these sentiments. Among others who collected at this door, and took
their station on the seat on which he sat, were William Glenday, and an
Italian called Giulio Massetto, a servant in the employ of the famous
David Rizzio. These three were often seen sitting together at the door
of the tavern, drinking Peter's ale, and discussing any point of
interest which the strange proceedings of the palace at that time
offered to their curiosity. Peter did not approve of the intimacy which
existed between Rizzio and the queen; Giulio defended his master; and
William stood up for the unfortunate Mary.
"I canna see what our royal mistress can mean," said Peter, "by a' this
walkin, and ridin, and talkin, and singin, and playin on psalters and
sackbuts, and pipes and whistles, wi' that Italian. It's nae farther
gane than yesterday, that my son John--wha despises his ain drink, fule
that he is--saw the queen and him sittin in the bonny green bower, at
the corner o' the King's Orchard yonder, skirlin ane o' their Italian
sangs, like twa mavises. Is that like a Queen o' Scotland and the wife
o' Darnley? Na! na!"
"Cattivo!" ejaculated the choleric Italian, "thy son doth lie in his
throat. My noble master is the only accomplished gentleman in this
barbarous land; and my royal mistress hath made him her secretary,
because thy kilted barons can only write with their swords."
"And maybe thae kilted barons may write wi' that guidly pen the word
'_death_' on yer noble master's silken sash," answered Peter. "By my
troth, lad, ye had better be at Cremona, playing an Italian strathspey,
than here in our abbey, if ony o' our kilted barons be within hearin."
"Wheesht! wheesht! baith o' ye," said William Glenday; "ye are baith
wrang. It may be ill for Giulio to speak in this fashion; but it may be
waur for you, Peter, wha's living comes frae the palace, if ye are heard
speakin ill o' Rizzio and the queen."
"I just say what I think," said Peter, pertinaciously. "That Italian
piper would be better dangling at the black wuddy up the way yonder,
than at oor queen's tail." And he quietly quaffed off a jug of his ale.
On hearing these words, Giulio could no longer restrain himself. He
started from his seat, and shaking his fist in the face of Peter, turned
on his heel and disappeared.
This scene, though made a little ominous by the fierce expression of the
Italian's face and manner, was not long remembered. Peter continued to
drink his ale, and did not hesitate to speak his mind on a subject which
had, apparently, become of more than ordinary interest to him. The
intimacy between him and William Glenday continued; and their children,
as will appear, had good reasons that it should not be interrupted.
Now John Connal and Mary Glenday were of nearly the same age, and their
sentiments accorded as closely as their years. From their earliest
childhood they had associated together; and the feelings which were
generated in the games and amusements of schoolmates, ripened, as they
grew up, into sentiments of the heart. When the same blue-bell, which
divided their affections at the "Wells o' Weary," was cast away, it was
only to give place to another object of mutual sympathy. The natural
elements of love, thus reinforced by early congenial habits, mutual
enjoyments, and the daily intercourse of an inseparable connection,
produced, in a short time, a strong attachment in the youthful pair,
which had been pledged and re-pledged as often as their fears suggested
any impediment to their ultimate union.
These lovers had now arrived at an age when they might have been united;
and they looked forward to this happy consummation with confidence and
delight. John Connal, however, did not want rivals, who sued in vain for
the hand of Mary. Among these was Giulio Massetto, the Italian, who had
for some time solicited the favour of the maiden. He trusted much to his
superior appearance and polished manners, and looked with contempt on
the poor Scot who dared to dispute with him the hand of his love. Mary
was much annoyed by the Italian's importunate method of wooing;
partaking more, she thought, of the impassioned character of a madman's
ravings, than of the quiet, rational, and sincere mode of a Scottish
courtship. She had repeatedly told him that his suit was in vain; but
every repulse seemed only to increase his assiduity, and add to the
pathos of his protestations and serenades.
This man had earned for himself, since he came to Scotland, a reputation
for every wickedness. He had been concerned in many disgraceful amours,
and violent and bloody quarrels with the inhabitants of Edinburgh, which
brought upon him a hatred equal to that which his master, by his
imprudent conduct with the queen, had produced against himself. It was,
in consequence, suspected that his passion for Mary was a mere
ebullition of that kind of love for which his countrymen were then and
are to this day remarkable; and that, even if he were so fortunate as to
secure the object of his desires on condition of resigning his liberty,
he would, when his passion cooled, leave her to follow some other
equally faithless and disgraceful amour.
Having been unsuccessful in every effort he had made with Mary, Giulio
at last resolved to make an application to her father; and he trusted
that the show of wealth which, by the misplaced kindness of the royal
favourite, he was enabled to make, might have the effect of tempting
William Glenday to endeavour to influence the affections of his
daughter.
"Thou knowest, William Glenday," said the Italian, one morning, "that I
love thy daughter Mary with the force of affection which a true and
ardent lover ought to bear towards the devoted of his heart; and I have
taken every method known in our country to induce her to forego the
gratification of the infliction of her cruelty on her lover; yet she
continues obdurate and determined that I shall die the victim of a
passion which I cannot control. Yet, if she would but relent, how happy
could I make her! My jewels amount in value to a hundred merks; and my
master, on our marriage, will present me with a hundred more. Wilt thou
aid me in my suit, and endeavour to persuade thy daughter that she ought
to yield to the influence of my love?"
William Glenday, who was himself a little purse-proud and conceited, was
by no means taken on the right side by this high-flown speech, which
was, like all Giulio's conversation and manners, a gross imitation of
the style of his master. William was adverse to his suit on many
grounds; but the rhodomontade of this address, and the attempt to bribe
him by a display of ill-gotten wealth, roused him beyond his natural
bearing.
"Ye seem, sir, to hae yersel stated aneugh," answered William. "Ye admit
that my dochter winna hae ye; and wharfore should I endeavour to force
her luve? Besides, ye're no o' our country, man; and the lasses o'
Scotland dinna like foreigners. Tak an Italian! tak an Italian! Birds
o' a feather gree best thegither; and the kite and the doo winna assort
ava. I carena a bodle for your merks. If they were in their richt place,
they should maybe be in our ain Scotch exchequer. Neither care I sae
muckle as an auld sang for yer fine speech, which nea doot comes, like
yer merks, frae yer maister. Ye needna, therefore, pursue ony mair this
fruitless wark--which, it would seem, ye continue by nicht in the shape
o' something they ca' serenades--or, as we would say, nicht-waits--as
weel as in the licht o' day, by a constant use o' thae black een o'
yours, aneugh o' themsels to terrify ony young leddy. In addition to a'
this, John Connal has lang been my dochter's lover; and if they wish to
mak a match o't, it shanna be me that'll prevent it."
This calm and self-sufficient oration produced on the fiery and
impatient temper of Giulio that rage which burned on the application of
every spark. It must be confessed that even a Scotchman would have
resented the hints of William, rendered more provoking by the manner in
which they were uttered--a wink or a smile being always at hand to give
piquancy to an innuendo; while an imperturbable, calm, and
self-confident assurance gave the whole an aspect of dictation, mixed
with contempt. Giulio rose suddenly, and without so much as uttering a
word, went away.
In the meantime, the two lovers had got matters in considerable
advancement for their marriage, which was fixed to take place in the
following month. The inhabitants of the Abbey were promised a grand
entertainment in William Glenday's house; and the day was looked forward
to by all and sundry as a kind of holiday. There was, indeed, something
in the match of more than an ordinary character; for, as a pair of twigs
which have fallen connected from a tree into a stream seldom find their
way together to the ocean, it seldom happens that the loves of childhood
can withstand the severing impulses of the conflicting and distracting
interests of a selfish and calculating world. It was even whispered that
one of the maids of honour of the queen intended to grace and dignify
the union by being present at the ceremony. The preparations went on
with spirit. The day approached, and everything seemed to conspire to
add to the happiness of a union apparently under the influence of
smiling and auspicious powers.
On the evening of the day preceding that on which their marriage was to
take place, one of those events occurred which arrest the attention of
thousands. Peter Connal, when coming out of the house of William
Glenday, was stabbed to the heart. A number of persons immediately
collected on hearing his cries--the guard of the palace was roused, and
search made in every direction for the perpetrator of so bloody and
unaccountable an act. Amongst those who rushed out when the cry was
heard, was Mary Glenday and John Connal. The latter was entirely
occupied in getting his father's body carried home, in the hope of his
being only wounded, and with a view to get medical aid. Mary and some
neighbours remained upon the spot, searching about for any trace, by
footsteps or otherwise, which might lead to the discovery of the
murderer. When engaged in this search, her eye fell upon a small sword
lying at a little distance from the spot where the crime was committed.
Upon taking it up, she discovered, to her astonishment, that it was her
father's sword, which she had not missed from the house. She instantly
secreted it under her clothes, and looked about to see if she could
discover her parent. He had not, however, been seen during the tumult;
and, though many inquiries were made for him, no person could tell where
he was. She now flew to the house, and, upon getting into the inner
chamber, applied water to the instrument to wash off the blood, threw
the washings into a place where they could not be seen, and, by means
of ashes from the fire, scoured the instrument, so as to bring back its
brightness. Having hung it up in the spot which it usually occupied, she
turned to leave the room, with a view to go again to the street, to
avoid any suspicion which her absence might suggest as to where she had
been. As she turned, she started on observing the eyes of some person
fixed on her through the window. She trembled from head to foot; and,
unable to proceed a step, fell back into a chair which stood near her,
and again shook with an apprehension which she could not account for.
All these acts which she had performed during the last ten minutes,
appeared to her as wanting the reality of life. She had done them
intuitively; and as no proper, well-defined motive had been present to
her mind during the time she was occupied, she was now equally at a loss
to account for an apprehension which it was impossible there could be
the least ground for. She questioned herself why did she secrete the
sword--run home with it--wash it and scour it? Was she afraid of her
father being charged as the murderer? Impossible! She was not afraid of
that. She could defy the world even to suspect that her father was
guilty of such a crime; and the idea of it was so absurd that it could
not be entertained for a moment. Yet, was she not in fact alarmed? This
was not to be denied. She tried to run over the acts which she had, as
in a dream, performed by the impulse of a power external to herself;
but, on looking to the window again, she saw the same eyes staring in at
her.
At this moment the door opened, and a person came from John Connal to
inform her that Peter was dead, and requesting to know if her father had
yet been seen. She was unable to speak to the messenger, who went away
without an answer. Mary continued to sit waiting with breathless
impatience for the return of her parent. She heard the bustle in the
street gradually die away. Occasional inquiries were made by the
passengers for William Glenday, from whom they wished to get some
explanation of the extraordinary case; but the servant answered them,
and stated that he was not come back, and Mary was indisposed. Eleven
o'clock came, and still no word of her father. She heard some people on
the street going home, remarking it as strange that William Glenday
should be absent, when the father of his daughter's intended husband had
been stabbed dead at his door.
About half-past eleven, William Glenday returned home. He was met by
several people, who told him what had happened. He said he had been
conveying a hound to a gentleman who lived in Leith, and that he had
been detained beyond his usual time. He seemed to be very much affected
by the death; and the more so, he said, that he and Peter had that day
had some words about his daughter's tocher, which had very nearly broken
off the match. He inquired particularly if any clue had been found to
the murderer; and being informed that no trace had yet been got,
returned home.
He found Mary sitting in the state already noticed, and attributed her
apparent sorrow to the circumstance which had occurred. She looked up,
and asked him where he had been when such awful doings had been going on
at his own door. He answered her in the same way he had done the
neighbours. She then asked him if he had been over at Peter's house. He
said that he had not, but would go immediately. On turning to go out,
she observed that his coat was all wet; and, on examining it more
narrowly, discovered that it was wet with blood. At the sight of this
extraordinary coincidence with the circumstances attending the finding
of the sword, she screamed and fainted. Her father, alarmed for his
daughter, hung over her with every demonstration of affection; but,
attributing her illness and the faint to the shock produced by the death
of Peter Connal, he trusted to her speedy recovery when the nervous
excitement under which she laboured had abated.
On recovering herself, Mary looked round her, endeavouring to recollect
some painful idea which she knew had been the cause of her illness. The
moment the thought again struck her, she started up, as if she had found
there was a necessity for something being done. Calming her speech and
manner, by an effort she made for that purpose, she desired her father
to take off his coat, which was wet, and put on another, for the purpose
of going over to Peter Connal's house. William complied, remarking
(without examining the marks of blood which were behind) that Marion
Gray--a woman of irregular habits, who lived in the precincts of the
Abbey, and was well known at that time by the name of Mary's Marion, in
consequence of having, in her better days, received some attention from
the queen--had, as he passed her door, thrown a basin of water upon him,
and instantly disappeared.
William Glenday having gone over to Peter Connal's house, Mary, who had
said nothing to him of the blood, shut the window-shutters, and washed
the coat. The basin in which the bloody water was contained was standing
on the table; and, just as she was about to lift it, she saw that the
window-shutters had been gently opened, and the face of some person was
there gazing in upon her. This apparition again disconcerted the poor
girl, and threw her into fits of trembling; but she got the water
emptied out, and hung up the coat to dry upon a screen at the fire.
When her father returned, Mary asked him how Peter's wife was sustaining
her affliction. She did not ask if any clue had been got to the
murderer. She trembled as the words were on her lips. The circumstances
of the evening bore heavy upon her. She knew that William and Peter had
quarrelled about the tocher, but still she did not suspect her father.
She felt it even impious to say to herself that she did not suspect
him; for she conceived that the mere connection of the ideas of the
murder and of her parent could be nothing but a freak of the devil. Yet
she could not ask her father if any clue had been got to the murderer,
and she could not tell why she felt unable to do that. William talked
about certain probabilities as to this one or that one being the guilty
person, but came to no very satisfactory conclusion. His first idea, he
said, was, that the Italian had done the deed; but he could see no
proper motive that could induce him to commit the crime; and, besides,
Giulio had been seen running out of the palace along with the rest of
the people--no sword had been seen upon him, and none had been found by
the persons who had gone to search for evidence. After indulging in some
conversation of the same kind, and lamenting the death, and the
consequent interference with the marriage, they retired to rest.
The search for the murderer of Peter Connal was continued for many days
without effect. The funeral of the unfortunate man was attended by a
great crowd of people, attracted by the respect in which Peter was held,
and the unusual circumstances of his death. John Connal now took up the
business, carrying his resolution into effect, not to imitate his father
in the matter of the sign-post. He accordingly got a very imposing one
erected, in which he fell into the error which his father had condemned
in such indignant terms; for it was filled up with mere pictures of
casks, bottles, and bickers--things in themselves so sacred in the
estimation of Peter, that he hated all representation of them as a
species of idolatry. The very barrel on which he had so often sat was
turned in. The jaunty and gaudy signboard was not received as a
compensation for the comfortable personalty of Peter. The inhabitants of
the neighbourhood, who had formerly been so delighted with his portly
figure, in the very attitude of doing almost continually that which it
was their wish to imitate, turned away their eyes from the dry contrast
afforded by a mere picture, and sighed over all the vanities of this
fleeting world.
The intercourse between William Glenday and John Connal was not
interrupted by the unaccountable circumstance that had occurred; but it
was soon observed that Mary was not what she used to be. Even John
Connal observed a difference in her manner. She felt a reluctance to fix
another day for the marriage; and the importunities of John seemed only
to increase it.
"Now, my dear Mary," said John, "when our grief for my father is, by the
course o' nature, somewhat moderated, may we no accomplish that which
was interrupted by that melancholy catastrophe? Twenty summers hae gane
owre our heads, and fifteen o' thae hae been cheered by the beating o'
our twa hearts, as by the sangs o' birds on a sunny day. The licht o'
yer lauchin ee has been my only solace amang mony waes; and even on the
occasion which has filled our houses wi' sackcloth, and our hearts wi'
grief, and dashed frae our uplifted hands the cups o' pleasure which hae
been a promise and a covenant between us for a fourth part o' the
ordinary term o' man's pilgrimage on earth, I hae had nae staff o'
support but ye, and nae beam o' hope but what ye hae pleased to
vouchsafe to me. It canna be, then, that this misfortune, which, God
knows, was nane o' my doing, should be turned frae the purpose which it
was by Heaven intended to serve--nae doot to check our joy, which was
owre bricht for mortals, into a total extinguisher o' a' our pleasures,
and a final end to a' our hopes! Na, na, Mary, ye canna think that
Providence will deal wi' us in that gate. And oh, tell me, dearest, for
the sake o' heaven, why ye hae been sae changed to me o' late, and why
ye winna again prepare to gang wi' me to the altar?"
"It's no for me," said Mary, "to interfere wi' the ways o' God--wha,
having allowed us, in his high pleasure, to be joined in our hearts for
sae lang a time--even our hail lives--thocht proper to part us in the
end by sic an awfu token as the death o' yer faither, on the very day
afore our marriage. There was a sign and a meaning in that token which
my heart has read in tears, and interpreted in agony; and sae lang as it
pleases Heaven to conceal frae us the hand which struck the fatal blow
at yer faither's life and our hopes, sae lang, my heart whispers, maun
our union be delayed!"
"That may be for ever, Mary," said the young man.
"No," answered she. "But when that time shall come--and oh, that it may
come sune! for it will be as the dew o' heaven to the parched and gaping
earth--when the bloody hand shall be stretched forth, and the guilty ane
made to stand out in the searching sun o' a bright evidence--then shall
I be able to say whether it may again be that there is any chance for
our being united in the bonds o' matrimony. Till that time shall come,
never mention to me the subject o' this conversation."
"Oh Mary, Mary, take back thae terrible words!" said he.
"No; my heart is filled wi' a grief which nane on earth can lessen; and
it is a sad change that has come owre me, when I can hae a sorrow which
ye canna ken, and though ye kenned it, couldna relieve. Yet sae it is:
yer puir Mary is nae langer what she was, and may never be what she was
again. The flowers o' Arthur's Seat hae lost their colours and their
scents--the bluebells o' the Hunter's Bog ring nae mair peals--and the
water o' St Anthony's spring is drumly and dark, as it is when the
spirit o' the storms sits on the tap o' the 'Lion's Head.' 'Waly, waly,'
is now my sang, the joys o' a bricht morning hae fa'en to the bottom,
like the lees o' a vessel o' wine; and I maun drink thae lees, bitter
as they may be; for Heaven has said the word, and Mary Glenday is
obedient to its behests."
The high-toned determination of the maiden satisfied John that it would
be vain to press a suit at present, which was so clearly interdicted by
some hidden circumstance. What that could be was a subject of intense
interest and curiosity; but, though he thought of it daily and nightly,
he could not even approach the mysterious reason which could change a
human being so entirely, as to make a light-laughing maiden, high in the
hope of being married, a sorrowful and sentimental woman, giving grave
injunctions that her intended nuptials should not be broached in her
presence. At times John thought that her mind was tinged with a
superstitious melancholy, arising from some presentiment that, as their
marriage was interrupted in such an awful manner, Heaven had set its
decree against it. This opinion deserved weight, from the circumstance
that the condition attached by Mary to their union still taking place
was the discovery of the author of the murder; but even that condition
was itself qualified, as if it depended upon the nature of that
discovery whether she would consent to become a wife. The whole matter
appeared a mystery, and John could make nothing of it.