murder us both. What!--did he not save the life of my poor brother, and
shall I scruple to lay down my life for him? Oh no, no! Level your
murderous weapons, and bury us both, when your wish is done, in one
grave! Oh, you never knew what woman's love was till now!"
He strained her to his bosom in reply.
"Keep off! keep off!" exclaimed a man's voice from behind. "Save, for
Heaven and a Saviour's sake, oh, save innocent life! I am the victim you
are in quest of--bind me, blindfold me, shoot me dead--but spare, oh,
spare, in mercy and in justice, youth and innocence, the humane heart
and the warm young bosom! Is not she my sister, ye men of blood?--and
have none of ye a sister? Is not he my saviour, ye messengers of
evil?--and have none of ye gratitude for deeds of mercy done? Surely,
surely" (addressing himself to Westerhall), "ye will not, ye cannot,
pronounce that fearful word which must prove fatal to three at once;
for, as God is my hope, this day, and on this spot, will I die, if not
to avert, at least to share, the fate of these two!"
It was remarked that a tear stood in the eye of Clavers, who turned his
horse's head about, and galloped off the field. The men looked to
Westerhall for orders; but he had turned his head aside, to look after
his superior officer. It was evidently a fearful moment of suspense. The
muskets shook in the men's hands; and, without saying one word,
Johnstone turned his horse's head around, and rode over the hill after
his superior.
The case was tried at Dumfries, and, hardened as bosoms were in these
awful times, many an eye, unwont to weep, was filled with tears, as the
circumstances of this fearful case unfolded themselves. Jean Wilson
never looked so lovely as when, with a boldness altogether foreign to
her general conduct, she confessed and exulted in her crime. The
serjeant admitted the justice of his sentence, but pled his inability to
avoid the guilt. John Wilson admitted his want of conformity, and urged
his father's murder as sufficient ground for his rooted hatred of the
murderers. The jury were not divided. They pronounced a sentence of
acquittal, and the court rang with shouts of applause. From that day and
hour Johnstone of Westerhall resigned his commission, and, betaking
himself to private life, is said to have exhibited marks of genuine
repentance.
The woods around Closeburn Castle are indeed most beautiful; and that
winding glen which leads to Gilchristland is romantic in no ordinary
degree. That is the land of the Watsons, the lineal descendants of this
poor serjeant, who, immediately after the trial, married sweet Jeanie
Wilson, and settled ultimately in the farm of Gilchristland, where they
and theirs, many sons and daughters, have lived in respectability and
independence ever since. That three-storey house which overlooks the
valley of the Nith, and is visible from Drumlanrig to the Stepends of
Closeburn, is tenanted by Alexander Watson, one of the wealthiest
farmers and cattle-dealers in the south of Scotland.
IX.--THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.
Upon the banks or shore of the Frith of Cree, at that point where it
would be difficult to say whether the sea or the river prevailed, stood,
in old times, a mud cottage, surrounded by a clump of trees. It was
quite a nest of a thing; and beautifully did the blue smoke ascend,
strongly relieved and brought out by the dark woodland. The ships in
passing and repassing, sailed close to the door of this lonely dwelling,
and would often, in fine weather, exchange salutations with its inmates.
These inmates were Janet Smith and Nanny Nivison--the one old, and
almost bedrid; the other young, and beautiful, and kind-hearted. Nanny,
who was an orphan, lived with her grandmother; and, whilst she
discharged the duties of a nurse, she was extremely efficient in earning
their mutual subsistence. In these days, spinning-jennies were not; and
many a fireside was enlivened by the whirr of the "big" or the birr of
the "wee" wheel. The check-reel, with its cheerful click or challenge at
every sixtieth revolution, was there; and the kitchen rafters were
ornamented by suspended hanks of sale yarn. There sat, by a good, warm
peat-fire, the aged and sleepy cat, winking contentment in both eyes,
and prognosticating rain, by carefully washing her face with her
fore-paw. There, too, in close alliance and perfect peacefulness, lay a
blind cur-dog, who had known other days, and had followed to the field,
if not some warlike lord, at least one of the lords of the creation, in
the shape of John Nivison, who had been shot on the south range of the
Galloway Hills for his adherence to the Covenant. His son Thomas, the
brother of Nanny, had been long outlawed, and was supposed, even by his
sister--his only sister--to have effected his escape to America. It was
a beautiful and peaceful evening in the months of harvest--all was
cheerfulness around. The mirthful band was employed, at no great
distance, in cutting down and collecting into sheaves and stooks the
abundant crop; and the husbandman, with his coat deposited in the hedge
at the end of the field, was as busily employed as any of his band. The
voice of man and woman, lad and lass, master and servant, was mixed in
one continuous flow of rustic wit and rural jest. The surface of the
Frith was smooth as glass, and the Galloway Hills looked down from
heaven, and up from beneath, with brows of serenity and friendship. One
or two vessels were tiding it up in the midst of the stream, with a
motion scarcely perceptible. They had all sails set, and looked as if
suspended in a glassy network, half-way betwixt heaven and earth. The
sun shone westward, near to his setting, and the white and softly-rolled
clouds only served to make the blue of a clear sky still more deep and
lovely. The lassie wi' the lint-white locks spread over an eye of bonny
blue--
"The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue!"--
might well assimilate to this sunny sky. Nature seemed to say to man,
from above and from beneath--from hill and from dale--from land and from
sea--from a thousand portals of beauty and blessedness--"Thou stranger
on earth, enjoy the happiness which thy God prepares for thee. For thee,
he hath hung the heavens in a drapery of light and love--for thee, he
hath clothed the earth in fragrance and plenty--for thee, he hath
spread out the waters of the great sea, and made them carriers of thy
wealth and thy will from land to land, and from the broad sea to the
city and the hamlet on the narrow frith." Thus spake, or seemed to
speak, God to man, in the beautiful manifestations of his love. But what
said "man to man?" Alas! true it is, and of verity, that
"Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn."
The whole of the south of Scotland was, at this peaceful hour, overrun
with locusts and caterpillars--with all that can hurt and destroy--that
can mar, mangle, and torture--with rage, persecution, and
violence--profanity, bloodshed, and death. Oh, what a contrast!--Look,
only look, on this picture and on that:--Here all peace; there, Douglas,
Grierson, Johnstone, Clavers: here, all mercy and love; there, the red
dragoons, stained and besmeared with blood and with brains: here, the
comforts, and fellowship, and affection of home and of kindred; there,
the mountain solitude, the trembling refugee, the damp cave, and the bed
of stone! Truly, God hath made man in innocence, but he hath found out
many inventions, and, amongst others, the instruments of torture and of
death--the bloody maiden--the accursed boots--and the thumbikin and
torch, to twist and burn with anguish the writhing soul. And all this,
for what? To _convert_ the nation into a land of hypocrites--to stifle
the dictates of conscience--to extinguish liberty, and establish
despotism. But _tempora mutantur_: thank God! it is otherwise now with
the people of Scotland--and the sword of oppressive violence has been
sheathed for ever.
It was night, it was twelve o'clock, and all was silence, save that, at
intervals, the grating crake of the landrail or corncraik was heard,
like some importunate creditor craving payment, from breath to breath,
of his due. An image stood in the passage of the clay-built
dwelling--it was not visible, but there was silence and a voice--it was
a well-known voice. "Oh, my God, it is my brother!" Thus exclaimed Nancy
Nivison, whilst she threw herself, naked as she was, into the arms of
her long-lost and sore-lamented brother. The old woman was gradually
aroused to a conception of what was going forward; but her spirit was
troubled within her, and she groaned, whilst she articulated, "Beware, I
pray ye!--beware what ye're doing!--Douglas is as near as Wigton with
his band o' murderers. They have shot the father, and they will not
scruple to murder, by law or without law, the son. Oh sirs, I'm unco
distressed to think o' the danger which this unexpected visit must
occasion!" Thomas Nivison had, indeed, sailed for America; but he had
been shipwrecked on the Isle of Arran, not far from the coast of
Ireland, and had lived for months with the fishermen, by assisting them
in their labour. But hame is hame--
"Oh, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!"
So breathes, in perfect nature and simplicity, the old song; and so
felt, amidst the bare rocks and stormy inlets of Arran, poor Thomas
Nivison. And for the sake of this humble home, this poor outlaw, upon
whose head a price had been set (as he had wounded, almost to death, one
of his father's murderers), had run, and was now running, incalculable
risks. Long ere daylight Thomas Nivison had betaken himself to a
hiding-place in the linns of Cree; but his visit had not escaped
observation. A smuggler of brandy and tea from the Isle of Man, being
engaged in what he denominated the free-trade, chanced to mark his
approach, and fled immediately with the news to Douglas at Wigton. The
troop surrounded the house by break of day; but the bird was flown.
What a scene was exhibited, in a few days, on this peaceful shore! Two
women, the one old, and scarcely able to support her head, and the other
young, beautiful, but stripped down to the waist, and tied to a stake
within flood-mark on the Frith of Cree; a guard of dragoons surrounding
the spot, and an officer of rank riding, ever and anon, to the
saddlegirths into the swelling flood, and questioning the poor sufferers
very hard. But it was all in vain; Thomas Nivison was neither betrayed
by sister nor by grandmother. In fact, they knew not, though they might
have their suspicions, of his retreat. Can it be believed in the present
times--and yet this is a fact attested by history as well as by
tradition--that these two helpless and guiltless beings were permitted
to perish, to be suffocated by inches and gulps amidst the tide? The
poor old woman died first. Her stake was mercifully sunk farther into
the stream. She died, however, speaking encouragement to her grandchild.
"It will soon be over, Nanny--it will not last long--it will not be ill
to bear--and there we shall be free" (looking up to heaven)--"_there_,
there is nothing to hurt or to destroy; and my father is there, Nanny;
and my mother is there; and my son--oh, my poor murdered boy!--is there!
and you and I will be there, and he, too, will soon, soon follow; but
his blood be on the guilty, Nanny, and not on us! We will not shed one
drop of it for all that man can give--for all that man can do--
'For anything that man can do
I shall not be afraid.'"
These were the last words which she spoke, at least which were heard;
for, in the beautiful language of Scripture, "she bowed her head, and
gave up the ghost." She was not drowned, but chilled to death. The case
was different with youth, strength, and beauty. Again and again was the
offer made to her, to spare her life, on condition of her betraying a
brother. Nature pled hard for life and length of days; and one of the
dragoons, more humane, or rather less brutal, than the rest, was heard
to exclaim--
"Oh, sir, she has said it--she has said it!"
"Said what?" responded Douglas, in a sharp voice. "Has she said where
her renegade brother is to be found?"
Hearing this question thus fearfully put, she exclaimed, in an agony--
"Oh no--no--no!--never--never! Let me go--let me go!"
"The waters wild
Come o'er the child!"
THE COUNTESS OF CASSILIS.
At a short distance from the ancient castle of Tyningham--the seat, at
the period of our story (the beginning of the seventeenth century), of
Thomas, first Earl of Haddington, a man remarkable at once for his
talents and successful ambition--there is a sequestered little spot,
enclosed with steep banks, now cleared and cultivated, but then covered
with natural wood, which, together with the abruptness of the rising
ground, excluded all view of the smooth strip of green sward that lay
between, until approached within a few yards' distance.
Here, in this lovely and retired spot, met, every evening, or at least
as often as circumstances would permit, two fond and happy lovers; and
here had they vowed a thousand times to remain true to each other while
life endured, under all changes of circumstance and time. One of these
personages was a remarkably stout and tall young man, of about
three-and-twenty, of a frank, bold, and sanguine expression of
countenance; the other was a young lady in the nineteenth year of her
age, possessing more than ordinary beauty, together with a singularly
graceful form and carriage. The first was no other--a personage of no
meaner note--than Sir John Faa of Dunbar; a gentleman who had already
established a high reputation for bravery and for superior prowess and
dexterity in all manly exercises. The other, more than his equal in
rank, was the Lady Jane Hamilton, daughter of the Earl of Haddington,
already spoken of.
It may be thought that such clandestine meetings between persons of such
condition as this was not altogether becoming in either. But there was a
reason for it.
The addresses of Sir John to the earl's daughter were not approved of
by her father, who, desirous of connecting himself with the older
peers--his own title being but a recent one--intended that Lady Jane
should marry the Earl of Cassilis: a stern Covenanter, and a man,
besides, of haughty and imperious temper, who had already made some
overtures for the hand of the Lady Jane.
The interviews between the lovers, therefore, were--no uncommon
thing--stolen ones; as the earl, aware of their attachment, had
peremptorily forbidden Sir John his house, and had as peremptorily
forbidden his daughter ever to see or hold any correspondence with him.
But love was stronger than the sense of duty; and the fair lady
continued to evade her father's injunctions, to elude his vigilance, and
to meet with her lover in the little dell between the woods as often as
occasion permitted or opportunity offered.
This intercourse, however, was carried on, on the part of the young
knight, at the imminent risk of his life; since, had his stern rival,
the Earl of Cassilis (who already considered himself as the affianced
husband of the Lady Jane, although he had never deigned to consult the
lady herself on the subject), been aware of his perseverance in his
suit, his death would have been inevitable. The proud earl would not
have brooked the insult; and it is not unlikely, had he known what was
going forward, that others besides Sir John would have felt his
vengeance. The lovers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the dangerous
game they were playing; but this circumstance, instead of damping the
ardour of their passion, had the effect only of increasing it, and of
endearing them still more and more to each other.
It will readily be conceived, from what has been related, that the two
rivals for the hand of the Lady Jane Hamilton entertained the most
deadly dislike of each other--for the Earl of Cassilis was not ignorant
of Sir John's pretensions; and this feeling never failed to evince
itself when by any chance they happened to meet--a circumstance which
more than once occurred.
On one of these occasions, they had even gone so far as to draw upon
each other, and were prevented from closing in deadly strife only by the
determined interference of some mutual friends who chanced to be
present.
"Beware, Sir John," said the stern earl, on the occasion we allude to,
at the same time returning his sword with violence into its
scabbard--"beware, Sir John, of crossing my path--you know the quarter I
mean--otherwise you may rue it. Remember, young man," he added, "I have
cautioned you."
"And remember, I have defied you," replied the undaunted youth whom he
addressed, "earl though ye be!" And he turned haughtily on his heel, and
left the apartment which was the scene of this occurrence. To this
defiance the earl made no reply; but those who were near him saw an
expression of deadly wrath on his dark stern countenance, that made them
at once congratulate themselves on not being the objects of it, and fear
the worst for him who was, should he ever be unfortunate enough to fall
into his power.
"And when, Sir John, will you return?" was a question put in a gentle
and faint voice--faint with emotion--by the Lady Jane Hamilton to her
lover, as they walked arm in arm in the little sequestered dell of which
we have already spoken, one beautiful summer evening shortly after the
occurrence of the circumstance just related. "When do you think you will
return?" she said, sadly, on being informed by her lover that the
following day was fixed upon for his departure for the Continent,
whither he had, for some time previously, intended going--an intention
of which the Lady Jane had been perfectly aware--to improve himself by a
few months' travel.
"This is June," said the young knight, in a voice scarcely less
tremulous than that of his fair companion. And he paused a moment, and
then added, "I will be home, my love, God willing, about the latter end
of October; and, believe me, Lady Jane, short as this time is, it looks
an eternity to me."
A lengthened silence succeeded, for both were too much engrossed by the
melancholy thoughts which their approaching separation gave rise to, to
prosecute the conversation. Another short, but sad and yet happy hour
quickly flew over the lovers, when the gathering shades of night
intimated to them that their interview must terminate. Feeling this, the
fond pair, for the thousandth time, solemnly pledged themselves, in the
face of heaven, to continue faithful to their vows, tenderly embraced
each other, and parted.
On the day following, Sir John set out for London, from whence he
proceeded to Paris, thence to Madrid, where suddenly all traces of him
were lost; and no after inquiries could ever elicit the slightest
explanation of his mysterious disappearance.
Weeks, months, and years passed away, but they brought no intelligence
of the fate of the unfortunate young knight. It was the universal belief
that he had perished by the hands of assassins; and in this conviction
all further inquiry regarding him finally ceased; while time, as it
passed on, produced its usual effects in lessening the general interest
in his fate, and in gradually obliterating the recollection of him from
the minds of his acquaintance. But there was one over whose memory time
had no such power--one who did not only fondly remember him, but who,
night and day, sorrowed for his loss through long tedious years. Lady
Jane Hamilton, although circumstances subsequently changed her destiny,
never forgot the first love of her young and affectionate heart.
Soon after the departure of Sir John Faa, the Earl of Haddington,
taking advantage of that circumstance, resolved, if possible, to
accomplish the marriage of his daughter to the Earl of Cassilis before
the return of the former; and fortunately, as he conceived, the latter
himself, as if actuated by the same motive, renewed at this moment
certain overtures connected with this matter which had lain for some
time in abeyance, and pressed his suit with the lady's father with an
urgency that would admit of no evasion or delay.
For full two years, however, after the departure of her lover, and fully
a year and a-half after the period when he was first believed to have
perished, neither the threats of her father, nor the importunities of
her noble suitor, could prevail on the Lady Jane to become the Countess
of Cassilis. At the end of this period, however, the broken-hearted
maiden--believing in the death of her lover, and unable longer to
withstand the incessant and remorseless persecution with which she was
assailed, daily and hourly, by her ambitious father--permitted herself
to be dragged to the altar, but not before she had been shown a letter,
whether forged or not is not known, from the English ambassador at the
Spanish court, giving assurance of the death of Sir John Faa, whom he
represented as having perished in the way generally believed--namely, by
the daggers of some bravos.
The marriage of the Lady Jane Hamilton to the Earl of Cassilis was
celebrated at Tyningham Castle, with all the magnificence and pomp which
the magic wand of wealth could call into existence. Its tall and
numerous windows blazed with light. Its liveried lackeys flew through
its illuminated halls, preciously burdened with silver trenchers, on
which smoked the rarest and the richest viands; or bore massive flagons
of the same precious metal, filled with the choicest wines; while its
gorgeous apartments rung with the joyous sounds of mirth and music. But
it was a striking thing to note, in the midst of all this splendid
pageantry, and in the midst of this crowd of merry faces, that the only
one who wore sad looks, the only one who appeared unmoved by this
stirring scene, and who took no share in the rejoicing that was going
forward, was she on whose account, and whom to honour, all this bustle
and magnificence had been created.
In a corner of the principal hall, where all the _elite_ of the night
were assembled, the Countess of Cassilis sat all alone, pale as death,
gazing with vacant eye on the moving and glittering spectacle before
her, and looking only the more wretched and unhappy for the splendour
with which she was attired. All the efforts of her father and her
husband were unable to compel her even to assume the appearance of a
becoming happiness; and, finding this, they at length refrained (from a
fear that perseverance on their part would lead to some more awkward
exposures) from insisting upon her taking any share in doing the honours
of the evening, and allowed her to occupy undisturbed the retired seat
which she had chosen, and to which, though frequently brought forward to
receive the congratulations of newcomers, she seized every opportunity
of instantly returning. Nor was the conduct of the unhappy bride during
the ceremony of these congratulations, brief though they were, less
marked by indications of the wretched feelings which overwhelmed her,
than on other more important occasions. Her pale and emaciated
countenance, the faint, forced smile, and the slight, cold, formal
courtesy, with which she acknowledged the wishes of the guests for long
life and happiness to the Countess of Cassilis, but too plainly showed
how little of the latter she anticipated, and how little of the former
she desired.