Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air,
Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour,
Long have the rooks caw’d round the tower.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
Startled from her repose by the noise of the affray, the Fair Maid of
Perth had listened in breathless terror to the sounds of violence and
outcry which arose from the street. She had sunk on her knees to pray
for assistance, and when she distinguished the voices of neighbours and
friends collected for her protection, she remained in the same posture
to return thanks. She was still kneeling when her father almost thrust
her champion, Henry Smith, into her apartment; the bashful lover hanging
back at first, as if afraid to give offence, and, on observing her
posture, from respect to her devotion.
“Father,” said the armourer, “she prays; I dare no more speak to her
than to a bishop when he says mass.”
“Now, go thy ways, for a right valiant and courageous blockhead,” said
her father--and then speaking to his daughter, he added, “Heaven is best
thanked, my daughter, by gratitude shown to our fellow creatures. Here
comes the instrument by whom God has rescued thee from death, or perhaps
from dishonour worse than death. Receive him, Catharine, as thy true
Valentine, and him whom I desire to see my affectionate son.”
“Not thus--father,” replied Catharine. “I can see--can speak to no one
now. I am not ungrateful--perhaps I am too thankful to the instrument of
our safety; but let me thank the guardian saint who sent me this timely
relief, and give me but a moment to don my kirtle.”
“Nay, God-a-mercy, wench, it were hard to deny thee time to busk thy
body clothes, since the request is the only words like a woman that thou
hast uttered for these ten days. Truly, son Harry, I would my daughter
would put off being entirely a saint till the time comes for her being
canonised for St. Catherine the Second.”
“Nay, jest not, father; for I will swear she has at least one sincere
adorer already, who hath devoted himself to her pleasure, so far as
sinful man may. Fare thee well, then, for the moment, fair maiden,” he
concluded, raising his voice, “and Heaven send thee dreams as peaceful
as thy waking thoughts. I go to watch thy slumbers, and woe with him
that shall intrude on them!”
“Nay, good and brave Henry, whose warm heart is at such variance with
thy reckless hand, thrust thyself into no farther quarrels tonight;
but take the kindest thanks, and with these, try to assume the peaceful
thoughts which you assign to me. Tomorrow we will meet, that I may
assure you of my gratitude. Farewell.”
“And farewell, lady and light of my heart!” said the armourer, and,
descending the stair which led to Catharine’s apartment, was about to
sally forth into the street, when the glover caught him by the arm.
“I shall like the ruffle of tonight,” said he, “better than I ever
thought to do the clashing of steel, if it brings my daughter to her
senses, Harry, and teaches her what thou art worth. By St. Macgrider!
I even love these roysterers, and am sorry for that poor lover who will
never wear left handed chevron again. Ay! he has lost that which he will
miss all the days of his life, especially when he goes to pull on his
gloves; ay, he will pay but half a fee to my craft in future. Nay, not
a step from this house tonight,” he continued “Thou dost not leave us, I
promise thee, my son.”
“I do not mean it. But I will, with your permission, watch in the
street. The attack may be renewed.”
“And if it be,” said Simon, “thou wilt have better access to drive them
back, having the vantage of the house. It is the way of fighting which
suits us burghers best--that of resisting from behind stone walls. Our
duty of watch and ward teaches us that trick; besides, enough are awake
and astir to ensure us peace and quiet till morning. So come in this
way.”
So saying, he drew Henry, nothing loth, into the same apartment where
they had supped, and where the old woman, who was on foot, disturbed as
others had been by the nocturnal affray, soon roused up the fire.
“And now, my doughty son,” said the glover, “what liquor wilt thou
pledge thy father in?”
Henry Smith had suffered himself to sink mechanically upon a seat of old
black oak, and now gazed on the fire, that flashed back a ruddy light
over his manly features. He muttered to himself half audibly: “Good
Henry--brave Henry. Ah! had she but said, dear Henry!”
“What liquors be these?” said the old glover, laughing. “My cellar holds
none such; but if sack, or Rhenish, or wine of Gascony can serve, why,
say the word and the flagon foams, that is all.”
“The kindest thanks,” said the armourer, still musing, “that’s more
than she ever said to me before--the kindest thanks--what may not that
stretch to?”
“It shall stretch like kid’s leather, man,” said the glover, “if
thou wilt but be ruled, and say what thou wilt take for thy morning’s
draught.”
“Whatever thou wilt, father,” answered the armourer, carelessly, and
relapsed into the analysis of Catharine’s speech to him. “She spoke
of my warm heart; but she also spoke of my reckless hand. What earthly
thing can I do to get rid of this fighting fancy? Certainly I were best
strike my right hand off, and nail it to the door of a church, that it
may never do me discredit more.”
“You have chopped off hands enough for one night,” said his friend,
setting a flagon of wine on the table. “Why dost thou vex thyself, man?
She would love thee twice as well did she not see how thou doatest upon
her. But it becomes serious now. I am not to have the risk of my booth
being broken and my house plundered by the hell raking followers of the
nobles, because she is called the Fair Maid of Perth, an’t please ye.
No, she shall know I am her father, and will have that obedience to
which law and gospel give me right. I will have her thy wife, Henry, my
heart of gold--thy wife, my man of mettle, and that before many weeks
are over. Come--come, here is to thy merry bridal, jolly smith.”
The father quaffed a large cup, and filled it to his adopted son,
who raised it slowly to his head; then, ere it had reached his lips,
replaced it suddenly on the table and shook his head.
“Nay, if thou wilt not pledge me to such a health, I know no one who
will,” said Simon. “What canst thou mean, thou foolish lad? Here has a
chance happened, which in a manner places her in thy power, since from
one end of the city to the other all would cry fie on her if she should
say thee nay. Here am I, her father, not only consenting to the cutting
out of the match, but willing to see you two as closely united
together as ever needle stitched buckskin. And with all this on thy
side--fortune, father, and all--thou lookest like a distracted lover
in a ballad, more like to pitch thyself into the Tay than to woo a lass
that may be had for the asking, if you can but choose the lucky minute.”
“Ay, but that lucky minute, father? I question much if Catharine ever
has such a moment to glance on earth and its inhabitants as might lead
her to listen to a coarse ignorant borrel man like me. I cannot tell
how it is, father; elsewhere I can hold up my head like another man, but
with your saintly daughter I lose heart and courage, and I cannot help
thinking that it would be well nigh robbing a holy shrine if I could
succeed in surprising her affections. Her thoughts are too much fitted
for Heaven to be wasted on such a one as I am.”
“E’en as you like, Henry,” answered the glover. “My daughter is not
courting you any more than I am--a fair offer is no cause offend; only
if you think that I will give in to her foolish notions of a convent,
take it with you that I will never listen to them. I love and honour
the church,” he said, crossing himself, “I pay her rights duly and
cheerfully--tithes and alms, wine and wax, I pay them as justly, I say,
as any man in Perth of my means doth--but I cannot afford the church my
only and single ewe lamb that I have in the world. Her mother was dear
to me on earth, and is now an angel in Heaven. Catharine is all I have
to remind me of her I have lost; and if she goes to the cloister, it
shall be when these old eyes are closed for ever, and not sooner. But
as for you, friend Gow, I pray you will act according to your own best
liking, I want to force no wife on you, I promise you.”
“Nay, now you beat the iron twice over,” said Henry. “It is thus we
always end, father, by your being testy with me for not doing that
thing in the world which would make me happiest, were I to have it in my
power. Why, father, I would the keenest dirk I ever forged were sticking
in my heart at this moment if there is one single particle in it that
is not more your daughter’s property than my own. But what can I do? I
cannot think less of her, or more of myself, than we both deserve; and
what seems to you so easy and certain is to me as difficult as it would
be to work a steel hauberk out of bards of flax. But here is to you,
father,” he added, in a more cheerful tone; “and here is to my fair
saint and Valentine, as I hope your Catharine will be mine for the
season. And let me not keep your old head longer from the pillow, but
make interest with your featherbed till daybreak; and then you must be
my guide to your daughter’s chamber door, and my apology for entering
it, to bid her good morrow, for the brightest that the sun will awaken,
in the city or for miles round.”
“No bad advice, my son,” said the honest glover, “But you, what will you
do? Will you lie down beside me, or take a part of Conachar’s bed?”
“Neither,” answered Harry Gow; “I should but prevent your rest, and
for me this easy chair is worth a down bed, and I will sleep like a
sentinel, with my graith about me.” As he spoke, he laid his hand on his
sword.
“Nay, Heaven send us no more need of weapons. Goodnight, or rather good
morrow, till day peep; and the first who wakes calls up the other.”
Thus parted the two burghers. The glover retired to his bed, and, it
is to be supposed, to rest. The lover was not so fortunate. His bodily
frame easily bore the fatigue which he had encountered in the course of
the night, but his mind was of a different and more delicate mould. In
one point of view, he was but the stout burgher of his period, proud
alike of his art in making weapons and wielding them when made; his
professional jealousy, personal strength, and skill in the use of arms
brought him into many quarrels, which had made him generally feared,
and in some instances disliked. But with these qualities were united the
simple good nature of a child, and at the same time an imaginative and
enthusiastic temper, which seemed little to correspond with his labours
at the forge or his combats in the field. Perhaps a little of the hare
brained and ardent feeling which he had picked out of old ballads, or
from the metrical romances, which were his sole source of information
or knowledge, may have been the means of pricking him on to some of
his achievements, which had often a rude strain of chivalry in them; at
least, it was certain that his love to the fair Catharine had in it a
delicacy such as might have become the squire of low degree, who was
honoured, if song speaks truth, with the smiles of the King of Hungary’s
daughter. His sentiments towards her were certainly as exalted as if
they had been fixed upon an actual angel, which made old Simon, and
others who watched his conduct, think that his passion was too high
and devotional to be successful with maiden of mortal mould. They were
mistaken, however. Catharine, coy and reserved as she was, had a heart
which could feel and understand the nature and depth of the armourer’s
passion; and whether she was able to repay it or not, she had as much
secret pride in the attachment of the redoubted Henry Gow as a lady
of romance may be supposed to have in the company of a tame lion, who
follows to provide for and defend her. It was with sentiments of the
most sincere gratitude that she recollected, as she awoke at dawn, the
services of Henry during the course of the eventful night, and the first
thought which she dwelt upon was the means of making him understand her
feelings.
Arising hastily from bed, and half blushing at her own purpose--“I have
been cold to him, and perhaps unjust; I will not be ungrateful,” she
said to herself, “though I cannot yield to his suit. I will not wait
till my father compels me to receive him as my Valentine for the year:
I will seek him out, and choose him myself. I have thought other girls
bold when they did something like this; but I shall thus best please my
father, and but discharge the rites due to good St. Valentine by showing
my gratitude to this brave man.”
Hastily slipping on her dress, which, nevertheless, was left a good deal
more disordered than usual, she tripped downstairs and opened the door
of the chamber, in which, as she had guessed, her lover had passed the
hours after the fray. Catharine paused at the door, and became half
afraid of executing her purpose, which not only permitted but enjoined
the Valentines of the year to begin their connexion with a kiss of
affection. It was looked upon as a peculiarly propitious omen if the one
party could find the other asleep, and awaken him or her by performance
of this interesting ceremony.
Never was a fairer opportunity offered for commencing this mystic
tie than that which now presented itself to Catharine. After many and
various thoughts, sleep had at length overcome the stout armourer in the
chair in which he had deposited himself. His features, in repose, had
a more firm and manly cast than Catharine had thought, who, having
generally seen them fluctuating between shamefacedness and apprehension
of her displeasure, had been used to connect with them some idea of
imbecility.
“He looks very stern,” she said; “if he should be angry? And then when
he awakes--we are alone--if I should call Dorothy--if I should wake my
father? But no! it is a thing of custom, and done in all maidenly and
sisterly love and honour. I will not suppose that Henry can misconstrue
it, and I will not let a childish bashfulness put my gratitude to
sleep.”
So saying, she tripped along the floor of the apartment with a light,
though hesitating, step; and a cheek crimsoned at her own purpose; and
gliding to the chair of the sleeper, dropped a kiss upon his lips as
light as if a rose leaf had fallen on them. The slumbers must have been
slight which such a touch could dispel, and the dreams of the sleeper
must needs have been connected with the cause of the interruption,
since Henry, instantly starting up, caught the maiden in his arms, and
attempted to return in ecstasy the salute which had broken his repose.
But Catharine struggled in his embrace; and as her efforts implied
alarmed modesty rather than maidenly coyness, her bashful lover suffered
her to escape a grasp from which twenty times her strength could not
have extricated her.
“Nay, be not angry, good Henry,” said Catharine, in the kindest tone, to
her surprised lover. “I have paid my vows to St. Valentine, to show how
I value the mate which he has sent me for the year. Let but my father
be present, and I will not dare to refuse thee the revenge you may claim
for a broken sleep.”
“Let not that be a hinderance,” said the old glover, rushing in ecstasy
into the room; “to her, smith--to her: strike while the iron is hot, and
teach her what it is not to let sleeping dogs lie still.”
Thus encouraged, Henry, though perhaps with less alarming vivacity,
again seized the blushing maiden in his arms, who submitted with a
tolerable grace to receive repayment of her salute, a dozen times
repeated, and with an energy very different from that which had provoked
such severe retaliation. At length she again extricated herself from
her lover’s arms, and, as if frightened and repenting what she had done,
threw herself into a seat, and covered her face with her hands.
“Cheer up, thou silly girl,” said her father, “and be not ashamed that
thou hast made the two happiest men in Perth, since thy old father is
one of them. Never was kiss so well bestowed, and meet it is that it
should be suitably returned. Look up, my darling! look up, and let me
see thee give but one smile. By my honest word, the sun that now rises
over our fair city shows no sight that can give me greater pleasure.
What,” he continued, in a jocose tone, “thou thoughtst thou hadst Jamie
Keddie’s ring, and couldst walk invisible? but not so, my fairy of the
dawning. Just as I was about to rise, I heard thy chamber door open, and
watched thee downstairs, not to protect thee against this sleepy headed
Henry, but to see with my own delighted eyes my beloved girl do that
which her father most wished. Come, put down these foolish hands,
and though thou blushest a little, it will only the better grace St.
Valentine’s morn, when blushes best become a maiden’s cheek.”
As Simon Glover spoke, he pulled away, with gentle violence, the hands
which hid his daughter’s face. She blushed deeply indeed, but there was
more than maiden’s shame in her face, and her eyes were fast filling
with tears.
“What! weeping, love?” continued her father; “nay--nay, this is more
than need. Henry, help me to comfort this little fool.”
Catharine made an effort to collect herself and to smile, but the smile
was of a melancholy and serious cast.
“I only meant to say, father,” said the Fair Maid of Perth, with
continued exertion, “that in choosing Henry Gow for my Valentine, and
rendering to him the rights and greeting of the morning, according to
wonted custom, I meant but to show my gratitude to him for his manly
and faithful service, and my obedience to you. But do not lead him to
think--and, oh, dearest father, do not yourself entertain an idea--that
I meant more than what the promise to be his faithful and affectionate
Valentine through the year requires of me.”
“Ay--ay----ay--ay, we understand it all,” said Simon, in the soothing
tone which nurses apply to children. “We understand what the meaning
is; enough for once--enough for once. Thou shalt not be frightened or
hurried. Loving, true, and faithful Valentines are ye, and the rest as
Heaven and opportunity shall permit. Come, prithee, have done: wring
not thy tiny hands, nor fear farther persecution now. Thou hast done
bravely, excellently. And now, away to Dorothy, and call up the old
sluggard; we must have a substantial breakfast, after a night of
confusion and a morning of joy, and thy hand will be needed to prepare
for us some of these delicate cakes which no one can make but thyself;
and well hast thou a right to the secret, seeing who taught it thee. Ah!
health to the soul of thy dearest mother,” he added, with a sigh; “how
blythe would she have been to see this happy St. Valentine’s morning!”
Catharine took the opportunity of escape which was thus given her, and
glided from the room. To Henry it seemed as if the sun had disappeared
from the heaven at midday, and left the world in sudden obscurity. Even
the high swelled hopes with which the late incident had filled him began
to quail, as he reflected upon her altered demeanour--the tears in her
eyes, the obvious fear which occupied her features, and the pains
she had taken to show, as plainly as delicacy would permit, that the
advances which she had made to him were limited to the character with
which the rites of the day had invested him. Her father looked on his
fallen countenance with something like surprise and displeasure.
“In the name of good St. John, what has befallen you, that makes you
look as grave as an owl, when a lad of your spirit, having really such
a fancy for this poor girl as you pretend, ought to be as lively as a
lark?”
“Alas, father!” replied the crestfallen lover, “there is that written
on her brow which says she loves me well enough to be my Valentine,
especially since you wish it, but not well enough to be my wife.”
“Now, a plague on thee for a cold, downhearted goosecap,” answered the
father. “I can read a woman’s brow as well, and better, than thou, and
I can see no such matter on hers. What, the foul fiend, man! there thou
wast lying like a lord in thy elbow chair, as sound asleep as a judge,
when, hadst thou been a lover of any spirit, thou wouldst have been
watching the east for the first ray of the sun. But there thou layest,
snoring I warrant, thinking nought about her, or anything else; and the
poor girl rises at peep of day, lest any one else should pick up her
most precious and vigilant Valentine, and wakes thee with a grace
which--so help me, St. Macgrider!--would have put life in an anvil; and
thou awakest to hone, and pine, and moan, as if she had drawn a hot iron
across thy lips! I would to St. John she had sent old Dorothy on the
errand, and bound thee for thy Valentine service to that bundle of dry
bones, with never a tooth in her head. She were fittest Valentine in
Perth for so craven a wooer.”
“As to craven, father,” answered the smith, “there are twenty good
cocks, whose combs I have plucked, can tell thee if I am craven or
no. And Heaven knows that I would give my good land, held by burgess’
tenure, with smithy, bellows, tongs, anvil, and all, providing it would
make your view of the matter the true one. But it is not of her coyness
or her blushes that I speak; it is of the paleness which so soon
followed the red, and chased it from her cheeks; and it is of the
tears which succeeded. It was like the April showers stealing upon and
obscuring the fairest dawning that ever beamed over the Tay.”
“Tutti taitti,” replied the glover; “neither Rome nor Perth were built
in a day. Thou hast fished salmon a thousand times, and mightst have
taken a lesson. When the fish has taken the fly, to pull a hard strain
on the line would snap the tackle to pieces, were it made of wire. Ease
your hand, man, and let him rise; take leisure, and in half an hour thou
layest him on the bank. There is a beginning as fair as you could wish,
unless you expect the poor wench to come to thy bedside as she did to
thy chair; and that is not the fashion of modest maidens. But observe
me; after we have had our breakfast, I will take care thou hast an
opportunity to speak thy mind; only beware thou be neither too backward
nor press her too hard. Give her line enough, but do not slack too fast,
and my life for yours upon the issue.”
“Do what I can, father,” answered Henry, “you will always lay the blame
on me--either that I give too much head or that I strain the tackle.
I would give the best habergeon I ever wrought, that the difficulty in
truth rested with me, for there were then the better chance of its being
removed. I own, however, I am but an ass in the trick of bringing about
such discourse as is to the purpose for the occasion.”
“Come into the booth with me, my son, and I will furnish thee with a
fitting theme. Thou knowest the maiden who ventures to kiss a sleeping
man wins of him a pair of gloves. Come to my booth; thou shalt have a
pair of delicate kid skin that will exactly suit her hand and arm. I
was thinking of her poor mother when I shaped them,” added honest Simon,
with a sigh; “and except Catharine, I know not the woman in Scotland
whom they would fit, though I have measured most of the high beauties of
the court. Come with me, I say, and thou shalt be provided with a theme
to wag thy tongue upon, providing thou hast courage and caution to stand
by thee in thy wooing.”