a thing."

"What! the son of the old housekeeper?"

"Yes--do you know him, sir?"

"Not I--but I've heard of his mother. What inducement could he have to commit so dreadful a crime?"

"Revenge, sir!--The General, some two or three weeks since, seized his gun, and, poor gentleman, abused Tom fearfully, for he was in one of his terrifics; and Tom told him the next time he was on his grounds he would do for him--at least so it is said."

"Dreadful!--and what was this Tom Vallance, as I think you call him?"

"Nothing, sir! His mother is an industrious woman; and the lad was not that bad fellow, neither--but dreadfully idle. He had a good education; but his father dying two years since, Tom left school; and his mother, in place of sending him back, kept him at home: she was so fond of him that she let him do whatever he liked."

"How can she afford to maintain him?"

"She is very industrious, sir; and, as she was daft fond of him, every penny she could scrape together went into his pockets."

"Where is the accused?"

"Tom, sir, do you mean?--Why, before the Sheriff, making his declaration."

"Who succeeds the late baronet?"

"His nephew--a very nice chap. He was often at Merton when a lad; but he has not been here for many years. He'll be better liked than his uncle, though the old fellow was not so bad neither. But I must go, sir, for I hear the bell ringing in the travellers' room." So saying, he whipped his napkin under his arm, and withdrew with praiseworthy celerity.

The unknown traveller paced slowly up and down the room, apparently very much perplexed in his mind. He muttered--"Strange!--very strange!--caught in the room--a previous threat--all concurs." Shortly afterwards he again rang the bell, ordered in and paid his bill; and, taking a post-chaise to the next town, waited there only until the mail from Edinburgh to London stopped to change horses, and, having procured a seat, arrived in due time in the metropolis.

The investigation of facts connected with the death of Sir Thomas proceeded, and a strong case was made out against the accused. The two servants swore to the threat; and, although not giving exactly the waiter's version of it, made it pretty nearly as bad; for, not having heard the precise words, they supplied the defect in hearing by generalizing. "He threatened," they said, "to be revenged, and that he would come to the grounds for that purpose;" or used some such words, shewing a determined resolution of getting "_amends_" of their master. That the General met his death by a stab in the heart was plain enough; and that the servants found Tom beside him, grasping a bloody knife, was equally so. Presumptions were, therefore, strongly against him; nor did his declaration nor judicial statement help him much; for he admitted, after some little hesitation, that he had slipped into the grounds to redeem his threat of revenge by carrying off some very fine peaches, of which the General was very proud, and which he intended as a present to a neighbouring nobleman. Knowing that Sir Thomas was accustomed to take his siesta immediately after dinner, which was usually at five--for he followed a fashion of his own in this respect, which has, since his time, become popular--and that the gardener left at six, he lurked about the grounds till after that period, and then, easily getting into the garden, thought it prudent to see how the land lay before he proceeded to his labour of love.

The house of Merton was an old-fashioned building, or rather series of buildings, erected at different times; and the present possessor, who had a fancy for horticulture, had added an apartment, which opened by a glass door upon a terrace from which, by descending a few steps, he entered the garden. This room was, necessarily, remote from the rest of the mansion, and here Sir Thomas uniformly dined, summer and winter. After dinner was removed, and the dessert and wine placed on the table, the servants withdrew, and were forbidden to enter till seven o'clock, when coffee was served. Of all this Tom was perfectly cognizant.

Now Tom asserted that, as a precautionary measure, he resolved to peep into the room in question, to ascertain whether Sir Thomas was asleep before he took his boyish revenge; and seeing the glass door which led into the garden open, he proceeded, cautiously and slowly, till he got there, when, looking in, he observed his old enemy lying on the floor on his face. Astonished at this, and forgetting all sense of personal risk, he advanced to raise the baronet, when he discovered that he was dead, and a knife lying beside the body, which he picked up. Fear tied up his tongue for some few seconds, and he had barely time to give utterance to an exclamation of horror, when, the door opening, the servant gave the alarm, and before he had time to collect his scattered senses he was a prisoner. All this might have been true, and perhaps the story would have been treated with more consideration than it obtained, had it not been for the _previous threat_, which naturally induced a strong suspicion against Tom. The result was that, after the ordinary form had been gone through, the unhappy youth was fully committed to take his trial for the murder of Sir Thomas Vavasour Bruce Vavasour of Vavasour and Merton, Baronet.

The heir, at this eventful period, was in England, whither the body was transmitted, and deposited in the Vavasour mausoleum.

Meanwhile, Tom remained for some weeks in the county jail in a condition far from enviable. All attempts to induce a confession of guilt were abortive; he persisted in his declaration of innocence; but, as parties accused are not usually in the habit of confessing their crimes, these protestations were not considered worth much. Indeed, the only person he could convince was his poor mother, who gave implicit confidence to his assertions.

A change, and one for the better, had come over the accused in prison. How bitterly did he regret his former idle moments--how deeply did he lament the burden he had been on his mother. Many a vow did he make, that if he could get quit of this charge, he would eschew his former course of life, and be all a fond parent could ask. About the tenth day before the approaching sittings, Tom was visited by a gentleman, who proffered his assistance as his adviser. He had heard, he said, of the case; and was anxious, on his mother's account, to afford his aid: but he required a full and ample statement, without any concealment. Tom answered he had nothing to conceal; and he recapitulated everything he had formerly stated.

The stranger listened attentively and, after his client had concluded, shook his head. "Tom! you may be innocent--there is the impress of truth in what you state, and I can hardly doubt you; but still the evidence against you is so strong, that if you go to trial, I am fearful--very fearful of the result."

Tom's face, which had brightened as the stranger commenced, became clouded ere the remarks were finished; and, when they terminated, he burst into tears. "O sir!" he sobbed, "have pity on a poor misguided lad, who never meant evil to any one--who is as innocent of the crime of which he is accused as you are. Save me, sir! O save me! if not on my own account, at least on that of my poor mother, who will break her heart if I am condemned."

"I would willingly save you if I could," was the rejoinder; "but I cannot influence juries--I cannot sway the Court."

"And must I die, then? Must I, before my time, go down to my grave dishonoured and disgraced? O sir! if it had pleased Heaven to visit me with a deadly sickness, I would have left the world without one sigh except for my mother. But to be degraded as a felon--to be branded as a murderer--it is too--too much." He became so agitated that grief choked his utterance.

The stranger, obviously affected, look his hand. "Tom, have you firmness? There is a way, perhaps."

"How!" exclaimed the lad, eagerly.

"This room is only one storey from the ground, and escape is possible."

"Escape! No! no! The windows are barred with iron; besides, if I escape, it looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that."

"But, will staying behind prove your innocence? Will your suffering the last penalty of the law convince the world that you did not commit the murder?"

"True--very true! If I live, my innocence may yet be proved--but how to get through the window."

"That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man. It is now early. I will be with you again before the prison shuts. Remember! not one word to your mother. You may console her by saying that your agent--for such I am--has given you hopes. Nothing more. Remember!" So saying, he departed.

* * * * * *

It was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake, returned. Tom had kept his promise; and, by affording his mother hopes of an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her bosom had been for many a week a stranger.

"Now, Tom!" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, "attend to me. I have brought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder. Apply the liquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron--then use your file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed. Next fix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy. Do not begin your operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep. You may get everything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow. As the clock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend with the first stroke, if all is right. Some one will be waiting for you. He will whisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as speedily as possible. But, again, I caution you to keep this a secret from your mother. Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of your acquittal; that you are to have a learned barrister from Edinburgh. This will get wind, and prevent any suspicion of your intended escape. Once safe, your mother will receive due notice; and be assured she shall not be allowed to suffer one moment more of suspense than is absolutely necessary. You will not see me again in prison, I hope."

Tom's feelings were overcome. He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed it to his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes. He could not speak.

Mortlake was affected. "And yet, poor kind-hearted boy," he said, "people could deem you guilty of a murder--how little did they know you. But away with tears. Be a man. You have a difficult part before you. See you flinch not!" Then changing his tone, and speaking loudly, "Well! I'm off to Edinburgh, where I shall see Andrew Crosbie. I have great faith in him; and, as he is not a greedy man, I dare say, Tom, I may get him to come here."

At this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and Mortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return from Edin burgh.

Tom treasured every word in his heart--not one syllable escaped his lips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he contemplated flight. He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his mother, and one or two persons, whom curiosity had prompted to visit him, to suppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the fame of Andrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an able lawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical.

When the evening came, Tom commenced operations. He applied the liquid as directed, which soon corroded the iron at the bottom. The sides and top were more difficult, but their partial destruction was in time accomplished; and, when the eventful evening came, he had little difficulty in removing the grating. It was, of course, only injured at the ends; and, as the window was oblong, by altering the position of the grating, he obtained a substance sufficiently strong to which he attached the rope-ladder. Getting up to the window, he placed the grating reversed in the inside, and threw the ladder on the outside. To soften the fall of the iron after he had descended, he placed his mattress and bedclothes below; and, having thus made every preliminary arrangement, with the first stroke of twelve he commenced his descent; and, ere the last had died upon the breeze, the ground was reached in safety.

A figure, enveloped in a cloak, approached hurriedly, and whispered "follow!" He tossed a bundle to the fugitive, then turned to the left. The order was obeyed; and, after the lapse of an hour and a-half, Tom found himself in a wood, and the stranger opening a dark lantern--sliding shades at the side of which had previously been pulled down--disclosed to the eyes of Vallance the features of his agent, Mortlake.

The bundle was untied, and Tom found it to contain a capacious wrapper, a shawl, and bonnet with a veil. Those Tom was required to put on, and this matter being accomplished, the journey was resumed, and in about two hours they arrived at a small hamlet or village, where they found a gig waiting for them. Mortlake then addressed his companion:--"My dear Emily! be more composed--never mind your father--I will write to him, and all will yet be put to rights."

Tom, who had been previously instructed, spoke "small like a woman;" and, after some affected coyness, entered the carriage, when the parties drove off, leaving the man who had taken charge of the vehicle under the evident conviction that the strange man was a sad blackguard, and that the veiled lady was some unfortunate young woman who had been deluded away by his devices.