Part 21

"'Emily,' said he, 'you are a good girl; and on any other subject you might be sure I would listen to your wishes; but on this point I am immoveable; and as Reginald deliberately dissolved the tie between father and son, I no longer recognise him as my child.'

"Saying this, he left the room.

"Emily was sadly overcome by this unexpected repulse. She knew her grandfather's inflexibility, but imagined that the lapse of time would have softened his resentment. Her father--the heir apparent--was then on the Continent; and it was doubtful how far even his influence would produce any change on the unnatural anger of his incensed parent.

"'Dear uncle, you know not how deeply I grieve at this unkind reception. Often have I thought on you during your tedious absence, and longed to see you again; and now when my wish is gratified, I have no home here to offer you; but we must not part--time yet may make all right; and if you would only take up your abode near us, I would do everything to save you; and when my father returns, we will unite our entreaties to obtain your pardon.'

"'Sweet girl!' replied Ranald, 'I duly appreciate your kindness; but it is vain to contend against fate, and here I cannot--will not stay.'

"The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a footman, who, with some confusion and hesitation, intimated that his master wished the strange gentleman would make his visit as short as possible. Having delivered this message, he withdrew.

"'Emily, farewell! I have ever loved you; and your kindness in this hour of trial shows my love was not misplaced.'

"'Do not leave me, uncle; better days will come.'

"'It is vain to urge my stay; my father shall be obeyed. Once more, farewell!'

"His niece found his resolution immoveable. She entreated him to take her purse; this he refused. She then placed on his finger a ring: it was the fatal one--the cause of all his misery. The sight of it overcame him. He wept bitterly. Clasping his niece to his arms, he said, in faltering accents--

"'Beloved girl! this fatal testimonial shall part from me only with death; and, when you see it again, be assured that all my earthly cares are over.'

"He then quitted the home of his forefathers, never again to return. After wandering about for months, necessity drove him back upon his old companions. But he had lost his energy; and it was not until the attack upon the caterans that he again became the Ranald More of olden times.

"The kindness and affection of his niece made a deep impression on Ranald's mind; and his chief anxiety now was to make her acquainted with his fate, and to let her know that he died a repentant man, in the hope of forgiveness in 'another and a better world.'

"The night before he expired, I sat beside him. Ranald was composed. He said--

"'Often, very often, kind friend, have I meditated, after my last repulse, putting an end to my existence; but religion came to my aid, and I resisted manfully the temptings of the fiend. Resignation to the divine will, under every disappointment and affliction, is a duty we all owe to our great Creator, and this precept of my dear mother was too deeply implanted in my mind ever to be entirely eradicated; forgiveness of our enemies she also inculcated; and I can say, with perfect sincerity, that I die in peace with all mankind.'

"'Even your father?' I inquired.

"'Yes; even that cruel parent, through whose obduracy I am now a degraded felon, is forgiven by me. But no more of this. When you see Emily, give her my blessing. Tell her that her dying uncle had her always in his thoughts; and that, in his last moments, he prayed for her prosperity and happiness.'

"As he was evidently much exhausted, I entreated him not to fatigue himself by farther conversation. The clergyman arriving, I took my leave, and returned in the morning. He was still sensible; and the man who had sat up with him mentioned that he had been very quiet all night, though he apparently slept very little. When I approached the bedside, he recognised me; and, with extreme difficulty articulated--

"'Remember!'

"I assured him that his request should be implicitly complied with. His last words were 'Bless you!' Raising himself, he placed his wife's marriage-ring on my finger, pressed my hand feebly, and, overcome by the exertion, fell back on his pillow; a gentle slumber seemed gradually to come over him, from which he never awoke.

"As he was only known as Ranald More, the secret of his birth and rank was carefully preserved by me; my adventure with him of former years was generally known, and my anxiety about him, and my following his body to the grave, created no manner of surprise. His companions were tried, convicted, and executed. The death of their leader, and the capital punishment inflicted on his followers, had a wholesome effect in that district, and 'lifting' of cattle, from that time, became, at least there, somewhat uncommon.

"Resolved to redeem my pledge, I procured leave of absence, and journeyed to Northumberland, where I found the family in mourning for the old gentleman, who had died, strange to say, about a week before his son. The delivery of the ring at once announced the cause of my visit, and my attentions to the unhappy donor were repaid by the extreme kindness of his relatives. Her brother, Edmund, thought he could never do too much for me; and the kind-hearted and beautiful niece of the ill-fated Ranald became----" Here he paused.

"What, father?" inquired Edmund.

"YOUR MOTHER."

THE SERJEANT'S TALES.

JOHN SQUARE'S VOYAGE TO INDIA.

Having been so much edified by Serjeant Square's narrative of the Palantines, I was anxious to hear another section of his adventures. Next day, my wish was gratified.

"After my arrival in Greenock from my voyage to America," he began--"that land of promise, where I had been carried as a Palantine--I had no wages to receive; for I had wrought my passage home--that is, given my labour for my food and room in the vessel, and was not entered as one of the crew. A miserable passage it was; for the captain being as complete a tyrant as ever walked a deck, the crew were ill-used, and, of course, sulky and dissatisfied; and, humble and obedient as I was, the bad humour of every one was put forth upon me. The little seamanship I had been so eager to acquire in my voyage out, now stood me in great stead, and saved me many a kick and blow. Rough and severe as my masters were, my progress was rapid. Young and nimble as a monkey, with a quick eye and good memory, I was no despicable seaman before we reached the Cumbraes. Even the captain, after a severe squall we had off the west of Ireland, commended me, saying, 'Square, you are worth your room and victuals!' Yet of room I had little, and my victuals were no boast. Hammock or bedding I had none; but that mattered not to me, who had no rest. I was in no watch, but was called up or started with a rope's-end at the pleasure of every one, when there was anything to do, from the cable tier, or wherever I had stretched my weary limbs to snatch an hour's sleep. Still I bore up with a cheerful heart; for hard lying and scanty fare were nothing new to me, and I hoped soon to tread the shores of my native land. Well, I had only two dollars and a-half in my pocket when I left Greenock to walk to Auld Reekie. My step was as light as my heart. Towards sunset of the second day, I reached the city; and, before I thought of rest, I had visited all my former haunts. But a very few days served to dissipate my pleasing dreams of home. I had, for years before I left Edinburgh, been looked upon as one too many in the city by those who knew me as a dependant; and doubtless, when I disappeared, they had felt relieved of a load they bore but lightly. I had returned as poor as I departed; and they looked upon me with frowns, upbraiding me with folly for my return from a place where I had a chance of succeeding.

"In my wanderings, I had entered the King's Park by the eastern stile, at the watering-stone, when, as I approached Mushet's Cairn, in the Duke's Walk, I heard the clashing of swords on the other side of the low wall. Urged by curiosity, I mounted the heap of stones to obtain a sight of the combatants. My eyes became fixed upon them; my whole mind was filled with so ardent, so intense an interest, that I could scarcely breathe; yet my feelings were so painful at first, that my heart beat thick, and my limbs shook under me. At one instant, I felt a desire to part them--the next, to see the scene enacted and ended. I had in my mind already taken a side, and wished 'my man' to conquer. They were both, to appearance, gentlemen, and about the same age and stature; one of them much slighter made than the other, who pressed him hard, while he appeared to act principally on the defensive; and so cool and dexterous was he in the use of his sword, that his opponent, though equally master of his, was foiled in all his assaults. It was fearfully grand to see two men so intent upon the destruction of each other. Their looks spoke hatred and determination; their keen eyes were fixed upon each other with an intensity I never before thought the eye capable of; each seemed fixed immoveably upon that of his adversary; yet a fierce vitality beamed in them, motionless as they appeared; while every limb and muscle of their bodies was in the most violent action. No sound arose on the stillness of the scene, except the clash and harsh grating of their swords, as they foiled each other in their cuts and thrusts. While I stood fascinated, gazing upon them, the thinner person--whose side I had taken involuntarily, for I knew neither the individuals nor the cause of quarrel--in parrying a thrust, slipped his foot, and sank to the ground, his antagonist's sword passing through his body in a downward direction. He lay extended at his conqueror's feet, who, quick as thought, seized the hand of his fallen adversary, and detached a ring from one of his fingers. I stood immoveable on the heap of stones, with the low wall still between us, watching the issue. He disengaged his sword, and was in the act of plunging it again into the body. 'Villain! villain!' I shouted; it was all I could utter, horrified as I was. He stopped his raised hand, looked round to where I stood, exclaimed, in a voice hoarse from passion, 'Scoundrel, you must die!' and, at the same moment, bounded towards me, with the blood-stained sword in his hand. Not a moment was to be lost. Urged by fear, I sprang from the cairn, and fled towards the hill, across the swamp. Fearfully I looked over my shoulder as I neared the wall; he was evidently gaining upon me. Young and fleet as I was, he was far my superior in length of leg and strength; yet my fears did not destroy my presence of mind. I saw that it was only by doubling I could escape; for, if the chase were continued for any length of time, he must run me down like a hare; and the fearful consequence gave me energy. At a bound I cleared the wall, and, stooping, ran under its shade for some distance before he reached the spot I had leaped. He stood (for I heard his panting breath) for a second, before he perceived the direction in which I had run--a circumstance of the utmost service to me. Down he leaped, and followed on my track. I again sprang the wall; and, after running a few yards, I was on the highway, and clear of the park. My hopes now were all placed in meeting some one or other, to claim their protection, or in reaching a house before my pursuer could overtake me. I had not run a hundred yards towards the Abbey Hill, when I saw three men in sailor's dress before me, going towards the city. I called to them to stop, for the rapid step of my enemy was sounding in my ears like the death-knell. They stood still, and looked back; the next moment I was up to them; while he that followed leaped the wall, and disappeared in the direction of the town. We sought not to pursue him, for I had not yet recovered my breath sufficiently to inform them of what I had been an unconscious witness. As soon as I told my story, the men resolved to go with me, to ascertain whether the person was dead or required our aid, saying, they were on their way to the Canongate, to meet their captain, by appointment, and having yet sufficient time, they would go by the King's Park, and bear the unfortunate gentleman to town. When we arrived at the spot, we found him seated upon the grass, his head bent forward upon his knee, sick and faint, the blood welling from the wound in his side, which he was making no effort to staunch, and he was plunged in the deepest melancholy. I could hear him sigh heavily ere we crossed the wall. When the seamen saw him, they uttered a cry of mingled surprise and rage. He raised his head; his face was deadly pale; a faint expression of pleasure passed over it for a moment, then it settled into deep sorrow. He appeared utterly regardless of life; and it was even with gentle violence only that he allowed them to staunch his wound by binding their silk handkerchiefs round his breast. We found that his ankle was also dreadfully sprained and swelled; and, truly, his agony must have been great from this cause alone; but no complaint or groan escaped from him; and I thought I perceived that his sufferings were far more mental than even bodily. From exhaustion or apathy, he allowed us to do as we pleased; all he commanded being, to be taken to his vessel, and not to the town. So we bore him to a house at Clock Mill, the nearest refuge, while I ran to the Canongate to procure a surgeon, and a conveyance to carry him to Fisherrow. The surgeon I might bring at my own responsibility, for he would not hear of one, wishing evidently to die. The sailors, who recognised me as having been on board the Eliza of London only a few hours before, in quest of a berth, looked upon me now as one of the crew, for the service I had rendered their beloved captain.

After an absence of nearly an hour, I with difficulty procured a post-chaise and a surgeon. The injury was found not to be of much importance, the sword having glanced along the ribs, producing only a severe flesh wound, which was dressed, and the dislocation reduced. The surgeon insisted upon his staying where he was, for fear of fever, but he was bent upon proceeding to his vessel; so, accompanied by the surgeon, he set off in the chaise, and I, joining my new comrades on foot, proceeded to the vessel, along with them. The sensation produced by the wounded state in which the invalid had come on board, was in proportion to the love the men bore to their captain. As soon as we were upon the deck, every one on board crowded around us. I gave a true detail of all I had witnessed; every one shook me heartily by the hand, and declared he would be my friend to the end of life; but no one was more warmed to me for the little I had done than the mate. The captain's wound put on a favourable appearance, and he was declared out of danger. In a few days, the wind chopped about to the westward, and we got under weigh, to complete the voyage, being bound for London. Before we weighed anchor, the captain caused himself to be carried upon deck, where he sat gazing in the direction of Edinburgh until we were out of the Frith; he seemed consumed with some secret grief, and had not opened his mouth to give a single order, the mate doing all that was required.

"When we had passed the islands of May and the Bass, and stood into the ocean, he called me to him.

"'Square,' said he, 'I have been informed by the mate how much I am indebted to you. The service to me was of small value, insomuch as I had rather have perished in the combat, than survived to think that my traitorous rival has triumphed in his villany; but, believe me, young man, my gratitude to you is not the less--you shall in me never want a friend.'

"I thanked him kindly for his assurance, and said it would be my endeavour to deserve his friendship. He was soon after removed below, and I did not see him until we reached the Thames, and were moored at the Isle of Dogs. The captain, who was part owner, went into furnished lodgings while we were delivering our cargo, being still unable to walk, from the dislocation of his ankle. The greater part of the crew also lodged on shore; but I remained on board with the mate, in charge of the vessel, and often went to the captain with letters and messages. In one of my visits, he desired me to be seated, and give him an account of myself, as he said he had taken an interest in my welfare, and wished to serve me, agreeably to his promise, if I continued to deserve it. I gave him a full detail of my life until I came to the encounter I had witnessed between him and his opponent, when I stopped. 'Nay, young man,' said he,'I wish to hear an account of what you were witness of, from your own mouth.' I went on. He heard me with composure, until I mentioned the tearing off the ring from his finger. When I came to this part of the narrative, his countenance became distorted with rage; he ground his teeth, and stamped upon the floor; his eyes flashed fire, and his passion seemed too great for utterance. I looked on in silence, fearful that, from his weakness, he would fall into a fit. At length, he said, as if in deep abstraction, and unconscious of my presence--

"'Faithless Eliza! I thought I had cast it at thy feet in my agony of blighted hopes, and felt pleased. It was my intention; but my mind was a chaos of misery. The traitor Wallace has got the pledge of the love you proved false to. Would that his sword had pierced the heart his treachery has rendered miserable! No; I shall meet him once again, and one of us shall die----'

"Then starting to his feet, he supported himself upon the back of a chair, his countenance no longer distorted with rage, having changed into a settled, resolute cast, calm and stern. His burst of emotion had passed away.

"'Square,' he said, 'you, like myself, have no tie to bind you to Scotland, no relation or friend on earth; we are as if we had dropped from some distant planet, now desolate of inhabitants, into this busy world. Still I must ever remember that any happiness I ever enjoyed was in Edinburgh; and my heart's cherished hopes--hopes that have cheered my way through toil and danger--were there for ever crushed by the subtle arts of one I thought my friend. Base wretch! you shall not long exult in your villany! Square, you must accompany me back to Edinburgh, as soon as I am able to use this limb with vigour. Do you agree to accompany me?'

"'With pleasure,' I replied; 'whenever or wherever you go, I go'. My young heart was full of gratitude for the kindness I had received from him; and I felt almost as keenly for his wrongs as if I had been a brother. He saw the workings of my mind in my countenance, and, seizing my hand, said--

"'Hence forth we shall be as friends.'

"The surgeon entered at this period of our discourse, and, to the captain's anxious inquiries, replied that it would yet be some weeks before his limb would be so strong that he might use it without pain, for any length of time. It was a whole month after this before we left London, during which I had a private tutor to teach me, and restore any little instruction I had got at school during the life of my parents. I went no longer on board, save to visit the mate, who was now as master on the point of sailing; the Eliza being chartered, and her cargo almost on board. He sailed for Rotterdam eight days before we intended to leave London for Edinburgh; which we were to do in a chaise. A voyage to America, in the present day, gives a landsman less concern than a voyage between London and Leith did in those days.

"All being arranged, and the captain's ankle pretty stout, we set off for Edinburgh. In our tedious ride over the wretched roads, he was pleased to give me the following account of himself:--He was the second son of a gentleman of decayed fortune in the north of Scotland. He and his elder brother had been sent, young, to an uncle's in Edinburgh, for their education. His brother had chosen his uncle's profession of the law; while he, much against his uncle's wish, had preferred the sea. In his occasional visits to Edinburgh, when opportunity offered, he had met in his uncle's a lovely young lady, the daughter of a gentleman, who was obliged to live in exile for the share he had had in the rebellion. She was under his uncle's protection, as her father's agent and her guardian. The young sailor's heart was won by the charms of the gentle Eliza; he wooed and won her love. Vows of constancy were exchanged on both sides; but, although fortune had smiled upon him, he was still not rich enough to maintain his beloved in the rank she was by birth entitled to: and it was agreed at their last parting, that, after a few more successful voyages, he should ask her hand in form from his uncle. Changed rings were accordingly the memorials of their plighted faiths. It was Eliza's ring that Wallace had torn from his finger on that eventful evening. Urged by love, he had in his last voyage come far out of his regular course to visit his Eliza; and having anchored in Fisherrow Bay, he flew on the wings of joyous expectation to Edinburgh. On his way he had met an old schoolfellow, who, in answer to his inquiries after his friends, told him, as a part of the news of the day, that his old schoolfellow and rival, Wallace, was on the eve of marriage to Eliza, and that his addresses were sanctioned by his uncle. Maddened by the intelligence, he had hurried to his uncle's, and had the bad fortune to see Wallace taking leave of her as he approached the house; whereupon, in an agony of jealousy and disappointed love, he hastened to overtake him. Angry words ensued--Wallace boasted of his triumph, and a challenge was given and received, to meet in the King's Park. Urged on by his disappointed hopes, he waited upon Eliza in a frame of mind bordering upon distraction. Without prelude or explanation, he upbraided her as the most faithless of women, saying, he now thought as lightly of her love as he had ever highly prized it; and, in his fury, thought he had, as he intended, thrown her ring at her feet. At first she had looked alarmed, and wept, surprise held her silent, until all her native pride, and the innate dignity of the female, were roused by his taunts and reproaches, and she ordered him from her presence. They parted in mutual anger. Without seeing his uncle or any acquaintance in town, he had walked in the most sequestered parts of Arthur's Seat and the Hunting Bog, until the hour of meeting his rival. They met, and the issue has been told.