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A WHOLE fortnight passed
from this time, before anything was heard at Glenlyn, either of William
or Allen. At last the little postboy returned from Linton with a large
packet, addressed to Lady Beaumont It began thus:
“My dear Mary must have been lost in astonishment, at being so long
without hearing from her friends in London. Set your heart at rest, my
love. Nothing now awaits you but happiness and joy, so far beyond what
any of us could ever have anticipated, that the relation will appear
almost a fiction to you: for even now, when I have convincing proofs
before me of its truth, I feel as if I were in a delightful dream, and
dread being awakened from it; but to give you a regular account, I must
begin from the day I last wrote to you.
I had scarcely finished my letter, when I was summoned to attend Colonel
Monteith; but as no mention was made of Arthur’s being wanted, I left
him at the inn. On entering the sick room, I found the invalid
considerably worse. The surgeon, who was sitting by him, informed me in
a whisper, that his patient had but a few hours to live. As I approached
the bed he endeavoured to speak, but a violent spasm prevented him for
some minutes. When that was past, he cried, ‘Beaumont, you promised to
pray for me. Why should I be obliged to die now, when I have made all
the reparation in my power?’ 'Compose your mind, my dear Colonel,’
answered I, 'and allow me to send for a clergyman to assist you in
praying for yourself. Neither my prayers nor his can be of any avail
unless you confess your sins to God, and endeavour, through the merits
of your Saviour to make your peace with heaven.’
"‘I won’t die, I tell you, Beaumont; I am not fit either to pray or to
listen to anything a priest can say to me. I have never looked into a
Bible since I was a boy at Monteith House. How, then, can I know any
thing about the matter?’
"Greatly shocked, I tried all in my power to awaken the poor wretched
man to a proper sense of his awful situation. He would isten to nothing
I could urge; but continued screaming and declaring that he would not,
and could not, die. Alas, we all saw that the violence of his conduct,
and his inward compunctions, were rapidly accelerating the very event he
dreaded. I will not, my love, harass your mind by a description of the
painful scene. Three hours did he continue struggling and suffering
beyond anything I ever before witnessed; and God forbid that I should
ever again be compelled to be present at so dreadful a termination to a
fellow-crea-ture’s life I Hatred to his son seems to have taken complete
possession of his mind; and we were forced to oblige Colin to leave the
room, as his father’s violence was increased by the very sight of the
poor young man. About half-past two in the morning, the Colonel became
so weak, as to be unable longer to articulate, and just as the clock
struck three, he expired, grasping my hand in agony. For some time
before his death, I had knelt at his bedside, praying earnestly for
mercy on the dying sufferer. He seemed to give attention tD the
ejaculations I uttered; and even at the moment when he drew his last
breath, his eyes were eagerly fixed on mine. Oh I what a lesson is sucn
a death to all those who not only neglect God themselves but in the
hey-day of health and strength make religion a laughing-stock, and by
example as well as precept, seduce the young and unwary to tread in
their steps. Even his only son became to him an object of hatred and
dislike, by reflecting back to him, as in a mirror, his own worthless
character, and thereby heightening to his awakened mind the culpability
of his own neglect and cruelty, in having reared a fellow-creature who
was neither fit to live in this world, nor to be removed to a better.
“Colin was informed of his father’s death, as gently as we could. He
raised his heavy «yes to Arthur, and said, ‘Oh, Mathieson, that I had
listened to your kind and friendly admonitions! then death would not be
arrayed in such terrors, at its near approach. Tell me, oh I tell me, if
there is yet time to save me from such an end as has now taken place.
The very sound of those screams for mercy and pardon yet ring in my
ears, and seem to say that I too am lost for ever.’
“With earnestness and feeling, Arthur entreated him to make use of the
time that was yet his own; assuring him that His Heavenly Father was
ever willing to receive, through the merits of his son, even the
guiltiest of sinners. He recommended his sending for a clergyman to
assist him in his devotions, and promised not to leave Richmond till he
gave him leave. We waited till the arrival of the clergyman, who appears
a truly respectable and pious man; and then, having introduced him to
this unfortunate youth, we left the house, and retired to our beds,
being extremely exhausted from fatigue both of body and mmd.
“Nearly a week had elapsed, during which, Colin’s illness and state of
nervous irritability had chained us constantly to his bed-side, for he
never enjoyed a moment’s peace but when holding Arthur by the hand, and
listening to his pious and instructive conversation; while I, fearflil,
I confess, for the health of my excellent young friend, trembled to
leave him, though every day made it more necessary for me to consult
with my counsel on the validity of the Colonel’s will, and to take
active steps for preventing trouble from the husband of his daughter;
Colin having warned me, that unless I was on my guard, this man would be
very likely to contest the disposition of his father-in-law’s property.
“One morning, on seeing Colin a little easier, I determined to go to
London on this business, Colonel Monteith having been buried two days
before. After several hour’s attention to the affair it was at length
properly arranged, and I began to think: of returning to Richmond; when
having, for the first time, found a spare moment, I sat down to give you
an account of all that had passed. Just as I was beginning to write, my
servant came up and said, that there were two persons from Scotland
below, who would take no denial, but insisted on being admitted to see
me. The name of dear Scotland was enough to gain their pardon for so
unseasonable an intrusion; I eagerly inquired who they were?
“‘They will not tell their names, sir. They say that their business is
urgent, and that they must see you to-night. One of them looks like a
farmer, but the other is a genteel young man.’
“'Send them up directly,’ answered I, almost alarmed for the news I was
going to receive. But guess my astonishment and delight, on beholding
the good and worthy William Mathieson enter the room, with a young man,
whom I instantly knew to be his son Allen. After the first moments of so
happy a re-union were over, I expressed my regret at Arthur’s absence,
and explained the reason of it.
"'1 am quite as well pleased,’ answered William, 'that Arthur is not
here at present; my business in London is of a nature that re-quires
your private ear in the first place, before eitner he or Allen can be
admitted into my secret; and as it is likewise one that requires instant
attention, I wish Allen directly to go to bed. He is overcome with
fatigue, and will be much better employed in sleeping that off, than in
sitting by himself a couple of hours; for so long, I believe, my
business will fully occupy us.’
“I instantly rang, and inquired if my friends could be accommodated in
the same lodgings with myself; and was fortunate enough to find that
they could. As soon, therefore, as Allen’s room was ready, and we had
taken some slight refreshment, he left us; and William, drawing his
chair closer to mine, began in a low voice a relation which soon
rendered me las eager to listen, as he was to relate. I shall not
attempt to give it in his own words, but shall merely inform you of the
great outlines, reserving all other particulars till we meet.
“He tells me that he was born upon the estate of Monteith; and that he
was brought up by his father, as a farmer; and that he looked forward to
succeeding to a pretty considerable farm, which his ancestors haa held
under the successive Lairds of Monteith for many generations. He was an
only son, and as soon as he had attained the age of manhood, his father,
(who very naturally wished him to marry and settle near him,) in order
to induce him to comply with these wishes, built a pretty cottage at the
end of the village of Monteith, adjoining to the farm; and promised him,
as a marriage portion, fifty acres of land, with above a hundred more at
his death. William, however, was several years before he could fix on a
wife; but at last he became acquainted with Jane Morrison, from her
living as nursery-maid in the family of Hector Monteith; a mutual
attachment took place between them, and as her parents were respectable
tenants on Sir Alexander M’Do-nald’s estate, and bore excellent
characters, old Mathieson gave his consent to their marriage, which was
solemnized when the laird’s eldest child was about two years old.
“From that time, the young couple resided in their cottage in the
village, and all seemed to go on well with them. They were respected by
their neighbours, and greatly favoured by Mrs. Monteith, who had been
much attached to Jane, when in her family; and continued frequently to
call on her, and to send the children to visit her, till the unfortunate
period of the rebellion. On this occasion, both William .and his father
positively refusing to follow the laird, Hector became extremely
irritated with them; and for some months all intercourse ceased between
the families.
“After the battle of Culloden when Hector was discovered and arrested at
the house of your nurse, (who, as you know, was the mother of Jane,)
William and his wife became exceedingly anxious for the safety of Mr.
and Mrs. Monteith, and the children; and conceived, that as it was
perfectly known throughout the country, that the Mathiesons were the
only friends of the reigning monarch, on the whole estate of Monteith,
they coula
assist their distressed laird and his family, with less suspicion than
any one else. In resolving, at length, to mate the attempt, William
pretended, to his father, that he was tired of a farmer’s life, and was
determined to try what he could do as a carrier between Stirling and
Edinburgh. The old man did not like this at all; but He was ill, and not
likely to live long; and William, therefore, delayed putting his
intentions into execution for a few weeks; at the end of which, his
father died, and left him at liberty to follow his own inclinations. He
instantly formed his plan, and having prevailed with Jane’s father to
come and reside on his farm, quitted Monteith, leaving his wife and
children behind him till he had brought his schemes to maturity.
“For several weeks he continued to travel regularly between Edinburgh
and Stirling, as a carrier, privately endeavouring, by every means he
could devise, to gain access to the prisoners in Stirling Castle, as
well as to pick up information on all that concerned them. At last he
learned from undoubted authority, that Hector was to be, in a few days,
removed to Carlisle, and that the unfortunate mother and her infants
were to be committed to the care of Colonel Monteith, whose character he
had learnt, many years before, from Jane’s father, who had known him
perfectly, and represented him in his true colours. Greatly alarmed, he
resolved to risk every thing to save them; and, through a pretty
handsome bribe to the under gaoler, who was a relation of Jane’s, he
succeeded in gaining access to his master, only two nights before his
removal actually took place. In that interview they agreed on a method
of saving the children from the hands of the Colonel. The very next
morning, before it was light, Monteith, with the assistance of a rope
which William had conveyed to him under his clothes, lowered the three
poor infants from the prison window, and they were safely received below
by the faithful couple; for Jane had joined her husband. Strong
gratitude and affection for her kind mistress, had even induced her to
quit a father to whom she was powerfully attached, and whose influence
over her mind had, till then, been irresistible.
“Having thus obtained possession of the children, William conveyed them,
as he had been directed by their father, to Edinburgh, to their mother’s
aunt, Mrs. Rachel Campbell, who placed them under the care of Jane
Mathieson, at an obscure house in the Can-nongate, promising him every
assistance in her power for their support. William, returning to his
business of carrier, was able, by that means, to obtain occasional
information of their unhappy mother; but he found her so strictly
watched, that without endangering the discoveiy of the children, he
never could venture to approach her. She at last died; and he was no
sooner certain of this feet, than he hurried to Carlisle, in hopes of
being able to get admission to his master, and to receive from him more
exact directions concerning the disposal of the in&nts. He reached that
town, however, only in time to see him brought out on the scaffold. With
some difficulty, he succeeded in attracting poor Monteitn s notice; who,
with astonishing presence of mind contrived, in an address, which, to
all but William, had the appearance of being meant for the whole
assembly,) to give him a solemn charge to educate and bring up the
children as nis own.
“The fatal scene was no sooner over, than William returned to his wife,
and informed her of the engagement he had taken upon himself with regard
to the orphans. He gave her a free option, either to leave him
altogether, and return to her father, or to take a solemn vow that she
would never (till he gave her leave) utter even to him, the name of
Monteith; and agree to retire with him into some obscure part of the
country, where the children might pass for their own.
“Jane, to her honour be it recorded, did not hesitate a moment in her
choice between the two alternatives. She instantly took the vow
prescribed by her husband; nor during the many long years that have
since passed, has she, either in prosperity or in adversity, ever shown
the slightest symptom of regret at having sacrificed so much to secure
the welfare of her poor mistress’s orphans.
“Mrs. Campbell died at the end of two years, and left William three
hundred pounds, being all that she durst venture to withraw from her
little property, without exciting suspicion in the minds of her heirs.
On the event of her death, William thought a country life was much
better suited both to himself and his wife, than the business he had
engaged in. He therefore set about seeking employment as a labourer,
upon some estate in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh; and was fortunate
enough, to be hired by our friend M’Farlane, who was then in want of a
farm-servant at Glenlyn. He removed thither early in the spring, and, by
his good conduct and abilities, soon recommended himself so much to his
employer, as to receive in reward for his industry one of the new
cottages at Carlin’s Loup, where he had lived about five years before we
so fortunately discovered the dear children, that memorable evening at
Habbie’s How.
“His treatment of the different members of his family is now completely
explained; and I think it more clearly shows his strong good sense and
rectitude than any other part of his conduct It, likewise, clearly
explains Arthur’s firm refusal to become our foot-boy at a time when, to
those not in the secret, his conduct appeared no less extraordinary than
the sanction his father gave to his refusal. William tells me, that,
young as Arthur was when he quitted ms parents in Stirling Castle, he
retained the recollection of them so firmly in his mind, that on a
conversation which our offer occasioned between them, he found it was in
vain to attempt to deceive him. Arthur declared, that he knew he was not
his son; but that his parents were gentlefolks, like the laird and his
lady. William, upon reflection, deemed it best to own that the boy was
right. He, therefore, told him that such was the case; but that his real
father, in committing his three children to the charge of their supposed
parent, had exacted a promise, that their origin should be concealed
until the youngest had attained the age of manhood, nor even be revealed
but under strong restrictions. This had the best possible effect on the
mind of Arthur, who, from that moment, religiously abstained from even
mentidning the subject It, however, gave his mind, undoubtedly, a
stimulus to improvement, and determined nim to tiy all the means that
education and study could furnish, to fit himself for the rank to which
he was born. How he succeeded in acquiring not only general knowledge,
and the accomplishments of a scholar, but likewise very considerable
skill in the French and Italian languages, with a degree of polish and
elegance of manners, beyond what Scotch lads in any rank of life
commonly attain, has always appeared to me to be next to miraculous.
William, however, tells me, that Arthur owned to him, there was a secret
in his education which he was not at liberty to disclose, but which he
hoped to be able to explain at some future time to his satisfaction.
Whatever his secret is, Allen (who, I have no doubt, you guess by this
time is Mon-teith’s second son) appears to have shared in its
advantages; at least as far as manner and address go; for he is
certainly as genteel and well bred a young man as I have seen for a long
time. William says, there was no one circumstance that gave him more
pleasure than your offer to take charge of one of his daughters; for it
was the only thing he could not manage to his own satisfaction, or that
of his wife, who fretted, even more than he did, at the idea of her dear
mistress’ daughter, Jessie, being brought up in a cottage, ignorant of
the manners and accomplishments that had been so conspicuous in her
mother.
“On hearing you read Colonel Monteith’s confession, and learning the
near prospect of his death, William wisely thought that no time ought to
be lost in drawing up a petition to government for the restitution of
the children’s rights; a great many letters and papers, tending to
corroborate the facts relative to the means used to seduce both their
father and Sir Alexander, had been placed in his hands by Monteith, when
he saw him in Stirling Castle, and these papers he has now brought to
town with him. I am busily engaged in preparing a representation of the
case to government, in which I have been greatly assisted by some
documents and papers delivered to me by Allen; though he refuses to
explain how he came by them, till the result of the application is
known. I know not what to suspect; but I believe you must be in that
secret, as you have already owned you are with regard to your father’s
seal.
“William and I must remain in London during this business; but we have
dispatched Allen to the assistance of his brother, who writes, that
Colin continues much in the same state as when I left him. Do not,
William begs of you, inform Jessie of her real birth, at present; as he
thinks it better, till he can return home, to conceal it both from her
and Jamie, who, no doubt, poor fellow, will be greatly hurt at being in
one moment deprived of three relatives to whom he has always been so
strongly attached. The restriction, however, does not extend to Jane.
She well deserves every comfort and attention in our power to pay her.
Arthur and Allen are to know nothing of what has been discovered, till
we can join them at Richmond, as it would naturally distract them from
the attention and care they ought to pay to their suffering cousin; and,
in other respects would answer no good purpose. You shall hear from me
again, as soon as I can give you any good news; but do not be impatient,
for my time is so occupied that I have not a moment to myself.”
“How amazing!” exclaimed Lady Beaumont, laying her letter on the table,
“that Jessie, the adopted niece of Beaumont and mvself, should turn out
to be the daughter of my own dear Mary Campbell, the companion and
playmate of my infant years. Oh! how richly am I rewarded for having
chosen this sweet girl, from all other children, and for having bestowed
on her the advantages which my own acquirements and information have
enabled me to communicate; advantages that were gained years ago, in the
society of her own mother!” |
