“The woman is raving mad!” said I. “You, illustrious sir, know that, in the first instance, I have not yet been in this place one month.” My friend shook his head again, and answered me: “You are wrong, my dear friend; you are wrong. It is indeed the space of time that the lady hath stated, to a day, since you came here, and I came with you; and I am sorry that I know for certain that you have been frequently haunting her house, and have often had private correspondence with one of the young ladies, too. Of the nature of it I presume not to know.”
“You are mocking me,” said I. “But as well may you try to reason me out of my existence as to convince me that I have been here even one month, or that any of those things you allege against me has the shadow of truth or evidence to support it. I will swear to you, by the great God that made me; and by—”
“Hold, thou most abandoned profligate!” cried she violently, “and do not add perjury to your other detestable crimes. Do not, for mercy’s sake, any more profane that name whose attributes you have wrested and disgraced. But tell me what reparation you propose offering to my injured child.”
“I again declare, before Heaven, woman, that, to the best of my knowledge and recollection, I never saw your daughter. I now think I have some faint recollection of having seen your face, but where, or in what place, puzzles me quite.”
“And, why?” said she. “Because for months and days you have been, in such a state of extreme inebriety, that your time has gone over like a dream that has been forgotten. I believe that, from the day you came first to my house, you have been in a state of utter delirium, and that principally from the fumes of wine and ardent spirits.”
“It is a manifest falsehood!” said I. “I have never, since I entered on the possession of Dalcastle, tasted wine or spirits, saving once a few evenings ago; and, I confess to my shame, that I was led too far; but I have craved forgiveness and obtained it. I take my noble and distinguished friend there for a witness to the truth of what I assert; a man who has done more, and sacrificed more for the sake of genuine Christianity than any this world contains. Him you will believe.”
“I hope you have attained forgiveness,” said he, seriously. “Indeed it would be next to blasphemy to doubt it. But, of late, you have been very much addicted to intemperance. I doubt if, from the first night you tasted the delights of drunkenness, that you have ever again been in your right mind until Monday last. Doubtless you have been for a good while most diligent in your addresses to this lady’s daughter.”
“This is unaccountable,” said I. “It is impossible that I can have been doing a thing and not doing it at the same time. But indeed, honest woman, there have several incidents occurred to me in the course of my life which persuade me I have a second self; or that there is some other being who appears in my likeness.”
Here my friend interrupted me with a sneer, and a hint that I was talking insanely; and then he added, turning to the lady: “I know my friend Mr. Colwan will do what is just and, right. Go and bring the young lady to him, that he may see her, and he will then recollect all his former amours with her!’
“I humbly beg your pardon, sir,” said I. “But the mention of such a thing as amours with any woman existing, to me, is really so absurd, so far from my principles, so from the purity of nature and frame to which I was born and consecrated, that I hold it as an insult, and regard it with contempt.”
I would have said more in reprobation of such an idea, had not my servant entered, and said that a gentleman wanted to see me on business. Being glad of an opportunity of getting quit of my lady visitor, I ordered the servant to show him in; and forthwith a little lean gentleman, with a long aquiline nose, and a bald head, daubed all over with powder and pomatum, entered. I thought I recollected having seen him too, but could not remember his name, though he spoke to me with the greatest familiarity; at least, that sort of familiarity that an official person generally assumes. He bustled about and about, speaking to everyone, but declined listening for a single moment to any. The lady offered to withdraw, but he stopped her.
“No, no, Mrs. Keeler, you need not go; you need not go; you must not go, madam. The business I came about concerns you—yes, that it does. Bad business yon of Walker’s? Eh? Could not help it—did all I could, Mr. Wringhim. Done your business. Have it all cut and dry here, sir. No, this is not it—Have it among them, though.—I’m at a little loss for your name, sir (addressing my friend)—seen you very often, though—exceedingly often—quite well acquainted with you.”
“No, sir, you are not,” said my friend, sternly. The intruder never regarded him; never so much as lifted his eyes from his bundle of law papers, among which he was bustling with great hurry and importance, but went on:
“Impossible! Have seen a face very like it, then—what did you say your name was, sir?—very like it indeed. Is it not the young laird who was murdered whom you resemble so much?”
Here Mrs. Keeler uttered a scream, which so much startled me that it seems I grew pale, and, on looking at my friend’s face, there was something struck me so forcibly in the likeness between him and my late brother that I had very nearly fainted. The woman exclaimed that it was my brother’s spirit that stood beside me.
“Impossible!” exclaimed the attorney. “At least, I hope not, else his signature is not worth a pin. There is some balance due on yon business, madam. Do you wish your account? because I have it here, ready discharged, and it does not suit letting such things lie over. This business of Mr. Colwan’s will be a severe one on you, madam—rather a severe one.”
“What business of mine, if it be your will, sir,” said I. “For my part I never engaged you in business of any sort less or more.” He never regarded me, but went on: “You may appeal, though. Yes, yes, there are such things as appeals for the refractory. Here it is, gentlemen. Here they are all together. Here is, in the first place, sir, your power of attorney, regularly warranted, sealed, and signed with your own hand.”
“I declare solemnly that I never signed that document,” said I.
“Aye, aye, the system of denial is not a bad one in general,” said my attorney. “But at present there is no occasion for it. You do not deny your own hand?”
“I deny everything connected with the business,” cried I. “I disclaim it in toto, and declare that I know no more about it than the child unborn.”
“That is exceedingly good!” exclaimed he. “I like your pertinacity vastly! I have three of your letters, and three of your signatures; that part is all settled, and I hope so is the whole affair; for here is the original grant to your father, which he has never thought proper to put in requisition. Simple gentleman! But here have I, Lawyer Linkum, in one hundredth part of the time that any other notary, writer, attorney, or writer of the signet in Britain would have done it, procured the signature of His Majesty’s commissioner, and thereby confirmed the charter to you and your house, sir, for ever and ever—Begging your pardon, madam.” The lady, as well as myself, tried several times to interrupt the loquacity of Linkum, but in vain: he only raised his hand with a quick flourish, and went on:
“Here it is:
JAMES, by the grace of God, King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, to his right trusty cousin, sendeth greeting: And whereas his right leal and trust-worthy cousin, George Colwan, of Dalcastle and Balgrennan, hath suffered great losses, and undergone much hardship, on behalf of his Majesty’s rights and titles; he therefore, for himself, and as prince and steward of Scotland, and by the consent of his right trusty cousins and councillors hereby grants to the said George