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Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 18

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Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 18

Compiler: John Mackay Wilson

Editor: Alexander Leighton


        
Release date: May 22, 2012 [eBook #39759]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND, VOLUME 18 ***




Produced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                            Wilson's
                      Tales of the Borders
                        AND OF SCOTLAND.

    HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.

    WITH A GLOSSARY.

    REVISED BY
    ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,
    _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._

    VOL. XVIII.

    LONDON:
    WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
    AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
    1884.




  CONTENTS

                                                                Page

  THOMAS OF CHARTRES,                           (_Hugh Miller_),   1

  THE FUGITIVE,                          (_John Mackay Wilson_),  33

  THE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH,             (_Alexander Leighton_),  63

  GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT,    (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--

      XIV. JAMES RENWICK,                                         95

      XV. OLD ISBEL KIRK,                                        105

      XVI. THE CURLERS,                                          110

      XVII. THE VIOLATED COFFIN,                                 119

  THE SURGEON'S TALES,                  (_Alexander Leighton_)--

            THE MONOMANIAC,                                      127

  THE FOUNDLING AT SEA,                  (_Alexander Campbell_), 159

  THE ASSASSIN,                          (_Alexander Campbell_), 178

  THE PRISONER OF WAR,                          (_John Howell_), 191

  WILLIE WASTLE'S ACCOUNT OF HIS WIFE,   (_John Mackay Wilson_), 223

  THE STONE-BREAKER,                     (_Alexander Campbell_), 255

  LAIRD RORIESON'S WILL,                 (_Alexander Leighton_), 276




WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND.




THOMAS OF CHARTRES.


One morning, early in the spring of 1298, a small Scottish vessel lay
becalmed in the middle of the Irish Channel, about fifteen leagues to
the south of the Isle of Man. During the whole of the previous night,
she had been borne steadily southward, by a light breeze from off the
fast receding island; but it had sunk as the sun rose, and she was now
heaving slowly to the swell, which still continued to roll onward, in
long glassy ridges from the north. A thick fog had risen as the wind
fell--one of those low sea fogs which, leaving the central heavens
comparatively clear, hangs its dense, impervious volumes around the
horizon; and the little vessel lay as if imprisoned within a circular
wall of darkness, while the sun, reddened by the haze, looked down
cheerily upon her from above. She was a small and very rude-looking
vessel, furnished with two lug-sails of dark brown, much in the manner
of a modern Dutch lugger; with a poop and forecastle singularly high,
compared with her height in the waist; and with sides which, attaining
their full breadth scarcely a foot over the water, sloped abruptly
inwards, towards the deck, like the wall of a mole or pier. The
parapet-like bulwarks of both poop and forecastle were cut into deep
embrasures, and ran, like those of a tower, all around the areas they
enclosed, looking down nearly as loftily on the midships as on the
water. The sides were black as pitch could render them--the sails
scarcely less dark; but, as if to shew man's love of the ornamental in
even the rudest stage of art, a huge misshapen lion flared in vermillion
on the prow, and over the stern hung the blue flag of Scotland, with the
silver cross of St Andrew stretching from corner to corner.

From eight to ten seamen lounged about the decks. They were
uncouth-looking men, heavily attired in jerkins and caps of blue
woollen, with long, thick beards, and strongly-marked features. The
master, a man considerably advanced in life--for, though his eye seemed
as bright as ever, his hair and beard had become white as snow--was
rather better dressed. He wore above his jerkin a short cloak of blue
which confessed, in its finer texture, the superiority of the looms of
Flanders over those of his own country; and a slender cord of silver ran
round a cap of the same material. His nether garments, however, were
coarse and rude as those of his seamen; and the shoes he wore were
fashioned, like theirs, of the undressed skin of the deer, with the hair
still attached; giving to the foot that brush-like appearance which had
acquired to his countrymen of the age, from their more polished
neighbours, the appellation of rough-footed Scots. Neither the number,
nor the appearance of the crew, singular and wild as the latter was,
gave the vessel aught of a warlike aspect; and yet there were
appearances that might have led one to doubt whether she was quite so
unprepared for attack or defence as at the first view might be premised.
There ran round the butt of each mast a rack filled with spears, of more
knightly appearance than could have belonged to a few rude seamen--for
of some of these the handles were chased with silver, and to some there
were strips of pennon attached; and a rich crimson cloak, with several
pieces of mail, were spread out to the morning sun, on one of the
shrouds.

The crew, we have said, were lounging about the deck, unemployed in the
calm, when a strong, iron-studded door opened in the poop, and a young
and very handsome man stepped forward.

"Has my unfortunate cloak escaped stain?" he said to the master. "Your
sea-water is no brightener of colour."

"It will not yet much ashame you, Clelland," said the master, "even amid
the gallants of France; but, were it worse, there is little fear, with
these eyes of yours, of being overlooked by the ladies."

"Nay, now, Brichan, that's but a light compliment from so grave a man as
you," said Clelland. "You forget how small a chance I shall have beside
my cousin."

"Not jealous of the Governor, Clelland, I hope?" said the old man,
gaily. "Nay, trust me, you are in little danger. Sir William is perhaps
quite as handsome a man as you, and taller by the head and shoulders;
but, trust me, no one will ever think of him as a pretty fellow. He
stands too much alone for that. Has he risen yet?"

"Risen!--he has been with the chaplain for I know not how long. Their
Latin broke in upon my dreams two hours ago. But what have we yonder, on
the edge of that bank of fog! Is it one of the mermaidens you were
telling me of yesterday?"

"Nay," said the master, "it is but a poor seal, risen to take the air.
But what have we beyond it? By heavens I see the dim outline of a large
vessel, through the fog! and yonder, not half a bow-shot beyond, there
is another! Saints forbid that it be not the English fleet, or the ships
of Thomas of Chartres! Clelland, good Clelland, do call up the Governor
and his company!"

Clelland stepped up to the door in the poop, and shouted hastily to his
companions within--"Strange sails in sight!--supposed enemies--it were
well to don your armours." And then turning to a seaman. "Assist me,
good fellow," he said, "in bracing on mine."

"Thomas of Chartres, to a certainty!" exclaimed the master--"and not a
breath to bear us away! Would to heavens that I were dead and buried, or
had never been born!"

"Why all this ado, Brichan?" said Clelland, who, assisted by the sailor,
was coolly buckling on his mail. "It was never your wont before, to be
thus annoyed by danger."

"It is not for myself I fear, noble Clelland," said the master, "if the
Governor were but away and safe. But, oh, to think that the pride and
stay of Scotland should fall into the merciless hands of a pirate dog!
Would that my own life, and the lives of all my crew, could but purchase
his safety!"

"Take heart, old man," said Clelland, with dignity. "Heaven watches over
the fortunes of the Governor of Scotland; nor will it suffer him to fall
obscurely by the hands of a mere plunderer of merchants and seamen.--Rax
me my long spear."

As he spoke, the Governor himself stepped forward from the door in the
poop, enveloped from head to foot in complete armour. He was a man of
more than kingly presence--taller, by nearly a foot, than even the
tallest man on deck, and broader across the shoulders by full six
inches; but so admirably was his frame moulded, that, though his stature
rose to the gigantic, no one could think of him as a giant. His visor
was up, and exhibited a set of high handsome features, and two of the
finest blue eyes that ever served as indexes to the feelings of a human
soul. His chin and upper lip were thickly covered with hair of that
golden colour so often sung by the elder poets; and a few curling locks
of rather darker shade escaped from under his helmet. A man of middle
stature and grave saturnine aspect, who wore a monk's frock over a coat
of mail, came up behind him.

"What is to befall us now, cousin Clelland?" said the Governor. "Does
not the truce extend over the channel, think you?"

"Ah, these are not English enemies, noble sir," replied the master. "We
have fallen on the fleet of the infamous Thomas of Chartres."

"And who is Thomas of Chartres?" asked the Governor.

"A cruel and bloodthirsty pirate--the terror of these seas for the last
sixteen years. Wo is me!--we have neither force enough to fight, nor
wind to bear us away!"

"Two large vessels," said the Governor, stepping up to the side, "full
of armed men, too; but we muster fifty, besides the sailors; and, if
they attempt boarding us, it must be by boat. Is it not so, master? The
calm which fixes us here, must prevent them from laying alongside and
overmastering us."

"Ah, yes, noble sir," said the master; "but we see only a part of the
fleet."

"Were there ten fleets," exclaimed Clelland, impatiently, "I have met
with as great odds ashore--and here comes Crawford."

The door in the poop was again thrown open, and from forty to fifty
warriors, in complete armour, headed by a tall and powerful-looking man,
came crowding out, and then thronged around the masts, to disengage
their spears. They were all robust and hardy-looking men--the flower
apparently of a country side; and the coolness and promptitude with
which they ranged themselves round their leader, to wait his commands,
shewed that it was not now for the first time they had been called on to
prepare for battle. They were, in truth, tried veterans of the long and
bloody struggle which their country had maintained with Edward--men who,
ere they had united under a leader worthy to command them, had resisted
the enemy individually, and preserved, amid their woods and fastnesses,
at least their personal independence. Such a party of such men, however
great the odds opposed to them, could not, in any circumstances, be
deemed other than formidable.

"We are not born for peace, countryman," said the Governor--"war follows
us even here. Meanwhile, lie down, that the enemy mark not our numbers.
That foremost vessel is lowering her boat, and yonder tall man in
scarlet, who takes his seat in the bows, seems to be a leader."

"It is Thomas of Chartres, himself," said the master. "I know him well.
Some five-and-twenty years ago, we sailed together from Palestine."

"And what," asked the Governor, "could have brought a false pirate
there?"

"He was no false pirate then," replied the master, "but a true Christian
knight; and bravely did he fight for the sepulchre. But, on his return
to France, where he had been pledged to meet with his lady-love, he fell
under the displeasure of the King, his master; and, ever since, he has
been a wanderer and a pirate. You will see, as he approaches, the
scallop in his basnet; and be sure he will be the first man to board
us."

"Excellent," exclaimed the Governor, gaily; "we shall hold him hostage
for the good behaviour of his fleet. Mark me, cousin Crawford. His barge
shoves off, and the men bend to their oars. He will be here in a
twinkling. Do you stand by our good Ancient--would there were but wind
enough to unfurl it!--and the instant he bids us strike, why, lower it
to the deck; but be as sure you hoist it again when you see him fairly
aboard. And you, dear Clelland, do you take your stand here on the deck
beside me, and see to it, when I am dealing with the pirate, that you
keep your long spear between us and his crew. It will be strange if he
boast of his victory this bout."

The men, at the command of their leader, had prostrated themselves on
the deck, while his two brethren in arms, Crawford and Clelland,
stationed themselves at his bidding--the one on the vessel's poop,
directly under the pennon, the other at his side in the midships. The
pirate's barge, glittering to the sun with arms and armour, and crowded
with men, rowed lustily towards them; but, while yet a full hundred
yards away, a sudden breeze from the west began to murmur through the
shrouds, and the bellying sails swelled slowly over the side.

"Heaven's mercy be praised!" exclaimed the master, "we shall escape them
yet. Lay her easy to the wind, good Crawford--lay her easy to the wind,
and we shall bear out through them all."

"Nay, cousin, nay," said the Governor, his eyes flashing with eagerness,
"the pirate must not escape us so. Lay the vessel to. Turn her head full
to the wind. And you, captain, draw off your men to the hold. We must
not lose our good sailors; and these woollens of yours will scarcely
turn a French arrow. Nay, 'tis I who am master now"--for the old man
seemed disposed to linger. "I may resign my charge, perhaps, by and by;
but you must obey me now."

The master and his sailors left the deck. The barge of the pirate came
sweeping onward till within two spears' length of the vessel, and then
hailed her with no courtly summons of surrender. "Strike, dogs, strike!
or you shall fare the worse!" It was the pirate himself who spoke, and
Crawford, at his bidding, pulled down the Ancient. The barge dashed
alongside. Thomas of Chartres, a very tall and very powerful man, seized
hold of the bulwark rail with one hand, and bearing a naked sword in the
other, leaped fearlessly aboard, within half a yard of where the
Governor stood, half-concealed by the shrouds and the bulwarks. In a
moment the sword was struck down, and the intruder locked in the
tremendous grasp of the first champion of his time. Crawford hoisted the
Ancient, yard-high, to the new-risen breeze; while Clelland struck his
long spear against the pirate who had leaped on the gunwale to follow
his leader, with such hearty good-will that the steel passed through
targe and corselet, and he fell back a dead man into the boat. In an
instant the concealed party had sprung from the deck, and fifty Scottish
spears bristled over the gunwale, interposing their impenetrable hedge
between the pirate crew and their leader. For a moment, the latter had
striven to move his antagonist; but, powerful and sinewy as he was, he
might as well have attempted to uproot an oak of an hundred summers.
While yet every muscle was strained in the exertion, the Governor swung
him from off his feet, suspended him at arm's length for full half a
moment in the air, and then dashed him violently against the deck. A
stream of blood gushed from mouth and nostril, and he lay stunned and
senseless where he fell. Meanwhile, the crew of the barge, taken by
surprise, and outnumbered, shoved off a boat's length beyond reach of
the spears, and then rested on their oars.

"He revives," said the warrior in the monk's frock, going up to the
fallen pirate. "Reiver though he be, he has fought for the holy
sepulchre, and has worn golden spurs."

"I will deal with him right knightly," said the Governor. "Yield thee,
Sir Thomas of Chartres," he continued, bending over the prisoner, and
holding up a dagger to his face--"yield thee true hostage for the good
conduct of thy fleet--or shall I call the confessor?"

"I yield me true hostage," said the fallen man. "But who art thou,
terrible warrior, that o'ermasterest De Longoville of France as if he
were a stripling of twelve summers? Art Wallace, the Scottish
Champion!"

"Thou yieldest, De Longoville," said the Governor, "to Sir William
Wallace of Elderslie. But how is it that I meet, in the infamous Thomas
of Chartres, that true soldier of the Cross, De Longoville? I have heard
minstrels sing of thy deeds against the Saracen, Sir Knight, while I was
yet a boy; and yet here art thou now, the dread of the wandering sailor
and the merchant--a chief among thieves and pirates."

"Alas! noble Wallace, thou sayest too truly," said Sir Thomas; "but yet
wouldst thou deem me as worthy of pity as of censure, didst thou but
know all, and the remorse I even now endure. For a full year have I
determined to quit this wild, unknightly mode of life, and go a pilgrim
as of old; not to fight for the sepulchre--for the battles of the Cross
are over--not to fight, but to die for it. But I accept, noble champion,
this my first defeat on sea, as a message from heaven. Accept of me as
true soldier under thee, and I will fight for thee in thy country's
quarrel, to the death."

"Most willingly, brave De Longoville," said the Governor, as he raised
him from the deck; "Scotland needs sorely the use of such swords as
thine."

"And deem not her cause less holy," said the monk--for monk he was, the
well-known Chaplain Blair--"deem not her cause less holy than that of
the sepulchre itself; nor think that thou shalt eradicate the stain of
past dishonour less surely in her battles. The cause of justice, De
Longoville, is the cause of God, contend for it where we may."

Wallace returned to De Longoville the sword of which he had so lately
disarmed him; and the pirate admiral, on learning that the champion was
bound for Rochelle, issued orders to his fleet, which, now that the mist
rose, was found to consist of six large vessels, to follow close in
their wake. The breeze blew steadily from the north-west, and the ships
went careering along, each in her own long furrow of white, towards the
port of their destination; the pirate vessels keeping aloof full two
bowshots from the Scotsman--for so De Longoville had ordered, to prevent
suspicion of treachery. He had set aside his armour, and now appeared to
his new associates as a man of noble and knightly bearing, tall and
stalwart as any warrior aboard, save the Governor; and, though his hair
was blanched around his temples, and indicated the approach of age, the
light step and quick sparkling eye gave evidence that his vigour of
frame still remained undiminished. He sat apart, with the Governor and
his two kinsmen, Clelland and Crawford, in the cabin under the poop. It
was a rude, unornamented apartment, as might be expected, from the
general appearance of the vessel; but the profusion of arms and pieces
of armour which hung from the sides, glittering to the light that found
entrance through a casement in the deck, bestowed on the place an air of
higher pretension. A table with food and wine was placed before the
warriors.

"It is now twenty-six years, or thereby," said De Longoville, "since I
quitted Palestine for France, with the good Louis. I had fought by his
side on the disastrous field of Massouna, and did all that a man of
mould might to rescue him from the Saracens, when he fell into their
hands, exhausted by his wounds and his sore sickness. But that day was
written a day of defeat and disaster to the soldiers of the Cross. Nor
need I say how I took my stand, with the best of my countrymen, on the
walls of Damietta, and maintained them for the good cause, despite of
the assembled forces of the Moslem, until we had bought back our king
from captivity, by yielding up the city we defended for his ransom. It
is enough for a disgraced man and a captive to say that my services were
not overlooked by those whose notice was most an honour; and that, ere I
embarked for France, I received the badge of knighthood from the hand
of the good Louis himself.

"You all know of how different a character Charles of Anjou was from his
brother the king. I had returned from the crusade rich, only in honour,
and found the lady of my affections under close thrall by her parents,
who had resolved that she should marry Loithaire, Lord of Languedoc. I
knew that her heart was all my own; but I knew, besides, that I must
become wealthy ere I could hope to compete for her with a rival such as
Loithaire; and the good Pope Nicholas having made over the crown of the
Two Sicilies to Charles of Anjou, in an evil hour I entered the army
with which Charles was to wrest it from the bastard Manfred--having
certain assurance, from the tyrant himself, that, if he succeeded, I
should become one of the nobles of Sicily. We encountered Manfred at
Beneventura, and the bastard was defeated and slain. But I must blush,
as a knight, for the honour of knighthood--as a Frenchman, for the fair
fame of my country--when I think of the cruelties which followed. Not
the worst tyrants of old Rome could have surpassed Charles of Anjou in
his butcheries. The blood plashed under the hoofs of his charger as he
passed through the cities of his future kingdom; and, when he had borne
down all opposition, 'twould seem as if, in his eagerness to destroy all
who might resist, he had also determined to extirpate all who could
obey. But his policy proved as unsound as 'twas cruel and unjust, as the
terrible _Eve of the Vespers_ has since shown. The Princes of Germany,
headed by the chivalrous Conradine of Swabia, united against us in the
cause of the people. But the arms of France were again triumphant; the
confederacy was broken, and the gallant Conradine fell into the hands of
Charles. It was I, warriors of Scotland! to whom he surrendered; and I
had granted him, as became a knight, an assurance of knightly
protection. But would that my arms had been hewn off at the shoulders
when I first beat down his sword, and intercepted his retreat! The
infamous Charles treated my knightly assurance with scorn; and--can you
credit such baseness, noble Wallace!--he ordered Conradine of Swabia--a
true knight, and an independent prince--for instant execution, as if he
were a common malefactor. My blood boils, even now, when I recall that
terrible scene of injustice and cruelty. The soldiers of France crowded
round the scaffold; and I was among them, burning with shame and rage.
Ere Conradine bent him to the executioner, he took off his glove, and
throwing it amongst us, adjured us, if we were not all as dead to honour
as our leader, to bear it to some of his kinsmen, who would receive it
as a pledge of investiture in his rights, and as beqeathing the
obligation to revenge his death. Will you blame me, noble Wallace! that,
Frenchman as I was, I seized the glove of Conradine, and fled the army
of Charles; and that, ere I returned to France, I delivered it up to
Pedro of Arragon, the near kinsman of the last Prince of Swabia?

"My king and friend, the good Louis, had sailed from France for
Palestine, on his last hapless voyage, ere I had executed my mission. On
my return to France, however, I found a galley of Toulon on the eve of
quitting port, to join with his fleet, then on the coast of Africa, and,
snatching a hurried interview with the lady of my affections, maugre the
vigilance of her relatives, I embarked to fight under Louis, as of old,
for the blessed sepulchre. We landed near Tunis, and saw the tents of
France glittering to the sun. But all was silent as midnight, and the
royal standard hung reversed over the pavilion of the good Louis. He had
died that morning of the plague; and his base and cruel brother, the
false Charles of Anjou, sat beside the corpse. I felt that I had fallen
among my enemies; for though the young King was there, he was weak and
inexperienced, and open to the influence of his uncle. The first knight
I met, as I entered the camp, was Loithaire of Languedoc--now the wily
friend and counsellor of Charles. There were lying witnesses suborned
against me, who accused me of the most incredible and unheard-of
practices; and of these Loithaire was the chief. 'Twas in vain I
demanded the combat, as a test of my innocence. The combat was denied
me; my sword was broken before the assembled chivalry of France; my
shield reversed; and sentence was passed that I should be burnt at a
stake, and my ashes scattered to the four winds of heaven. But it was
not written that I should perish so. Scarce an hour before the opening
of the day appointed for my execution, I broke from prison, assisted by
a brother soldier, whose life I had saved in Palestine, and escaped to
France.

"I was a broken and ruined man. But how wondrous the force of true
affection! My Agnes knew this; and yet, knowing all, she contrived to
elude her guardians, and fled with me to the sea-shore, where we
embarked, in a ship of Normandy, for the south of Ireland. From that
hour De Longoville has fought under no banner but his own. I renounced,
in my anger, my allegiance to my country-nay, declared war with the
sovereign who had so injured me. The years passed, and desperate and
dishonoured men like myself came flocking to me as their leader, till
not Philip himself, or my old enemy Charles, had more kingly authority
on land than De Longoville on the sea. But let no man again deceive
himself as I have done. I had reasoned on the lax morality and doubtful
honour of kings, and asked myself why I might not, as the admiral and
prince of my fleet, achieve a less guilty, though not less splendid
glory than the bastard William of Normandy, or Edward of England, or my
old enemy Charles of Anjou. But I have long since been taught that what
were high achievements and honourable conquest in the admiral of a
hundred vessels, is but sheer piracy in the captain of six. I can trust,
however, that the last days of De Longoville may yet be deemed equal to
the first; and that the middle term of his life may be forgiven him for
its beginning and its close. Not a month since, I carried my wife and
daughter to France, and took final leave of them, with the purpose of
setting out on my pilgrimage to Palestine. That intention, noble
Wallace! is now altered; and I must again seek them out, that they may
accompany me to Scotland."

"The foul stain of treason, brave Longoville, must be removed," said the
Governor. "Charles of Anjou has long since gone to his account: does the
Lord of Languedoc still survive!"

"He still lives," replied the admiral; "his years do not outnumber my
own."

"Then must he either retract the vile calumny, or grant you the combat.
The young Philip has pledged his knightly word, when he solicited the
visit I am now voyaging to pay him, that he would grant me the first
boon I craved in person, should it involve the alienation of his fairest
province. That boon, brave De Longoville, will, at least, present you
with the means of regaining your fair fame."

De Longoville knelt on the cabin floor, and kissed the hand of the
Governor. The conversation glided imperceptibly to other and lighter
matters; time passed gaily in the recital of stories of chivalrous
endurance or exploit; and the gale, which still blew steadily from the
north-west, promised a speedy accomplishment of their voyage. For four
days they sailed without shifting back or lowering sail; and, on the
morning of the fifth, cast anchor in the harbour of Rochelle.

On the evening of the second day after their arrival, a single knight
was pricking his steed through one of the glades of the immense forest
which, at this period, covered the greater part of the province of
Poitiers. He had been passing, ever since morning, through what seemed
an interminable wilderness of wood--here clustered into almost
impenetrable thickets shagged with an undergrowth of thorn, there
opening into long bosky glades and avenues that seemed, however, only to
lead into recesses still more solitary and remote than those that
darkened around him. During the early part of the day, the sun had
looked down gaily among the trees, checkering the sward below with a
carpeting of alternate light and shadow; and the knight, a lover of
falconry and the chase, had rode jocundly on through the peopled
solitude; ever and anon grasping his spear, with the eager spirit of the
huntsman, as the fawn started up beside his courser, and shot like a
meteor across the avenue, or the wild boar or wolf rustled in the
neighbouring brake. Towards evening, however, the eternal sameness of
the landscape had begun to fatigue him; the sun, too, had disappeared,
long before his setting, in a veil of impenetrable vapour, mottled with
grey, ponderous clouds, betokening an approaching storm; and the
horseman pressed eagerly onward, in the hope of reaching, ere its
bursting, the hostelry in which he had purposed to pass the evening. He
had either, however, mistaken his way or miscalculated his distance; for
after passing dell and dingle, glade and thicket, in monotonous
succession, for hours on hours, the forest still seemed as dense and
unending, and the hostelry as distant as ever. A brown and sleepy horror
seemed to settle over the trees as the evening darkened; the thunder
began to bellow in long peals, far to the south, and a few heavy drops
to patter from time to time on the leaves, giving indication of the
approaching deluge. The knight had just resigned himself to encounter
all the horrors of the storm, when, on descending into a little bosky
hollow, through which there passed a minute streamlet, he found himself
in front of a deserted hermitage. It was a cell, opening, like an
Egyptian tomb, in the face of a low precipice. A rude stone-cross,
tapestried with ivy, rose immediately over the narrow door-way.

"The saints be praised!" exclaimed the knight, leaping lightly from his
horse. "I shall e'en avail myself of the good shelter they have
provided. But thou, poor Biscay," he continued, patting his steed,
"wouldst that thou wert with thy master, mine host of the Three _Fleurs
de Lis!_--there is scant stabling for thee here. This way, however, good
Biscay--this way. Thou must bide the storm as thou best may'st in yonder
hollow of the rock." And, leading the animal to the hollow, he fastened
him to the stem of a huge ivy, and then entered the hermitage.

It consisted of one small rude apartment, hewn, apparently with immense
labour, in the living rock. A seat and bed of stone occupied the
opposite sides; and in the extreme end, fronting the door, there was a
rude image of the Virgin, with a small altar of mouldering stone, placed
before it. The evening was oppressively sultry, and, taking his seat on
the bedside, the knight unlaced and set aside his helmet, exhibiting to
the fast-dying light, the brown curling hair and handsome features of
our old acquaintance Clelland--for it was no other than he. The thunder
began to roll in louder and longer peals, and the lightning to illumine,
at brief intervals, every glade and dingle without, and every minute
object within; when a loud scream of dismay and terror, blent with the
infuriated howl of some wild animal, rose from the upper part of the
dell, and Clelland had but snatched up his spear and leaped out into the
storm, when a young female, closely pursued by an enormous wolf, came
rushing down the declivity, in the direction of the hermitage; but, in
crossing the little stream, overcome apparently by fatigue and terror,
she stumbled and fell. To interpose his person between the poor girl and
her ravenous pursuer was with Clelland the work of one moment; to make
such prompt and efficient use of his spear that the steel head passed
through and through the monster, and then buried itself in the earth
beneath, was his employment in the next. The black blood came spouting
out along the shaft, crimsoning both his hands to the wrists; and the
transfixed savage, writhing itself round on the wood in its mortal
agony, and gnashing its immense fangs, just uttered one tremendous howl
that could be heard even above the pealing of the thunder, and then
belched out his life at his feet. He raised the fallen girl, who seemed
for a moment to have sunk into a state of partial swoon, and,
disengaging his good weapon from the bleeding carcass, he supported her
to the hermitage in the rock.

She was attired in the garb of a common peasant of the age and country;
but there was even yet light enough to shew that her beauty was of a
more dignified expression than is almost ever to be found in a
cottage--exquisite in colour and form as that which we meet with in the
latter, may often be. There was a subdued elegance, too, in her few
brief, but earnest expressions of gratitude to her deliverer, that
consorted equally ill with her attire. On entering the hermitage, she
knelt before the altar, and prayed in silence; while Clelland took his
seat on the stone couch where he had before placed his helmet, leaving
to his new companion the settle on the opposite side. Meanwhile the
storm without had increased tenfold. The thunder rolled overhead, peal
after peal, without break or pause; so that the outbursting of every
fresh clap was mingled with the echoes in which the wide-spread forest
had replied to the last. At times, the opposite acclivity, with all its
thickets, seemed as if enveloped in an atmosphere of fire--at times one
immense seam of forked lightning came ploughing the pitchy gloom of the
heavens, from the centre to the horizon. The wild beasts of the forest
were abroad. Clelland could hear their fierce howlings mingled with the
terrific bellowings of the heavens. The dead sultry calm was suddenly
broken. A hurricane went raging through the woods. There was a creaking,
crackling, rushing sound among the trees, as they strained and quivered
to the blast; and a roaring, like that of some huge cataract, showed
that a waterspout had burst in the upper part of the dell, and that the
little stream was coming down in thunder--a wide and impetuous torrent.
Clelland's fair companion still remained kneeling before the altar.
'Twould seem as her prayer of thanks for her great deliverance had
changed into an earnest and oft-reiterated petition for still further
protection.

In a pause of the storm, the frightful howlings of a flock of wolves
were heard rising from over the hermitage, as if hundreds had assembled
on its roof of rock. Clelland sprung from his seat, and, grasping his
spear, stood in the doorway.

"We shall have to bide siege," he said to his companion. "I knew not
that these fierce creatures mustered so thickly here."

"Heaven be our protection!" said the maiden. "They fill every recess of
the forest. I had left my mother's this evening for but an
instant--'twas in quest of a tame fawn--when the monster from whose
murderous fangs you delivered me, started up between me and my home; and
I had to fly from instant destruction into the thick of the forest."

"And so your place of residence is quite at hand?" said Clelland. "In
the course of a long day's journey, I have not met with a single human
habitation."

"The hermitage," replied the maiden, "is but a short half-mile from my
mother's--would that we were but safe there!"

As she spoke, the howling of the wolves burst out again, in frightful
chorus, from above, and at least a score of the ravenous animals came
leaping down over the rock, brushing in their descent the ivy and the
underwood. Clelland couched his spear, so that nothing could enter by
the narrow doorway without encountering its sharp point. But the wolves
came not to the attack; and their yells and howlings from the hollow of
the rock, blent with the terrified snortings and pawings of poor Biscay,
shewed that they were bent on an easier conquest, and bulkier, though
less noble prey. The animal, in his first struggle, broke loose from his
fastenings, and went galloping madly past; and an intensely bright flash
of lightning, that illumined the whole scene of terror without, shewed
him in the act of straining up the opposite bank, with a huge wolf
fastened to his lacerated back, and closely pursued by full twenty more.

It was, in truth, a night of dread and terror. Towards morning, however,
the storm gradually sunk into a calm as dead as that which had preceded
it, and a clear, starry sky looked down on the again silent forest. The
maiden, now that there was less of danger, was rendered thoroughly
unhappy by thoughts of her mother. She had left her, she said, but for
an instant--left her solitary in her dwelling; and how must she have
passed so terrible a night! Clelland strove to quiet her fears. There
was a little cloud in the east, he said, already reddening on its lower
edge; in an hour longer, it would be broad day, and he could then
conduct her to her mother's.

"You have not always worn such a dress as that which you now wear," he
continued; "nor have you spent all your days on the edge of the forest.
Does your father still live?"

There was a pause for a moment.

"I am a native of France," she at length said; "but I have passed most
of my time in other countries. My father, in fulfilment of a vow, is now
bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine."

"And may I not crave your name?" asked Clelland.

"My name," she replied, "is Bertha de Longoville. Brave and courtly
warrior, but for whose generous and knightly daring I would have found
yester-evening a horrid tomb in the ravenous maw of the wolf, do not, I
pray you, ask me more. A vow binds me to secrecy for the time."

"Nay, fear not, gentle maiden," said Clelland, "that what you but wish
to keep secret, I shall once urge you to reveal. But hear me, lady, and
then judge how far I am to be trusted. You are the only daughter of Sir
Thomas de Longoville, once a true soldier of the blessed Cross, but, in
his latter days, less fortunate in his quarrels. Your father is now in
France, and in two weeks hence will be in Paris."

"Saints and angels!" exclaimed the maiden, "he has fallen into the hands
of his enemies!"

"Not so, lady; he is among his best friends. The knightly word of Sir
William Wallace of Elderslie, who never broke faith with friend or
enemy, is pledged for his safe-keeping. With my kinsman, he is secure of
at least safety--perhaps even of grace and pardon. But the day has
broken, maiden; suffer me to conduct you to your mother's."

They left the hermitage together, and ascended the side of the dell. As
they passed the hollow in the rock, a bright patch of blood caught the
eye of Clelland.

"Ah, poor Biscay!" he exclaimed; "there is all that now remains of him;
and how to procure another steed in this wild district, I know not. My
kinsman will be at Paris long ere his herald gets there. Well, there
have been greater mishaps. Yonder is the carcass of the wolf I slew
yester-evening, half eaten by his savage companions."

The morning, we have said, was calm and still; but the storm of the
preceding night had left behind it no doubtful vestiges of its fury.
The stream had fallen to its old level, and went tinkling along its
channel, with a murmur that only served to shew how complete was the
silence; but the banks were torn and hollowed by the recent torrent, and
tangled wreaths of brushwood and foliage lay high on the sides of the
dell. The broken and ragged appearance of the forest gave evidence of
the force of the hurricane. The fallen trees lay thick on the sides of
the more exposed acclivities--some reclining like spears, half bent to
the charge, athwart the spreading boughs of such of their neighbours as
the storm had spared; others lay as if levelled by the woodman, save
that their long flexile roots had thrown up vast fragments of turf,
resembling the broken ruins of cottages. And, in an opening of the wood,
a gigantic oak, the slow growth of centuries, lay scattered over the
soil, in raw and splintery fragments, that gave strange evidence of the
irresistible force of the agent employed in its destruction. The trees
opened as they advanced, and they emerged from the forest as the first
beams of the sun had begun to glitter on the topmost boughs. A low,
moory plain, walled in by a range of distant hills, and mottled with a
few patches of corn, and a few miserable cottages, lay before them. A
grey detached tower, somewhat resembling that of an English village
church, rose on the forest edge, scarce a hundred yards away.

"Yonder tower, Sir Knight," said the maiden, "is the dwelling of my
mother. Alas! what must she not have endured during the protracted
horrors of the night!"

"There is, at least, joy waiting her now," said Clelland; "and all will
soon be well."

They approached the tower. It was a small and very picturesque erection,
of three low stories in height, with projecting turrets at the front
corners, connected by a hanging bartizan, over which there rose a sharp
serrated gable, to the height of about two stories more. A row of
circular shot-holes, and a low, narrow door-way, were the only openings
in the lower storey--the few windows in the upper, long and narrow, and
scarce equal in size to a Norman shield, were thickly barred with iron.
The building had altogether a dilapidated and deserted appearance; for
the turrets were broken-edged and mouldering, and some of the large
square flags had slidden from off the stone roof, and lay in the moat,
which, from a reservoir, had degenerated into a quagmire, mantled over
with aquatic plants, and with, here and there, a bush of willow
springing out from the sides. A single plank afforded a rather doubtful
passage across; and the iron-studded door of the fortalice lay wide
open. Clelland hung back as the maiden entered.

"My daughter! my Bertha!" exclaimed a female voice from within; "and do
you yet live! and are you again restored to me!"

The Knight entered, and found the maiden in the embrace of her mother.

"That I still live," said Bertha, "I owe it to this brave and courtly
knight. But for his generous daring, your daughter would have found
strange burial in the ravenous maw of a wolf."

The mother turned round to Clelland, and grasped his mailed hand in both
hers.

"The saints be your blessing and reward!" she exclaimed; "for I cannot
repay you. God himself be your reward!--for earth bears no price
adequate to the benefit. You have restored to the lonely and the broken
in spirit her only stay and comfort."

"Nay, madam," said Clelland, "I would have done as much for the meanest
serf; for Bertha de Longoville I could have laid down my life."

The mother again grasped his hand. She was a tall and a still beautiful
woman, though considerably turned of forty, and though she yet bore
impressed on her countenance no unequivocal traces of the distress of
the night. She told them of her sufferings; and was made acquainted in
turn with the frightful adventure in the hermitage, and, more startling
still, with the resolution of her husband to confront his calumniators
at the court of France.

"We must set out instantly on our journey to Paris, Bertha," said the
matron; "your father, in his imminent peril, must not lack some one, at
least to comfort, if not to assist him."

"Nay," said Clelland, "ere your setting out, you must first take rest
enough, to recover the fatigues and watching of the night. And, besides,
how could two unprotected females travel through such a country as this?
Hear me, lady: I was hastening to Paris in advance of my party; but now
that I have missed my way and lost my good steed, they will be all there
before me. It matters but little. My kinsman can well afford wanting a
herald. I shall cast myself on your hospitality for the day; and,
to-morrow, should you feel yourself fully recovered, you shall set out
for Paris, under such convoy as I can afford you."

Both ladies expressed their warmest gratitude for the kind and generous
offer; and there was that in the thanks of the younger which Clelland
would have deemed price sufficient for a service much less redolent of
pleasure than that he had just tendered. She was in truth one of the
loveliest women he had ever seen; tall and graceful, and with a
countenance exquisite in form and colour. But, with all of the bodily
and the material that constitutes beauty, it was mainly to expression,
that index of the soul, that she owed her power. There was a steady
light in the dark hazel eye, joined to an air of quiet, unobtrusive
self-possession, which seemed to sit on the polished and finely formed
forehead, that gave evidence of a strong and equable mind; while the
sweet smile that seemed to lurk about the mouth, and the air of softness
spread over the lower part of the face, shewed that there mingled with
the stronger traits of her character the feminine gentleness and
sweetness of disposition, so fascinating in the sex. A little girl from
one of the distant cottages entered the building with a milking pail in
her hands.

"Ah, my good Annette," said the matron, "you left me by much too soon
yester-evening; but it matters not now. You must busy yourself in
getting breakfast for us--meanwhile, good Sir Knight, this way. The
tower is a wild ruin, but all its apartments are not equally ruinous."

They ascended, by a stair hollowed in the thickness of the wall, to an
upper story. There was but one apartment on each floor; so that the
entire building consisted but of four, and the two closet-like recesses
in the turrets. The apartment they now entered was lined with dark oak;
a massy table of the same material occupied the centre; and a row of
ponderous stools, like those which Cowper describes in his "Task," ran
along the wall. An immense chimney, supported by two rude pillars of
stone, and piled with half-charred billets of wood, projected over the
floor; the lintel, an oblong tablet about three feet in height, was
roughened by uncouth heraldic sculptures of merwomen playing on harps,
and two knights in complete armour fronting each other as in the
tilt-yard. The windows were small and dark, and barred with iron; and
through one of these that opened to the east, the morning sun, now risen
half a spear's length over the forest, found entrance, in a square
slanting rule of yellow light, which fell on the floor under a square
recess in the opposite wall. The little girl entered immediately after
the ladies and Clelland, bearing fire and fuel; a cheerful blaze soon
roared in the chimney; and, as the morning felt keen and chill after the
recent storm, they seated themselves before it. An hour passed in
courtly and animated dialogue, and then breakfast was served up.

The younger lady would fain have prolonged the conversation--for it had
turned on the struggles of the Scots, and the wonderful exploits of
Wallace--had not her mother reminded her that they stood much in need of
rest to strengthen them for their approaching journey. They both,
therefore, retired to their sleeping apartments in the turrets; while
the knight, providing himself with a bow and a few arrows, sallied out
into the forest. The practice in woodcraft, which he had acquired under
his kinsman, who, in his reverses, could levy on only the woods and
moors, stood him in so good stead, that, when dinner-time came round, a
noble haunch of venison and two plump pheasants smoked on the board. But
Bertha alone made her appearance. Her mother, she said, still felt
fatigued, and slightly indisposed; but she trusted to be able to join
them in the course of the evening.

There was nothing Clelland had so anxiously wished for, when spending
the earlier part of the day in the wood, as some such opportunity of
passing a few hours with Bertha. And yet, now that the opportunity had
occurred, he scarce knew how to employ it. The radiant smile of the
maiden--her light, elegant form, and lovely features--had haunted him
all the morning; and he wisely enough thought there could be but little
harm in frankly telling her so. But, now that the fair occasion had
offered, he found that all his usual frankness had left him, and that he
could scarce say anything, even on matters more indifferent. And, what
seemed not a little strange, too, the maiden was scarcely more at her
ease than himself, and could find not a great deal more to say. Dinner
passed almost in silence; and Bertha, rising to the square recess in the
wall, drew from it a flagon filled with wine, which she placed before
her guest and a vellum volume, bound in velvet and gold.

"This," she said, "is a wonderful romaunt, written by a countryman of
yours, of whom I have heard the strangest stories. Can you tell me aught
regarding him?"

"Ah!" said the knight, taking up the volume, "the book of Tristram. I am
not too young, lady, to have seen the writer--the good Thomas of
Erceldoune."

"Seen Thomas of Erceldoune! Thomas the Rhymer!" exclaimed the lady. "And
is it sooth that his prophecies never fail, and that he now lives in
Elf-land?"

"Nay, lady, the good Thomas sleeps in Lauderdale, with his fathers. But
we trust much to his prophecies. They have given us heart and hope amid
our darkest reverses. He predicted the years of oppression and suffering
which, through the death of our good Alexander, have wasted our country;
but he prophesied, also, our deliverance through my kinsman, Sir William
of Elderslie. We have already seen much of the evil he foresaw, and
much, also, of the good. Scotland, though still threatened by the power
of Edward, is at this moment free."

"I have long wished," said Bertha, "to see those warriors of Scotland
whose fame is filling all Europe. And now that wish is gratified--nay,
more than gratified."

"You see but one of her minor warriors," said Clelland; "but at Paris
you shall meet with the Governor himself. Your father, Bertha, should he
succeed in clearing his fair fame--and I know he will--sets out with us
for Scotland. Will not you and the lady your mother also accompany us?"

"I had deemed my father bound on a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre,"
said Bertha.

"But he has since thought," said Clelland, "how much better it were to
live gloriously fighting in a just quarrel beside the first warrior of
the world, than to perish obscurely in some loathsome pesthouse of the
Far East. I myself heard him tender his services to my kinsman."

"Then be sure," said Bertha, "my mother and I will not be separated from
him. Might one find in Scotland, Sir Knight, some such quiet tower as
this, where two defenceless women may bide the issue of the contest?"

"Why defenceless, lady? There are many gallant swords in Scotland that
would needs be beaten down ere you could come to harm. And why not now
accept of Clelland's? Scotland has greater warriors and better swords;
but, trust me, lady, she cannot boast of a truer heart. Accept of me,
lady, as your bounden knight."

A rich flush of crimson suffused the face and neck of the maiden, as she
held out her hand to Clelland, who raised it respectfully to his lips.

"I accept of thee, noble warrior," she said, "as true and faithful
knight, seeing that thy own generous tender of service doth but second
what Heaven had purposed, when, in my imminent peril in the wood, it
sent thee to my rescue. Trust me, warrior, never yet had lady knight
whom she respected more."

Clelland again raised her hand to his lips.

"I have a sister, lady," he said, "whose years do not outnumber your
own. She lives lonely, since the death of my mother, in the home of my
fathers--a tower roomier and stronger than this, and on the edge of a
forest nearly as widely spread. You will be her companion, lady, and her
friend; and your mother will be mistress of the mansion. On the morrow,
we set out for Paris."

The style in which the party travelled was sufficiently humble. Four
small and very shaggy palfreys were provided from the neighbouring
cottages: the ladies and Clelland were mounted on three of these; and
the fourth, led by a hind, carried the luggage of the party. Before
setting out, the lady had entrusted to the charge of the knight, a
small, but very ponderous casket of ebony.

"It needs, in these unsettled times," she said, "some such person to
care for it; and Bertha and I would fare all the worse for wanting it."

The journey was long and tedious, and the daily stages of the party
necessarily short. Their route lay through a wild, half-cultivated
country, which seemed to owe much to the hand of nature, but little to
that of man. There was an ever-recurring succession, day after day, of
dreary, wide-spreading forests, with comparatively narrow spaces
between, which, from the imperfect and doubtful traces of industry which
they exhibited, seemed as if but lately reclaimed from a state of
nature. Groups of miserable serfs, bound to the soil even more rigidly
than their fellow-slaves the cattle, were plying their unskilful and
unproductive labours in the fields. They passed scattered assemblages of
dingy hovels, with here and there a grim feudal tower rising in the
midst--giving evidence, by the strength of its defences, of the
insecurity and turbulence of the time. The travellers they met with were
but few. Occasionally a strolling troubadour or harper accompanied them
part of the way, on his journey from one baronial castle to another. At
times, they met with armed parties of travelling merchants, bound for
some distant fair; at times with disbanded artisans, wandering about in
quest of employment; soldiers in search of a master; or pilgrims newly
returned from Palestine, attired in cloaks of grey, and bearing the
scallop in their caps. The hind, their attendant, bore in his scrip,
from stage to stage, their provisions for the day; and their evenings
were passed in some rude hostelry by the way-side. The third week had
passed, ere, one evening on the edge of twilight, they alighted at the
hostel of St Denis, and ascertained, from mine host, that they were now
within half a stage of Paris.

The hostel was crowded with travellers; and the ladies and Clelland, for
the early part of the evening, were fain to take their places in the
common room beside the fire. A young and handsome troubadour, whose
jemmy jerkin, and cap of green, edged with silver, shewed that he was
either one of the more wealthy of his class, or under the patronage of
some rich nobleman, and who had courteously risen to yield place to
Bertha, had succeeded in reseating himself beside the knight.

"The hostel swarms with company," said Clelland, addressing him--"pray,
good minstrel, canst tell me the occasion? Is there a fair holds
to-morrow?"

"Ah, Sir Knight," said the minstrel, "I should rather ask of thee,
seeing thy tongue shews thee to be a Scot. Dost not know that thy
countryman, the brave Wallace of Elderslie, is at court, and that all
who can, in any wise, leave their homes for a season, are leaving them,
to see him? It is not once in a lifetime that such a knight may be
looked at. And, besides, have you not heard that the combat comes on
to-morrow?"

"I have heard of nothing," said Clelland; "my route has lain, of late,
through the remoter parts of the country. What combat?"

"Sir Thomas de Longoville, so long a true soldier of the cross--so long,
too, a wandering pirate--has defied to mortal combat, Loithaire of
Languedoc; and our fair Philip, through the intercession of Wallace, has
granted him the lists."

Both the ladies started at the intelligence; and the elder, wrapping up
her face in her mantle, bent her head well nigh to her knee.

"And how, good minstrel," said Bertha, in a voice tremulous from
anxiety, "how is it thought the combat will go?"

"That rests with Heaven, fair lady," said the minstrel. "Loithaire is
known far and wide, as a striker in the lists; but who has not also
heard of De Longoville, and his wars with the fierce Saracen? Many seem
to think, too, that he has been foully injured by Loithaire. That soul
of knightly honour, the good Lord Jonville, has already renewed his
friendship with him, as his friend and comrade in the battles of
Palestine, and will attend him to-morrow in the lists."

"May all the saints reward him!" ejaculated the elder lady.

"And at what hour, Sir Minstrel," asked the knight, "does the combat
come on?"

"At the turn of noon," replied the minstrel, "when the shadow first
veers to the east. I go to Paris, to find new theme for a ballad, and to
see the good Wallace, who is himself the theme of so many."

The travellers were early on the road. With all their haste and anxiety,
however, they saw the sun climbing towards the middle heavens, while the
city was yet several miles distant. They spurred on their jaded
palfreys, and entered the suburbs about noon. What was properly the city
of Paris in this age, occupied one of the larger islands of the Seine,
and was surrounded by a high wall, flanked at the angles by massy
towers, and strengthened by rows of thickly-set buttresses; but, on
either side the river, there were immense assemblages of the dirtiest
and meanest hovels that the necessities of man had ever huddled
together. The travellers, however, found but little time for remark in
passing through. All Paris had poured out her inhabitants, to witness
the combat, and they now crowded an upper island of the Seine, which the
chivalry of the age had appropriated as a scene of games, tournaments,
and duels. Clelland and the ladies had but reached the opposite bank,
when a flourish of trumpets told them that the combatants had taken
their places in the lists, and were waiting the signal to engage.

"No further, ladies, no further," said the knight, "or we shall entangle
ourselves in the outer skirts of the crowd, and see nothing. This way;
let us ascend this eminence, and the scene, though somewhat distant,
will be all before us."

They ascended a smooth green knoll, the burial mound of some chieftain
of the olden time, that overlooked the river. The island lay but a short
furlong away. They could look over the heads of the congregated
thousands into the open lists, and see the brilliant assemblage of the
beauty and gallantry of France, which the fame of De Longoville and his
opponent, and the singular nature of their quarrel, had drawn together.
The sun glanced gaily on arms and armour, on many a robe of rich
embroidery and many a costly jewel, and high over the whole, the
oriflame of France, so famous in story, waved its flames of crimson and
gold to the breeze. Knights and squires traversed the area, in gay and
glittering confusion; and at either end there sat a warrior on
horseback, as still and motionless as if sculptured in bronze. The
champion at the northern end was cased from head to foot in sable
armour, and beside him, under the blue pennon of Scotland, there stood a
group of knights, who, though tall and stately as any in the lists,
seemed lessened almost to boys in the presence of a gigantic warrior in
bright mail, who, like Saul among the people, raised his head and
shoulders over the proud crests of the assembled chivalry of France.

"Yonder, ladies--yonder is my kinsman," exclaimed Clelland; "yonder is
Wallace of Elderslie; and the champion beside him is Sir Thomas de
Longoville."

There was a second flourish of trumpets. Bertha flung herself on her
knees on the sward, and raised her hands to her eyes. Her mother almost
fainted outright.

"Nay," said Clelland, "that is but the signal to clear the lists; the
knights hurry behind the palisades, and the champions are left alone.
Fear not, dearest Bertha!--there is a God in heaven, and----Ah, there is
the third flourish! The champions strike their spurs deep into their
chargers; and see how they rush forward, like thunder clouds before a
hurricane! They close!--they close!--hark to the crash!--their steeds
are thrown back on their haunches! Look up, Bertha! look up!--your
father has won--he has won! Loithaire is flung from his saddle, the
spear of De Longoville has passed through hauberk and corslet; I saw the
steel head glitter red at the felon's back. Look up, ladies! look
up!--De Longoville is safe; nay, more--restored to the honour and fair
fame of his early manhood. Let us hasten and join him, that we may add
our congratulations to those of his friends."

Why dwell longer on the story of Thomas de Longoville? No Scotsman
acquainted with Blind Harry need be told how frequent and honourable the
mention of his name occurs in the latter pages of that historian.
Scotland became his adopted country, and well and chivalrously did he
fight in her battles; till, at length, when well nigh worn out by the
fatigues and hardships of a long and active life, the decisive victory
at Bannockburn gave him to enjoy an old age of peace and leisure, in the
society of his lady, on the lands of his son-in-law. Need we add it was
the gallant Clelland who stood in this relation to him? The chosen
knight of Bertha had become her favoured lover, and the favoured lover a
fond and devoted husband. Of the Governor more anon. There was a time,
at least, when Scotsmen did not soon weary of stories of the Wight
Wallace.




THE FUGITIVE.




CHAPTER I.


When Prince Charles Edward, at the head of his hardy Highlanders, took
up his head-quarters in Edinburgh, issuing proclamations and holding
levees, amongst those who attended the latter was a young Englishman,
named Henry Blackett, then a student at the university, and the son of a
Sir John Blackett of Winburn Priory, in Cheshire. His mother had been a
Miss Cameron, a native of Inverness-shire, and the daughter of a poor
but proud military officer. From her he had imbibed principles or
prejudices in favour of the house of Stuart; and when he had been
introduced to the young adventurer at Holyrood, and witnessed the zeal
of his army, his enthusiasm was kindled--there was a romance in the
undertaking which pleased his love of enterprise, and he resolved to
offer his sword to the Prince, and hazard his fortunes with him. The
offer was at once graciously and gratefully accepted, and Henry Blackett
was enrolled as an officer in the rebel army.

He followed the Prince through prosperity and adversity, and when
Charles became a fugitive in the land of his fathers, Henry Blackett was
one of the last to forsake him. He, too, was hunted from one
hiding-place to another; like him whom he had served, he was a fugitive,
and a price was set upon his head.

As has been stated, he imbibed his principles in favour of the house of
Stuart from his mother; but she had been dead for several years. His
father was a weak man--one of whom it may be said that he had no
principles at all; but being knighted by King George, on the occasion
of his performing some civic duty, he became a violent defender of the
house of Brunswick, and he vowed that, if the law did not, he would
disinherit his son for having taken up arras in defence of Charles. But
what chiefly strengthened him in this resolution, was not so much his
devotion for the reigning family, as his attachment to one Miss Norton,
the daughter of a Squire Norton of Norton Hall. She was a young lady of
much beauty, and mistress of what are called accomplishments; but, in
saying this much, I have recorded all her virtues. Her father's
character might be summed up in one brief sentence--he was a deep,
designing, needy villain. He was a gambler--a gentleman by birth--a
knave in practice. He had long been on terms of familiarity with Sir
John Blackett--he knew his weakness, and he knew his wealth, and he
rejoiced in the attachment which he saw him manifesting for his
daughter, in the hope that it would be the means of bringing his estates
within his control. But the property of Sir John being entailed, it
consequently would devolve on Henry as his only surviving son. He,
therefore, was an obstacle to the accomplishment of the schemes on which
Norton brooded; and when the latter found that he had joined the army of
the young Chevalier, he was chiefly instrumental in having his name
included in the list of those for whose apprehension rewards were
offered; and he privately, and at his own expense, employed spies to go
in quest of him. He also endeavoured to excite his father more bitterly
against him. Nor did his designs rest here--but, as he beheld the
fondness of the knight for his daughter increase, he, with the cunning
of a demon, proposed to him to break the entail; and when the other
inquired how it could be done, he replied--"Nothing is more simple; deny
him to be your heir--pronounce him illegitimate. There is no living
witness of your marriage with his mother. The only document to prove it
is some thumbed leaf in the register of an obscure parish church in the
Highlands of Scotland; and we can secure it."

To this most unnatural proposal the weak and wicked old man consented;
and I shall now describe the means employed by Norton to become
possessed of the parish register referred to.

Squire Norton had a son who was in all respects worthy of such a
father--he was the image of his mind and person. In short, he was one of
the _things_ who, in those days, resembled those who in our own call
themselves _men of the world_, forsooth! and who, under that
name, infest and corrupt society--making a boast of their
worthlessness--poisoning innocence--triumphing in their work of
ruin--and laughing, like spirits of desolation, over the daughter's
misery and disgrace, the father's anguish, the wretched mother's tears,
and the shame of a family, which they have accomplished. There are such
creatures, who disgrace both the soul and the shape of man, who are mere
shreds and patches of debauchery--sweepings from the shops of the
tailor, the milliner, and the hair-dresser--who live upon the plunder
obtained under false pretences from the industrious--who giggle, ogle,
pat a snuff-box, or affect to nod in a church, to be thought sceptics or
fine gentlemen. One of such was young Norton; and he was sent down to
Scotland to destroy the only proof which Henry Blackett, in the event of
his being pardoned, could bring forward in support of his legitimacy.

He arrived at a lonely village in Inverness-shire, near which the
cottage formerly occupied by Major Cameron, the grandfather of Henry,
was situated; and of whom he found that few of the inhabitants
remembered more than that "there lived a man." Finding the only inn that
was in the village much more cleanly and comfortable than he had
anticipated, he resolved to make it his hotel during his residence, and
inquired of the landlady if there were any one in the village with whom
a gentleman could spend an evening, and obtain information respecting
the neighbourhood.

"Fu' shurely! fu' shurely, sir!" replied his Highland hostess--"there pe
te auld tominie."

"Who?" inquired he, not exactly comprehending her Celtic accent.

"Wha put te auld tominie?" returned she; "an' a tiscreet, goot
shentleman he pe as in a' te toun."

"The dominie?--the dominie?" he repeated, in a tone of perplexity.

"Oigh! oigh! te tominie," added she, "tat teaches te pits o' pairns, an'
raises te psalm in te kirk."

He now comprehended her meaning; and from her coupling the dominie's
name with the kirk, believed that he might be of use to him in the
accomplishment of his object, and desired that he might be sent for.

"Oigh!" returned she, smiling, "an' he no pe lang, for he like te
trappie unco weel."

Within five minutes, Dugald Mackay, precentor, teacher, and parish-clerk
of Glencleugh, entered the parlour of Mrs Macnab. Never was a more
striking contrast exhibited in castle or in cottage. Here stood young
Norton, bedecked with all the foppery of an exquisite of his day; and
there stood Dugald Mackay, his thick bushy grey hair falling on his
shoulders, holding in his hand a hat not half the size of his head,
which had neither been made nor bought for him, and which had become
brown with service, and was now stitched in many places, to keep it
together. Round it was wrapped a narrow stripe of crape browner than
itself, and over all winded several yards of gut and hair-line, with
hooks attached, betokening his angling propensities. Dugald was a
thickset old man, with a face blooming like his native heather. His feet
were thrust into immense brogues, as brown as his hat, and their
formidable patches shewed that their wearer could use the _lingle_ and
_elshun_, although his profession was to "teach the young idea how to
shoot." He wore tartan hose--black breeches, fastened at the knees by
silver gilt buckles, and much the worse for the wear, while, from the
accumulation of ink and dust, they might have stood upright. His vest
was huge and double-breasted, its colour not recognised by painters; and
his shoulders were covered by a very small tartan coat, the tails of
which hardly reached his waist. Such was Dugald Mackay; and the youth,
plying him with the bottle, endeavoured to ascertain how far he could
render him subservient to his purpose.

"You appear fond of angling," said Norton.

"Fond o' fishing?" returned the man of letters; "ou ay; ou ay!--hur hae
mony time filt te creel o' te shentlemen frae Inverness, for te
sixpence, and te shilling, and te pig crown, not to let tem gaun pack
wi' te empty pasket. And hur will teach your honour, or tress your
honour's hooks, should you be stopping to fish. Here pe goot sport to
your honour," continued he, raising a bumper to his lips.

The other, glad to assign a plausible pretext for his visit, said that
he had come a few days for the sake of fishing, and inquired how long
his guest had been in the neighbourhood.

"Hur peen schulemaister and parish-clerk in Glencleugh for forty year,"
replied Dugald.

"Parish-clerk!" said Norton, eagerly, and checking himself,
continued--"that is--in the church you mean, you raise the tunes?"

"Ou ay, hur nainsel' pe precenter too," answered Dugald; "put hur be
schulemaister and parish-clerk into te pargain."

"And what are your duties as parish-clerk?" inquired the other, in a
tone of indifference.

"Ou, it pe to keep te pooks wi' te marriages, te christenings, and te
deaths. Here pe to your honour's very goot luck again," said he,
swallowing another bumper.

Thus the holder of the birch and parish chronicler began to help himself
to one glass after another, until the candles began to dance reels and
strathspeys before him. At length the angler, expressing a wish to see
such a curiosity as the matrimonial and baptismal register of a hamlet
so remote, out sallied Dugald, describing curved lines as he went, and
shortly returned, bearing the eventful quartos under his arm. Norton
looked through them, laughing, jesting, and professing to be amused, and
his eye quickly fell upon the page which he sought. Dugald laughed,
drank, and talked, until his rough head sank upon his breast, and
certain nasal sounds gave notice that the schoolmaster was abroad. In a
moment, Norton transferred the leaf which contained the certificate of
Lady Blackett's marriage, from the volume to his pocket. His father had
ordered him to destroy it; but the son, vicious as the father,
determined to keep it, and to hold it over him as an instrument of
terror to extort money. The dominie being roused to take one glass more
by way of a night-cap, was led home, as usual, by Mrs Macnab's
servant-of-all-work, who carried the volumes.

Shortly after this, the marriage between Sir John Blackett and Miss
Norton took place; her father rejoiced in the success of his schemes,
and Henry was disinherited and disowned.




CHAPTER II.


While the latter events which we have recorded in the last chapter were
taking place, Henry Blackett, the rebel soldier, was a fugitive, flying
from hiding-place to hiding-place, seeking concealment in the mountains
and in the glens, in the forest and crowded city, assuming every
disguise, and hunted from covert to covert. A reward was not offered for
his apprehension, in particular by government, but he was included
amongst those whom loyal subjects were forbidden to conceal; and two
emissaries, sent out by Norton, sought him continually, to deliver him
up. Ignorant of his father's marriage, or of the villain's part he had
acted towards him, though conscious of his anger at his having joined
Prince Charles, he was wandering in Dumfries-shire, by the shores of the
Solway, disguised as a sailor, and watching an opportunity to return
home, when the hunters after his life suddenly sprang upon him,
exclaiming--"Ha! Blackett, the traitor!--the five hundred pounds are
ours!"

Armed only with the branch of a tree, which he carried partly for
defence, and as a walking-stick, he repelled them with the desperate
fierceness of a man whose life is at stake. One he disabled, and the
other being unable to contend against him singly, permitted him to
escape. He rushed at his utmost speed across the fields for many miles,
avoiding the highways and public paths, until he sank panting and
exhausted on the ground. He had not lain long in this situation when he
was discovered by a wealthy farmer, who was known in the neighbourhood
by the appellation of "canny Willie Galloway."

"Puir young chield," said Willie, casting on him a look of compassion,
"ye seem sadly distressed. Do ye think I could be o' ony service to ye?
From yer appearance, ye wadna be the waur o' a nicht's lodging, and I
can only say that ye are heartily welcome to't."

Henry had been so long the object of pursuit and persecution, that he
regarded every one with suspicion; and starting to his feet and grasping
the branch firmer in his hand, he said--"Know you what you say?--or
would you betray the wretched?"

"It is o' nae manner o' use gripping your stick," said Willie, calmly,
"for I'm allooed to be a first-rate cudgel-player--the best atween
Stranraer and Dumfries. But, as to kennin' what I said, I was offerin'
ye a nicht's lodgings; and as to betrayin' the wretched, I wadna see a
hawk strike doon a sparrow, not a spider a midge, if I could prevent
it."

"You seem honest," said Henry; "I am miserable, and will trust you."

"Be thankit," answered the other; "I dare to say I'm as honest as my
neebors; and, as ye seem in distress, I will be very happy to serve ye,
if I can do't in a creditable way."

Willie Galloway was a bachelor of five and forty, and his house was kept
by an old woman, a distant relative, called Janet White. Henry
accompanied him home, and communicated to him his story. Willie took a
liking for him, and vowed that he would not only shelter him, while he
had a roof over his head, but that he would defend him against every
enemy, while he had a hand that he could lift; and, the better to ensure
his concealment, he proposed that he should pass as his sister's son,
and not even write to his father to intimate where he was, until the
persecution against those who had "been _out_ with poor Charlie," was
past.

In the neighbourhood of Willie's farm, there resided an elderly
gentleman, named Laird Howison. He was an eccentric but most
kind-hearted man, of whom many believed and said that his imagination
was stronger then his reason; and in so saying, it was probable that
they were not far from the truth. But of that the reader will determine
as he sees more of the laird. There resided with him a beautiful orphan
girl, named Helen Marshall, the daughter of the late parish clergyman,
and to whom he had been left guardian from her childhood. But, as she
grew up in loveliness before him, she became as a dream of futurity that
soothed and cheered his existence; and, although he was already on the
wrong side of fifty, he resolved that, as soon as she was twenty-one,
he would offer her his hand and fortune. Janet White, the housekeeper
and relative of Willie Galloway, had nursed Helen in infancy; and the
lovely maiden was, therefore, a frequent visitor at his house. She there
met Henry, and neither saw nor listened to him with indifference; and
her beauty, sense, and gentleness, made a like impression upon him.
Willie, though a bachelor, had penetration enough to perceive that when
they met there was meaning in their eyes; and he began to rally
Henry--saying, "Now, there would be a match for ye!--when the storm has
blawn owre your head, just tak ye that bonny Scotch lassie hame to
England wi' ye as yer wife, and ye will find her a treasure, such as ye
may wander the world round and no find her marrow."

As their intimacy and affection increased, Henry communicated to Helen
the secret of his birth and situation; and, like a true woman, she loved
him the more for the dangers to which he was exposed. He had remained
more than eight months with his friend and protector; and, imagining
that the persecution against himself, and others who had acted in the
same cause, was now abated in its fury, he forwarded a letter to his
father, at Winburn Priory, announcing his intention of venturing home in
a few days, and begging his forgiveness and protection, until his pardon
could be procured. He, however, intimated to Willie Galloway, his desire
to secure the hand of Helen before he left.

"Weel, if she be agreeable," said Willie "--and I hae every reason to
believe she is--I wadna blame ye for taking that step ava; for her auld
gowk o' a guardian, Laird Howison, (though a very worthy man in some
respecks), vows that he is determined to marry her himsel, as soon as
she is ane and twenty; and, as he is up aboot London at present, ye
couldna hae a better opportunity. Therefore, only ye and Helen say the
word, and I'll arrange the business for ye in less than nae time."

The fair maiden consented; a clergyman had joined their hands, and
pronounced the benediction over them--the ceremony was concluded, but it
was only concluded, when the two ruffians, who have been already
mentioned as hired by Norton to search for him and secure his
apprehension, and who before had met him by the side of the Solway,
followed by two soldiers, burst into the apartment, crying--"Secure the
traitor! It is he!--Harry Blackett!"

Helen screamed aloud and clasped her hands.

"Ye lie! ye lie!" cried Willie--"it is my sister's son--meddle wi' him
wha daur, and us twa will fecht you four, even in the presence o' the
minister."

So saying, he seized hold of a chair, and raised it to repel them. Henry
followed his example. The soldiers threateningly raised their fire-arms.
Willie suddenly swang round the chair with his utmost strength, and
dashed down their arms. Henry hastily kissed the brow of his fair bride,
and, rushing through the midst of them, darted from the house, while
Willie, as rapidly following him, closed the door behind him, and
holding it fast, cried--"Run, Harry, my lad!--run for bare life, and
I'll keep them fast here!"

For several days, the soldiers searched the neighbourhood for the
fugitive; but they found him not, and no one knew where he had fled.
Within a week, Helen disappeared from Primrose Hall, the seat of her
guardian, Laird Howison; and the general belief was, that she had set
out for Cheshire, to the father of her bridegroom, to intercede with him
to use his influence in his son's behalf. "And," said Willie, "if she
doesna move him to forgie his son, and do his duty towards him, then I
say that he has a heart harder than a whin-rock."

But no one knew the object of her departure, nor whither she had gone.
Laird Howison had not returned; and, after several weeks had passed, and
Willie Galloway was unable to hear ought of either Helen or Henry, he
resolved to proceed to Cheshire, to make inquiries after them; and for
this purpose purchased an entire suit of new and fashionable raiment.




CHAPTER III.


On a beautiful summer morning, an old man, slightly stooping in his
gait, was slowly walking down a green lane which led in the direction
from Warrington to Winburn Priory. Behind him, at a rapid pace, followed
a younger man, of a muscular frame, exceedingly well-dressed, and
carrying over his arm a thick chequered plaid, like those worn in the
pastoral districts of Scotland. He overtook the elder pedestrian, and
accosted him, saying--

"Here's a bonny morning, freend."

"Sir?" said the old man inquiringly, slightly lifting his hat, and not
exactly comprehending his companion.

"Losh, but he's a mannerly auld body that," thought the other; "I see
the siller upon this suit o' claes has been weel-wared;" and added
aloud, "I was observing it's a delightful morning, sir, and as
delightful a country-side; it wad be a paradise, were it no sae flat."

"Ah, sir!" replied the old man; "but I fear as how the country looks
like a paradise without its innocence."

"Ye talk very rationally, honest man," said the other, whom the reader
will have recognised to be Willie Galloway; "and, if I am no mistaen, ye
maun hae some cause to mak the remark. But, dear me, sir, only look
round ye, and see the trees in a' their glory, the flowers in a' their
innocence; or just look at the rowing burn there, wimplin alang by oor
side, like refined silver, beneath a sun only less glorious than the
Hand that made it; and see hoo the bits o' fish are whittering round,
wagging their tails, and whisking back and forrit, as happy as kings!
Look at the lovely and the cheerfu' face o' a' Nature--or just listen
to the music o' thae sinless creatures in the hedges, and in the blue
lift--and ye will say that, but for the inventions and deceitfulness o'
man's heart, this earth wad be a paradise still. But I tell ye what,
freend--I believe that were an irreligious man just to get up before
sunrise at a season like this, and gang into the fields and listen to
the laverock, and look around on the earth, and on the majesty o' the
heavens rising, he wadna stand for half-an-hoor until, if naebody were
seeing him, he would drap doun on his knees and pray."

Much of Willie's sermon was lost on the old man; he, however,
comprehended a part, and said, "Why, sir, I know as how I always find my
mind more in tune for the service of the church, by a walk in the
fields, and the singing of the birds, than by all the instruments of the
orchestra."

"Orchestra!" said Willie, "what do ye mean?--that's a strange place to
gather devotion frae!"

"The orchestra of the church," returned the other.

"The orchestra o' the church!" said Willie, in surprise--"what's that? I
never heard o't before. There's the poopit, and the precentor's desk,
the pews and the square seats, and doun stairs and the gallery--but ye
nonplus me about the orchestra."

"Why, our lord of the manor," continued the old man, "is one who cares
for nothing that's good, and he will give nothing; and as we are not
rich enough to buy an organ, we have only a bass viol, two tenors, and a
flute."

"Fiddles and a flute in a place o' worship!" exclaimed Willie.

"Yes, sir," replied the other, marvelling at his manner.

"Weel," returned Willie, standing suddenly still, and striking his staff
upon the ground, "that beats a'! And will ye tell me, sir, hoo it is
possible to worship yer Creator by scraping catgut, or blawing wind
through a hollow stick?"

"Why, master," said the old man, "the use of instruments in worship is
as old as the times of the prophets, and I can't see why it should be
given up. But dost thou think, now, that thou couldst go into Chester
cathedral at twilight, while the organ filled all round about thee with
its deep music, without feeling in thy heart that thou wast in a house
of praise. Why, sir, at such a time thou couldst not commit a wicked
action. The very sound, while it lifted up thy soul with delight, would
awe thee."

When their controversy had ended, Willie inquired--"Do ye ken a family
o' the name o' Blackett, that lives aboot this neeborhood?"

"I should," answered the old man; "forty years did I eat of their
bread."

"Then, after sic lang service, ye'll just be like ane o' the family?"
replied Willie.

"Alas!" said the other, shaking his head.

"Ye dinna mean to say," resumed Willie, in a tone of surprise, "that
they hae turned ye aff, in your auld age, as some heartless wretch wad
sell the noble animal that had carried him when a callant, to a cadger,
because it had grown howe-backet, and lost its speed o' foot. But I hope
that young Mr Henry had nae hand in it?"

"Henry!--no! no!" cried the old man eagerly--"bless him! Did you know Mr
Henry, your honour?"

"I did," said Willie; "and I hae come from Scotland ance errand to see
him."

"But, sir," inquired the old man, tremulously, "do you know where to
find him?"

"I expect to find him, by this time, at his father's house."

"Alas!" answered the old domestic, "there has been no one at the priory
for more than twelve months. I don't know where the old knight is. Henry
has not been here since he went to Edinburgh, and that is nigh to five
years gone now."

"Ye dumfounder me, auld man," exclaimed Willie; "but where, in the name
o' guidness, where's the wife?--where's Mrs Blackett?"

"You will mean your countrywoman, I suppose," said the other.

"To be sure I mean her," said Willie--"wha else could I mean?"

"Ah! wo is me!" sighed his companion, and he burst into tears as he
spoke, "dost see the churchyard, just before us?--and they have raised
no stone to mark the spot."

"Dead!" ejaculated Willie, becoming pale with horror, and fixing upon
his fellow-pedestrian a look of agony--"Ye dinna say--dead!"

"Even so!--even so!" said the old domestic, sobbing aloud.

"And hoo was it?" cried Willie; "was it a fair strae death--or just
grief, puir thing--just grief?"

"Why, I can't say how it was," answered his informant; "but I wish I
durst tell all I think."

"Say it!--say it!" exclaimed Willie, vehemently, "what do you mean by,
if you durst say all you think? If there be the shadow o' foul play, I
will sift it to the bottom, though it cost me a thousand pounds; and
there is anither that will gie mair."

"Ah, sir, I am but a friendless old man," replied the other, "that could
not stand the weight of a stronger arm."

"Plague take their arms!" cried Willie, handling his cudgel, as if to
shew the strength of his own--"tell what ye think, and they'll have
strong arms that dare touch a hair o' yer head."

"Well, master," was the reply, "I don't like to say too much to
strangers, but if thou makest any stay in these parts, I may tell thee
something; and I fear that wherever poor Henry is, he is in need of
friends. But perhaps your honour would wish to see her grave?"

"Her grave!" ejaculated Willie--"yes! yes! yes!--her grave!--O misery!
have I come frae Dumfries-shire to see a sicht like this?"

The old man led the way over the stile, hanging his head and sighing as
he went. Willie followed him, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, as was
his custom when his heart was touched, and forgetting the dress of the
gentleman which he wore, in the feelings of the man.

"The family vault is in yonder corner," said his conductor, as they
turned across the churchyard.

"Save us, friend!" exclaimed Willie, looking towards the spot, "saw ye
ever the like o' yon?--a poor miserable dementit creature, wringing his
hands as though his heart would break!"

"Tis he! 'tis he!" shouted the old man, springing forward with the
alacrity of youth, "my child!--my dear young master!"

"Oh! conscience o' man!" exclaimed Willie, "what sort o' a dream is
this? It canna be possible! _Her_ dead, and _him_, oot o' his judgment,
mourning owre her grave in the garb o' a beggar!"

"Ha! discovered again!" cried Henry fiercely, and starting round as he
spoke; but immediately recognising the old domestic, on whom time had
not wrought such a metamorphosis as dress had upon Willie Galloway--"Ha,
Jonathan! old Jonathan Holditch!" he added, "do I again see the face of
a friend!" and instantly discovering Willie, he sprang forward and
grasped his extended hand in both of his.

The old man sat down upon the grave and wept.

"Don't weep, Jonathan," said Henry, "I trust that we shall soon have
cause to rejoice."

"I wish a' may be richt yet," thought Willie; "I took him to be rather
dementit at the first glance, and _rejoice_ is rather a strange word to
use owre a young wife's grave. Puir fellow!"

"Yes, Master Henry," said Jonathan, "I do rejoice that the worst is
past; but I must weep too, for there be many things in all this that I
do not understand."

"Nor me either," said Willie; "but ye say ye think more than ye dare
tell."

"Why is it, Jonathan," continued Henry, "that there is no stone to mark
my mother's grave? There is room enough in our burial place. Why is
there nothing to her memory?" he continued, bending his eyes upon her
sepulchre. "Her _memory_!" he added; "cold, cruel grave; and is memory
all that is left me of such a parent? Is the dumb dust, beneath this
unlettered stone--all!--all! that I can now call mother? Has she no
monument but the tears of her only surviving child?"

"A' about his mother," muttered Willie, "who has been dead for four
years, and no a word aboot puir Helen! As sure as I'm a living man this
is beyont my comprehension--I dinna think he can be _a'thegither
there_!"

Henry turned towards him and said, "I have much to ask, my dear friend,
but my heart is so filled with griefs and forebodings already, that the
words I would utter tremble on my tongue; but what of my Helen--tell me,
what of her?"

"She--she's--weel," gasped Willie, bewildered; "that is--I--I hope--I
trust--that--oh, losh, Mr Blackett, I dinna ken whare I am, nor what I
am saying, for my brain is as daized as a body's that is driven owre wi'
a drift, and rowed amang the snaw! Has there been onybody buried here
lately?"

"Mr Galloway!--Mr Galloway!" exclaimed Henry, half-choked with
agitation, and wringing his hand in his, while the perspiration burst
upon his brow--"in the name of wretchedness--what--what do you mean?"

"Oh, dinna speak to me!" said Willie, waving his hand; "ask that auld
man."

"Jonathan?" exclaimed Henry.

"I don't know what the gentleman means," said the old man; "but no one
has been buried here since your honoured mother, and that is four years
ago."

"And whase grave--whase grave did ye bring me to look at?" inquired
Willie, eagerly.

"My lady's," answered he.

"Yer leddy's!" returned Willie--"do you mean Mr Blackett's mother?"

"Whom else could I mean?" asked old Jonathan, in a tone of wonder.

"Wha else could you mean!" repeated Willie; "then, be thankit! _she's_
no dead!--ye say _she's_ no dead!" and he literally leapt for joy.

"Who dead?" inquired the old man, with increased astonishment.

"Wha dead, ye stupid auld body!--did I no say _his wife_, as plain as I
could speak?"

"_Whose_ wife?" inquired Jonathan, looking from Willie to his master in
bewilderment.

"Whose wife!" reiterated Willie, weeping, laughing, and twirling his
stick; "shame fa' ye--ye may ask that noo, after knocking my heart oot
o' the place o't wi' yer palaver. Whase wife do ye say?--ask Mr Henry."

"Mr Galloway!" interrupted Henry, "am I to understand that you believed
this to be the grave of my beloved Helen?--or, how could you suppose it?
Has she left Primrose Hall?--or, has our marriage----Tell me all you
know, for I wist not what I would ask."

Willie then related to him what the reader already knows--namely, that
she had left Dumfries-shire, and was supposed to have gone to his
father's.

"Blessings on the day that these eyes beheld the dear lady, then,"
exclaimed old Jonathan; "for I could vow that she is under my roof now."

"Under _your_ roof!" cried Henry.

"Was ye doited, auld man, that ye didna tell me that before?" said
Willie.

"I knew no more of my young master's marriage, until just now, than
these gravestones do," said Jonathan; "the dear lady who is with us told
nothing to me. Only my wife told me that she knew she loved our young
master."

"But why is she lodging with you, Jonathan? I have learned that my
father is abroad, and is it that he is soon expected home?"

"A fever caused her to be an inmate of my poor roof," answered Jonathan,
"after she had been rudely driven from the gate as a common beggar. But
I am no longer thy father's servant--and I wish, for thy sake, I could
forget he was thy father; for he has done that which might make the
blessed bones beneath our feet start from their grave. And there is no
one about the Priory now, but the creatures of the villain Norton."

Henry entreated that the old man would not speak harshly of his father,
though he had so treated them; and he briefly informed them, that, on
flying from Scotland to escape his pursuers even at his father's lodge,
he again met one of the individuals who had hunted him as "Blackett, the
traitor," and who had attempted to seize him in the hour of his
marriage--and that even there the cry was again raised against him; and
a band, thirsting for his blood-money, joined in the pursuit. He had
fled to the churchyard, and found concealment in the family vault, where
he had remained until they then discovered him, as, in the early
morning, he had ventured out.

Willie counselled that there was now small vengeance to be apprehended
from the persecution of the government; and when Jonathan stated that
Sir John had married the daughter of Norton, and disinherited Henry by
denying his marriage with his mother, Willie exclaimed--"I see it a', Mr
Henry, just as clear as the A, B, C. This rascal, ye ca' Norton, or your
faither, (forgie me for saying sae,) has employed the villains wha
hunted for yer life; it has been mair them than the government that has
been to blame. Therefore, my advice is, let us go and drive the thieves
out o' the house by force."

Henry, who was speechless with grief, horror, and disgust, agreed to the
proposition of his friend, and they proceeded to the Priory by a shorter
road than the lodge.

Henry knocked loudly at the door, which was opened by a man-servant, who
attempted to shut it in his face; but, in a moment the door was driven
back upon its hinges, and the menial lay extended along the lobby; and
Henry, with his sturdy ally, and old Jonathan, rushed in. Alarmed by the
sound, the other servants, male and female, hurried to the spot; and
epithets, too opprobrious to be written, were the mildest they applied
to the young heir, as he demanded admission.

"Then let us gie them club-law for it," cried Willie, "if they will have
it; and they shall have it to their heart's content, if I ance begin
it."

Armed with such weapons as they could seize at the moment, the servants
menacingly opposed their entrance; but Henry, dashing through them,
rushed towards the stairs, where he was followed by four men-servants,
two armed with swords, and the others with kitchen utensils.

But Willie, following at their heels, cried--"Come back!" and, bringing
his cudgel round his head, with one tremendous swoop caused it to rattle
across the unprotected legs of the two last of the pursuers, and, almost
at the same instant, before their comrades had ascended five steps from
the ground, they, from the same cause, descended backwards, rolling and
roaring over their companions. Within three seconds, all four were
conquered, disarmed, and unable to rise. As the discomfited garrison of
the Priory gathered themselves together, (much in the attitude of Turks
or tailors,) groaning, writhing, and ruefully rubbing their stockings,
Willie, with the composed look of a philosopher, addressed to them this
consoling and important information--"Noo, sirs, I hope ye are a'
_sensibly_ convinced, what guid service a bit hazel may do in a willing
hand; and if ony o' yer banes are broken, I would recommend ye to send
for the doctor before the swelling gets stiff about them. But ye couldna
hae broken banes at a cannier place on a' the leg than just where I gied
ye the bits o' clinks; they were hearty licks, and would gie them a
clean snap, so that, in the matter o' six weeks, ye may be on your feet
again."

Old Jonathan had already followed Henry up stairs; and Willie having
finished his exhortation, proceeded in quest of them. Henry succeeded in
obtaining a change of raiment; and having sent for one who had been long
a tenant upon the estate, he left the house in charge to him, with
orders that he should immediately turn from it all the creatures of
Norton, and engage other servants; and he and his friend, Willie,
proceeded to the house of old Jonathan, where, as the latter supposed, a
lady that he believed to be the wife of his young master, then was.




CHAPTER IV.


Mrs Holditch (the wife of old Jonathan) was wandering up the lane in
quest of her husband, wondering at the length of his absence, and
fretting for his return; for "the sweet lady," as she termed Helen,
"would not take breakfast without them." She had proceeded about half a
mile from the cottage, when she was met by none other than Laird Howison
of Primrose Hall, and the following dialogue took place:--

"Will ye hae the kindness to inform me, ma'am, if the person that used
to keep the gate of Sir John Blackett lives ony way aboot here?"

"He does, sir," replied she, with low obeisance.

"And, oh!" interrupted he, earnestly, "know ye if there be a young leddy
frae Scotland stopping there at present--for I have heard that there is?
Ye'll no think me inquisitive, ma'am; for really if ye kenned what
motive I hae for asking, ye would think it motive enough."

"There be, your honour," returned she, "and a dear excellent young lady
she is."

"Oh! if it be her that I mean," said he, "that she is _dear_, indeed, I
have owre guid reason to ken, and her excellence is written on every
line o' her beautiful countenance. But, if I'm no detaining ye, ma'am,
may I just ask her name?"

"She bade us call her Helen, sir," replied she; "we know no other."

"Yes! yes!" cried he, "it's just Helen!--Helen, and nothing else to me!
Mony a time has that name been offered up wi' my prayers. But I thought,
ma'am, ye said she bade _you_ call her Helen."

"Yes, your honour," said she; "I be the wife of old Jonathan Holditch,
and she be staying with us now."

"Bless you!" he exclaimed, "for the shelter which yer roof has afforded
to the head o' an orphan. But, oh! what like is _your_ Helen? Is her
neck whiter than the drifted snaw? Does her hair fa' in gowden ringlets,
like the clouds that curl round the brows o' the setting sun? Is her
form delicate as the willow, but stately as the young pine? Is her
countenance beautiful as the light o' laughing day, when it chases
sickness and darkness together from the chamber o' the invalid? If she
isna a' this--if her voice isna sweeter than the sough o' music on a
river--dear and excellent she may be, and they may call her Helen--but,
oh! she isna my _Helen_!--for there is none in the world like unto
_mine_. But, no! no!--she is _not mine now_! O Helen, woman! did I
expect this? Excuse me, ma'am, ye'll think my conduct strange; but, when
my poor seared-up heart thinks o' past enjoyment, it makes me forget
mysel'. Do you think your Helen is the same that I hae come to seek?"

"A sweeter and a lovelier lady," said she, "never called Christian man
father. She had business at Winburn Priory; but my husband says she was
driven away from the gate like a dog."

"It is her!" exclaimed he, "and she's no been at the Priory, then?"

"No, sir," returned she.

"Nor seen ony o' the Blackett family?" added he, eagerly.

"No, sir; for there be none of them in the neighbourhood," answered she.

"What's this I hear!" cried he:--"Gracious! if I may again hope!--and
why for no? But how is it that she is stopping wi' you?--wherefore did
she not return to the home where she has been cherished from infancy,
and where she will aye be welcome. Has Helen forgot me a'thegither?"

"Alas, sir!" said she; "it was partly grief, I believe, that brought on
a bad fever, and I had fears the sweet, patient creature would have died
in my hands. I sat by her bedside, watching night after night; and, oh!
sir, I daresay as how it was about you that she sometimes talked, and
wept, and laughed, and talked again, poor thing."

"And did _ye_," he inquired, fumbling with, a pocket book; "did _ye_
watch owre her? I'm your debtor for that. And ye think she spoke about
_me_--my name's Howison, ma'am--Thomas Howison of Primrose Hall, in the
county o' Dumfries. She would, maybe, call me _Thomas_!"

"Mr Howison!" replied the old woman: "yes, your honour, she often
mentioned such a name--very often."

"Did she really," added he; "did she mention me?--and often spoke about
me--often? Then she's no forgotten me a'thegither!"

He thrust a bank-note into the hands of Mrs Holditch, which she refused
to accept, saying that "the dear lady had more than paid her for all
that she had done already." But, while she spoke, they had arrived
within sight of the cottage, and he suddenly bounded forward,
exclaiming--"Oh! haud my heart!" as he beheld Helen, sitting looking
from the window--"yonder she is! yonder she is! O Helen! Helen!" he
cried, rushing towards the door--"wherefore did ye leave me?--why hae ye
forsaken me? But, joy o' my heart, I winna upbraid ye; for I hae found
ye again."

With an agitated step, she advanced to meet him--she extended her hand
towards him--she faltered--"My kind, kind benefactor."

He heard the words she uttered--with a glance he beheld the
marriage-ring upon her finger--he stood still in the midst of his
transport--his outstretched arms fell motionless by his side--"O Helen,
woman!" he cried in agony, "do ye really say _benefactor_?--that isna
the word I wish to hear frae ye. Ye never ca'ed me _benefactor_ before!"

The few words spoken by the old woman had called up his buried hopes;
but the word _benefactor_ had again whelmed him in despair.

"Oh!" he continued, dashing away the tears from his eyes, "my poor mind
is flung away upon a whirlwind, and my brain is the sport o' every
shadow! O Helen! I thought ye had forgotten me!"

"Forgotten you, my kind dear friend!" said she; "I have not, I will not,
I cannot forget you; and wherefore would you forget that I can only
remember you as a friend?"

"Poor, miserable, and deluded being that I am," added he; "I expected,
from what the mistress o' this house told me, that I wouldna be welcomed
by the cauldrife names o' _friend_ or _benefactor_. Do ye mind since ye
used to call me _Thomas_?"

"Mr Howison," answered she, "I know this visit has been made in
kindness--let me believe in parental anxiety. You have not now to learn
that I am a wife, and you can have heard nothing here to lead you to
think otherwise. I will not pretend to misunderstand your language. But
by what name can I call you save that of friend?--it was the first and
the only one by which I have ever known you."

"No, Helen," cried he, wringing her hand; "there was a time when ye only
said _Thomas!_ and the sound o' that ae word frae yer lips was a waff o'
music, which echoed, like the vibrations o' an angel's harp, about my
heart for hours and for hours!"

"If," added she, "from having been taught by you to call you by that
name in childhood, when I regarded you as my guardian, and you
condescended to be my playmate, will you upbraid me with ceasing to use
it now, when respect to you and to myself demand the use of another? Or
can you, by any act of mine, place another meaning upon my having used
it, than obedience to your wishes, and the familiarity of a thoughtless
girl? And, knowing this, is it possible that the best of men will heap
sorrow upon sorrow on the head of a friendless and afflicted woman?"

"Oh, dinna say friendless, Helen," cried he; "friendless ye canna be
while I am in existence. Ye hae torn the scales from my eyes, and the
first use o' sicht has been to show me that the past has been delusion,
and that the future is misery, solitary madness, or despair! And hae I
really a' this time mistaen sweetness for love, and familiarity for
affection? Do ye really say that it was only familiarity, Helen?"

"The feelings of a sister for a brother," she answered; "of a daughter
for a father."

"True," said he; "I see it now; I was, indeed, older than your father--I
didna recollect that."

He sat thoughtful for a few minutes, when Helen, to change the subject,
inquired after her old nurse, Janet White.

"Poor body," said he, raising his head, "her spirits are clean gone. I
understand she sits mourning for you by the fire, cowering thegither
like a pigeon that's lost its mate, or a ewe whose lamb has been struck
dead by its side. It would wring tears from a heart o' stane to hear her
lamenting, morning, noon, and night, for her 'dear bairn,' as she aye
ca'ed ye--rocking her head and chirming owre her sorrow, like a hen bird
owre its rifled nest. I had her owre at the Hall the day after I cam
back frae London, and just afore I cam here to seek for ye. But there is
naething aboot it that she taks delight in noo. And, when I strove to
amuse her, by taking her through the garden and plantations, (though I
stood mair in need o' comfort mysel'), she would stand still and lean
her head against a tree, in the very middle o' some o' the bonniest
spots, while a tear came rowing down her cheeks, and look in my face wi'
such a sorrowfu' expression, that a thousand arrows, entering my breast
at ance, couldna hae caused me mair agony. I felt that I was a puir,
solitary, and despised being, only cast into the midst o' a paradise,
that my comfortless bosom might appear the blacker and the more dismal.
The puir auld body saw what was passing within me, and she shook her
head, saying, 'Oh, sir! had I seen ye leading my bairn down thir bonny
avenues as your wife, Janet White would have been a happy woman.' Then
she wrung her withered hands, and the tears hailed down her cheeks
faster and faster; while I hadna a word o' consolation to say to her,
had it been to save my life. For the very chirping o' the birds grew
irksome, and the young leaves and the silky flowers painful to look
upon. O Helen! if ye only kenned what we a' suffer on yer account! If ye
only kenned what it is to have hope spired up, and affection preying
upon your ain heart for nourishment, ye wadna be angry at onything I
say."

"Think not it is possible," she replied, while her tears flowed faster
than her words; "but wherefore feed a hopeless passion, the indulgence
of which is now criminal?"

"Oh! forgie ye!" he exclaimed, vehemently; "dinna say that, Helen!
Hopeless it may be, but not _criminal_! That is the only cruel word I
ever heard frae yer lips! I didna think onybody would hae said that to
me! Did you really say _criminal_? But, oh! as matters stand, if ye'd
only alloo me to say anither word or twa anent the subject, and if ye
wadna just crush me as a moth, and tak pleasure in my agonies--or hae me
to perish wi' the sunless desolation o' my ain breast--ye'll alloo me to
say them. They relate to my last consolation--the last tie that links me
and the world together!"

"Speak," said Helen; "let not me be the cause of misery I can have power
to prevent."

"Oh, then!" replied he, "be not angry at what I'm going to say; and
mind, that, on your answer depends the future happiness or misery o' a
fellow-being. Yes, Helen! upon your word depends life and hope--madness
and misery; I say life and hope--for, if ye destroy the one, the other
winna hand lang oot; and I say madness--for, oh! if ye had been a
witness o' the wild and the melancholy days and nights that I hae
passed since I learned that ye had left me, and felt my heart burning
and beating, and my brain loup, louping for ever, like a living
substance, and shooting and stinging through my head, like stings o'
fire, till I neither kenned whar I was, nor what I did; but stood still,
or rushed out in agony, and screamed to the wind, or gripped at the echo
o' my voice!--I say, if ye had seen this, ye wadna think it strange that
I made use o' the words. And, now, as ye have heard nothing from----from
Henry Blackett, from the night that the ceremony o' marriage was
performed--and if ye should hear nothing o' him for seven years to come,
ye will then, ye ken, be at liberty--and will ye say that I may hope,
then? O Helen, woman! say but the word, and I'll wait the seven years,
as Jacob did for Rachel, and count them but a day if my Helen will bless
me wi' a smile o' hope!"

As he thus spoke, Mrs Holditch bustled into the room, exclaiming--"O
sweet lady, here be one coming thee knows--see! see! there be my
husband, and our own dear young master Henry, come to make us happy
again!"

"My Henry!" exclaimed Helen, springing towards the door--"where--oh,
where?".

"Here, my beloved! here!" replied Henry, meeting her on the threshold.

Poor Laird Howison stood dumb, his mouth open, his eyes extended,
staring on vacancy. He beheld the object of his delirious love sink into
her husband's arms, and saw no more. He clasped his hands together, and,
with a deep groan, reeled against the wall. Henry and Helen, in the
ecstasy of meeting each other, were unconscious of all around, and
Willie Galloway was the first to observe his countryman.

"Preserve us! you here, too, Mr Howison!" said he. But the features of
the laird remained rivetted in agony, and betrayed no symptom of
recognition. The mention of the laird's name by Willie, arrested the
attention of Henry, and approaching him, he said--"Sir, to you I ought
to offer an apology."

The unhappy man wildly grasped the hand of Henry, and seizing also
Helen's, he exclaimed--"It is a' owre now! The chain is forged, and the
iron is round my soul. But I bless you baith. Tak her! tak her!--and
hear me, Henry Blackett--as ye would escape wrath and judgment, be kind
to her as the westlin' winds and the morning dews to the leaves o'
spring. Let it be your part to clothe her countenance wi' smiles and her
bosom wi' joy! Fareweel, Helen!--look up!--let me, for the last time,
look upon your face, and I will carry that look upon my memory to the
grave!"

She gazed upon him wildly, crying--"Stay!--stay!--you must not leave
us!"

"Now!--now, it is past!" he cried; "it was a sair struggle, but reason
mastered it! Fareweel, Helen!--fareweel!"

Thus saying, he rushed out of the house, and Willie Galloway followed
him; but, although fleet of foot, he was compelled to give up the
pursuit.

A few minutes after the abrupt and wild departure of the laird, and
before Helen had recovered from the shock, the ruffians, who, at the
instigation of Norton, had hunted after Henry to deliver him up to the
government, and from whom he had already twice escaped, rushed into the
room, exclaiming--"Secure the traitor!"

Henry sprang back to defend himself, and Willie Galloway, who had
returned, threw himself into a pugilistic attitude. But Helen, stepping
between her husband and his pursuers, drew a paper from her bosom, and
placing it in his hands, said--"My Henry is free! he is pardoned!--the
king hath signed it!--laugh at the bloodhounds!" And, as she spoke, she
sank upon his breast. He opened the paper; it was his pardon under the
royal signature and the royal seal! "My own!--my wife!--my wife!" cried
Henry, pressing her to his heart, and weeping on her neck.

"That crowns a'!" exclaimed Willie Galloway; "O Helen!--what a lassie ye
are!"

The ruffians slunk from the room in confusion, and Willie informed them
that the sooner they were out of sight it would be the better for them.

Helen, on leaving Scotland, had proceeded to London, where, through the
interest of a friend of Laird Howison's, she gained access to the Duke
of Cumberland, and throwing herself at his feet, had, through him,
obtained her husband's pardon, and that pardon she had carried next her
bosom to his father's house, hoping to find him there.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having divided this tale into chapters, we now come to the




CONCLUSION.


Henry being now pardoned, Willie Galloway advised that he should take
his wife to his father's house, and remain there, adding--"Mind ye,
Maister Henry, that possession is nine points o' law--and if ye be in
want o' the matter o' five hundred pounds for present use, or for mair
to prove your birthright at law, I am the man that will advance it, and
that will leave no stone unturned till I see you righted."

Willie's suggestion was acted upon; and Henry and Helen took up their
abode in the Priory, where they had been but a few weeks, when he
obtained information that his father had fallen in a duel, and that his
adversary was none other than Squire Norton, the father of his then
wife; but with his dying breath he declared, in the presence of his
seconds, and invoked them to record it, that his injured son Henry was
his only and lawful heir.

"That," exclaimed Norton, with a savage laugh over his dying antagonist,
"it will cost him some trouble to prove!"

The murderer, in the name of a child which his daughter had borne to Sir
John, had the hardihood to enter legal proceedings to obtain the estate.

Henry applied to the parish of Glencleugh for the register of his
mother's marriage; but no such record was found. Old Dugald Mackay had a
dreamy recollection of such a marriage taking place; but he said--"It pe
very strange that it isna in te pook; hur canna swear to it."

Many thought that the day would be given against Henry, and pitied him;
but before judgment was pronounced in the case, young Norton was found
guilty of forgery, and condemned to undergo the just severity of the
law. Previous to his ignominious death, in the presence of witnesses, he
confessed the injury he had done to Henry by tearing the leaves from the
parish register, and directed where they might be found. They were
found--old Norton fled from the country, and Henry obtained undisputed
possession of the estate; but on his father's widow and child he settled
a competency.

Laird Howison's sorrow moderated as his years increased; and when Henry
and Helen had children, and when they had grown up to run about, he
requested that they should be sent to him every year, to pull the
primroses around Primrose Hall; and they were sent. One of them, a girl,
the image of her mother, he often wept over, and said, he hoped to live
to love her, as he had loved her mother. Willie Galloway often visited
his friends in Cheshire, and remained "canny Willie" to the end of the
chapter.




THE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH.[1]


It has been stated by the greatest critics the world ever saw--whose
names we would mention, if we did not wish to avoid interfering with the
simplicity of our humble annals--that no fictitious character ought to
be made at once virtuous and unfortunate; and the reason given for it is
that mankind, having a natural tendency to a belief of an adjustment,
even in this world, of the claims of virtue and the deserts of vice, are
displeased with a representation which at once overturns this belief,
and creates dissatisfaction with the ways of Providence. This may be
very good criticism, and we have no wish to find fault with it as
applied to works intended to produce a certain effect on the minds of
readers; but, so long as Nature and Providence work with machinery whose
secret springs are hid from our view, and evince--doubtless for wise
purposes--a disregard of the adjustment of rewards and punishments for
virtue and vice, we shall not want a higher authority than critics for
exhibiting things as they are, and portraying on the page of truth, wet
with unavailing tears, goodness that went to the grave, not only
unrewarded, but struck down with griefs that should have dried the heart
and grizzled the hairs of the wicked.

In a little haugh that runs parallel to the Tweed--at a part of its
course not far from Peebles, and through which there creeps, over a bed
of white pebbles, a little burn, whose voice is so small, except at
certain places where a larger stone raises its "sweet anger" to the
height of a tiny "buller," that the lowest note of the goldfinch drowns
it and charms it to silence--there stood, about the middle of the last
century, a cottage. Its white walls and dark roof, with some white roses
and honeysuckle flowering on its walls, bespoke the humble retreat of
contentment and comfort. The place went by the name of Bramblehaugh,
from the sides of the small burn being lined, for several miles, with
the bramble. The sloping collateral ground was covered with shrubs and
trees of various kinds, which harboured, in the summer months, a great
collection of birds--the blackbird, the starling, the mavis, and others
of the tuneful choir--whose notes rendered harmonious the secluded scene
where they sang unmolested. The spot is one of those which, scattered
sparingly over a wild country, woo the footsteps of lovers of nature,
and, by a few months of their simple charms, regenerate the health,
while they quicken and gratify the business-clouded fancies of the
denizens of smoky towns.

The cottage we have now described was occupied by David Mearns, and his
wife Elizabeth, called, by our national contraction, Betty. These
individuals earned a livelihood, and nothing more, by the mode in which
poor cotters in Scotland contrive to spin out an existence; the leading
feature of which, contentment, the result of necessity, is often falsely
denominated happiness by those whose positive pleasures, chequered by a
few misfortunes, are forgotten in the contemplation of a state of life
almost entirely negative. Difficulties that cannot be overcome deaden
the energies that have in vain been exerted to surmount them; and, when
all efforts to better our condition are relinquished, we acquire a
credit for contentedness, which is only a forced adaptation of limited
means to an unchangeable end. David Mearns, who had, in his younger
days, been ruined by a high farm, had learned from misfortune what he
would not have been very apt to have received from the much-applauded
philosophy which is said to generate a disposition to be pleased with
our lot. The bitterness of disappointment, and the wish to get beyond
the reach of obligations he could not discharge, suggested the remedy of
a reliance simply on his capability of earning a cotter's subsistence;
and having procured a cheap lease of the little domicile of
Bramblehaugh, he set himself down, with the partner of his hopes and
misfortunes, to eat, with that simulated contentment we have noticed,
the food of his hard labour, with the relish of health, and to extract
from the lot thus forced upon him as much happiness as it would yield.
The cottage and the small piece of ground attached to it, was the
property of an old man, who, having made a great deal of money by the
very means that had failed in the hands of David Mearns, had purchased
the property of Burnbank, lying on the side of the small rivulet already
mentioned, and, in consequence, it was said, of Betty Mearns bearing the
same name, (Cherrytrees,) though there was no relationship between them,
had let to David the small premises at a low rent.

A single child had blessed the marriage of David Mearns and his wife--a
daughter, called Euphemia, though generally, for the sake of brevity and
kindliness, called Effie; an interesting girl, who, at the period we
speak of, had arrived at the age of sixteen years. In a place where
there were few to raise the rude standard of beauty formed in the minds
of a limited country population, she was accounted "bonny"--a
much-abused word, no doubt, in Scotland, but yet having a very fair and
legitimate application to an interesting young creature, whose blue
eyes, however little real town beauty they may have expressed or
illuminated, gave out much tenderness and feeling, accompanied by that
inexpressible look of pure, unaffected modesty, which is the first, but
the most difficult gesture of the female manner attempted to be imitated
by those who are destitute of the feeling that produces it. An
expression of pensiveness--perhaps the fruit of the early misfortunes of
her parents operating on the tender mind of infancy, ever quick in
catching, with instinctive sympathy, the feeling that saddens or
enlivens the spirits of a mother--was seldom abroad from her
countenance, imparting to it a deep interest, and, by suggesting a wish
to relieve the cause of so early an indication of incipient melancholy,
creating an instant friendship, which subsequent intercourse did not
diminish.

Walter Cherrytrees, the Laird of Burnbank, a man approaching seventy
years of age, had a daughter, Lucy, about the same age as Effie Mearns.
He had lost his wife about fifteen years before; and--though a feeling
of anxiousness often found its way to his heart, suggesting to his
vacant mind, as the cure of his listlessness and the balm of his
bereavement, another wife--he had for a long time been nearly equally
poised between the hope of Lucy becoming his comfort in his old age, and
the wish for a tender partner of pleasures which, without participation,
lose their relish. His daughter, Lucy, was a sprightly, showy girl, who,
having got a good education, might, with the prospect she had of
inheriting her father's property, have been entitled to look for a
husband among the sons of the neighbouring proprietors, if her father's
secluded mode of life, and plain, blunt manners, had not to a great
extent limited her intercourse to a few acquaintances, by no means equal
to him in point of wealth or status, however estimable they might have
been in other respects. A more pleasant companion to the old Laird of
Burnbank could not be found, from the one end of Bramblehaugh to the
other, than David Mearns, his tenant, whose honesty and bluntness, set
off by a fertility of simple anecdote, had charms for one of the same
habits of thought and feeling, which all the disadvantages of his
poverty could not counterbalance. The intimacy of the fathers produced,
at a very early period, a friendship between the daughters, who,
notwithstanding, could not boast of the resemblance of thought and
manners, and community of feeling, which formed the foundation of the
attachment existing between the parents.

This friendship was not exclusive of some acquaintanceships with the
neighbouring young men and women, which, however, were in general
mutual; neither of the two young maidens having formed any intimacy with
another without, her friend participating in the friendship. Among
others, Lewis Campbell, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had been a
large creditor of David Mearns at the time of his failure, called
sometimes at the cottage of Bramblehaugh, and was soon smitten with a
strong love for Effie. They sometimes indulged in long walks by the side
of the river.

We may anticipate, when we say that the hours spent in these
excursions--in which the greatest beauties of external nature, and the
strongest and purest emotions of two loving hearts, acting in
co-operation and harmony, formed a present and a future such as poets
dream of, and the world never realizes, but in momentary glimpses--were
the happiest of these lovers. Effie's inseparable companion, Lucy,
frequently met them as they sauntered along by the house of Burnbank;
and the soft breathings of ardent affection were relieved by the gay and
innocent prattle of the companions, who enjoyed, though in different
degrees, the conversation and manners of the young lover. The simplicity
and single-heartedness of Effie were entirely exclusive of a single
thought unfavourable to an equal openness and frankness on the part of
her companion, whom she had informed, in her artless way, of the state
of her affections. But what might not have resulted from a mere
acquaintanceship between Lucy and Effie's lover, was called forth by the
pride of the former, whose spirit of emulation, excited by the good
fortune of her poor friend, suggested a secret wish to alienate the
affections of Lewis from her companion, and direct them to herself. The
wish to be beloved, though the mere effect of emulation, is the surest
of the artificial modes by which love itself is generated in the heart
of the wisher; and Lucy soon became, unknown for a time to Effie, as
much enamoured of young Lewis as was her unsuspecting friend.

The first intimation that Effie received of the state of Lucy's feelings
towards her lover, was from Lewis himself. Sitting at a part of the
haugh called the Cross Knowe, from the circumstance of an old Romish
cruciform stone that stood on the top of a gentle elevation--a place
much resorted to by the lovers--Lewis, unable to conceal a single
thought or feeling from one who so well deserved his confidence, first
told her of the perfidy of her friend.

"You are not so well supplied with sweethearts, Effie," he began, "as I
am; for I can boast of two besides you."

"That speaks little in your favour, Lewie," replied she; "for, if it was
my wish, I could hae a' the young men o' the haugh makin love to me frae
mornin to e'en."

"That remark, Effie," said Lewis, "implies that I have courted, or at
least received marks of affection, from others besides you, while I was
leading you to suppose that my heart was entirely yours. Now, that is
not justified by what I said; for one may have sweethearts, and neither
know nor acknowledge them as such."

"Maybe I am wrang, Lewie," said Effie; "but what was I to think but that
the twa ither sweethearts ye mentioned were acknowledged by ye? It's no
in the pooer o' my puir heart to conceive how a young woman could love
are that neither kenned nor acknowledged her love. But I speak frae my
ain simple, an' maybe worthless thoughts. The world's wide, an' haulds
black an' fair, weak an' strong, heigh and laigh; an' wharfore no also
hearts an' minds as different as their bodies? The birds o' this haugh
hae only their ain single luves; but they're a' coloured alike that
belang to ae kind. Would that it had been God's pleasure to mak mankind
like thae bonny birds!"

"I fear, Effie," replied Lewis, "that a statement of mine, intended to
be partly in jest, has been construed by you in such a manner as to
produce to you pain. God is my witness that I am as single-hearted in my
affection as the birds of this haugh; and gaudier colours, sweeter
notes, and better scented bowers will never interfere with the love I
bear to Effie Mearns."

"What meant ye, then, Lewie, by sayin ye had twa sweethearts besides
Effie Mearns?" said she.

"That you shall immediately know," replied Lewis "and you will think
more highly of me when I shew you, by my revealing secrets, not indeed
confided to me, but still secrets, that you have all my heart and the
thoughts that it contains. The first of my other lovers you will not be
jealous of, for she is old Lizzy Buchanan, or, as she calls herself,
Buwhanan, my nurse, who loves me as well as you do, Effie; but the
other, I fear, may create in you an unpleasant feeling of confidence
misplaced, and friendship repaid by something like treachery. Surely I
need say no more."

"Is it indeed sae, Lewie?" said she. "It's lang sin I whispered--and my
heart beat and my limbs trembled as I did it--in the ear o' Lucy
Cherrytrees, that my puir, silly thoughts were never aff Lewie Campbell.
And what think ye she said to me? She said I needna look far ayont
Bramblehaugh for a bonnier and a brawer lover."

"Then," replied Lewis, "I am not much better off than you are; for she
told me that your simplicity, she feared, was art, and that your poverty
made any beauty you had; and she doubted if that bonny face was not a
great snare for the ruin of a penniless lover."

"Sae, sae," said she, sighing deeply; "and has the fair face o' life's
friendship put on the looks o' the hypocrite at the very time when
greater confidence was required? I hae read in Laird Cherrytrees' books
he is sae kind as lend me, many an example o' fause and faithless
creatures, baith men and women, o' the world, o' the great cities that
lie far ayont oor humble sphere; but little did I think that here in
Bramblehaugh, where our bughts ken nae nicht-thieves, and our hen-roosts
nae reynards, there was ane, and that ane my friend, wha could smile in
my face at the very moment she was tryin to ruin me in the eyes o' ane
wha is dearest to me on earth."

As she thus poured forth her feelings with greater loquacity than she
generally exhibited--being for the most part quiet and gentle--the tears
flowed down her cheeks in great profusion, and she sobbed bitterly, in
spite of all the efforts of Lewis to satisfy her that Lucy's endeavours
to lessen her in his estimation were entirely fruitless.

"Apprehend nothing, dear Effie, from the discovered treachery of a false
friend," said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. "It has less power
with me than the whispers of that gentle burn have on the sleeping
echoes of the Eagle's Rock that only answers to the voice of the
tempest."

"It's no that, Lewie," replied she, wiping away her tears, "that gies me
pain. I hae nae fear o' faith and troth that has been pledged, and
better than pledged; for I hae seen it i' yer looks, and heard it i' the
soonds o' yer deep-drawn sighs. Thae tears are for a broken
friendship--for the return o' evil for guid--for the withered blossoms
o' a bonny flower I hae cherished and watered, in the hope it wad yield
me a sweet smell when I kissed its leaves i' the daffin o' youth or the
kindliness o' age. If it is sae sair to lose a friend, what, Lewie--what
wad it be to lose a lover?"

"The very existence of great evils, Effie," said he, "makes us happy,
in the thought that they are beyond our reach."

"But did I no think," said she, "that I was beyond the reach o' the pain
o' experiencing the fauseness o' Lucy Cherrytrees--the very creature o'
a' ithers, I hae chosen as my bosom friend--to whom I confided a' my
thochts and the very secret o' my love?"

"But it is an ill wind that blaws naebody guid, as they say, Effie,"
said Lewis. "I can better appreciate your goodness, now that I have
experienced the faithlessness of another."

"An' if I hae lost a friend," replied Effie, "I am the mair sure o' my
lover. Ye dinna ken, Lewie, how muckle this has raised you even in my
mind, whar ye hae aye occupied the highest place. Ye hae rejected the
offered luve o' the braw heiress o' Burnbank, for the humble dochter o'
David Mearns, wha earns his bread in the sweat o' his brow. Oh! what can
a puir, penniless cottager's dochter gie in return to the man wha, for
her sake, turns his back on a big ha', a thoosand braid acres, an' a
braw heiress?"

"Her simple, genuine, unsophisticated heart," replied Lewis, "with one
unchangeable, devoted affection beating in its core. Were Burnbank Hall
as big as the Parliament House, and Burnbank itself longer than the
lands watered by the Brambleburn, and Lucy Cherrytrees as fair as our
unfortunate Mary Stuart, I would not give my simple Effie, with no more
property of her own than the bandeau that binds her fair locks, for Lucy
Cherrytrees and all her lands."

The two lovers continued their evening walks, indulging in conversations
which, embracing the subject of their affection, and anticipating the
pleasures of their ultimate union, realized that fullest enjoyment of
hope which is said to transcend possession. No notice was taken of their
mutual sentiments on the subject of Lucy Cherrytrees' affection for
Lewis, and her unjustifiable attempts to displace her old friend, to
make room for herself in the heart of the contested object of their
wishes.

Matters continued in this state for some time, Effie being regularly
gratified by a visit from Lewis three times a-week. On one occasion a
whole week passed without any intelligence of her lover. Her inquiries
had produced no satisfactory explanation of the unusual occurrence; and
Fancy, under the spell of the genius of Fear, was busy in her vocation
of drawing dark pictures of coming evil. At last she was told by her
father, who had procured the intelligence from a friend of George
Campbell, the father, that young Lewis had been suspected of an
intention to marry the poor daughter of the cottager, David Mearns, and
had been despatched, without a minute's premonition, 'to an uncle, who
was a merchant in Rio de Janeiro. No time had been given to him to write
to Effie; and care had been taken to prevent him from sending her any
intelligence while he remained at Liverpool, previous to his departure.
The statement was corroborated by intelligence to the same effect,
procured by one of Laird Cherrytrees' servants from one of the servants
of George Campbell, who told it to Lucy, and who again told it to Effie,
with tears in her eyes, which she took every care to conceal. The effect
produced on the mind of Effie Mearns, by this unexpected misfortune, was
proportioned to its magnitude, and the susceptibility of the feelings of
the delicate individual on whom it operated. For many days she wept
incessantly, refusing the ordinary sustenance of a life which she now
deemed of no importance to herself or to any one else. All attempts at
comforting a bruised heart were--as they generally are in cases of
disappointed love--unavailing; and the effects of time seemed only
apparent in a quieter, though not in any degree less poignant sorrow.
Every object kept alive the remembrance of the youth who had first made
an impression on her heart, and whose image was graven on every spot of
the neighbourhood which had been consecrated by the exchange of a mutual
passion. The scenes of their wanderings, hallowed as they had been in
her memory, were now peopled with undefined terrors; and every time that
she was forced abroad to take that air and exercise which latterly
seemed indispensable to her existence, her sorrow received an accession
of power from every tree under which they had sat, and every knowe or
dell where they had listened to the musical loves of the birds, as they
exchanged their own in not less eloquent sighs.

The first circumstance that produced any effect on the mind of the
disconsolate maiden, was a misfortune of another kind, which, realizing
the old adage, seemed to follow with all due rapidity the footsteps of
its precursor. Her mother, who sat on one side of the fire, while Effie
occupied her usual seat in a corner of the cottage in the other, had
been using all the force of her rude but impressive eloquence to get her
daughter to adopt the means that were in her power for the amelioration
of a grief which might render her childless.

"I am gettin auld, Effie," she said, "an' you are the only are I can
look to for administerin to yer faither an' to me that comfort we hae a
richt to expect at the hands o' a dochter wha never yet was deficient in
her duty. Our poverty, which winna be made ony less severe, as ye may
weel ken, by the income o' years, will mak yer attention to us mair
necessary; an' it may even be--God meise the means!--that your weak
hands may yet be required to work for the support o' yer auld parents. I
hae lang intended to speak to you in this way, and it was only pity for
my puir heart-broken Effie that put me aff frae day to day, in the
expectation that either some news wad come frae Lewie, or that ye wad
get consolation frae anither and a higher source, to support ye for
trials ye may yet hae to bear up against, for the sake o' them that
brocht ye into the world. A' ither means hae been tried to get ye to
determine to live, an' no lay yersel doun to dee, an' they havin failed,
what can I do but try the last remedy in my pooer--to speak, as I hae
now dune, to yer guid sense, an' lay afore ye the duties o' a dutifu'
bairn, which are far aboon the thochts o' a disappointed love. Promise,
now, my bonny Effie, that ye will try to gie up yer mournin, for the
sake o' parents whase love for ye is nae less than Lewie Campbell's."

As Betty finished her impressive admonition to Effie, who acknowledged
its force, and inwardly determined on complying with the request of her
mother, an unusual noise at the door of the cottage startled her anxious
ear. It seemed that a number of people were approaching the cottage, and
the groans of one in deep distress and pain were mixed with the low talk
of the crowd, who, from those inexpressible indications which the ear
can catch and analyse ere the mind is conscious of the operation, seemed
already to sympathise with one to whom they were bearing a grief. Housed
by that anticipative fear of evil which all unfortunate people feel,
Betty ran to the door, followed by her daughter, and opened it--to let
in the mangled body of her husband; who, in felling an oak, on the
property of Burnbank, had fallen under the weight of the tree, and got
his leg broken, and one of his arms dislocated at the shoulder-joint. He
was conveyed, by the kind neighbours, to a bed; and, by the time they
got him undressed, for the purpose of his wounds being submitted to the
curative process of the doctor, that individual arrived, and proceeded
to perform the painful operation of setting the broken bones. The full
effect of this misfortune to Effie and her mother was for a time
suspended by the call made upon them to relieve the sufferings of the
father and husband; and it was not till the bustle ceased, and the
neighbours (excepting two women, whose services, in addition to those
of the wife and daughter, might still be required) went away, that they
felt the full force of the gigantic evil that had befallen them, the
consequences of which might extend through the remaining years of their
existence.

A period of no less than eighteen months passed away, and David Mearns
was still unable to do more than, with assistance, to rise from his bed,
and sit, during a part of the day, by the fire, or at the window. During
the whole of this time, he had been tended by his daughter with
assiduous care. Her filial sympathies, called into active operation by
the sorrows of her parent, filled up the void that had been made in her
heart by the departure of her lover; and a new source of grief effected
(however paradoxical it may seem) a change in the morbid melancholy to
which she had been enslaved, which, although not for mental health or
ease, was so much in favour of exertion and remedial exercise, that she
came to present the appearance of one inclined to endeavour to sustain
her sorrow, rather than resign herself to the fatal power of an
irremediable woe. Among the visitors who took an interest in a family
reduced by one stroke to want and all its attendant evils, Laird
Cherrytrees evinced the strongest concern for the fate of his friend;
and, by a timeous contribution of necessary assistance, ameliorated, in
so far as man could, the unhappy condition of virtue under the load of
misery. The many visits of the good old laird, and the long periods of
time he passed by the bedside of the patient, enabled him to see and
appreciate the devoted attention of Effie to her parent; and often, as
she flew at the slightest indication of a wish for something to assuage
pain, or remove the uneasiness produced by the long confinement, he
would stop the current of his narrative, and fix his eyes on the kind
maiden, so long as her tender office engaged her attention and feelings
These long looks, not unaccompanied at times with a deep sigh, were
attributed, as they well might, to admiration and approbation of so much
filial affection and devotedness exercised towards one whom the old
laird respected above all his friends.

The visits of Laird Cherrytrees were at first twice or thrice a-week.
His infirm body already begun to exhibit the effects of old age,
prevented him from walking; and such was the anxiety he felt for the
unhappy patient, that he mounted his old pony, Donald, nearly as frail
as his master, to enable him to administer consolation so much required.
He came always at the same hour; Effie, who expected him, was often at
the door ready to receive him; and, while she held old Donald's head
till he dismounted, welcomed her father's friend with so much sincerity
and pleasure, that if she had failed in her ostlership, he would have
felt a disappointment he would not have liked to express. Even when at a
distance from the cottage, he strained his eyes to endeavour to catch a
glimpse of the faithful attendant; and, if he did not see her, the rein
of Donald was relaxed, and he was allowed to saunter along at his own
pleasure, or even to eat grass by the roadside, (a luxury he delighted
in from his having once belonged to a cadger,) so as to give Effie time
to get to her post.

The three days of the week on which Laird Cherrytrees was in the habit
of visiting David Mearns, were Monday, Thursday, and Saturday; and he
seldom came without bringing something to the poor family--either some
money for old Betty; some preserves, prepared by Lucy, for the invalid;
or a book, or a flower from Burnbank garden, for Effie. When his
conversation with David was finished--and every day it seemed to get
shorter and shorter, though there seemed no lack of either subjects or
ideas--he commenced to talk with Effie, chiefly on the nature and
contents of the books he brought her to read; and nothing seemed to
delight him more than to sit in the large arm-chair by David's bedside,
and hear Effie discoursing, _ex cathedra_, (on a three-footed stool at
the foot of the bed, opposite to the Laird's chair,) with her
characteristic simplicity and good sense, on the subjects he himself had
suggested. But, notwithstanding all her efforts to appear well-pleased
in presence of the man who was supporting her family, her train of
thoughts was often broken in upon by the recollections of Lewis
Campbell, and she would sit for an hour at a time, with the eyes of the
Laird fixed on her melancholy face, as if he had been all that time in
mute cogitation, suggesting some remedy for her sorrow. His ideas and
feelings seemed to be operated upon by the same power that ruled the
mind of the maiden; for his face followed, in its changing expressions,
the mutations of her countenance. Her melancholy seemed to be
communicated by a glance of her watery eye, as the thought of Lewis
entered her mind; and when she recovered from her gloomy reverie, a
corresponding indication of relief lighted up the grey, twinkling orbs
of the old Laird. This custom of "glowrin," for whole hours at a time,
on the face of the sensitive girl, at first painful to her, became a
matter of indifference; and the position and attitudes of the three
individuals--Betty being generally engaged about the house--undergoing,
while the Laird was present, no change, came to assume something like
the natural properties of the parties, as if they had been fixtures, or
lay figures for the study of a painter.

Every time the Laird came to the cottage, he extended the period of his
stay, and, latterly, he did not stir till a servant from Burnbank, sent
by Lucy, came to take him home. It seemed as if he could not get enough
of "glowrin;" for, latterly, all his occupation, which at first
consisted of rational conversation, merged in that mute eloquence of the
eye, or rather in that inebriation of the orb, "drinking of light,"
which lovers of sights, especially female countenances, are so fond of.
The visits had been so regular, not a day being ever missed, that, as
Effie held the stirrup till he mounted Donald, during all which time the
process of "glowrin" went on as regularly as at the bedside of David,
she never thought of asking, and he never thought of stating, when he
would call again. Time had stamped the act of calling with the impress
of unchangeable custom. The caseless clock of David's cottage was not
more regular; the only change being that already observed--that the time
of the Laird's stay gradually and gradually lengthened.

The homage paid by Effie to Laird Cherrytrees was, as may easily be
conceived, the respect, attention, and kindness of an open-hearted girl,
filled with gratitude to the preserver of the lives of her and her
parents. Every evening she offered up, at her bedside, prayers for the
preservation and happiness of the man but for whose kindness starvation
might have overtaken the helpless invalid, and not much less helpless
wife and daughter. In their prayers the "amen" of David and his wife was
the most heart-felt expression of love and gratitude that ever came from
the lips of mortal. This feeling, however, did not prevent David Mearns
and Betty from sometimes indulging, in the absence of Effie (in all
likelihood giving freedom to her tears, as she sat in some favourite
retreat of her absent lover,) in some remarks on the extraordinary
conduct of Laird Cherrytrees. They soon saw through the secret, and
resolved upon drawing him out; for which purpose Effie was to be called
away on the occasion of the next visit.

The Laird came as he used to do, took his seat, and resumed his gazing.
Effie pleased him exceedingly, by an account she gave him of the last
book he brought to her; and, throwing himself back in the arm chair, he
seemed, for a time, wrapped in meditation. Effie obeyed, in the
meantime, her mother's request, to come for a few minutes to the green
to assist her in her work; and, when the Laird again applied his eyes
to their accustomed vocation, he was surprised, but not (for once)
displeased, at her disappearance. A great struggle now commenced between
some wish and a restraint. He looked round the cottage, and then turned
his eyes on David; acts which he repeated several times. Incipient
syllables of words half-formed died away in his struggling throat. He
moved restlessly in the large chair, and twirled his silver-headed cane
in his hand. He even rose, went to the door, looked out, came back
again, and took his seat without saying a word. Holding away his face
from David, he at last made out a few words, uttered with great
difficulty.

"She's a fine lassie, Effie," he said.

"A bonnier an' a better never was brocht up in Bramblehaugh, savin yer
ain Lucy," replied David.

"Hoo auld is she noo?" said the Laird, still holding away his face.

"She will be nineteen come the time," replied David.

"It's a pity she's sae young," rejoined the Laird, with a great
struggle, and making a noise with his cane, as if he had repented of his
words, and wished to drown them before they reached the ears of David.

"I dinna think sae, beggin yer Honour's pardon," replied David. "We need
her assistance, in this trial; an' I'm just thinkin o' some way she
micht use her hands--an she's willing aneugh, puir cratur--for our
assistance."

"Are ye no pleased wi' my assistance?" said the Laird, displeased at
something in David's reply.

"Yer Honour has saved our lives," replied David, feelingly, "an' it wad
only be because we are ashamed o yer guidness that we wad wish our
dochter to tak a part o' that burden aff ane wha is under nae obligation
to serve us."

"If I hae been yer friend, ye hae been mine," said the Laird. "I hae got
guid advices frae ye; an', even noo, I hae something to ask ye
concernin mysel, that nae ither man i' the haugh could sae weel answer."

"What is that, yer Honour?" said David.

"What do ye think, David Mearns, I should do," said the Laird, moving
about in the chair in evident perplexity, "if my dochter Lucy were to
tak a husband an' leave Burnbank? I carena aboot fa'in into the hands o'
Jenny Mucklewham, wha, for this some time past, has neither cleaned my
buckles nor brushed my coat as I wad wish. She says I'm mair fashious;
but that's a mere excuse."

"I hae seen aulder men marry again," said David, thinking he would
please the Laird, by giving him such an answer as he was clearly fishing
for.

"Aulder men, David, man!" replied the Laird, looking down at his person,
and adjusting his wig. "Did I ask ye onything aboot my age? I wanted
merely your advice, what I should do in certain circumstances, an' ye
gie me a comparison for an answer.--Do ye think I should marry?"

"If yer Honour has ony wish in that way, I think ye should," said David.

"I never yet did wrang in following your advice, David Mearns," said the
Laird. "--She's a fine lassie, Effie."

"Ou, ay," responded David, at a loss what more to say.

"Very fine," again said the Laird, turning his face partially from the
window, so as the tail of his eye reached David's face, and waiting for
something more.

David could, however, say nothing. The very circumstance of the Laird's
wishing him to say something pertinent to the purpose already so broadly
hinted at, prevented him from touching so delicate a subject; and,
notwithstanding of another application of the tail of the Laird's eye,
he was silent.

"Ye hae gien me ae advice, David," said the Laird, in despair of getting
anything more out of David without a question: "could ye no tell me
_wha_ I should marry, man?" And having achieved this announcement, he
rose and walked to the window.

"That's owre delicate a subject for me to gie an advice on, yer Honour,"
replied David. "The doo lays aside ninety-nine guid straes, an' taks the
hundredth, though a crooked ane, for its nest. Ye maun judge for
yersel."

"What say ye to yer ain Effie, then?" said the Laird, relieved at last
from a dreadful burden.

"If yer Honour likes the lassie, an' she'll tak yer Honour, I can hae
nae objections," replied David.

The Laird, who seemed twenty years younger after this declaration, took
David by the hand, and shook it till the pain of his dislocated arm
almost made him cry.

"Will ye speak to her aboot it. David!" said he, still holding his hand.
"The best farm o' Burnbank will be your reward. Plead for me, David, my
best friend. Tell Betty aboot it, and get her to use a mother's pooer.
If I can trust my een, Effie doesna dislike me. If a' gaes weel, ye may
hae Ravelrigg, or Braidacre, or Muirfield--onything that's in my pooer
to gie, David." And the old lover, exhausted by the struggle and
excitement he had suffered, sank back into the chair.

"I will do my best," replied David. And the old Laird sighed, and
absolutely groaned with pure, unmixed satisfaction.

At the end of this scene, Effie and her mother came in. The damsel took
her old seat on the three-footed stool at the foot of the bed; the eyes
of the Laird sought again her face, where he thought they had a better
right now to rest. No more was spoken; enough for a day had been said
and done; and, with a parting look to David, to keep him in remembrance
of his promise, and a purse of money slipped into the hand of Betty, as
a solvent of any obstacle that might exist in her mind, the lover went
to the door to receive Donald from the soft hands of Effie, who, as was
her custom, had gone out before him, to lead the old cadger to the door,
and hold the bridle till he with an effort got into the saddle. The only
difference Effie could observe in his departure this day, was a kind of
mock-gallant wave of the hand, as he, with more than usual spirit,
struck his spurless heels into Donald's sides, and tried to rise in the
saddle, in response to the hobble of the old Highlander.

The Laird had been scarcely out of the house, when David had a communing
with his wife, in absence of Effie, on the extraordinary intimation made
by the old lover. Betty was agreeable to the match; but the tear came
into her eye as she thought of the sacrifice poor Effie was to be called
upon to make. Neither of them could answer for the consent of Effie,
whose melancholy, though somewhat ameliorated, was little diminished,
and whose recollections of Lewis Campbell were as vivid as they were on
the day of his departure. When she returned from one of her solitary
rambles, which fed her passion and increased her grief, she was
delicately told of the intentions of Laird Cherrytrees. The announcement
of the extraordinary intelligence produced an effect which neither her
father nor mother could have anticipated. A quick operation of her mind
placed before her all the affectionate acts of attention she had for
years been in the habit of applying to the old friend of her father, and
the preserver of their lives. Gratitude, operating in one of the most
grateful hearts that ever beat in the bosom of mortal, had produced in
her an exuberant kindness, a devotedness of a species of affection due
by a child to its godfather, a playful freedom of the confidence of one
who relied on the disparity of years for a license from even the
suspicion of a possibility of any other relation existing between them.
That now came back upon her, loaded with self-reproach and shame, and
attributing to her misconstrued attentions the extraordinary passion
that had taken hold of the heart of the old Laird. She was totally
unable to make any reply to her parents. The image of Lewis Campbell,
never absent from her mind, assumed a new form, and swam in the tears
which flowed from her eyes. The natural contrast between age and youth,
love and gratitude, assumed its legitimate strength. The first feeling
of her mind was, that she would suffer the death that had for a time
been impending over her, and whose finger was already on her breaking
heart, rather than comply with the wishes of her father and mother. They
saw the struggle that was in her mind, and abstained from pressing what
they had suggested. They did not ask her even to give her sentiments;
but the silent tears that stole down her cheek and dropped in her lap
from her drooping head, required no spoken commentary to tell them the
extent of her grief, and the resolution at least of a heart that might
entirely break, as it appeared to be breaking, but never could forget.

There was little sleep for the eyes of Effie on the succeeding night.
Her sobs reached the ears of her parents, who, unable to yield her
consolation, were obliged to leave her to wrestle with her grief;
sending up a silent prayer to the Author of all good dispensations, that
He might assuage the sorrow of one who had already, with exemplary
patience, submitted to the rod of affliction. The sacredness of her
feelings was too well appreciated by her parents to admit of any offer
of counsel, where deep-seated affection, the work of mysterious
instinct, stood in solemn derision of the vulgar ideas of this world's
expediency. The struggle in her mind arose from the strength of her
love, and the power of her filial devotion. No part of the attendant
circumstances or probable consequences of her decision escaped her mind.
She knew that she never could be happy as the wife of any other
individual, even of suitable age, than Lewis Campbell. But this
concerned only herself; and she knew, and trembled as she thought, that
the result of her decision might be the destitution, the want, perhaps
the death of her parents; their all depended on the breath of the man
whom she, by the sign of her finger, might change from a friend to a
foe; and she might thereby become the destroyer of those who gave her
being.

The morning came, but brought neither sleep nor relief to the unhappy
maiden. Her parents seemed inclined not to advert to the subject that
day, but to let her struggle on with her own thoughts. The hour of the
Laird's visit approached, and he was already on the road for the home of
his beloved, whom his ardent fancy pictured standing smiling at the
door, ready as usual to receive him and lead him into the house.
Donald--who knew a reverie in his master bettor than he did himself, and
did not fail to take advantage of it--ambled on with diminished speed.
The Laird approached the cottage. No Effie was there. His bright visions
took flight, and were succeeded by a cold shiver, the precursor of a
gloomy train of ideas, which pictured a refusal and all its attendant
horrors. He drew up the head of Donald, and even invited him to partake
of the long grass which grew by the way-side. He counted the moments as
Donald devoured the food; and, from time to time, lifted his eyes to see
if Effie was yet at the cottage door. She was not, to be seen--and she
had not been absent before for many months. His mind was unprepared for
a refusal; the ground-swell of his previous excited fancy distracted him
amidst the dead stillness of despair. He looked again, and for the last
time that day. Effie was not yet there. He turned the head of the
delighted, and no doubt astonished Donald, and quietly sought again the
house of Burnbank.

The same procedure was gone through on the succeeding day. Laird
Cherrytrees again proceeded to the cottage of David Mearns; and, as he
sauntered along, he thought it impossible that Effie should again be
absent from her post. He was too good a man, and too conceited a lover,
as all old lovers are, to allow his mind to dwell on the probable
operation of necessity and the fear of injuring her father's patron, on
the mind of the daughter; and yet a lurking, rebellious idea suggested
that he would rather see Effie at the door, impelled by that cause, than
absent altogether. His hopes again beat high, and Donald was pricked on
to the goal of his wishes with an asperity he did not relish so well as
a reverie. The spot was attained. Effie was still absent. Donald was
again remitted to the long grass, and all the resources of a lover's
mind were called up, to enable him to face the evil that awaited him.
But all was in vain--he found it impossible to proceed.

"I am rejected," he muttered to himself, with a sigh; "a cottager's
dochter has refused the Laird o' Burnbank; but her cauldness an' cruelty
mak me like her the mair. Effie Mearns, Effie Mearns! hoo little do ye
ken what commotion ye hae produced in this puir, burstin heart! But,
though ye winna hae me, I winna desert yer faither. Hame, Donald, to
Burnbank." And, as he pulled up the bridle with his left hand, he wiped
away the tears that had collected in his eyes, and, casting many a look
back to the cottage, cantered slowly home.

These proceedings of the Laird had been noticed by Betty Mearns from the
window of the cottage, and she and David were at no loss to guess the
cause of them. They knew his timid, sensitive disposition, and truly
attributed his return to his not seeing Effie at the door waiting for
him as usual. Apprehensions now seized the good mother, that the Laird
might withdraw his attentions and assistance from the family, the result
of which would be nothing but misery and ruin; as David's fractured
limbs were yet far from being healed, and a long period must yet pass
before he could earn a penny to keep in their lives. These fears were
increased by a third and a fourth day having passed without a visit
from the Laird, who had, notwithstanding, been seen reconnoitering as
usual at a distance from the cottage. Effie herself saw how matters
stood, and learned, from the looks of her father and mother, sentiments
they seemed unwilling to declare. She was still much convulsed with the
struggle of the antagonist duties, wishes, emotions, and fears, that
rose in her mind; and the apprehensions of her parents, which she
considered well-founded, added to her sorrow an additional source of
anguish.

"This house," said David, at last overcome by his feelings, "has become
mair like an hospital that has lost its mortification than an honest
man's cottage. Effie sits greetin an' sabbin the hail day, an' you,
Betty, look forward to starvation, wi' the gruesome face o' despair. I
am unhappy mysel, besides being an invalid. What is this to end in? What
are we to do? How are we to live withoot meat, now that Burnbank, guid
man, has deserted us?"

"There has come naething frae Burnbank for five days," replied Betty;
"an' the siller I got frae the guid auld man, the last time he was here,
I payed awa i' the village for necessaries I had taen on afore we got
that help. Our girnel winna haud oot lang against three mous; an' if
Laird Cherrytrees bides awa muckle langer, I see naething for it but to
beg."

The tear started to the eye of David. He looked at Effie. She wept and
sobbed, and covered her face with her hands.

"Effie, woman," said David, "a' this micht hae been averted if ye had
just gane to the door, an' welcomed the auld Laird, as ye were wont.
He's a blate man, though a guid carl; an' he has, nae doot, thocht he
was unwelcome when yer auld practice o' waitin for him was gien up."

"I tauld her that, David," said Betty, "an' pressed her to gang to the
door, though it was only to gie the blate Laird a glimpse o' her, whilk
was a' he wanted to bring him in; but she only sabbed the mair. Unhappy
hour she first saw that callant, wha may now be dead or married for
ought she kens!--an yet for his sake maun a hail family dree the dule o'
this day's misery. Effie, woman, can ye no forget are wha hasna thocht
ye worth the trouble o tellin ye, by ae scrape o' his pen, whether he be
i' the land o' the livin!"

A sob was the only reply Effie could make to this appeal.

"I hae tauld Effie," said David, "what wad save us frae the ruin an'
starvation that stare us i' the face; but my mind's made up to suffer to
the end, though I should lie here wi' my broken banes, and dree the
pains o' hunger, rather than force my dochter to marry a man against her
ain choice. But, O Effie, woman, wad ye see yer puir faither, broken as
he is baith in mind and body, lie starvin here in his bed, wi' nae mair
pooer to earn a bite o' bread than the unspeaned bairn, and no mak a
sacrifice to save him?"

"Ay, faither," replied Effie, "I wad dee to save ye."

"But deein winna save either him or me," said Betty. "Naething will hae
that effect but yer agreein to be the leddy o' the braw hoose an' braid
acres o' Burnbank. Wae's me! what a difference between that condition,
wi' servants at yer nod, an' a' the comforts an' luxuries o' life at yer
command, an', abune a', the pooer o' makin happy yer auld faither and
mother, an' this awfu prospect o' dreein the very warst an' last o' a'
the evils o' life--want an' auld age--ill-matched pair! Effie, woman, my
bonny bairn, hae ye nae love in yer heart, but for Lewie Campbell? Wad
ye, for his sake, see a' this misfortune fa' on the heads o' yer
parents, whom, by the laws o' God an' man, ye are bound to honour,
serve, and obey?"

It was easier for Effie to say she would die to save her parents, than
that she would comply with the wish of her mother; but the feeling
appeal of her parent increased her agony, which induced another paroxysm
of hysterical sobs--the only answer she could yet make to her mother.

"Effie doesna care for either you or me, Betty," said David, "or she wad
hae little hesitation aboot marryin a guid, fresh, clean, rich, auld
man, to save her faither and mother frae poverty and starvation. I see
nae great sacrifice i' the matter. Her young heart mayna rejoice i' the
pleasures o' a daft love, but her guid sense will be gratified by a
feelin o' duty far aboon the vain, frawart freaks o' a silly, giddy,
youthfu passion. Let her refuse Laird Cherrytrees, an' when Lewie
Campbell comes hame, the owrecome bread o' the funeral o' her faither
may grace a waddin bought wi' the price o' his life."

"Dinna speak that way, faither," cried Effie, lifting up her hands; "I
canna stand that. You said ye wadna force me, an' ye _are_ forcin me.
Oh, my puir heart, wha or what will support ye when grief for my parents
turns me against ye? Faither, faither, when I am dead, Laird Cherrytrees
will be again yer friend. A little time will do't: will ye no wait?"

"Hunger waits only eight days, as the sayin is," replied he, "an ye'll
live mair than that time, I hope an' trow. I will be dead afore ye,
Effie, an' ye'll hae the consolation, as ye maybe drap a tear on the
mossy grey stane that covers the Mearnses i' the kirkyard o' our parish,
to think, if ye shouldna like to say, in case ye micht be heard--though
thinkin an' speakin's a' ane to God--that 'that stane was lifted ten
years suner than it micht hae been, because I liked Lewie Campbell
better than auld Laird Cherrytrees.'"

"An' it's no likely," said the mother, "that I wad be there to hear
Effie mak sae waefu a speech. If I binna lyin wi' the Mearns, I'll be
wi' the Cherrytrees o' Mossnook--nae relations o' the Burnbanks, though
maybe as guid a family. But, afore I'm mixed wi' the dust o' that auld
hoose, Effie--an' it mayna be lang--ye may join the twa Cherrytrees, an'
let the gravestanes o' the Mearns, as weel as the Mossnooks, lie yet a
score years langer withoot bein moved. It's a pity to disturb the lang
grass. Its sough i' the nichtwind keeps the bats frae pickin the auld
banes, an' maybe it may save yer mother's, if ye send her there afore
her time."

Effie's feelings could no longer withstand these appeals. Her sobbing
ceased suddenly; and, starting up from her seat, she looked to the old
clock that stood against the wall of the cottage. She noticed that it
was upon the hour of the Laird's usual visit.

"It is twelve o'clock, faither," she said, firmly--"this hoor decides
the fate o' Effie Mearns."

Walking to the door, she placed herself in the position she used to
occupy when she intended to welcome her father's friend. Now she was to
welcome a husband. Laird Cherrytrees was, as might have been expected,
allowing Donald to take his liberty of the road-side, grazing while he
was busy reconnoitering the cottage. The moment he saw the form of Effie
standing where he had for several long days wished to see her, he pulled
up Donald's bridle with the alacrity of youth, and, striking his sides
with his unarmed heels, made all the speed of a bridegroom to get to his
bride. The sight of the object he had gazed upon so unceasingly for so
long a time, and whom he had strained his eyes in vain to see during
these eventful days, operated like a charm on the old lover. He
discovered at first sight the red, swollen eyes of Effie; but he was too
happy in thinking he had been successful, as he had no doubt he had, to
meditate on the struggle which produced his bliss. Having taken a long
draught of the fountain of his hopes and happiness, and feasted his eyes
on the face of the maiden, who attempted to smile through her tears,
which he did sitting on his horse, and, without speaking a word--for,
loquacious in politics or rural economy, he was mute in love--he
dismounted, while Effie, as usual, held the reins. He lost no time in
getting into his chair, falling back into it like a breathless traveller
who has at last attained the end of his journey. David and Betty, who
construed Effie's conduct into a consent, took an early opportunity,
while she was still at the door, of letting the happy Laird know that
their daughter, as they conceived, was inclined to the match. The Laird
received the intelligence as if it had been too much for mortal to bear.
He was at first beyond the vulgar habit of speech. He sighed, turned his
eyes in their sockets, groaned, and wrung his hands. On recovering
himself, he exclaimed----

"Whar is she, Betty? Let me see the dear creature. David, ye'll hae
Ravelrigg; it's the best o' them a'. Whan is't to be, Betty? Ye maun fix
the day; an' ye maun brak the thing to Lucy, and to Jenny Mucklewham;
for I hae nae pooer. Let me see her--let me see the sweet creature this
instant."

Effie, at the request of her mother, came in and resumed her seat on the
three-footed stool. Her eyes were still swollen, and she looked
sorrowfully at her father. The Laird fixed his eyes on her; but his
loquacity was gone. He had not a word to say; but his "glowrin" was in
some degree changed, being accompanied by a soft smile of
self-complacency and contentment, and freed from the nervous
irritability with which he used to solicit with his eyes a look from the
object of his affections. His visit this day was shorter than it used to
be. Next day, Betty was to visit Burnbank, to arrange for the marriage.

Meanwhile, the unfortunate girl resigned herself as a self-sacrifice
into the hands of her mother. Bound with the silken bands of filial
affection, she renounced all desire of exercising her own free-will, or
indulging in those feelings of the female heart which are deemed so
strong as to demand the sacrifice often of all other earthly
considerations. The fate of Iphiginia has occupied the pens and tongues
of pitying mortals for thousands of years. A lovely woman sacrificed for
a fair wind, doomed to have the blood that mantled in the blushing
cheeks of beauty sprinkled on the altar of a false religion, is a
spectacle which the imagination cannot contemplate without a
participation of the strongest sympathies of the heart; yet there are,
in the common every-day world we now live in, many a scene in the act of
being performed, where, though there is no bloodshed and no smoking
altar exhibited, the sacrifice is not less than that of the Grecian
victim. Our blessed, holy altar of matrimony is often, by the wayward
feelings of man--for we here say nothing of vice or corrupt
conduct--made more cruel than those of Moloch and Chiun. There is many a
bloodless Iphiginia in those days, whose sufferings are unknown and
unsung, because confined to the heart that broke over them and concealed
them in death. The young, tender, and devoted female, who, for the love
she bears to her parents, consents to intermarry with rich age, to
embrace dry bones, to extend her sympathies to churlishness, caprice,
and ill-nature, or, what is worse, to the asthmatic giggle of a
superannuated love, while all the while her heart, cheated of its
tribute and swelling with indignation, requires to be watched by her
with vigilance and firmness, the cruelty of which she herself
feels--presents a form of self-sacrifice possessing claims on the pity
of mankind beyond those of the boasted self-immolation of ancient
devotees.

The silence and dejection of our bride were construed, by her parents,
into that seemly and becoming sedateness which sensible young women
think it proper to assume on the eve of so important a change in their
condition as marriage; while the happy bridegroom had come to that time
of life when he is pleased with submission, though it be expressed
through tears. No chemical menstruum has so much power in the
dissolution of the hardest metals as the self-complacency of an old
lover has in construing, according to his wishes, the actions, words, or
looks of the young woman who is destined to be his bride. Silence and
tears are expressive of happiness as well as of grief; and, so long as
the desire of the ancient philosopher is uncomplied with by the gods,
and there is no window to the heart, that organ in the young victim may
break while the sexagenarian bridegroom is enjoying the imputed silent,
restrained happiness of the object of his ill-timed affection.

The sadness and melancholy of the apparently-resigned Effie Mearns had
no effect on the noise and show of the preparations for her marriage
with her old lover. The marriages of old men are well known to be
celebrated with higher bugle notes from the trumpet of fame than any
others. A sumptuous dinner was to be given to the neighbouring lairds,
and the cotters were to be fed and regaled on the green opposite to the
mansion. Dancing and music were to add their charms to the gay scene;
and it was even alleged that the light of a bonfire would lend its
peculiar aid, in raising the joy of the guests, predisposed to hilarity
by plenteous potations, to the proper height suited to the conquest of
the old bridegroom over, at once, a young woman and old Time.

For days previous to the eventful one, Effie Mearns was not heard to
open her lips. She looked on all the gay preparations for her marriage
as if they had been the mournful acts of the undertaker employed in
laying the silver trimming on the coffin lid of a lover. The bedside of
her sick parent, who was still unable to rise, was the place where she
sat "shrouded in silence." She heard the conversations of her father and
mother about the progress of the preparations, without exhibiting so
much interest as to show that she understood them. Misgivings crossed
the minds of the old couple, and brought tears to their eyes, as they
contemplated the animated corpse that sat there, waiting the nod of the
master of ceremonies, and ready to perform the part assigned to it in
the forthcoming orgies of mournful joy; but they had gone too far to
recede, and it was even a subject of satisfaction to them that the
period of the celebration was so near, for otherwise they might have had
reason to fear that their daughter would not have survived the
intermediate time. When the bridegroom called, his ears were alarmed by
the voices of the parents, who saw the necessity of endeavouring to hide
the condition of their daughter; and he was satisfied, if he got, free
and unrestrained, "a feast of the eyes." His love was still expressed by
silent gazing; for it was too deep in his old heart for either words or
tears; if, indeed, there was moisture enough in the seat of his
affection for the suppliance of the _softest_ expression of the soft
passion.

The eventful day arrived. The marriage was to take place in the cottage,
where David Mearns still lay confined to bed. The sick man wore a
marriage favour attached to the breast of his shirt!--for Laird
Cherrytrees would be contented with no less a demonstration of his
participation in his unparalleled happiness. The still silent bride
_submitted_ passively to all the acts of her nimble dressers, whose
laugh seemed to strike her ears like funeral bells; yet she tried--poor
victim! to smile, though the clouded beam came through a tear which, by
its steadfastness, seemed to belong to the orb. The bridegroom came at
the very instant when he ought to have come--the hand of the clock not
having had time to leave the mark of notation. He was dressed in the
style of his earliest days, with cocked hat, laced coat, and a sky-blue
vest, embroidered in the richest manner; while a new wig, ordered from
the metropolis, imparted to him the freshness of youth. His cheek was
flushed with the blood which joy had forced, for a moment, from where it
was more needed, at the drying fountain of life; and his eye spoke a
happiness which his parched tongue could not have achieved, without
causing shame even to himself. Everything was new, spruce, perking,
self-complacent. The clergyman next came, and all was prepared.

Throughout all this time and all these preparations, not the slightest
change had been observed on the bride. After she was dressed, she took
her seat again, silently by the side of her father's sickbed, where she
sat like a statue. The ceremony was now to commence, and she stood up,
when required by the clergyman, as if she obeyed the command of an
executioner. It was noticed that she seemed to incline to be as near as
possible to her father's bed; and her unwillingness or inability to come
forward forced the clergyman and the bridegroom some paces from the
situation they at first held. The ceremony proceeded till it came to the
part where the consent of the parties is asked. The happy bridegroom
pronounced his response, quick, sharp, and with an air of conceit, which
brought a smile to the faces of the parties present. There was now a
pause for the consent of the bride. All eyes were fixed on her
death-like face. A severe struggle was going on in her bosom; yet her
countenance was unmoved, and no one conjectured that she suffered more
than sensitive females often do in her situation. The clergyman repeated
his question. There was still a pause--the eyes of all were riveted on
her. "I _canna_, I _canna_!" at last she exclaimed, in a voice of agony,
and fell back on the bed--a corpse!

Six months after the death of Effie Mearns, Lucy Cherrytrees was
married, without faint or swoon, to Lewis Campbell, who returned home,
in spite of his reported death. The union was against the consent of the
Laird, who soon died of either a broken heart or old age--no doctor
could have told which.

[Footnote 1: This story will suggest the remembrance of a popular ballad, but the
similarity is casual; for the circumstances are here true, if they may
not be found of every-day occurrence somewhere about the temple of
Mammon.--ED.]




GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.




XIV.--JAMES RENWICK.


In the times in which we live, party spirit is carried very far. Many
honest tradesmen, merchants, and shopkeepers, are ruined by their votes
at elections. The ordinary intercourse of social life is obstructed and
deranged. Friends go up to the polling station with friends, but
separate there, and become, it may be, the most inveterate enemies.
This, our later reformation of 1832, has cost us much; but our
sufferings are nothing to those which marked the two previous
reformations from Popery and Prelacy. In the one instance, fire and
faggot were the ordinary means adopted for defending political
arrangements; in the other, the gallows and the maiden did the same
work, and the boots and the thumbikins acted as ministering engines of
torture. The whole of society was convulsed; men's blood boiled in their
veins at the revolting sights which were almost daily obtruding upon
their attention; and their judgments being greatly influenced by their
feelings, it is not to be wondered at that they should, in a few
instances, have overshot, as it were, the mark--have sacrificed their
lives to the support of opinions which appear now not materially
different from those which their enemies pressed upon their acceptance.
It is a sad mistake to suppose that the friends of Presbytery, during
the fearful twenty-eight years' persecution of Charles and James, died
in the support of certain doctrines and forms of church government
merely. With these were, unhappily, or rather, as things have turned
out, fortunately, combined, political or civil liberty, the
establishment and support of a supreme power, vested in King, Lords,
and Commons--instead of being vested, by usurpation, merely in the King
alone. By avoiding to call Parliaments, and by obtaining supplies of
money from France and otherwise, the two last of the Stuart Despots had,
in fact, broken the compact of Government, and had exposed themselves
all along, through the twenty-eight years of persecution, to
dethronement for high treason. This was the strong view taken by those
who fought and who fell at Bothwell Bridge, and this was the view taken
by nine-tenths of the inhabitants of Scotland--of the descendants and
admirers of Bruce and Wallace--of Knox and Carstairs. James Renwick, the
last of the martyrs in the cause of religion and liberty, was executed
in Edinburgh in his twenty-sixth year. He was a young man of liberal
education, conducted both at the college of Edinburgh, and Groningen,
abroad--of the most amiable disposition, and the most unblemished moral
character--yet, simply because he avowed, and supported, and publicly
preached doctrines on which, in twelve months after his execution, the
British Government was based, he was adjudged to the death, and
ignominiously executed in the presence of his poor mother and other
relatives, as well as of the Edinburgh public. Mr Woodrow, in his
history of this man's life, alludes to some papers which he had seen,
containing notices of Mr Renwick's trials and hair-breadth escapes;
prior to his capture and execution--which, however, he refrains from
giving to the public. It so happens that, from my acquaintance with a
lineal descendent of the last of the Martyrs, I have it in my power, in
some measure, to supply the deficiency; his own note, or
memorandum-book, being still in existence, though it never has been, nor
ever will, probably, be published.

It was in the month of January 1688, that Mr Renwick was preaching,
after nightfall, to a few followers, at Braid Craigs, in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh. The night was stormy--a cold east wind, with
occasional blasts of snow--whilst the moon, in her second quarter,
looked out, at intervals, on plaids and bonnets nestled to the leeward
of rocks and furze. It was a piteous sight to view rational and immortal
creatures reduced to a state upon the level with the hares and the
foxes. Renwick discoursed to them from the point of a rock which
protruded over the lee side of the Craigieknowe. His manner was solemn
and impressive. He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age;
and his mother, Elspeth Carson, sat immediately before him--an old woman
of threescore and upwards--in her tartan plaid and velvet hood. Her son
had been born to a larger promise, and had enjoyed an excellent academic
education; and much it had originally grieved the old woman's heart to
find all her hopes of seeing him minister of her native parish of
Glencairn, blasted; but his conscience would not allow him to conform;
and she had followed him in his wanderings and field-preachings, through
Ayrshire, Renfrewshire, and all along by the Pentland Hills, to
Edinburgh, where a sister of hers was married, and lived in a
respectable way on the Castle Hill. This evening, after psalm-singing
and prayer, Mr. Renwick had chosen for his text these words, in the
fourth verse of the eighteenth chapter of the book of Revelation--"Come
out of her, my people." The kindly phrase, "my people," was beautifully
insisted upon.

"There ye are," said Renwick, stretching out his hand to the darkening
sleet; "there ye are, a poor, shivering, fainting, despised, persecuted
remnant, whom the great ones despise, and the men of might, and of war,
and of blood, cut down with their swords, and rack with their tortures.
Ye are, like ye'r great Master, despised and rejected of men; but the
Master whom ye serve, and whom angels serve with veiled faces, and even
He who created and supports the sun, the moon, and the stars,
He--blessed be His name!--is not ashamed to acknowledge ye, under all
your humiliation, as _His_ people. 'Come out of her,' says He, '_my
people_.' O, sirs, this is a sweet and a loving invitation. Ye are '_His
people_,' the sheep of His pasture, after all; and who would have
thought it, that heard ye, but yesterday, denounced at the cross of
Edinburgh as traitors, and rebels, and non-conformists, as the
offscourings of the earth, the filth and the abomination in the eyes and
in the nostrils of the great and the mighty? 'Come out!' says the text,
and out ye have come--'done ere ye bade, guid Lord!' Ye may truly and
reverentially say--Here we are, guid Lord; we have come out from the
West Port, and from the Grassmarket, and from the Nether Bow, and from
the Canongate--out we have come, because we are thy people. We know thy
voice, and thy servants' voice, and a stranger and a hireling, with his
stipend and his worldly rewards, will we not follow; but we will listen
to him whose reward is with him; whose stipend is Thy divine
approbation; whose manse is the wilderness; and whose glebe land is the
barren rock and the shelterless knowe. Come out of _her_. There _she_
sits," (pointing towards Edinburgh, now visible in the scattered rays of
the moon,) "there she sits, like a lady, in her delicacies, and her
drawing-rooms, and her ball-rooms, and her closetings, and her
abominations. Ye can almost hear the hum of her many voices on the wings
of the tempest. There she sits in her easy chair, stretching her feet
downwards, from west to east, from castle to palace! But she has lost
her first love, and has deserted her covenanted husband. She hath gone
astray--she hath gone astray!--and He who made her hath denounced
her--He whose she was in the day of her betrothment, hath said--She is
no longer mine; 'come out of her, my people'--be not misled by her
witcheries, and her dalliance, and her smiles--be not terrified by her
threats, and cruelties, and her murderings--she is drunk, she is
drunk--and with the most dangerous and intoxicating beverage, too--she
is drunk with the blood of the saints. When shipwrecked and famishing
sailors kill each other, and drink the blood, it is written that they
immediately become mad, and, uttering all manner of blasphemies, expire!
Thus it is with the 'Lady of the rock'--she is now in her terrible
blasphemies, and will, by and by, expire in her frenzy. And who sits
upon her throne?--even the bloody Papist, who misrules these unhappy
lands--he, the usurper of a throne from which by law he is
debarred--even the cruel and Papistical _Duke_, whom men, in their folly
or in their fears, denominate 'KING'--he, too, is doomed--the decree
hath gone forth, and he will perish with her, because he would not _come
out_."

"Will he, indeed, Mr Bletherwell? But there are some here who must
perish first." So said the wily and infuriated Claverhouse, as he poured
in his men by a signal from the adjoining glen, (where the lonely
hermitage now stands in its silent beauty,) and in an instant had made
Renwick, and about ten of his followers--the old woman, his mother,
included--prisoners. This was done in an instant, for the arrangements
had been made prior to the hour of meeting, and Claverhouse, attired in
plaid and bonnet, had actually sat during the whole discourse, listening
to the speaker till once he should utter something treasonable, when, by
rising on a rock, and shaking the corners of his plaid, he brought the
troop up from their hiding-places, amidst the whins and the broom by
which the glen was at that time covered. Renwick, seeing all resistance
useless, and indeed forbidding his followers, who were not unprovided
for the occasion, to fire upon the military, marched onwards, in
silence, towards Edinburgh. As they passed along by the land now
denominated "Canaan," they halted at a small public-house kept by a
woman well known at the time by the nickname of "Red-herrings," on
account of her making frequent use of these viands to stimulate a desire
for her strong drink. Over her door-way, indeed, a red-herring and a
foaming tankard were rudely sketched on a sign-board, (like cause and
effect, or mere sequence!) in loving unity. The prisoners were
accommodated with standing-room in Tibby's kitchen; while the soldiers,
with their leader, occupied the ben-room and the only doorway--thus
securing their prisoners from all possibility of escape. Refreshments,
such as Tibby could muster, consisting principally of brandy and ale,
mixed up in about equal proportions of each, were distributed amongst
the soldiers--who were, in fact, from their long exposure in the open
air, in need of some such stimulants; whilst the poor prisoners were
only watched, and made a subject of great merriment by the soldiers. The
halt, however, was very temporary; but, temporary as it was, it enabled
several of the members of the field-meeting to reach Edinburgh, and to
apprise their friends, and what is termed the mob of the streets, of the
doings at "Braid Craigs." Onwards advanced the party--soldiers before
and behind, and their captives in the middle--till they reached the West
Port, at the foot of the Grassmarket. It was near about ten o'clock, and
the streets were in a buz with idle 'prentices, bakers' boys,
shoemakers' lads, &c. The march along the Grassmarket seemed to alarm
Clavers, for he halted his men, made them examine their firelocks,
spread themselves all around the prisoners, and, advancing himself in
front, and on his famous black horse, with drawn sword and holster
pistols, seemed to set all opposition at defiance. The party had already
gained the middle of that narrow and winding pass, the West Bow, when a
waggon, heavily loaded with stones, was hurled downwards upon the party,
with irresistible force and rapidity--Clavers's horse shied, and escaped
the moving destruction; but it came full force into the very midst of
the soldiers, who, from a natural instinct, turned off into open doors
and side closes; in this they were imitated by the poor prisoners, who
were better acquainted with the localities of the West Bow than the
soldiery. In an instant afterwards, a dense and armed mob rushed
headlong down the street, carrying all before them, and shouting aloud,
"Renwick for ever! Renwick for ever!" This was taken as a hint by the
prisoners, who, in an instant, had mixed with the mob; or sunk, as it
were, through the earth, into dark passages and cellars. "Fire!" was
Claverhouse's immediate order, so soon as the human torrent had reached
him; and _fire_ some of the soldiers did, but not to the injury of any
of the prisoners, but to that of a person--a bride, as it turned
out--who, in her curiosity or fear, had looked from a window above; she
was shot through the head, and died instantly. But, in the meantime, the
rescue was complete--Claverhouse, afraid manifestly of being shot from a
window, galloped up the brae, and made the best of his way to the
Castle, there to demand fresh troops to quell what he called an
insurrection: whilst, in the meantime, the men, after a very temporary
search or pursuit, marched onwards, with their muskets presented to the
open windows, in case any head should protrude. But no heads were to be
seen; and the soldiers escaped to the guard-house (to the Heart of
Midlothian) in safety. Here, however, a scene ensued of a most
heart-rending nature. Scarcely had the men grounded their muskets in the
guard-house, when a seeming maniac rushed upon them with an open knife,
and cut right and left like a fury. He was immediately secured, but not
till after many of the soldiers were bleeding profusely. They thrust him
immediately, bound hand and foot, into the black-hole, to await the
decision of next morning; but next morning death had decided his
fate--he had manifestly died of apoplexy, brought on by extreme
excitement. His mother, who had followed her son when he issued forth
deprived seemingly of reason, having lost sight of him in the darkness,
had learned next morning of his fate and situation. She came,
therefore, with the return of light, to the prison door, and had been
waiting hours before it was opened. At last Clavers arrived, and ordered
the maniac to be brought into his presence, and that of the Court, for
examination. But it was all over; and the distorted limbs and features
of a young and handsome man were all the mark by which a fond mother
could certify the identity of an only son. From this poor woman's
examination, it turned out that her son was to have been married on that
very day to a young woman whom he had long loved; but that he had been
called to see her corpse, after she was shot by the soldiery, and had
rushed out in the frantic and armed manner already described. The poor
woman, from that hour, became melancholy; refused to take food; and,
always calling upon the names of her "bonny murdered bairns," was found
dead one morning in her bed.

In the meantime, James Renwick had made the best of his way down the
Cowgate, and across, by a narrow wynd, into the Canongate, where a
friend of his kept a small public-house. He had gone to bed; but his
wife was still at the bar, and two men sat drinking in a small side
apartment. He asked immediately for her husband, and was recognised, but
with a wink and a look which but too plainly spoke her suspicion of the
persons who were witnesses of his entrance. Hereupon he called for some
refreshment, as if he had been a perfect stranger, and, seating himself
at a small table, began to read in a little note-book which he took from
his side pocket--"four, five, six, seven--yes, seven," said he--"and it
has cost me seven pounds my journey to Edinburgh." This he said so
audibly as to be heard by the persons who were sitting in the adjoining
box, that they might regard him as a stranger, and unconnected with
Edinburgh. But, as he afterwards expressed it, he deeply repented of the
attempt to mislead. The Lord, he said, had justly punished him for
distrusting his power to extricate him, as he had already done, from his
troubles. The men, after one had accosted him in a friendly tone about
the weather, or some indifferent subject, took their departure; and Mrs
Chalmers and he, now joined by the husband, enjoyed one hour's canny
crack ere bedtime, over some warm repast. The whole truth was made known
to them; but, though perfectly trustworthy themselves, they expressed a
doubt of their customers, who were known to be little better than hired
informers, who went about to public-houses, at the expense of the
Government, listening and prying if they could find any evidence against
the poor Covenanters. Next day, even before daylight, the house was
surrounded by armed men, and Renwick was demanded by name. Mr Chalmers
did not deny that he was in the house, but said that he came to him as
to a distant relation, and that he was no way connected with his
doctrines or opinions. In the meantime, Renwick was aroused, and had
resolved to sell his life as dearly as possible. He was a young and an
active man, and trusted, as he owned with great regret afterwards, to
his strength and activity, rather than to the mercy and the wisdom of
his Maker. So, rushing suddenly down stairs, and throwing himself,
whilst discharging a pistol, (which, however, did no harm), into the
street, he was out of sight in a twinkling; but, in passing along, his
hat fell off; and this circumstance drew the attention and suspicion of
every one whom he passed, to his appearance. One foot, in particular,
pressed hard upon him from behind, and a voice kept constantly crying,
"Stop thief!--stop thief!" He ran down a blind alley, on the other side
of the Canongate, and was at last taken, without resistance, by three
men, one of whom--and it was the one who had all along pursued him--was
the person who had accosted him last night in the public-house,
respecting the weather. He was immediately carried to prison, where he
remained--visited indeed by his mother--till next assizes, when he was
tried, condemned, and afterwards executed--the Last of the Martyrs!

The conversation which he had with his mother, his public confessions of
faith, and adherence to the covenanted cause, as well as his last
address, drowned at the time in the sound of drums--all these are given
at full length in Woodrow, (the edition of Dr Burns of Paisley), to
which I must refer the reader who is curious upon such subjects. In this
valuable work will likewise be found the inscription placed upon a very
handsome cippus, or monument of stone, erected to his memory. We give it
to the reader. There is another, if we mistake not, in the Greyfriars of
Edinburgh, somewhat in the same style. They are both equally simple and
touching.

                 In memory of the late
                REVEREND JAMES RENWICK,
    the last who suffered to the death for attachment to the
               Covenanted Cause of Christ
                      in Scotland.
        Born near this spot, 15th February, 1662,
                  and executed at the
                 Grassmarket, Edinburgh,
                          1688.
     "The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance."
                     Ps. cxli. and 6.
             Erected by subscription, 1828.

The late James Hastings, Esq. gave a donation of the ground. The
subscriptions, amounting to about L100, were collected at large from
Christians of all denominations; and the gentleman who took the most
active part in suggesting and carrying through the undertaking, was the
Rev. Gavin Mowat, minister of the Reformed Presbyterian Congregation at
Whithorn, and formerly at Scar-brig, in Penpont, Dumfries-shire. The
monument is placed upon the farm of Knees, at no great distance from the
farm-house where the martyr was born. It stands upon an eminence, from
which it may be seen at the distance of several miles down the glen, in
which the village of Monyaive is situated. It was visited last summer by
the author of this narrative; when the resolution, which has now been
very imperfectly fulfilled, was taken.




XV.--OLD ISBEL KIRK.


Isbel Kirk lived in Pothouse, Closeburn, in that very house where that
distinguished scholar, the late Professor Hunter of St Andrew's, was
born. She had never been married, and lived in a small lonely cottage,
with no companions but her cat and cricket, which chirped occasionally
from beneath the hudstone, against which her peat-fire was built. There
sat old, and now nearly blind, Isbel Kirk, spinning or carding wool,
crooning occasionally an old Scotch song, or, it might be, one of
David's psalms, and enjoying at intervals her pipe, a visit from her
next neighbour, Nancy Nivison, or her champit-potatoes--a luxury which
the west country, and that alone, has hitherto enjoyed. Two old Irish
women had settled some time before this on the skirts of the opposite
brae, where they had built a small turf cabin, and lived nobody could
well tell how. They were generally understood to make a kind of
precarious living, by going about the country periodically, giving
_pigs_ or crockery-ware in exchange for wool. Isbel Kirk was a most
simple, honest creature, living on little, but procuring that little by
her industry in spinning sale yarn, weaving garters, and using her
needle occasionally, to assist the guidwife of Gilchristland in
shirt-making for a large family. But the M'Dermots were the aversion of
everybody, and seldom visited even by the guidman of Barmoor, on whose
farm, or rather on the debatable skirts of it, they had sat down, almost
in spite of his teeth. He was a humane man; and, though he loved not
such visitors, yet he tolerated the nuisance, as his wife reckoned them
skilled in curing children's diseases, and in spaeing the young women's
fortunes. John Watson pastured sheep, where corn harvests now wave in
abundance; and his flocks spread about to the doors of the M'Dermots and
Isbel Kirk. These flocks gradually decreased, and much suspicion was
attached to his Irish and heathenish neighbours, for they attended no
place of worship, not even the conformed Curate's; but there was no
proof against them. At last, a search was suddenly and secretly
instituted under the authority of the Laird of Closeburn; and, although
much wool was found, still there were no entire fleeces, nor any means
left of bringing it home to the M'Dermots.

"Na, na, guidman," said the elder of the two harridans. "Na--ye needna
stir aboot the kail-pot in that way--ye'll find naething there but a
fine bit o' the dead braxy I gat frae the guidman o' Gilchristland, for
helping the mistress wi' her kirn, that wadna mak butter; but there are
folks that ye dinna suspect, and that are maybe no that far off either,
wha could very weel tell ye gin they liked whar yer braw gimmer yows
gang till."

Being pushed to be more particular, they were seemingly compelled at
last to intimate that auld Isbel Kirk, she and her friend, Nanny
Nivison, could give an account of the stolen sheep, if they liked. The
guidman would not credit such allegations; but the old women persisted
in their averment, and even offered to give the guidman of Barmoor
occular demonstration of the guilt of the twa _saunts_, as they called
them. A few days passed, and still a lamb or an old sheep would
disappear--they melted away gradually, and the guidman began to think
that his flocks must be bewitched, and that the devil himself must keep
a kitchen somewhere about the Chaise Craig, over which Archy Tait had
often seen the _old gentleman_ driving six-in-hand about twelve o'clock
at night. Returning, therefore, one morning to the M'Dermots, and
renewing the conversation respecting Isbel Kirk and Nanny Nivison, it
was agreed that one of the Irish sisterhood should walk over to Isbel's
with him next forenoo

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