nevertheless, went on; but it was soon interrupted by an occurrence that
threw a damp on the revellers, and finally hastened their departure. In
the very midst of the mirth and rejoicing, and at the moment when those
seemed to have attained their height, the whole assembly was suddenly
thrown into the utmost consternation, by a loud and piercing shriek
proceeding from that end of the hall where the Countess of Cassilis was
seated. All hurried towards the spot--some leaving the dance unfinished,
others hastily throwing down the untasted goblet--and crowded around the
sufferer from whom the alarming cry had proceeded. It was the bride.
Senseless, and extended on the floor, there lay the miserable Countess
of Cassilis. But what had happened to cause this extraordinary accident
no one could tell. It was ascertained that she had been sitting quite
alone when the illness, of whatever nature it was, under which she was
now suffering, had seized her; so that no sudden injury of any kind
could have befallen her. Her illness, in short, was quite inexplicable.
But, as she was about being removed, which was instantly done, there
were one or two around her who, hearing her muttering, as she was being
raised from the floor, "I've seen him! I've seen him!" more than guessed
the cause of the poor lady's sudden illness.
On the removal of the countess, there were some attempts made to revive
the revelries of the evening, and to re-infuse the spirit of mirth into
the revellers, which the occurrence just related seemed to have
dissipated; but in vain. After some ineffectual efforts of this kind,
the company broke up; and, long before the anticipated hour, the guests
were gone, the lights extinguished, and silence reigned in the halls of
Tyningham Castle.
On the day following this event, the Countess of Cassilis was removed by
her husband to Cassilis Castle, an old, heavy, gloomy-looking fortalice
on the banks of the Doon, in the shire of Ayr, where the unhappy lady
remained for four years, heart-broken, crushed in spirit, and looking
forward to the grave as the only termination of her sorrows. Her stern
husband took no pains to reconcile her to her destiny, nor did he even
show her any of those little kindnesses and attentions which are so well
calculated to win on the female heart, and which, had they been employed
in this case, might have induced the Countess of Cassilis, since she
could not love, at least to esteem, her lord. But the earl had obtained,
in a large accession of wealth, all that he desired or cared for in
uniting himself to the unfortunate Lady Jane; and the consequence was,
that, soon after his marriage, he neglected her, to pursue his schemes
of ambition and personal aggrandisement. Thus left alone, as she often
was, for weeks, nay, for months, in the lonely castle in which she had
been immured, the Countess of Cassilis might often be seen walking on
the battlements--almost the only species of recreation within her
power--in solitary sadness; at one time stopping to gaze, but with
listless eye, on the wide and romantic scene that lay around her; at
another, to look on the leaping and foaming waters of the Doon,
immortalised by the poet's song, and to think of the days that were
past, of her blighted hopes and untoward destiny.
Most appropriate to her, to her feelings and circumstances, would have
been the melancholy song of Burns, of which her present locality was
long afterwards to be the scene. Well might the poor Countess of
Cassilis have exclaimed--
"Ye banks and braes o'bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o'care!"
But this beautiful lyric was not then in existence, nor for nearly two
centuries after.
It was about the end of the fourth year after her marriage, and while
leading this solitary and melancholy life, that the Countess of
Cassilis, as she walked one evening, as was her wont, on the battlements
of the castle, was suddenly alarmed by seeing a numerous band of
gipsies approaching the building; and she was the more alarmed, that the
earl, with nearly all his immediate retainers, was at that moment from
home, the former being then in attendance on the Assembly of Divines at
Westminster. The countess, however, would have felt but little
uneasiness at the threatened visit of these wanderers, although they had
been even much more numerous than they were--for such visitations were
then of ordinary occurrence--had they presented the usual appearance,
and had the band been composed of the usual materials--that is, of men,
women, and children. But in this case there were none of the latter. The
whole were men--and all young, stout, active-looking men they were: and
hence the alarm of the countess.
Her fears, however, did not prevent her watching their motions for some
time, ere she descended from the battlements; and this surveillance
discovered to her that they were under the conduct of a leader, and that
they were approaching the castle with a very suspicious degree of
caution, and yet with a still more startling haste.
Strongly suspecting that the designs of the gipsies were evil, the
Countess of Cassilis hastened down from the battlements, and secured
herself within the walls of the castle. In the meantime, the band of
gipsies approached; but, instead of attempting any violence, they began
to sing some of the wild strains with which they usually sought to
attract the notice and excite the charity of those to whom they
appealed. Her apprehensions somewhat allayed by this pacific indication,
the countess ventured towards a window that overlooked the rude
minstrels, and was about to fling them a suitable guerdon, when, on
obtaining the nearer view of their leader which this step afforded, she
uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless on the floor. His disguise
had not been able to conceal from her--for sharp, sharp are the eyes of
love--that in the leader of the gipsies she had met with the lost
knight of Dunbar. In the next instant, the countess was in the arms of
the lover of her youth. He it was who acted as leader of the gipsies;
and the purpose for which he now came was to carry off, in the absence
of her husband--of whose absence he was aware--the betrothed of his
early years.
In place of having been assassinated, as was generally believed, Sir
John had been consigned to the dungeons of the Inquisition, in
consequence of some unguarded expressions regarding the holy office
which he had allowed to escape him when in Madrid; and in these dungeons
had he lain, from the time he was first lost sight of, till within about
six weeks of his appearance at Cassilis Castle. On his return home, he
had learned, for the first time, of the marriage of the Lady Jane to the
Earl of Cassilis; and this information having been accompanied by the
intelligence that the latter was then in London, had determined him on
the desperate enterprise in which he was now engaged. All this Sir John
now communicated to the countess, and ended with proposing that she
should fly with him.
"No, no, Sir John," said the now weeping and dreadfully-agitated
lady--"I cannot, I will not, do anything so unbecoming the daughter of
the Earl of Haddington and the wife of Cassilis. However unwillingly I
may have become the latter, I feel myself equally bound to consult his
honour as my own, and do nothing that might sully either. Go then, Sir
John," she continued; "oh, do depart from me--do leave me, and take with
you an assurance of my continued and unabated"--she paused for a moment,
and added--"esteem."
But vain, vain were the good resolutions of the unfortunate
countess--vain her determination not to take so hazardous, and perhaps
it ought to be added, so infamous a step as that proposed by her
desperate and unthinking lover. Love, almighty love, finally
prevailed--all the countess's resolutions melted away before the
energetic importunities of her lover, like snow beneath the midsummer
sun; and the succeeding hour saw her mounted on the mettled steed which
he had brought for the express purpose of carrying her away--
"So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung."
This done, exactly as the poet has described it, the ill-starred pair
commenced their flight, still attended, however, by the gipsy band which
Sir John had employed to aid him in the abduction, and which he thought
it necessary to keep around him till he should have got to a sufficient
distance to be relieved from all apprehensions of pursuit.
Leaving the guilty lovers to pursue their way, we shall return to
Cassilis Castle, destined to be almost instantly afterwards the scene of
another interesting and most ominous event. This was the unexpected
return of the earl, who, with a large body of retainers, suddenly rode
into the castle yard, within less than half-an-hour after the departure
of the countess and her lover.
Before he had yet got his foot to the ground, the earl was informed of
what had occurred.
"Gone, said you!--the countess gone, and with Sir John Faa!" exclaimed
the amazed and now infuriated nobleman, to the person who gave the
intelligence. "Impossible! Thou liest, knave!--thou wouldst deceive me,
and thou shalt hang for it." But, exhibiting a strange contradiction
between his conduct and his language, the earl, even while he spoke,
sprang again into his saddle, and fiercely calling on his retainers to
follow him, set off at full speed in the direction which the fugitives
had taken. Nor was his ride, though a rapid, a long one. At a ford
across the Doon, not many miles from Cassilis Castle, and still called
from the circumstance we are about to relate the "Gipsies' Steps," the
earl and his party overtook his unfortunate countess and her still more
unfortunate seducer.
On seeing the former approach, which the fugitives did with a degree of
amazement which could only have been equalled had they seen them drop
from the clouds, Sir John, his natural intrepidity not permitting him to
reckon on the fearful odds that were coming against him, prepared to
offer resistance; and in this hopeless resolution he persisted, although
aware that he could place but little reliance on the co-operation of
those around him--the gipsies showing but little inclination to fight,
from a well-grounded fear that such a proceeding would increase the
severity of their treatment in the event of their being taken; and of
this, from the overwhelming superiority in point of numbers of the party
coming down upon them, they had no doubt.
Dismounting now from his horse, Sir John assisted the countess to
alight; and, placing her at a sufficient distance to insure her safety
from any instant danger, the brave young man leaped again into his
saddle, and, drawing his sword, awaited the onset of his enemies,
determined to defend the fair companion of his flight so long as he
could continue to wield the good weapon which he now so resolutely and
proudly grasped.
In a few minutes after, the pursuing party were down upon the fugitives,
when the earl, singling out Sir John, exclaimed, as he rushed upon him,
"Have at thee, villain!" and with these words discharged a blow at him
which would have immediately unhorsed him, had it not been adroitly
warded off. But of what avail was the averting the stroke of one sword,
when there were many to contend with, and one single arm only to oppose
them; for the gipsies had not offered the slightest resistance. In an
instant, a score of weapons were flashing around the head of the
solitary combatant; yet long and obstinately did he continue the unequal
fight, and well did he prove his manhood, although it could have been
wished that it had been exhibited in a better cause. More than one of
Sir John's assailants fell beneath his sword, and numbers felt the
keenness of its edge, and the dexterity with which it was handled, in
their gaping wounds.
Such a contest as this, however, when it was one to fifty, could be but
of short duration. In a few minutes, Sir John was severely wounded,
unhorsed, and borne, or rather dragged down, bleeding and exhausted, to
the earth. The moment he fell, the points of some eight or ten swords
were levelled at his heart, and would have instantly transfixed it, had
not the earl called out to those who wielded them to desist.
"Don't kill him--don't kill him!" he shouted out, at the same time
forcing his way through the crowd that surrounded him. "I will clear
scores with him in another way," he added. "A dog's death is more
befitting him than a gentleman's." These were ominous words, and well
understood by all who heard them.
The earl now rode up, for the first time, to where his unhappy countess
stood, and assuming a mock gallantry as he approached her, but with a
bitter smile on his countenance, took off his hat, and pointing to Sir
John, who was now bound and placed on horseback, informed her that her
lover intended honouring his castle with another visit, and had
commissioned him to say that he would be glad of the Countess of
Cassilis' company. Having said this, he desired some of his attendants
to assist his wretched wife to get on horseback, when, leaving her under
their care, with instructions to see her safely conveyed to the castle,
he left her without farther remark or observation, to join the party who
surrounded the prisoners.
The whole cavalcade--the captives, consisting of Sir John and the whole
of the gipsy gang, being placed in the middle--now set forward for
Cassilis Castle. On their arrival there, the prisoners were halted
beneath a large plane-tree, which grew, and, we believe, still
flourishes, on a little knoll in front of the castle gate. All, both the
prisoners and their captors, knew full well what the earl meant by his
selection of their halting-place. The tree alluded to was one of dismal
notoriety; it was known far and wide by the name of the "Dule Tree"--a
name which it had acquired from its having been used by the Earl of
Cassilis as a gallows on which all offenders, within his jurisdiction,
who were condemned to death, were executed.
The prisoners were now drawn up in a line, and there kept until they had
witnessed, what was immediately exhibited, the fatal preparations for
execution; which consisted simply in fastening a rope, with a running
noose, to one of the lower branches, and placing a cart underneath it,
with a person standing in readiness by the horse's head to drive off at
a given signal.
When these very primitive preliminaries were gone through, all the
prisoners, including Sir John Faa, with the exception of one who was
left for instant execution, were marched into the castle, and shut up
with a strong guard in one of its apartments.
Everything being now ready for the performance of the dreadful tragedy
which was about to be enacted, the Earl of Cassilis proceeded to the
countess's chamber, and again assuming the mock air of politeness of
which we have already spoken, he bowed low as he entered the apartment,
and begged to inform the Countess of Cassilis that he had got up a play
for her divertisement, in which her lover, Sir John, had obligingly
undertaken to perform a principal part, and desired that she would
condescend to witness the pastime. Saying this, he rudely seized the
countess by the arm, and dragged her to an apartment where there was a
window that overlooked the place of execution.
Having placed the countess at this window, the earl made a signal to
those assembled beneath the "Dule Tree," and in an instant afterwards
the first of the unhappy captives was seen suspended by the neck,
struggling in the agonies of death. Another and another of these
miserable men followed in due time, until of the whole party their
unfortunate leader, Sir John, only remained.
On this ill-fated gentleman being brought out for execution, the earl
roused the attention of his unhappy wife, by calling out to her, with
savage glee, to look attentively, as her lover Sir John was now about to
play his part; and he had no doubt, he said, that he would do it
handsomely. The wretched lady glanced towards the fatal tree, and saw
him who had been her first, and was yet her only, love about to suffer
an ignominious death. The fatal rope was already about the neck of the
gallant, but erring young man, whose bearing, in this dreadful
situation, evinced all that unflinching fortitude for which he had
always been remarkable.
Just before being thrown off, he caught a glimpse of the countess's
figure at the window. He bowed gracefully towards her, kissed his hand
to her, and waved an eternal adieu. In the next instant he was
insensible to all earthly objects. These last proofs of the undaunted
young man's unalterable affection, however, of which we have just
spoken, were not seen by her for whom they were intended; for, although
at the window (she was forcibly held there by her savage husband), her
eyes were closed on the dreadful scene, and she herself wholly
unconscious of what at that fatal instant was passing before her.
The apartment from which the miserable Countess of Cassilis was
compelled to witness this dreadful tragedy is still pointed out by the
name of the "Countess's Room." In this chamber the unhappy lady was kept
a prisoner for several days after the execution of Sir John and his
followers, when she was removed to another of the family residences in
the town of Maybole, in Ayrshire, where she was confined during the
remainder of her life--the earl her husband, in the meantime, marrying
another wife.
Such is the story of the Countess of Cassilis and a veritable tale it
is.
THE HAPPY CONCLUSION.
"It's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," said William Waterstone, throwing
himself down in an arm-chair that stood by his own kitchen fireside, and
at the same time laying aside his staff and bonnet; for William had just
returned from a journey of ten or twelve miles, on which he had set out
that morning--"it's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," he said, in a voice
and with a look and manner of the deepest despair. "He'll no listen to
ony terms," he went on, "or to ony delay, but insists on haein the money
doun on the nail, and to the last farthin, or he says he'll roup us to
the door, and that within fourteen days."
But what misfortune was this that threatened William Waterstone? And who
was he? Why, we will tell you, good reader, beginning with your last
query first. William Waterstone was a small farmer in Teviotdale, and
one of the most honest, laborious, and worthy men in that part of the
country. But all his industry, prudence, economy, and integrity had not
enabled him, as, indeed, they could not, to cope with the disadvantages
of falling markets and a poor and over-rented farm; and he fell into
arrears with his landlord. It was in vain that poor William, who was now
getting up in years, being close upon sixty, toiled late and early,
assisted by his wife and daughter (his whole household), to reduce or
keep down the debt that was growing up against him. It was in vain that
he and they denied themselves every comfort to attain this desirable
end. The arrears, in place of diminishing, went on increasing; for the
farm, with all this toil and privation, could scarcely pay the current
expenses, let alone enabling its occupant to liquidate an extra debt.
But this state of matters with William, though sad enough, and such as
must, in any circumstances, have made him unhappy, would not have ended
in his utter ruin, as it now threatened to do, had the property which he
rented remained in the hands of his old landlord; for that person knew
his excellent character, respected his worth, and, perfectly aware that
he was doing all that man could do to discharge the claims he had on
him, showed him every lenity and indulgence; and would, in all
probability (indeed he had actually said as much), have forgiven him his
arrears altogether. Unfortunately for William, however, his generous
landlord just about this time died; and the property fell into other and
very different hands.
The first step of the new proprietor, or rather of his factor, though of
course done with the former's consent, was to ferret out all outstanding
debts; the next, to enforce their payment, without distinction of
persons or consideration of circumstances, by the most summary measures
which the law allowed. On this black list, and amongst the foremost,
stood the name of William Waterstone.
It was on the day preceding that on which our story opens, that William
first received intimation by a threatening letter, of the determination
of the new proprietor regarding the arrears which he was owing; and on
the next he went himself to the factor, who lived at the distance of
about ten miles, to endeavour to avert the proceedings with which he was
threatened, by entering into some arrangements regarding the debt. The
result of this interview is announced in the expressions with which
William seated himself in his arm-chair, as quoted at the outset of our
tale; for he had just at that moment returned from his unsuccessful
mission.
He had addressed himself to his wife; but what he said was equally meant
for the ear of his daughter--a young, beautiful, and interesting girl of
about nineteen, who was also present at the time.
On William's announcing the determination of the factor regarding them,
his wife, without saying a word, but looking the very picture of grief
and despair, flung herself into a chair opposite her husband, where she
sat for some time in silence, wiping away at intervals, with the corner
of her apron, the tears that forced themselves into her eyes.
After a short time, during which neither father, mother, nor daughter
had spoken a syllable, each being wrapped up in the contemplation of the
miserable prospects which lay before them, Mrs Waterstone at length
said--
"And is there, then, nae hope for us now, William, after a' oor toil and
oor fecht?"
"Nane--nane that I can see," replied the husband, after a lengthened
pause, in a voice rendered stern by despair, and at the same time
glancing towards his daughter, who, with her face buried in her apron,
was sobbing and weeping in a distant corner of the apartment. "Nane that
I can see," he again repeated. "There's nae help for us under heaven.
Naething for us noo, Betsy, but the meal pock."
"Weel, God's will be dune, William," replied the broken-hearted woman;
"since it is sae, we maun submit; although it is hard, at oor time o'
life, and after the lang and sair struggle we hae had to do justice to
everybody, to be thrown destitute on the warld. But ye ken it is said,
William, by the Psalmist, 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I
not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread;' and I've
nae doot that, wi' God's assistance, we'll find these soothing and
comforting words verified in oor ain case."
To this William Waterstone made no reply, but remained gloomily absorbed
in his own dismal reflections. These were indeed bitter enough--and
bitter also were those of the partner of his bosom, on this melancholy
occasion; but they were light compared with those of their unhappy
daughter. It was on her that the threatened calamity was to fall with
its fullest force, and it was to her that it was to bring the largest
share of misery. But this requires explanation; and we proceed to give
it.
Marion--for such was her name--had long been wooed in vain by a wealthy
suitor who resided at a short distance from her father's house. This
person, whose name was Maitland, was a miller to business, and a
sufficiently respectable man; but he was precisely three times the age
of the young creature whose hand he sought. He was, besides, a widower,
with several children, and was otherwise by no means such an object as
was likely to attract the eye or engage the affections of a woman
younger than the youngest of his own daughters.
But John Maitland was wealthy--a circumstance which, though it was of no
weight whatever in the eyes of Marion herself, was of great consequence
in those of her parents. They, however, although they secretly wished
that their daughter would give a favourable ear to the miller's suit,
did not urge her, at least otherwise than by indirect allusions and
hints, to admit his addresses; and from even this, seeing that her
repugnance to him was unconquerable, they had latterly abstained
altogether. Notwithstanding Marion's coldness to him, however, and her
dislike of him, which she could not conceal, Maitland continued his
visits, and persevered in his suit, although to all but himself it
seemed an utterly hopeless one. But Marion's conduct in this matter did
not proceed solely from a dislike to Maitland. It was influenced by a
double motive--a repugnance to him, and love for another.