Mrs. Loudon

“My soul is tormented
With fear! Ah, they are dead!”

Lady L. had not increased her family since the birth of the twins, and they were, by this time, between four and five years old. Her ladyship now, however, expected to do so, and the event was to take place at Lodore.

Dr. Dixon, too, such was the almost superstitious confidence placed in him by Mrs. Montgomery, was to be again employed, which was matter of no small pride, as well as delight of heart, to the good old man.

He did not fail, as may be believed, to mention in every house in Keswick, and that before he felt a pulse, or even contemplated the hue of a tongue, that an humble individual like himself, had been selected to usher into this eventful life the future Earl of L. “For it would be a boy, no doubt,” ran on the Doctor, “as there are already two girls; lovely little creatures!—the Ladies Julia and Frances L. Both the future brides of noble earls, doubtless. But, respecting the seniority of the Lady Julia L.,” continued the Doctor, proud of having it in his power to give little people so much information about great people, “the circumstances are very remarkable—very remarkable, indeed! And if her little ladyship makes as good use of her time through life, as she did for the first three quarters of an hour, she will be fortunate—very fortunate—no doubt of it! Three quarters of an hour only, the elder of her fair sister; yet, by that short space, is her ladyship entitled to the sum of three thousand pounds per annum; to which fine property, situated in the shire of ——, her ladyship is, by the will of the late Major Morven, of age on the day that she completes her eighteenth year. The property has on it, the Earl tells me, a fine old family-seat, called the Craigs, with wood, they say, worth forty thousand pounds! The mansion, too, I understand, contains a gallery of invaluable pictures, a fine library, with service of plate, &c.”

The old gentleman made a very curious will, leaving the young lady entirely her own mistress, independent of father, mother, or guardian. “For,” said the good major, “I had not been an old bachelor, had they let me follow my own way in my youth.” “I was one of the witnesses myself,” continued the doctor, “and heard him say these words. The major was gallant, you see, as all soldiers should be, and was determined that his will, should not thwart the will of a lady! The will! the will! Well, come, that’s very fair, a’n’t it?”

About this time, Mrs. Montgomery received a letter from the master of the S— B— school, stating, that he had been obliged, however reluctantly, to expel Mr. St. Aubin from his establishment, for the following offences, namely,—many scandalous irregularities, respecting the young women of the village; holding intercourse with the crew of a smuggling vessel, laying off S— B— head; absenting himself for days and nights, it is supposed on board the said vessel; and re-appearing in a shameful state of intoxication.

Soon after this epistle had been read, and before its contents had been half talked over, Henry himself arrived. Some charges he denied, others scoffed at; but did not succeed in satisfying Mrs. Montgomery.

He was sitting with her and Lady L. in the breakfast-room, which opens on the lawn. Speaking in answer to the account of his being supposed to have formed an unjustifiable intimacy, at least, if not a marriage, with Betsy Park, he said: “You must know, ma’am, the people of that village are always getting some one to swear that their daughters are married to every gentleman’s son in the school, just to extort money. They consider it quite a trade, I assure you,” he added; seeing that what he had said had made some impression. At this moment, a tradesman-like looking man appeared on the lawn.

On perceiving Henry, instead of directing his steps to the regular entrance, he came up to the French window, or glass-door, which was standing open. Stopping a moment, he said, respectfully, to Mrs. Montgomery: “May I comeb ene, madam?” His dress and manner were so decent, and he seemed so much heated and fatigued, that, without hesitation, she said: “Certainly, sir.” He put the lifted foot, which had waited in that position for her reply, over the threshold, and, turning to Henry, said, in a determined manner: “Where is my Bess, sir? Where is my bairn?”

“You needn’t ask me,” replied Henry, turning pale, and speaking as though a lock-jaw were coming on; “the last I saw of her was in your own house.”

“Oh, doon’t say so, Mr. Henry!” exclaimed the poor man, clasping his hands entreatingly.

“It’s very true though,” said Henry, gaining courage.

“It’s not true!” returned David, with sudden fierceness, “or, if it is,” he added, changing again to accents of despair; “there’s nay body in this warld that kens whare she is!” He paused; then, with forced composure subjoined, “She gade oot o’ the hoose, the morn after yee gade away, and she’s niver cam back syne.”

“She is gone off with some sweetheart, I suppose,” replied Henry, affecting carelessness.

“For sham o’ yeersel!” cried David, “for sham o’ yeersel; and she at the doon-lying wid yeer bairn! Wha was she gang wid bit wid you? Ye ken weel enew, she was nane o’ that sort, or ye wad niver have been forced til mack her yeer wife.”

“She’s no wife of mine, man,” interrupted Henry, “and don’t dare to say so!”

“I will dare,” returned David, “til spack the truth.” Henry switched his boots with his whip, and whistled a tune. David continued—“She is your wife, Mr. St. Aubin; and your lawfu’ wife, afoor heaven, and lawfu’ witnesses beside.”

“Neither you, nor your false witnesses, can say that you saw us married,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh.

“If we didna, we heard yee,” replied poor David.

“Then it would seem, by your own confession, that you have nothing but hear-say to found your story upon,” wittily retorted master Henry. “You had better send the fellow away, ma’am,” he added; turning, as he hurried out of the room, to Mrs. Montgomery; who, together with Lady L., had hitherto listened in mute astonishment.

“Look yee theere!” cried David: “oh, madam, if my heart was na breaking within my body, I wad knock that young man doon at my feet.”

Mrs. Montgomery was about to speak, probably to reprove such violence.

“Hear me, madam!” he continued with solemn earnestness; “Yee’re a Christian woman, and a mother, I dar say. She was doon-lying, (as yon lady may be,) the neighbours aw kent she was wid bairn, and kent she was wedded and need na’ sham; then, whare wad she gang from her fayther, and her fayther’s hoose, in sic a straight, if she didna gang we him, whose wedded wife she was? Sweetheart, indeed! An the lass had been withoot sham hersel, whare’s the sweetheart at wad tack her awa, an she gone wid another man’s bairn?—Not his wife!—not his wife! An’ he thinks then, does he, to tack a vantage of yon darkling wedding? But I’ll tell you aw aboot it, madam,” he continued, gasping for breath. Then, with the utmost simplicity, he recounted every minute particular of Betsy’s wedding; the roofless ruin, the midnight hour, the fall of the owl, the consequent darkness, &c. &c.; and finding that his relation was listened to with interest, and evident compassion, he advanced a step nearer, grasped Mrs. Montgomery’s arm, with a hand that almost scorched her skin, and, lowering his voice, continued: “Oh, madam! bit what’s to come, is war than all; I went to Whiten like one distract, when Bess was missing; and theere, the ostler folk at ane o’ the Inn-yards, talt me sic a tale aboot a lady and a gentleman, at had been seen late at evening, walking ootby o’ the sands, a lang way aff. And hoo the gentleman, at darkling, cam back by his sel’; and cam ’intle the inn-yard, looking affeared like, and caw’d for a carriage; and hoo he walked up and doon, up and doon, on a bit o’ flag, nay longer nor yon table, aw the time the cattle war putting too; (the folk showed me the bit o’ flag;) and hoo, when ane on them asked him to remember t’ostler, hoo he looked at him, and never spack; and when he asked him again to remember t’ostler, hoo he started like a body at was wakened, and talt him te gang te hell; and gave him nout, and bad the driver drive on. I trembled fray head to foot,” continued David, “and I asked them—but, oh, I feard te hear what they should say in reply—I asked them, if the lass was na wid bairn; and—and—they answered——” Here the poor man became dreadfully agitated; threw up his arms and eyes a moment, then flung himself forward with violence on a table that stood before him, laid his face down on it, and sobbed audibly, uttering, in broken accents, the concluding words:—“They answered, she was wid bairn—it was why they notished her.”

“But what would you infer?” asked Mrs. Montgomery.

“Wha wad it be but Bess!” he replied, still sobbing. “And she did-na cam back,” he recommenced, raising his streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven, as he joined complaint to complaint thus:—“And she’ll niver cam back! and she was aw I had! and I’ll niver see her bonny face more! nor her bairn, that I could ha’ loved for being Betsy’s bairn, if the deevil had been the fayther on’t! He has murdered her i’ the sands!” he added, sternly and suddenly, and he faced round as he spoke, “to be clean rid bathe o’ her and the bairn!”

“Silence! silence, man!” exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery, in a voice of authority. Then, too much shocked and affected to experience, in full, the indignation she must otherwise have felt on hearing Henry thus accused, she added, “For heaven’s sake compose yourself! The horrible suspicion which agitates you in this dreadful manner, it is quite impossible should have any foundation! My nephew, however imprudent he may have been, is much too young a creature to have even thought of an enormity such as this!”

“Then where is Betsy?” said the poor man, looking up in her face.

“I shall insist on Henry’s declaring all he knows about her,” replied Mrs. Montgomery. “Depend upon it, she is perfectly safe in some lodging in Whitehaven, or some cottage in this neighbourhood, perhaps.”

The poor father smiled. It was a ghastly and a momentary smile. “Heaven grant it!” he ejaculated.

“Henry has behaved most imprudently,” continued Mrs. Montgomery, “in marrying, as you assure me he has done: and very wickedly, in endeavouring to deny it, when done; and I shall see that he does your daughter, if she be a modest girl, every justice, however ruinous to his prospects, ill-fated being! But you ought, indeed, my good man, you ought to take care, how you accuse any one, lightly, of such a crime as you have ventured to name! Were it not that I see your own internal sufferings are so dreadful, that you scarcely know what you say, and that it all proceeds from parental affection, in which I can sympathise, I should, indeed, be very much, and very justly offended!”

But there was no severity in Mrs. Montgomery’s tone: she looked, while she spoke, at her own daughter, and her mind glanced at what was, and what was not, parallel in situation, and she could have pardoned almost any extravagance in poor David.

“Weel, weel,” he replied, and forgetting ceremony, he sat down on a chair, and leaned back quite exhausted.

Lady L., who had felt for his extreme agitation, and had ordered wine to be brought in, now charitably offered him some, helping him herself. At this mark of condescension he attempted to stand up; but she saw he was unable, and would not let him. He took the glass from her; in doing so, a finger came in contact with the hand of Lady L.; its touch was like that of an icicle! He brought the wine near his lips; then, pausing, laid it on the table untasted, and said, “Bit wha could yon ha’ been, ’at went oot wid a young gintleman, and niver cam’ back, and was big wid bairn!”

“Possibly,” replied Mrs. Montgomery, “some lady, whose friends live in that direction, and who had no intention of returning.”

David took up the glass again; but it dropped from his hand, and he fell to the floor with a fatally heavy sound.

Mrs. Montgomery rang, called, begged Lady L. to sit down quietly in the next room, and not suffer herself to be agitated; then rang, and called again. Servants appeared, the doctor was sent for, bleeding, and every other method of restoring animation, resorted to, but in vain—poor David was no more! It was the doctor’s opinion, that his long and hurried journeys on foot, the frightful agitation of his mind, and the heat of the weather, had all together occasioned apoplexy.

Henry, when, a few days after this melancholy catastrophe, the subject was renewed, persisted in his assertions, that he had never thought of marrying the girl; that she was a perfectly good-for-nothing creature, and, most probably, gone off with some fellow, whoever, perhaps, she had been most intimate with; though it was not a week since the father had had the insolence to threaten him, because he had spoken to the girl two or three times, with legal proceedings, forsooth.

Mrs. Montgomery was staggered, and puzzled, and knew not what to think. She wrote, however, to the master of S— B— school, but received, in reply, no more satisfactory information than the certainty that Betsy Park was missing. As to her character, she had always been considered dressy, and fond of the company of scholar lads.

If there was any truth in David’s having thought of taking legal proceedings, his sudden death seemed to have silenced his intended witnesses, for no person came forward. All, therefore, on which Mrs. Montgomery could decide was, that Henry’s profession should not be the church, as had been intended; and that she would settle some little pension on David Park’s widow.