THE NOON OF LOVE.
"He looked upon her, and her humid gaze
Was at his look dropped instant on the ground:
But o'er her cheek of beauty rushed a blaze,
Her bosom heaved within its silken bound--
And though her voice is trembling as I sigh,
Love triumphs in her smile and fond delicious eye."
CROLY'S _Angel of the World_.
The sun was in the west, and threw the long shadow of the Netherbow
so far down the vista of the Canongate that it almost reached to the
Girth-cross of the Holyrood. Save when the summer wind made strange
sounds among the peaked roofs and enormous chimneys of the narrow
closes, the streets were still and quiet. A hoof rang occasionally,
just as if to remind one that they were recently paved for the first
time; or the distant cries were heard of those who sold curds and
milk at the cross, or cockles and whelks at the Tron, as we may learn
from William Dunbar's poem in the year 1500.
The countess and her family had just adjourned from the dining hull
to that tapestried chamber in which we had the honour of first
introducing them to the reader. With no foreboding of the mischief
that was then brewing against them at that moment in the little
turret-room of the cardinal's mansion, the good old Lady Margaret and
all around her were very happy.
Roland instinctively drew to the side of Jane, who approached her
embroidery frame, for ladies were never idle in those industrious
days; Earl Archibald seated himself by the side of Sybil, where he
could very well have spared the additional company of her companions,
Marion and Alison, who seated themselves near, to hear her perform on
the virginals; and the countess assumed her accustomed and
well-cushioned bench, in the sunny corner of a window, where the
shadows of the thick basket grating were thrown upon her face.
Drawing her spinning-wheel towards her with one hand, she made a
motion with the other to Father St. Bernard to sit near; for the
confessor had that day been invited to dinner the moment his oration
concluded.
"I pray Heaven I may not hear some evil tidings," said the countess,
"for the wind is so high."
"Nay, fear not, madam, for this is Friday," replied the old priest,
"and the festival of Queen Ellen to boot."
"And yet I remind me, father, that in the days of King James IV., I
heard the wind soughing just so, and in two hours thereafter news
came frae the west countrie that my kinsman, Sir John Colquhoun of
Luss, who was lord chamberlain and ambassador to England in 1487, was
killed at the siege of Dumbarton, by a ball from a culverin."
"In 1489--yea, madam, I mind that leaguer well, as if twere
yesterday."
"Eight-and-forty years ago," said the counters. "St. Mary! I was
but a wee tot at my mother's knee in the auld tower of Kilspindie
then!"
"Udsdagger!" whispered the earl to Sybil, "the old lady my mother is
full tilt again at her musty recollections of James IV."
"She will soon dose poor Father St. Bernard with her salves, her
charms against witchcraft, and prosy reminiscences of Flodden and
Queen Margaret."
"And he will reply with scriptural texts and astounding miracles. On
my honour, they are a pair of the most veritable prosers between the
tower of Creich and the tower of Babel!"
"Hush! to mention that tower of Creich in the cardinal's hearing
makes one his enemy for life."
"Fiend take the cardinal and his red hat to boot!" whispered the
earl, "for in England I have learned to laugh both at red legs and
shaven crowns. But now, my own fair cousin, sing me, I pray, the old
song of Duke Albany's days, that song my father loved so well. In
Holyrood it might be treason to sing of a French minion's fall, but
none are here save friends; and oh, my dear Sybil, thou knowest not
how blythe I am to hear thy soft low voice again. Do not refuse me,"
he added, seeing that she was about to object; "for in a day or two I
go to exile again, and we may meet no more."
The young noble gallantly kissed a handful of Sybil's long dark hair;
and in the desire to please her handsome lover, she at once commenced
one of those old songs, to which something of a melancholy interest
will ever cling, when we consider that they cheered or soothed our
Scottish sires three hundred years ago--
"God send that the duke had byded in France,
And the Sieur de la Beaute had never come hame,
With his tall men-at-arms, by banner and lance,
The Douglas, the Home, and the Seton to tame."*
* See VEDDERBURNE'S _Complainte of Scotland_, printed at St.
Andrew'*, A.D. 1549.
The voice of Sybil was worthy of her name; it was bewitchingly soft
and low and sweet; but the sharp, wiry, and somewhat unmusical
accompaniment of the virginal, rather injured than improved the
effect of her performance, which was admirable; for the frank girl
was at no pains to conceal the amiable wish to please her kinsman and
lover. Seated very erectly upon a high-backed chair, her white hands
tinkled over the keys of this old-fashioned instrument, which,
perhaps, obtained its name from being played upon almost solely by
young ladies. Though externally not unlike our modern pianoforte,
the virginal was internally more like the spinet of the succeeding
age, which formed, in fact, the link between the two.
That on which Sybil played had been presented to Jane Seton by Anne
de la Tour, the late Duchess of Albany. The case was of cedar,
covered with blue Genoese velvet, and clasped by four large gilded
locks finely engraven with the arms of Scotland and France. The
whole of the front was magnificently enamelled, and had forty keys
provided with jacks and quills, twenty being of ebony tipped with
silver, and twenty of ivory tipped with gold, to mark the semitones.
Supported by two dragons of oak, it was only five feet long by twenty
inches deep; but as there were but few virginals in Scotland, its
splendour formed one of the topics of the day; and those evil minds
were not wanting who affirmed that it was merely a box of devils who
played at the command of the black page.
Thus, while singing and soft glances were the entertainment in one
corner of that tall tapestried room, miracles and omens in another, a
quiet little flirtation was proceeding in a third, where Lady Jane
was sitting, to all appearance very intent upon her embroidery, while
her lover leant over the back of her chair, conversing in low tones,
looking kisses and all manner of soft things, and contriving to say a
good many too, under cover of Sybil's musical performance,
notwithstanding the presence of Father St. Bernard, whose apostolical
aspect was sufficiently imposing.
"And so, my gentle Jeanie, thou art still bent on visiting this
convent of Sienna to-night?"
"Have I not told you ten times that I have promised this book as a
birthday gift to the reverend mother ever since the martyrdom of St.
Victor--more than a month ago," said Jane, reckoning the time on her
pretty fingers; "and she has never yet received it. By-the-bye,
sir--of all the world, I think thou oughtest to accompany me
to-night."
"Impossible, my own sweetheart."
"What would you say if I were to be carried off?"
"Carried off! Bah! I should like to see any one carry you off."
"It would be very unpleasant," said Jane, shrugging her shoulders;
"and within a month of our marriage, too."
"Adorable Jane!"
"Hush! Father St. Bernard--you forget."
"You know well how gladly I would go; but as I have said, both the
captain and lieutenant of the king's guard have sent to say, they
will do themselves the pleasure of supping with me to-night, and
hospitality requires that I should not decline, for we are three _bon
camarados_, and have made a compact to dine and sup with each other
alternately whenever our cash was low."
"Then the cash of these wild gallants is gone?"
"Sunk to the lowest ebb, Jane. I met them this morning, swearing
like Turks, for they had lost all they possessed, even to their
rings, at the French ambassador's. With the earl and his enormous
Tizona, and these tall trenchermen, who are always lounging about the
kitchen-fire and stable-yard, none will dare to molest you to-night."
"Be not too certain. Oh, I have so many lovers, that I dare scarcely
look from under my hood, lest I add one to the number. Abduction is
not so uncommon, surely. Did not King James carry off the lady of
Lochlevin on her bridal night? Is not the Knight of Casche now a
prisoner in the castle for carrying off the wife of Sir David Scott,
whom he slew in the kirk of Strathmiglo? And 'tis only six days
since Kincaid of Coates forcibly abducted the poor wife of master
Quentin Smebard, when she was cheapening her a new hood at the
Tron--yea, in the High-street, and at noon-day."
"Tush! a pitiful clerk of the chancery," said Roland, playing with
her curls. "Believe me, my little ladykin, that none will dare
meddle with thee who see the livery of thy followers, and remember
thou art the affianced bride of Sir Roland Vipont. So in vain,
cunning fairy, thou wouldest frighten me from performing what
friendship and hospitality require. But what is this book, for which
madam the prioress of St. Katherine is so anxious?"
"See, it is _The Lyf of St. Katherin of Sienna_," said Jane, opening
a little volume of Wynkyn de Worde's, the velvet cover of which she
had embroidered beautifully with gold upon crimson. "Thou canst read
this black letter, of course?"
"Why, thanks to fortune and my good friend the father here, I learned
the _Grace Buke_ and _Prymar_, at the principal grammar school of
this good burgh, when it was first opened by Provost Logan of
Coatfield."
"In the year of grace 1519," said the countess, "just six years after
the death of the good King James, whose munificence founded it--woe's
me!"
"And why doth this prioress not embroider her own books? How, i' the
devil's name, do they spend the long dull day in yonder convent; for
I vow 'tis a fortress all walled round like the city of Lisle--and I
suppose the fair sisters are never beyond it."
"Save when sickness or sorrow, want or misery, call them into the
world; for they are of inestimable service to the poor. Ah! had you
seen them in time of the plague. The Prioress Josina--thou
rememberest the beautiful Josina Henrison, who with me was a
damoiselle of honour to madam the Duchess Anne of Albany? Ah! she is
a very angel of goodness. Now, do not look in that way, as if you
were just about to laugh at me?"
"Who--I? Mass! I would almost have fallen sick on purpose, to have
had such a nurse as the pretty Josina--had I not----"
"What, sir?"
"Loved thee, and consequently been sure of another."
"'Tis well you say so," replied Jane, playfully, pinching his ear.
"Ah! my mother is watching us!"
"God bless ye, bairns!" said the old countess, kindly and fondly;
"for ye were born under the same star, ilk being destined for the
other."
"_Pax Domini sit semper voliscum_," said Father St. Bernard, with
closed eyes, and waving his right hand towards them.
"Plague take thy Latin," muttered the earl.
"Which meaneth, the peace of the Lord be about you," continued the
priest.
"I never tried Latin but once, good father, and then it was to curse
roundly when my Scottish failed--_in nomine patris et filii_, and so
forth."
"And when was this, my sou?"
"Retreating up Yarrow-braes from Cessford's spearmen, with two
bullets and three arrows sticking in my body."
The old priest crossed himself, and turned up his eyes; but those of
the countess kindled as her son spoke, and some fiery remark was
hovering on her lips, when her bower-woman, a demure looking abigail,
clad in solemn black taffety, raised the arras, glided in on tiptoe,
and whispered something in her ear.
Lady Ashkirk turned very pale.
"Mother dear," said Lady Jane, tenderly, "what has happened?"
"That hen hath crowed again, as Janet tells me."
"Hen--what hen?" said the earl.
"An ill-omened hen in the poultry-yard, whilk hath now crown thrice
since you came amongst us. Oh! my doo Archibald! my doo
Archibald!--it's a sad boding of evil, whilk the Mother o' God avert."
"Amen!" said the old priest, "_pax domini_----"
"Friend Roland," said the earl, with a smile, "did you ever know any
one who dwelt in such an atmosphere of omens and predictions, salves
and recipes, as the good lady my mother? 'Tis very perplexing, to
say the least of it."
"Hush, lord earl!" said the countess, with some asperity; "every
bairn kens that the crowing of a hen bodeth evil, and that no house
can thrive where the hens are addicted to sic an ungodly and
unnatural amusement. Harkee, Janet, let its neck be drawn, and
bestow it as an almous on the first Franciscan who comes hither wi'
his begging box."
This episode was rather "a damper" to the ladies; but Roland
endeavoured to divert them, by engaging and vanquishing them all
successively at the old French military game of _passe dix_, which
was played with three dice, at which (as we learn from the _Complete
Gamester_, 1680) "the caster throws continually till he hath thrown
doublets under ten, and then he is _out_, and loseth, or doublets
above ten, and then he _passeth_, and wins." At this simple game
fortune favoured Roland, and he swept off the entire passbank, which
was composed of little _bon-bons_ of honey and flour, for sugar was
then growing in the mist of futurity--at least, it was unknown in
Scotland. The time stole swiftly on; at last the ringing of vespers
warned him that he must retire, as his friends, who had so annoyingly
invited themselves, would be awaiting him.
"Say a prayer for me at St. Katherine's to-night, my dear Jane," said
Roland, as he buckled on his rapier. "I fear me I am a sad rogue,
and often omit to pray for myself in these stirring times, when one's
armour is so rarely off: and of all things forget not to give my very
best commendations to the fair Josina."
"Sirrah! thou wantest thine other ear well pinched."
"And you return?"
"To-morrow, at noon."
"Ah--the devil! and shall I not see thee till then?" said Roland,
scared at the prospect of an eighteen hours' separation.
"Thou wilt not die of despair in that time, surely?" replied Jane,
archly.
"Then to-morrow, at noon, I will be at the convent gate, or under the
old lime-trees that border its pathway, near the loch; and so till
then, my sweet flower, farewell."
After paying his adieux to all with that grave formality which French
intercourse had impressed upon the manners of the Scottish noblesse,
he retired; whereupon the messieurs Birrel and Dobbie ordered in the
additional stoup of Flemish wine, as we have related in the
thirteenth chapter of this history.