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 eked
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 visited again and again the fountain in the grove, and at
last won from the lady the acceptance of his suit.
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 I 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 accidently 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 suppositious 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 in that?" and he pointed to a very handsome
mansion-house opposite.
"That's the rector o' Hamilton's," replied the weaver.
"And that ane 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 you mean to say that she's no in the hoose?" shouted Willie.