Yes ye moss-green walls,
Ye towers defenceless, I revisit ye
Shame-stricken! Where are all your trophies now?
Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,
That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homage
Of neighbouring barons?
Mysterious Mother.
Entering the castle of Ellangowan by a postern doorway which showed
symptoms of having been once secured with the most jealous care, Brown
(whom, since he has set foot upon the property of his fathers, we shall
hereafter call by his father’s name of Bertram) wandered from one ruined
apartment to another, surprised at the massive strength of some parts of
the building, the rude and impressive magnificence of others, and the
great extent of the whole. In two of these rooms, close beside each
other, he saw signs of recent habitation. In one small apartment were
empty bottles, half-gnawed bones, and dried fragments of bread. In the
vault which adjoined, and which was defended by a strong door, then left
open, he observed a considerable quantity of straw, and in both were the
relics of recent fires. How little was it possible for Bertram to
conceive that such trivial circumstances were closely connected with
incidents affecting his prosperity, his honour, perhaps his life!
After satisfying his curiosity by a hasty glance through the interior of
the castle, Bertram now advanced through the great gateway which opened
to the land, and paused to look upon the noble landscape which it
commanded. Having in vain endeavoured to guess the position of
Woodbourne, and having nearly ascertained that of Kippletringan, he
turned to take a parting look at the stately ruins which he had just
traversed. He admired the massive and picturesque effect of the huge
round towers, which, flanking the gateway, gave a double portion of depth
and majesty to the high yet gloomy arch under which it opened. The carved
stone escutcheon of the ancient family, bearing for their arms three
wolves’ heads, was hung diagonally beneath the helmet and crest, the
latter being a wolf couchant pierced with an arrow. On either side stood
as supporters, in full human size or larger, a salvage man PROPER, to use
the language of heraldry, WREATHED AND CINCTURED, and holding in his hand
an oak tree ERADICATED, that is, torn up by the roots.
‘And the powerful barons who owned this blazonry,’ thought Bertram,
pursuing the usual train of ideas which flows upon the mind at such
scenes--‘do their posterity continue to possess the lands which they had
laboured to fortify so strongly? or are they wanderers, ignorant perhaps
even of the fame or power of their fore-fathers, while their hereditary
possessions are held by a race of strangers? Why is it,’ he thought,
continuing to follow out the succession of ideas which the scene
prompted--‘why is it that some scenes awaken thoughts which belong as it
were to dreams of early and shadowy recollection, such as my old Brahmin
moonshie would have ascribed to a state of previous existence? Is it the
visions of our sleep that float confusedly in our memory, and are
recalled by the appearance of such real objects as in any respect
correspond to the phantoms they presented to our imagination? How often
do we find ourselves in society which we have never before met, and yet
feel impressed with a mysterious and ill-defined consciousness that
neither the scene, the speakers, nor the subject are entirely new; nay,
feel as if we could anticipate that part of the conversation which has
not yet taken place! It is even so with me while I gaze upon that ruin;
nor can I divest myself of the idea that these massive towers and that
dark gateway, retiring through its deep-vaulted and ribbed arches, and
dimly lighted by the courtyard beyond, are not entirely strange to me.
Can it be that they have been familiar to me in infancy, and that I am to
seek in their vicinity those friends of whom my childhood has still a
tender though faint remembrance, and whom I early exchanged for such
severe task-masters? Yet Brown, who, I think, would not have deceived me,
always told me I was brought off from the eastern coast, after a skirmish
in which my father was killed; and I do remember enough of a horrid scene
of violence to strengthen his account.’
It happened that the spot upon which young Bertram chanced to station
himself for the better viewing the castle was nearly the same on which
his father had died. It was marked by a large old oak-tree, the only one
on the esplanade, and which, having been used for executions by the
barons of Ellangowan, was called the Justice Tree. It chanced, and the
coincidence was remarkable, that Glossin was this morning engaged with a
person whom he was in the habit of consulting in such matters concerning
some projected repairs and a large addition to the house of Ellangowan,
and that, having no great pleasure in remains so intimately connected
with the grandeur of the former inhabitants, he had resolved to use the
stones of the ruinous castle in his new edifice. Accordingly he came up
the bank, followed by the land-surveyor mentioned on a former occasion,
who was also in the habit of acting as a sort of architect in case of
necessity. In drawing the plans, etc., Glossin was in the custom of
relying upon his own skill. Bertram’s back was towards them as they came
up the ascent, and he was quite shrouded by the branches of the large
tree, so that Glossin was not aware of the presence of the stranger till
he was close upon him.
‘Yes, sir, as I have often said before to you, the Old Place is a perfect
quarry of hewn stone, and it would be better for the estate if it were
all down, since it is only a den for smugglers.’ At this instant Bertram
turned short round upon Glossin at the distance of two yards only, and
said--‘Would you destroy this fine old castle, sir?’
His face, person, and voice were so exactly those of his father in his
best days, that Glossin, hearing his exclamation, and seeing such a
sudden apparition in the shape of his patron, and on nearly the very spot
where he had expired, almost thought the grave had given up its dead! He
staggered back two or three paces, as if he had received a sudden and
deadly wound. He instantly recovered, however, his presence of mind,
stimulated by the thrilling reflection that it was no inhabitant of the
other world which stood before him, but an injured man whom the slightest
want of dexterity on his part might lead to acquaintance with his rights,
and the means of asserting them to his utter destruction. Yet his ideas
were so much confused by the shock he had received that his first
question partook of the alarm.
‘In the name of God, how came you here?’ said Glossin.
‘How came I here?’ repeated Bertram, surprised at the solemnity of the
address; ‘I landed a quarter of an hour since in the little harbour
beneath the castle, and was employing a moment’s leisure in viewing these
fine ruins. I trust there is no intrusion?’
‘Intrusion, sir? No, sir,’ said Glossin, in some degree recovering his
breath, and then whispered a few words into his companion’s ear, who
immediately left him and descended towards the house. ‘Intrusion, sir?
no, sir; you or any gentleman are welcome to satisfy your curiosity.’
‘I thank you, sir,’ said Bertram. ‘They call this the Old Place, I am
informed?’
‘Yes, sir; in distinction to the New Place, my house there below.’
Glossin, it must be remarked, was, during the following dialogue, on the
one hand eager to learn what local recollections young Bertram had
retained of the scenes of his infancy, and on the other compelled to be
extremely cautious in his replies, lest he should awaken or assist, by
some name, phrase, or anecdote, the slumbering train of association. He
suffered, indeed, during the whole scene the agonies which he so richly
deserved; yet his pride and interest, like the fortitude of a North
American Indian, manned him to sustain the tortures inflicted at once by
the contending stings of a guilty conscience, of hatred, of fear, and of
suspicion.
‘I wish to ask the name, sir,’ said Bertram, ‘of the family to whom this
stately ruin belongs.’
‘It is my property, sir; my name is Glossin.’
‘Glossin--Glossin?’ repeated Bertram, as if the answer were somewhat
different from what he expected. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Glossin; I am
apt to be very absent. May I ask if the castle has been long in your
family?’
‘It was built, I believe, long ago by a family called Mac-Dingawaie,’
answered Glossin, suppressing for obvious reasons the more familiar sound
of Bertram, which might have awakened the recollections which he was
anxious to lull to rest, and slurring with an evasive answer the question
concerning the endurance of his own possession.
‘And how do you read the half-defaced motto, sir,’ said Bertram, ‘which
is upon that scroll above the entablature with the arms?’
‘I--I--I really do not exactly know,’ replied Glossin.
‘I should be apt to make it out, OUR RIGHT MAKES OUR MIGHT.’
‘I believe it is something of that kind,’ said Glossin.
‘May I ask, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘if it is your family motto?’
‘N--n--no--no--not ours. That is, I believe, the motto of the former
people; mine is--mine is--in fact, I have had some correspondence with
Mr. Cumming of the Lyon Office in Edinburgh about mine. He writes me the
Glossins anciently bore for a motto, “He who takes it, makes it.”’
‘If there be any uncertainty, sir, and the case were mine,’ said Bertram,
‘I would assume the old motto, which seems to me the better of the two.’
Glossin, whose tongue by this time clove to the roof of his mouth, only
answered by a nod.
‘It is odd enough,’ said Bertram, fixing his eye upon the arms and
gateway, and partly addressing Glossin, partly as it were thinking
aloud--‘it is odd the tricks which our memory plays us. The remnants of
an old prophecy, or song, or rhyme of some kind or other, return to my
recollection on hearing that motto; stay--it is a strange jingle of
sounds:--
The dark shall be light, And the wrong made right, When Bertram’s right
and Bertram’s might Shall meet on---
I cannot remember the last line--on some particular height; HEIGHT is the
rhyme, I am sure; but I cannot hit upon the preceding word.’
‘Confound your memory,’ muttered Glossin, ‘you remember by far too much
of it!’
‘There are other rhymes connected with these early recollections,’
continued the young man. ‘Pray, sir, is there any song current in this
part of the world respecting a daughter of the King of the Isle of Man
eloping with a Scottish knight?’
‘I am the worst person in the world to consult upon legendary
antiquities,’ answered Glossin.
‘I could sing such a ballad,’ said Bertram, ‘from one end to another when
I was a boy. You must know I left Scotland, which is my native country,
very young, and those who brought me up discouraged all my attempts to
preserve recollection of my native land, on account, I believe, of a
boyish wish which I had to escape from their charge.’
‘Very natural,’ said Glossin, but speaking as if his utmost efforts were
unable to unseal his lips beyond the width of a quarter of an inch, so
that his whole utterance was a kind of compressed muttering, very
different from the round, bold, bullying voice with which he usually
spoke. Indeed, his appearance and demeanour during all this conversation
seemed to diminish even his strength and stature; so that he appeared to
wither into the shadow of himself, now advancing one foot, now the other,
now stooping and wriggling his shoulders, now fumbling with the buttons
of his waistcoat, now clasping his hands together; in short, he was the
picture of a mean-spirited, shuffling rascal in the very agonies of
detection. To these appearances Bertram was totally inattentive, being
dragged on as it were by the current of his own associations. Indeed,
although he addressed Glossin, he was not so much thinking of him as
arguing upon the embarrassing state of his own feelings and recollection.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I preserved my language among the sailors, most of whom
spoke English, and when I could get into a corner by myself I used to
sing all that song over from beginning to end; I have forgot it all now,
but I remember the tune well, though I cannot guess what should at
present so strongly recall it to my memory.’
He took his flageolet from his pocket and played a simple melody.
Apparently the tune awoke the corresponding associations of a damsel who,
close beside a fine spring about halfway down the descent, and which had
once supplied the castle with water, was engaged in bleaching linen. She
immediately took up the song:--
‘Are these the Links of Forth, she said,
Or are they the crooks of Dee,
Or the bonnie woods of Warroch Head
That I so fain would see?’
‘By heaven,’ said Bertram, ‘it is the very ballad! I must learn these
words from the girl.’
‘Confusion!’ thought Glossin; ‘if I cannot put a stop to this all will be
out. O the devil take all ballads and ballad-makers and ballad-singers!
and that d--d jade too, to set up her pipe!’--‘You will have time enough
for this on some other occasion,’ he said aloud; ‘at present’ (for now he
saw his emissary with two or three men coming up the bank)--‘at present
we must have some more serious conversation together.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’ said Bertram, turning short upon him, and not
liking the tone which he made use of.
‘Why, sir, as to that--I believe your name is Brown?’ said Glossin. ‘And
what of that, sir?’
Glossin looked over his shoulder to see how near his party had
approached; they were coming fast on. ‘Vanbeest Brown? if I mistake not.’
‘And what of that, sir?’ said Bertram, with increasing astonishment and
displeasure.
‘Why, in that case,’ said Glossin, observing his friends had now got upon
the level space close beside them--‘in that case you are my prisoner in
the king’s name!’ At the same time he stretched his hand towards
Bertram’s collar, while two of the men who had come up seized upon his
arms; he shook himself, however, free of their grasp by a violent effort,
in which he pitched the most pertinacious down the bank, and, drawing his
cutlass, stood on the defensive, while those who had felt his strength
recoiled from his presence and gazed at a safe distance. ‘Observe,’ he
called out at the same time, ‘that I have no purpose to resist legal
authority; satisfy me that you have a magistrate’s warrant, and are
authorised to make this arrest, and I will obey it quietly; but let no
man who loves his life venture to approach me till I am satisfied for
what crime, and by whose authority, I am apprehended.’
Glossin then caused one of the officers show a warrant for the
apprehension of Vanbeest Brown, accused of the crime of wilfully and
maliciously shooting at Charles Hazlewood, younger of Hazlewood, with an
intent to kill, and also of other crimes and misdemeanours, and which
appointed him, having been so apprehended, to be brought before the next
magistrate for examination. The warrant being formal, and the fact such
as he could not deny, Bertram threw down his weapon and submitted himself
to the officers, who, flying on him with eagerness corresponding to their
former pusillanimity, were about to load him with irons, alleging the
strength and activity which he had displayed as a justification of this
severity. But Glossin was ashamed or afraid to permit this unnecessary
insult, and directed the prisoner to be treated with all the decency, and
even respect, that was consistent with safety. Afraid, however, to
introduce him into his own house, where still further subjects of
recollection might have been suggested, and anxious at the same time to
cover his own proceedings by the sanction of another’s authority, he
ordered his carriage (for he had lately set up a carriage) to be got
ready, and in the meantime directed refreshments to be given to the
prisoner and the officers, who were consigned to one of the rooms in the
old castle, until the means of conveyance for examination before a
magistrate should be provided.