changed. Her cheek became blanched, and her blue eyes dim; while her
general appearance was that of a person labouring under a consumption.
She was seldom seen going out, except to church; and even there she
never looked up. Many questions were put to her, as to the cause of her
dejection, but no satisfactory answers could be got from her. Towards
her father, her kindness continued. It was indeed a kindness altogether
overdone--the result of a wish to heap attentions on him, as if from a
morbid fear that he would not long be preserved to receive or she to
impart them. William Glenday was extremely pained by the change which
had taken place on his daughter. He could not go out without producing
terror in her mind. She was even at times seen following him; and, when
he would turn round and perceive her, she would, as if caught and
ashamed, slip out of his sight. If any person knocked at the door, she
trembled; and if a question was put to her, as to where her father was,
her answer was so confused, that very often the inquirer was obliged to
go away without the information sought. If any one approached the place
where the sword hung, she betrayed uneasiness; and, on one occasion, one
of the grooms under her father having taken down the sword to look at
it, she fainted. She never allowed her father to wear the coat he had on
that night when the murder was committed; and, when he asked for it, she
said she could not find it, although it was carefully secreted in one of
her drawers.
This state of mind in the unhappy girl was not unknown to Giulio
Massetto. He observed her changed appearance, and was well pleased to
hear that there was at present no great likelihood of a union between
her and John Connal. He was observed often to be watching about the door
of the house; and his bold and blustering manner towards John, and his
readiness to speak in his presence about Mary, betrayed a kind of
triumph, mixed with a hope that he might yet succeed where his most
ardent wishes still pointed. He had the boldness, indeed, one day to
make up to her, as she came from church; but she shrank away from him,
and left him in conversation with her father, who still kept on friendly
terms with him.
William Glenday took every method of dispelling his daughter's
melancholy. He proposed, one afternoon, a walk to Duddingston, which she
reluctantly agreed to. They set off accordingly, and visited an
acquaintance who resided there. After they had been there for some time,
a messenger, on horseback, and holding another horse, saddled and
bridled, in his hand, inquired at the door if William Glenday was
within. Mary heard the question, and, having seen the messenger and the
horses from the window, rushed out, and cried that her father was not
within. Her manner betrayed the utmost agitation. She endeavoured to
prevent the servant from stating that William Glenday was in the house;
and it was not until her father, who heard the noise, came out, that the
messenger could know what was the truth. The people of the house could
not account for her conduct on any other principle than that she was
deranged. The messenger bore a request that William Glenday should
instantly repair to the palace; and having committed Mary to the charge
of his friends, he departed.
Mary returned home in the evening. The weather was calm and delightful,
and the sun was setting in that fine amber-coloured radiance, which, in
Scotland, is often so remarkable on an autumn evening. Wearied by her
day's fatigues, she sat down to rest herself. A train of images rose in
her mind, which took away all perception of time, or of the increasing
shades of evening that gradually closed over her. In the midst of her
reverie, she was suddenly startled by a human voice. It was that of
Giulio Massetto.
"Anima mia!" cried the Italian, when he saw her. "Mary Glenday here, on
the brow of the hill, in the gloom of approaching night! Io Godo! Io
Godo! I am well pleased. And now we shall, if it please thee, have some
conversation on a subject which, notwithstanding thy coldness, still
lies next my heart. Thou knowest how I love thee, my sweet Mary; and I
am well pleased to know that thou hast discarded thy old lover, Connal,
who was not, indeed, worthy of the love of such a maiden. Thy father I
shall yet appease and persuade, if thou wilt but answer to my love." And
he held out his hands to embrace her.
"Stand back, sir," said the indignant Mary. "The power does not exist on
this earth that can e'er mak Mary Glenday love Giulio Massetto; and
Heaven winna interfere in sic an affair. I hae tauld ye aften--and this,
I hope, will be the last time--that it is waur than useless to persevere
in a suit which I can ne'er gie ony favour or countenance to. Ye may
perceive, sir, that I am very far frae being in a guid state o' bodily
health; the bloom has gane frae my cheek, and sorrow has flung her
gloomy mantle owre the heart whar joy loved ance to dwell. Ye may, if it
be yer pleasure, continue to persecute ane wha ne'er wranged ye--ye may
shake doun the few lingering grains that remain in the sand-glass o' my
life, and hasten the end o' a miserable existence. Ye may do a' this,
sir; and when ye hae dune it, what will ye hae accomplished? When ye see
the green turf lying on the grave ye hae helped to dig, will that be ony
cause o' pride, or exultation, or thanksgiving? If it will, or if it
can, then I truly say that the heart o' an Italian is no like that o' a
Scotsman. Let me gang, sir, or I will wauken the spirit o' this place
wi' the cries o' a determined and desperate woman."
"I cry thee mercy, maiden," replied Giulio, perfectly unmoved, except by
hurt pride and bitterness. "I'osservo something troubles thee, and thou
makest that a reason for rejecting my love; but what wouldst thou say if
Giulio Massetto, whom thou despisest so much, could tell thee of the
cause of thy illness. It is sometimes more easy to take the grief from
the heart of an unwilling maiden, than to wash the gore from a sword, or
from a garment which has been drenched in the heart's blood of a
friend."
These words operated like lightning on the unhappy Mary. She intuitively
fell on her knees, clasped the Italian's legs, clinging to them with the
grasp of death--struggled for breath and power to speak, and
convulsively screamed, "Tak--tak back thae words, and tell me that ye
never uttered them--say that ye didna see me wash the sword, and scoor
it, and hang it up i' my faither's room--say that I didna wash the
bluid frae my faither's coat, and dry it at the fire--say that,
and--and--Mary Glenday will----"
"What?" said the cold-blooded Italian; "wilt thou become my wife?" These
words recalled Mary's wandering senses, but only to consign them to the
power of exhausted nature. She fell senseless at the feet of her
perfidious persecutor. Approaching footsteps were at this instant heard,
which caused the Italian to retreat; and, when Mary recovered, she found
herself in the arms of her father, who led her slowly home.
When examined by her father, Mary pretended that some unknown person had
surprised her on the hill. Her father stated that he thought he
perceived Giulio Massetto part from her when he came up. To this she
gave no very distinct answer, pretending that she was not very sure
whether it was Giulio or not. This was not at all satisfactory to her
father, because he was aware that she had fainted in consequence of the
violence of the person who had suddenly left her on his approach; and if
Giulio had been the individual, she could not have failed to know him.
He felt unwilling, however, to press his daughter farther, because she
seemed quite incapable of supporting any lengthened conversation on this
subject, which seemed to be one of great pain to her.
The weight upon the mind of Mary increased; for she was now overcome by
a feeling of total dependence upon the will of another. The depression
of spirits produced by this accession to her disquietude acted with
increased force on her frame, which daily became more attenuated. It was
observed that she now ceased entirely from speaking of Giulio Massetto
with disrespect or anger. When his name was mentioned, she was
spell-bound and silent. One night a noise was heard at the window, as if
some person had tapped at it in a peculiar and concerted way. William
Glenday looked at his daughter, and asked what it was; she replied it
was rats, and that she had heard the sound often. In a short interval,
however, she arose from her seat, and signified to her father that she
had occasion to leave the house for a few minutes. The latter asked her
whither she intended to go, adding, that, in her present weak state, she
had better remain in the house. She replied, she was just going to visit
a neighbour; and her father not having suspected any connection between
the sound at the window and the departure of his daughter, offered no
further opposition to her expressed wish.
It was about ten o'clock when Mary went out; eleven struck, and she was
no yet come home. William Glenday became alarmed, and sent to inquire if
she was in the neighbour's house she had mentioned. The servant came
back, and informed him that she had not called there for many months.
This increased her father's alarm, and he ran immediately over to the
house of John Connal, to inquire if she was there. John said that he had
not seen her for some days; but his affection for her suggested stronger
dread than that felt even by her father; and seizing his hat, he rushed
out of the house to search for the object nearest to his heart. On going
round the King's Park, he thought he observed two people standing in the
shadow of a house at the corner of the clump of trees, called at that
time the "King's Orchard." On coming nearer, he heard the voice of
Giulio Massetto, and then that of Mary Glenday. He was struck with
intense agony. Could it be that he was now, in his turn, the
unsuccessful rival of the Italian? Everything indicated that fact; and
his fancy, fired by jealousy, now saw distinctly the reason why Mary
would not consent to name another day for their marriage. Her statements
about the murder of his father were used as a device to get quit of her
obligation and pledge to him, and leave her at liberty to wed his rival.
Her bad health was produced by the intensity of a new passion, and the
struggle between conscience and inclination. Her distress, on being
surprised by her father on the night of their visit to Duddingston, was
all affectation; for, as her father himself had stated, she had been in
the company of the Italian, and wished to conceal it.
Stung to the heart by this supposed baseness on the part of his lover,
John went forward, determined that either he or Giulio should die on the
spot. Before he came up, however, the pair separated--the Italian going
one way, and Mary another. John followed Mary, and overtook her.
"Is that you, Mary Glenday?" he cried. "What are ye doing here at this
time o' nicht?"
"O John, dinna ask me what I'm doing here," answered Mary; "but let me
get hame, where I hae mair need to be than in this place at sic an
untimous hour."
"Why are ye here, then, Mary?" said John, with asperity.
"Because I have need to be here," answered she. "And if ye love me,
dinna, for heaven's sake, ask me ony mair aboot it."
"Had Giulio, the Italian, need to be here too?" asked John,
significantly.
"I winna answer that question, John," answered Mary, "nor ony ither ye
may put to me. I can only say, that, if ye wish to add to the misery o'
ane wha loves ye wi' a' the force o' a breakin heart--wha is worn down
to the weakness o' a silly thread, by what she canna reveal to
mortal--ye hae it in yer power noo to snap it asunder, and send yer ain
Mary to sleep wi' yer murdered faither, in the Canongate kirkyard. Speak
but ane or twa mair o' thae sharp words ye hae noo spoken, and ye will
hae nae mair to do. I hae only to beg, that if ye love me, ye will say
naething o' what ye hae seen or heard this nicht. The chough and the
craw are gane to their rest--gae awa to yours; and, as they were
heedless o' what was said and heard by me as I stood yonder under their
sheltering tree, be ye equally heedless and equally mute. Nae mair. The
life o' Mary Glenday depends on yer discretion!"
As she said these words, she beckoned to John not to go with her. She
went in the direction of home; and he, with a heavy heart, stung with
jealousy--and yet satisfied by her extraordinary conduct that there was
something unexplained, feeling himself bound to conceal his emotions and
obey her commands--went home also.
In the morning, William Glenday called at John's house, to inquire if he
had seen Mary on the previous night. She had been, he said, late in
returning--her spirits were getting worse, her health fast declining,
and everything indicated some mental disease, or some secret of an
extraordinary character, preying upon her mind. John denied having seen
her, and gave a confused assent to what her father stated. This account
did not agree with that given by Mary, who had said that she saw John
Connal on the previous night. William Glenday became, in his turn,
suspicious of John, and now began to think that he was acting
dishonourably by his daughter--a circumstance that would, of itself,
account for her state of health and spirits. He, however, said nothing,
and departed.
Two nights afterwards, when William Glenday returned home about ten
o'clock at night, he was told that Mary had gone out; and the servant
said she thought there was some strange noise at the window before she
departed. Her father was now satisfied that she had left the house to
meet John, and resolved to go himself and ascertain the truth of his
suspicions. He went and called at John's house; and having found that he
had not yet come in, went away to the darkest parts of the
neighbourhood, to see if he could discover whither they had gone. He had
not proceeded far when he met two men carrying a female. This was his
daughter, in a state of insensibility. She was supported by John and
another person. They conveyed her to the house; and having applied some
stimulants, she recovered. William Glenday, with much asperity, blamed
young Connal for not acting honourably towards his daughter, whose
affections he said he was trampling on. The other defended himself as
far as he could, without betraying Mary. He said he had met the stranger
bearing her in his arms, and that he assisted him merely in carrying her
homewards. The stranger, on his part, said he belonged to Leith, and
that, as he went along by the entry from the south back of the Canongate
to the Abbey, he saw the young woman standing with a man--that she was
supplicating him not to do something which he threatened to do;
whereupon he said, in a threatening and angry tone, that, unless she
yielded to him within an hour, he would lodge an information the next
day; and he swore that he would fulfil his threat. On his swearing, the
young girl fell into a swoon; and her companion suddenly disappeared on
seeing the narrator come up to her assistance. William Glenday could
make nothing of this story, and Mary refused to say anything in
explanation.
On the following day, two officers called at William Glenday's house,
and showed him a warrant for his apprehension upon a charge for the
murder of Peter Connal. Mary heard the statement of the men, and went
again into a swoon. When she recovered, her father had been taken to
prison.
A precognition was now led by the crown lawyers. Giulio Massetto was
examined, and stated that, on the night of the murder, he saw Mary
Glenday pick up a sword, which she found lying on the ground near the
place where Peter Connal was slain; that he afterwards saw her, through
the window, washing the blood from her father's sword and coat.
Glenday's servant was next examined, who stated that she saw Mary
washing the sword and her father's coat, by looking through the key-hole
of the door. Mary was next called; but she refused to say anything
against her father; and she was not pressed. Several witnesses,
however, were examined, who asserted that a quarrel took place between
Peter Connal and William Glenday, on the day of the murder, respecting
the amount of the tocher which Peter's son was to get from William
Glenday with his daughter. This evidence the crown-officers conceived to
be very strong, and nothing that the prisoner could say tended to affect
it. The gentleman to whom, on the night that the murder was perpetrated,
he said he conveyed the hound, was a Frenchman, then living at Leith,
who wished to introduce a breed into France, for which country he had
departed. He therefore could not prove an _alibi_. In addition to all
this, the sword itself was produced, and a coat was found in Mary's
cabinet, which presented all the appearances of having been washed. It
was proved, too, that her father was never seen to wear that coat; and
the groom referred to in a previous part of this narrative, said that
Mary Glenday had nearly fainted one day when he took down the sword to
look at it.
As the evidence gradually transpired and came to the ears of Mary, the
effect produced upon her was of a character so intense, that no person
thought she could support life under its influence. A series of swoons
for many days seemed to divide her life with death. Her nerves suffered
alternations of high excitement and the lowest depression; and, at
times, her screams were heard far from the house, and by passengers
going along the street. In quieter moments, she cried for Giulio
Massetto, and said she would now consent to his conditions. The people
around her conceived she was raving, and paid no attention to her wild
request; though they could not restrain their tears, when they thought
of the extraordinary fate of the unfortunate girl. Her early and
romantic love for John Connal--the interruption of her marriage by the
death of her intended father-in-law--her sufferings under the terror,
very far from being causeless, that her father would expiate on the
scaffold the crime of murdering her lover's parent;--these things
became topics of ordinary conversation, and brought tears to the eyes of
many; but no one on earth knew all the sufferings of Mary Glenday. Her
restless nights--her frightful dreams--her cold shivering fears, real
and imaginary--her dependence on the word of a villain for the life of a
parent--the conduct she was obliged to pursue towards her lover, for
whom her affection had not diminished--and the nervous state of body
into which she had fallen, formed a load of misery which would have
bowed the head of an ordinary mortal to the grave.
Nor was the poor maiden now far from that place of rest. No extenuating
evidence could be procured for her father, and the trial was fixed to
take place within a fortnight. Every day of this period brought her more
near to the termination of a mortal's career. She gradually sank to the
last stage of life. The medical gentleman who attended her saw that she
could not survive the period of the trial. John Connal was continually
by her bedside. He had forgotten and forgiven all; though he had not got
a proper explanation of her mysterious conduct. A faint glimmering of
light, however, found its way into his mind; but any hope produced by it
was in a moment clouded by the dreadful thought, that she had all along
suspected her father to be the murderer of his parent, and had even
taken means to conceal it, if she did not, by washing the sword and her
father's coat, absolutely approve of it. When these thoughts came across
young Connal's mind, he flew from the object of his love, beating his
breast in agony; but pity again recalled him; and between so many
conflicting passions, he was next to being a madman.
One night he had been sitting with her to a late hour. She was too far
reduced to enter into anything like conversation--a few words being all
that ever passed; and these were of the most ominous character. After a
long pause, and when she seemed to be occupied with thoughts of her
approaching death, she started up in an instant, and laid hold of John,
who was sitting by her bedside. "Ken ye Mary Gray, John?" she cried,
with a wild scream--"ken ye that woman that is ca'ed Mary's Marion?"
"I do," answered John; "what aboot her, my dear Mary?"
"Awa to her!" she cried--"awa to her! wi' the flicht o' light. A thocht
has come into my head--why has it been sae lang o' comin? Ask her if she
threw ony bluid on my faither's coat on that awfu nicht when yer faither
was murdered?"
With the effort produced by speaking these words, she fell back
exhausted. John went in search of Mary Gray. She was not in the house;
but a young girl told him that she had met her with a man in the
Hunter's Bog. He hurried away to that lonely place. It was now dark, but
the night was quiet; and, though he could not see far, he could hear
with the greatest distinctness. About the middle of the glen, he heard
two persons engaged in conversation.
"For the twa gowd pieces ye gied to me," said a woman, "for assistin ye
in the matter o' fat Peter's death, I dinna thank ye, Giulio, because I
wrocht for it! Hang ye for an Italian dog! do ye think that Scotch
lasses are sae blate as to forget their bargains! Na, na--I hae got
naething frae ye for this last fortnicht, and I'm this nicht in want--so
gie me the silver pieces ye are awin me."
"It is neither gold nor silver that insolence will get out of an
Italian, Mary Gray," said Giulio. "It is another metal that he gives--at
least to a male."
"And did puir Peter Connal," answered she, "gie ye ony insolence when ye
slew him sae unmercifully wi' William Glenday's sword, that ye got me to
steal for ye frae his house, as if ye hadna had ane o' yer ain."
"Yes," answered the Italian. "He was insolent to me when he abused my
master, calling him an Italian piper, and saying he should be hanged for
his services to our gracious queen."
"And wherefore did ye put the crime on William Glenday," asked Mary, "by
using his sword, and getting me to throw bluid on the puir man's coat
when he passed my hoose?"
"Because," said Giulio, "he was also insolent to me. He refused me his
daughter--taunted me about my money, my speech, and my country. Besides,
I wished to stop his daughter's marriage with John Connal, which the
suspicion attaching to him could not fail to do. I was, besides, freed
from any suspicion of doing the deed myself. Other circumstances arose
from chance, favourable to me; for I did not count upon Mary's secreting
the sword, and washing her father's coat, which thou knowest has come
out in evidence against her."
"And it is a strange thing, Giulio," said she, "seeing that yer life is
in my hands, that ye should treat me as ye are noo doin, denyin me the
silver piece sae justly due to me. Are ye no feared I gang up the street
yonder, to the council chaumer, and mak a contract atween you and the
black knave wha hugs his freends sae closely aboot the craig?"
"Thy life would answer for it," said Giulio, sternly.
"And what would Mary's Marion," answered she, "care for a spark, whilk
only noo throws oot a glimmer to show her her shame?"
"Thou jokest, I presume," answered Giulio.
"I will tell ye that," answered Mary, "when I get my silver piece. Tempt
nae mair the wrath o' an angry woman, wha has only to say the word that
will mak yer feet dance i' the air, to a tune o' your ain whistling. It
winna be Davie Rizzio that will save ye if Mary says the word."
The Italian struck the woman violently, who fell, uttering a loud
scream. As John Connal rushed forward, Giulio fled, pursued by the
threats and imprecations of Mary, who, upon returning, was grateful to
John for delivering her from his violence.
Next day Mary Gray was examined by the procurator-fiscal. She gave a
detailed account of Giulio's having bribed her to steal William
Glenday's sword; and afterwards, when he had killed Peter Connal, to
throw blood on Glenday's coat as he passed her door. John Connal gave
next his account of the conversation he had heard between the Italian
and Mary Gray. Other witnesses were examined to prove Giulio's quarrel
with Peter, and also with William Glenday; and one man stated, that when
Giulio joined the people who were rushing out of the palace to see the
fray, he seemed to approach them at an angle, as if he had not come
direct from the palace. In addition to all this, Mary Glenday, who was
examined in bed, gave a satisfactory account of her actings, as they
have been already detailed.
The aspect of matters was now changed. William Glenday was liberated,
and the Italian put in his place. He was afterwards tried, condemned,
and hanged. Mary Glenday recovered, and explained everything to the
satisfaction of her lover to whom she was afterwards married.
THE RESTORED SON.