In the beautiful town of St. Johnstone, of Perth, on the west bank of
the river Tay, and in a line with the streets called Spey-street and
Water-street, the former of which, I believe, now bears the name of
South-street, stood, at the time I speak of, one of the largest and
most magnificent houses in Scotland, which well deserved the name of
The Palace which it sometimes obtained. It was generally called,
however, Gowrie House, or Gowrie Place, and occasionally, by the Earls
of Gowrie themselves, was termed "The Great House," to distinguish it,
probably, from their other mansions, of which they possessed several.
The extent of this building may be conceived, when we recollect that
the great court in the centre of the building was an oblong of sixty
feet in one direction, and ninety in the other. Round this immense
area rose four massive piles of building, raised at various epochs,
and of very different styles of architecture, but united into one
grand and imposing mass of masonry of a quadrangular form, and having
but one break, in the centre of the west front, where stood a large
and handsome gate of hammered iron, the view from which extended down
the whole line of the South-street. The gardens, which were very
extensive, and kept with remarkable care, lay at the back and to the
south, stretching in that direction to the town wall. At the
south-eastern angle of the garden rose a curious and very ancient tower,
called the Monk's Tower, from some tradition which has not reached me.
The parts of the building towards the Tay, and those towards the
south, were of an unknown antiquity, with walls of immense thickness;
and legends were current, even at the time of which I speak, of
persons having been confined by former lords, in secret recesses
within those heavy walls, and left to perish miserably. The northern
and western sides of the quadrangle were far more modern, and had
probably been erected either by the Countess of Huntley, who once
possessed the palace, or by some of the early Lords of Ruthven. By
whomsoever they were built, much pains had been employed to remodel
the internal arrangements of the older building, so as to make it
harmonize, within at least, with newer parts; and each successive Earl
of Gowrie had expended large sums in improving the accommodation which
the great house afforded, so as to meet the advance of his country in
luxury and refinement. Nor was decoration wanting; for in the south
range a number of small chambers had been swept away to form a
gallery, which was one of the finest at the time in Europe; and it had
been the pride of William, the first earl, to collect from all
countries, for this large chamber, pictures by the greatest artists of
the day.
At each corner of the house was a tower or turret, and both at the
south-east and north-west corner of the great court was a broad stair,
leading to the rooms above. Several smaller stairs opened also into
the court, and one especially, in the south-west corner, led direct to
a large chamber at the western end of the gallery, called the "gallery
chamber," to which was attached a cabinet, named, the earl's study.
The large dining-hall and a smaller one were in the more ancient part
of the building to the east, and the lodge of the porter was by the
side of the great iron gate in front.
This long description is not unnecessary, as the reader will find
hereafter; but it may be necessary now to proceed with the narrative,
begging the reader, however, to bear in mind the particulars which
have been mentioned.
Towards the afternoon of the 14th of March, 1600, a man was standing
with his back towards the great gates of Gowrie Place, which were
partly open. The court behind him was vacant, and there were not many
people in the streets, for the labours of the day were not over in the
industrious town, and nobody was to be seen but a man slowly crossing
the South-street, or a girl wending her way along that which led in an
opposite direction. The man who thus stood gazing up and down the
street was a short, somewhat stout man, with a ruddy complexion, and a
light brown beard and hair. He was by no means ill-looking, and yet
there was a certain degree of shrewd cunning in the expression of his
face, especially about the small black twinkling eyes, which did not
prepossess a beholder in his favour. If one might judge by the
half-open mouth and narrow jaw and chin, there was also in his
character that species of weakness by no means incompatible with
cunning. He was habited in a good brown suit of broadcloth, and a
short black cloak, with no sword by his side, but a small dagger in
his girdle, and might well have been taken for one of the substantial
citizens of the town, had it not been for a sort of cringing air for
which the worthy burgesses of St. Johnstone were never famous. From
time to time, he turned and looked back into the court, as if he
expected somebody to appear therein, and once he muttered, "De'il's
in the wife! she's long ere she comes to take the keys." But a minute
or two after, he took a step forward with a joyous air, as a man on
foot entered the South-street, and nodded and beckoned with a smile.
The man advanced with a quick step towards him, with a "Good day, Mr.
Henderson."
"Ah, Wattie!" said the man, who had been standing at the door of the
great house, "what has brought you to Perth, and how are you and all
your people, and good Sir George Ramsay, your master?"
"They're all well, sir," answered the man; "though, to speak truth, I
have not seen Sir George this many a day. I've been with the court,
Mr. Henderson, trying what I could do to better my fortune--all with
my good master's leave, however; and his brother John is doing all he
can to help me."
"Well, I hope you will have good luck," replied Andrew Henderson, the
Earl of Gowrie's factor, or bailiff. "I wish I could do you any good,
Wattie; but the earl has been so long gone, that he can help little;
and as to Mr. Alexander, the wild lad and I are not such great
friends."
"You can help me, nevertheless, very much, Andrew," replied the other;
"for you are just the man who must do it, if any one does."
"How's that--how's that, Wattie?" asked Henderson. "I will do anything
I can, man."
"Why, the case is just this," answered Sir George Ramsay's man: "the
old supervisor at Scoon is dead; and I'm to have the place, which his
majesty has graciously condescended to promise to Master John Ramsay,
if I can get the earl's factor's good word. Now, who's the factor but
yourself, man?"
"Then my good word you shall have, Wattie," replied Henderson,
slapping him on the shoulder. "Didn't your wife's cousin Jane marry my
half-brother's second son? I'll write you a letter commendatory, in a
minute, to the honourable comptroller of his majesty's household. But
where have you put your horse, man?"
"Oh, I just left him at Murray's Inn," replied the other; "not knowing
whether I should find you or not. Come and take a stoup of wine,
Andrew; and you can write the letter there."
This proposal was readily agreed to, for Andrew Henderson was a man
who by no means objected to that good thing called a stoup of wine. He
called to an old woman who was now in the court, saying, "Here, Nelly,
take the keys; I'm going to Murray's Inn." And the two were soon
seated in the public room of Murray's Inn, as it was called, with
several other persons who were drinking there likewise. George Murray,
the keeper of the inn, was a man of good family, though it is supposed
of illegitimate birth; but what is certain is, that he had the best
wine in the town, and that his house was frequented by all the
principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood. Henderson and Sir George
Ramsay's man were soon supplied with what they wanted, and sat
drinking and talking for about half an hour; at the end of which time
a horse's feet were heard to stop opposite to the inn, and a minute
after, David Drummond, the dull looking servant of the Earl of Gowrie,
entered the room and looked round. The cheerful countenances of Andrew
Henderson and his friend Wattie changed the moment they saw him; and
Henderson exclaimed, "Ah, Davie, is that you, man? What brings you to
Perth? Is the earl coming?"
"Ay, is he, Henderson," answered the man, looking heavily at Sir
George Ramsay's servant. "He'll be here in five minutes, and sent me
on to tell you. So you must get up and come away to the Great House
directly, for I've been there seeking you."
Henderson was rising at once; but his friend Wattie laid his hand upon
his arm, saying, "Just write me those few lines to Sir George Murray
first. It will not take you a minute, Andrew."
"Hold your tongue, you little stupid pock-pudding!" cried David
Drummond, in an insulting tone; "do you think he's going to neglect
his natural lord and master, to attend to such a thing as you are, Wat
Matthison?"
"Ah, David Drummond, David Drummond," said the other man, with his
eyes flashing fire; "you killed my niece's husband, and you'll come to
be hanged by the neck, for all you think yourself so safe."
"It shall be for killing you, then," said Drummond, who was a very
powerful man; and he struck him a violent blow with his fist.
The other, though not so strongly made, instantly returned it; and a
regular battle would have ensued between them, had not the master of
the inn and all the other persons present interfered, and pushed them
by main force into the street. There they kept them apart for a
moment, and tried to pacify them; but soon getting tired of the task
of peacemaking, they left them to themselves, and Drummond rushed upon
Walter Matthison again. The two grappled with each other, and
struggled vehemently for a moment, the spirit and resolution of
Matthison supplying the want of physical strength.
"Call the bailie! call the bailie!" cried Henderson, loudly. "De'il's
in it, Jock, can you not part them? Here, Murray, help us."
But at that moment Drummond was seen to put his hand to his girdle,
and the next moment Matthison loosed his hold and reeled back with a
sharp cry, exclaiming, "Oh! the man's killed me!" and before any one
could reach him, he fell back on the pavement with the blood pouring
in torrents from his side.
David Drummond, without staying to take his horse, or to look what he
had done, ran off as hard as his legs would carry him in the direction
of the Great House, pursued by a number of the people. He reached it
before them, however, rushed through the iron gates, which were open,
into the court, where several horses and men were standing, and then
flinging-to the gates in the face of the pursuers, turned the key in
the lock. This done, he attempted to rush into the house, but was
suddenly met by the Earl of Gowrie himself, who was seen to seize him
by the collar, and point with his hand to what was probably a mark of
blood upon his arm. The next instant, the people who were gazing
through the gates saw the murderer handed over to two of the other
servants, who at once proceeded to strap his arms together with one of
the stirrup leathers, while Gowrie, advancing to the gate, said to the
people near, "I wish, my good friends, some of you would call one of
the bailies to me, and ask him to bring the guard. I have a prisoner
here who must be handed over to his custody."
"Long live the Earl of Gowrie!--Long live the great earl!--Long live
our noble provost! He will do justice," cried a dozen voices, while
two or three men ran off to bring the bailie.
"Ah, my lord, this is a sad business," cried Henderson, coming up.
"I'm glad to see your lordship returned safely to your own place; but
it's awful to think that one of our people should shed blood in the
streets before he's been ten minutes in St. Johnstone. It's that wild
beast Drummond has done it, and it seems he has fled hither."
"There he stands in custody for the deed, Henderson," replied the
earl; "and I give notice to all men that I will visit any offences
committed by my own people even more severely upon them than I would
upon others; and justly too, for most of them have been well nurtured,
and all are well paid and well fed. They have my example before them,
which I trust will never lead them to do wrong, and have always had my
commands to abstain from doing injury to any man. If they fail then,
their crime is the greater; and I will by no means pass it over. Who
is the man he has wounded?"
"Wounded, my lord!" cried Henderson; "he's as dead as a door nail.
David Drummond there stabbed him to the heart, and he was dead in two
minutes, before one could lift his head up. His name was Walter
Matthison; a good, quiet, harmless man as ever lived. Ay, here comes
Bailie Roy."
"Some one open the gates," said the earl; and advancing through the
crowd, he met Bailie Roy, a little, fat, pursy man whom he did not
know, with every sign of respect for his office.
"I have sent for you, Mr. Bailie," he said, "in consequence of a
horrible occurrence which has just taken place in the town, in which
one of my servants, named David Drummond, has, I understand, slain a
man, called Walter Matthison. I have caused the accused person to be
instantly secured, and I now hand him over to you to be dealt with
according to law. You will be pleased to have him removed to the town
jail, and tried for the offence in due course. I myself shall return
to Perth as soon as the king's service permits me, and will hold a
justice court immediately after my arrival. If more convenient,
however, to the magistrates of Perth to proceed to the trial earlier,
I beg that it may be done without either fear or favour, for my
presence is not absolutely necessary; and the prisoner would certainly
meet with nothing but simple justice at my hands."
"My lord, your lordship is extremely gracious," said the bailie. "The
magistrates will of course wait your lordship's leisure, as they would
not on any account be without the honour of your presence as our lord
provost on such an awful and important occasion. I beg leave to
felicitate your lordship very humbly upon your auspicious return."
This speech was accompanied by sundry bows to the great man; and then
turning to his own followers, he said, in a more authoritative tone,
"Take hold of the atrocious villain, and away with him.[1] Our
noble lord provost, my friends, will take care that there is no
bully-ragging in the town of Perth."
The earl was too much vexed and annoyed by all that had taken place to
afford a smile; and as soon as the prisoner was removed, he dismissed
the worthy bailie with a gracious speech, and retired into the house
with his factor, Henderson. Having seated himself in the lesser
dining-room, he inquired more minutely into the circumstances of the
transaction, of which he received an account very nearly, if not quite
true.
"But who is this Walter Matthison?" he asked, after Henderson had told
him what he had seen with his own eyes. "Was he a married man? Had he
any family?"
"He was a good, peaceable man, my lord, as ever lived," replied
Henderson, "and an old servant of Sir George Ramsay's, who was always
a kind master to all his people. Married he was too, poor fellow, and
has three or four children."
"I grieve to hear it," said the earl; "something must be done for
them. Let me have paper and ink. I will write to Sir George directly."
When the letter was written and sealed, the earl turned his thoughts
to other matters, and gave the orders which were necessary for putting
the Great House at Perth into a condition to receive him at any time
when he might like to come.
"You must find me out a trustworthy person as porter, Henderson," he
said, "and engage whatever other people may be needful for the service
of the house, cooks, and sewers, and such persons. From what I see--we
must have the help of women's hands also, in order that everything may
be put into a better state, for the place is in a sad dusty condition,
Henderson. I am sorry to see that it has been so neglected."
"Why, you see, my lord," said the factor, who was one of those men who
never want an excuse, "her ladyship your mother would but allow two
poor old feckless women while you were beyond seas. They could not do
much, poor bodies; but what they could do, they did do, I will say for
them; but I'll see that your lordship's orders are obeyed, and
everything put straight before you come back. Where I'm to get a
porter, I do not know--oh, ay, there's Christie, I forgot him; he may
do well enough--a quiet, stout man, just fit for a porter; and he's
seeking service, too. Would your lordship like to see any of the
accounts to-day?"
"No, Henderson, no," answered the earl; "I must away to Dirleton as
soon as possible. Let me have a cup of wine. This sad business
distresses me sorely. I love not to have blood shed the very moment of
my entering the town."
"Nor I either, my lord," said Henderson. "It's a bad sign."
The last words were spoken in a low tone to himself; and retiring, he
brought the earl a small silver flagon and cup with his own hands.
Gowrie drank; and after giving some farther orders, and waiting till
the horses had consumed their corn, he remounted to ride on; but
hardly had his horse gone fifty yards from the gates, when he was
met by four men carrying a board, on which was stretched the body
of the unfortunate Walter Matthison, followed by a number of the
town's-people. Gowrie immediately stopped, and asked some questions,
by the answers to which he found that the body was being removed to
the house of a cousin of the deceased, named Symes, living in
Water-street.
"Tell the good man," said Gowrie, "that I grieve much for what has
happened; that I have written to Sir George Ramsay about poor
Matthison's family, and will myself take care that they are provided
for according to their station."
A murmur of applause and thanks followed, and the earl rode on, having
gained rather than lost in the esteem of his fellow-townsmen by his
demeanour on so painful an occasion.
It was late at night before he arrived at Dirleton; but his mother was
still up, expecting him, and he was soon pressed warmly to her bosom.
His two young brothers also were there, all eager to claim affection;
but after the first joy of meeting was over, the first question was,
"But where is Beatrice?"
"The dear girl chose to stay behind," said Gowrie, "to comfort and
cheer another like herself. I have to crave forgiveness, my dear lady
and mother," he continued, kissing the countess's hand, "for having
gone to Trochrie before I came to Dirleton; and I trust you will not
think I failed in duty."
"It was quite natural, John," said his mother. "Hearts are like trees,
my dear boy: they must be taken from the parent stem, and grafted on
another, in order to bear good fruit. I have loved myself, Gowrie, and
have not forgotten what it is."
"Love alone would not have carried me thither before seeing you, dear
mother," answered the earl; "but I feared that so strict and careful a
watch as is needful might not be kept up; and my suspicions were only
too correct. I found the castle gates open, and not a man in the house
but my English servant Jute. However, I have now spoken seriously to
Donald Mac Duff, our baron bailie, and taken such measures as to guard
against all chance of surprise. In case of need, Athol will come down
with help, and the clans would not be found wanting. And now,
William," he continued, throwing his arm over the stripling's
shoulder, "many, many thanks, my dear brother, for all your care and
kindness to one dearer to me than myself, and to you, my dear mother,
for your affectionate greeting of her, which made her no stranger in
the land of her fathers, or in the family of her future husband,
though she had never beheld either before. I shall stay with you here
for two or three days, and then go to bring Beatrice to you."
"It is well you have come, Gowrie," said his mother, "for here is a
summons from the king to attend the council some ten days hence. The
messenger inquired curiously where you were; and we told him you were
gone to Perth, but would be back to-night. The king, perchance, may
send to seek you there."
"He will find I have been to bonny St. Johnstone," said Gowrie,
laughing, "and to-morrow, by dawn, I will send off a messenger to show
him that I am now here. He will hear of my journey, too, most likely,
from other sources; for I am sorry to say a sad affair took place in
Perth between one of George Ramsay's men and David Drummond, who
stabbed him to the heart."
"The cankered beast!" cried the old countess, "I wish I had not saved
him to kill another honest man!"
"In that former business," said the earl, "both were in fault, so
there might be some excuse for him; but now the wrong was all on his
side, as far as I can learn; and so I have left him a prisoner in the
hands of the town. He shall have no favour from me, for he has been
well warned, and is greatly criminal. And now, dear mother, let us
talk of happier things----alas! your hair has turned sadly gray;" and
he smoothed it affectionately upon her brow.