by Unknown
“Methinks thy dark—”
(“Dinna say Methinks so often.”)
(“Tommy, I maun. If I dinna get that to start me off, I go through other.”)
(“Go on.”)
“Methinks thy dark spirit lies on thee tonight.”
“Ay, ‘tis too true. But canst thou blame me if I grow sad? The town still in the enemy’s hands, and so much brave blood already spilt in vain. Knowest thou that the brave Kinnordy fell last night? My noble Kinnordy!”
Here Stroke covers his face with his hands, weeping silently, and — and there is an awkward pause.
(“Go on—’Still have me.’”)
(“So it is.”) “Weep not, my royal scone—”
(“Scion.”)
“Weep not, my royal scion, havest thou not still me?”
“Well said, Sir Joseph,” cries Stroke, dashing the sign of weakness from his face. “I still have many brave fellows, and with their help I shall be master of this proud town.”
“And then ghost we to fair Edinburgh?”
“Ay, ‘tis so, but, Sir Joseph, thinkest thou these burghers love the
Stuart not?”
“‘Nay, methinks they are true to thee, but their starch commander — (give me my time, this is a lang ane,) but their arch commander is thy bitterest foe. Vile spoon that he is! (It’s no spoon, it’s spawn.)”
“Thou meanest the craven Cathro?”
“Methinks ay. (I like thae short anes.)”
“‘Tis well!” says Stroke, sternly. “That man hath ever slipped between me and my right. His time will come.”
“He floppeth thee — he flouteth thee from the battlements.”
“Ha, ‘tis well!”
(“You’ve said that already.”)
(“I say it twice.”)
(“That’s what aye puts me wrang.) Ghost thou to meet the proud Lady
Grizel tonight?”
“Ay.”
“Ghost thou alone?”
“Ay.”
(“What easy anes you have!) I fear it is not chancey for thee to go.”
“I must dree my dreed.”
“These women is kittle cattle.”
“The Stuart hath ever a soft side for them. Ah, my trusty foster-brother, knowest thou not what it is to love?”
“Alas, I too have had my fling. (Does Grizel kiss your hand yet?)”
“(No, she winna, the limmer.) Sir Joseph, I go to her.”
“Methinks she is a haughty onion. I prithee go not tonight.”
“I have given my word.”
“Thy word is a band.”
“Adieu, my friend.”
“Methinks thou ghost to thy damn. (Did we no promise Elspeth there should be no swearing?)”
The raft Vick Lan Vohr is dragged to the shore, and Stroke steps on board, a proud solitary figure. “Farewell!” he cries hoarsely, as he seizes the oar.
“Farewell, my leech,” answers Corp, and then helps him to disembark.
Their hands chance to meet, and Stroke’s is so hot that Corp quails.
“Tommy,” he says, with a shudder, “do you — you dinna think it’s a’ true, do you?” But the ill-fated prince only gives him a warning look and plunges into the mazes of the forest. For a long time silence reigns over the Den. Lights glint fitfully, a human voice imitates the plaintive cry of the peewit, cautious whistling follows, comes next the clash of arms, and the scream of one in the death-throes, and again silence falls. Stroke emerges near the Reekie Broth Pot, wiping his sword and muttering, “Faugh! it drippeth!” At the same moment the air is filled with music of more than mortal — well, the air is filled with music. It seems to come from but a few yards away, and pressing his hand to his throbbing brow the Chevalier presses forward till, pushing aside the branches of a fallen fir, he comes suddenly upon a scene of such romantic beauty that he stands rooted to the ground. Before him, softly lit by a half-moon (the man in it perspiring with curiosity), is a miniature dell, behind which rise threatening rocks, overgrown here and there by grass, heath, and bracken, while in the centre of the dell is a bubbling spring called the Cuttle Well, whose water, as it overflows a natural basin, soaks into the surrounding ground and so finds a way into the picturesque stream below. But it is not the loveliness of the spot which fascinates the prince; rather is it the exquisite creature who sits by the bubbling spring, a reed from a handloom in her hands, from which she strikes mournful sounds, the while she raises her voice in song. A pink scarf and a blue ribbon are crossed upon her breast, her dark tresses kiss her lovely neck, and as she sits on the only dry stone, her face raised as if in wrapt communion with the heavens, and her feet tucked beneath her to avoid the mud, she seems not a human being, but the very spirit of the place and hour. The royal wanderer remains spellbound, while she strikes her lyre and sings (with but one trivial alteration) the song of MacMurrough: —
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountains, the frith and the lake!
‘Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the call;
‘Tis the pibroch’s shrill summons — but not to the hall.
‘Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;
They call to the dirk, the claymore and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each Chieftain like Stroke’s in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
Or die like your sires, and endure it no more.
As the fair singer concluded, Stroke, who had been deeply moved, heaved a great sigh, and immediately, as if in echo of it, came a sigh from the opposite side of the dell. In a second of time three people had learned that a certain lady had two lovers. She starts to her feet, still carefully avoiding the puddles, but it is not she who speaks.
(“Did you hear me?”)
(“Ay.”)
(“You’re ready?”)
(“Ca’ awa’.”)
Stroke dashes to the girl’s side, just in time to pluck her from the arms of a masked man. The villain raises his mask and reveals the face of — it looks like Corp, but the disguise is thrown away on Stroke.
“Ha, Cathro,” he exclaims joyfully, “so at last we meet on equal terms!”
“Back, Stroke, and let me pass.”
“Nay, we fight for the wench.”
“So be it. The prideful onion is his who wins her.”
“Have at thee, caitiff!”
A terrible conflict ensues. Cathro draws first blood. ‘Tis but a scratch. Ha! well thrust, Stroke. In vain Cathro girns his teeth. Inch by inch he is driven back, he slips, he recovers, he pants, he is apparently about to fling himself down the steep bank and so find safety in flight, but he comes on again.
(“What are you doing? You run now.”)
(“I ken, but I’m sweer!”)
(“Off you go.”)
Even as Stroke is about to press home, the cowardly foe flings himself down the steep bank and rolls out of sight. He will give no more trouble tonight; and the victor turns to the Lady Grizel, who had been repinning the silk scarf across her breast, while the issue of the combat was still in doubt.
(“Now, then, Grizel, you kiss my hand.”)
(“I tell you I won’t.”)
(“Well, then, go on your knees to me.”)
(“You needn’t think it.”)
(“Dagon you! Then ca’ awa’ standing.”)
“My liege, thou hast saved me from the wretch Cathro.”
“May I always be near to defend thee in time of danger, my pretty chick.”
(“Tommy, you promised not to call me by those silly names.”)
(“They slip out, I tell you. That was aye the way wi’ the Stuarts.”)
(“Well, you must say ‘Lady Grizel.’) Good, my prince, how can I thank thee
?”
“By being my wife. (Not a word of this to Elspeth.)”
“Nay, I summoned thee here to tell thee that can never be. The Grizels of Grizel are of ancient lineage, but they mate not with monarchs. My sire, the nunnery gates will soon close on me forever.”
“Then at least say thou lovest me.”
“Alas, I love thee not.”
(“What haver is this? I telled you to say ‘Charles, would that I loved thee less.’”)
(“And I told you I would not.”)
(“Well, then, where are we now?”)
(“We miss out all that about my wearing your portrait next my heart, and put in the rich apparel bit, the same as last week.”)
(“Oh! Then I go on?) Bethink thee, fair jade—”
(“Lady.”)
“Bethink thee, fair lady, Stuart is not so poor but that, if thou come with him to his lowly lair, he can deck thee with rich apparel and ribbons rare.”
“I spurn thy gifts, unhappy man, but if there are holes in—”
(“Miss that common bit out. I canna thole it.”)
(“I like it.) If there are holes in the garments of thy loyal followers,
I will come and mend them, and have a needle and thread in my pocket.
(Tommy, there is another button off your shirt! Have you got the
button?”)
“(It’s down my breeks.) So be it, proud girl, come!”
It was Grizel who made masks out of tin rags, picked up where tinkers had passed the night, and musical instruments out of broken reeds that smelled of caddis and Jacobite head-gear out of weaver’s nightcaps; and she kept the lair so clean and tidy as to raise a fear that intruders might mistake its character. Elspeth had to mind the pot, which Aaron Latta never missed, and Corp was supposed to light the fire by striking sparks from his knife, a trick which Tommy considered so easy that he refused to show how it was done. Many strange sauces were boiled in that pot, a sort of potato-turnip pudding often coming out even when not expected, but there was an occasional rabbit that had been bowled over by Corp’s unerring hand, and once Tommy shot a — a haunch of venison, having first, with Corp’s help, howked it out of Ronny-On’s swine, then suspended head downward, and open like a book at the page of contents, steaming, dripping, a tub beneath, boys with bladders in the distance. When they had supped they gathered round the fire, Grizel knitting a shawl for they knew whom, but the name was never mentioned, and Tommy told the story of his life at the French court, and how he fought in the ‘45 and afterward hid in caves, and so did he shudder, as he described the cold of his bracken beds, and so glowed his face, for it was all real to him, that Grizel let the wool drop on her knee, and Corp whispered to Elspeth, “Dinna be fleid for him; I’se uphaud he found a wy.” Those quiet evenings were not the least pleasant spent in the Den.
But sometimes they were interrupted by a fierce endeavor to carry the lair, when boys from Cathro’s climbed to it up each other’s backs, the rope, of course, having been pulled into safety at the first sound, and then that end of the Den rang with shouts, and deeds of valor on both sides were as common as pine needles, and once Tommy and Corp were only saved from captors who had them down, by Grizel rushing into the midst of things with two flaring torches, and another time bold Birkie, most daring of the storming party, was seized with two others and made to walk the plank. The plank had been part of a gate, and was suspended over the bank of the Silent Pool, so that, as you approached the farther end, down you went. It was not a Jacobite method, but Tommy feared that rows of bodies, hanging from the trees still standing in the Den, might attract attention.
CHAPTER XXIII
GRIZEL PAYS THREE VISITS
Less alarming but more irritating was the attempt of the youth of Monypenny and the West town end, to establish a rival firm of Jacobites (without even being sure of the name). They started business (Francie Crabb leader, because he had a kilt) on a flagon of porter and an ounce of twist, which they carried on a stick through the Den, saying “Bowf!” like dogs, when they met anyone, and then laughing doubtfully. The twist and porter were seized by Tommy and his followers, and Haggerty-Taggerty, Major, arrived home with his head so firmly secured in the flagon that the solder had to be melted before he saw the world again. Francie was in still worse plight, for during the remainder of the evening he had to hide in shame among the brackens, and Tommy wore a kilt.
One cruel revenge the beaten rivals had. They waylaid Grizel, when she was alone, and thus assailed her, she answering not a word.
“What’s a father?”
“She’ll soon no have a mither either!”
“The Painted Lady needs to paint her cheeks no longer!”
“Na, the red spots comes themsels now.”
“Have you heard her hoasting?”
“Ay, it’s the hoast o’ a dying woman.”
“The joiner heard it, and gave her a look, measuring her wi’ his eye for the coffin. ‘Five and a half by one and a half would hold her snod,’ he says to himsel’.”
“Ronny-On’s auld wife heard it, and says she, ‘Dinna think, my leddy, as you’ll be buried in consecrated ground.’”
“Na, a’body kens she’ll just be hauled at the end o’ a rope to the hole where the witches was shooled in.”
“Wi’ a paling spar through her, to keep her down on the day o’ judgment.”
Well, well, these children became men and women in time, one of them even a bit of a hero, though he never knew it.
Are you angry with them? If so, put the cheap thing aside, or think only of Grizel, and perhaps God will turn your anger into love for her.
Great-hearted, solitary child! She walked away from them without flinching, but on reaching the Den, where no one could see her — she lay down on the ground, and her cheeks were dry, but little wells of water stood in her eyes.
She would not be the Lady Grizel that night. She went home instead, but there was something she wanted to ask Tommy now, and the next time she saw him she began at once. Grizel always began at once, often in the middle, she saw what she was making for so clearly.
“Do you know what it means when there are red spots in your cheeks, that used not to be there?”
Tommy knew at once to whom she was referring, for he had heard the gossip of the youth of Monypenny, and he hesitated to answer.
“And if, when you cough, you bring up a tiny speck of blood?”
“I would get a bottle frae the doctor,” said Tommy, evasively.
“She won’t have the doctor,” answered Grizel, unguardedly, and then with a look dared Tommy to say that she spoke of her mother.
“Does it mean you are dying?”
“I — I — oh, no, they soon get better.”
He said this because he was so sorry for Grizel. There never was a more sympathetic nature than Tommy’s. At every time of his life his pity was easily roused for persons in distress, and he sought to comfort them by shutting their eyes to the truth as long as possible. This sometimes brought relief to them, but it was useless to Grizel, who must face her troubles.
“Why don’t you answer truthfully?” she cried, with vehemence. “It is so easy to be truthful!”
“Well, then,” said Tommy, reluctantly, “I think they generally die.”
Elspeth often carried in her pocket a little Testament, presented to her by the Rev. Mr. Dishart for learning by heart one of the noblest of books, the Shorter Catechism, as Scottish children do or did, not understanding it at the time, but its meaning comes long afterwards and suddenly, when you have most need of it. Sometimes Elspeth read aloud from her Testament to Grizel, who made no comment, but this same evening, when the two were alone, she said abruptly:
“Have you your Testament?”
“Yes,” Elspeth said, producing it.
“Which is the page about saving sinners?”
“It’s all about that.”
“But the page when you are in a hurry?”
Elspeth read aloud th
e story of the Crucifixion, and Grizel listened sharply until she heard what Jesus said to the malefactor: “To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”
“And was he?”
“Of course.”
“But he had been wicked all his life, and I believe he was only good, just that minute, because they were crucifying him. If they had let him come down.—”
“No, he repented, you know. That means he had faith, and if you have faith you are saved. It doesna matter how bad you have been. You have just to say ‘I believe’ before you die, and God lets you in. It’s so easy, Grizel,” cried Elspeth, with shining eyes.
Grizel pondered. “I don’t believe it is so easy as that,” she said, decisively.
Nevertheless she asked presently what the Testament cost, and when
Elspeth answered “Fourpence,” offered her the money.
“I don’t want to sell it,” Elspeth remonstrated.
“If you don’t give it to me, I shall take it from you,” said Grizel, determinedly.
“You can buy one.”
“No, the shop people would guess.”
“Guess what?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“I’ll lend it to you.”
“I won’t take it that way.” So Elspeth had to part with her Testament, saying wonderingly, “Can you read?”
“Yes, and write too. Mamma taught me.”
“But I thought she was daft,” Elspeth blurted out.
“She is only daft now and then,” Grizel replied, without her usual spirit. “Generally she is not daft at all, but only timid.”
Next morning the Painted Lady’s child paid three calls, one in town, two in the country. The adorable thing is that, once having made up her mind, she never flinched, not even when her hand was on the knocker.
The first gentleman received her in his lobby. For a moment he did not remember her; then suddenly the color deepened on his face, and he went back and shut the parlor-door.
“Did anybody see you coming here?” he asked, quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“What does she want?”
“She did not send me, I came myself.”
“Well?”