overheard, through a long passage, and up a back stair, which admitted
them into the family apartments. They were ample and extensive,
furnished at such cost as showed the ancient importance and splendour
of the family. But all the ornaments were in the taste of a former and
distant period, and one would have almost supposed himself traversing
the halls of a Scottish nobleman before the union of the crowns. The
late Countess, partly from a haughty contempt of the times in which
she lived, partly from her sense of family pride, had not permitted the
furniture to be altered or modernized during her residence at Glenallan
House. The most magnificent part of the decorations was a valuable
collection of pictures by the best masters, whose massive frames were
somewhat tarnished by time. In this particular also the gloomy taste of
the family seemed to predominate. There were some fine family portraits
by Vandyke and other masters of eminence; but the collection was richest
in the Saints and Martyrdoms of Domenichino, Velasquez, and Murillo, and
other subjects of the same kind, which had been selected in preference
to landscapes or historical pieces. The manner in which these awful,
and sometimes disgusting, subjects were represented, harmonized with the
gloomy state of the apartments,--a circumstance which was not altogether
lost on the old man, as he traversed them under the guidance of his
quondam fellow-soldier. He was about to express some sentiment of this
kind, but Francie imposed silence on him by signs, and opening a door
at the end of the long picture-gallery, ushered him into a small
antechamber hung with black. Here they found the almoner, with his ear
turned to a door opposite that by which they entered, in the attitude of
one who listens with attention, but is at the same time afraid of being
detected in the act.
The old domestic and churchman started when they perceived each other.
But the almoner first recovered his recollection, and advancing towards
Macraw, said, under his breath, but with an authoritative tone, “How
dare you approach the Earl’s apartment without knocking? and who is this
stranger, or what has he to do here?--Retire to the gallery, and wait for
me there.”
“It’s impossible just now to attend your reverence,” answered Macraw,
raising his voice so as to be heard in the next room, being conscious
that the priest would not maintain the altercation within hearing of his
patron,--“the Earl’s bell has rung.”
He had scarce uttered the words, when it was rung again with greater
violence than before; and the ecclesiastic, perceiving further
expostulation impossible, lifted his finger at Macraw, with a menacing
attitude, as he left the apartment.
“I tell’d ye sae,” said the Aberdeen man in a whisper to Edie, and then
proceeded to open the door near which they had observed the chaplain
stationed.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
--This ring.--
This little ring, with necromantic force,
Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears,
Conjured the sense of honour and of love
Into such shapes, they fright me from myself.
The Fatal Marriage.
The ancient forms of mourning were observed in Glenallan House,
notwithstanding the obduracy with which the members of the family
were popularly supposed to refuse to the dead the usual tribute of
lamentation. It was remarked, that when she received the fatal letter
announcing the death of her second, and, as was once believed, her
favourite son, the hand of the Countess did not shake, nor her eyelid
twinkle, any more than upon perusal of a letter of ordinary business.
Heaven only knows whether the suppression of maternal sorrow, which her
pride commanded, might not have some effect in hastening her own death.
It was at least generally supposed that the apoplectic stroke, which so
soon afterwards terminated her existence, was, as it were, the vengeance
of outraged Nature for the restraint to which her feelings had been
subjected. But although Lady Glenallan forebore the usual external signs
of grief, she had caused many of the apartments, amongst others her own
and that of the Earl, to be hung with the exterior trappings of woe.
The Earl of Glenallan was therefore seated in an apartment hung with
black cloth, which waved in dusky folds along its lofty walls. A screen,
also covered with black baize, placed towards the high and narrow
window, intercepted much of the broken light which found its way through
the stained glass, that represented, with such skill as the fourteenth
century possessed, the life and sorrows of the prophet Jeremiah. The
table at which the Earl was seated was lighted with two lamps wrought
in silver, shedding that unpleasant and doubtful light which arises from
the mingling of artificial lustre with that of general daylight. The
same table displayed a silver crucifix, and one or two clasped parchment
books. A large picture, exquisitely painted by Spagnoletto, represented
the martyrdom of St. Stephen, and was the only ornament of the
apartment.
The inhabitant and lord of this disconsolate chamber was a man not past
the prime of life, yet so broken down with disease and mental misery, so
gaunt and ghastly, that he appeared but a wreck of manhood; and when
he hastily arose and advanced towards his visitor, the exertion seemed
almost to overpower his emaciated frame. As they met in the midst of
the apartment, the contrast they exhibited was very striking. The hale
cheek, firm step, erect stature, and undaunted presence and bearing of
the old mendicant, indicated patience and content in the extremity of
age, and in the lowest condition to which humanity can sink; while the
sunken eye, pallid cheek, and tottering form of the nobleman with
whom he was confronted, showed how little wealth, power, and even the
advantages of youth, have to do with that which gives repose to the
mind, and firmness to the frame.
The Earl met the old man in the middle of the room, and having commanded
his attendant to withdraw into the gallery, and suffer no one to enter
the antechamber till he rung the bell, awaited, with hurried yet fearful
impatience, until he heard first the door of his apartment, and then
that of the antechamber, shut and fastened by the spring-bolt. When he
was satisfied with this security against being overheard, Lord Glenallan
came close up to the mendicant, whom he probably mistook for some person
of a religious order in disguise, and said, in a hasty yet faltering
tone, “In the name of all our religion holds most holy, tell me,
reverend father, what am I to expect from a communication opened by a
token connected with such horrible recollections?”
The old man, appalled by a manner so different from what he had expected
from the proud and powerful nobleman, was at a loss how to answer, and
in what manner to undeceive him. “Tell me,” continued the Earl, in a
tone of increasing trepidation and agony--“tell me, do you come to say
that all that has been done to expiate guilt so horrible, has been too
little and too trivial for the offence, and to point out new and
more efficacious modes of severe penance?--I will not blench from it,
father--let me suffer the pains of my crime here in the body, rather than
hereafter in the spirit!”
Edie had now recollection enough to perceive, that if he did not
interrupt the frankness of Lord Glenallan’s admissions, he was likely
to become the confidant of more than might be safe for him to know.
He therefore uttered with a hasty and trembling voice--“Your lordship’s
honour is mistaken--I am not of your persuasion, nor a clergyman, but,
with all reverence, only puir Edie Ochiltree, the king’s bedesman and
your honour’s.”
This explanation he accompanied by a profound bow after his manner, and
then, drawing himself up erect, rested his arm on his staff, threw back
his long white hair, and fixed his eyes upon the Earl, as he waited for
an answer.
“And you are not then,” said Lord Glenallan, after a pause of surprise--
“You are not then a Catholic priest?”
“God forbid!” said Edie, forgetting in his confusion to whom he was
speaking; “I am only the king’s bedesman and your honour’s, as I said
before.”
The Earl turned hastily away, and paced the room twice or thrice, as if
to recover the effects of his mistake, and then, coming close up to the
mendicant, he demanded, in a stern and commanding tone, what he meant
by intruding himself on his privacy, and from whence he had got the ring
which he had thought proper to send him. Edie, a man of much spirit, was
less daunted at this mode of interrogation than he had been confused by
the tone of confidence in which the Earl had opened their conversation.
To the reiterated question from whom he had obtained the ring, he
answered composedly, “From one who was better known to the Earl than to
him.”
“Better known to me, fellow?” said Lord Glenallan: “what is your
meaning?--explain yourself instantly, or you shall experience the
consequence of breaking in upon the hours of family distress.”
“It was auld Elspeth Mucklebackit that sent me here,” said the beggar,
“in order to say”--
“You dote, old man!” said the Earl; “I never heard the name--but this
dreadful token reminds me”--
“I mind now, my lord,” said Ochiltree, “she tauld me your lordship would
be mair familiar wi’ her, if I ca’d her Elspeth o’ the Craigburnfoot--she
had that name when she lived on your honour’s land, that is, your
honour’s worshipful mother’s that was then--Grace be wi’ her!”
“Ay,” said the appalled nobleman, as his countenance sunk, and his cheek
assumed a hue yet more cadaverous; “that name is indeed written in the
most tragic page of a deplorable history. But what can she desire of me?
Is she dead or living?”
“Living, my lord; and entreats to see your lordship before she dies, for
she has something to communicate that hangs upon her very soul, and she
says she canna flit in peace until she sees you.”
“Not until she sees me!--what can that mean? But she is doting with age
and infirmity. I tell thee, friend, I called at her cottage myself, not
a twelvemonth since, from a report that she was in distress, and she did
not even know my face or voice.”
“If your honour wad permit me,” said Edie, to whom the length of the
conference restored a part of his professional audacity and native
talkativeness--“if your honour wad but permit me, I wad say, under
correction of your lordship’s better judgment, that auld Elspeth’s like
some of the ancient ruined strengths and castles that ane sees amang the
hills. There are mony parts of her mind that appear, as I may say, laid
waste and decayed, but then there’s parts that look the steever, and
the stronger, and the grander, because they are rising just like to
fragments amaong the ruins o’ the rest. She’s an awful woman.”
“She always was so,” said the Earl, almost unconsciously echoing the
observation of the mendicant; “she always was different from other
women--likest perhaps to her who is now no more, in her temper and turn
of mind.--She wishes to see me, then?”
“Before she dies,” said Edie, “she earnestly entreats that pleasure.”
“It will be a pleasure to neither of us,” said the Earl, sternly, “yet
she shall be gratified. She lives, I think, on the sea-shore to the
southward of Fairport?”
“Just between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock Castle, but nearer to
Monkbarns. Your lordship’s honour will ken the laird and Sir Arthur,
doubtless?”
A stare, as if he did not comprehend the question, was Lord Glenallan’s
answer. Edie saw his mind was elsewhere, and did not venture to repeat a
query which was so little germain to the matter.
“Are you a Catholic, old man?” demanded the Earl.
“No, my lord,” said Ochiltree stoutly; for the remembrance of the
unequal division of the dole rose in his mind at the moment; “I thank
Heaven I am a good Protestant.”
“He who can conscientiously call himself good, has indeed reason to
thank Heaven, be his form of Christianity what it will--But who is he
that shall dare to do so!”
“Not I,” said Edie; “I trust to beware of the sin of presumption.”
“What was your trade in your youth?” continued the Earl.
“A soldier, my lord; and mony a sair day’s kemping I’ve seen. I was to
have been made a sergeant, but”--
“A soldier! then you have slain and burnt, and sacked and spoiled?”
“I winna say,” replied Edie, “that I have been better than my
neighbours;--it’s a rough trade--war’s sweet to them that never tried it.”
“And you are now old and miserable, asking from precarious charity the
food which in your youth you tore from the hand of the poor peasant?”
“I am a beggar, it is true, my lord; but I am nae just sae miserable
neither. For my sins, I hae had grace to repent of them, if I might say
sae, and to lay them where they may be better borne than by me; and for
my food, naebody grudges an auld man a bit and a drink--Sae I live as I
can, and am contented to die when I am ca’d upon.”
“And thus, then, with little to look back upon that is pleasant or
praiseworthy in your past life--with less to look forward to on this side
of eternity, you are contented to drag out the rest of your existence?
Go, begone! and in your age and poverty and weariness, never envy
the lord of such a mansion as this, either in his sleeping or waking
moments--Here is something for thee.”
The Earl put into the old man’s hand five or six guineas. Edie would
perhaps have stated his scruples, as upon other occasions, to the amount
of the benefaction, but the tone of Lord Glenallan was too absolute to
admit of either answer or dispute. The Earl then called his servant--“See
this old man safe from the castle--let no one ask him any questions--and
you, friend, begone, and forget the road that leads to my house.”
“That would be difficult for me,” said Edie, looking at the gold which
he still held in his hand, “that would be e’en difficult, since your
honour has gien me such gade cause to remember it.”
Lord Glenallan stared, as hardly comprehending the old man’s boldness
in daring to bandy words with him, and, with his hand, made him another
signal of departure, which the mendicant instantly obeyed.
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch, ruled their little court
The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.
Crabbe’s Village.
Francis Macraw, agreeably to the commands of his master, attended
the mendicant, in order to see him fairly out of the estate, without
permitting him to have conversation, or intercourse, with any of the
Earl’s dependents or domestics. But, judiciously considering that the
restriction did not extend to himself, who was the person entrusted with
the convoy, he used every measure in his power to extort from Edie the
nature of his confidential and secret interview with Lord Glenallan. But
Edie had been in his time accustomed to cross-examination, and easily
evaded those of his quondam comrade. “The secrets of grit folk,” said
Ochiltree within himself, “are just like the wild beasts that are shut
up in cages. Keep them hard and fast sneaked up, and it’s a’ very weel
or better--but ance let them out, they will turn and rend you. I mind how
ill Dugald Gunn cam aff for letting loose his tongue about the Major’s
leddy and Captain Bandilier.”
Francis was therefore foiled in his assaults upon the fidelity of the
mendicant, and, like an indifferent chess-player, became, at every
unsuccessful movement, more liable to the counter-checks of his
opponent.
“Sae ye uphauld ye had nae particulars to say to my lord but about yer
ain matters?”
“Ay, and about the wee bits o’ things I had brought frae abroad,” said
Edie. “I ken’d you popist folk are unco set on the relics that are
fetched frae far-kirks and sae forth.”
“Troth, my Lord maun be turned feel outright,” said the domestic, “an
he puts himsell into sic a carfuffle, for onything ye could bring him,
Edie.”
“I doubtna ye may say true in the main, neighbour,” replied the beggar;
“but maybe he’s had some hard play in his younger days, Francis, and
that whiles unsettles folk sair.”
“Troth, Edie, and ye may say that--and since it’s like yell neer come
back to the estate, or, if ye dee, that ye’ll no find me there, I’se
e’en tell you he had a heart in his young time sae wrecked and rent,
that it’s a wonder it hasna broken outright lang afore this day.”
“Ay, say ye sae?” said Ochiltree; “that maun hae been about a woman, I
reckon?”
“Troth, and ye hae guessed it,” said Francie--“jeest a cusin o’ his
nain--Miss Eveline Neville, as they suld hae ca’d her;--there was a sough
in the country about it, but it was hushed up, as the grandees
were concerned;--it’s mair than twenty years syne--ay, it will be
three-and-twenty.”
“Ay, I was in America then,” said the mendicant, “and no in the way to
hear the country clashes.”
“There was little clash about it, man,” replied Macraw; “he liked this
young leddy, ana suld hae married her, but his mother fand it out, and
then the deil gaed o’er Jock Webster. At last, the peer lass clodded
hersell o’er the scaur at the Craigburnfoot into the sea, and there was
an end o’t.”
“An end o’t wi’ the puir leddy,” said the mendicant, “but, as I reckon,
nae end o’t wi’ the yerl.”
“Nae end o’t till his life makes an end,” answered the Aberdonian.
“But what for did the auld Countess forbid the marriage?” continued the
persevering querist.
“Fat for!--she maybe didna weel ken for fat hersell, for she gar’d a’
bow to her bidding, right or wrang--But it was ken’d the young leddy was
inclined to some o’ the heresies of the country--mair by token, she was
sib to him nearer than our Church’s rule admits of. Sae the leddy was
driven to the desperate act, and the yerl has never since held his head
up like a man.”
“Weel away!” replied Ochiltree:--“it’s e’en queer I neer heard this tale
afore.”
“It’s e’en queer that ye heard it now, for deil ane o’ the servants
durst hae spoken o’t had the auld Countess been living. Eh, man, Edie!
but she was a trimmer--it wad hae taen a skeely man to hae squared wi’
her!--But she’s in her grave, and we may loose our tongues a bit fan
we meet a friend.--But fare ye weel, Edie--I maun be back to the
evening-service. An’ ye come to Inverurie maybe sax months awa, dinna
forget to ask after Francie Macraw.”
What one kindly pressed, the other as firmly promised; and the friends
having thus parted, with every testimony of mutual regard, the domestic
of Lord Glenallan took his road back to the seat of his master, leaving
Ochiltree to trace onward his habitual pilgrimage.
It was a fine summer evening, and the world--that is, the little circle
which was all in all to the individual by whom it was trodden, lay
before Edie Ochiltree, for the choosing of his night’s quarters. When
he had passed the less hospitable domains of Glenallan, he had in his
option so many places of refuge for the evening, that he was nice, and
even fastidious in the choice. Ailie Sim’s public was on the road-side
about a mile before him, but there would be a parcel of young fellows
there on the Saturday night, and that was a bar to civil conversation.
Other “gudemen and gudewives,” as the farmers and their dames are termed
in Scotland, successively presented themselves to his imagination. But
one was deaf, and could not hear him; another toothless, and could not
make him hear; a third had a cross temper; and a fourth an ill-natured
house-dog. At Monkbarns or Knockwinnock he was sure of a favourable
and hospitable reception; but they lay too distant to be conveniently
reached that night.
“I dinna ken how it is,” said the old man, “but I am nicer about my
quarters this night than ever I mind having been in my life. I think,
having seen a’ the braws yonder, and finding out ane may be happier
without them, has made me proud o’ my ain lot--But I wuss it bode me
gude, for pride goeth before destruction. At ony rate, the warst barn
e’er man lay in wad be a pleasanter abode than Glenallan House, wi’ a’
the pictures and black velvet, and silver bonny-wawlies belonging to it--
Sae I’ll e’en settle at ance, and put in for Ailie Sims.”
As the old man descended the hill above the little hamlet to which he
was bending his course, the setting sun had relieved its inmates
from their labour, and the young men, availing themselves of the fine
evening, were engaged in the sport of long-bowls on a patch of common,
while the women and elders looked on. The shout, the laugh, the
exclamations of winners and losers, came in blended chorus up the path
which Ochiltree was descending, and awakened in his recollection the
days when he himself had been a keen competitor, and frequently victor,
in games of strength and agility. These remembrances seldom fail to
excite a sigh, even when the evening of life is cheered by brighter
prospects than those of our poor mendicant. “At that time of day,” was
his natural reflection, “I would have thought as little about ony auld
palmering body that was coming down the edge of Kinblythemont, as ony o’
thae stalwart young chiels does e’enow about auld Edie Ochiltree.”
He was, however, presently cheered, by finding that more importance was
attached to his arrival than his modesty had anticipated. A disputed
cast had occurred between the bands of players, and as the gauger
favoured the one party, and the schoolmaster the other, the matter might
be said to be taken up by the higher powers. The miller and smith, also,
had espoused different sides, and, considering the vivacity of two
such disputants, there was reason to doubt whether the strife might
be amicably terminated. But the first person who caught a sight of the
mendicant exclaimed, “Ah! here comes auld Edie, that kens the rules of
a’ country games better than ony man that ever drave a bowl, or threw
an axle-tree, or putted a stane either;--let’s hae nae quarrelling,
callants--we’ll stand by auld Edie’s judgment.”
Edie was accordingly welcomed, and installed as umpire, with a general
shout of gratulation. With all the modesty of a Bishop to whom the
mitre is proffered, or of a new Speaker called to the chair, the old man
declined the high trust and responsibility with which it was proposed to
invest him, and, in requital for his self-denial and humility, had
the pleasure of receiving the reiterated assurances of young, old, and
middle-aged, that he was simply the best qualified person for the office
of arbiter “in the haill country-side.” Thus encouraged, he proceeded
gravely to the execution of his duty, and, strictly forbidding all
aggravating expressions on either side, he heard the smith and gauger on
one side, the miller and schoolmaster on the other, as junior and senior
counsel. Edie’s mind, however, was fully made up on the subject before
the pleading began; like that of many a judge, who must nevertheless go
through all the forms, and endure in its full extent the eloquence and
argumentation of the Bar. For when all had been said on both sides,
and much of it said over oftener than once, our senior, being well and
ripely advised, pronounced the moderate and healing judgment, that the
disputed cast was a drawn one, and should therefore count to neither
party. This judicious decision restored concord to the field of
players; they began anew to arrange their match and their bets, with the
clamorous mirth usual on such occasions of village sport, and the more
eager were already stripping their jackets, and committing them,
with their coloured handkerchiefs, to the care of wives, sisters, and
mistresses. But their mirth was singularly interrupted.
On the outside of the group of players began to arise sounds of a
description very different from those of sport--that sort of suppressed
sigh and exclamation, with which the first news of calamity is received
by the hearers, began to be heard indistinctly. A buzz went about among
the women of “Eh, sirs! sae young and sae suddenly summoned!”--It then
extended itself among the men, and silenced the sounds of sportive
mirth.
All understood at once that some disaster had happened in the country,
and each inquired the cause at his neighbour, who knew as little as the
querist. At length the rumour reached, in a distinct shape, the ears of
Edie Ochiltree, who was in the very centre of the assembly. The boat of
Mucklebackit, the fisherman whom we have so often mentioned, had been
swamped at sea, and four men had perished, it was affirmed, including
Mucklebackit and his son. Rumour had in this, however, as in other
cases, gone beyond the truth. The boat had indeed been overset; but
Stephen, or, as he was called, Steenie Mucklebackit, was the only man
who had been drowned. Although the place of his residence and his mode
of life removed the young man from the society of the country folks, yet
they failed not to pause in their rustic mirth to pay that tribute to
sudden calamity which it seldom fails to receive in cases of infrequent
occurrence. To Ochiltree, in particular, the news came like a knell, the
rather that he had so lately engaged this young man’s assistance in
an affair of sportive mischief; and though neither loss nor injury was
designed to the German adept, yet the work was not precisely one in
which the latter hours of life ought to be occupied.