On the western skirts of the Torwood--famous in Scottish story for its
association with the names of Wallace and Bruce--there stood, in the
middle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior
appearance for the period.
This house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of the
name of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in the
neighbourhood.
Henderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in
tolerably easy circumstances.
The night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the
year 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one. The ancient oaks of the
Torwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the storm;
and, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were rendered
visible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses by the
flashing lightning.
The night, too, was pitch-dark; and, to add to its dismal character, a
heavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth, and
beat with violence on all opposing objects.
"A terrible night this, goodwife," said Henderson to his helpmate, as he
double-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a candle
to afford him the necessary light to perform this operation.
"I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north
may not bode some ill to poor Scotland. They were seen, I mind, just as
they are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of
Flodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster was
at hand."
"But I have heard you say, goodman," replied David Henderson's
better-half, who--the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a bar
into its place--was still detained in her situation of candle-holder,
"that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's descending from his
vantage-ground."
"True, goodwife," said David; "but was not his doing so but a means of
fulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought about
else?"
The door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without
further colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now late,
retired to bed.
In the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence. The
rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first faintly,
but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the descending
deluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining river on the
blast as it boiled and raged along.
Henderson had been in bed about an hour--it was now midnight--but had
been kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently
jogging his slumbering helpmate--
"Goodwife," he said, "listen a moment. Don't you hear the voice of some
one shouting without?"
They now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon
distinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.
In the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the
door, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the
exclamations of--"Ho! within there! house, house!" gave intimation that
the rider sought admittance.
"Who can this be?" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in which,
however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back, saying--
"Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to admit
visitors. Who can tell who they may be?"
"And who cares who they may be?" replied the sturdy farmer, throwing
himself out of bed. "I'll just see how they look from the window, Mary;"
and he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and saw
beneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black horse,
with a lady seated behind him.
"Dreadful night, friend," said the stranger, looking up to the window
occupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the noise
made in raising it. "Can you give my fellow-traveller here shelter till
the morning? She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched with wet, and so
exhausted by the fatigue of a long day's ride, that she can proceed no
further; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to make out."
"This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers,"
replied the farmer. "I am not in the habit of admitting strangers into
my house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this."
"Had I been asking for myself," rejoined the horseman, "I should not
have complained of your wariness; but surely you won't be so churlish as
refuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this. She can scarce retain
her seat on the saddle. Besides, you shall be handsomely paid for any
trouble you may be put to."
"Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am
indeed very much fatigued," came up to the ear of Henderson, in feeble
but silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman, with the
addition, after a short pause, of "You shall be well rewarded for the
kindness."
At a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but, scratching
his head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his wife.
Learning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this
circumstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to be
intended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance, to her
husband's suggestion that the benighted travellers should be admitted.
On this resolution being come to, Henderson returned to the window, and
thrusting out his head, exclaimed, "Wait there a moment, and I will
admit you."
In the next instant he had unbarred the outer door, and had stepped out
to assist the lady in dismounting; but was anticipated in this courtesy
by her companion, who had already placed her on the ground.
"Shall I put up your horse, sir?" said Henderson, addressing the
stranger, but now with more deference than before; as, from his dress
and manner, which he had now an opportunity of observing more closely,
he had no doubt he was a man of rank.
"Oh no, thank you, friend," replied the latter. "My business is
pressing, and I must go on; but allow me to recommend this fair lady to
your kindest attention. To-morrow I will return and carry her away."
Saying this, he again threw himself on his horse--a noble-looking
charger--took bridle in hand, struck his spurs into his side, and
regardless of all obstacles, and of the profound darkness of the night,
darted off with the speed of the wind.
In an instant after, both horse and rider were lost in the gloom; but
their furious career might for some time be tracked, even after they had
disappeared, by the streams of fire which poured from the fierce
collision of the horse's hoofs with the stony road over which he was
tearing his way with such desperate velocity.
Henderson in the meantime had conducted his fair charge into the house,
and had consigned her to the care of his wife, who had now risen for the
purpose of attending her.
A servant having been also called up, a cheerful fire soon blazed on the
hearth of the best apartment in the house--that into which the strange
lady had been ushered.
The kind-hearted farmer's wife now also supplied her fair guest with dry
clothing and other necessaries, and did everything in her power to
render her as comfortable as possible.
To this kindness her natural benevolence alone would have prompted her;
but an additional motive presented itself in the youth and extreme
beauty of the fair traveller, who was, as the farmer's wife afterwards
remarked to her husband, the loveliest creature her eyes ever beheld.
Nor was her manner less captivating: it was mild and gentle, while the
sweet silvery tones of her voice imparted an additional charm to the
graces of her person.
Her apparel, too, the good woman observed, was of the richest
description; and the jewellery with which she was adorned, in the shape
of rings, bracelets, etc., and which she deposited one after another on
a table that stood beside her, with the careless manner of one
accustomed to the possession of such things, seemed of great value.
A purse, also, well stored with golden guineas, as the sound indicated,
was likewise thrown on the table with the same indifferent manner.
The wealth of the fair stranger, in short, seemed boundless in the eyes
of her humble, unsophisticated attendant.
The comfort of the young lady attended to in every way, including the
offer of some homely refreshment, of which, however, she scarcely
partook, pleading excessive fatigue as an apology, she was left alone in
the apartment to retire to rest when she thought proper; the room
containing a clean and neat bed, which had always been reserved for
strangers.
On rejoining her husband, after leaving her fair guest, a long and
earnest conversation took place between the worthy couple as to who or
what the strangers could be. They supposed, they conjectured, they
imagined, but all to no purpose. They could make nothing of it beyond
the conviction that they were persons of rank; for the natural
politeness of the "guidwife" had prevented her asking the young lady any
questions touching her history; and she had made no communication
whatever on the subject herself.
As to the lady's companion, all that Henderson, who was the only one of
the family who had seen him, could tell, was, that he was a tall, dark
man, attired as a gentleman, but so muffled up in a large cloak, that he
could not, owing to that circumstance and the extreme darkness of the
night, make out his features distinctly.
Henderson, however, expressed some surprise at the abruptness of his
departure, and still more at the wild and desperate speed with which he
had ridden away, regardless of the darkness of the night and of all
obstacles that might be in the way.
It was what he himself, a good horseman, and who knew every inch of the
ground, would not have done for a thousand merks; and a great marvel he
held it, that the reckless rider had got a hundred yards without horse
and man coming down, to the utter destruction of both.
Such was the substance of Henderson's communications to his wife
regarding the horseman. The latter's to him was of the youth and
exceeding beauty of his fair companion, and of her apparently prodigious
wealth. The worthy man drank in with greedy ears, and looks of excessive
wonderment, her glowing descriptions of the sparkling jewels and heavily
laden purse which she had seen the strange lady deposit on the table;
and greatly did these descriptions add to his perplexity as to who or
what this lady could possibly be.
Tired of conjecturing, the worthy couple now again retired to rest,
trusting that the morning would bring some light on a subject which so
sadly puzzled them.
In due time that morning came, and, like many of those mornings that
succeed a night of storm, it came fair and beautiful. The wind was laid,
the rain had ceased, and the unclouded sun poured his cheerful light
through the dark green glades of the Torwood.
On the same morning another sun arose, although to shine on a more
limited scene. This was the fair guest of David Henderson of Woodlands,
whose beauty, remarkable as it had seemed on the previous night under
all disadvantages, now appeared to surpass all that can be conceived of
female perfection.
Mrs. Henderson looked, and, we may say, gazed on the fair stranger with
a degree of wonder and delight, that for some time prevented her
tendering the civilities which she came for the express purpose of
offering. For some seconds she could do nothing but obey a species of
charm, for which, perhaps, she could not have very well accounted. The
gentle smile, too, and melodious voice of her guest, seemed still more
fascinating than on the previous evening.
In the meantime the day wore on, and there was yet no appearance of the
lady's companion of the former night, who, as the reader will
recollect, had promised to Henderson to return and carry away his fair
lodger.
Night came, and still he appeared not. Another day and another night
passed away, and still he of the black charger was not forthcoming.
The circumstance greatly surprised both Henderson and his wife; but it
did not surprise them more than the lady's apparent indifference on the
subject. She indeed joined, in words at least, in the wonder which they
once or twice distantly hinted at the conduct of the recreant knight;
but it was evident that she did not feel much of either astonishment or
disappointment at his delay.
Again and again, another and another day came and passed away, and still
no one appeared to inquire after the fair inmate of Woodlands.
It will readily be believed that the surprise of Henderson and his wife
at this circumstance increased with the lapse of time. It certainly did.
But however much they might be surprised, they had little reason to
complain, so far, at any rate, as their interest was concerned, for
their fair lodger paid them handsomely for the trouble she put them to.
She dealt out the contents of her ample and well-stocked purse with
unsparing liberality, besides presenting her hostess with several
valuable jewels.
On this score, therefore, they had nothing to complain of; and neither
needed to care, nor did care, how long it continued.
During all this time the unknown beauty continued to maintain the most
profound silence regarding her history,--whence she had come, whither
she was going, or in what relation the person stood to her who had
brought her to Woodlands, and who now seemed to have deserted her.
All that the most ingeniously-put queries on the subject could elicit
was, that she was an entire stranger in that part of the country; and an
assurance that the person who brought her would return for her one day,
although there were reasons why it might be some little time distant.
What these reasons were, however, she never would give the most remote
idea; and with this measure of information were her host and hostess
compelled to remain satisfied.
The habits of the fair stranger, in the meantime, were extremely
retired. She would never go abroad until towards the dusk of the
evening; and when she did, she always took the most sequestered routes;
her favourite, indeed only resort on these occasions, being a certain
little retired grove of elms, at the distance of about a quarter of a
mile from Woodlands.
The extreme caution the young lady observed in all her movements when
she went abroad, a good deal surprised both Henderson and his wife; but,
from a feeling of delicacy towards their fair lodger, who had won their
esteem by her affable and amiable manners, they avoided all remark on
the subject, and would neither themselves interfere in any way with her
proceedings, nor allow any other member of their family to do so.
Thus was she permitted to go out and return whensoever she pleased,
without inquiry or remark.
Although, however, neither Henderson nor his wife would allow of any one
watching the motions of their fair but mysterious lodger when she went
abroad, there is nothing to hinder us from doing this. We shall
therefore follow her to the little elm grove by the wayside, on a
certain evening two or three days after her arrival in Woodlands.
Doing this, we shall find the mysterious stranger seated beside a clear
sparkling fountain, situated a little way within the grove, that, first
forming itself into a little pellucid lake in the midst of the
greensward, afterwards glided away down a mossy channel bedecked with
primroses.
All alone by this fountain sat the young lady, looking, in her
surpassing features and the exquisite symmetry of her light and graceful
form, the very nymph of the crystal waters of the spring--the goddess of
the grove.
As she thus sat on the evening in question--it being now towards the
dusk--the bushes, by which the fountain was in part shut in, were
suddenly and roughly parted, and in the next moment a young man of
elegant exterior, attired in the best fashion of the period, and leading
a horse behind him by the bridle, stood before the half-alarmed and
blushing damsel.
The embarrassment of the lady, however, was not much greater than that
of the intruder, who appeared to have little expected to find so fair
and delicate a creature in such a situation, or indeed to find any one
else. He himself had sought the fountain, which he knew well, and had
often visited, merely to quench his thirst.
After contemplating each other for an instant with looks of surprise and
embarrassment, the stranger doffed his bonnet with an air of great
gallantry, and apologised for his intrusion.
The lady, smiling and blushing, replied, that his appearance there could
be no intrusion, as the place was free to all.
"True, madam," said the former, again bowing low; "but your presence
should have made it sacred, and I should have so deemed it, had I been
aware of your being here."
The only reply of the young lady to this gallant speech, was a profound
curtsey, and a smile of winning sweetness which was natural to her.
Unable to withdraw himself from the fascinations of the fair stranger,
yet without any apology for remaining longer where he was, the young man
appeared for a moment not to know precisely what he should say or do
next. At length, however, after having vainly hinted a desire to know
the young lady's name and place of residence, his courtesy prevailed
over every other more selfish feeling, and he mounted his horse, and,
bidding the fair wood-nymph a respectful adieu, rode off.
The young gallant, however, did not carry all away with him that he
brought,--he left his heart behind him; and he had not ridden far before
he found that he had done so.
The surpassing beauty of the fair stranger, and the captivating
sweetness of her manner, had made an impression upon him which was
destined never to be effaced.
His, in short, was one of those cases in the matter of love, which, it
is said, are laughed at in France, doubted in England, and true only of
the warm-tempered sons and daughters of the sunny south,--love at first
sight.
It was so. From that hour the image of the lovely nymph of the grove was
to remain for ever enshrined in the inmost heart of the young cavalier.
He had met with no encouragement to follow up the accidental
acquaintance he had made. Indeed, the lady's reluctance to give him any
information whatever as to her name or residence, he could not but
consider as an indirect intimation that she desired no further
correspondence with him.
But, recollecting the old adage, that "faint heart never won fair lady,"
he resolved, although unbidden, to seek, very soon again, the fountain
in the elm grove.
Having brought our story to this point, we shall retrace our steps a
little way, and take note of certain incidents that occurred in the city
of Glasgow on the day after the visit of him of the black charger at
Woodlands.
Early on the forenoon of that day, the Drygate, then one of the
principal streets of the city above named, exhibited an unusual degree
of stir and bustle.
The causeway was thronged with idlers, who were ever and anon dashed
aside, like the wave that is thrown from the prow of a vessel, by some
prancing horseman, who made his way towards an open space formed by the
junction of three different streets.
At this point were mustering a band of riders, consisting of the civil
authorities of the city, together with a number of its principal
inhabitants, and other gentlemen from the neighbourhood.
The horsemen were all attired in their best,--hat and feathers, long
cloaks of Flemish broad-cloth, and glittering steel-handed rapiers by
their sides.
Having mustered to about the number of thirty, they formed themselves
into something like regular order, and seemed now to be but awaiting the
word to march. And it was indeed so; but they were also awaiting he who
was to give it. They waited the appearance of their leader. A shout from
the populace soon after announced his approach.
"The Provost! the Provost!" exclaimed a hundred voices at once, as a man
of large stature, and of a bold and martial bearing, mounted on a
"coal-black steed," came prancing alongst the Drygate-head, and made for
the point at which the horsemen were assembled.
On his approach, the latter doffed their hats respectfully--a civility
which was gracefully returned by him to whom it was addressed.
Taking his place at the head of the cavalcade, the Provost gave the word
to march, when the whole party moved onwards; and after cautiously
footing it down the steep and ill-paved descent of the Drygate, took, at
a slow pace, the road towards Hamilton.
The chief magistrate of Glasgow, who led the party of horsemen on the
present occasion, was Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod,--a powerful and
wealthy baron of the neighbourhood, who had been chosen to that
appointment, as all chief magistrates were chosen in those wild and
turbulent times, on account of his ability to protect the inhabitants
from those insults and injuries to which they were constantly liable at
the hands of unprincipled power, and from which the laws were too feeble
to shield them.
And to better hands than those of Sir Robert Lindsay, who was a man of
bold and determined character, the welfare of the city and the safety of
the citizens could not have been entrusted.
In return for the honour conferred on him, and the confidence reposed in
him, he watched over the interests of the city with the utmost
vigilance. But it was not to the general interest alone that he confined
the benefits of his guardianship. Individuals, also, who were wronged,
or threatened to be wronged, found in him a ready and efficient
protector, let the oppressor or wrongdoer be whom he might.
Having given this brief sketch of the leader of the cavalcade, we resume
the detail of its proceedings.
Holding on its way in a south-easterly direction, the party soon reached
and passed Rutherglen Bridge; the road connecting Hamilton with Glasgow
being then on the south side of the Clyde. But a little way farther had
they proceeded, when the faint sound of a bugle was heard, coming
apparently from a considerable distance.
"There he comes at last," said Sir David Lindsay, suddenly checking his
horse to await the coming up of his party, of which he had been riding a
little way in advance, immersed in a brown study. "There he comes at
last," he exclaimed, recalled from his reverie by the sound of the
bugle. "Look to your paces, gentlemen, and let us show some order and
regularity as well as respect."
Obeying this hint, the horsemen, who had been before jogging along in a
confused and careless manner, now drew together into a closer body; the
laggards coming forward, and those in advance holding back.
In this order, with the Provost at their head, the party continued to
move slowly onwards; but they had not done so for many minutes, when
they descried, at the farther extremity of a long level reach of the
road, a numerous party of horse approaching at a rapid, ambling pace,
and seemingly straining hard to keep up with one who rode a little way
in their front.
The contrast between this party and the Provost's was striking enough.
The latter, though exceedingly respectable and citizen-like, was of
extremely sober hue compared to the former, in which flaunted all the
gayest dresses of the gayest courtiers of the time. Long plumes of
feathers waved and nodded in velvet bonnets, looped with gold bands; and
rich and brilliant colours, mingling with the glitter of steel and
silver, gave to the gallant cavalcade at once an imposing and
magnificent appearance. In point of horsemanship, too, with the
exception of Sir Robert Lindsay himself, and one or two other men of
rank who had joined his party, the approaching cavaliers greatly
surpassed the worthy citizens of St. Mungo,--coming on at a showy and
dashing pace, while the latter kept advancing with the sober, steady
gait assimilative of their character.
On the two parties coming within about fifty paces of each other, Sir
Robert Lindsay made a signal to his followers to halt, while he himself
rode forward, hat in hand, towards the leader of the opposite party.
"Our good Sir Robert of Dunrod," said the latter, who was no other than
James V., advancing half-way to meet the Provost, and taking him kindly
and familiarly by the hand as he spoke. "How did'st learn of our
coming?"
"The movements of kings are not easily kept secret," replied Sir Robert,
evasively.
"By St. Bridget, it would seem not," replied James, laughingly. "My
visit to your good city, Sir Robert, I did not mean to be a formal one,
and therefore had mentioned it only to one or two. In truth,
I--I"--added James, with some embarrassment of manner--"I had just one
particular purpose, and that of a private nature, in view. No state
matter at all, Sir Robert--nothing of a public character. So that, to be
plain with you, Sir Robert, I could have dispensed with the honour you
have done me in bringing out these good citizens to receive me; that
being, I presume, your purpose. Not but that I should have been most
happy to meet yourself, Sir Robert; but it was quite unnecessary to
trouble these worthy people."
"It was our bounden duty, your Grace," replied Sir Robert, not at all
disconcerted by this royal damper on his loyalty. "It was our bounden
duty, on learning that your Grace was at Bothwell Castle, and that you
intended visiting our poor town of Glasgow, to acknowledge the favour
in the best way in our power. And these worthy gentlemen and myself
could think of no better than coming out to meet and welcome your
Grace."
"Well, well, since it is so, Sir Robert," replied the king,
good-humouredly, "we shall take the kindness as it is meant. Let us
proceed."
Riding side by side, and followed by their respective parties, James and
the Provost now resumed their progress towards Glasgow, where they
shortly after arrived, and where they were received with noisy
acclamations by the populace, whom rumour had informed of the king's
approach.
On reaching the city, the latter proceeded to the Bishop's Castle,--an
edifice which has long since disappeared, but which at this time stood
on or near the site of the infirmary,--in which he intended taking up
his residence.
Having seen the king within the castle gates, his citizen escort
dispersed, and sought their several homes; going off, in twos and
threes, in different directions.
"Ken ye, Sir Robert, what has brought his Grace here at present?" said
an old wealthy merchant, who had been one of the cavalcade that went to
meet James, and whom the Provost overtook as he was leisurely jogging
down the High Street, on his way home.
"Hem," ejaculated Sir Robert. "Perhaps I have half a guess, Mr, Morton.
The king visits places on very particular sorts of errands sometimes.
His Grace didn't above half thank us for our attendance to-day. He would
rather have got somewhat more quietly into the city; but I had reasons
for desiring it to be otherwise, so did not mind his hints about his
wish for privacy."
"And no doubt he had his reasons for the privacy he hinted at," said Sir
Robert's companion.
"You may swear that," replied the latter, laughingly.
"Heard ye ever, Mr. Morton, of a certain fair and wealthy young lady of
the name of Jessie Craig?"
"John Craig's daughter?" rejoined the old merchant.
"The same," said Sir Robert. "The prettiest girl in Scotland, and one of
the wealthiest too."
"Well; what if the king should have been smitten with her beauty, having
seen her accidentally in Edinburgh, where she was lately? and what, if
his visit to Glasgow just now should be for the express purpose of
seeing this fair maiden? and what, if I should not exactly approve of
such a proceeding, seeing that the young lady in question has, as you
know, neither father nor mother to protect her, both being dead?"
"Well, Sir Robert, and what then?" here interposed Mr. Morton, availing
himself of a pause in the former's supposititious case.
"Why, then, wouldn't it be my bounden duty, worthy sir, as Provost of
this city, to act the part of guardian towards this young maiden in such
emergency, and to see that she came by no wrong?"
"Truly, it would be a worthy part, Sir Robert," replied the old
merchant; "but the king is strong, and you may not resist him openly."
"Nay, that I would not attempt," replied the Provost. "I have taken
quieter and more effectual measures. Made aware, though somewhat late,
through a trusty channel, of the king's intended visit and its purpose,
I have removed her out of the reach of danger, to where his Grace will,
I rather think, have some difficulty in finding her."
"So, so. And this, then, is the true secret of the honour which has just
been conferred on us!" replied Sir Robert's companion, with some
indignation. "But the matter is in good hands when it is in yours,
Provost. In your keeping we consider our honours and our interests are
safe. I wish you a good day, Provost." And the interlocutors having by
this time arrived at the foot of the High Street, where four streets
joined, the old merchant took that which conducted to his residence, Sir
Robert's route lying in an opposite direction.
From the conversation just recorded, the reader will at once trace a
connection between Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod and he of the black
charger who brought to Woodlands the fair damsel whom we left there.
They were the same; and that fair damsel was the daughter of John Craig,
late merchant of the city of Glasgow, who left an immense fortune, of
which this girl was the sole heir.
In carrying the young lady to Woodlands, and leaving her there, Sir
Robert, although apparently under the compulsion of circumstances, was
acting advisedly. He knew Henderson to be a man of excellent character
and great respectability; and in the secrecy and mystery he observed, he
sought to preclude all possibility of his interference in the affair
ever reaching the ears of the king. What he had told to old Morton, he
knew would go no further; that person having been an intimate friend of
the young lady's father, and of course interested in all that concerned
her welfare.
The palace of a bishop was not very appropriate quarters for one who
came on such an errand as that which brought James to Glasgow. But this
was a circumstance that did not give much concern to that merry and
somewhat eccentric monarch; and the less so, that the bishop himself
happened to be from home at the time, on a visit to his brother of St.
Andrews.
Having the house thus to himself, James did not hesitate to make as free
use of it as if he had been at Holyrood.
It was not many hours after his arrival at the castle, that he summoned
to his presence a certain trusty attendant of the name of William
Buchanan, and thus schooled him in the duties of a particular mission in
which he desired his services.
"Willie," said the good-humoured monarch, "at the further end of the
Rottenrow of this good city of Glasgow--that is, at the western end of
the said row--there stands a fair mansion on the edge of the brae, and
overlooking the strath of the Clyde. It is the residence of a certain
fair young lady of the name of Craig. Now, Willie, what I desire of you
to do is this: you will go to this young lady from me, carrying her this
gold ring, and say to her that I intend, with her permission, doing
myself the honour of paying her a visit in the course of this afternoon.
"Make your observations, Willie, and let me know how the land lies when
you return. But, pray thee, keep out of the way of our worthy knight of
Dunrod; and if thou shouldst chance to meet him, and he should question
thee, seeing that you wear our livery, breathe no syllable of what thou
art about, otherwise he may prove somewhat troublesome to both of us. At
any rate, to a certainty, he would crop thy ears, Willie; and thou
knowest, king though I be, I could not put them on again, nor give thee
another pair in their stead. So keep those thou hast out of the hands of
Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod, I pray thee."
Charged with his mission, Willie, who had been often employed on matters
of this kind before, proceeded to the street with the unsavoury name
already mentioned; but, not knowing exactly where to find the house he
wanted, he looked around him to see if he could see any one to whom he
might apply for information. There happened to be nobody on the street
at the time; but his eye at length fell on an old weaver--as, from the
short green apron he wore, he appeared to be--standing at a door.
Towards this person Willie now advanced, discarding, however, as much as
possible, all appearance of having any particular object in view; for he
prided himself on the caution and dexterity with which he managed all
such matters as that he was now engaged in.
"Fine day, honest man," said Willie, approaching the old weaver. "Gran
wather for the hairst."
"It's just that, noo," replied the old man, gazing at Willie with a look
of inquiry. "Just uncommon pleesant wather."
"A bit nice airy place up here," remarked the latter.
"Ou ay, weel aneuch for that," replied the weaver. "But air 'll no fill
the wame."
"No very substantially," said Willie. "Some gran hooses up here, though.
Wha's is that?" and he pointed to a very handsome mansion-house
opposite.
"That's the rector o' Hamilton's," replied the weaver.
"And that are there?"
"That's the rector o' Carstairs'."
"And that?"
"That's the rector o' Erskine's."
"'Od, but ye do leeve in a godly neighbourhood here," said Willie,
impatient with these clerical iterations. "Do a' the best houses hereawa
belang to the clergy?"
"Indeed, the maist feck o' them," said the weaver. "Leave ye them alane
for that. The best o' everything fa's to their share."
"Yonder's anither handsome hoose, noo," said Willie, pointing to one he
had not yet indicated. "Does yon belang to the clergy too?"
"Ou no; yon's the late Mr. Craig's," replied the weaver; "ane o' oor
walthiest merchants, wha died some time ago."
"Ou ay," said Willie, drily; "just sae. Gude mornin', friend." And
thinking he had managed his inquiries very dexterously, he sauntered
slowly away--still assuming to have no special object in view--towards
the particular house just spoken of, and which, we need not say, was
precisely the one he wanted.
It was a large isolated building, with an extensive garden behind, and
stretching down the face of what is now called the Deanside Brae. On the
side next the street, the entrance was by a tall, narrow, iron gate.
This gate Willie now approached, but found it locked hard and fast.
Finding this, he bawled out, at the top of his voice, for some one to
come to him. After a time, an old woman made her appearance, and, in no
very pleasant mood, asked him what he wanted.
"I hae a particular message, frae a very particular person, to the young
leddy o' this hoose," replied Willie.
"Ye maun gang and seek the young leddy o' this hoose ither whars than
here, then," said the old dame, making back to the house again, without
intending any further communication on the subject.
"Do ye mean to say that she's no in the hoose?" shouted Willie.
"Ay, I mean to say that, and mair too," replied the old crone. "She
hasna been in't for a gey while, and winna be in't for a guid while
langer; and sae ye may tell them that sent ye."
Saying this, she passed into the house; and by doing so, would have put
an end to all further conference.
But Willie was not to be thus baffled in his object. Changing his
tactics from the imperative to the wheedling, in which last he believed
himself to be exceedingly dexterous--
"Mistress--I say, Mistress," he shouted, in a loud, but coaxing tone;
"speak a word, woman--just a word or two. Ye maybe winna fare the waur
o't."
Whether it was the hint conveyed in the last clause of Willie's address,
or that the old woman felt some curiosity to hear what so urgent a
visitor had to say, she returned to the door, where, standing fast, and
looking across the courtyard at Willie, whose sly though simple-looking
face was pressed against the iron bars of the outer gate, she replied to
him with a--
"Weel, man, what is't ye want?"
"Tuts, woman, come across--come across," said Willie, wagging her
towards him with his forefinger. "I canna be roarin' out what I hae to
say to ye a' that distance. I micht as weel cry it oot at the cross.
See, there's something to bring ye a wee nearer."
And he held out several small silver coin through the bars of the gate.
The production of the cash had the desired effect. The old woman, who
was lame, and who walked by the aid of a short thick stick with a
crooked head, hobbled towards him, and, having accepted the proffered
coin, again asked, though with much more civility than before, what it
was he wanted?
"Tuts, woman, open the yett," said Willie in his cagiest manner, "and
I'll tell ye a' aboot it. It's hardly ceevil to be keeping a body
speakin' this way wi' his nose thrust through atwixt twa cauld bars o'
airn, like a rattin atween a pair o' tangs."
"Some folks are safest that way, though," replied the old woman, with
something like an attempt at a laugh. "Bars o' airn are amang the best
freens we hae sometimes. But as ye seem a civil sort o' a chiel, after
a', I'll let ye in, although I dinna see what ye'll be the better o'
that."
So saying, she took a large iron key from her girdle, inserted it in the
lock, and in the next moment the gate grated on its hinges; yielding
partly to the pressure of Willie from without, and partly to the
co-operative efforts of the old woman from within.
"Noo," said Willie, on gaining the interior of the courtyard--"Noo," he
said, affecting his most coaxing manner, "you and me 'll hae a bit crack
thegither, guidwife."
And, sitting down on a stone bench that ran along the front of the
house, he motioned to the old lady to take a seat beside him, which she
did.
"I understand, guidwife," began Willie, who meant to be very cunning in
his mode of procedure, "that she's just an uncommon bonny leddy your
mistress; just wonderfu'."
"Whaever tell't ye that, didna misinform ye," replied the old woman
drily.
"And has mints o' siller?" rejoined Mr. Buchanan.
"No ill aff in that way either," said the old woman.
"But it's her beauty--it's her extraordinary beauty--that's the wonder,
and that I hear everybody speakin' aboot," said Willie. "I wad gie the
price o' sax fat hens to see her. Could ye no get me a glisk o' her ony
way, just for ae minute?"
"Didna I tell ye before that she's no at hame?" said the old dame,
threatening again to get restive on Willie's hands.
"Od, so ye did; I forgot," said Mr. Buchanan, affecting obliviousness of
the fact. "Whaur may she be noo?" he added in his simplest and
_couthiest_ manner.
"Wad ye like to ken?" replied the old lady with a satirical sneer.
"'Deed wad I; and there's mae than me wad like to ken," replied Willie;
"and them that wad pay handsomely for the information."
"Really," said the old dame, with a continuation of the same sneer, and
long ere this guessing what Willie was driving at. "And wha may they be
noo, if I may speer?"
"They're gey kenspeckled," replied Mr. Buchanan; "but that doesna
matter. If ye canna, or winna tell me whaur Mistress Craig is, could ye
no gie's a bit inklin' o' whan ye expect her hame?"
"No; but I'll gie ye a bit inklin o' whan ye'll walk oot o' this," said
the old woman, rising angrily from her seat; "and that's this minute, or
I'll set the dug on ye. Hisk, hisk--Teeger, Teeger!"
And a huge black dog came bouncing out of the house, and took up a
position right in front of Willie; wagging his tail, as if in
anticipation of a handsome treat in the way of worrying that worthy.
"Gude sake, woman," said Willie, rising in great alarm from his seat,
and edging towards the outer gate--"What's a' this for? Ye wadna set
that brute on a Christian cratur, wad ye?"
"Wadna I? Ye'd better no try me, frien', but troop aff wi' ye. Teeger,"
she added, with a significant look. The dog understood it, and,
springing on Willie, seized him by one of the skirts of his coat, which,
with one powerful tug, he at once separated from the body.
Pressed closely upon by both the dog and his mistress, Willie keeping,
however, his face to the foe, now retreated towards the gate, when, just
at the moment of his making his exit, the old lady, raising her staff,
hit him a parting blow, which, taking effect on the bridge of his nose,
immediately enlarged the dimensions of that organ, besides drawing forth
a copious stream of claret. In the next instant the gate was shut and
locked in the sufferer's face.
"Confound ye, ye auld limmer," shouted Willie furiously, and shaking his
fist through the bars of the gate as he spoke, "if I had ye here on the
outside o' the yett, as ye're in the in, if I wadna baste the auld hide
o' ye. But my name's no Willie Buchanan if I dinna gar ye rue this job
yet, some way or anither."
To these objurgations of the discomfited messenger the old lady deigned
no word of answer, but merely shaking her head, and indulging in a
pretty broad smile of satisfaction, hobbled into the house, followed by
Tiger, wagging his tail, as much as to say, "I think we've given yon
fellow a fright, mistress."
Distracted with indignation and resentment, Willie hastened back to the
castle, and, too much excited to think of his outward appearance,
hurried into the royal presence with his skirtless coat and disfigured
countenance, which he had by no means improved by sundry wipes with the
sleeve of his coat.
On Willie making his appearance in this guise, the merry monarch looked
at him for an instant in silent amazement, then burst into an
incontrollable fit of laughter, which the grave, serious look of Willie
showed he by no means relished. There was even a slight expression of
resentment in the manner in which the maltreated messenger bore the
merry reception of his light-hearted master.
"Willie, man," at length said James, when his mirth had somewhat
subsided, "what's this has happened thee? Where gottest thou that
enormous nose, man?"
"Feth, your Majesty, it may be a joke to you, but it's unco little o'
ane to me," replied Willie, whose confidential duties and familiar
intercourse with his royal master had led him to assume a freedom of
speech which was permitted to no other, and which no other would have
dared to attempt.
"I hae gotten sic a worryin' the day," he continued, "as I never got in
my life before. Between dugs and auld wives, I hae had a bonny time o't.
Worried by the tane and smashed by the tither, as my nose and my
coat-tails bear witness."
"Explain yourself, Willie. What does all this mean?" exclaimed James,
again laughing.
Willie told his story, finishing with the information that the bird was
flown--meaning Jessie Craig. "Aff and awa, naebody kens, or'll tell
whaur."
"Off--away!" exclaimed the king, with an air of mingled disappointment
and surprise. "Very odd," he added, musingly; "and most particularly
unlucky. But we shall wait on a day or two, and she will probably
reappear in that time; or we may find out where she has gone to."
On the day following that on which the incidents just related occurred,
the curiosity of the good people in the neighbourhood of the late Mr.
Craig's house in Rottenrow was a good deal excited by seeing a person in
the dress of a gentleman hovering about the residence just alluded to.
Anon he would walk to and fro in front of the house, looking earnestly
towards the windows. Now he would descend the Deanside Brae, and do the
same by those behind. Again he would return to the front of the mansion,
and taking up his station on the opposite side of the street, would
resume his scrutiny of the windows.
The stranger was thus employed, when he was startled by the appearance
of some one advancing towards him, whom, it was evident, he would fain
have avoided if he could. But it was too late. There was no escape. So,
assuming an air of as much composure and indifference as he could, he
awaited the approach of the unwelcome intruder. This person was Sir
Robert Lindsay.
Coming up to the stranger with a respectful air, and with an expression
of countenance as free from all consciousness as that which had been
assumed by the former--
"I hope your Grace is well?" he said, bowing profoundly as he spoke.
"Thank you, Provost--thank you," replied James; for we need hardly say
it was he.
"Your Grace has doubtless come hither," said the former gravely, "to
enjoy the delightful view which this eminence commands?"
"The precise purpose, Sir Robert," replied James, recovering a little
from the embarrassment which, after all his efforts, he could not
entirely conceal. "The view is truly a fine one, Provost," continued the
king. "I had no idea that your good city could boast of anything so fair
in the way of landscape. Our city of Edinburgh hath more romantic points
about it; but for calm and tranquil beauty, methinks it hath nothing
superior to the scene commanded by this eminence."
"There are some particular localities on the ridge of the hill here,
however," said Sir Robert, "that exhibit the landscape to much better
advantage than others, and to which, taking it for granted that your
Grace is not over-familiar with the ground, it will afford me much
pleasure to conduct you."
"Ah! thank you, good Sir Robert--thank you," replied James. "But some
other day, if you please. The little spare time I had on my hands is
about exhausted, so that I must return to the castle. I have, as you
know, Sir Robert, to give audience to some of your worthy councillors,
who intend honouring me with a visit.
"Amongst the number I will expect to see yourself, Sir Robert." And
James, after politely returning the loyal obeisance of the Provost,
hurried away towards the castle.
On his departure, the latter stood for a moment, and looked after him
with a smile of peculiar intelligence; then muttered, as he also left
the spot--
"Well do I know what it was brought your Grace to this quarter of the
town; and knowing this, I know it was for anything but the sake of its
view. Fair maidens have more attractions in your eyes than all the views
between this and John o'Groat's. But I have taken care that your pursuit
in the present instance will avail thee little." And the good Provost
went on his way.
For eight entire days after this did James wait in Glasgow for the
return of Jessie Craig; but he waited in vain. Neither in that time
could he learn anything whatever of the place of her sojournment. His
patience at length exhausted, he determined on giving up the pursuit for
the time at any rate, and on quitting the city.
The king, as elsewhere casually mentioned, had come last from Bothwell
Castle. It was now his intention to proceed to Stirling, where he
proposed stopping for two or three weeks; thence to Linlithgow, and
thereafter returning to Edinburgh.
The purpose of James to make this round having reached the ears of a
certain Sir James Crawford of Netherton, whose house and estate lay
about half-way between Glasgow and Stirling, that gentleman sent a
respectful message to James, through Sir Robert Lindsay, to the effect
that he would feel much gratified if his Grace would deign to honour his
poor house of Netherton with a visit in passing, and accept for himself
and followers such refreshment as he could put before them.
To this message James returned a gracious answer, saying that he would
have much pleasure in accepting the invitation so kindly sent him, and
naming the day and hour when he would put the inviter's hospitality to
the test.
Faithful to his promise, the king and his retinue, amongst whom was now
Sir Robert Lindsay, who had been included in the invitation, presented
themselves at Netherton gate about noon on the day that had been named.
They were received with all honour by the proprietor, a young man of
prepossessing appearance, graceful manners, and frank address.
On the king and gentlemen of his train entering the house, they were
ushered into a large banqueting hall, where was an ample table spread
with the choicest edibles, and glittering with the silver goblets and
flagons that stood around it in thick array. Everything, in short,
betokened at once the loyalty and great wealth of the royal party's
entertainer.
The king and his followers having taken their places at table, the
fullest measure of justice was quickly done to the good things with
which it was spread. James was in high spirits, and talked and rattled
away with as much glee and as entire an absence of all kingly reserve as
the humblest good fellow in his train.
Encouraged by the affability of the king, and catching his humour, the
whole party gave way to the most unrestrained mirth. The joke and the
jest went merrily round with the wine flagon; and he was for a time the
best man who could start the most jocund theme.
It was while this spirit prevailed that Sir Robert Lindsay, after making
a private signal to Sir James Crawford, which had the effect of causing
him to quit the apartment on pretence of looking for something he
wanted, addressing the king, said--
"May I take the liberty of asking your Grace if you have seen any
particularly fair maidens in the course of your present peregrinations?
I know your Grace has a good taste in these matters."
James coloured a little at this question and the remark which
accompanied it; but quickly regaining his self-possession and
good-humour--
"No, Sir Robert," he said, laughingly, "I cannot say that I have been so
fortunate on the present occasion. As to the commendation which you have
been pleased to bestow on my taste, I thank you, and am glad it meets
with your approbation."
"Yet, your Grace," continued Sir Robert, "excellent judge as I know you
to be of female beauty, I deem myself, old and staid as I am, your
Grace's equal, craving your Grace's pardon; and, to prove this, will
take a bet with your Grace of a good round sum, that you have never
seen, and do not know, a more beautiful woman than the lady of our
present host."
"Take care, Provost," replied James. "Make no rash bets. I know the most
beautiful maiden the sun ever shone upon. But it would be ungallant and
ungracious to make the lady of our good host the subject of such a bet
on the present occasion."
"But our host is absent, your Grace," replied the Provost
pertinaciously; "and neither he nor any one else, but your Grace's
friends present, need know anything at all of the matter. Will your
Grace take me up for a thousand merks?"
"But suppose I should," replied James, "how is the thing to be managed?
and who is to decide?"
"Both points are of easy adjustment, your Grace," said Sir Robert. "Your
Grace has only to intimate a wish to our host, when he returns, that
you would feel gratified by his introducing his lady to you; and as to
the matter of decision, I would, with your Grace's permission and
approval, put that into the hands of the gentlemen present. Of course,
nothing need be said of the purpose of this proceeding to either host or
hostess."
"Well, be it so," said James, urged on by the madcaps around him, who
were delighted with the idea of the thing. "Now then, gentlemen," he
continued, "the lady on whose beauty I stake my thousand merks is Jessie
Craig, the merchant's daughter, of Glasgow, whom, I think, all of you
have seen."
"Ha! my townswoman," exclaimed Sir Robert, with every appearance of
surprise. "On my word, you have made mine a hard task of it; for a
fairer maiden than Jessie Craig may not so readily be found.
Nevertheless, I adhere to the terms of my bet."
The Provost had just done speaking, when Sir James Crawford entered the
apartment, and resumed his seat at table. Shortly after he had done so,
James, addressing him, said--
"Sir James, it would complete the satisfaction of these gentlemen and
myself with the hospitality you have this day shown us, were you to
afford us an opportunity of paying our respects to your good lady; that
is, if it be perfectly convenient for and agreeable to her."
"Lady Crawford will be but too proud of the honour, your Grace," replied
Sir James, rising. "She shall attend your Grace presently."
Saying this, the latter again withdrew; and soon after returned, leading
a lady, over whose face hung a long and flowing veil, into the royal
presence.
It would require the painter's art to express adequately the looks of
intense and eager interest with which James and his party gazed on the
veiled beauty, as she entered the apartment and advanced towards them.
Their keen and impatient scrutiny seemed as if it would pierce the
tantalizing obstruction that prevented them seeing those features on
whose beauty so large a sum had been staked. In this state of annoying
suspense, however, they were not long detained. On approaching within a
few paces of the king, and at the moment Sir James Crawford said, with a
respectful obeisance, "My wife, Lady Crawford, your Grace," she raised
her veil, and exhibited to the astonished monarch and his courtiers a
surpassingly beautiful countenance indeed; but it was that of Jessie
Craig.
"A trick! a trick!" exclaimed James, with merry shout, and amidst a peal
of laughter from all present, and in which the fair cause of all this
stir most cordially joined. "A trick, a trick, Provost! a trick!"
repeated James.
"Nay, no trick at all, your Grace, craving your Grace's pardon," replied
the Provost gravely. "Your Grace betted that Jessie Craig was more
beautiful than Lady Crawford. Now, is it so? I refer the matter, as
agreed upon, to the gentlemen around us."
"Lost! lost!" exclaimed half a dozen gallants at once.
"Well, well, gentlemen, since you so decide," said James, "I will
instantly give our good Provost here an order upon our treasurer for the
sum."
"Nay, your Grace, not so fast. The money is as safe in your hands as
mine. Let it there remain till I require it. When I do, I shall not fail
to demand it."
"Be it so, then," said James, when, placing his fair hostess beside him,
and after obtaining a brief explanation--which we will, in the sequel,
give at more length--of the odd circumstance of finding Jessie Craig
converted into Lady Crawford, the mirth and hilarity of the party were
resumed, and continued till pretty far in the afternoon, when the king
and his courtiers took horse,--the former at parting having presented
his hostess with a massive gold chain which he wore about his neck, in
token of his good wishes,--and rode off for Stirling.
To our tale we have now only to add the two or three explanatory
circumstances above alluded to.
In Sir James Crawford the reader is requested to recognise the young man
who discovered Jessie Craig, then the unknown fair one, by the side of
the fountain in the little elm grove at Woodlands.
Encouraged by and acting on the adage already quoted,--namely, that
"faint heart never won fair lady,"--he followed up his first accidental
interview with the fair fugitive from royal importunity with an
assiduity that in one short week accomplished the wooing and winning of
her.
While the first was in progress, Sir James was informed by the young
lady of the reasons for her concealment. On this and the part Sir Robert
Lindsay had acted towards her being made known to him, he lost no time
in opening a communication with that gentleman, riding repeatedly into
Glasgow himself to see him on the subject of his fair charge; at the
same time informing him of the attachment he had formed for her, and
finally obtaining his consent, or at least approbation, to their
marriage. The bet, we need hardly add, was a concerted joke between the
Provost, Sir James, and his lady.
When we have added that the circumstance of Sir Robert Lindsay's delay
in returning for Jessie Craig, which excited so much surprise at
Woodlands, was owing to the unlooked-for prolongation of the king's stay
in Glasgow, we think we have left nothing unexplained that stood in need
of such aid.