Did I but purpose to embark with thee
On the smooth surface of a summer sea,
And would forsake the skiff and make the shore
When the winds whistle and the tempests roar?
Prior.
While Lady Margaret held, with the high-descended sergeant of dragoons, the conference which we have detailed in the preceding pages, her grand-daughter, partaking in a less degree her ladyship’s enthusiasm for all who were sprung of the blood-royal, did not honour Sergeant Bothwell with more attention than a single glance, which showed her a tall powerful person, and a set of hardy weather-beaten features, to which pride and dissipation had given an air where discontent mingled with the reckless gaiety of desperation. The other soldiers offered still less to detach her consideration; but from the prisoner, muffled and disguised as he was, she found it impossible to withdraw her eyes. Yet she blamed herself for indulging a curiosity which seemed obviously to give pain to him who was its object.
“I wish,” she said to Jenny Dennison, who was the immediate attendant on her person, “I wish we knew who that poor fellow is.”
“I was just thinking sae mysell, Miss Edith,” said the waiting woman, “but it canna be Cuddie Headrigg, because he’s taller and no sae stout.”
“Yet,” continued Miss Bellenden, “it may be some poor neigbour, for whom we might have cause to interest ourselves.”
“I can sune learn wha he is,” said the enterprising Jenny, “if the sodgers were anes settled and at leisure, for I ken ane o’ them very weel — the best-looking and the youngest o’ them.”
“I think you know all the idle young fellows about the country,” answered her mistress.
“Na, Miss Edith, I am no sae free o’ my acquaintance as that,” answered the fille-de-chambre. “To be sure, folk canna help kenning the folk by head-mark that they see aye glowring and looking at them at kirk and market; but I ken few lads to speak to unless it be them o’ the family, and the three Steinsons, and Tam Rand, and the young miller, and the five Howisons in Nethersheils, and lang Tam Gilry, and”—
“Pray cut short a list of exceptions which threatens to be a long one, and tell me how you come to know this young soldier,” said Miss Bellenden.
“Lord, Miss Edith, it’s Tam Halliday, Trooper Tam, as they ca’ him, that was wounded by the hill-folk at the conventicle at Outer-side Muir, and lay here while he was under cure. I can ask him ony thing, and Tam will no refuse to answer me, I’ll be caution for him.”
“Try, then,” said Miss Edith, “if you can find an opportunity to ask him the name of his prisoner, and come to my room and tell me what he says.”
Jenny Dennison proceeded on her errand, but soon returned with such a face of surprise and dismay as evinced a deep interest in the fate of the prisoner.
“What is the matter?” said Edith, anxiously; “does it prove to be Cuddie, after all, poor fellow?”
“Cuddie, Miss Edith? Na! na! it’s nae Cuddie,” blubbered out the faithful fille-de-chambre, sensible of the pain which her news were about to inflict on her young mistress. “O dear, Miss Edith, it’s young Milnwood himsell!”
“Young Milnwood!” exclaimed Edith, aghast in her turn; “it is impossible — totally impossible! — His uncle attends the clergyman indulged by law, and has no connexion whatever with the refractory people; and he himself has never interfered in this unhappy dissension; he must be totally innocent, unless he has been standing up for some invaded right.”
“O, my dear Miss Edith,” said her attendant, “these are not days to ask what’s right or what’s wrang; if he were as innocent as the new-born infant, they would find some way of making him guilty, if they liked; but Tam Halliday says it will touch his life, for he has been resetting ane o’ the Fife gentlemen that killed that auld carle of an Archbishop.”
“His life!” exclaimed Edith, starting hastily up, and speaking with a hurried and tremulous accent — “they cannot — they shall not — I will speak for him — they shall not hurt him!”
“O, my dear young leddy, think on your grandmother; think on the danger and the difficulty,” added Jenny; “for he’s kept under close confinement till Claverhouse comes up in the morning, and if he doesna gie him full satisfaction, Tam Halliday says there will be brief wark wi’ him — Kneel down — mak ready — present — fire — just as they did wi’ auld deaf John Macbriar, that never understood a single question they pat till him, and sae lost his life for lack o’ hearing.”
“Jenny,” said the young lady, “if he should die, I will die with him; there is no time to talk of danger or difficulty — I will put on a plaid, and slip down with you to the place where they have kept him — I will throw myself at the feet of the sentinel, and entreat him, as he has a soul to be saved”—
“Eh, guide us!” interrupted the maid, “our young leddy at the feet o’ Trooper Tam, and speaking to him about his soul, when the puir chield hardly kens whether he has ane or no, unless that he whiles swears by it — that will never do; but what maun be maun be, and I’ll never desert a true-love cause — And sae, if ye maun see young Milnwood, though I ken nae gude it will do, but to make baith your hearts the sairer, I’ll e’en tak the risk o’t, and try to manage Tam Halliday; but ye maun let me hae my ain gate and no speak ae word — he’s keeping guard o’er Milnwood in the easter round of the tower.”
“Go, go, fetch me a plaid,” said Edith. “Let me but see him, and I will find some remedy for his danger — Haste ye, Jenny, as ever ye hope to have good at my hands.”
Jenny hastened, and soon returned with a plaid, in which Edith muffled herself so as completely to screen her face, and in part to disguise her person. This was a mode of arranging the plaid very common among the ladies of that century, and the earlier part of the succeeding one; so much so, indeed, that the venerable sages of the Kirk, conceiving that the mode gave tempting facilities for intrigue, directed more than one act of Assembly against this use of the mantle. But fashion, as usual, proved too strong for authority, and while plaids continued to be worn, women of all ranks occasionally employed them as a sort of muffler or veil. 15 Her face and figure thus concealed, Edith, holding by her attendant’s arm, hastened with trembling steps to the place of Morton’s confinement.
This was a small study or closet, in one of the turrets, opening upon a gallery in which the sentinel was pacing to and fro; for Sergeant Bothwell, scrupulous in observing his word, and perhaps touched with some compassion for the prisoner’s youth and genteel demeanour, had waved the indignity of putting his guard into the same apartment with him. Halliday, therefore, with his carabine on his arm, walked up and down the gallery, occasionally solacing himself with a draught of ale, a huge flagon of which stood upoon the table at one end of the apartment, and at other times humming the lively Scottish air,
“Between Saint Johnstone and Bonny Dundee, I’ll gar ye be fain to follow me.”
Jenny Dennison cautioned her mistress once more to let her take her own way.
“I can manage the trooper weel eneugh,” she said, “for as rough as he is — I ken their nature weel; but ye maunna say a single word.”
She accordingly opened the door of the gallery just as the sentinel had turned his back from it, and taking up the tune which he hummed, she sung in a coquettish tone of rustic raillery,
“If I were to follow a poor sodger lad, My friends wad be angry, my minnie be mad; A laird, or a lord, they were fitter for me, Sae I’ll never be fain to follow thee.”—
“A fair challenge, by Jove,” cried the sentinel, turning round, “and from two at once; but it’s not easy to bang the soldier with his bandoleers;” then taking up the song where the damsel had stopt,
“To follow me ye weel may be glad, A share of my supper, a share of my bed, To the sound of the drum to range fearless and free, I’ll gar ye be fain to follow me.”—
“Come, my pretty lass, and kiss me for my song.”
“I should not have thought of that, Mr Halliday,” answered Jenny, with a look and tone expressing just the necessary degree of contempt at the proposal, “and, I’se assure ye, ye’ll hae but little o’ my company unless ye show gentler havings — It wasna to hear that sort o’nonsense that brought me here wi’ my friend, and ye should think shame o’ yoursell, ‘at should ye.”
“Umph! and what sort of nonsense did bring you here then, Mrs Dennison?”
“My kinswoman has some particular business with your prisoner, young Mr Harry Morton, and I am come wi’ her to speak till him.”
“The devil you are!” answered the sentinel; “and pray, Mrs Dennison, how do your kinswoman and you propose to get in? You are rather too plump to whisk through a keyhole, and opening the door is a thing not to be spoke of.”
“It’s no a thing to be spoken o’, but a thing to be dune,” replied the persevering damsel.
“We’ll see about that, my bonny Jenny;” and the soldier resumed his march, humming, as he walked to and fro along the gallery,
“Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet, Then ye’ll see your bonny sell, My joe Janet.”
“So ye’re no thinking to let us in, Mr Halliday? Weel, weel; gude e’en to you — ye hae seen the last o’ me, and o’ this bonny die too,” said Jenny, holding between her finger and thumb a splendid silver dollar.
“Give him gold, give him gold,” whispered the agitated young lady.
“Silver’s e’en ower gude for the like o’ him,” replied Jenny, “that disna care for the blink o’ a bonny lassie’s ee — and what’s waur, he wad think there was something mair in’t than a kinswoman o’ mine. My certy! siller’s no sae plenty wi’ us, let alane gowd.” Having addressed this advice aside to her mistress, she raised her voice, and said, “My cousin winna stay ony langer, Mr Halliday; sae, if ye please, gude e’en t’ye.”
“Halt a bit, halt a bit,” said the trooper; “rein up and parley, Jenny. If I let your kinswoman in to speak to my prisoner, you must stay here and keep me company till she come out again, and then we’ll all be well pleased you know.”
“The fiend be in my feet then,” said Jenny; “d’ye think my kinswoman and me are gaun to lose our gude name wi’ cracking clavers wi’ the like o’ you or your prisoner either, without somebody by to see fair play? Hegh, hegh, sirs, to see sic a difference between folk’s promises and performance! Ye were aye willing to slight puir Cuddie; but an I had asked him to oblige me in a thing, though it had been to cost his hanging, he wadna hae stude twice about it.”
“D— n Cuddie!” retorted the dragoon, “he’ll be hanged in good earnest, I hope. I saw him today at Milnwood with his old puritanical b — of a mother, and if I had thought I was to have had him cast in my dish, I would have brought him up at my horse’s tail — we had law enough to bear us out.”
“Very weel, very weel — See if Cuddie winna hae a lang shot at you ane o’ thae days, if ye gar him tak the muir wi’ sae mony honest folk. He can hit a mark brawly; he was third at the popinjay; and he’s as true of his promise as of ee and hand, though he disna mak sic a phrase about it as some acquaintance o’ yours — But it’s a’ ane to me — Come, cousin, we’ll awa’.”
“Stay, Jenny; d — n me, if I hang fire more than another when I have said a thing,” said the soldier, in a hesitating tone. “Where is the sergeant?”
“Drinking and driving ower,” quoth Jenny, “wi’ the Steward and John Gudyill.”
“So, so — he’s safe enough — and where are my comrades?” asked Halliday.
“Birling the brown bowl wi’ the fowler and the falconer, and some o’ the serving folk.”
“Have they plenty of ale?”
“Sax gallons, as gude as e’er was masked,” said the maid.
“Well, then, my pretty Jenny,” said the relenting sentinel, “they are fast till the hour of relieving guard, and perhaps something later; and so, if you will promise to come alone the next time”—“Maybe I will, and maybe I winna,” said Jenny; “but if ye get the dollar, ye’ll like that just as weel.”
“I’ll be d — n’d if I do,” said Halliday, taking the money, howeve; “but it’s always something for my risk; for, if Claverhouse hears what I have done, he will build me a horse as high as the Tower of Tillietudlem. But every one in the regiment takes what they can come by; I am sure Bothwell and his blood-royal shows us a good example. And if I were trusting to you, you little jilting devil, I should lose both pains and powder; whereas this fellow,” looking at the piece, “will be good as far as he goes. So, come, there is the door open for you; do not stay groaning and praying with the young whig now, but be ready, when I call at the door, to start, as if they were sounding ‘Horse and away.’”
So speaking, Halliday unlocked the door of the closet, admitted Jenny and her pretended kinswoman, locked it behind them, and hastily reassumed the indifferent measured step and time-killing whistle of a sentinel upon his regular duty.
The door, which slowly opened, discovered Morton with both arms reclined upon a table, and his head resting upon them in a posture of deep dejection. He raised his face as the door opened, and, perceiving the female figures which it admitted, started up in great surprise. Edith, as if modesty had quelled the courage which despair had bestowed, stood about a yard from the door without having either the power to speak or to advance. All the plans of aid, relief, or comfort, which she had proposed to lay before her lover, seemed at once to have vanished from her recollection, and left only a painful chaos of ideas, with which was mingled a fear that she had degraded herself in the eyes of Morton by a step which might appear precipitate and unfeminine. She hung motionless and almost powerless upon the arm of her attendant, who in vain endeavoured to reassure and inspire her with courage, by whispering, “We are in now, madam, and we maun mak the best o’ our time; for, doubtless, the corporal or the sergeant will gang the rounds, and it wad be a pity to hae the poor lad Halliday punished for his civility.”
Morton, in the meantime, was timidly advancing, suspecting the truth; for what other female in the house, excepting Edith herself, was likely to take an interest in his misfortunes? and yet afraid, owing to the doubtful twilight and the muffled dress, of making some mistake which might be prejudicial to the object of his affections. Jenny, whose ready wit and forward manners well qualified her for such an office, hastened to break the ice.
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