Still harping on my daughter.
Hamlet.
Two hours before the black cock crew, Simon Glover was wakened by a well
known voice, which called him by name.
“What, Conachar!” he replied, as he started from sleep, “is the morning
so far advanced?” and, raising his eyes, the person of whom he was
dreaming stood before him; and at the same moment, the events of
yesterday rushing on his recollection, he saw with surprise that the
vision retained the form which sleep had assigned it, and it was not the
mail clad Highland chief, with claymore in hand, as he had seen him
the preceding night, but Conachar of Curfew Street, in his humble
apprentice’s garb, holding in his hand a switch of oak. An apparition
would not more have surprised our Perth burgher. As he gazed with
wonder, the youth turned upon him a piece of lighted bog wood which he
carried in a lantern, and to his waking exclamation replied:
“Even so, father Simon: it is Conachar, come to renew our old
acquaintance, when our intercourse will attract least notice.”
So saying, he sat down on a tressel which answered the purpose of
a chair, and placing the lantern beside him, proceeded in the most
friendly tone:
“I have tasted of thy good cheer many a day, father Simon; I trust thou
hast found no lack in my family?”
“None whatever, Eachin MacIan,” answered the glover, for the simplicity
of the Celtic language and manners rejects all honorary titles; “it was
even too good for this fasting season, and much too good for me, since I
must be ashamed to think how hard you fared in Curfew Street.”
“Even too well, to use your own word,” said Conachar, “for the deserts
of an idle apprentice and for the wants of a young Highlander. But
yesterday, if there was, as I trust, enough of food, found you not, good
glover, some lack of courteous welcome? Excuse it not--I know you did
so. But I am young in authority with my people, and I must not too early
draw their attention to the period of my residence in the Lowlands,
which, however, I can never forget.”
“I understand the cause entirely,” said Simon; “and therefore it is
unwillingly, and as it were by force, that I have made so early a visit
hither.”
“Hush, father--hush! It is well you are come to see some of my Highland
splendour while it yet sparkles. Return after Palm Sunday, and who knows
whom or what you may find in the territories we now possess! The
wildcat may have made his lodge where the banqueting bower of MacIan now
stands.”
The young chief was silent, and pressed the top of the rod to his lips,
as if to guard against uttering more.
“There is no fear of that, Eachin,” said Simon, in that vague way in
which lukewarm comforters endeavour to turn the reflections of their
friends from the consideration of inevitable danger.
“There is fear, and there is peril of utter ruin,” answered Eachin, “and
there is positive certainty of great loss. I marvel my father consented
to this wily proposal of Albany. I would MacGillie Chattanach would
agree with me, and then, instead of wasting our best blood against
each other, we would go down together to Strathmore and kill and take
possession. I would rule at Perth and he at Dundee, and all the great
strath should be our own to the banks of the Firth of Tay. Such is the
policy I have caught from your old grey head, father Simon, when holding
a trencher at thy back, and listening to thy evening talk with Bailie
Craigdallie.”
“The tongue is well called an unruly member,” thought the glover.
“Here have I been holding a candle to the devil, to show him the way to
mischief.”
But he only said aloud: “These plans come too late.”
“Too late indeed!” answered Eachin. “The indentures of battle are signed
by our marks and seals, the burning hate of the Clan Quhele and Clan
Chattan is blown up to an inextinguishable flame by mutual insults and
boasts. Yes, the time is passed by. But to thine own affairs, father
Glover. It is religion that has brought thee hither, as I learn from
Niel Booshalloch. Surely, my experience of thy prudence did not lead
me to suspect thee of any quarrel with Mother Church. As for my old
acquaintance, Father Clement, he is one of those who hunt after the
crown of martyrdom, and think a stake, surrounded with blazing fagots,
better worth embracing than a willing bride. He is a very knight errant
in defence of his religious notions, and does battle wherever he comes.
He hath already a quarrel with the monks of Sibyl’s Isle yonder about
some point of doctrine. Hast seen him?”
“I have,” answered Simon; “but we spoke little together, the time being
pressing.”
“He may have said that there is a third person--one more likely, I
think, to be a true fugitive for religion than either you, a shrewd
citizen, or he, a wrangling preacher--who would be right heartily
welcome to share our protection? Thou art dull, man, and wilt not guess
my meaning--thy daughter, Catharine.”
These last words the young chief spoke in English; and he continued the
conversation in that language, as if apprehensive of being overheard,
and, indeed, as if under the sense of some involuntary hesitation.
“My daughter Catharine,” said the glover, remembering what the
Carthusian had told him, “is well and safe.”
“But where or with whom?” said the young chief. “And wherefore came she
not with you? Think you the Clan Quhele have no cailliachs as active as
old Dorothy, whose hand has warmed my haffits before now, to wait upon
the daughter of their chieftain’s master?”
“Again I thank you,” said the glover, “and doubt neither your power nor
your will to protect my daughter, as well as myself. But an honourable
lady, the friend of Sir Patrick Charteris, hath offered her a safe place
of refuge without the risk of a toilsome journey through a desolate and
distracted country.”
“Oh, ay, Sir Patrick Charteris,” said Eachin, in a more reserved and
distant tone; “he must be preferred to all men, without doubt. He is
your friend, I think?”
Simon Glover longed to punish this affectation of a boy who had been
scolded four times a day for running into the street to see Sir Patrick
Charteris ride past; but he checked his spirit of repartee, and simply
said:
“Sir Patrick Charteris has been provost of Perth for seven years, and it
is likely is so still, since the magistrates are elected, not in Lent,
but at St. Martinmas.”
“Ah, father Glover,” said the youth, in his kinder and more familiar
mode of address, “you are so used to see the sumptuous shows and
pageants of Perth, that you would but little relish our barbarous
festival in comparison. What didst thou think of our ceremonial of
yesterday?”
“It was noble and touching,” said the glover; “and to me, who knew your
father, most especially so. When you rested on the sword and looked
around you, methought I saw mine old friend Gilchrist MacIan arisen from
the dead and renewed in years and in strength.”
“I played my part there boldly, I trust; and showed little of that
paltry apprentice boy whom you used to--use just as he deserved?”
“Eachin resembles Conachar,” said the glover, “no more than a salmon
resembles a gar, though men say they are the same fish in a different
state, or than a butterfly resembles a grub.”
“Thinkest thou that, while I was taking upon me the power which all
women love, I would have been myself an object for a maiden’s eye to
rest upon? To speak plain, what would Catharine have thought of me in
the ceremonial?”
“We approach the shallows now,” thought Simon Glover, “and without nice
pilotage we drive right on shore.”
“Most women like show, Eachin; but I think my daughter Catharine be an
exception. She would rejoice in the good fortune of her household friend
and playmate; but she would not value the splendid MacIan, captain of
Clan Quhele, more than the orphan Conachar.”
“She is ever generous and disinterested,” replied the young chief. “But
yourself, father, have seen the world for many more years than she has
done, and can better form a judgment what power and wealth do for those
who enjoy them. Think, and speak sincerely, what would be your own
thoughts if you saw your Catharine standing under yonder canopy, with
the command over an hundred hills, and the devoted obedience of ten
thousand vassals; and as the price of these advantages, her hand in that
of the man who loves her the best in the world?”
“Meaning in your own, Conachar?” said Simon.
“Ay, Conachar call me: I love the name, since it was by that I have been
known to Catharine.”
“Sincerely, then,” said the glover, endeavouring to give the least
offensive turn to his reply, “my inmost thought would be the earnest
wish that Catharine and I were safe in our humble booth in Curfew
Street, with Dorothy for our only vassal.”
“And with poor Conachar also, I trust? You would not leave him to pine
away in solitary grandeur?”
“I would not,” answered the glover, “wish so ill to the Clan Quhele,
mine ancient friends, as to deprive them, at the moment of emergency,
of a brave young chief, and that chief of the fame which he is about to
acquire at their head in the approaching conflict.”
Eachin bit his lip to suppress his irritated feelings as he replied:
“Words--words--empty words, father Simon. You fear the Clan Quhele
more than you love them, and you suppose their indignation would be
formidable should their chief marry the daughter of a burgess of Perth.”
“And if I do fear such an issue, Hector MacIan, have I not reason? How
have ill assorted marriages had issue in the house of MacCallanmore,
in that of the powerful MacLeans--nay, of the Lords of the Isles
themselves? What has ever come of them but divorce and exheredation,
sometimes worse fate, to the ambitious intruder? You could not marry my
child before a priest, and you could only wed her with your left
hand; and I--” he checked the strain of impetuosity which the subject
inspired, and concluded, “and I am an honest though humble burgher of
Perth, who would rather my child were the lawful and undoubted spouse of
a citizen in my own rank than the licensed concubine of a monarch.”
“I will wed Catharine before the priest and before the world, before
the altar and before the black stones of Iona,” said the impetuous young
man. “She is the love of my youth, and there is not a tie in religion or
honour but I will bind myself by them! I have sounded my people. If
we do but win this combat--and, with the hope of gaining Catharine, we
SHALL win it--my heart tells me so--I shall be so much lord over their
affections that, were I to take a bride from the almshouse, so it was
my pleasure, they would hail her as if she were a daughter of
MacCallanmore. But you reject my suit?” said Eachin, sternly.
“You put words of offence in my mouth,” said the old man, “and may next
punish me for them, since I am wholly in your power. But with my consent
my daughter shall never wed save in her own degree. Her heart would
break amid the constant wars and scenes of bloodshed which connect
themselves with your lot. If you really love her, and recollect her
dread of strife and combat, you would not wish her to be subjected to
the train of military horrors in which you, like your father, must
needs be inevitably and eternally engaged. Choose a bride amongst the
daughters of the mountain chiefs, my son, or fiery Lowland nobles. You
are fair, young, rich, high born, and powerful, and will not woo in
vain. You will readily find one who will rejoice in your conquests, and
cheer you under defeat. To Catharine, the one would be as frightful
as the other. A warrior must wear a steel gauntlet: a glove of kidskin
would be torn to pieces in an hour.”
A dark cloud passed over the face of the young chief, lately animated
with so much fire.
“Farewell,” he said, “the only hope which could have lighted me to fame
or victory!”
He remained for a space silent, and intensely thoughtful, with downcast
eyes, a lowering brow, and folded arms. At length he raised his hands,
and said: “Father,--for such you have been to me--I am about to tell you
a secret. Reason and pride both advise me to be silent, but fate urges
me, and must be obeyed. I am about to lodge in you the deepest and
dearest secret that man ever confided to man. But beware--end this
conference how it will--beware how you ever breathe a syllable of what
I am now to trust to you; for know that, were you to do so in the most
remote corner of Scotland, I have ears to hear it even there, and a
hand and poniard to reach a traitor’s bosom. I am--but the word will not
out!”
“Do not speak it then,” said the prudent glover: “a secret is no longer
safe when it crosses the lips of him who owns it, and I desire not a
confidence so dangerous as you menace me with.”
“Ay, but I must speak, and you must hear,” said the youth. “In this age
of battle, father, you have yourself been a combatant?”
“Once only,” replied Simon, “when the Southron assaulted the Fair City.
I was summoned to take my part in the defence, as my tenure required,
like that of other craftsmen, who are bound to keep watch and ward.”
“And how felt you upon that matter?” inquired the young chief.
“What can that import to the present business?” said Simon, in some
surprise.
“Much, else I had not asked the question,” answered. Eachin, in the tone
of haughtiness which from time to time he assumed.
“An old man is easily brought to speak of olden times,” said Simon, not
unwilling, on an instant’s reflection, to lead the conversation away
from the subject of his daughter, “and I must needs confess my feelings
were much short of the high, cheerful confidence, nay, the pleasure,
with which I have seen other men go to battle. My life and profession
were peaceful, and though I have not wanted the spirit of a man, when
the time demanded it, yet I have seldom slept worse than the night
before that onslaught. My ideas were harrowed by the tales we were
told--nothing short of the truth--about the Saxon archers: how they drew
shafts of a cloth yard length, and used bows a third longer than ours.
When I fell into a broken slumber, if but a straw in the mattress
pricked my side I started and waked, thinking an English arrow was
quivering in my body. In the morning, as I began for very weariness to
sink into some repose, I was waked by the tolling of the common bell,
which called us burghers to the walls; I never heard its sound peal so
like a passing knell before or since.”
“Go on--what further chanced?” demanded Eachin.
“I did on my harness,” said Simon, “such as it was; took my mother’s
blessing, a high spirited woman, who spoke of my father’s actions for
the honour of the Fair Town. This heartened me, and I felt still bolder
when I found myself ranked among the other crafts, all bowmen, for thou
knowest the Perth citizens have good skill in archery. We were dispersed
on the walls, several knights and squires in armour of proof being
mingled amongst us, who kept a bold countenance, confident perhaps in
their harness, and informed us, for our encouragement, that they would
cut down with their swords and axes any of those who should attempt to
quit their post. I was kindly assured of this myself by the old Kempe
of Kinfauns, as he was called, this good Sir Patrick’s father, then our
provost. He was a grandson of the Red Rover, Tom of Longueville, and
a likely man to keep his word, which he addressed to me in especial,
because a night of much discomfort may have made me look paler than
usual; and, besides, I was but a lad.”
“And did his exhortation add to your fear or your resolution?” said
Eachin, who seemed very attentive.
“To my resolution,” answered Simon; “for I think nothing can make a
man so bold to face one danger at some distance in his front as the
knowledge of another close behind him, to push him forward. Well, I
mounted the walls in tolerable heart, and was placed with others on the
Spey Tower, being accounted a good bowman. But a very cold fit seized me
as I saw the English, in great order, with their archers in front,
and their men at arms behind, marching forward to the attack in strong
columns, three in number. They came on steadily, and some of us would
fain have shot at them; but it was strictly forbidden, and we were
obliged to remain motionless, sheltering ourselves behind the battlement
as we best might. As the Southron formed their long ranks into lines,
each man occupying his place as by magic, and preparing to cover
themselves by large shields, called pavesses, which they planted before
them, I again felt a strange breathlessness, and some desire to go home
for a glass of distilled waters. But as I looked aside, I saw the worthy
Kempe of Kinfauns bending a large crossbow, and I thought it pity he
should waste the bolt on a true hearted Scotsman, when so many English
were in presence; so I e’en staid where I was, being in a comfortable
angle, formed by two battlements. The English then strode forward, and
drew their bowstrings--not to the breast, as your Highland kerne do, but
to the ear--and sent off their volleys of swallow tails before we could
call on St. Andrew. I winked when I saw them haul up their tackle, and I
believe I started as the shafts began to rattle against the parapet.
But looking round me, and seeing none hurt but John Squallit, the town
crier, whose jaws were pierced through with a cloth yard shaft, I took
heart of grace, and shot in my turn with good will and good aim. A
little man I shot at, who had just peeped out from behind his target,
dropt with a shaft through his shoulder. The provost cried, ‘Well
stitched, Simon Glover!’ ‘St. John, for his own town, my fellow
craftsmen!’ shouted I, though I was then but an apprentice. And if you
will believe me, in the rest of the skirmish, which was ended by the
foes drawing off, I drew bowstring and loosed shaft as calmly as if
I had been shooting at butts instead of men’s breasts. I gained
some credit, and I have ever afterwards thought that, in case of
necessity--for with me it had never been matter of choice--I should not
have lost it again. And this is all I can tell of warlike experience in
battle. Other dangers I have had, which I have endeavoured to avoid like
a wise man, or, when they were inevitable, I have faced them like a
true one. Upon other terms a man cannot live or hold up his head in
Scotland.”
“I understand your tale,” said Eachin; “but I shall find it difficult
to make you credit mine, knowing the race of which I am descended, and
especially that I am the son of him whom we have this day laid in the
tomb--well that he lies where he will never learn what you are now to
hear! Look, my father, the light which I bear grows short and pale, a
few minutes will extinguish it; but before it expires, the hideous tale
will be told. Father, I am--a COWARD! It is said at last, and the secret
of my disgrace is in keeping of another!”
The young man sunk back in a species of syncope, produced by the agony
of his mind as he made the fatal communication. The glover, moved as
well by fear as by compassion, applied himself to recall him to life,
and succeeded in doing so, but not in restoring him to composure. He hid
his face with his hands, and his tears flowed plentifully and bitterly.
“For Our Lady’s sake, be composed,” said the old man, “and recall the
vile word! I know you better than yourself: you are no coward, but only
too young and inexperienced, ay, and somewhat too quick of fancy, to
have the steady valour of a bearded man. I would hear no other man say
that of you, Conachar, without giving him the lie. You are no coward:
I have seen high sparks of spirit fly from you even on slight enough
provocation.”
“High sparks of pride and passion!” said the unfortunate youth; “but
when saw you them supported by the resolution that should have backed
them? The sparks you speak of fell on my dastardly heart as on a piece
of ice which could catch fire from nothing: if my offended pride urged
me to strike, my weakness of mind prompted me the next moment to fly.”
“Want of habit,” said Simon; “it is by clambering over walls that youths
learn to scale precipices. Begin with slight feuds; exercise daily the
arms of your country in tourney with your followers.”
“And what leisure is there for this?” exclaimed the young chief,
starting as if something horrid had occurred to his imagination. “How
many days are there betwixt this hour and Palm Sunday, and what is to
chance then? A list inclosed, from which no man can stir, more than the
poor bear who is chained to his stake. Sixty living men, the best
and fiercest--one alone excepted!--which Albyn can send down from her
mountains, all athirst for each other’s blood, while a king and his
nobles, and shouting thousands besides, attend, as at a theatre, to
encourage their demoniac fury! Blows clang and blood flows, thicker,
faster, redder; they rush on each other like madmen, they tear each
other like wild beasts; the wounded are trodden to death amid the feet
of their companions! Blood ebbs, arms become weak; but there must be
no parley, no truce, no interruption, while any of the maimed wretches
remain alive! Here is no crouching behind battlements, no fighting with
missile weapons: all is hand to hand, till hands can no longer be raised
to maintain the ghastly conflict! If such a field is so horrible in
idea, what think you it will be in reality?”
The glover remained silent.
“I say again, what think you?”
“I can only pity you, Conachar,” said Simon. “It is hard to be the
descendant of a lofty line--the son of a noble father--the leader by
birth of a gallant array, and yet to want, or think you want, for
still I trust the fault lies much in a quick fancy, that over estimates
danger--to want that dogged quality which is possessed by every game
cock that is worth a handful of corn, every hound that is worth a
mess of offal. But how chanced it that, with such a consciousness of
inability to fight in this battle, you proffered even now to share your
chiefdom with my daughter? Your power must depend on your fighting this
combat, and in that Catharine cannot help you.”
“You mistake, old man,” replied Eachin: “were Catharine to look kindly
on the earnest love I bear her, it would carry me against the front of
the enemies with the mettle of a war horse. Overwhelming as my sense
of weakness is, the feeling that Catharine looked on would give me
strength. Say yet--oh, say yet--she shall be mine if we gain the combat,
and not the Gow Chrom himself, whose heart is of a piece with his
anvil, ever went to battle so light as I shall do! One strong passion is
conquered by another.”
“This is folly, Conachar. Cannot the recollection of your interest, your
honour, your kindred, do as much to stir your courage as the thoughts of
a brent browed lass? Fie upon you, man!”
“You tell me but what I have told myself, but it is in vain,” replied
Eachin, with a sigh. “It is only whilst the timid stag is paired with
the doe that he is desperate and dangerous. Be it from constitution; be
it, as our Highland cailliachs will say, from the milk of the white
doe; be it from my peaceful education and the experience of your strict
restraint; be it, as you think, from an overheated fancy, which paints
danger yet more dangerous and ghastly than it is in reality, I cannot
tell. But I know my failing, and--yes, it must be said!--so sorely dread
that I cannot conquer it, that, could I have your consent to my wishes
on such terms, I would even here make a pause, renounce the rank I have
assumed, and retire into humble life.”
“What, turn glover at last, Conachar?” said Simon. “This beats the
legend of St. Crispin. Nay--nay, your hand was not framed for that: you
shall spoil me no more doe skins.”
“Jest not,” said Eachin, “I am serious. If I cannot labour, I will bring
wealth enough to live without it. They will proclaim me recreant with
horn and war pipe. Let them do so. Catharine will love me the better
that I have preferred the paths of peace to those of bloodshed, and
Father Clement shall teach us to pity and forgive the world, which will
load us with reproaches that wound not. I shall be the happiest of men;
Catharine will enjoy all that unbounded affection can confer upon her,
and will be freed from apprehension of the sights and sounds of horror
which your ill assorted match would have prepared for her; and you,
father Glover, shall occupy your chimney corner, the happiest and most
honoured man that ever--”
“Hold, Eachin--I prithee, hold,” said the glover; “the fir light, with
which this discourse must terminate, burns very low, and I would speak
a word in my turn, and plain dealing is best. Though it may vex,
or perhaps enrage, you, let me end these visions by saying at once:
Catharine can never be yours. A glove is the emblem of faith, and a
man of my craft should therefore less than any other break his own.
Catharine’s hand is promised--promised to a man whom you may hate, but
whom you must honour--to Henry the armourer. The match is fitting by
degree, agreeable to their mutual wishes, and I have given my promise.
It is best to be plain at once; resent my refusal as you will--I am
wholly in your power. But nothing shall make me break my word.”
The glover spoke thus decidedly, because he was aware from experience
that the very irritable disposition of his former apprentice yielded in
most cases to stern and decided resolution. Yet, recollecting where he
was, it was with some feelings of fear that he saw the dying flame leap
up and spread a flash of light on the visage of Eachin, which seemed
pale as the grave, while his eye rolled like that of a maniac in his
fever fit. The light instantly sunk down and died, and Simon felt a
momentary terror lest he should have to dispute for his life with
the youth, whom he knew to be capable of violent actions when highly
excited, however short a period his nature could support the measures
which his passion commenced. He was relieved by the voice of Eachin, who
muttered in a hoarse and altered tone:
“Let what we have spoken this night rest in silence for ever. If thou
bring’st it to light, thou wert better dig thine own grave.”
Thus speaking, the door of the hut opened, admitting a gleam of
moonshine. The form of the retiring chief crossed it for an instant, the
hurdle was then closed, and the shieling left in darkness.
Simon Glover felt relieved when a conversation fraught with offence and
danger was thus peaceably terminated. But he remained deeply affected by
the condition of Hector MacIan, whom he had himself bred up.
“The poor child,” said he, “to be called up to a place of eminence,
only to be hurled from it with contempt! What he told me I partly knew,
having often remarked that Conachar was more prone to quarrel than to
fight. But this overpowering faint heartedness, which neither shame
nor necessity can overcome, I, though no Sir William Wallace, cannot
conceive. And to propose himself for a husband to my daughter, as if
a bride were to find courage for herself and the bridegroom! No--no,
Catharine must wed a man to whom she may say, ‘Husband, spare your
enemy’--not one in whose behalf she must cry, ‘Generous enemy, spare my
husband!”
Tired out with these reflections, the old man at length fell asleep.
In the morning he was awakened by his friend the Booshalloch, who, with
something of a blank visage, proposed to him to return to his abode on
the meadow at the Ballough. He apologised that the chief could not see
Simon Glover that morning, being busied with things about the expected
combat; and that Eachin MacIan thought the residence at the Ballough
would be safest for Simon Glover’s health, and had given charge that
every care should be taken for his protection and accommodation.
Niel Booshalloch dilated on these circumstances, to gloss over the
neglect implied in the chief’s dismissing his visitor without a
particular audience.
“His father knew better,” said the herdsman. “But where should he have
learned manners, poor thing, and bred up among your Perth burghers, who,
excepting yourself, neighbour Glover, who speak Gaelic as well as I do,
are a race incapable of civility?”
Simon Glover, it may be well believed, felt none of the want of respect
which his friend resented on his account. On the contrary, he greatly
preferred the quiet residence of the good herdsman to the tumultuous
hospitality of the daily festival of the chief, even if there had not
just passed an interview with Eachin upon a subject which it would be
most painful to revive.
To the Ballough, therefore, he quietly retreated, where, could he have
been secure of Catharine’s safety, his leisure was spent pleasantly
enough. His amusement was sailing on the lake in a little skiff, which a
Highland boy managed, while the old man angled. He frequently landed
on the little island, where he mused over the tomb of his old friend
Gilchrist MacIan, and made friends with the monks, presenting the prior
with gloves of martens’ fur, and the superior officers with each of them
a pair made from the skin of the wildcat. The cutting and stitching of
these little presents served to beguile the time after sunset, while
the family of the herdsman crowded around, admiring his address, and
listening to the tales and songs with which the old man had skill to
pass away a heavy evening.
It must be confessed that the cautious glover avoided the conversation
of Father Clement, whom he erroneously considered as rather the author
of his misfortunes than the guiltless sharer of them. “I will not,” he
thought, “to please his fancies, lose the goodwill of these kind
monks, which may be one day useful to me. I have suffered enough by his
preachments already, I trow. Little the wiser and much the poorer they
have made me. No--no, Catharine and Clement may think as they will; but
I will take the first opportunity to sneak back like a rated hound at
the call of his master, submit to a plentiful course of haircloth and
whipcord, disburse a lusty mulct, and become whole with the church
again.”
More than a fortnight had passed since the glover had arrived at
Ballough, and he began to wonder that he had not heard news of Catharine
or of Henry Wynd, to whom he concluded the provost had communicated the
plan and place of his retreat. He knew the stout smith dared not come
up into the Clan Quhele country, on account of various feuds with
the inhabitants, and with Eachin himself, while bearing the name of
Conachar; but yet the glover thought Henry might have found means to
send him a message, or a token, by some one of the various couriers who
passed and repassed between the court and the headquarters of the Clan
Quhele, in order to concert the terms of the impending combat, the
march of the parties to Perth, and other particulars requiring previous
adjustment. It was now the middle of March, and the fatal Palm Sunday
was fast approaching.
Whilst time was thus creeping on, the exiled glover had not even once
set eyes upon his former apprentice. The care that was taken to attend
to his wants and convenience in every respect showed that he was not
forgotten; but yet, when he heard the chieftain’s horn ringing through
the woods, he usually made it a point to choose his walk in a different
direction. One morning, however, he found himself unexpectedly in
Eachin’s close neighbourhood, with scarce leisure to avoid him, and thus
it happened.
As Simon strolled pensively through a little silvan glade, surrounded
on either side with tall forest trees, mixed with underwood, a white doe
broke from the thicket, closely pursued by two deer greyhounds, one
of which griped her haunch, the other her throat, and pulled her down
within half a furlong of the glover, who was something startled at the
suddenness of the incident. The ear and piercing blast of a horn, and
the baying of a slow hound, made Simon aware that the hunters were close
behind, and on the trace of the deer. Hallooing and the sound of
men running through the copse were heard close at hand. A moment’s
recollection would have satisfied Simon that his best way was to stand
fast, or retire slowly, and leave it to Eachin to acknowledge his
presence or not, as he should see cause. But his desire of shunning the
young man had grown into a kind of instinct, and in the alarm of finding
him so near, Simon hid himself in a bush of hazels mixed with holly,
which altogether concealed him. He had hardly done so ere Eachin, rosy
with exercise, dashed from the thicket into the open glade, accompanied
by his foster father, Torquil of the Oak. The latter, with equal
strength and address, turned the struggling hind on her back, and
holding her forefeet in his right hand, while he knelt on her body,
offered his skene with the left to the young chief, that he might cut
the animal’s throat.
“It may not be, Torquil; do thine office, and take the assay thyself. I
must not kill the likeness of my foster--”
This was spoken with a melancholy smile, while a tear at the same time
stood in the speaker’s eye. Torquil stared at his young chief for an
instant, then drew his sharp wood knife across the creature’s throat
with a cut so swift and steady that the weapon reached the backbone.
Then rising on his feet, and again fixing a long piercing look on his
chief, he said: “As much as I have done to that hind would I do to any
living man whose ears could have heard my dault (foster son) so much as
name a white doe, and couple the word with Hector’s name!”
If Simon had no reason before to keep himself concealed, this speech of
Torquil furnished him with a pressing one.
“It cannot be concealed, father Torquil,” said Eachin: “it will all out
to the broad day.”
“What will out? what will to broad day?” asked Torquil in surprise.
“It is the fatal secret,” thought Simon; “and now, if this huge privy
councillor cannot keep silence, I shall be made answerable, I suppose,
for Eachin’s disgrace having been blown abroad.”
Thinking thus anxiously, he availed himself at the same time of his
position to see as much as he could of what passed between the afflicted
chieftain and his confidant, impelled by that spirit of curiosity which
prompts us in the most momentous, as well as the most trivial, occasions
of life, and which is sometimes found to exist in company with great
personal fear.
As Torquil listened to what Eachin communicated, the young man sank
into his arms, and, supporting himself on his shoulder, concluded his
confession by a whisper into his ear. Torquil seemed to listen with such
amazement as to make him incapable of crediting his ears. As if to be
certain that it was Eachin who spoke, he gradually roused the youth from
his reclining posture, and, holding him up in some measure by a grasp on
his shoulder, fixed on him an eye that seemed enlarged, and at the same
time turned to stone, by the marvels he listened to. And so wild waxed
the old man’s visage after he had heard the murmured communication,
that Simon Glover apprehended he would cast the youth from him as a
dishonoured thing, in which case he might have lighted among the very
copse in which he lay concealed, and occasioned his discovery in a
manner equally painful and dangerous. But the passions of Torquil,
who entertained for his foster child even a double portion of that
passionate fondness which always attends that connexion in the Highlands
took a different turn.
“I believe it not,” he exclaimed; “it is false of thy father’s child,
false of thy mother’s son, falsest of my dault! I offer my gage to
heaven and hell, and will maintain the combat with him that shall call
it true. Thou hast been spellbound by an evil eye, my darling, and the
fainting which you call cowardice is the work of magic. I remember the
bat that struck the torch out on the hour that thou wert born--that hour
of grief and of joy. Cheer up, my beloved. Thou shalt with me to Iona,
and the good St. Columbus, with the whole choir of blessed saints and
angels, who ever favoured thy race, shall take from thee the heart of
the white doe and return that which they have stolen from thee.”
Eachin listened, with a look as if he would fain have believed the words
of the comforter.
“But, Torquil,” he said, “supposing this might avail us, the fatal day
approaches, and if I go to the lists, I dread me we shall be shamed.”
“It cannot be--it shall not!” said Torquil. “Hell shall not prevail so
far: we will steep thy sword in holy water, place vervain, St. John’s
Wort, and rowan tree in thy crest. We will surround thee, I and thy
eight brethren: thou shalt be safe as in a castle.”
Again the youth helplessly uttered something, which, from the dejected
tone in which it was spoken, Simon could not understand, while Torquil’s
deep tones in reply fell full and distinct upon his ear.
“Yes, there may be a chance of withdrawing thee from the conflict. Thou
art the youngest who is to draw blade. Now, hear me, and thou shalt know
what it is to have a foster father’s love, and how far it exceeds the
love even of kinsmen. The youngest on the indenture of the Clan Chattan
is Ferquhard Day. His father slew mine, and the red blood is seething
hot between us; I looked to Palm Sunday as the term that should cool it.
But mark! Thou wouldst have thought that the blood in the veins of this
Ferquhard Day and in mine would not have mingled had they been put into
the same vessel, yet hath he cast the eyes of his love upon my only
daughter Eva, the fairest of our maidens. Think with what feelings I
heard the news. It was as if a wolf from the skirts of Farragon had
said, ‘Give me thy child in wedlock, Torquil.’ My child thought not
thus: she loves Ferquhard, and weeps away her colour and strength in
dread of the approaching battle. Let her give him but a sign of favour,
and well I know he will forget kith and kin, forsake the field, and fly
with her to the desert.”
“He, the youngest of the champions of Clan Chattan, being absent, I, the
youngest of the Clan Quhele, may be excused from combat” said Eachin,
blushing at the mean chance of safety thus opened to him.
“See now, my chief;” said Torquil, “and judge my thoughts towards
thee: others might give thee their own lives and that of their sons--I
sacrifice to thee the honour of my house.”
“My friend--my father,” repeated the chief, folding Torquil to his
bosom, “what a base wretch am I that have a spirit dastardly enough to
avail myself of your sacrifice!”
“Speak not of that. Green woods have ears. Let us back to the camp, and
send our gillies for the venison. Back, dogs, and follow at heel.”
The slowhound, or lyme dog, luckily for Simon, had drenched his nose in
the blood of the deer, else he might have found the glover’s lair in the
thicket; but its more acute properties of scent being lost, it followed
tranquilly with the gazehounds.
When the hunters were out of sight and hearing, the glover arose,
greatly relieved by their departure, and began to move off in the
opposite direction as fast as his age permitted. His first reflection
was on the fidelity of the foster father.
“The wild mountain heart is faithful and true. Yonder man is more like
the giants in romaunts than a man of mould like ourselves; and yet
Christians might take an example from him for his lealty. A simple
contrivance this, though, to finger a man from off their enemies’
chequer, as if there would not be twenty of the wildcats ready to supply
his place.”
Thus thought the glover, not aware that the strictest proclamations
were issued, prohibiting any of the two contending clans, their friends,
allies, and dependants, from coming within fifty miles of Perth, during
a week before and a week after the combat, which regulation was to be
enforced by armed men.
So soon as our friend Simon arrived at the habitation of the herdsman,
he found other news awaiting him. They were brought by Father Clement,
who came in a pilgrim’s cloak, or dalmatic, ready to commence his return
to the southward, and desirous to take leave of his companion in exile,
or to accept him as a travelling companion.
“But what,” said the citizen, “has so suddenly induced you to return
within the reach of danger?”
“Have you not heard,” said Father Clement, “that, March and his English
allies having retired into England before the Earl of Douglas, the good
earl has applied himself to redress the evils of the commonwealth, and
hath written to the court letters desiring that the warrant for the High
Court of Commission against heresy be withdrawn, as a trouble to men’s
consciences, that the nomination of Henry of Wardlaw to be prelate of
St. Andrews be referred to the Parliament, with sundry other things
pleasing to the Commons? Now, most of the nobles that are with the King
at Perth, and with them Sir Patrick Charteris, your worthy provost, have
declared for the proposals of the Douglas. The Duke of Albany had agreed
to them--whether from goodwill or policy I know not. The good King is
easily persuaded to mild and gentle courses. And thus are the jaw
teeth of the oppressors dashed to pieces in their sockets, and the prey
snatched from their ravening talons. Will you with me to the Lowlands,
or do you abide here a little space?”
Neil Booshalloch saved his friend the trouble of reply.
“He had the chief’s authority,” he said, “for saying that Simon Glover
should abide until the champions went down to the battle.”
In this answer the citizen saw something not quite consistent with his
own perfect freedom of volition; but he cared little for it at the
time, as it furnished a good apology for not travelling along with the
clergyman.
“An exemplary man,” he said to his friend Niel Booshalloch, as soon as
Father Clement had taken leave--“a great scholar and a great saint. It
is a pity almost he is no longer in danger to be burned, as his sermon
at the stake would convert thousands. O Niel Booshalloch, Father
Clement’s pile would be a sweet savouring sacrifice and a beacon to
all decent Christians! But what would the burning of a borrel ignorant
burgess like me serve? Men offer not up old glove leather for incense,
nor are beacons fed with undressed hides, I trow. Sooth to speak, I have
too little learning and too much fear to get credit by the affair, and,
therefore, I should, in our homely phrase, have both the scathe and the
scorn.”
“True for you,” answered the herdsman.