Chapter III (1)

“I don’t know, Mr Francis, if you remember a bonny orphan lassie, called Helen Ormiston, whom my wife took some years back into the family to assist her in the care of the bairns. Helen was come of no ungentle kin; but poverty had sat down heavily on her father and mother, and sunk them into an early grave; and it was a godsend to poor Helen to get service in a house where poverty would be held no reproach to her. If ye ever saw the creature, ye wadna easily forget her. Many bonnier, blither lassies are to be seen daily; but such a look of settled serenity and downcast modesty ye might go far to find. It quite won my wife’s heart and mine, and more hearts than ours, as I shall tell you presently. As for the bairns, they just doated on Helen, and she on them; and my poor youngest, that is now with God, during all her long, long decline, was little if ever off her knee. No wonder, then, that Helen grew pale and thin, ate little, and slept less. I first set it down to anxiety, and, when the innocent bairn was released, to grief; and from these, no doubt, it partly arose. But when all was over, and when weeks had passed away, when even my poor wife dried her mother’s tears, and I could say, ‘God’s will be done,’ still Helen grew paler and thinner, and refused to be comforted; so I saw there was more in it than appeared, and I bade her open her heart to me; and open it she did, with a flood of tears that would have melted a stone.

“‘Sir,’ said she, ‘I maun go away. I think it will kill me to leave you and Mrs Monteith, and the dear bairns in the nursery, and wee Jeanie’s grave in the kirkyard; but stay I canna, and I will tell you why. It is months, ay, amaist years, since Willie Meldrum, auld Blinkbonnie’s son, fell in fancy wi’ me, and a sair sair heart, I may say, I have had ever sin syne. His auld hard father, they tell me, swears (wi’ sic oaths as wad gar ye grue to hear them) that he will cut him off wi’ a shilling if ever he thinks o’ me; and oh! it wad be a puir return for the lad’s kindness to do him sic an ill turn! so I maun awa out of the country till the auld man dies, or Willie taks a wife to his mind, for I’ve seen ower muckle o’ poverty, Mr Monteith, to be the cause o’t to ony man, though I whiles think it wad be naething to me, that’s sae weel used till’t mysel.’

“‘Helen,’ said I, ‘when did Willie Meldrum find opportunities to gain your heart? I never saw him in the house in my life.’

“‘Oh, sir!’ said she, ‘gin I could hae bidden in the house, he wad never hae seen me either; but I was forced to walk out wi’ the bairns, and there was nae place sae quiet and out o’ the gate, but Willie was sure to find me out. If I gaed down the burn, Willie was aye fishing; if I gaed up the loan, there was aye something to be dune about the kye. At the kirk door, Willie was aye at hand to spier for your honour, and gie the bairns posies; and after our sair distress, when I was little out for mony a day, I couldna slip out ae moonlight night, to sit a moment upon Jeanie’s grave, but Willie was there like a ghaist aside me, and made my very heart loup to my mouth!’

“‘And do you return his good-will, Helen?’ said I, gravely.

“‘Oh, sir,’ said the poor thing, trembling, ‘I darena tell you a lie. I tried to be as proud and as shy as a lassie should be to ane abune her degree, and that might do sae muckle better, puir fallow! I tried to look anither gate when I saw him, and mak mysel deaf when he spoke o’ his love; but oh! his words were sae true and kindly, that I doubt mine werena aye sae short and saucy as they sud hae been. It’s hard for a tocherless, fatherless lassie to be cauldrife to the lad that wad tak her to his heart and hame; but oh! it wad be harder still, if she was to requite him wi’ a father’s curse! It’s ill eneuch to hae nae parents o’ my ain, without makin’ mischief wi’ ither folk’s. The auld man gets dourer and dourer ilka day, and the young ane dafter and dafter—sae ye maun just send me aff the country to some decent service, till Willie’s a free man, or a bridegroom.’

“‘My dear Helen,’ said I, ‘you are a good upright girl, and I will forward your honest intentions. If it be God’s will that Willie and you come together, the hearts of men are in His hand. If otherwise, yours will never at least reproach you with bringing ruin on your lover’s head.’

“So I sent Helen, Mr Francis, to my brother’s in the south country, where she proved as great a blessing and as chief a favourite as she had been with us. I saw her some months afterwards; and though her bloom had not returned, she was tranquil and contented, as one who has cast her lot into the lap of Heaven.

“Well, to make a long story short, Willie, though he was unreasonable enough, good, worthy lad as he is, to take in dudgeon Helen’s going away (though he might have guessed it was all for his good), was too proud, or too constant, to say he would give her up, or bind himself never to marry her, as his father insisted. So the old man, one day, after a violent altercation, made his will, and left all his hard-won siller to a rich brother in Liverpool, who neither wanted nor deserved it. Willie, upon this quarrel, had left home very unhappy, and stayed away some time, and during his absence old Blinkbonnie was taken extremely ill. When he thought himself dying, he sent for me (I had twice called in vain before), and you may be sure I did my best not to let him depart in so unchristian a frame towards his only child. I did not deny his right to advise his son in the choice of a wife; but I told him he might search the world before he found one more desirable than Helen, whose beauty and sense would secure his son’s steadiness, and her frugality and sobriety double his substance. I told him how she had turned a deaf ear to all his son’s proposals of a clandestine marriage and made herself the sacrifice to his own unjust and groundless prejudices. Dying men are generally open to conviction; and I got a fresh will made in favour of his son, with a full consent to his marriage honourably inserted among its provisions. This he deposited with me, feeling no great confidence in the lawyer who had made his previous settlement, and desired me to produce it when he was gone.

“It so happened that I was called to a distance before his decease, and did not return till some days after the funeral. Willie had flown home on hearing of his father’s danger, and had the comfort to find him completely softened, and to receive from his nearly speechless parent many a silent demonstration of returned affection. It was, therefore, a doubly severe shock to him, on opening the first will (the only one forthcoming in my absence), to find himself cut off from everything, except the joint lease of the farm, and instead of five thousand pounds, not worth a shilling in the world. His first exclamation, I was told, was, ‘It’s hard to get baith scorn and skaith—to lose baith poor Helen and the gear. If I had lost it for her, they might hae ta’en it that likit!’

“About a week after, I came home and found on my table a letter from Helen. She had heard of Willie’s misfortune, and in a way the most modest and engaging, expressed herself ready, if I thought it would still be acceptable, to share his poverty and toil with him through life. ‘I am weel used to work,’ said she, ‘and, but for you, wad hae been weel used to want. If Willie will let me bear a share o’ his burden, I trust in God we may warsle through thegither; and, to tell you the truth,’ added she, with her usual honesty, ‘I wad rather things were ordered as they are, than that Willie’s wealth should shame my poverty.’

“I put this letter in one pocket, and his father’s will in the other, and walked over to Blinkbonnie. Willie was working with the manly resolution of one who has no other resource. I told him I was glad to see him so little cast down.

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I’ll no say but I am vexed that my father gaed to his grave wi’ a grudge against me, the mair sae, as when he squeezed my hand on his death-bed I thought a’ was forgotten. But siller is but warld’s gear, and I could thole the want o’t, an’ it had nae been for Helen Ormiston, that I hoped to hae gotten to share it wi’ me. She may sune do better now, wi’ that bonnie face and kind heart o’ hers!’

“‘It is indeed a kind heart, Willie,’ answered I: ‘if ever I doubted it, this would have put me to shame!’——So saying, I reached him the letter, and oh, that Helen could have seen the flush of grateful surprise that crossed his manly brow as he read it! It passed away, though, quickly, and he said, with a sigh, ‘Very kind, Mr Monteith, and very like hersel; but I canna take advantage o’ an auld gude will, now that I canna reward it as it deserves!’”

‘And what if ye could, Willie?’ said I, ‘as far, at least, as worldly wealth can requite true affection? There is your father’s will, made when it pleased God to touch his heart, and you are as rich a man as you were when Helen Ormiston first refused to make you a beggar.’

“Willie was not insensible to this happy change in his prospects; but his kind heart was chiefly soothed by his father’s altered feelings, and at the honourable mention of Helen’s name he fairly began to greet.

“The sequel is easily told; but I think the jaunt I made to Tweeddale with Willie, to bring back Helen Ormiston in triumph, was the proudest journey of my life.

“A year ago I married them at the manse, amid much joy, but abundance of tears in the nursery. To-day, when, according to an old promise, I am to christen my name-son Charlie, I expect to be fairly deaved with the clamorous rejoicings of my young fry, who, I verily believe, have not slept this week for thinking of it. But” (pulling out his watch), “it is near four o’clock: sad quality hour for Blinkbonnie! The hotch-potch will be turned into porridge, and the how-towdies burnt to sticks, if we don’t make haste!”

I wish, my dear reader, you could see the farm of Blinkbonnie, lying as it does on a gently sloping bank, sheltered from the north by a wooded crag or knoll, flanked upon the east by a group of venerable ashes, enlivened and perfumed on the west by a gay luxuriant garden, and open on the south to such a sea-view, as none but dwellers on the Firth of Forth have any idea of. Last Saturday, it was the very _beau ideal_ of rural comfort and serenity. The old trees were reposing, after a course of somewhat boisterous weather, in all the dignity and silence of years. The crows, their usual inhabitants, having gone on their Highland excursion, those fantastic interlopers, Helen’s peacocks (a present from the children at the manse), were already preparing for their “siesta” on the topmost boughs. Beneath the spreading branches the cows were dreaming delightfully, in sweet oblivion of the heats of noon. In an adjoining paddock, graceful foals, and awkward calves, indulged in their rival gambols; while shrieks of joy from behind the garden hedge, told these were not the only happy young things in creation.

We deposited our horses in a stable, to whose comforts they bore testimony by an approving neigh, and made our way by a narrow path, bordered with sweet-brier and woodbine, to the front of the house. Its tall, good-looking young master came hastily to meet us, and I would not have given his blushing welcome, and the bashful scrape that accompanied it, for all the most elaborate courtesies of Chesterfield.

No sooner were our footsteps heard approaching, than out poured the minister’s whole family from the little honey-suckled porch, with glowing faces and tangled hair, and frocks, probably white some hours before, but which now claimed affinity with every bush in the garden.

Mrs Monteith gently joined in the chorus of reproaches to papa for being so late; but the look with which she was answered seemed to satisfy her, as it usually did, that he could not be in fault. We were then ushered into the parlour, whose substantial comforts, and exquisite consistency, spoke volumes in favour of its mistress. Opulence might be traced in the excellent quality of the homely furniture—in the liberal display of antique china (particularly the choice and curious christening-bowl)—but there was nothing incongruous, nothing out of keeping, nothing to make you for a moment mistake this first-rate farmhouse parlour for a clumsy, ill-fancied drawing-room. A few pots of roses, a few shelves of books, bore testimony to Helen’s taste and education; but there were neither exotics nor romances in the collection; and the piece of furniture evidently dearest in her eyes was the cradle, in which reposed, amid all the din of this joyous occasion, the yet unchristened hero of the day. It is time to speak of Helen herself, and she was just what, from her story, I knew she must be. The actors, in some striking drama of human life, often disappoint us by their utter dissimilitude to the pictures of our mind’s eye, but Helen was precisely the perfection of a gentle, modest, self-possessed Scottish lassie,—the mind, in short, of Jeanie Deans, with the personal advantages of poor Effie. Her dress was as suitable as anything else. Her gown, white as snow, and her cap of the nicest materials, were neither of them on the pattern of my lady’s; but they had a matronly grace of their own, worth a thousand second-hand fashions; and when Helen, having awakened her first-born, delivered him, with sweet maternal solicitude, into the outstretched arms of the minister’s proud and favoured youngest girl, I thought I never saw a picture worthier the pencil of Correggio. It was completed, when, bending in all the graceful awkwardness of a novice over the group, Willie received his boy into his arms, and vowed before his pastor and his God to discharge a parent’s duty, while a parent’s transport sparkled in his eyes.

I have sat, as Shakspeare says, “at good men’s feasts ere now”—have ate turtle at the lord mayor’s and venison at peers’ tables, and _soufflés_ at diplomatic dinners—have ate sturgeon at St Petersburg, and mullet at Naples; mutton in Wales, and grouse in the Highlands; roast-beef with John Bull, and _volauxvents_ at Beauvilliers’; but I have no hesitation in saying that the hotch-potch and how-towdies of Blinkbonnie excelled them all. How far the happy human faces of all ages round the table contributed to enhance the gusto, I do not pretend to decide; but I can tell Mr Véry that, among all his _consommés_, there is nothing like a judicious mixture of youth and beauty, with manliness, integrity, and virtue.—_Blackwood’s Magazine._

A SCOTTISH GENTLEWOMAN OF THE LAST CENTURY.

BY SUSAN EDMONSTONE FERRIER.

“Though last, not least of nature’s works, I must now introduce you to a friend of mine,” said Mr Douglas, as they bent their steps towards the Castlehill of Edinburgh. “Mrs Violet Macshake is an aunt of my mother’s, whom you must often have heard of, and the last remaining branch of the noble race of Girnachgowl.”

“I am afraid she is rather a formidable person, then?” said Mary.

Her uncle hesitated.

“No, not formidable,—only rather particular, as all old people are; but she is very good-hearted.”

“I understand; in other words, she is very disagreeable. All ill-tempered people, I observe, have the character of being good-hearted, or else all good-hearted people are ill-tempered—I can’t tell which.”

“It is more than reputation with her,” said Mr Douglas, somewhat angrily; “for she is, in reality, a very good-hearted woman, as I experienced when a boy at college. Many a crown-piece and half-guinea I used to get from her. Many a scold, to be sure, went along with them; but that, I daresay, I deserved. Besides, she is very rich, and I am her reputed heir; therefore gratitude and self-interest combine to render her extremely amiable in my estimation.”

They had now reached the airy dwelling where Mrs Macshake resided, and having rung, the door was at length most deliberately opened by an ancient, sour-visaged, long-waisted female, who ushered them into an apartment, the _coup d’œil_ of which struck a chill to Mary’s heart. It was a good-sized room, with a bare sufficiency of small-legged dining-tables, and lank hair-cloth chairs, ranged in high order round the walls. Although the season was advanced, and the air piercing cold, the grate stood smiling in all the charms of polished steel; and the mistress of the mansion was seated by the side of it in an arm-chair, still in its summer position. She appeared to have no other occupation than what her own meditations afforded; for a single glance sufficed to show that not a vestage of book or work was harboured there. She was a tall, large-boned woman, whom even Time’s iron hand had scarcely bent, as she merely stooped at the shoulders. She had a drooping snuffy nose, a long turned-up chin, small, quick, gray eyes, and her face projected far beyond her figure, with an expression of shrewd, restless curiosity. She wore a mode (not _a-la-mode_) bonnet, and cardinal of the same; a pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her arms.

As soon as she recognized Mr Douglas, she welcomed him with much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand,—patted him on the back,—looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction; and, in short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness usual with gentlewomen of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an _impromptu_ than a habitual feeling; for as the surprise wore off, her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have excited.

“An’ wha thought o’ seein’ you e’noo?” said she, in a quick gabbling voice; “what’s brought you to the toun? Are ye come to spend your honest faither’s siller, ere he’s weel cauld in his grave, puir man?”

Mr Douglas explained, that it was upon account of his niece’s health.

“Health!” repeated she, with a sardonic smile, “it wad mak a howlet laugh to hear the wark that’s made about young fowk’s health noo-a-days. I wonder what ye’re a’ made o’,” grasping Mary’s arm in her great bony hand; “a wheen puir feckless windle-straes—ye maun awa to England for yer healths. Set ye up! I wonder what came o’ the lasses i’ my time, that but to bide hame? And whilk o’ ye, I sud like to ken, will e’er live to see ninety-sax, like me?—Health! he! he!”

“You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.

“Time eneugh—will ye let me draw my breath, man?—fowk canna say a’ thing at ance. An’ ye but to hae an English wife, too?—A Scotch lass wadna ser’ ye. An’ yer wean, I’se warran’, it’s ane o’ the warld’s wonders—it’s been unco lang o’ comin’—he! he!”

“He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!” said Mr Douglas, in allusion to his father’s death.

“An’ wha’s faut was that?—I ne’er heard tell the like o’t, to hae the bairn kirsened an’ its grandfather deein’! But fowk are neither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to do—a’thing’s changed.”

“You must indeed have witnessed many changes,” observed Mr Douglas, rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.

“Changes!—weel a wat, I sometimes wonder if it’s the same warld, an’ if it’s my ain head that’s upon my shouthers.”

“But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?” said Mary, in a tone of diffidence.

“Impruvements!” turning sharply round upon her, “what ken ye about impruvements, bairn? A bonnie impruvement to see tylors and sclaters leevin’ whaur I mind Jukes and Yerls. An’ that great glowerin’ New Town there,” pointing out of her windows, “whaur I used to sit and look at bonnie green parks, and see the kye milket, and the bits o’ bairnies rowin’ an’ tumblin’, an’ the lasses trampin’ in their tubs;—what see I noo, but stane and lime, and stour and dirt, and idle chiels, and dunket-out madams prancing.—Impruvements, indeed!”

Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady’s harangue; but after having duly wiped her nose with her coloured handkerchief, and shook off all the particles that might be presumed to have lodged upon her cardinal, she resumed:

“An’ nae word o’ ony o’ your sisters gaun to get men yet? They tell me they’re but coorse lasses; an’ wha’ll tak ill-faured, tocherless queans, when there’s walth o’ bonny faces an’ lang purses i’ the market?—he, he!” Then resuming her scrutiny of Mary,—“An’ I’se warran’ ye’ll be lookin’ for an English sweetheart too;—that’ll be what’s takin’ ye awa to England!”

“On the contrary,” said Mr Douglas, seeing Mary was too much frightened to answer for herself—“on the contrary, Mary declares she will never marry any but a true Highlander—one who wears the dirk and plaid, and has the ‘second sight.’ And the nuptials are to be celebrated with all the pomp of feudal times; with bagpipes and bonfires, and gatherings of clans, and roasted sheep, and barrels of whisky, and”——

“Weel a wat an’ she’s i’ the right there,” interrupted Mrs Mackshake, with more complacency than she had yet shown. “They may ca’ them what they like, but there’s nae waddin’s noo. Wha’s the better o’ them but innkeepers and chaise-drivers? I wadna count mysel married i’ the hidlin’s way they gang aboot it noo.”

Mr Douglas, who was now rather tired of the old lady’s reminiscences, availed himself of the opportunity of a fresh pinch to rise and take leave.

“Ou, what’s takin’ ye awa, Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,” laying her hand upon his arm, “an’ rest ye, and tak a glass o’ wine; or maybe,” turning to Mary, “ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm ye. What gars ye look sae blae, my bairn? I’m sure it’s no cauld; but ye’re just like the lave; ye gang a’ skiltin’ about the streets half-naked, an’ then ye maun sit and birsle yersels afore the fire at hame.”

The wine being drunk, and the cookies discussed, Mr Douglas made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain.

“Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an’ let me speir after my auld freens at Glenfern? Hoo’s Grizzy, an’ Jacky, an’ Nicky?—aye working awa at the pills and the drogs?—he, he! I ne’er swallowed a pill, nor gaed a doit for drogs, a’ my days, an’ see an ony of them’ll run a race wi’ me when they’re naur five score.”

Mr Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her appearance, which were pretty well received; and added that he was the bearer of a letter from his aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and a brace of moor game.

“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than your last, atweel it’s no worth the sending,—puir fushionless dirt, no worth the chewing; weel a wat, I begrudged my teeth on’t. Your muirfowl was no that ill, but they’re no worth the carrying; they’re dang cheap i’ the market e’noo, so it’s nae great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o’ good mutton, or a caller sawmont, there would hae been some sense in’t; but ye’re ane o’ the fowk that’ll ne’er harry yoursel wi’ your presents; it’s but the pickle poother they cost you, an’ I’se warrant ye’re thinking mair o’ your ain diversion than o’ my stamack when ye’re at the shooting o’ them, puir beasts.”

Mr Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His colour rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips, as he strode indignantly towards the door.

His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him, and breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the back,—

“So, I see ye’re just the auld man, Archie,—aye ready to tak the strumps, an ye dinna get a’thing yer ain way. Mony a time I had to fleech ye oot o’ the dorts when ye was a callant. Div ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon pie an’ a tanker o’ tippenny, ae night to yer four-hours, afore some leddies? he, he, he! Weel a wat, your wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye’re a cumstarie chield, Archie.”

Mr Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry.

“Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn,” said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bed-chamber, which wore the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a large bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond ear-rings.

“Hae, bairn,” said she, as she stuffed them into Mary’s hand; “they belanged to your faither’s grandmother. She was a good woman, an’ had four and twenty sons and dochters, an’ I wuss ye nae waur fortin than just to hae as mony. But mind ye,” shaking her bony finger, “they maun a’ be Scots. Gin I thocht ye wad marry ony pock-puddin’, fient hait wad ye gotten frae me. Noo, haud yer tongue, and dinna deave me wi’ thanks,” almost pushing her into the parlour again; “and sin’ ye’re gaun awa the morn, I’ll see nae mair o’ ye e’noo—so fare ye weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an’ tak your breakfast wi’ me. I hae muckle to say to you;—but ye maunna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be,” with a facetious grin to her mollified favourite, as they shook hands and parted.—“_Marriage: a Novel._”

THE FAITHLESS NURSE:
_A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE GREAT REBELLION_.

Most of our readers who are citizens of “our own romantic town,” are familiarly acquainted with the valley which, winding among the Pentland Hills, forms the path by which the waters of Glencorse seek their way to those of the more celebrated Esk. It has long been the haunt of those “pilgrims of his genius” who loved to see with their own eyes the sacred scene chosen by the Pastoral Poet of Scotland for the display of lowly loves and rustic beauty; and it has now—alas the day!—acquired attractions for spirits of a far different sort; and who can see without a sigh the triumphs of art domineering over and insulting the sweetest charms of nature? It is not, however, to visit the stupendous and unseemly barrier which now chains up the gentle waters of the burn, nor even to seek the summer-breathing spot where Patie sung and Roger sighed, that we now request the attendance of our readers; but simply to point out to their attention a party of three individuals, who, on a still September evening, in the memorable year 1644, might have been seen slowly riding up the glen.

Two of the party were entitled in courtesy to be termed fair; but of these twain, one would have been acknowledged lovely by the most uncourteous boor that ever breathed. She had hardly reached the earliest years of womanhood, ’tis true, and the peachy bloom that mantled o’er her cheek showed as yet only the dawn of future loveliness; but her fair brow, on which, contrary to the fashion—we had almost said _taste_—of the times, her auburn locks danced gracefully; the laughing lustre of her dark-blue eye, and the stinging sweetness of her pouting lip, aided by an expression of indomitable gentleness of heart and kindliness of manner, lent a witchery to her countenance which few could gaze upon unmoved.

The other female had thrice the years of Lady Lilias Hay; but they had not brought her one tithe of that maiden’s beauty, and what little God had given her, she had, long ere the day we saw her first, destroyed, by screwing her features into an unvarying cast of prim solemnity, which, had she practised it, would have blighted the cheek of Venus herself.

The “squire of dames” who accompanied the pair we have described was also young, his chin as yet being guiltless of a hair. But there was a firmness in his look, a dark something in his eye, that bespoke his courage superior to his years; and a scar that trenched his open brow showed that he had arrived at the daring, if not the wisdom of manhood.

On the present occasion, however, it was not a feeling of recklessness which characterised the demeanour of the youth. He was thoughtful and abstracted, riding silently by the side of the maiden, who more than once attempted to dispel the gloom which hung over the gallant. It gave way, indeed, to the influence of her gentle voice; but it was for a moment only, and the downcast eye and contracted brow ever and anon returned when the accents of her voice had ceased.

“Nay, prithee, cousin Maurice, do doff the visor of thy melancholy, and let us behold thy merry heart unmasked. I could stake my little jennet here to Elspeth’s favourite “baudrons,” that if Montrose should meet thee in this moody temperament, he will rather promote thee to a halter as a spy from the Committee of Estates, than to honourable command befitting one who has bled beneath the eye, and been knighted by the honour-giving hand of his royal master! Do laugh with me a little.”

“Why, my dearest Lilias, you seem in higher spirits to-day than is usual with you. Cannot the surety of our parting to-morrow, and the uncertainty of our ever meeting again, throw even a passing cloud over your gaiety?”

“Modestly put, my valiant cousin. I am well reminded of my unbecoming conduct. It must, of course, be night with me when you, bright sun of my happiness, shall have withdrawn your beams from me.”

“Nay, banter me not, sweet Lily. Have you never known an hour when the sweetest sights were irksome to the eye, and the softest strains of music fell harshly on the ear?”

“Pshaw! if you will neither smile nor talk, of what use are you by a lady’s side? What say you to a race? Yonder stands the kirk of Saint Catherine. Will you try your roan that length? An you ride not so fast now as you did from Cromwell at Longmarston Moor, I shall beat you. _Via!_”

And so saying, the light-hearted girl gave rein to her snowy palfrey, and flew up the glen toward the edifice she had mentioned, at a speed which Maurice Ogilvy had some difficulty in equalling, and which prevented him from overtaking her until she had reached the gate.

All who have visited—and who has not?—Roslin’s “proud chapelle,” are familiar with the legend of Sir William St Clair, and his venturous boast to the Bruce, that he would find, on peril of his head, a dog that would bring down the deer ere it could cross Glencorse burn;—how the trusty hound did redeem his own credit and his master’s life, by seizing the quarry in the very middle of the stream;—and how, in gratitude to the gentle saint by whose intercession this mighty feat was accomplished, he built a church on the bank of the stream, and dedicated it to Saint Catherine of the Howe. This virgin martyr was unfortunately no more successful than her sister saints in protecting her mansions from the desolating zeal of the earlier reformers. The church was destroyed by a fanatical mob, and nothing now remains to record the kindness of Catherine, and the gratitude of the “high Saint Clair,” but a few uneven grassy heaps of deeper green than the surrounding verdure, and the name of the neighbouring farm town, which is yet called Kirkton. At the time we are at present writing of, however, the roofless walls of the building, though gray with the ruin of a hundred years, were still almost entire, and the cemetery then and long after continued to be used by the neighbouring peasantry.

When Maurice reached the church, he found that the Lady Lilias had dismounted. He too alighted, and sought her in the interior. She was seated on a fallen stone, and the deep melancholy which now shadowed her fair countenance was more in unison with the sombre aspect of the place and of the hour, than he had expected to find it. She arose at his approach, and addressed him.

“You have something to tell me, Maurice, and you wished to do it alone. We have now an opportunity. What has befallen us?”

“Nay, fair Lily, why should you think so? Is not the thought that to-morrow we must part of itself sufficient to dull my spirit and sadden my countenance?”

“Pshaw! trifle not with me now. Your face has no secrets for one who has conned its ill-favoured features so frequently as I have done. Out with your secret! Elspeth will be with us forthwith.”

Maurice seemed for some moments undecided how he should act, but at length, with a look of no little embarrassment, replied,—

“Sweet Lilias, you shall be obeyed. You can only laugh at me; and thanks to your merry heart, that is a daily pastime of yours.”

“Nay, nay—say on; I will be as grave as Argyle.”

“Know then, that while I waited for you and Elspeth at the bottom of the glen, a remarkable thing befell me. I had alighted, and while Rupert was trying to pick a scanty meal among the bent, I flung myself on the ground, and endeavoured to beguile the time by thinking sometimes of you, and sometimes of King Charles.”

“How! sir cousin, I am not always the companion of your reveries, it seems, then? Heigho! to think what a change a single day’s matrimony has accomplished!”

“Ungenerous Lilias,” said Maurice, taking her hand, “listen to me. Lifting my head accidentally, I was surprised to perceive a man and woman walking away at some distance from me. The more attentively I looked at these individuals, the more uneasy I became, until my terror was completed by the figures slowly turning round and presenting to me the identical features of you, dear Lilias, and myself.”

“Maurice, Maurice! you amaze me!”

“Though fully aware of the unearthly nature of these appearances, I could not resist the desire I felt of following them. I did so, tracing their silent steps up the glen, until I saw them enter the churchyard without. I hastened after, but when I too entered the cemetery, the figures had disappeared!”

The lady’s cheek grew pale as she listened to this narration, for in those days the belief in such prognostications was universal; and the time of day when Maurice had seen the wraiths, their retiring motion, and the fatal spot to which he had traced them, were all indicative of fast approaching doom. She clung around her husband’s neck for a few moments in silence, until the deep-seated conviction of safety while with him, which forms so striking a characteristic of feminine affection, revived her spirits; and though the tear still hung on her silken eyelash as she looked up in his face, there was a languid smile on her cheek as she said,—

“Beshrew you, Maurice, for frightening me so deeply on my wedding-day! Could you find no other time than this to see bogles?”

“Well said, love,” answered Maurice, who felt no little alarm at seeing the effect which his story had produced on his wife: “’twas doubtless a mere delusion.”

“Even should it prove true,” replied Lilias, “we shall at least die together; and there is a tranquillising influence in that thought, Maurice, which would go far to make even death agreeable.”

“Let us leave this place,” said Maurice, after the emotion which so bewitching a confusion excited had in some measure subsided; “I fear Elspeth will miss us.”

“What then?”

“You know that I have ever distrusted that woman. She and I are as different from each other as day from darkness. She is a staunch Covenanter—I a graceless Cavalier. She rails at love-locks, love-songs, and love-passages—I adore them all. She prays for MacCallummore, and would fain see his bonnet nod above the crown of King Charles, and the caps of his merry men;—I would rather see his head frowning on the Netherbow Port. While she opposed my suit to you, I only hated her; now that she connives at it—shall I confess it to you?—I fear her.”

“Nay, now you are unjust. While in the lawful exercise of woman’s just prerogative,—coquetry,—I seemed to balance the contending claims of Sir Mungo Campbell and yourself for this poor hand, Elspeth doubtlessly favoured the cause of her kinsman (all Campbell’s being of course cousins); but our sovereign will once unequivocally declared, she became all submission, and has not even attempted to impugn the decision which we, somewhat foolishly perhaps, have pronounced in your favour. Besides, Maurice,” continued Lilias, leaving off the mock-heroic tone in which she had hitherto spoken for one more akin to natural feeling, “Elspeth Campbell was my nurse, has a mother’s affection for me, and therefore would not, I am confident, engage in any scheme inimical to my happiness.”

“Still she is a Covenanter, and a Campbell,” replied Maurice, “and as such, her dearest wish, even for your own sake, must be to see you the wife of him who is both the one and the other.”

“Well,” rejoined Lilias, colouring highly as she spoke, “that at least you have put out of her power: and yet I regret that I trusted her not in that matter. It was a secret for a woman, and a nursing mother.”

“Fear not, she shall know in time. I know, I feel it is unmanly, the dread I entertain; but I cannot quell it. I wish we had not agreed to make this Logan House the trysting-place of my gallant friends: my father’s dwelling had been the safer place.”

“Yes; and so have set my worthy guardian, Gillespie Grumach, and his obsequious friend Sir Mungo, on our track. Come, come, your alarm is unbecoming. At dawn we leave Logan House. The madcap disguise which you have prevailed on me to adopt will prevent any recognition till you have consigned me to my noble kinswoman of Huntly; and you—but I wrong you—fear not for yourself.”

“Kindly spoken, my love,—would to Heaven you indeed were in Strathbogie, and I among the gallant Grahams! But here comes Elspeth, looking as demure as if she were afraid that the idolatrous sacrifice of the mass, like the leprosy of old, might still stick to those time-worn walls, and infect her godly heart. Let us go.”

Lilias looked earnestly on the countenance of her nurse as they met; for though she had not acknowledged so much to Maurice, her heart had misgiven her as she listened to his discourse. Whether it might proceed from the melancholy truth, that suspicion once excited against an individual cannot be entirely quieted by any innocence whatever, or whether the countenance of Elspeth really afforded ground for the doubt of her mistress, we are unable to determine, but certainly the latter imagined at least that she could detect alarm, solicitude, and fear, lurking amid the apparent placidity of her nurse’s features.

Nothing was said, however; and the party, remounting their horses, shortly afterwards arrived at their destination for the night, namely, the Peel or Tower of Logan House. This edifice, which crowns the summit of a small knoll or brae on the northern side of Glencorse water, was one of the many places built for the safety of the population against any sudden but short-lived attack, and, from the walls, which are still left, must have been of considerable strength. It was, at the time we speak of, entire, and consisted of two storeys; the lower being devoted to the accommodation of the servants of the house, and that of the family bestial, while the upper was divided into the few apartments then thought sufficient for the accommodation of the gentles.

As they rode into the courtyard, Maurice was struck by the want of attendance which the place betrayed. At that day the laudable customs of the “queen’s old courtier” had not entirely gone into desuetude, and every holding, however small, was filled with a number of retainers, that in the present day would be deemed excessive. At Logan House, however, things were very different. A stripling—half-man, half-boy—seemed the only representative of male vassalage, and the woman-servants, though more numerous, did not amount to anything near the average number which in those days divided amongst themselves, with commendable chariness, the duties of a household.

The faggots, however, blazed cheerfully in the upper apartment, and food and wine having been prepared in abundance, Maurice for a moment forgot his suspicions, and Lilias regained her sprightliness. They conversed gaily together of days gone by, and of courts and masques and pageants which they had seen, to the evident discomfort of Elspeth, who not only thought her presence becoming in her character of nurse, but somewhat necessary in the existing condition, as she imagined, of the youthful pair. Maurice soon saw her uneasiness, and wickedly resolved to make it a means of pastime to himself and Lilias.

“Do you recollect, sweet Lily, when the good King Charles kissed your cheek in Holyroodhouse, and vowed, on a king’s word, to find a husband for you?”

“I do; and how a malapert page sounded in my ear that he would save his Majesty the trouble.”

“And have I not kept my word—ha, lady mine? The great Argyle and all his men will hardly, I think, undo the links that bind us to each other;” and inspired, as it seemed, by the pleasant thought, the youth took the lady’s hand in his, and pressed it warmly and frequently to his lips.

Elspeth looked on in amazement at the familiarity of intercourse in which the lady indulged her cousin, and which was equally repugnant to her natural and acquired feelings on the subject.

“Pshaw! you foolish man, desist!” cried Lilias, blushing and laughing at the same time, when Maurice attempted to substitute her rosy lips for the hand he had been so fervently kissing. “What will Elspeth think?”

“Think, Lady Lilias!” said Elspeth bitterly; “think! I cannot think; but I can feel for the impropriety—the sinful levity—into which, for the first time, I see my mistress fallen.”

The fair neck of Lilias crimsoned as she listened to the taunt. For a moment a frown gathered on her brow, before which the nurse’s countenance fell; but it died away in a moment, and, with a beseeching smile, which lay nestled among rosy blushes, she stretched out her hand and said,—

“Forgive me, Elspeth, we are married!”

This brief annunciation had a striking effect on the individual to whom it was addressed. She clasped together her withered hands, and continued for a few moments gazing wildly in the faces of the startled pair, seemingly anxious to discover there some contradiction of what she had just heard; and then uttering a loud long shriek, dashed her face against the wooden board, and groaned audibly.

The terrified Lilias tried to raise the old woman’s head from the table, but she for some time resisted the kindly effort. At length, raising her pale and now haggard features to those of the lady, she exclaimed,—

“Unsay, child of my affection, the dreadful tidings you have told;—tell me not that I have murdered the daughter of my mistress. Often when the _taish_ was on me have I seen the dirk in your bosom. Little did I dream that my own hand should guide it there. Oh! say you are not married.”

Lilias, who knew the violent temper of her nurse, and imagined her present ravings proceeded from offended pride at not having been made privy to the marriage, now attempted to soothe her feelings.

“Nay, my dear Elspeth, take not on so; you know Sir Maurice and I have long loved each other; to-morrow morning he rides to join Montrose, who has conquered for the king at Tippermuir. I tremble to be left behind, and have therefore resolved to accompany him; in these circumstances, was it not fitting that he should have a husband’s title to protect me? ’Twas but this morning we were wedded; and I ever meant to tell you here.”

“Here, said you?” replied the old woman, shuddering. “But I am guiltless. You were ordained to be the destruction of each other before the world was. James Graham will look long and wearily for your coming, I fear. Hush! the Campbells are about the house; and _he_ is coming to seek you here.”

“Who?—Sir Mungo Campbell?” said Lilias and her husband, in the same breath.

“Even he,” replied Elspeth; “he brings the warrant of the Estates to apprehend Sir Maurice, and has orders from the Marquis of Argyle to secure your own person.”

“Treacherous, infamous wretch!”—“Cruel, unkind Elspeth!” burst again simultaneously from the lips of Maurice and his bride.

“Upbraid me not, Lady Lilias; alas! what must fall will fall. Oh, that you had trusted me. I fondly hoped that Sir Mungo Campbell might yet be your husband, and that I should see you the proud and happy mistress of Castle Lorn; but married!—he will water this floor with our blood!”

And again the wretched old woman, overcome with remorse and terror, shrieked aloud. Then, as if stung by some instantaneous and overpowering feeling, she hastily quitted the apartment. The betrayed and devoted pair gazed for a few minutes at each other in silent sadness. There was more of grief than terror in these mournful looks; for it was for the calamity of the other that each heart bled. At length the lady sunk, weeping, into his arms.

“Oh, Maurice, Maurice, bitterly are our fears fulfilled! We are lost! There is no escape from the bloodhounds who have beset us.”

“Nay, nay, my love,” replied the knight, feigning the tranquillity he did not feel; “think not so. I must have heard the arrival of the party, had we been yet surrounded. There still is time to escape from the net prepared for us. Once on horseback, between the darkness of the night, and the wild nature of these hills, we may manage to escape.”

Ere Lilias could make answer to this cheering discourse, Elspeth entered the apartment.

“Haste!” she exclaimed in an emphatic whisper, “a moment yet is left. Sir Mungo has not arrived. Leave, oh leave, this fearful place!” and she wrung her hands impatiently.

The lovers lost no time in obeying this invitation. Two large riding-cloaks were supplied by Elspeth, in order to conceal their forms, if they should unhappily be met by Sir Mungo; while, still more to defeat detection, it was agreed that Lilias should mount the nurse’s pony.

“And you, Elspeth,” said the lady, with a kind-heartedness which no personal danger could destroy, “what shall become of you?”

“Fear not for me,” replied Elspeth chokingly; “I fear nothing—fly!”

Maurice now led his lady to the open plain, and here saw, with sorrow, that the moon, which shone dazzlingly bright, would destroy almost every hope of escaping the recognition of Sir Mungo Campbell, should that individual meet them; and this was, alas! too soon to happen. They had only turned the angle of the building, with the intention of taking the hillward path, when they saw a band of armed men, at the head of whom stood one whom hatred and fear at once enabled both to pronounce the man they sought to shun.

“Who comes there?” cried Sir Mungo, harshly.

“Friends to King Charles,” replied Maurice, undauntedly.

“That may well be,” replied Campbell, “and yet deep foes to Scotland. Sir Maurice Ogilvy, I arrest thee of high treason!”

“Win me, and wear me, Roundhead!” cried the knight; and, throwing off the cloak which cumbered him, he drew his sword with one hand, while with the other he plucked Lilias from her seat, and placed her before him. Then giving the rowel to his horse, he dashed among the astonished Highlanders, who either fell before, or yielded a passage to the gallant steed.

A wild yell arose amid the stillness of the night, as the Campbells perceived the rapid pace at which Maurice rode, and which, if continued for a few minutes, must soon place him beyond the chance of capture, and matchlocks and pistols were employed in vain to interrupt his career. But, alas! Heaven had decreed the triumph of the guilty. Urged to his utmost speed, Rupert would soon have saved his master, and his yet more precious load, when, his foot striking against a piece of earthfast rock, he stumbled—made a futile effort to recover himself—and at last fell on his side. Sir Maurice instantly sprung to his feet, but Lilias lay apparently lifeless on the turf. He kneeled down, and raised her in his arms, but she replied not to his eager questionings. He could feel no pulse, to tell him of returning life; and to his despair, he perceived the blood flowing profusely from her white brow.

“She is gone!” cried he, bitterly. “Now, Campbell, for thy heart;” and as he spoke, he lifted his weapon from the grass. He had hardly regained it, when he was surrounded by the Highlanders.

“Yield thee, Sir Maurice, or thou diest.”

“Never to one of thy detested clan will Maurice Ogilvy give up his sword. Send back your murderers, Campbell, and let us settle here our long arrear of hatred.”

“Once more I bid thee yield.”

“Again do I defy thee.”

“Thy blood be on thy head then. Smite the braggart to the dust.”

The word was barely uttered when the upraised arm of one who stood behind the youth buried a dirk in his bosom. He reeled to the earth, tried with dimming eye to scan the features of Lilias as she lay still prostrate on the ground, and then casting his eyes upwards, murmured out, “Bear witness, Heaven, I die true to love, and faithful to the king!” A moment more, and he was silent.

Campbell next proceeded to raise the body of Lilias from the ground. It seemed as if her deep-rooted aversion to this person was so vital as even to govern her while in a state of insensibility; for no sooner had his fingers touched her waist, than she started from the ground, and, drawing her hands across her eyes, gazed wildly around. A moment sufficed to show her the cureless ruin which had befallen her hopes and happiness, and, bursting from the grasp of her hated suitor, and exclaiming in a voice hoarse in agony, “Stand off, monster! I am his wife!” she threw herself with reckless violence on the prostrate corpse. Even the heart of Campbell was touched by her extreme misery, and some minutes elapsed ere he could give directions for her removal. That was now needless. In her frantic despair, poor Lilias regarded death as an enviable blessing; the dagger of Maurice afforded her the ready means of escaping at once from all her worldly woe, and her cruel captors only raised her to discover that her heart’s blood was now mingling on the same turf with that of him who had alone possessed her living love.