Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 28 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 28Part 2 · The Little Locksmith (part 2)
18
Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 28
Part 2 · The Little Locksmith (part 2)
AnonymousEnglish
No friend or relative had been permitted to see him from the time of his apprehension; but it was now signified to him that any of his family he desired to communicate with might be allowed to visit him. Anxious, however, to deprive his enemies of an opportunity of an accusation against his sons, he immediately conveyed to them his earnest entreaties, and indeed commands, that they should refrain from availing themselves of this leave till the night before his execution. This was a sacrifice which it required his utmost fortitude to make; and it had left him to a sense of the most desolate loneliness, insomuch that, when, late in the evening, he heard his prison door unlocked, he lifted not his eyes toward it, imagining that the person who entered could only be the gaoler, who was particularly repulsive in his countenance and manner. What, then, was his surprise and momentary delight when he beheld before him his only daughter, and felt her arms entwining his neck! After the first transport of greeting she became sensible that, in order to palliate his misery, she must put a strong curb upon her own, and in a short time was calm enough to enter into conversation with her father upon the subject of his present situation, and to deliver a message from the old earl, her grandfather, by which he was informed that an appeal had been made from him to the king, and means taken to propitiate Father Peters, his Majesty's confessor, who, it was well known, often dictated to him in matters of state. It appeared evident, however, by the turn which their discourse presently took, that neither father nor daughter were at all sanguine in their hopes from this negotiation. The Earl of Argyle had been executed but a few days before, as had also several of his principal adherents, though men of less consequence than Sir John Cochrane; and it was therefore improbable that he, who had been so conspicuously active in the insurrection, should be allowed to escape the punishment which his enemies had it now in their power to inflict. Besides all this, the treaty to be entered into with Father Peters would require some time to adjust, and meanwhile the arrival of the warrant for execution must every day be looked for.
Under these circumstances, several days passed, each of which found Miss Grizel Cochrane an inmate of her father's prison for as many hours as she was permitted. Grizel Cochrane was only at that period eighteen years old; she had, however, a natural strength of character, that rendered her capable of a deed which has caused her history to vie with that of the most distinguished of heroines.
Ever since her father's condemnation, her daily and nightly thoughts had dwelt on the fear of her grandfather's communication with the king's confessor being rendered unavailable for want of the time necessary for enabling the friends in London to whom it was trusted, to make their application, and she boldly determined to execute a plan, whereby the arrival of the death-warrant would be retarded.
At that time horses were used as a mode of conveyance so much more than carriages that almost every gentlewoman had her own steed, and Miss Cochrane, being a skilful rider, was possessed of a well-managed palfrey, on whose speed and other good qualities she had been accustomed to depend. One morning after she had bidden her father farewell, long ere the inhabitants of Edinburgh were astir, she found herself many miles on the road to the borders. She had taken care to attire herself in a manner which corresponded with the design of passing herself off for a young serving-woman journeying on a borrowed horse to the house of her mother in a distant part of the country; and by only resting at solitary cottages, where she generally found the family out at work, save perhaps an old woman or some children, she had the good fortune, on the second day after leaving Edinburgh, to reach in safety the abode of her old nurse, who lived on the English side of the Tweed, four miles beyond the town of Berwick. In this woman she knew she could place implicit confidence, and to her, therefore, revealed her secret. She had resolved, she said, to make an attempt to save her father's life, by stopping the postman, an equestrian like herself, and forcing him to deliver up his bags, in which she expected to find the fatal warrant. In pursuance of this design she had brought with her a brace of small pistols, together with a horseman's cloak, tied up in a bundle, and hung on the crutch of her saddle, and now borrowed from her nurse the attire of her foster-brother, which, as he was a slight-made lad, fitted her reasonably well.
She had, by means which it is unnecessary here to detail, possessed herself of the most minute information with regard to the places at which the postmen rested on their journey, one of which was a small public-house, kept by a widow woman, on the outskirts of the little town of Belford. There the man who received the bag at Durham was accustomed to arrive about six o'clock in the morning, and take a few hours' repose before proceeding farther on his journey. In pursuance of the plan laid down by Miss Cochrane, she arrived at this inn about an hour after the man had composed himself to sleep, in the hope of being able, by the exercise of her wit and dexterity, to ease him of his charge.
Having put her horse into the stable, which was a duty that devolved on the guests at this little change-house, from its mistress having no ostler, she entered the only apartment which the house afforded, and demanded some refreshment. "Sit down at the end of that table," said the old woman, "for the best I have to give you is there already; and be pleased, my bonny man, to make as little noise as ye can, for there's ane asleep in that bed that I like ill to disturb." Miss Cochrane promised fairly; and after attempting to eat some of the viands, which were the remains of the sleeping man's meal, she asked for some cold water. "What," said the old dame, as she handed it to her, "ye are a water-drinker, are ye? It's but an ill custom for a change-house." "I am aware of that," replied her guest, "and, therefore, when in a public house, always pay for it the price of the stronger potation, which I cannot take." "Indeed--well, that is but just," responded the dame, "and I think the more of you for such reasonable conduct." "Is the well where you get this water near at hand?" said the young lady; "for if you will take the trouble to bring me some from it, as this is rather warm, it shall be considered in the lawing." "It is a good bit off," said the woman; "but I cannot refuse to fetch some for such a civil, discreet lad, and will be as quick as I can. But, for any sake, take care and don't meddle with these pistols," she continued, pointing to a pair of pistols on the table, "for they are loaded, and I am always terrified for them." Saying this, she disappeared; and Miss Cochrane, who would have contrived some other errand for her had the well been near, no sooner saw the door shut than she passed, with trembling eagerness, and a cautious but rapid step, across the floor to the place where the man lay soundly sleeping in one of those close wooden bedsteads common in the houses of the poor, the door of which was left half open to admit the air, and which she opened still wider, in the hope of seeing the mail-bag and being able to seize upon it.
But what was her dismay when she beheld only a part of the integument which contained what she would have sacrificed her life a thousand times to obtain just peeping out from below the shaggy head and brawny shoulders of its keeper, who lay in such a position upon it as to give not the smallest hope of its extraction without his being aroused from his nap. A few moments of observation served to convince her that, if she obtained possession of this treasure, it must be in some other way, and again closing the door of the bed, she approached the pistols, and having taken them one by one from the holsters she as quickly as possible drew out their loading, which, having secreted, she returned them to their cases, and resumed her seat at the foot of the table. Here she had barely time to recover from the agitation into which the fear of the man's awaking during her recent occupation had thrown her, when the old woman returned with the water, and having taken a draught, of which she stood much in need, she settled her account, much to her landlady's content, by paying for the water the price of a pot of beer. Having then carelessly asked and ascertained how much longer the other guest was likely to continue his sleep, she left the house, and mounting her horse, set off at a trot, in a different direction from that in which she had arrived. Fetching a compass of two or three miles, she once more fell into the high road between Belford and Berwick, where she walked her horse gently on, awaiting the coming up of the postman. On his coming close up, she civilly saluted him, put her horse into the same pace with his, and rode on for some way in his company. He was a strong, thick-set fellow, with a good-humoured countenance, which did not seem to Miss Cochrane, as she looked anxiously upon it, to savour much of hardy daring. He rode with the mail-bags strapped firmly to his saddle in front, close to the holsters (for there were two), one containing the letters direct from London, and the other those taken up at the different post-offices on the road.
After riding a short distance together, Miss Cochrane deemed it time, as they were nearly half-way between Belford and Berwick, to commence her operations. She therefore rode nearly close to her companion, and said, in a tone of determination, "Friend, I have taken a fancy for those mail-bags of yours, and I must have them; therefore take my advice, and deliver them up quietly, for I am provided for all hazards. I am mounted, as you see, on a fleet steed; I carry firearms; and, moreover, am allied with those who are stronger, though not bolder than myself. You see yonder wood," she continued, pointing to one at the distance of about a mile, with an accent and air which was meant to carry intimidation with it. "Again, I say, take my advice; give me the bags, and speed back the road you came for the present, nor dare to approach that wood for at least two or three hours to come."
There was in such language from a stripling something so surprising that the man looked on Miss Cochrane for an instant in silent and unfeigned amazement. "If," said he, as soon as he found his tongue, "you mean, my young master, to make yourself merry at my expense, you are welcome. I am no sour churl to take offence at the idle words of a foolish boy. But if," he said, taking one of his pistols from the holster, and turning its muzzle toward her, "ye are mad enough to harbour one serious thought of such a matter, I am ready for you. But, methinks, my lad, you seem at an age when robbing a garden or an old woman's fruit-stall would befit you better, if you must turn thief, than taking his Majesty's mails from a stout man such as I am upon his highway. Be thankful, however, that you have met with one who will not shed blood if he can help it, and sheer off before you provoke me to fire."
"Nay," said his young antagonist, "I am not fonder of bloodshed than you are; but if you will not be persuaded, what can I do? for I have told you a truth, that mail I must and will have. So now choose," she continued, as she drew one of the small pistols from under her cloak, and deliberately cocking it, presented it in his face.
"Nay, then, your blood be on your own head," said the fellow, as he raised his hand, and fired his pistol, which, however, only flashed in the pan. Dashing this weapon to the ground, he lost not a moment in pulling out the other, which he also aimed at his assailant, and fired with the same result. In a transport of rage and disappointment the man sprang from his horse and made an attempt to seize her; but, by an adroit use of her spurs, she eluded his grasp and placed herself out of his reach. Meanwhile, his horse had moved forward some yards, and to see and seize the advantage presented by this circumstance was one and the same to the heroic girl, who, darting toward it, caught the bridle, and having led her prize off about a hundred yards, stopped while she called to the thunderstruck postman to remind him of her advice about the wood. She then put both horses to their speed, and on turning to look at the man she had robbed, had the pleasure of perceiving that her mysterious threat had taken effect, and he was now pursuing his way back to Belford.
Miss Cochrane speedily entered the wood to which she had alluded, and tying the strange horse to a tree, out of all observation from the road, proceeded to unfasten the straps of the mail. By means of a sharp penknife, which set at defiance the appended locks, she was soon mistress of the contents, and with an eager hand broke open the Government despatches, which were unerringly pointed out to her by their address to the council in Edinburgh and their imposing weight and broad seals of office. Here she found not only the fatal warrant for her father's death, but also many other sentences inflicting different degrees of punishment on various delinquents. These, however, it may readily be supposed, she did not then stop to examine; she contented herself with tearing them into small fragments and placing them carefully in her bosom.
The intrepid girl now mounted her steed and rode off, leaving all the private papers where she had found them, imagining (what eventually proved the case) that they would be discovered ere long from the hints she had thrown out about the wood, and thus reach their proper places of destination. She now made all haste to reach the cottage of her nurse, where, having not only committed to the flames the fragments of the dreaded warrant, but also the other obnoxious papers, she quickly resumed her female garments, and was again, after this manly and daring action, the simple and unassuming Miss Grizel Cochrane. Leaving the cloak and pistols behind her, to be concealed by her nurse, she again mounted her horse and directed her flight towards Edinburgh, and, by avoiding as much as possible the high road, and resting at sequestered cottages, as she had done before, and that only twice for a couple of hours each time, she reached town early in the morning of the next day.
It must now suffice to say that the time gained by the heroic act related above was productive of the end for which it was undertaken, and that Sir John Cochrane was pardoned, at the instigation of the king's favourite counsellor, who interceded for him in consequence of receiving a bribe of five thousand pounds from the Earl of Dundonald.
A WIFE'S STRATAGEM.
A TALE OF 1715.
BY LUCY HARDY.
It was with mingled feelings of annoyance and satisfaction that old Lady Glenlivet and her daughters received the intelligence that the only son of the house was about to bring an English bride to the grey old Scotch mansion where so many generations of his "forbears" had lived and died.
Sir Alick was six-and-twenty, and it was therefore fully time that he should marry and carry on the traditions of the house, and, as the Glenlivet's fortune did not match their "long pedigree," it was distinctly an advantage that the newly-wedded bride was so well dowered. But then, on the other hand, Mistress Mary Wilkinson was an Englishwoman, and Lady Glenlivet more than suspected the fact (adroitly veiled in her son's letter) that the young lady's fortune had been made in trade.
Sir Alick Glenlivet, visiting London for the first time in his life, had been hospitably entertained by a distant kinsman, a Scotch lawyer, who had settled in the English metropolis; and at his house had met with the orphan heiress of a substantial city trader, to whom Simon Glenlivet was guardian. To Alick, bred up in the comparative seclusion and obscurity of his Scottish home, the plunge into London life was as bewildering as delightful; and he soon thought sweet Mary Wilkinson, with her soft blue eyes and gentle voice, the fairest creature his eyes had ever rested upon; while to Mary, the handsome young Scotchman was like the hero in a Border tale.
"Happy the wooing that's not long a-doing." Mistress Mary was twenty-two, so of legal age to please herself in her choice of a husband; while Simon Glenlivet was still sufficiently a Scotchman at heart to consider an alliance with the "ancient and noble family" with which he himself claimed kinship an advantage which might fairly outbalance his lack of fortune.
To do the young man justice, Mary's wealth counted for nothing in his choice; he would as readily have married her had the fortune been all on his side. Indeed, it was with some qualms of conscience that Sir Alick now wrote to inform his mother of the sudden step which he had taken; half fearing that, in the eyes of the proud old Scotch dame, even Mary's beauty and fortune could scarcely compensate for her lack of "long descent."
And indeed, Lady Glenlivet's Highland pride was not at all well pleased to learn that her son had wedded a trader's daughter; though Mary (or Maisie, as her husband now called her) had received the education of a refined gentlewoman, and was far more well bred and accomplished than were the two tall, awkward daughters of the Glenlivet household; or, for the matter of that, than was the "auld leddy hersel'."
Lady Glenlivet, however, loved her son, and stifled down her feelings of disapproval for his sake. It was undeniable that Mary's money came in most usefully in paying off the mortgages which had so long crippled the Glenlivet estate; and when the bride and bridegroom arrived at their Scotch home, the ladies were speechless in their admiration at the bride's "providing." Such marvels of lace and brocades, such treasures of jewellery, such a display of new fashions had never been known in the neighbourhood before; and Isobel and Barbara, if not inclined to fall rapturously in love with their new sister, at least utterly lost their hearts over her wardrobe--not such a very extensive or extravagant one after all, the bride had thought; but, in the eighteenth century, a wealthy London trader's only child would be reared in a far more luxurious manner than the daughters of many a "long descended" Scotch household.
Mary, or Maisie, certainly found her new home lacking in many comforts which were almost necessaries in her eyes; but the girl was young, and sweet-tempered, and devotedly attached to her brave young husband, who equally adored his young wife. The prejudice excited against the new-comer on the score of her nationality and social rank softened down as the months went by; although old Lady Glenlivet often remarked that Maisie was "just English" whenever the younger lady's opinions or wishes did not entirely coincide with her own.
In the kindly patriarchial fashion of Scottish households of the day, Sir Alick's mother and sisters still resided under his roof; and Maisie, gentle and retiring by nature, never dreamt of attempting to depose the old lady from her position of house-mistress; so the "auld leddy" still kept the keys, and ruled the servants, and was as busy and notable as of yore; her new daughter being, in truth, often far more submissive to the good dame's sway than were either Isobel or Barbara, who occasionally "took the dorts" and would have their own wills.
Yet Maisie was happy enough in her new life--for had she not Alick and his devotion?--until dark clouds began to gather in the political horizon.
It was the year 1715, a year to be remembered in many an English and Scottish household for many a year to come. Whispers of plots and conspiracies were flying about the land; for the coming of the "wee German lairdie" was by no means universally acceptable, and many Jacobites who had acquiesced in the accession of "good Queen Anne" herself (a member of the ancient royal house), now shrank from acknowledging "the Elector" as their monarch. Simon Glenlivet, a shrewd and prudent man, who had lived in London and watched the course of political events, had long ago laid aside any romantic enthusiasm for the cause of the exiled Stuarts, if he had ever possessed such a feeling; realising perhaps the truth of Sir John Maynard's reply to William III. when the king asked the old man if he had not survived "all his brother lawyers," "Ay, and if your Majesty had not come, I might shortly have survived the law itself."
Maisie's father, like most of his brother-citizens, had welcomed the "Deliverer" with acclamations, and would doubtless have greeted the accession of George I. with equal enthusiasm had he lived to witness it. It was only after she crossed the Border that Maisie had heard the son of James II. alluded to save as the "Pretender," to whom his enemies denied any kinship with the Stuarts at all. Maisie, wise and discreet beyond her years, speedily learnt to stifle her own political opinions amid her husband's family circle; though indeed she was no eager supporter of any party. She had been duly taught that it was a duty to submit to the "powers that be," and to pray daily for the king; and like a dutiful little maiden of her time, piously obeyed her teacher's and guardian's injunctions, without troubling her head as to whether the actual lawful monarch of England was keeping his court at St. Germains or St. James'. And Maisie's husband, to tell the truth, was scarcely a more vehement or interested politician than herself; though Sir Alick called himself a Jacobite because his father and mother had been Jacobites before him. Lady Glenlivet, a woman of narrow education and deeply rooted prejudices, was a strong partisan of the Stuart cause; strong with all the unreasoning vehemence of a worthy but ignorant woman. So, when the Earl of Mar's disastrous expedition was being secretly organised, the emissaries of the plotters found ready acceptance with the "auld leddy," who scrupled not to press and urge her son to join the "glorious undertaking" which should restore her lawful king to Scotland and bring added honours and lands to the Glenlivet family. Sir Alick, supremely happy in his domestic life, had at first small desire for embarking in the hazardous scheme of the wisdom and justice of which he felt less positively assured than did his mother. Sir Alick had seen something of the world during his visit to London, and had not been entirely uninfluenced by the views of his wise kinsman. But Lady Glenlivet was not the only foolish woman at that epoch who forced a wiser judging husband, son, or brother into joining a conspiracy which his better sense condemned; and Sir Alick, always greatly under his mother's influence, at length consented to attend that historic meeting at Braemar in the autumn of 1715, where, under pretence of a hunting party, the Earl of Mar assembled the disaffected Scottish nobility and gentry, and raised the Stuart standard, proclaiming King James III. of England and VII. of Scotland.
The "fiery cross" was circulated through the Highlands, and Sir Alick returned to his home to raise a troop of his own tenants and clansmen, at whose head he proposed to join the Earl of Mar.
Maisie, ordinarily so gentle and retiring, was now roused to unwonted and passionate protest. The scheme for the threatened "rising" was not unknown in England; and Simon Glenlivet wrote to his quondam ward, urging her most strongly to dissuade her husband from joining a rash conspiracy which could only bring ruin upon all who were engaged in it.
"'Tis hopeless--and I thank Heaven that it is so--to think of overturning the present condition of things," wrote the cautious London Scot; "and they who take part in this mad conspiracy--of which the English Government have fuller details than the conspirators wot of--will but lose their lands, and it may be their heads to boot. I pray thee, my pretty Molly, keep thy husband out of this snare."
But this command was not so easily followed. Since his visit to Braemar, Alick himself had caught the war fever, and, for once, his wife's entreaties, nay, even her tears and prayers, were disregarded by her husband! Sir Alick was all love and tenderness, but join the glorious expedition he must and would, encouraged in this resolve by mother, sister, and kinsfolk; Maisie's being the only dissenting voice; and, as Lady Glenlivet tauntingly remarked to her daughter-in-law, "it was not for the child of a mere English pock-pudding to decide what was fitting conduct for a Highland noble--Maisie should remember she had wedded into an honourable house, and not strive to draw her husband aside from the path of duty."
Unheeded by her husband, derided and taunted by his mother, Maisie could but weep in silent despair.
And so the day of parting came, and Alick, looking splendidly handsome in his military attire, stood to take his last farewell of wife and kindred, and to drink a parting cup to the success of the expedition.
"Fill me the quaick, Maisie," he said, with a kindly smile turning to his pale and heavy-eyed young wife. "Ye'll soon see me come back again to bid ye all put on your braws to grace the king's coronation at Edinburgh." To which hope Lady Glenlivet piously cried "Amen"; and Maisie turned to mix the stirrup cup, for the morning was raw and cold.
"Let Isobel lift the kettle, lass; it's far too heavy for thee," cried Lady Glenlivet; but alas! too late, for Maisie stumbled as she turned from the fire, and the chief part of the scalding water was emptied into one of the young man's long riding boots.
Alick's sudden yell of pain almost drowned Maisie's sobbing cry, and old Lady Glenlivet furiously exclaimed, forgetful of all courtesies,--
"Ye wretched gawk! ye little fule! ye ha' killed my puir lad!"
"Nay, nay, na sae bad as that, I judge. Dinna greet, Maisie, my bonnie bird--ye couldna help it, my dow," cried Alick, recovering himself, and making a heroic effort to conceal the pain he felt. "Look to her, some of ye," he added sharply, as Maisie sank fainting on the floor.
It was a very severe scald, said the doctor whom the alarmed household quickly summoned, and it would be many a long day before Sir Alick would be fit to wear his boot or put foot in saddle again.
But thanks greatly to the devoted nursing he received from wife and mother, and to his own youth and health, Sir Alick completely recovered from the injury. But in the meantime, the bubble had burst, Sherrifmuir had been fought, Mar's army had been totally routed, the prisons in England and Scotland had been filled with his misguided followers, and the headsman and the hangman were beginning their ghastly work.
Sir Alick, thanks to the accident which had prevented his taking any overt part in the rebellion, had escaped both imprisonment and confiscation; and it was probably Simon Glenlivet's influence which had availed to cover over Sir Alick's dalliance with the Jacobite plotters.
Maisie had proved herself a most tender and efficient nurse, but it was now her turn to be ill, and one quiet day, after she had presented her lord with an heir to the Glenlivet name, she told him the whole truth about that lucky accident with the boiling water; but auld Leddy Glenlivet never knew that her son had been saved from a rebel's fate by a wife's stratagem.
THE KING'S TRAGEDY.
AN HISTORICAL TALE.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
In the year 1436, a party of horsemen, weary and belated, were seen hurrying amid the deepening darkness of a December day towards the ferry of the Firth of Forth. Their high carriage, no less than the quality of their accoutrements, albeit dimmed and travel-stained by the splash of flood and field, showed them to be more than a mere party of traders seeking safety in numbers, and travelling in pursuit of gain. In the centre of the group rode a horseman, whose aspect and demeanour marked him as the chief, if not the leader, of the band; and by his side a lady, whose grace and beauty could not be altogether concealed by the closeness of her attire or the darkness of the night. These were the King and Queen of Scotland, James the First and his fair wife Joan, surrounded by a small band of faithful followers, bound for the monastery of the Black Friars of Perth to hold Christmas Carnival.
The weather and the day were wild enough, and these but only too truly reflected the surging passions of human hearts. The brave young king's desire to put down the marauding practices of his Highland subjects, and bring about a condition of things under which a "key" should be sufficient keep for a "castle," and a "bracken bush" enough protection for a "cow," together with, perhaps, a not always wise way of working so good a cause, had provoked the hostility of some of the Highland chiefs who lived by stealing their neighbours' property. This disaffection became formidable under the leadership of Sir Richard Graeme, brother of the Earl of Stratherne, whose earldom had been confiscated by the king, who feared its power with perhaps less justice than became his high purpose, and James and his retainers had need to watch and ward against open enemies and secret foes.
Silently, if not mournfully, the little band moved on, picking its way along the uneven shore, and peering anxiously through the deepening shadows for signs of the distant ferry. Like a cavalcade of ghosts, but dimly seen as dimly seeing, they pressed on, all eyes for what light might give them guidance, all ears for what sound might give them warning.
As they were descending to the beach, at the point where the ferry crossed the water, sight and sound combined to startle if not to terrify them; for out from behind a pile of rocks there sprang a wild, weird woman, who with waving arms and frantic shouts motioned them to go back. In an instant the whole cavalcade was in confusion. The horses reared and plunged, the men shouted and demanded who was there, and all the while the weird figure, whose tattered garments fluttered fantastically in the wind, waved her skinny arms wildly, and shouted, "Go back!"
Thinking that the woman might have some news of importance to the king, some of the retainers spurred forward and interrogated her; but she would say them nothing but "Go back"; adding at last "For the king alone--for the king alone!" Judging that she might desire to warn him of some treachery, even among his followers, the king rode forward and spoke to her, when, waving her hands towards the water, she screamed, "If once you cross that water, you will never return alive!" The king asked for news, but the old witch was not a chronicler but a prophetess, and catching at the king's rein she sought to turn him back.
By this time the retinue had closed in upon the singular pair, and the queen's anxiety doubtless stimulated the king's action. Shaking from his rein the woman's hand, he cried, "Forward!" and in a few moments the party had left the stormy land for the scarce more stormy sea.
After crossing the Firth of Forth the party made rapid progress, and in due course were safely and comfortably housed in the old monastery of the Dominicans of Perth. The gaieties of Court and Carnival soon obliterated, for a time at least, the memory of the discomforts of the journey; and the warning of the old witch, if remembered at all, was thought of with pity or dismissed with mirth. The festivities, which were maintained with vigour and brilliance for a considerable time, surrounded the king with both friends and foes. Sir Robert Stuart, who had been promised the kingdom by Sir Richard Graeme, was actually acting as chamberlain to the king he was plotting to dethrone; and the Earl of Athole and other conspirators were among the guests who, with loyal protestations, pledged the king's health and prosperity. Towards the close of the Carnival, when the month of February 1437 had almost waned to a close, while the rain beat upon the windows and the wind whistled wildly around the roof of the old monastery, in grim contrast with the scene of merriment that graced the halls within, the guests were startled by a loud knocking at the outer door. The king, gayest among the gay, was singing "The King's Quhair," a ballad of his own writing, when the usher interrupted him to announce the old witch of the Firth of Forth. She says "she must have speech with you," said the usher, and that her words "admit of no delay." But James was annoyed by the interruption, and, as it was midnight, ordered her to be sent away, promising to see her on the morrow. Driven forth at the king's command, the old beldame wrung her hands, and cried, "Woe! woe! To-morrow I shall not see his face!" and the usher, upon the king's interrogation, repeated her words to him and to the queen. Upon hearing them, both were filled with anxiety and fear, and thinking it best to close the festivities of the evening the king gave the signal for the finish of the feast, and the guests slowly separated and left the hall. The king's chamberlain was the last to leave, and his errand was one of treachery.
During the day the conspirators had been busily preparing for their opportunity. The locks of the hall had been tampered with so that their keys were of no avail. The bars by which the gates were barricaded were removed from their accustomed place. Planks had been surreptitiously placed across the moat that the enemy might obtain easy access to the stronghold; and Sir Richard Graeme, with three hundred followers in his train, was waiting for the signal to advance.
James and his wife stood hand in hand before the log fire of the great hall, while the bower-maidens of the queen prepared the royal bed in an alcove leading from the chamber. The old crone's warning had struck terror to the queen's heart, and unnerved the courage of the king. While looking anxiously at the burning logs in the fireplace, again they heard the voice of the witch, inarticulate in its frenzy, uttering a wild, wailing scream. In an instant the waiting-women had drawn back the curtains, and the red glow of a hundred torches flashed upon the walls of the Hall. The king looked round for a weapon, but there was none to be found; he shouted to the women to shut the bolts, but the bolts had been removed; he tried the windows, they were fast and barred; and then, hearing the approach of his enemies along the passage, he stood with folded arms in the centre of the Hall to wait for death.
Beneath the Hall lay the unused and forgotten vaults of the monastery; and in the king's extremity it occurred to Catherine Douglas, one of the waiting-women, that these might give the king a chance of escape. There was not a moment to lose, so, seizing the heavy tongs from the fireplace, she forced them into the king's hand, and motioned him to remove the flooring and hide in the crypt below. Spurred to desperation the king seized the tongs, and proceeded to force up the flooring of the hall; but the sound of his approaching enemies came nearer and nearer, and the flooring was strong and tough. To give time the women made a desperate attempt to pull a heavy table in front of the door, but it was heavier than they could move. In another moment the floor had given way, and, with a hurried embrace, the king squeezed through the flooring and dropped into the vault. Then came the replacing of the boards--could they possibly do it in the time? A clash of arms in the passage showed that at least one sentinel was true; but the arm of one was but a poor barrier against so large a force. Another moment and the flooring would give no evidence of the secret that it held, for the queen and her bower-maidens were replacing it with all speed. Again the tread of the approaching conspirators; the sentinel has paid for his fidelity with death. Is there no arm can save?
At this moment, as with a flash of inspiration, the thought came into her mind. Catherine Douglas, one of the bower-maidens, rushed forward and thrust her arm through the staple of the removed bolt, and for a little while a woman's arm held a hundred men at bay.
It was a terrible moment, and as the poor bruised arm gave way at last Catherine Douglas fell fainting to the floor.
Sir Richard Graeme and his followers, having forced an entrance, made hot and eager search, but without avail. One of them placed his dagger at the queen's breast and demanded to know where the king was, and would have killed her had not the young Graeme caught back his arm and said, "She is a woman; we seek the king." At last, tired by their fruitless search, they left the Hall, and then, unfortunately, the king requested the women to draw him up from the vault again. This they attempted to do, with ropes made from the sheets from the bed, but they were not strong enough, and one of them, a sister of Catherine Douglas, was pulled down into the vault below. Attracted by the noise of this attempt, the conspirators returned, and the traitor chamberlain revealed the secret of the hidden vaults. In a few moments all was over,--the flooring was torn up, and, more like wild beasts than men, one after another the king's enemies dropped into the vault, attacking him, unarmed as he was, and killing him with many wounds. How the queen ultimately revenged herself upon the king's assassins is matter of history; but the story is chiefly interesting for its record of the heroic devotion of Catherine Douglas, who was renamed Kate Barlas, from the circumstances of her chivalry, by which name her descendants are known to this day.
THE STRANGER.
A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.
BY H. G. BELL.
Hodnet is a village in Shropshire. Like all other villages in Shropshire, or anywhere else, it consists principally of one long street, with a good number of detached houses scattered here and there in its vicinity. The street is on a slight declivity, on the sunny side of what in England they call a hill. It contains the shops of three butchers, five grocers, two bakers, and one apothecary. On the right hand, as you go south, is that very excellent inn, the Blue Boar; and on the left, nearly opposite, is the public hall, in which all sorts of meetings are held, and which is alternately converted into a dancing-school, a theatre, a ball-room, an auction-room, an exhibition-room, or any other kind of room that may be wanted. The church is a little farther off, and the parsonage is, as usual, a white house surrounded with trees, at one end of the village. Hodnet is, moreover, the market-town of the shire, and stands in rather a populous district; so that, though of small dimensions itself, it is the rallying-place, on any extraordinary occasion, of a pretty numerous population.
One evening in February, the mail from London stopped at the Blue Boar, and a gentleman wrapped in a travelling cloak came out. The guard handed him a small portmanteau, and the mail drove on. The stranger entered the inn, was shown into a parlour, and desired that the landlord and a bottle of wine should be sent to him. The order was speedily obeyed; the wine was set upon the table, and Gilbert Cherryripe himself was the person who set it there. Gilbert next proceeded to rouse the slumbering fire, remarking, with a sort of comfortable look and tone, that it was a cold, raw night. His guest assented with a nod. "You call this village Hodnet, do you not?" said he inquiringly. "Yes, sir, this is the town of Hodnet" (Mr. Cherryripe did not like the term village), "and a prettier little place is not to be found in England." "So I have heard; and as you are not upon any of the great roads, I believe you have the reputation of being a primitive and unsophisticated race." "Privitive and sofiscated, did you say, sir? Why, as to that I cannot exactly speak; but, if there is no harm in it, I daresay we are. But you see, sir, I am a vintner, and don't trouble my head much about these matters." "So much the better," said the stranger, smiling. "You and I shall become better friends; I may stay with you for some weeks, perhaps months. In the meantime, get me something comfortable for supper, and desire your wife to look after my bedroom."
Next day was Sunday. The bells of the village church had just finished ringing when the stranger walked up the aisle and entered, as if at random, a pew which happened to be vacant. Instantly every eye was turned towards him, for a new face was too important an object in Hodnet to be left unnoticed. "Who is he?" "When did he come?" "With whom does he stay?" "How long will he be here?" "How old may he be?" "Do you think he is handsome?" These and a thousand other questions flew about in whispers from tongue to tongue, whilst the unconscious object of all this interest cast his eyes calmly, and yet penetratingly, over the congregation. Nor was it altogether to be wondered at that his appearance had caused a sensation among the good people of Hodnet, for he was not the kind of person whom one meets with every day. There was something both in his face and figure that distinguished him from the crowd. You could not look upon him once and then turn away with indifference. When the service was over our hero walked out alone, and shut himself up for the rest of the day in his parlour at the Blue Boar. But speculation was busily at work, and at more than one tea-table that evening in Hodnet conjectures were poured out with the tea and swallowed with the toast.
