Part 8

A soldier belonging to Johnstone of Westerhall's company had a fall from his horse, in consequence of which he was disabled for a time from service. He was committed to the charge of a poor but honest family in Eskdalemuir, near Yettbyres, where he was carefully nursed and well attended to. This family consisted of a mother, a daughter, and two sons, who were shepherds on the property of Yettbyres. The daughter's name was Jean Wilson; and the soldier's heart was lost to Jean, ere he was aware. In truth, Jean was a beauteous rosebud, a flower of the wilderness, in her seventeenth year, and most kind and attentive to their guest. To own more truth, Jean was likewise in love with the brave and manly figure and bearing of her patient; but she never told him so, being greatly averse to his profession and his politics--for he was one of the persecutors of God's people, and Jean's father had been shot on Dumfries Sands for his adherence to the Covenant. At last, however, and after many fruitless attempts on Jean's part to convert the soldier, and convince him of the evil of his profession, he was again summoned to his post--and the shieling of Yettbyres assumed its wonted peaceful aspect.

In the midst of the Eskdale mountains a scene was exhibited of no ordinary interest. A poor captive stood bound and blinded; a party of five soldiers, under the command of a serjeant, was ordered out to shoot him. The poor man had asked for five minutes of indulgence, which was granted; during which time he had sung some verses of a psalm, and prayed. It was night and full moon. It was in the midst of a mountain glen, and by the side of a mountain stream; all was still, and peaceful, and lonely around--but the passions of men were awake. There was a voice--it was the voice of Johnstone of Westerhall--which commanded the men to do their duty, and to blow out the brains of the poor kneeling captive.

"If I do, may I be hanged!" exclaimed the serjeant, standing out before his men, and looking defiance on his captain.

"What!" exclaimed Johnstone, "do you dare to disobey my orders? Soldiers, seize Serjeant Watson, and bind him!"

In the meantime, partly through the connivance of the men, and partly from the confusion which ensued, the captive had made his escape. To him the localities of this glen were all familiar; and, by ensconcing himself beneath and beyond a sheet of foaming water which was projected from an apron-fall in the linn, John Wilson effected his escape for the time.

The serjeant was immediately carried to head-quarters at Lockerby, and tried by a court-martial for disobedience of orders. The court consisted of Grierson of Lag, Winram of Wigton, Douglas of Drumlanrig, and Bruce of Bunyean. The fact of disobedience was not denied; but the soldier pled the obligations which he had been under to the Wilson family during his distress; and his consequent unwillingness to become the instrument of John Wilson's murder. Even Clavers was somewhat softened by the statement, and was half-inclined to sustain the reason, when Johnstone struck in, and urged strongly the necessity of preserving subordination at all times in the army--and particularly in these times, when instances of disobedience to orders were anything but uncommon. Douglas of Drumlanrig seemed likewise to be on the point of yielding to the better feelings of humanity, when Grierson, Winram, and Bruce decided, by a majority, that Serjeant Watson should be carried back to the ground where the act had been committed, and shot dead on the spot.

The poor serjeant's eyes were tied up, and the muskets of four soldiers levelled at his head, when a scream was heard, and a lovely girl, in the most frantic manner, threw herself into the arms of the victim.

"You shall not murder him!" she exclaimed; "or, if ye do, ye shall 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.