The Lawyer's Purpose. A novel

Chapter I

Dundas had agreed to the terms proposed by Brewer regarding the copper-mine. He got a civil engineer of note from London to examine the workings, and to report upon the probability of their being successfully extended. That report was highly favourable ; and thus encouraged, Dundas went into the enterprise with great spirit. He brought practical miners from a distance, increased the number of workers threefold, and superintended the operations himself for the greater part of each day. By the middle of August such progress had been made, that he was enabled to calculate with certainty on the profits of the specu lation even exceeding those held out to him by its VOL. II. B late proprietor. The young man's satisfaction may be imagined. What he had considered a foolish act on his part — his launching out so many thou sands rashly — was, after all, not to repay him according to his folly.

In the prospect of so much success, he did not forget the orphaned girl at the Hall. He resolved to set apart half the profits for her, thus keeping to the original agreement which he had come to with her father, and setting aside the more advan tageous terms proposed by her guardian. It was not altogether sympathy for Lucy's misfortunes that made Dundas come to this resolution. He was naturally very just, and even had she been a rich heiress, instead of the penniless orphan he believed her to be, no other course of conduct would have satisfied his conscience. It did not matter to him that she was soon to become the wife of another ; half the profits were hers by right, and he felt bound by honour to set aside Brewer's arrangement. He did not believe that she was any thing more to him now than a sister, or a very dear friend; but his love for her had been too strong, too intense, to be conquered all at once ; and although he did not know it at this time, it still lingered deep in the recesses of his inmost heart.

In the mean time, his plans were kept to himself. On the wet morning on which he had so unex pectedly met Lucy on her way to Auldburgh, his mind was full of his purpose, but his innate delicacy prevented him from mentioning the sub ject either to herself or to her guardian. So matters stood at the time Brewer made his bold avowal of love. On the same evening light was thrown on some of the lawyer's deeds of darkness by a startling revelation which was made to Dundas. After an unusually busy day, he was sitting alone, thinking over his past life — by no means an uncommon practice of his — and as usual his reverie ended with Lucy Ackworth, whom he had not seen, except at church, since the forenoon of the thunder-storm. He was wearying to hear about her, and had no means of getting the in formation.

Brewer had shown great reserve, when, once or twice, he had ventured to put any questions. "He knew little about Miss Ackworth's cousin, the military man," he would say, "but he thought it likely that she would be married soon." Although the dusk of the autumn night was fast settling down over the landscape without, and inside the room it was almost dark, Dundas was too much occupied with his own thoughts to ring for lights. He was at length aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Auld, who came forward and said: " If ye please, Maister Henry, the gairdner wad like to speak wi' ye for a minent or twa in private, if it wadna disturb ye." Dundas looked round as she spoke, apparently a little surprised at the request; but he added cheerfully : " Oh, certainly ; tell James to come up at once." Mrs. Auld left the room and went to the hall, where the gardener sat waiting.

In the dim light, he seemed a man advanced in years, thin and spare. His hair was inclining to gray, and his face had that aspect of premature old age seen on the faces of those whose lives have been saddened by sorrow and suffering. His eyes wore an anxious expression as the housekeeper came for ward. " Ou, ay," she said pleasantly. " I kent he wadna refuse ye. Ye're just tae come awa up. An' dinna be blate, Maister Potts ; Maister Henry's no prood ava. An' jist speak yer mind freely. He's a kind sympatheesin' maister." " Thank you, thank you," replied the old man, with a sparkle in his eye. " It's very kind of him." Whether it was the voice or the manner that went to Mrs. Auld's heart, we cannot say ; but her eyes began to glisten, and there was an unusual quiver in her voice, as she replied : " Come this way, Maister Potts.

We a' hae oor sorrows in this worl', but we maun put a stout heart to a stey brae, ye ken. An' dinna be sweirt to speak. If it were ony thing that I could help ye wi' mysel', a bit poun' or twa, maybe, at a pressin' time like this, I'm sure ye needna want for the askin'." "Thank you, thank you kindly, Mrs. Auld," he replied, much moved by her sympathy, and apparently unable from his emotion to speak his mind freely on his necessities. " Mind, then, Maister Potts ; mind, then," she said earnestly. " Noo jist come up the stair to Maister Henry's room." The kind-hearted woman opened the room door and ushered the old man in. Having closed the door, she went down-stairs, exclaiming half aloud as she went : " Mercy me ! but some folk find this worl' a sair faucht." She evidently meant the gardener in particular, who by this time had been requested by his master to take a seat.

" I've taken the leeberty, sir," said the old man, with great effort to keep down his emotion, — " I've taken the leeberty to come ower and ask you, if ye wad kindly condescend to see my daughter Mary for a few minutes. She's just at death's door, sir, and she's been cryin' at her mither and me for a week to bid ye come down and speak to her. There's some secret on her mind that we dinna ken o', and that she wants to let you know." Dundas was moved by the old man's words and appearance, and much surprised at the strange request " Has your daughter been very dl ?" he asked. " I am sorry that I was not informed of the cir cumstance. You should have come sooner, as she wished." " Weel, sir, it micht have ease't her mind, but we did it a' for the best. We didna like to disturb you at all. I had it often on my lips to tell you aboot it in the gairden, but my heart failed me.

Had it no' been that I dinna think she can outleeve the nicht, I wad scarcely have ventur'd up even noo." JJ " And are you sure that she is in full possession of her mind ?" asked Dundas, wondering what secret Mary Potts could have to impart. " Yes, yes, sir, she's quite clear in that way," replied the gardener, " and she has been clear for two or three weeks. There was a while, about five or six weeks syne, that she wasna jist sae weel in that respect. She seemed a little unsettled in her mind at that time ; but it has a' passed ower since." " Well, James, I am ready to go with you. Are you going over to the house just now ?" " No, sir, I have to gang doon to Portgowan for Dr. Orchit, but I'll no' be long awa, and maybe ye'll be kind enough to step doon to the hoose yersel'. The mistress'll be waitin' for you."

" Yes, yes, I shall go over in the course of ten minutes." Before leaving the house, Dundas inquired of the housekeeper further particulars about Mary Potts, regarding whom he himself knew little. " She's woman grown, sir," replied the quaint old body, " though I dare say she'll no' be ower eighteen or nineteen years o' age. Puir thing ! she was unfortunate, an' her folks took it awfu' sair to heart. The baby dee't, an' she has never recover't her speerits since, but has been dwining awa' to her grave. She was a weel brocht-up lassie tae, and got a guid eddication. She's a nice genteel-spoken girl, an' it was a great surprise to us a' to hear o' her gaun wrang, but we canna be harsh on thae things, sir. She's mair to be pitied than to be blamed." " What was her occupation before she took ill?" he asked.

" She learnt dressmakin' in Auldburgh, sir, but her mither wasna stout ava, and often bedridden, and Mary filled her place at hame. My leddy, your mother, often employed her when she needed ony sewing done, and was verra kind to her, even for a'." Dundas left the house to go down to the gardener's, wondering what could be the nature of the requested interview. He was totally unable to think of any thing at all likely to be the true explanation. The gardener's house adjoined the stables, and he had not many yards to walk. He knocked at the door, which was standing a little ajar, its two steps, evidently newly washed, looking extremely tidy and clean. In a few seconds some one was heard coming towards it, passing across the floor with a crackling sound, such as is made by a slipper on sanded stone-flags.

It was the gardener's wife, who curtsied low when she saw who was standing before her. She was an old woman, pale, and of delicate look ; scrupulously neat and clean in her dress. She wore a white cap, with neatly plaited borders. The traces of recent tears were on her face ; a large tear-drop stood on her cheek. " Come in, sir," she said; " Mary's been cryin' a' day to see you. It is very kind of you to come." She led Dundas into the first apartment, into which the outer door opened without any inter vening lobby. It was the kitchen of the house, and its floor was nicely sprinkled with reddish sand. A comfortable fire, with large-tongued flicker, drove out the weaker twilight that was making faint efforts to come in at the little window. " She's lying i' the inner room," she said, pointing to a door that led out of the kitchen.

" I'll just show you the way, and then leave ye alane to speak to her." She passed out of the kitchen, along a narrow passage, and entered a smaller apartment, where, in a bed near the window, the dying girl was lying. "Mary," said Mrs. Potts kindly, "here is Mr. Dundas come over to see you. Can ye sit up and speak to him ?" The poor girl, emaciated and wan, opened her large, dark eyes, and looked at her mother. She had evidently been lying for a few minutes in a half-sleep ; but at the mention of Dundas's name she gave a quick start, and looked earnestly from the bed in the direction of the stranger. " Oh, yes, mother," she exclaimed, as she observed him ; " it is very kind. Lift me up a little, mother, on the pillow." Mrs. Potts gently raised her daughter's shoul ders, placing her in a better position for speaking to her visitor.

Dundas sat down on a chair near the bed, and awaited the communication that was to be made to him. The mother then retired, leaving them alone in the dim room. For a few moments there was a dead and painful silence. At length, with hasty effort, the girl put her hand, without speaking, below the pdlow, and drew out some thing, that looked like a dark-coloured book. She handed it at once to Dundas, saying in low, husky, nervous tones : " Do you know that pocket-book, sir ?" Dundas took the book into bis hands. It was of moderate size, and, from the dumpy convexity of its sides, apparently filled with papers. He looked at it carefully, turned it round and round, and, without uttering a word, left his seat, and took it over to the light of the window, that he might see it better. " No," he replied slowly ; " I have not seen it before."

" Open it, please, sir," she said, apparently much agitated, " and look inside." He opened the book at her request, and looked into its different compartments. There were a good many papers, white and blue. Then he saw in gilt lettering on the dark leather — what? Heavens ! what a start the young man gave. The name he saw was " Ackworth" — nothing more. " Where did you get this ?" he exclaimed. " Did this belong to the late Sir John Ackworth?" " Yes, yes, sir," she replied, still agitated, and in a low, faint voice. " Sit down, sir, and I will tell you all. " A strange feeling passed through Dundas's mind. There was some mystery about to be re vealed concerning his late friend, and his heart beat fast from suspense. The dim room and the dying girl both impressed him w-ith a feeling of solemnity.

" Do you remember getting a letter about six weeks ago ?" she began, " warning you to go to Portgowan Churchyard at eleven o'clock that night?" " Yes, I do," he replied. " It was me that wrote that letter," she con tinued. " I put it into Jobson's window early that morning, and called out to him to give it to you as soon as possible." Dundas almost leaped from his chair at this intelligence. Here at last was the mystery of the ghost, seen by Jobson, about to be cleared up. A vivid recollection of the exciting scenes of those three days passed through his mind. " And were you the figure," he exclaimed, " that appeared first to Jobson, and afterwards to me?" " Yes, yes, sir," she replied huskily, " and I hope you are not angry with me. I must have startled you very much." " I was indeed startled," he replied ; " but I am not angry.

You surely meant no malice or mis chief in going about the grounds in that strange manner?" " No, no, sir," she continued, with much ear nestness. " I believe I was not quite in my right mind at the time. It was not long after my baby died, sir. He was buried in Portgowan Church yard, and I heard of body-lifters going about graveyards at the time, and my mind could not rest. I could not sleep at night for thinking that I saw them in Portgowan going into the grave yard, and digging up my baby with their vile hands. I lay awake, night after night, till I could think of nothing else but Portgowan Churchyard and body-lifters. I must have been almost wrong in the mind, sir, for I went out one night away down to Portgowan to watch. That night, just as I entered the gate, I heard a horse neigh in the lane, and I ran in like lightning to get to the church.

In a short time I noticed a man at the other end of the graveyard, near the Ardgowan vault. He was whistling, I thought, and speaking to himself ; but he went away. I was so terrified for baby that I waited very late, or rather well into the morning. I sat beside baby's grave for a long time, till I saw the gray breaking over the Ardgowan braes, and then I came home, though I made up my mind to come back again for some nights more, in case the man should come back, or more of them. I was horrified at the thought of their lifting him, and I knew they had not been there before, for every thing was the same on the wee bit green mound." She stopped a little for breath, coughing hard, and in much pain. It was only her eagerness that kept her up. Dundas was much moved by her appearance and her story.

It made him shud der as he pictured to himself the lonely, half crazed woman sitting for hours at her baby's grave in the dark night. The room in which they were was becoming darker every minute, and lent solemnity to the dying woman's words. " Don't hurry yourself," he said kindly. " Lie still for a few minutes, till you recover breath." " Thank you, sir," she replied, "but I feel better now. It is that racking cough that pains me so much. I went back again next night, sir, and often and often, kept up by the thought that I was perhaps saving my baby from vile men, who would cruelly take its delicate little body away. I never met any body as I went ; except one night, in going down the side-walk that leads to the road, when there was a little light still in the open fields, I came suddenly on a man and woman walking towards me.

They saw me, but I went off the path, in among the trees, and left them standing. I think they must have been fright ened, for they both ran as if they were out of their wits." " Who were they ?" asked Dundas wonder ingly- " The man was Jobson, and the woman was either Martha or Mary, I cannot say which. I think it must have been Martha, from her size. I was glad afterwards that I had seen them, for it made me think of sending you, through Jobson, the letter which I did send. After leaving them I went down to Portgowan, and sat down at baby's grave. I was not afraid, sir ; for my heart was strong with fear for his little body. I had not sat long, when I heard voices talking outside. They were men's voices, speaking low. My heart beat so loud that I thought they would hear it. Still I was not afraid ; so I listened hard.

The voices stopped awhile, and then they began again in another place. I sat trembling like a leaf. They came nearer and nearer, till I could almost hear the words they said. I heard, by the direction of the voices, that they were near the Ard gowan vault, sir ; and a new thought struck me, — that perhaps it was not my little baby they wanted, but your own mother's body, that had not long before been placed in the vault. My blood froze as I thought of it. For some minutes I could not stir for fear ; but I knew it was my duty to protect your mother as well as my baby; so I crept along, without noise, to be nearer them. It was very dark, but their voices guided me; and once or VOL. II. c twice I saw the gleam of a light — I think it must have been a lantern that they had with them. I came nearer and nearer by degrees, and to my horror I saw that they were standing quite near your vault.

I heard them speaking, and some times even laughing and whistling ; and I knew that if they were to see me it would go hard with me for life. But something — I do not know what — kept me up, and bore me through it all. I crept very close, and got behind a tombstone, not very far from them. I then almost fainted with fear, for my dress had flapped in the air ; and I fancied I heard one of them say to the other that he thought there was somebody in the graveyard besides themselves. But my alarm was false ; they did not come near me. I peeped out, every now and again, to see what they were doing ; but for a long time I could not make out what they were about. I heard them still talking, and there was a strange noise that one of them was making. It was like stone-chipping or chiselling. I did not know what to make of it, but I cowered down, and listened hard."

" Did you not hear any of the words that were spoken?" asked Dundas, with great eagerness. " No, sir; not for a good time. I was so much put about, so much afraid, that my ears appeared to be deafer than usual. I did hear a word or two, but I could not rightly make out the sense. And the ruffians, too, were laughing and whistling ; one standing and the other chiselling. I heard no digging, as if they were using spades ; and I wondered very much what they could be about if they were body-lifters. I was so much raised, so much excited, sir, that I once stood up on the grave where I sat, and held out my arms, meaning to give a loud scream ; but I could not do it. I sank down again, trembling from head to foot They stopped soon after that, and went away. In passing out they came within a foot or two of the place where I lay ; but I cowered down, and they never saw me.

Then, sir, I heard them speaking quite well, and knew what they said, — that they should be back before eleven o'clock next night to finish their work. And, 0 sir, if I had only heard more — enough to make me clear about who they were — Sir John might not have been drowned." " Sir John drowned !" echoed Dundas, rising from his seat, and coming nearer to the bed. " Do you know if they threw the old man over the bank?" " No, no, no, sir !" she exclaimed. " I know now that they were no body-lifters. It was Sir John himself and Mr. Brewer of Auldburgh." The listener let fall the baronet's pocket-book in his agitation. He came quite close to the bed, leaned on it with one hand as if to stay himself from falling, and looked wddly into the dying face. It was as if a sudden sickness had come over his heart.

The dying girl, the bed, the whole scene, seemed to him to be swimming round and round. " 0 sir, do not look at me in that way !" she cried. " Take your eyes away. I am quite innocent. I had nothing to do with it. It is all true that I have said, — true as the words of the Bible." " Mary Potts," said Dundas solemnly, after half a minute's pause ; "I do not believe you guilty of any thing wrong ; only tell me the rest. I will sit down, and be more calm." But the frightened girl could not continue her story for a minute or two; Dundas's agitation had shaken her nerves, and a cold sweat began to break on her face. "Is there nothing I can do for you?" he asked, as he saw her pain. " Will you take a littlp water ? Or perhaps I had better go out for a little till you become calm again ?" " Oh, no, do not !" she cried eagerly.

" I must tell you all now, before you leave me. Give me a little water to wet my lips." The water was given ; and she wiped the clammy sweat from her brow and cheek, and arranged herself on the pillow, to continue her story. " Believe me, sir ; I heard the one say ' Sir John' to the other, and that other say distinctly ' Brewer.' But I was so frightened, so much put about, and so much out of my right mind, that I thought nothing of the names then, till I found it was all true afterwards. I went home, fleeing like the wind, wrote you a letter after midnight, in this very room, and went out by the window there, and knocked at Jobson's window between one and two o'clock. I was sorry afterwards at frighten ing him, but there was no other way of doing it without being found out ; and I could not bear that people should know about my going to the graveyard.

And, 0 sir, I was, besides, out of my right mind, and could think of nobody and of nothing but the resurrectionists and the church yard." " Your intention was good," said Dundas, trying to calm her, " and that was the principal thing. I cannot think that you were to blame." " Thank you, sir ; I have suffered a great deal for it since, and been well enough punished. Well, sir, next night I went to the graveyard again. I thought that I might do something myself, if you should chance to pay no attention to my odd letter. I had made up my mind to frighten them away myself if you did not come. I waited in the old church, and saw and heard you pass in, with Jobson after you. My heart beat for joy at the sound of your voice. Then I heard other voices coming in about half an hour after. They stood for a minute talking at the church.

I heard ' Sir John' and ' Brewer' distinctly and often. And besides, sir, I knew the old man's voice, for I had seen him often at Ardgowan, and heard him speak. He seemed to be afraid, too, the old man, as if he were doing something against his will. But the other, a tall man, was quite bold, and ' ha, ha' ed,' more than once, at what the old man said." " The villain !" exclaimed Dundas ; " I will drag him to justice ere another day is over." " 0 sir, will you not let me die first?" she cried wildly. " I could not bear to be called as a witness, and to tell all about my baby and the graveyard. It would break my mother's heart. Will you not promise, sir, — will you not promise to wait till I die ?" The appeal was heartrending. It made the listener's blood grow chill. The dark room, the pale, deathlike, appealing face, the mysterious story, were in the highest degree solemn.

At that moment Mrs. Potts entered the room with a candle, and prevented Dundas from making an immediate reply. The poor old body seemed to have been weeping all alone in the kitchen, for her eyes were redder than before. " Excuse me, sir," she said with agitation, " I — I quite forgot that it was getting dark. Is there nothing, Mary, that you need ?" " No, mother," replied the girl ; " I will not keep Mr. Dundas much longer." The old woman left the room, leaving the candle on the table. It flickered fitfully for a minute, as if ready to go out, making the black shadows in the room even more solemn than they had seemed in the previous darkness. The girl appeared to have forgotten her appeal, for she con tinued her narrative at once. " The rest of my story, sir, is not long. The gentlemen passed in, and I waited beside the old church, to be ready to help you, if I could.

I was horrified at the thought of gentlemen like them being body-lifters, and even after I was sure it was them, I could scarcely believe it to be true. But I knew that they would be found out, and, gentlemen though they were, it was right that they should be punished. Well, sir, I had not stood long at the church, when there was a flash of lightning, and after it a loud crash of thunder. I was dumb-foundered at the light and the noise. I thought that the very stones of the old church were rumbling down upon me, so I ran out a bit from the wall, and as I ran I met one of the men fair in the face. I gave a scream, and tried to catch him. It was an awful moment, but some thing in my heart made me do it. The man — it was he, I could swear to it — was Sir John Ackworth. Don't, sir, don't, don't look so ; it is all true."

" Go on," said Dundas, in a husky voice, — he had again risen from his chair, — "go on; I believe every word you say." " He screamed out, too, a loud roar as I caught him, and made to run off another way. And as I grasped his coat, something hard and heavy gave me a blow on the face." " He did not strike you?" cried Dundas. "No, no, sir; it was the pocket-book. It must have been in his coat-pocket, for it jerked out against my face, and hurt me a little. Mother can tell you my temple was blue for a week after; but she knew nothing about the cause. I said I had stumbled against the bedpost, stepping into bed one dark night. Then I groped among the grass for what had struck me, and I lifted the book that you have in your hand. It had fallen down at my feet. Then there was another gleam of lightning and a roar of thunder.