‘The girl seems to have candour and strong affections,’ said Mrs. Logan. ‘I grievously mistake if such a child would not be a thousand times better without such a guardian and director.’
‘Then will you be so kind as to come to the Grass Market and see me put down?’ said the prisoner. ‘I thought a woman would estimate a woman’s and a mother’s feelings, when such a dreadful throw was at stake, at least in part. But you are callous, and have never known any feelings but those of subordination to your old unnatural master. Alas, I have no cause of offence! I have wronged you; and justice must take its course. Will you forgive me before we part?’
Mrs. Logan hesitated, for her mind ran on something else. On which the other subjoined: ‘No, you will not forgive me, I see. But you will pray to God to forgive me? I know you will do that.’
Mrs. Logan heard not this jeer, but, looking at the prisoner with an absent and stupid stare, she said: ‘Did you know my late master?’
‘Ay, that I did, and never for any good,’ said she. ‘I knew the old and the young spark both, and was by when the latter was slain.’
This careless sentence affected Mrs. Logan in a most peculiar manner. A shower of tears burst from her eyes ere it was done, and, when it was, she appeared like one bereaved of her mind. She first turned one way and then another, as if looking for something she had dropped. She seemed to think she had lost her eyes, instead of her tears, and at length, as by instinct, she tottered close up to the prisoner’s face, and, looking wistfully and joyfully in it, said, with breathless earnestness: ‘Pray, mistress, what is your name?’
‘My name is Arabella Calvert,’ said the other. ‘Miss, mistress, or widow, as you choose, for I have been all the three, and that not once nor twice only. Ay, and something beyond all these. But, as for you, you have never been anything!’
‘Ay, ay! and so you are Bell Calvert? Well, I thought so — I thought so,’ said Mrs. Logan; and, helping herself to a seat, she came and sat down close by the prisoner’s knee. ‘So you are indeed Bell Calvert, so called once. Well, of all the world you are the woman whom I have longed and travailed the most to see. But you were invisible; a being to be heard of, not seen.’
‘There have been days, madam,’ returned she, ‘when I was to be seen, and when there were few to be seen like me. But since that time there have indeed been days on which I was not to be seen. My crimes have been great, but my sufferings have been greater. So great that neither you nor the world can ever either know or conceive them. I hope they will be taken into account by the Most High. Mine have been crimes of utter desperation. But whom am I speaking to? You had better leave me to myself, mistress.’
‘Leave you to yourself? That I will be loth to do till you tell me where you were that night my young master was murdered.’
‘Where the devil would, I was! Will that suffice you? Ah, it was a vile action! A night to be remembered that was! Won’t you be going? I want to trust my daughter with a commission.’
‘No, Mrs. Calvert, you and I part not till you have divulged that mystery to me.’
‘You must accompany me to the other world, then, for you shall not have it in this.’
‘If you refuse to answer me, I can have you before a tribunal, where you shall be shifted to the soul.’
‘Such miserable inanity! What care I for your threatenings of a tribunal? I who must soon stand before my last earthly one? What could the word of such a culprit avail? Or, if it could, where is the judge that could enforce it?’
‘Did you not say that there was some mode of accommodating matters on that score?’
‘Yes, I prayed you to grant me my life, which is in your power. The saving of it would not have cost you a plack, yet you refused to do it. The taking of it will cost you a great deal, and yet to that purpose you adhere. I can have no parley with such a spirit. I would not have my life in a present from its motions, nor would I exchange courtesies with its possessor.’
‘Indeed, Mrs. Calvert, since ever we met, I have been so busy thinking about who you might be that I know not what you have been proposing. I believe I meant to do what I could to save you. But, once for all, tell me everything that you know concerning that amiable young gentleman’s death, and here is my hand there shall be nothing wanting that I can effect for you.’
‘No, I despise all barter with such mean and selfish curiosity; and, as I believe that passion is stronger with you, than fear with me, we part on equal terms. Do your worst; and my secret shall go to the gallows and the grave with me.’
Mrs. Logan was now greatly confounded, and after proffering in vain to concede everything she could ask in exchange, for the particulars relating to the murder, she became the suppliant in her turn. But the unaccountable culprit, exulting in her advantage, laughed her to scorn; and finally, in a paroxysm of pride and impatience, called in the jailor and had her expelled, ordering him in her hearing not to grant her admittance a second time, on any pretence.
Mrs. Logan was now hard put to it, and again driven almost to despair. She might have succeeded in the attainment of that she thirsted for most in life so easily had she known the character with which she had to deal. Had she known to have soothed her high and afflicted spirit: but that opportunity was past, and the hour of examination at hand. She once thought of going and claiming her articles, as she at first intended; but then, when she thought again of the Wringhims swaying it at Dalcastle, where she had been wont to hear them held in such contempt, if not abhorrence, and perhaps of holding it by the most diabolical means, she was withheld from marring the only chance that remained of having a glimpse into that mysterious affair.
Finally, she resolved not to answer to her name in the court, rather than to appear and assert a falsehood, which she might be called on to certify by oath. She did so; and heard the Sheriff give orders to the officers to make inquiry for Miss Logan from Edinburgh, at the various places of entertainment in town, and to expedite her arrival in court, as things of great value were in dependence. She also heard the man who had turned king’s evidence against the prisoner examined for the second time, and sifted most cunningly. His answers gave anything but satisfaction to the Sheriff, though Mrs. Logan believed them to be mainly truth. But there were a few questions and answers that struck her above all others.
‘How long is it since Mrs. Calvert and you became acquainted?’
‘About a year and a half.’
‘State the precise time, if you please; the day, or night, according to your remembrance.’
‘It was on the morning of the 28th of February, 1705.’
‘What time of the morning?’
‘Perhaps about one.’
‘So early as that? At what place did you meet then?’
‘It was at the foot of one of the north wynds of Edinburgh.’
‘Was it by appointment that you met?’
‘No, it was not.’
‘For what purpose was it then?’
‘For no purpose.’
‘How is it that you chance to remember the day and hour so minutely, if you met that woman, whom you have accused, merely by chance, and for no manner of purpose, as you must have met others that night, perhaps to the amount of hundreds, in the same way?’
‘I have good cause to remember it, my lord.’
‘What was that cause? — No answer? — You don’t choose to say what that cause was?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell.’
The Sheriff then descended to other particulars, all of which tended to prove that the fellow was an accomplished villain, and that the principal share of the atrocities had been committed by him. Indeed the Sheriff hinted that he suspected the only share Mrs. Calvert had in them was in being too much in his company, and too true to him. The case was remitted to the Court of Justiciary; but Mrs. Logan had heard enough to convince her that the culprits first met at the very spot, and the very hour, on which George Colwan was slain; and she had no doubt that they were incendiaries set on by hi
s mother, to forward her own and her darling son’s way to opulence. Mrs. Logan was wrong, as will appear in the sequel; but her antipathy to Mrs. Colwan made her watch the event with all care. She never quitted Peebles as long as Bell Calvert remained there, and, when she was removed to Edinburgh, the other followed. When the trial came on, Mrs. Logan and her maid were again summoned as witnesses before the jury, and compelled by the prosecutor for the Crown to appear.
The maid was first called; and, when she came into the witness box, the anxious and hopeless looks of the prisoner were manifest to all. But the girl, whose name, she said, was Bessy Gillies, answered in so flippant and fearless a way that the auditors were much amused. After a number of routine questions, the depute-advocate asked her if she was at home on the morning of the fifth of September last, when her mistress’s house was robbed.
‘Was I at hame, say ye? Na, faith-ye, lad! An’ I had been at hame, there had been mair to dee. I wad hae raised sic a yelloch!’
‘Where were you that morning?’
‘Where was I, say you? I was in the house where my mistress was, sitting dozing an’ half sleeping in the kitchen. I thought aye she would be setting out every minute, for twa hours.’
‘And, when you went home, what did you find?’
‘What found we? Be my sooth, we found a broken lock, an’ toom kists.’
‘Relate some of the particulars, if you please.’
‘O, sir, the thieves didna stand upon particulars: they were halesale dealers in a’ our best wares.’
‘I mean, what passed between your mistress and you on the occasion?’
‘What passed, say ye? O, there wasna muckle: I was in a great passion, but she was dung doitrified a wee. When she gaed to put the key i’ the door, up it flew to the fer wa’. “Bless ye, jaud, what’s the meaning o’ this?” quo she. “Ye hae left the door open, ye tawpie!” quo she. “The ne’er o’ that I did,” quo I, “or may my shakel bane never turn another key.” When we got the candle lightit, a’ the house was in a hoad-road. “Bessy, my woman,” quo she, “we are baith ruined and undone creatures.” “The deil a bit,” quo I; “that I deny positively. H’mh! to speak o’ a lass o’ my age being ruined and undone! I never had muckle except what was within a good jerkin, an’ let the thief ruin me there wha can.” ’
‘Do you remember aught else that your mistress said on the occasion? Did you hear her blame any person?’
‘O, she made a gread deal o’ grumphing an’ groaning about the misfortune, as she ca’d it, an’ I think she said it was a part o’ the ruin wrought by the Ringans, or some sic name. “They’ll hae’t a’! They’ll hae’t a’!” cried she, wringing her hands; “they’ll hae’t a’, an’ hell wi’t, an’ they’ll get them baith.” “Aweel, that’s aye some satisfaction,” quo I.’
‘Whom did she mean by the Ringans, do you know?’
‘I fancy they are some creatures that she has dreamed about, for I think there canna be as ill folks living as she ca’s them.’
‘Did you never hear say that the prisoner at the bar there, Mrs. Calvert, or Bell Calvert, was the robber of her house; or that she was one of the Ringans?’
‘Never. Somebody tauld her lately that ane Bell Calvert robbed her house, but she disna believe it. Neither do I.’
‘What reasons have you for doubting it?’
‘Because it was nae woman’s fingers that broke up the bolts an’ the locks that were torn open that night.’
‘Very pertinent, Bessy. Come then within the bar, and look at these articles on the table. Did you ever see these silver spoons before?’
‘I hae seen some very like them, and whaever has seen siller spoons has done the same.’
‘Can you swear you never saw them before?’
‘Na, na, I wadna swear to ony siller spoons that ever war made, unless I had put a private mark on them wi’ my ain hand, an’ that’s what I never did to ane.’
‘See, they are all marked with a C.’
‘Sae are a’ the spoons in Argyle, an’ the half o’ them in Edinburgh I think. A C is a very common letter, an’ so are a’ the names that begin wi’t, lay them by, lay them by, an’ gie the poor woman her spoons again. They are marked wi’ her ain name, an’ I have little doubt they are hers, an’ that she has seen better days.’
‘Ah, God bless her heart!’ sighed the prisoner; and that blessing was echoed in the breathings of many a feeling breast.
‘Did you ever see this gown before, think you?’
‘I hae seen ane very like it.’
‘Could you not swear that gown was your mistress’s once?’
‘No, unless I saw her hae’t on, an’ kend that she had paid for’t. I am very scrupulous about an oath. Like is an ill mark. Sae ill indeed that I wad hardly swear to anything.’
‘But you say that gown is very like one your mistress used to wear.’
‘I never said sic a thing. It is like one I hae seen her hae out airing on the hay raip i’ the back green. It is very like ane I hae seen Mrs. Butler in the Grass Market wearing too: I rather think it is the same. Bless you, sir, I wadna swear to my ain forefinger, if it had been as lang out o’ my sight an’ brought in an’ laid on that table.’
‘Perhaps you are not aware, girl, that this scrupulousness of yours is likely to thwart the purposes of justice, and bereave your mistress of property to the amount of a thousand merks.’ (From the Judge.)
‘I canna help that, my lord: that’s her look-out. For my part, I am resolved to keep a clear conscience, till I be married, at any rate.’
‘Look over these things and see if there is any one article among them which you can fix on as the property of your mistress.’
‘No ane o’ them, sir, no ane o’ them. An oath is an awfu’ thing, especially when it is for life or death. Gie the poor woman her things again, an’ let my mistress pick up the next she finds: that’s my advice.’
When Mrs. Logan came into the box, the prisoner groaned and laid down her head. But how she was astonished when she heard her deliver herself something to the following purport! — That, whatever penalties she was doomed to abide, she was determined she would not bear witness against a woman’s life, from a certain conviction that it could not be a woman who broke her house. ‘I have no doubt that I may find some of my own things there,’ added she, ‘but, if they were found in her possession, she has been made a tool, or the dupe, of an infernal set, who shall be nameless here. I believe she did not rob me, and for that reason I will have no hand in her condemnation.’
The Judge: ‘This is the most singular perversion I have ever witnessed. Mrs. Logan, I entertain strong suspicions that the prisoner, or her agents, have made some agreement with you on this matter to prevent the course of justice.’
‘So far from that, my lord, I went into the jail at Peebles to this woman, whom I had never seen before, and proffered to withdraw my part in the prosecution, as well as my evidence, provided she would tell me a few simple facts; but she spurned at my offer, and had me turned insolently out of the prison, with orders to the jailor never to admit me again on any pretence.’
The prisoner’s counsel, taking hold of this evidence, addressed the jury with great fluency; and, finally, the prosecution was withdrawn, and the prisoner dismissed from the bar, with a severe reprimand for her past conduct, and an exhortation to keep better company.
It was not many days till a caddy came with a large parcel to Mrs. Logan’s house, which parcel he delivered into her hands, accompanied with a sealed note, containing an inventory of the articles, and a request to know if the unfortunate Arabella Calvert would be admitted to converse with Mrs. Logan.
Never was there a woman so much overjoyed as Mrs. Logan was at this message. She returned compliments. Would be most happy to see her; and no article of the parcel should be looked at, or touched, till her arrival. It was not long till she made her appearance, dressed in somewhat better style than she had yet seen her; delivered her over the greater part of
the stolen property, besides many things that either never had belonged to Mrs. Logan or that she thought proper to deny in order that the other might retain them.
The tale that she told of her misfortunes was of the most distressing nature, and was enough to stir up all the tender, as well as abhorrent feelings in the bosom of humanity. She had suffered every deprivation in fame, fortune, and person. She had been imprisoned; she had been scourged, and branded as an impostor; and all on account of her resolute and unmoving fidelity and truth to several of the very worst of men, every one of whom had abandoned her to utter destitution and shame. But this story we cannot enter on at present, as it would perhaps mar the thread of our story, as much as it did the anxious anticipations of Mrs. Logan, who sat pining and longing for the relation that follows.
‘Now I know, Mrs. Logan, that you are expecting a detail of the circumstances relating to the death of Mr. George Colwan; and, in gratitude for your unbounded generosity and disinterestedness, I will tell you all that I know, although, for causes that will appear obvious to you, I had determined never in life to divulge one circumstance of it. I can tell you, however, that you will be disappointed, for it was not the gentleman who was accused, found guilty, and would have suffered the utmost penalty of the law had he not made his escape. It was not he, I say, who slew your young master, nor had he any hand in it.’
‘I never thought he had. But, pray, how do you come to know this?’
‘You shall hear. I had been abandoned in York by an artful and consummate fiend; and found guilty of being art and part concerned in the most heinous atrocities, and, in his place, suffered what I yet shudder to think of. I was banished the county, begged my way with my poor outcast child up to Edinburgh, and was there obliged, for the second time in my life, to betake myself to the most degrading of all means to support two wretched lives. I hired a dress, and betook me, shivering, to the High Street, too well aware that my form and appearance would soon draw me suitors enow at that throng and intemperate time of the Parliament. On my very first stepping out to the street, a party of young gentlemen was passing. I heard by the noise they made, and the tenor of their speech, that they were more then mellow, and so I resolved to keep near them, in order, if possible, to make some of them my prey. But, just as one of them began to eye me, I was rudely thrust into a narrow close by one of the guardsmen. I had heard to what house the party was bound, for the men were talking exceedingly loud, and making no secret of it: so I hasted down the close, and round below to the one where their rendezvous was to be; but I was too late, they were all housed and the door bolted. I resolved to wait, thinking they could not all stay long; but I was perishing with famine, and was like to fall down. The moon shone as bright as day, and I perceived, by a sign at the bottom of the close, that there was a small tavern of a certain description up two stairs there. I went up and called, telling the mistress of the house my plan. She approved of it mainly, and offered me her best apartment, provided I could get one of these noble mates to accompany me. She abused Lucky Sudds, as she called her, at the inn where the party was, envying her huge profits, no doubt, and giving me afterwards something to drink for which I really felt exceedingly grateful in my need. I stepped downstairs in order to be on the alert. The moment that I reached the ground, the door of Lucky Sudds’ house opened and shut, and down came the Honourable Thomas Drummond, with hasty and impassioned strides, his sword rattling at his heel. I accosted him in a soft and soothing tone. He was taken with my address; for he instantly stood still and gazed intently at me, then at the place, and then at me again. I beckoned him to follow me, which he did without further ceremony, and we soon found ourselves together in the best room of a house where everything was wretched. He still looked about him, and at me; but all this while he had never spoken a word. At length, I asked if he would take any refreshment? “If you please,” said he. I asked what he would have, but he only answered, “Whatever you choose, madam.” If he was taken with my address, I was much more taken with his; for he was a complete gentleman, and a gentleman will ever act as one. At length, he began as follows: