Part 13

Andrew Ayton, while lurking in the peaceful shades of Inchdarnie, was not made aware of the late fearful event, news of which at that instant was resounding through the land, convulsing England with horror, and ringing at the gates of heaven. Andrew Ayton knew not that two days previously Archbishop Sharpe had been slain--murdered on the lonely Magus Moor. Wholly ignorant of the affair, and of the pursuit to which it had given rise, young Ayton dashed onwards full of hope and joy, when an abrupt turning of the road revealed to his gaze a party of dragoons riding furiously towards Cupar. Anxious if possible to avoid encountering so numerous a body, Andrew Ayton quitted the high-road and galloped briskly through some fields, hoping thereby to escape notice; when suddenly a horseman detaches himself from the party and darts across the plain in pursuit of him. A flash, followed by a report, and the horse which bears young Ayton rears in the air; another and another, and he himself is mortally wounded. This done, the soldier without question or challenge of any kind, rejoins his comrades, exulting in the success of his exploit. The poor young man thus stricken down at the very moment in which life seemed most desirable, in spite of his dreadful wounds, managed, although with great difficulty, to preserve his seat on horseback until he arrived at the nearest house, where he alighted and begged that he might have a bed, also that his uncle, Sir John Ayton of Ayton, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood, might be apprized of his condition. Deeply grieved on beholding the fatal injuries he had received. the mistress of the house supported his fainting form, and conducting him to her bust bedroom, made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, until his uncle should arrive. On receipt of this sad intelligence. Sir John Ayton lost not a moment in hastening to his nephew's bedside; and so shocked was he at the appearance he presented, that he ordered a man-servant whom he had brought with him to start instantly for Cupar, and fetch a surgeon. The man returned with the intelligence that the dragoons had given positive orders to the effect that no medical man was to leave Cupar on any pretext whatever; upon which Sir John Ayton, frantic at the delay, despatched another messenger to appeal to the dragoons in behalf of the dying man. In answer to this, a party of soldiers was sent with instructions to convey him to Cupar. In vain Sir John Ayton protested against the cruelty, not to say impossibility, of removing a man in his condition to Cupar, which was distant three miles; in vain he offered them bail, or to entertain them until surgeons were brought who could advise them what to do. Deaf to all his entreaties, and utterly regardless of the consequences, they placed the unfortunate young man on horseback and hurried him away to Cupar. Four times during the journey Andrew Ayton fainted through loss of blood, but still no emotions of pity were excited in the breasts of his conductor. On arriving at their destination, the magistrates, in consideration of his enfeebled state of health, permitted him to be conveyed to an inn, instead of a prison. Mr. and Mrs. Ayton, who had also been made aware of what had happened, set off instantly for Cupar. On entering the room where her son lay apparently in the agonies of death, Mrs. Ayton's fortitude gave way, and she threw herself on his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Do not grieve, dearest mother," said Andrew Ayton; "my time on earth has indeed been short, but God has willed it so, and we must not repine."

"My son! my beloved son!" was all the anguished mother could utter, while his father stood the image of mute despair.

"And must I then die without seeing Mary Cunninghame?" continued the dying man, "her whom I was flying to rejoin when the cruel ball penetrated as it were to my very heart? ..... Oh, it seems hard, hard to be thus cut off in early youth, when hope shone the brightest, and happiness seemed within my reach. Mother, mother!" he gasped, "I must see her once more; methinks I could close my eyes in peace could I but gaze for one short moment in her sweet face, and tell her we should meet again."

"Oh send for her!" cried the distracted mother; "lose not one instant in bringing her hither;" and the messenger, having received the necessary directions, galloped furiously away.

It was a solemn scene that chamber of death; and beautiful to witness was the dying youth's resignation to the decree of God, while he strove with all his accustomed gentleness to soothe his mother's sorrow.

"Oh do not weep thus," he said; "our parting will not be for long. Consider, dear mother, the shortness of time and the duration of eternity. It is, indeed, a solemn thing," he continued, "to be standing thus at the portals of an unknown world, and yet not unknown; God having in his goodness revealed to us hidden glimpses of that lovely shore----"

At this instant the chamber door flew open, and to the consternation of all present a young man, in the garb of an officer, rushed into the room.

With a scream of terror Mrs. Ayton started to her feet. "Intrude not your presence in the chamber of death," she said, addressing the dragoon; "what more would you have? you have killed his body, would you also destroy his soul?"

Heeding her not, the stranger stood for one moment gazing on the sufferer, with horror depicted on his countenance; then dashing his helmet on the ground, he threw himself on his knees by the side of the bed, exclaiming in a voice broken with sobs, "Andrew, Andrew, can you forgive me? can you forgive your guilty cousin? mine was the hand that did the deed."

The voice was that of William Auchmutie. Inchdarnie was silent. His thoughts were far away. The venerable city of St. Andrews rose up before him. He marked its glittering spires--the waves which dashed on the rocky shore, and the stately vessels gliding to and fro. Again he is standing there with his thoughtless young cousin, he who is now kneeling as a suppliant by his bed-side. Again the words ring in his ears, "I will kill thee, just for thy having espoused so rascally a cause;" and he remembers the strange unaccountable feeling which then passed through his heart as the words were uttered; and now all was fulfilled. Little more than twelve short months had rolled over their heads since that sad night; he was lying on a bed of death, and the hand that had inflicted the fatal wound was that of his cousin.

"Then you won't forgive me?" groaned forth William Auchmutie, fearing from his cousin's silence that he could not extend pardon to the man who had inflicted a mortal injury; but he knew not the gentle, loving nature he had to deal with.

"Forgive thee, William!" said Andrew Ayton, recalled by the question to what was passing around him; "yes, from the bottom of my soul, and may He above blot it out of the book of his remembrance, and lay it not to thy account. But O, William!" he continued, "withdraw thyself, while there is yet time, from the bloody course thou art pursuing; let this thou hast done serve as a warning to thee. It may be that the Almighty has permitted it that the arrow of conviction might pierce thy heart."

Here the dying man paused for a moment, apparently overcome with emotion, and then continued, grasping his cousin's hand while he spoke, "My dear cousin, thou art very young, and this scene may soon cease to be remembered by thee; but when old age comes upon thee, when thy strength fails thee, and thou art no longer able to pursue thy accustomed employment, then in the solitude of thy chamber will the evil deeds of thy youth rise up in judgment against thee, and remorse, like an avenging angel, sit scowling on thee from amongst the ruins thou hast made of the talents God committed to thy care."

Overcome with exhaustion and loss of blood, Andrew Ayton sunk back on his pillow, and William Auchmutie, overwhelmed with despair, staggered from the chamber. It was now evident that the few remaining hours Andrew Ayton was to spend on earth were rapidly drawing to a close. He lay in a sort of stupor, with his eyes fixed on the clock, as if counting the moments till the arrival of Mary Cunninghame; and the slightest move caused him to turn his eyes to the door in the expectation of seeing her for whose presence he longed. At length the sound of carriage wheels is heard rolling rapidly along the street; they pause before the inn; footsteps are heard on the stair, the door opens, and almost as death-like as himself, and supported by his aunt, enters Mary Cunninghame.

"Mary, my darling Mary!" gasped Andrew Ayton as he clasped her to his breast, "God is good--he has heard my prayer--we meet again----" His head fell back on the pillow.

"Help, help!" screamed Mary Cunninghame, "he is fainting--he is dead!" and fell senseless on the couch beside him........

No uncommon event in Paris--a novice is about to take the veil. But in this case curiosity is excited to the highest pitch, for the young lady about to be professed is a native of the cold north, and remarkable for her extreme beauty. The day appointed for the ceremony at length arrives, and the Church of St. Genevieve is crowded to the very doors, every inch of standing room is occupied, and hundreds are obliged to depart murmuring and dissatisfied. The organ peals forth its grandest music, but all ears are inattentive; ladies are there attired in the most costly dresses; but on this occasion their beauty and elegance are unheeded; all eyes are turned towards the door; every ear is on the alert to catch the faintest murmur which tells of her approach. Still she enters not, and murmurs of impatience are beginning to be heard, when cries of "she comes, she comes!" arrest all other sounds, and a general movement takes place throughout the stately edifice, as each individual, heedless of obstructing his neighbour's view, stands on tip-toe, or mounts the seat, in order to obtain the first glimpse of the procession. The words, "beautiful, how beautiful!" are uttered by many as onward comes the youthful novice arrayed in the most costly bridal attire. Jewels flash from amongst her braided hair; magnificent the veil which shrouds her slender figure; but conspicuous above all is the deep air of sadness impressed on her lovely countenance.

The vows are uttered; the bride, not of man, but of heaven, retires, and many are the sighs which accompany her. When next she enters, she is arrayed in the dismal garb of a professed nun, and is greeted by those who kneel around as a sister. And hath she then left all which breathes of the past behind her? no; she still retains, and oft bedews with her tears, the little gold heart, now suspended from a black ribbon, placed by the boyish hands of Andrew Ayton around the neck of sister Agnes--when Mary Cunninghame.

*THE LAIRD OF LAG.*

One fine morning in April, as I was sauntering along the high-road leading to Dumfries, I observed a little way on the right-hand a small burying-ground, jealously protected from intrusion by a high wall and shaded by trees, whose boughs drooped in a half pensive manner, as if in sympathy with the memorials of the dead which were scattered around. Struck with the singularity of the situation, and the fact of there being no church within view, I turned my footsteps in the direction of the solitary burying-ground. Fortunately for the gratification of my curiosity, the old sexton--all sextons are old--was busily employed in digging a grave. While inspecting the various tombstones, some of which seemed very ancient, my attention was attracted towards a mass of ruins--apparently the remains of what had been a family burying-place. Unable to derive any information from the broken fragments that lay strewn around, I advanced towards the sexton, in order to have my curiosity gratified.

The old man raised his head at my approach, and in answer to my inquiry as to whose resting-place it was that was lying in ruins, whilst those around seemed in a state of good preservation, replied--pausing in the midst of his work and wiping his face with a handkerchief--"you must be a stranger in this part of the country, not to know that that is the grave of the Laird of Lag."

"The Laird of Lag!" I exclaimed; "what! is he buried here?"

"O yes ma'm," replied the sexton, "the Laird lies here."

"How comes it?" I inquired, smiling at the old man's sagacious look and still more mysterious shake of the head, "that his grave is in such a ruined state, whilst those around, bearing dates anterior to Lag's time, are still in good repair?"

The sexton remained mute for a moment or so, then approaching nearer, inquired of me in a confidential whisper, "whether I had observed the violence of the wind in the burying-ground, when elsewhere there reigned a perfect calm?"

I replied, "I had indeed remarked the circumstance, but supposed it was owing to the exposed situation in which the burying-ground was placed."

The old man shook his head as he answered, "Oh, no! that cannot be the reason; for even up amongst these hills, when not a leaf is stirring in the breeze, the wind there howls and tears along in the most boisterous manner." Then after a pause he added, "no, no; that's not the true explanation!"

"Well, then," I said, "but what has your theory of the high wind to do with the ruined state of Lag's grave?"

"Everything," he replied; "and if you will just have a little patience I'll explain it to you; but you must excuse my homely way of speaking, for I'm not good at the story-telling." Then sticking his spade into the ground and seating himself on a neighbouring stone, he supported his arm on the handle of his spade, in the attitude of one about to make some mysterious communication, and began as follows:--

It was in the winter time that Lag's grave was destroyed; and the night on which the occurrence took place was wild and stormy enough, but nothing to the like of me, who have seen many a fearful night in my young days, when--but let that pass, as it has nothing to do with my story. Well, as I was saying, it was rather a stormy evening, and the wind had an eerie sound as it moaned in the chimney and caused the window-frame to rattle in an odd sort of way; and my wife observed to me, just as I was on the point of falling asleep, "Oh, John, but this is an awful night for ony puir body to be out in!"

"Nonsense, wife," I replied; "I trust they may never be out in worse weather; it's a mere capful of wind, as the sailors say."

"May the Lord forgive ye, John, for you livity (levity);" so saying she gave me a push with her elbow, as a kind of rebuke for my light way of speaking.

Well, mim, I was awoke about the middle of the night by my wife giving me a pull of the arm, whilst she exclaimed in a voice almost inaudible through fear, "Oh! John, hear till that in the auld grave-yard; isn't that awful? what can it mean?"

I listened for a moment, and never in the whole course of my life had I heard such strange sounds--they were like nothing earthly. Up I got and ran to the window, which commands a view of this place, and suoh a sight as I then saw! May the Lord forgive me for the thought, but I was convinced all the devils were let loose that night. It was perfectly dark, and the trees were shaking and groaning in the blast, in a manner awful to hear; and every now and then a glimmering light appeared, as if some one was carrying a light in the grave-yard. You must know there's an idle story in the country, that Lag walks about in the night-time with a lighted taper in his hand, but I don't believe the like of that. Well, as I told you before, every now and again that strange light, which I took to be a "will-o'-the-wisp," appeared dancing about, and the flashes of lightning were bright and frequent; whilst strange wild sounds seemed borne on the blast, that shook the cottage to its foundation. Overcome with fright and amazement, I went back to my bed; but not much sleep did I get that night--neither did my wife; and mighty glad were we when the bright rays of the morning sun streamed through the window shutter. The first thing I did was to come here, in case any damage had been done in the course of the night; and sure enough, when I arrived, I found everything as I had left it on the preceding day, except Lag's burial-place, which was thrown to the ground, and the stones lying about just as you see them. Ever since that fearful night, the wind has never ceased blowing in this place; but, even in the calmest summer's day it howls and rushes along, as if rejoicing over the ruin it had made of the wicked persecutor's grave.

There was a pause after the sexton had finished his wild tale; the old man apparently was overcome at the remembrance of the horrors of that night, and I more than half-puzzled to account for the strange circumstance, supported by the evidence which the wreck around me attested in favour of the sexton's recital, at length inquired, after expressing the pleasure his narration had afforded me, "Why there was no church attached to the burying-ground, and what was its designation?"

To which he replied, "That the old parish church of Dunscore formerly stood here, but the heritors of the parish had found fault with its situation, it being too far removed from the more distant parts of Dunscore parish; consequently, it had been taken down, and a new church erected in a more convenient position."

I again demanded if he was acquainted with any old legends told in connection with the Laird of Lag, thinking there must be a good many extant which treated of his wild doings.

The sexton shook his head, and replied, No, ma'm, I cannot say that I do know anything of him in particular, not having paid much attention to the idle stories told in the parish; but, as I seemed fond of these kind of tales, he recommended me to visit an old woman, named Mrs. Walker, who was about ninety years of age, and who might be able to afford me some information on that subject.

After thanking the old man, and expressing my regret at having interrupted his labours, I turned to depart, when he called me back, for the purpose of attracting my attention to the fact that nothing but nettles and the rank weeds were growing around Lag's grave; and, said he, with emphasis, "Nothing in the shape of flowers ever would grow there, do what I could." After expressing my surprise at this singular occurrence, I bade him good morning, and directed my steps towards the habitation of Mrs. Walker. I found the old woman very comfortably seated in her arm-chair, by the kitchen fire, watching a piece of bread undergoing the process of toasting. This, and the fact of a brown delf tea-pot standing upon the hob, satisfied me that Mrs. Walker was about to regale herself with a comforting cup of tea.

Before proceeding further, I shall relate rather an amusing circumstance told in connection with a Mr. G----, who came to this part of the country for the express purpose of making good his claim to be one of the descendants of the Laird of Lag. Being very desirous of collecting all the information he could concerning his progenitor, he called upon all the old people whom he thought likely to assist him in his endeavours. Amongst others, he honoured Mrs. Walker with a visit. After having made a few inquiries concerning the object of his call, he abruptly demanded of her, "Well, Mrs. Walker, and what do you think of Lag?" "Oh, dear sirs!" she replied, "I never saw him!" "I am quite aware of that; but what have you heard of him?" "Nae gude, sir--nae gude!"

On entering the kitchen, I accosted Mrs. Walker, and informed her that, as I was desirous of hearing some of the wild tales that were told about the Laird of Lag, and understanding she was acquainted with many of the stories told in connection with that famous persecutor, I had taken the liberty of calling upon her, hoping she might be induced to relate one or two of the many with which her memory was stored. The old dame smiled complacently, at the same time observing, "That she was now an aged woman, entering upon her ninetieth year, consequently her memory was rather failing, and many of the tales she had heard regarding Lag in her youth had faded from her remembrance, like a vanished dream; but," she added, "if you will only wait until I have had my cup of tea, something may come across my mind that may chance to interest you." Cordially agreeing to the old dame's proposition, and refusing a cup of the exhilarating beverage, I amused myself with gazing at the numerous prints adorning the walls, which had evidently been chosen more with an eye to gaudy colouring than artistic merit.

Mrs. Walker, after having finished her meal, replaced the tea-pot near the fire, and arranging her dress--as is often the custom with story-tellers--commenced the following account of the Laird of Lag:--

"Well, ma'am, you see, Sir Robert Grierson, commonly called the Laird of Lag--more briefly Lag--was a noted persecutor, and dreaded by all who espoused the side of the Kirk and Covenant. A bad cruel man was he, and many were the bloody deeds he did in his day. Some said he wasn't so bad as people said, and others, again maintained he was worse; but let that pass, he did enough to win himself a bad name, and he got it, as was but justice. Well, Sir Robert married a daughter of the second Earl of Queensberry, who rejoiced in the appellation of the 'Deil o' Drumlanrig;' and what good could be expected from Sir Robert after forming a connection like that? If the laird was bad, his father-in-law was counted worse, as along with other bad qualities, he was a mad gamester, and it was not very long ere he made Sir Robert as noted as himself in that respect. Many were the nights they spent over the 'devil's books,' as they are justly called. In the end, the Laird was cleared out of all his property, except Rockhall, which, being strictly entailed, could not be touched."

Here Mrs. Walker paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then inquired, "If I had ever seen the account given of Lag in the 'People's Edition of the Scots' Worthies?'" Upon my answering in the negative, she immediately rose from her seat, and proceeded towards another apartment, when she presently returned with one or two numbers of this much-relished work, and once more seating herself in her comfortable chair, she donned her spectacles, and read aloud the following:--

"Sir Robert Grierson of Lag was another prime hero for the promoting of Satan's kingdom. We think that it was some time after Bothwell that he was made sheriff or sheriff-depute of Dumfries. But to relate all the fining, spoiling, oppression, and murders committed by this worthy of Satan, or champion of his kingdom, were beyond our intention. Besides L1200 of fines exacted in Galloway and Nithsdale shires, he was accessory to the murdering, under colour of their iniquitous laws, of Margaret M'Lachlan, aged sixty-three years, and Margaret Wilson, a young woman, whom they drowned at two stakes within the sea-mark at the water of Baldnook. For his cold-blood murders, he caused hang Gordon and Mr. Cubin on a growing tree near Irongray, and left them hanging there, 1686.

"The same year he apprehended Mr. Bell of Whiteside, D. Halliday of Mayfield, and three more, and without giving them time to pray, shot them dead on the spot. Mr. Bell, whom Sir Robert Grierson knew, earnestly entreated but a quarter of an hour to prepare for eternity; but this was refused.