BUT it became more and more evident that Frank's time at Osbaldistone
Hall was growing short. A certain travelling merchant, a friend and
countryman of Andrew Fairservice, the Osbaldistone gardener, brought
news from London of how Frank's character had been attacked there in the
matter of Morris, and that in the high court of Parliament itself.
Moreover, Frank felt that he could not much longer remain in the same
house with Miss Vernon. His love for her daily increased. Yet she told
him plainly that she could and would only be a friend to him. He must
ask her no questions, however deep the mysteries which encircled her
might seem. One day he found a man's glove lying on the library table.
On another occasion, after Rashleigh's departure for London, he
distinguished two shadows on the windows of the library while he was
patrolling the garden after dark.
Last of all Frank received a letter through some secret channel of
Diana's written by his father's partner, Mr. Tresham. This informed him
that his father had been for some time in Holland on business of the
firm, and that Rashleigh had gone north to Scotland some time ago, with
a large amount of money to take up bills granted by his father to
merchants in that country. Since his setting out, nothing whatever had
been heard of Rashleigh, and Owen had gone north to find him. Frank was
urgently prayed to proceed to Glasgow for the same purpose as soon as
possible. For if Rashleigh were not found, it was likely that the great
house of Osbaldistone and Tresham might have to suspend payment.
At this news Frank was stricken to the heart. He saw now how his
foolishness had ruined his father, because it was through his obstinacy
that Rashleigh had gained admission to his father's confidence. Mr.
Osbaldistone, he knew, would never survive the disgrace of bankruptcy.
He must, therefore, instantly depart. And Diana willingly sped him on
his way, giving him a letter which he was only to open if all other
means of paying his father's debts had failed.
Frank resolved to quit Osbaldistone Hall by night secretly, leaving only
a letter of thanks for his uncle, and informing him that immediate and
urgent business called him to Glasgow. He found a willing guide ready to
his hand in the gardener Andrew Fairservice, who, as he said, had long
been awaiting such an opportunity of quitting his employment.
But this same Andrew came near to involving Frank in a fresh breach of
the law. For, as Squire Thorncliff owed him ten pounds which he refused
to pay, Andrew had mounted himself on Squire Thornie's good beast. And
it was not until the animal was safely arrested by the law in the first
Scotch town across the border, and Frank had written the whole story to
Sir Hildebrand, that he felt easy in his mind as to the irregular act of
his attendant.
They arrived at Glasgow, then a small but ancient town, on the eve of
the Sabbath day. It was impossible for Frank to discover Owen that
night, and it proved to be no more easy the following morning.
For when he proposed to his landlady to go to the dwelling-house of Mr.
MacVittie, or to the counting-house of that firm, in search of Owen,
she held up her hands in horror.
"There will not be a soul in either place," she cried; "they are all
serious men and will only be found where all good Christians ought to be
on the Lord's Day Morning, and that's in the Barony Laigh (Low) Kirk!"
So thither accordingly Frank betook himself, accompanied, of course, by
his faithful follower, Andrew Fairservice. They found the Laigh Kirk to
be a gloomy underground crypt into which light was but sparingly
admitted by a few Gothic windows. In the centre the pews were already
full to overflowing with worshippers, and Andrew and Frank had to take
their places in the ring of those who stood in the outer dark among the
gloomy ranges of pillars which stretched away into complete obscurity.
Frank listened to the sermon for some time with what attention he could
muster. But the thought of his father's loss and his own share in it
recurred often to his mind. Suddenly he was roused from his revery by a
whisper from the darkness behind, "Listen," a voice said, low but very
distinct, in his ear, "do not look back. You are in danger in this
place. So am I. Meet me to-night at the Brig, at twelve o'clock
precisely. Keep at home till the gloaming and avoid observation!"
Frank tried to find out who could be so well acquainted with his journey
as to give him this rendezvous. But all that he could see, vanishing
into the darkness of the vaulted arches, was a figure, wrapped in a long
cloak which revealed nothing whatever of its wearer. Instinctively Frank
attempted to pursue, but he had not gone many yards, when he fell over a
tombstone with such a clatter that it caused the preacher to stop and
order the officers to take into custody the author of the unseemly
disturbance.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but to wait with as much patience
as he could muster for the time appointed. He did, however, see Mr.
MacVittie, his father's correspondent, when as Andrew said the "kirk
scaled." But he did not take that worthy's advice to speak to the
merchant. The hard features of the man had in them something
disagreeable and even menacing which vaguely recalled Rashleigh
Osbaldistone. And Frank, remembering the warnings of his unknown friend,
resolved to refrain from making his presence in Glasgow known, at least
for the present, to that notable merchant Mr. MacVittie.
This Sunday was the longest day of Frank Osbaldistone's life. It seemed
as if the hours would never go past. Twilight came at last, however, and
he issued forth to walk up and down in the public park, among the
avenues of trees, till the time of his appointment should arrive.
As he marched to and fro, keeping as much as possible out of sight of
the passers-by, he heard the voice of Andrew Fairservice in close and
somewhat loud conversation with a man in a long cloak and a slouched
hat. Andrew was retailing the character of his master to the stranger,
and though Frank Osbaldistone promised to himself to break Andrew's pate
for his insolence on the first suitable occasion, he could not but
acknowledge the fidelity of the likeness which Andrew painted.
"Ay, ay, Mr. Hammorgaw," Andrew was saying, "the lad is a good lad. He
is not altogether void of sense. He has a gloaming sight of what is
reasonable, but he is crack-brained and cockle-headed about his
nipperty-tipperty poetry nonsense. A bare crag wi' a burn jawing over it
is unto him as a garden garnished with flowering knots and choice
pot-herbs. And he would rather claver with a daft quean they call Diana
Vernon, than hear what might do him good all the days of his life from
you or me, or any other sober and sponsible person. Reason, sir, he
cannot endure. He is all for the vanities and the volubilities. And he
even once told me, poor blinded creature, that the Psalms of David were
excellent poetry. As if the holy Psalmist thought of rattling rhymes in
blether, like his own silly clinkum-clankum that he calls verse! Gude
help him! Two lines of Davie Lindsay wad ding a' that he ever clerkit!"
At last, after a weary waiting, the bell of the church of St. Mungo
tolled the hour of midnight. The echoes had not ceased upon the air when
a figure approached across the bridge, coming from the southern side.
The man was strong, thick-set, and wore a horseman's cloak wrapped about
him. But he passed without speaking, and held on his way to the farther
end of the bridge. There he turned, and meeting Frank full in face, bade
him follow him and he would know his reasons for thus warning him.
Frank first demanded to know who he was, and what were his purposes with
him.
"I am a man," was the reply, "and my purpose is friendly to you."
More than that he would not say. Frank could follow him or not, just as
he chose. Only if he did not, he would rue it all his life.
Furthermore, he stung the young man, perhaps intentionally, with the
taunt of being afraid. Frank cast back his words in his teeth. He was
young, active, armed, of a good conscience. Why then had he need to be
afraid?
"But," said the stranger, "if you are not afraid of what I can do to
you, do you not fear the consequences of being found in the company of
one whose very name whispered in this lonely street would make the
stones themselves rise up to apprehend him--on whose head half the men
in Glasgow would build their fortune as on a found treasure, had they
the luck to grip him by the collar--the sound of whose apprehension were
as welcome at the Cross of Edinburgh as ever the news of a field
stricken and won in Flanders?"
"And who, then, are you?" cried Frank, "whose name should create so deep
a terror?"
"No enemy of yours, since I am taking you to a place where, if I were
recognised, cold iron for my heels and hemp for my throat would be my
brief dooming."
Instinctively Frank laid his hand on his sword.
"What," said the stranger, "on an unarmed man and your friend?"
"I am ignorant if you be either the one or the other!" said Frank, "and
indeed your language and manner lead me to doubt both."
"Manfully spoken," said the unknown; "well, I will be frank and free
with you--I am conveying you to prison!"
"To prison," cried Frank, "and by what warrant--for what offence? You
shall have my life sooner than my liberty. I defy you! I will not follow
you a step farther!"
The unknown drew himself up haughtily.
"I am not taking you there as a prisoner," he said. "I am neither
messenger nor sheriff's officer. _Your_ liberty is little risked by the
visit. _Mine_ is in some peril. But I care not for the risk. For I love
a free young blood, that kens no protector but the cross of his sword."
So saying he tapped at a low wicket, and was answered sharply from
within, as by one awakened suddenly from a dream.
"Fat's tat? Wha's that, I wad say? And what the deil want ye at this
hour o' the e'en? Clean again rules--clean again rules--as they call
them!"
The speaker seemed by the yawning drone of the last words again to be
composing himself to slumber.
Then the stranger, who had hitherto guided Frank, spoke in a loud
whisper, "Dougal man! hae ye forgotten _Ha nun Gregarach?_"
Instantly there was a bustle inside.
"Deil a bit, deil a bit!" said the voice within, briskly.
Bolts were drawn, whispers passed in Gaelic, and presently Frank and his
companion stood both of them in the vestibule of the tolbooth or public
prison of Glasgow. It was a small but strong guard-room, from which
passages led away to the right and left, and staircases ascended to the
cells of the prisoners. Iron fetters fitly adorned the walls. Muskets,
pistols, and partizans stood about, ready alike for defence or offence.
Still more strange was the jailer who greeted them.
This man was a wild, shock-headed savage with a brush of red hair, but
he knelt and almost worshipped Frank's guide. He could not take his
eyes off him.
"Oich--oich," grunted Dougal, for that was the turnkey's name, "to see
ye here! What would happen to ye if the bailies should come to get
witting of it?"
The guide, still wrapped in his cloak, placed his finger on his lip.
"Fear nothing, Dougal," he said, "your hands shall never draw a bolt on
me."
"That shall they no," said Dougal, emphatically, "she wishes them hacked
off by the elbows first. And when are ye gaun yonder again? When you
return, you will not forget to tell your poor cousin--only seven times
removed."
"I will let you know, Dougal," said the man, "as soon as my plans are
settled."
"And by my sooth," cried Dougal, "when you do, I will fling my keys at
the provost's head, and never gie them anither turn--see if I winna!"
But Frank's guide, who had listened to all this rhapsody very much with
the air of a prince accustomed to royal service and thinking little of
it, interrupted Dougal with some words in Gaelic.
Whereupon the turnkey, taking a lantern, led the young man up the
winding stair and introduced him to a cell, where, lying on a bed, he
recognised--no other than Owen, the head clerk of his father's house.
At first the good Owen could only bemoan the hardness of fate, thinking
that Frank also had met with the same treatment as himself, by being
sent to prison. He had, it seemed, as in duty bound, gone at once to
Messrs. MacVittie, MacFin, and Company and exposed to them his case,
stating the difficulty in which the house were placed by Rashleigh's
disappearance. Hitherto they had been most smooth and silver-tongued,
but at the first word of difficulty as to payment, they had clapped poor
Owen into prison on the charge of meditating flight out of the country.
He had, he continued, sent a note to Bailie Nicol Jarvie, the other
correspondent of the house in Glasgow. But, as he said, "If the civil
house in the Gallowgate used him thus, what was to be expected from the
cross-grained old crab-stock in the Salt Market?"
It had fallen out even as he had expected. Bailie Nicol Jarvie had not
so much as answered his letter, though it had been put into his hand as
he was on his way to church that morning.
Hardly were the words out of Owen's mouth, when from below came the
voice of Dougal the turnkey, evidently urging Frank's guide to conceal
himself.
"Gang upstairs and hide behind the Sassenach gentleman's bed. Ay,
ay--coming--coming!"
The Highlander hastily entered Owen's cell, and, stripping off his heavy
coat, stood at bay, evidently gathering himself for a leap at the
officers, should it indeed prove to be the provost, magistrates, and
guard of the city of Glasgow, as Dougal believed. It was obvious that he
meant to spring right at any who might be seeking to apprehend him. But
instead of a guard with fixed bayonets, it was only a good-looking young
woman in kilted petticoats holding a lantern in her hand, who ushered in
a magistrate, stout, bob-wigged, bustling, and breathless. At the sight
of his face Frank's conductor instantly drew back and resumed the
muffling cloak which hid the lower part of his features.
The chief captain of the jail now showed himself at the door, having
descended hastily to wait on the great man. But the Bailie's anger was
huge against all and sundry.
"A bonny thing, Captain Stanchells," he cried, "that I, a magistrate of
the city, should have been kept half an hour knocking as hard for
entrance into the tolbooth as the poor creatures within knock to get
out! And what, pray, is the meaning of this--strangers in the jail after
lock-up time? I will look after this, Stanchells, depend upon it. Keep
the door locked. By and by I will speak with these gentlemen. But first,
I must have a talk with an old acquaintance here. Mr. Owen, Mr. Owen,
how's all with you, man?"
"Well in body, I thank you, Mr. Jarvie," said poor Owen, "but sore
afflicted in spirit."
"Ay, ay--no doubt--no doubt," said the Bailie, briskly, "but we are all
subject to a downcome, and it comes hard on those that have held their
heads high. But I have not come out at twelve o'clock of a Sabbath night
to cast up to an unfortunate man his backslidings. That was never
Bailie Nicol Jarvie's way, nor yet was it his father the deacon's
before him. Why, man, even in the Kirk I was thinking on your letter.
And after supper I sat yawning wide enough to swallow St. Enoch's Kirk,
till twelve of the clock struck. Then I took a bit look at my ledger
just to see how matters stood between us. Syne I called up Mattie and
bade her light the lamp and convoy me down to the tolbooth. I have entry
here at any hour of the night and day, and so had my father before me,
God bless him!"