Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XVI Part 8

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 a.s.suming 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 Ca.s.silis' company. Having said this, he desired some of his attendants to a.s.sist 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 Ca.s.silis 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 Ca.s.silis 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 Ca.s.silis proceeded to the countess's chamber, and again a.s.suming 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 Ca.s.silis that he had got up a play for her divertis.e.m.e.nt, in which her lover, Sir John, had obligingly undertaken to perform a princ.i.p.al 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 a.s.sembled 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 fort.i.tude 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 pa.s.sing before her.

The apartment from which the miserable Countess of Ca.s.silis 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 Ayrs.h.i.+re, 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 Ca.s.silis 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, a.s.sisted 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 diminis.h.i.+ng, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 ap.r.o.n, 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, G.o.d'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 dest.i.tute 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' G.o.d's a.s.sistance, 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 circ.u.mstance 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.

The favoured suitor, whose name was Richard Spalding, was a young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had everything to recommend him but wealth, of which he had none. His father was in straitened circ.u.mstances; and their united labours--for they tilled and sowed the same fields together--were unable to improve them. Indeed, the situation of the former was almost precisely that of Waterstone. They were tenants of the same proprietor, and old Spalding was also in arrears--arrears which he could not pay--to his landlord.

Having given this sketch of the situation in which Marion stood with regard to affairs of the heart, at the period of our story, we recur to the scene which that digression interrupted.

After another long and silent pause, broken only by the suppressed sobs of the poor girl, and at times by heavy and deep-drawn sighs from her mother, the latter again spoke.

"Oh, my John--my John," she said, "if ye but kent o' this, I'm sure, for a' that's come and gane yet, ye wad stretch out a helping hand to us in this hour o' distress!"

"Betsy!" exclaimed her husband, angrily interrupting her, and starting to his feet with an unwonted energy of manner, "havena I often tell't ye never to name that ingrate, that undutiful son, in my presence?--and how comes it that ye have dared to disregard my injunctions, and that at a time, too, when I'm overwhelmed, rendered desperate, wi' other cares?

How could ye, woman, add to my distress, by naming the base fallow before me?"

These were harsh words from a father of his own child; but, so far as circ.u.mstances could enable that father to judge, they were not unmerited. William Waterstone's son--his only son--who had been bred a millwright, had gone out to the West Indies some five or six years previous to the period of which we write; and during the last three years of that time his parents had never heard from him, although they had learned that he was not only living, but rapidly acc.u.mulating a fortune. A score of letters, at least, his father had written him through the medium of the mercantile house by which he had been first sent out (and which kindly undertook not only to have all his letters forwarded to his son, but offered the same obliging services in the case of communications from the latter to the former), without ever receiving any answer; and this was the more unpardonable, that more than one of these letters contained requests from John Waterstone's father for a little pecuniary a.s.sistance to help him out of his difficulties.

These, however, were equally unattended to with the others; and it is not, therefore, to be wondered at that old Waterstone should have charged his son with ingrat.i.tude, and considered his conduct undutiful and unnatural. This was, in truth, as we have shown, his father's opinion of the young man; but, oh! what can weaken a mother's love? What can wither the strong and deep-rooted affections of her bosom for the child of her love? The conduct must be infamous indeed that could do this.

Mrs Waterstone, although she did allow that her son ought to have at least written them, yet thought, and, when she dared, spoke, of him with the most tender regard. For his apparent neglect of them, she said, she was sure there was some good reason, that would one day be explained to the satisfaction of them all. What this reason could be she owned she could not conjecture; but that was a circ.u.mstance which did not in the least shake her faith in its existence. When her husband, therefore, on the present occasion, upbraided her for naming her son, and accused him of ingrat.i.tude and undutiful conduct, she, as she always did in similar circ.u.mstances, stepped forward with the ready but unsatisfactory defence alluded to.

"Be patient, guidman, I beseech you," she said--"be patient; and, oh, man, dinna think sae unkindly o' the puir laddie. He'll be able, I warrant, to gie a guid reason for a' this when----"

"Let me hear nae mair o't, Betsy," again interrupted William Waterstone.

"We've ither things to think o' enow. Here's ruin staring us in the face, woman--ruin! ruin! utter ruin!" he repeated, in a tone of the deepest and most bitter despair. "Naething can avert it. Without a house to shelter us, as we will sune be, our auld heads maun be exposed to the winds o' heaven and to the pelting o' the storm."

"Never, never, never!" at this moment suddenly exclaimed Marion, who had hitherto been sitting, as already described, absorbed in grief, at the further end of the apartment, with her face buried in her ap.r.o.n. "Never, never, never!" she exclaimed, rus.h.i.+ng towards her father, and throwing her arms about his neck; "ye shall never be driven to that strait, sae lang as the means are in my power o' preventing it! Mother, mother, dear mother," she added--and now turning to the parent she named, and throwing herself on her knees before her--"I can stand this nae langer!

I'll marry John Maitland, mother, and he'll lend as muckle siller as 'ill tak ye out o' this difficulty. He has often said that he wad help my faither, if I wad promise to become his wife."

"My bairn, my bairn!" replied her mother, overcome with this instance of her child's devoted affection; for well she knew the fearful extent of the sacrifice she had offered to make. "My bairn, my bairn!" she said, bursting into tears, and clasping her daughter closely in her arms--"G.o.d's blessing be wi' ye for this dutifu conduct to your puir parents, although it grieves me to the heart, my puir la.s.sie, to see ye driven by oor necessities to become an unwillin bride. But ye see, my bairn, there is nae ither way o' savin us frae beggary in our auld days."

"I ken it, mother--I see it," replied Marion, weeping, and as pale as death; "and my mind's made up. Onything, onything will I endure rather than see ye turned oot o' yer ain house, and thrown dest.i.tute on the world."

"A faither's blessin and the blessin o' G.o.d be wi' ye, my dochter, for this!" said her father, now interfering for the first time, and laying his hand upon her head as she knelt before her mother. "Ye canna but prosper, my bairn, for such conduct as this; and your marriage, though in the meantime it mayna seem to you to promise much felicity, maun in the end be a happy ane. It canna be otherwise. But, Marion," he added, "I winna let ye mak this sacrifice till a' ither means hae failed me, and till I find that the factor is really determined to carry his threats into execution."

At this moment the latch of the outer door was raised, and Richard Spalding, wholly unaware of the state of matters in William Waterstone's, suddenly walked into the midst of the sorrowing family; and great was his surprise on witnessing the scene of disconsolation which presented itself. He guessed, indeed, in part the cause--for his father, as has been already said, was also under the ban of the new factor; but he little dreamed of the resolution to which it had driven his beloved Marion.

This was now, however, soon to be made known to him. On Richard's entrance, her father, who, as well as his wife, knew well of the attachment between the young couple, after hastily saluting him, left the apartment, and was speedily followed by Marion's mother; their object being to give their daughter an opportunity of informing her lover, with her own mouth, of the resolution she had come to regarding his rival.

On being left to themselves, Richard went up to Marion, who, seated in a chair, with her pale cheek resting on the back, looked the very image of hopeless despair. On Richard's first entrance, she had not looked towards him at all, nor exhibited any other symptom of a consciousness of his presence. Neither did she yet offer any signs of welcome.

Astonished and alarmed at such unusual conduct, Richard took her affectionately by the hand, and anxiously inquired what was the matter.

The poor girl burst into tears.