Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector

by Lillian de la Torre

  The head was averted, the frame tense, but her whisper followed us as we withdrew.

  “I shall not need.”

  James Grange of Kincardon was through with us. He uttered the briefest of adieux and turned on his heel, leaving Saunders to light us to the portal.

  Standing in the frowning doorway in the light of the niggardly candle, my benevolent friend bestowed a generous gratuity upon the honest countryman, saying,

  “My honest friend, watch over your mistress, and let no man harm her.”

  “Nay, sir,” returned the faithful Saunders, “no man can harm her, for my master tenders her dearly. Whiles I hear them laughing together, for all she’s so low. Will she live, think you, sir?”

  “That she will, if you but care for her well.”

  “I will, sir, I will. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  The heavy door closed. I glanced back at the gloomy, ill-lighted old pile.

  “What’s to do there?” I mused aloud.

  “Nay, I know not,” said my companion shortly.

  He touched the palings with his hand as we walked along the narrow street, rolling his head and articulating “Too, too, too,” as is his manner when disturbed in mind.

  He touched the last post, and shook his head discontentedly.

  “I know not,” he repeated. “’Tis a bad match, that’s clear.”

  “’Twas a niggard entertainment,” I commented, “in a house of poverty. Is the lady in truth an heiress?”

  “A very great heiress,” returned my friend. “Sir Hampton Boon is one of the richest men in England.”

  “And ’twill all be hers when he dies? Or has he left it away from her?”

  “’Tis well known that all is settled on herself and her child after her.”

  “Then Jamie Grange may soon mend the roof at Kincardon.”

  “Ay may he, for what’s hers is his by the law of the land.”

  A thought struck me: “Then why is the roof not mended already?”

  “If she brought Kincardon any portion,” replied Dr. Johnson thoughtfully, “I’ll wager my head it was but small. Emelina Boon has long lived out of her father’s favour.”

  “How so?” I enquired.

  “She flouted his wishes to marry a rakish young lieutenant, it’s now twenty years ago. Worse still, when he would have forgiven her she’d not be forgiven, but followed her soldier and lived on his pay. He fell under Braddock in ’55, and still she’d not go home to Boon Court, but lived in London with her son, and only her female cousin to companion her.”

  “What became of the boy?”

  “He means to follow his father’s profession. Sir Hampton has bought him a commission. I hear he’s with the 37th, and gazetted for India.”

  “Think you the lady is in any danger?” I enquired.

  “I cannot conceive it,” replied Dr. Johnson, “for Kincardon will enjoy her fortune only as long as her life lasts. He may attempt to browbeat her, but he’ll tender her life as dear as his own. To harm her would be but to enrich her son.”

  “Yet she looks very ill.”

  “’Tis pitiful to see her so. I should never have recognized the blue-eyed child of Boon Court; but her relationship to Sir Hampton is writ clear on every feature. Age and emaciation have brought out the resemblance only latent in the plump young miss.”

  We walked in silence over the cobbled street. The night sky gleamed between the roofs of the crowding old houses.

  “I don’t trust Kincardon,” said I presently.

  “Nor do I,” agreed Dr. Johnson, “but he can’t touch her money, and he won’t touch her. He’ll behave himself, for the sake of Kincardon.”

  “Is she mad, think you? Trust me, I saw no sign in that skinny frame of a coming confinement.”

  “I cannot take upon me,” pronounced my philosophical friend, “the function of a panel of matrons. ’Tis evident they both believe it.”

  “’Twill be a sad blow to Kincardon if the lady fails him,” I reflected. “He is mad for an heir, for the sake of Kincardon. Does he know, think you, that her fortune is entailed away from Kincardon?”

  “If he has just learned,” suggested Dr. Johnson, “’twould explain his sudden rage and the new parsimony of his household. Well, he’s a disappointed man, but we may be sure she’ll not be the one to suffer for it.”

  “She’s under no duress,” I observed, “for she made it clear that she signed her preposterous paper of her own free will, and she read it through before she signed.”

  “And she positively declined my aid, which I proffered with some such possibility in mind.”

  “Then,” I concluded as we ascended the steps of my house, “we may safely put Emelina Boon out of our minds, and think of our coming journey to the Western Islands.”

  Our journey, so long planned, took us northward by chaise to Aberdeen, thence to Banff and Inverness, where we took horse. It was a pretty thing to see the ponderous author of the Dictionary jogging along on one of our little Scottish ponies. Dr. Johnson was in great spirits, and we had many a curious conversation by the way.

  We drove over the very heath where Macbeth met the witches, according to tradition. Dr. Johnson repeated solemnly “How far is’t called to Forres” etc. I had purchased some land called Dalblair; and, as in Scotland it is customary to distinguish landed men by the name of their estates, I had thus two titles, ‘Dalblair’ and—from my father’s estate—‘Young Auchinleck.’ Dr. Johnson parodied the poet to me: “All hail Dalblair!”

  At Inverness we visited Macbeth’s castle. I had a most romantick satisfaction in seeing Dr. Johnson actually in it. It answers to Shakespeare’s description, “This castle hath a pleasant” etc., which I repeated. When we came out of it, a raven perched on one of the chimney-tops and croaked. Then I repeated, “The raven himself is hoarse,” etc. As we rode away, we fell into solemn converse concerning the awful crime of murder. Dr. Johnson quoted solemnly:

  “Between the acting of a dreadful thing

  And the first motion, there’s an interim,” etc.

  “’Tis in that interim, I dare say, sir,” I remarked, harking back to our conversation at Edinburgh, “that you would have the law catch and restrain the intending malefactor.”

  The learned philosopher assented.

  I pulled up my pony and patted his neck. Dr. Johnson reined in beside me, and we silently surveyed the prospect as we breathed our mounts. The sky was lowering, the country treeless and bare; but that diversion which Nature failed to afford, Dr. Johnson was able to supply from the storehouse of his boundless knowledge.

  “I wonder, sir,” I remarked when we were again in motion, “at your command of the laws, not only of your own country, but of other systems past and present.”

  “I hold it true,” returned Dr. Johnson, “that he who would live respected, must acquaint himself with the law under which he lives.”

  “How few,” I lamented, “are so acquainted. At least it is so in Edinburgh, where everyone is half-informed, or misinformed, but no man really knows the laws of Scotland, still less those of England, which touch him so nearly.”

  “Yet every Scotchman fancies himself a lawyer,” said Dr. Johnson.

  “To the detriment of the legal profession,” I agreed. “You saw this foolish neighbour of mine, Kincardon. He would neither go to court nor take advice, but I must witness the extraordinary legal hodge-podge that he scratched together himself.”

  “’Twas a hodge-podge, eh?” commented Dr. Johnson.

  “‘Kincardon,’ I said to him, ‘this won’t do,’ but he cut me short. I would have bettered it for him, if I’d been let. Being of sound mind, and mindful of the uncertainty of life—though ’tis a conveyance, he starts it off like a will, because he has read a will or two—”

  “Hey, hey?” cried Dr. Johnson. “Was it her will the lady signed?”

  “No, sir, it goes on with a bit from some confession he’s read on a broadside in a tavern somewhere—do confess and declare
—’tis legal, d’ye see, if it has two verbs—”

  “Confess?” repeated Dr. Johnson.

  “Ay, confess,” said I contemptuously. “In a conveyance it should be give and devise to my child—and mark you ’tis a non-existent child, but she is not to indicate that—instead of confess that my child etcetera etcetera.”

  “Bozzy, Bozzy, don’t teize me!” cried Dr. Johnson in powerful excitement, “confess that my child what?”

  “Nay, sir, I don’t know. Kincardon did not care for my strictures, and snatched his misbegotten document from my hand.”

  “Misbegotten indeed!” cried my companion. “Why did not you read it through?”

  “Though I did not, yet the lady did. I suppose Emeline Boon can read?”

  “Oh yes, and writes a dainty hand,” replied Dr. Johnson. “Alas, alas, sir, why do I hear this only now, so far away?”

  “Why, sir, you were there and saw the lady.”

  “Ay, but I knew not what she signed.”

  “Why, she signed a worthless paper, no more.”

  “Does Kincardon know that?”

  “No matter; she’ll provide for her child when the time comes, before a Scottish court.”

  “How will she so, when all’s entailed for her oldest boy?”

  “Nay, let the courts decide of that.”

  “If it come to the courts. But were I in Edinburgh, I would smell out the shape of things to come. Let it rest, naught will happen until the lady’s brought to bed. When she brings Kincardon an heir—I’ll be there, Bozzy, I’ll be there!”

  We came that night to Fort George, where lay Sir Eyre Coote’s regiment, the 37th. Sir Eyre, a most civil man, shewed us the fort. At three the drum beat for dinner. I could for a little fancy myself a military man, and it pleased me; only for my father’s determination to make a lawyer of me, I had followed the colours in my youth.

  There was a pretty large company. We had a dinner of two complete courses, and the regimental band of musick playing in the square before the windows after it. Dr. Johnson was much sought after by all the officers present. I noted a very young lieutenant, fresh and handsome of face, watching my learned friend eagerly. At last Sir Eyre brought him before us.

  “Sir, I present Lieutenant Hampton Ballinger.”

  “Your servant, sir,” said the fresh-faced boy ceremoniously. “I made so bold as to seek your acquaintance—I make bold to enquire, sir—” the ceremonious manner was lost in eagerness—“Are you not lately from Lichfield, sir?”

  “Within the month,” replied my learned friend.

  “Pray tell me then, how goes on Sir Hampton Boon? Does he yet live, sir?” asked the young soldier earnestly.

  “Sir, I left my old friend yet in life,” returned Dr. Johnson gravely. “But you must know the dropsy gains so upon him, that it cannot long be so.” He scanned the boy’s face narrowly. “Are you not kin to him, sir?”

  “He is my grandfather,” said the boy, “and since my father’s death, my protector.”

  “Do you say so, lad!” exclaimed my benevolent friend, shaking his hand cordially. “This is indeed a thing of note, that I must come to Scotland to see first the daughter, now the grandson, of my old benefactor at Boon Court!”

  “How, sir!” exclaimed the young lieutenant. “You have seen my mother? Were you then in Ayrshire?”

  “Nay, lad, your mother is in Edinburgh.”

  “I might have guessed so much,” rejoined young Ballinger with a smile. “My mother would never dally long in Ayr. Her spirit was made for the great world. Pray, sir, how does she go on? Routs, eh? Kettledrums and assemblies? And does she make up a good company at cards?”

  Dr. Johnson and I exchanged glances.

  “Not these days,” returned Dr. Johnson guardedly. “She is to bring Kincardon an heir.”

  “Ho ho!” cried the young soldier in high spirits; “then I wager there’s the Devil to pay! The vapours, I’ll be bound, and the waiting-women running with the smelling-bottle, and all the lap-dogs turned out of my lady’s bed-chamber! Ay, and new bedgowns for my lady’s levee, and the bluff Laird to fetch and carry. This will be something to see!”

  “You draw too rosy a picture, sir,” returned Dr. Johnson reluctantly. “Your mother is ill and gaunt and out of spirits, and sees no company at all. Were I you, sir, I would hasten to her side.”

  “Why, I’ll do so, sir,” returned the young soldier readily, “if they don’t whisk us off to India. But sure you mistake, sir, my mother’s a lady of spirit, and a fine rosy buxom woman. Gaunt and out of spirits, you say? Believe me, sir, you are deceived.”

  “I saw her not a week gone,” replied Dr. Johnson, “and trust me, her face might have been Sir Hampton’s, so emaciated was it.”

  “A gaunt face like Sir Hampton’s?” returned the young man. “See, now, I was in the right of it. That’s Kathy.”

  “Kathy?”

  “My mother’s cousin, Katharine Boon. She’s gaunt and vinegary, and I swear my mother keeps her about just to laugh at her jealousy and envy; for Kathy’s ugly and ignorant and unhandy, and can’t even write. Depend upon it, sir, you’ve taken the maid for the mistress, and that’s ever a poor bargain. This is my mother.”

  The boy pulled out a miniature. Emelina Boon had indeed matured rosy and buxom.

  “Well, sir, I see I was deceived indeed,” remarked Dr. Johnson. “You may set your mind at rest.”

  “Concerning my mother, my mind is always at rest,” said the young man carelessly. “She can fend for herself.”

  “I hope so indeed,” returned Dr. Johnson soberly; and as the bugle sounded in the square, the young Lieutenant withdrew.

  We lay that night at the fort. For want of space, I lay in a little truckle bed in Dr. Johnson’s room.

  “So,” remarked Dr. Johnson, extinguishing the candle, “we were befooled after all.”

  “Ay,” I rejoined, “’twas the companion who can’t write that set her mark to Kincardon’s bastard document; and you and I were to be his dupes, to swear to it when the child should be born.”

  “I smoaked so much,” muttered my friend, “I smoaked it, when he would have prevented me seeing her. I saw her in spite of his teeth, and she diddled me to my face. Only that she had Sir Hampton’s features, and knew Boon Park so well, I had had her then and there.”

  “Hence your vapouring about the Gothick grotto that does not exist!” I exclaimed.

  “’Twas but to test her,” replied Dr. Johnson. “I should have remembered, that such knowledge was not a note, but an accident, of Emelina Boon’s personality. I should have sought a more exclusive test.”

  “No matter,” said I, “what’s to do now?”

  “Sir,” returned Dr. Johnson, “this is just such a plot of violence and fraud as I would have the law catch a making. There’s time and to spare before its consummation. We must go about to prevent it.”

  “Time,” said I, “what time?”

  “Why, time till Kincardon’s heir be born. Which of the women, think you, is to bear the child?”

  “Not the vinegary companion, I’ll be bound.”

  “I am with you there,” conceded Dr. Johnson. “Then Emelina Boon yet lives, and we must find her.”

  “How may we do so?” I enquired hopelessly. “We cannot run about Scotland in search of a missing heiress. Best entrust the search to her son.”

  “Nay, sir,” replied Johnson, smiling, “I do not mean to run about like a beadle with a staff in my hand. I sit here at Fort George and look into my mind, and it tells me where to find Emelina Boon.”

  “Does it so, sir!” I exclaimed. “Sure your mind is a seer’s crystal indeed, a very black stone of Dr. Dee!”

  “He who is capable of memory and reason, sir,” replied Dr. Johnson, “needs no seer’s crystal.”

  “Where, then, sir,” I enquired, “do memory and reason bid us seek the missing heiress?”

  “Cast your memory back,” replied my acute companion. “When was Emeli
na Boon last seen?”

  “When Jamie Grange carried her to Kincardon, and my simple friend Saunders heard her proclaiming she’d not be buried in the country.”

  “I think you are right, that was surely Emelina speaking in her own voice. But the ‘fat Sassenach woman’ was gone before morning, and the thin Sassenach woman returned to Edinburgh as Jamie’s wife, with simple Saunders for their only attendant; and there they lived so retired that none of their old acquaintance ever laid eyes on the lady.”

  “And for that he pitched upon you and me, because he thought us strangers to her.”

  “’Tis so. Well, Saunders’ brother Geordie, with fewer scruples and it may be more brains than Saunders, carried off the fat Sassenach woman. But before he went he blabbed to his mother, and she to Saunders, and he to us. Whither went he, by his story?”

  “I remember now!” I cried: “To the Western Islands!”

  “To the Western Islands,” assented my companion. “Well, ’twill go hard but we shall find out where dwells a Sassenach woman among the wild Highlanders. Then young Hampton may take his mother under his protection; and once she’s safe we may spoil their games in Edinburgh.”

  So saying, my wise companion blew out the candle and with a creaking of the bed-cords composed himself to slumber.

  Accordingly we went over into the Western Islands. We were cordially received everywhere, but could get no tidings of a Sassenach woman newly come among the Hebrides, until we came to Coirechatachan in the Isle of Skye, a comfortable farm-house ruled over by one Lachlan MacKinnon, a jolly big man who had hospitality in his whole behaviour. ’Twas at his house my famous friend received a deputation.

  “’Tis the catechist from St. Kilda,” said Coirechatachan, “and with him his little daughter.”

  “Which, sir,” says the catechist, a gnarled stump of a man with a grin, “the child has a gift to lay in Dr. Johnson’s hand.”

  He pushed forward a half-grown, frightened-looking lass. She dropped an awkward curtsey, thrust something into my friend’s hand, and backed off in confusion. Dr. Johnson looked in puzzlement at the gift, a clew of coarse St. Kilda yarn.