Johnston was busy in a corner, defending herself, by drawing a circle round
her; Widow Lindsay was clinging close to the figure of the Virgin that was
placed against the wall by her side; Jenny Wilson sought refuge in the arms
of honest John; Wat Webster himself got his hand placed upon an old Latin
Bible, not one word of which he could read; and some followed one mode of
self-defence, and some another, against the expected efforts of the
stranger, whose proceedings at his other places of call had been all
related at Wat Webster's, with an exaggeration they perhaps stood little in
need of. The stranger cared nothing for these indications, not a cinder;
and took no notice of them.
"I'll e'en begin our potations myself," said he, filling out a flaskful of
his liquor, and drinking it off. "By him that brewed it, it tastes well
after my long walk! Wat Webster, wilt thou pledge me, man--
"'And let us all, my friends, be merry,
And set nocht by this world a cherry;
Now while there is good wyne to sell,
He that does on dry bread worry,
I gif him to the devil of hell.'"
And he trowled the flask upon the table while he sung, as a kind of bass
chorus to his song.
"There's for thee, Wat!" continued he, filling out a flask.
Wat kept his hand upon the holy book.
"Wilt thou, honest John Wilson, pledge thy old friend in this red liquor,
which formerly claimed so strong an acquaintanceship with the secret power
of the topers' hearts of merry Christ's Kirk?"
"For the luve o' heaven," whispered Jenny, as she clung closer to him,
"touch it not!--it will scald yer liver like brimstone, and may, besides,
be the price o' yer soul's purchase."
John looked at the liquor, and would have spoken; but his heart failed him.
"Wilt thou, Meg Johnston, empty this flask to the health of thy old
friend?"
"Guid faith, I, lad," muttered Meg, safe as she thought within the walls of
her necromantic circumvallation--"I ken ye owre weel. Ye needna think to
cheat me. I'm no a spunk to be dipped in brimstone, and then set lowe to.
But [aside] how can he stand the look o' the haly rude! and the haly book?
The deevil o' sic a deevil I ever heard, saw, or read o'. Avaunt ye, avaunt
ye, in the name o the seven churches! The deil a bane ye'll get here--yere
owre weel kenned. Set aff in a flash o' yer ain fire to Falkland."
"Wilt thou, Christy Lowry, pledge thine old friend?" continued the
stranger, without noticing Meg's recommendation.
"In guid troth na," replied Christy, to whom the cross afforded some
confidence. "It's a' out, man--it's owre the hail town. There's nae use in
concealin't langer. Just put a spunk to the neck o't and set aff. Wae! wae!
[aside] but it's an awfu thing to look the enemy i' the very face, and
hauld converse wi' lips that mak nae gobs at cinders! Ave Maria! help
Christy Lowry in this her trial and temptation?"
"Come from thy langsettle, jolly Kate Webster," continued he of the red
cravat, "and let us, as thou wert wont to say, have a little laughing and
drinking deray in this last night of the old year. I see, by the very
mouths thou makest, thy throat is as dry as a dander, and, by and by, may
set fire to my red liquor. Ha! I love a jolly gossip for a tosspot; for she
gives more speech, and takes more liquor, than your 'breeked' steers that
drink down the words, and drown them in the throat. Nothing drowns a
woman's speech. It strengthens and improves in ale or whisky as if it were
its natural element. Come open thy word-mill, Kate, and pour in the red
grist, lass."
"The soopleness o' his tongue has been long kent," whispered Kitty to Meg
Johnston.
"Ay, an' lang felt," replied Meg, in a suppressed tone. "Our sins are
naething but a coil o't. When, in God's name, will he tak flight? I canna
stand this muckle langer."
"Three times have I warded off a swarf," said Kitty. "The gouch o' his
breath comes owre me like the reek o' a snuffed-out candle. Will the men no
interfere?"
"Marion Webster," said the stranger, as if unconscious of the fear he was
producing, "did I not, sweet queen, dance a jolly fandango with thee, last
Halloween, to the rondeau of love--
"'Return the hamewart airt agane,
And byde quhair thou wast wont to be--
Thou art ane fule to suffer paine,
For love of her that loves not thee.'
And wilt thou not pledge thy old friend in a half flask--the maiden's
bumper?"
"I hae nae objections," replied the sprightly Marion, and took up the
flask.
The company looked on in amazement and terror. The flame would rise on the
application of the liquor to her lips, and doubtless little more of Marion
Webster would be seen on the face of this lower world. While Marion still
held the flask in her hand, the sound of carriage wheels was heard. The
vehicle seemed to halt at Wat Webster's door. The door opened with a bang.
Marion had not time to drink off her "spark," and, still holding the flask,
went to the door to see who had so unceremoniously opened it; he of the red
cravat, taking up his bottle, followed with a long stride. A sudden
exclamation was heard from Marion; the sound of the shutting of the door of
a carriage followed; then came Jehu's "hap-away," with three loud cracks of
a whip, and all was ended by the rolling of rapid wheels, lost in a moment
in the distance.
Wat Webster, who had hitherto been chained to his seat, now started up;
and, clasping his hands in his agony, ejaculated, that "Marion was off in a
flame o' fire." The fact scarcely required mention--alas! too evident to
all the company--that the greatest beauty of Christ's Kirk was away in the
talons of the great Enemy of all good; and the evidence within the walls of
the house was not greater than what was afforded by the watching crowd
without. The carriage, which was entirely black, and not unlike a hearse,
was seen to come in by the east end of the town, driving with a furious
career, the driver (dressed also in black) impelling, with a long whip, the
black horses, from whose hoofs sparks of fire were seen to fly; and neither
house nor man seeming to claim his attention, until he arrived at the house
of Wat Webster, where he of the red cravat was known to be. Many followed
the carriage, and many remained at a distance to see who the victim was
that was destined to be carried off in the strangers' vehicle; for, that
the coach was brought there for no other purpose than to carry off one who
could command in an instant a chariot of fire, seemed reasonably to be
entirely out of the question. Marion Webster, the beloved of the village,
was seen to enter, followed by the stranger; and, as the coach flew off, a
loud wail burst from the stricken hearts of the villagers, expressive at
once of their fear and of the intense pity they felt for the fate of one so
much beloved, and whose crimes, much less than theirs, merited so dreadful
a punishment as that she should be carried off to the regions of sorrow.
The evidence, within and without the house, met, and, by the force of
sympathetic similarity, mixed in an instant, carrying away in their course,
like floating straws, the strongest doubts that remained in the mind of the
most sceptical man in Christ's Kirk, of the hapless daughter of Wat Webster
having been carried off by the Devil. The town was in the greatest
commotion; terror and pity were painted on every face; but the feelings of
the public held small proportion, indeed, to the agony which overtook Wat
Webster and his wife, whose only child she was, as well as their pride, and
that of every one in the whole town. Wat, who saw no use in flying after
Sathan--an individual of known locomotive powers--lay extended on the floor
of his cottage, cursing his fate, and bewailing the condition of his lovely
daughter, whose entry into Pandemonium, and first scream produced by the
burning lake, were as distinct in his eye and ear as ever was his morning
porridge, when they boiled and bubbled by the heat of the fire. But Kitty
was up and out, with a mighty crowd or tail in attendance, flying up and
down in every direction, to see if any burning trace could be had of her
beloved Marion; for she declared that, if she only got "the dander o' her
body to bury in Christ's Kirk," she would be thankful to heaven for the
gift, and try to moderate her grief. But no "dander" was to be seen. It was
by much too evident that Marion Webster would never more be seen on earth;
and, what might naturally add to the grief of her friends, they had no
chance of seeing her again in the world to come, unless at the expense of a
_condemnation_--a dear passport to see an old friend. Such a night was
never seen in Christ's Kirk as that on which Marion Webster was carried off
by his Sathanic Majesty.
We have said quite enough to make it to be understood that Marion Webster
did in reality go off in a coach with the stranger who has occupied so much
of our attention; but we have (being of Scottish origin) prudently
abstained from giving any opinion of our own upon the question of the true
character of him of the red cravat. The two drove off together, apparently
with much affection, and, after they had got entirely beyond the reach of
any supposed followers, they became comparatively easy, and very soon
commenced a conversation--an amusement never awanting when there is a woman
within reach of a person's articulated breath.
"What is the meaning o' a' this, Geordie, man?" said Marion, looking
lovingly into the face of the stranger. "Could I no have met ye this night
at the Three Sisters--the trees in the wood o' Ballochgray--without your
coming to Christ's Kirk, and spreading the fear o' the deil frae town's-end
to town's-end? But whar are we journeying to? and what means the carriage?"
The stranger thus accosted by the familiar name by which he was known to
the young woman, smiled, and told her to hold her tongue, and resign
herself to the pleasure of being carried through the air at the rate of ten
miles an hour. The moon was now shining beautifully "owre tower and tree;"
and ever and anon the maiden glanced her blue eye on the "siller-smolt"
scenes through which she passed, and then turned to the face of her
companion, who seemed to enjoy silently the wonder expressed by her fair
face. After rolling on for some time, they came to a road or avenue of tall
beech trees, at the end of which appeared an old castle, on which the
moonbeams were glancing, and exhibiting in strange forms the turrets with
which it was fancifully decorated. The grey owl's scream was borne along on
the breeze that met them, and struck on Marion's ear in wild and fitful
sounds--inspiring a dread which the presence of her mute lover did little
to remove or assuage.
"Is not that Ballochgray Castle?" said Marion, at last--"that fearfu place
whar the Baron of Ballochgray haulds his court with the Evil One, on every
Halloween night, when the bleak muirs are rife with the bad spirits o' the
earth and air. Whar drives the man, Geordie? Oh, tell him to turn awa frae
thae auld turrets and skreeching owls. I canna bear the sight o' the ane,
or the eerie sound o' the ither."
A smile was again the answer of her companion, and the carriage still drove
on to the well-known residence of the young Baron of Ballochgray--a man
who, knowing the weakness of his King, James the Third of Scotland, in his
love of astrology and divination, and their sister black arts, had, with
much address, endeavoured to recommend himself to his sovereign, by a
character pre-established in his own castle, for a successful cultivation
of the occult sciences. He had long withdrawn himself from the eyes of the
world, and even of his own tenants, and shut himself up in his castle, with
a due assortment of death's heads, charts, owls, globes, bones, astrolobes,
and vellum chronicles, with a view to the perfection of his hidden
knowledge; or, as some thought, with a view to produce such a fame of his
character and pursuits as might reach the ears of James, and acquire for
him that sway at court for which he sighed more than for real knowledge.
Some alleged that he was a cunning diplomatist, who cared no more for the
nostrums of astrology than he did for the dry bones that, while they
terrified his servants, had no more virtue in them than sap, and were, with
the other furniture of his dark study, collected for the mere purpose of
forwarding his ambitious designs upon the weak prince. His true character
was supposed to be--what he possessed before he took to his new
calling--that of a wild, eccentric, devil-daring man, who loved adventures
for their own sake, and worshipped the fair face of the "theekit and
tenanted skull" of a bouncing damsel, with far greater enthusiasm and
sincerity than he ever did his mortal osteological relics that lay in so
much profusion in the recesses of his old castle. But he had, doubtless, so
far succeeded in his plans; for he possessed a most unenviable fame for all
sort of cantrips and sorceries; and the wandering beggar would rather have
solicited a bit of bread from the iron hand of misery itself, than ventured
near Ballochgray to ask his awmous.
"I winna gang near that fearfu place, Geordie!" again cried Marion. "What
hae ye, a puir hind, to do wi' the Baron o' Ballochgray? Turn, for the sake
o' heaven!--turn frae that living grave o' dry banes, an' the weary goul
that sits jabbering owre them, by their ain light!"
Her companion again smiled; and the man dashed up the avenue, and never
stopped till he came to the gate of the castle--over which there were
placed two human shank-bones of great length, that were said to have
sustained the body of the Baron of Balwearie--that prince of the black art,
and the most cunning necromancer that ever drew a circle. The carriage
stopped; and two servants, dressed in red doublets, (like garments of
fire,) slashed with black, waited at the carriage door, with flambeaux in
their hands, to shew the couple into the hall. Out sprang the male first,
and then Marion Webster was handed, with great state, and led into the
interior of the old castle. She was led direct into the hall, which was
lighted up in a very fanciful manner, by means of many skulls arranged
round the room, and through the eyes and jaws of which lurid lights
streamed all around. Marion was filled with terror as she cast her eyes on
these shining monuments of mortality; and had, in her fear, scarcely
noticed a man in black, sitting at the end of the room, poring over a
black-lettered manuscript.
"Marion Webster," now said her travelling companion, "behold in your old
lover of the Ballochgray Wood the Baron of Ballochgray!"
A scream burst from the choking throat of the terrified damsel, and rung
through the old hall.
"Come, love," he continued, "abate thy terrors. My fame is worse than my
real character. I have wooed thee for reasons known to myself, and to be
known soon to thee. Thou didst love Geordie Dempster; and thy love was weak
indeed, if it is to be scared by brainless tongues or tongueless skulls.
Wilt thou consent to be the lady of the Baron of Ballochgray?"
"Geordie! Geordie!" cried the wondering, and yet loving maiden, "if I would
willingly wed thee in the grave, wi' death himsel for oor priest, shall I
refuse to be yours in a castle o' the livin, filled though it be wi' thae
signs o' mortality?"
"Come forth, Father Anthony!" cried the Baron, "and join us by the rules
and bands of holy kirk!"
The man in black lifted up his head from the black-letter page; and, having
called his witnesses, went through the requisite ceremonies; and Marion
Webster became, within a short space, the lady of Ballochgray.
Next day the Baron took her forth to the green woods, where, as they
sauntered among elms many centuries old, and as high as castles, he told
her that he had more reasons than other men for having a wife _who could
keep a secret_. When he first met her, he was struck with her beauty, but
had no more intention than ordinary love adventurers for making her his
wife; frequent intercourse had revealed to him a jewel he had never seen in
such brightness in the _head gear_ of the nobles of the land--a stern and
unflinching regard to the sanction of her word. He quickly resolved to test
this in such a manner as would leave no doubt in his mind that a
secret-keeping wife he might find in his humble maiden of Ballochgray
woods. He had three times visited Christ's Kirk in such a manner as would
raise an intense curiosity in the inhabitants as to who he was. Marion had
the secret only of his being plain Geordie Dempster; but so firmly and
determinedly had she kept it, that, in the very midst of a general belief
that he was the Prince of Darkness, she had never even let it be known that
she had once seen his face before. So far Marion was enlightened; and it is
not improbable that, afterwards, she knew _why_ a secret-keeping wife was
so much prized by the Baron of Ballochgray, and why he could serve two
purposes--that of love, and fame of supernatural powers--in personating, as
he had done, the Prince of Darkness in his visits to Christ's Kirk on the
Green. So far, at least, it is certain that Marion never revealed the
secret of his pretended astrological acquirements.
For weeks after the marriage, inquiries were made in every quarter for the
lost damsel; but, at last, all search and inquiry was given up, and the
belief that she was in the place appointed for the wicked had settled down
on the minds of the people. One evening a number of cronies were assembled
at the house of the disconsolate parents, and among these were Meg
Johnston, Christy Lowrie, Widow Lindsay, and others of the Leslians.
"The will o' the Lord maun be done," said Meg; "but wae's me! there was
mony an auld gimmer in Leslie, whose horns are weel marked wi' the lines o'
her evil days, that Clootie might hae taen, afore he cam to the bonnie ewe
that had only tasted the first leaves o' her simmer girse. What did Marion
Webster ever do in this warld to bring upon her this warst and last o' the
evils o' mortals?"
"It's just the like o' her the auld villain likes best," rejoined Christy.
"He doesna gie a doit for a gizzened sinner, wha will fa' into his hands at
the lang run without trouble. But the young, the blooming, and the bonny
are aye sair beset by temptations; and, heard ye never, Mrs Webster, o'
Marion's meetings at the Three Sisters, sometimes, they say, at the dead
hour, wi' some lover that naebody ever kenned."
"Ay, ay, dame," said Widow Lindsay; "that's just _his_ way. He comes in the
shape o' a young lover, and beguiles the hearts o' young maidens. Ye mind
o' bonny Peggy Lorimer o' the town's end, wha never did mair guid after she
met a stranger in the woods o' Ballochgray. Ae glance o' his ee, she said,
took awa her heart; and, every day after, she pined and pined, and wandered
amang the woods till she grew like a wraith, but nae mair o' him did she
ever see. I stricked her wi' my ain hands, and sic a corpse I never
handled. There wasna a pound o' flesh on her bones; and the carriers at the
burial aye said, that there wasna a corpse ava in the coffin. But puir
Marion has dreed a waur weird."
"My puir bairn! my puir bairn!" cried the mother. "The folk o' Leslie aye
said she wad ride in her carriage, for she was the bonniest lass that ever
was seen in Christ's Kirk. But, wear-awins! little kenned they what kind o'
a carriage she wad ride awa in on her marriage night."
"Some folks say, the monks will pray her back again," rejoined Meg; "but,
my faith, they'll hae hard work o't. He'll no let her awa without a fearfu
tuilzie, Christy."
"She'll never mair be seen on earth, woman," answered Christy. "And, even
if she were to be prayed back again, she wad never be the creature she was
again. A coal black lire, and singit ee-brees, wadna set her auld lovers in
Christ's Kirk in a bleeze again."
"They should watch the smoking field o' Dysart," cried Widow Lindsay. "If
she come again ava, it will be through that deil's porch. But what noise is
that, Kitty? Didna ye hear the sound o' carriage wheels?"
The party listened attentively; and, to be sure, there was a carriage
coming rattling along the street.
"Get out the Latin Bible, Wat!" cried Kitty. "He's maybe coming to tak us
awa next."
The listening continued; and when the sounds ceased, as the carriage
stopped at the door, and the postilion's whip cracked over the restless
horses, a cry of terror rang through the room. Every one shrank into a
corner, and muttered prayers mixed with the cries of fear. The door opened.
Every eye was fixed upon it, for no one doubted that their old friend had
returned. The Baron of Ballochgray and his lady, dressed in the most
gorgeous style, entered the house of the old couple. The sight of the gay
visiters made Wat and Kitty's eyes reel; and they screamed again from the
fear that the Prince had come back, only in a new doublet, to exhibit to
them their _sold_ daughter.
"I beg to introduce thee," said the Baron, "to the lady of Ballochgray--my
wedded wife."
Marion, without waiting for an answer, fell upon the neck of her father;
and then, in the same manner, she embraced her mother; but it was a long
time before the fears of Wat and Kitty were removed. At last, they were
persuaded to accompany them on a visit to Ballochgray Castle; and, when
they rode off in the chariot, they left behind them the belief that they
too were carried off by the "Old One." We cannot pretend to describe the
feelings of Wat and his wife when they were introduced into the old castle;
but they soon came to see that the Baron of Ballochgray was just "as guid a
chiel in his ain castle as ever he was when he acted the Deevil in Christ's
Kirk on the Green."
GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.
X.--SERGEANT WILSON.