Chapter One.
The Interrupted Feast.
The Singletons were a small Lowland clan, or rather faction, for their name does not appear in history as a clan. For all that, they were as loyal to their king and as devoted to their chief as any clan in Scotland, and when the time for sacrifice and hard blows came, the Singletons, as every one knew, were ever to the front.
And it is only fair to say the Singletons were always in the wars. When they were not fighting the Roundheads they were fighting the Campbells or the Frasers or the Macintoshes, or others of their hereditary foes; or if none of these were obliging enough, or at liberty to indulge them in their favourite pastime, then they made enemies for themselves among the neighbouring clans, or else crossed over to Holland to keep their hands in there till fortune favoured them once more at home. The old castle, with its rambling towers, and walls, and buttresses was a sort of rallying-point for all the pugnacious spirits of the time, and its bluff walls showed many a scar and many a dint where hostile guns had played upon them, not, you may be sure, without reply.
The Singletons, in fact (and specially since the old laird had died), thrived on fighting. At the present day they might, perhaps, have passed as freebooters and outlaws, but during the troubled times of the Commonwealth they were looked upon as a noble band of patriots, whose swords were ever ready in the king’s cause, and whose castle was as open and hospitable to a friend as it was unyielding to a foe.
Such was the place within whose weather-beaten and war-beaten walls a festive company was assembled one November afternoon in the year of our Lord 16—.
For once in a way the Singletons were at peace. The king’s cause was for a time under a cloud, and the Campbells and the Frasers and the Macintoshes were far too busy about their own affairs to come out of the way to defy this small bulldog of a clan in the south. The Singletons had serious thoughts of invading some place, or sacking some castle, or making a raid across the border, just to pass the time. It was like being out of work! They fretted and chafed in their fortress, and nearly fell out among themselves, and very heartily wished some one would give them a pretext for a fight. But no one did.
It was at least a diversion for them to celebrate the coming of age of the young laird, and the event, which in times of war might have passed scarcely heeded, now became one of mighty importance to these restless Singletons.
They called together every man of the name who could easily be found between the Solway and the Tay. They hoisted the old family ensign on the castle walls, and by way of mischief some of them displayed the pennant of the Macfies—another rival clan—below it. They drove in twelve head of oxen, regardless of proprietorship, wherewith to make good cheer at table, and they decked the grand old banqueting-hall with branches and heather, till it was more like a bower than a room.
These and many other things the Singletons did by way of showing honour to the occasion, and when that evening thirty of them sat round the festive board, with the young chief at the head, and with pyramids of beef and mutton and bread before them, their satisfaction and enthusiasm reached its highest pitch.
“Here’s luck to the Singleton!” shouted they, “root and branch, laird and clan.”
And amid cheers, prolonged and deafening, the health was honoured and the banquet proceeded.
“Was ever luck like ours?” growled one youth to his neighbour. “Here have we been six weeks idle, with never a knock.”
“And it’ll be six weeks longer before we get one again, I’m thinking, unless the king’s party gather,” said his comrade. “We don’t get our fair share of fighting, Tam, that’s what it is.”
“May be the young laird will change all that. But, I say, Donald, I have my doubts of it.”
“What, of the young laird?” exclaimed the others.
“Ay, he’s been brought up in a queer school in England, they tell me, where it’s considered ill-breeding to molest your neighbour.”
“Do you say so? The barbarians! That would never do for us, Tam. But of course the young laird taught them better?”
“They say they taught him worse, and that— Well, never mind. What is auld Geordie saying?”
Auld Geordie was on his feet, announcing with great glee that a convoy of treasure, bound for Edinburgh, was on its way at that moment from Newcastle, so he had heard, and would pass within three miles of Singleton Towers.
“And it’ll be ours, boys,” cried the old man, turning to his comrades; “and the young laird shall win his spurs upon it! What do you say?”
A shout was the only answer. The proposal was one after the Singletons’ own heart. Every one looked towards the young laird.
Singleton was a dark, mild-looking youth, old for his years, and up till the present time a stranger to his clan. For, as has already been hinted, he had but just returned from England, where his boyhood had been spent, to celebrate his coming of age. Great things were expected of him, not only as the head of the clan, but as the son of his brave father, who had died twelve years ago; and since whose death the Singletons had been leaderless. With a bold leader they might achieve anything; and they now welcomed the presence of a chief once more in their midst with all the hope and confidence of sons welcoming a father. It was, therefore, with astonishment and dismay that they heard him reply to auld Geordie’s proposal—
“I did not know the Singletons were highwaymen!”
If the roof had fallen in it could not have caused greater consternation. The Singletons looked aghast to hear such a speech from their chief!
“Is the boy mad?” said one in a whisper.
“Or a coward?” said another.
“Or a fool?” said another.
“The laird’s joking,” said auld Geordie, in a coaxing voice; “and we are glad to see ye so merry. But ye’ll be in earnest to-morrow, I warrant, with a score of troopers between you and a thousand pounds!”
“I’m in earnest now,” replied young Singleton. “I’m no robber chief, I tell you. The convoy shall go safe to Edinburgh, as far as we are concerned. But, come now, Geordie, I want to hear something about this old castle of mine, for you know I was scarcely in it since I was a boy.”
But it was easier to turn the talk than to turn the thoughts of his clansmen. They experienced, all of them, a distinct disappointment at this first exercise of authority on the part of their young laird; and the cheeks of some of the younger among them actually coloured with shame at the thought that a Singleton—the Singleton—should be lacking (as they could not help thinking he was) in bravery. However, they said nothing, but seemed to listen to auld Geordie, as he launched out into an account of the old castle of Singleton Towers.
“It’s a brave old place,” said he. “Sir David Singleton it was who built it here, on this arm of the sea, in the time of King Wallace. The story goes that Wallace himself set the top stone of the great tower with his own hands. Sir David did not live long to enjoy the stronghold, as you have heard.”
“How did he die? I never heard that,” asked the young laird.
“Alas! it is a sad story, though a short one. Sir David had a son, and that son was a coward—the first, and we hope the last, coward who ever bore the name.”
Here all looked hard at the youth, who, not noticing their meaning glances, said—
“Amen, with all my heart! Go on.”
“Well, this son grew up, like you, in England, and it was not till he had reached man’s estate that he came here. His father, a proud man, and ambitious, rejoiced, as your father would have rejoiced this day, to see a son in his place, ready, as he hoped, to carry on the brave traditions of his name to a future generation. The youth was welcomed home with great pomp and rejoicing, and for aught men could see he was a worthy son of a worthy sire.
“But, alas! as the Bible says, ‘Pride comes before the fall.’ A few days after his home-coming, the news came that a party of English was advancing on Singleton Towers. The old laird, nothing doubting, ordered his son to take fifty men and meet the enemy, while he himself stayed behind to guard this place.
“The lad obeyed, and marched forth. They met, he and the English, under Brantor Hill yonder; and then appeared the real character of the boy. At the first onset, before ever a blow was struck, he turned and fled, no one knows whither.
“The old laird for long would not believe it; but when on all hands the story was confirmed, and no news came of the lad, he sickened and drooped. He shut himself up in the turret-room out there and never left it except at night, when his one walk was on the east terrace, over this very room.
“One night they missed the sound of his footsteps, and next morning he was found dead in his little chamber—dead of a broken heart. And they say that if ever again a coward should be the laird of Singleton, that that old man will walk out there where he walked four centuries ago.”
A dead silence followed the close of this story, and all eyes, by a sort of common instinct, were turned towards the head of the table. At that moment, apparently from the terrace outside, came a sound of footsteps; and as they listened, every cheek grew suddenly pale, and a shudder crept round the assembly. The silence, however, was broken by a laugh from the young laird himself, who had been the only unmoved hearer of this last mysterious sound.
“Why, there is my poor dog, Jupiter, out there! I had quite forgotten him. Let him in, some one!”
No one stirred. The young chief looked round perplexed, and then rose himself and went to the window and opened it. As he did so, a huge shaggy mastiff bounded into the apartment, barking and capering for glee at seeing once again his master and hearing his voice.
“Lie down, sir, quiet. Now, my men, what think you of this for a ghost? Thanks, Geordie, for your story. I remember now, I heard it when a child. Well, let’s hope it will be a long while yet before Sir David’s ghost is put to the trouble of a midnight walk.”
“Hist, my young master,” said Tam; “it’s ill jesting with the spirits.”
“What, Tam! one would think, now, by the way you speak, you would not dare to keep a solitary watch on the east terrace yourself.”
“I’d dare anything,” replied Tam, “but—”
“But you would rather not,” replied Singleton, laughing.
That laugh roused the spirit of Tam, who, though superstitious, was hardly a coward.
“I never said that,” he cried; “and if needs be I would do it, even to-night.”
“Even to-night!” repeated Singleton. “What does the man mean? Even to-night! I’ve a good mind to order you to the watch to-night for talking in riddles, sirrah!”
“The watch here has always been a double one since I can remember,” put in auld Geordie.
“To my mind, one man ought to be able to watch as well as two, for the matter of that. And so, Tam, you mean you would be more comfortable with a comrade on the east terrace to-night. Perhaps Sir David would oblige you,” he added, with a laugh.
The soldier flushed angrily.
“Ay, you may say that,” he muttered, in an undertone; “it’s more than likely Sir David will be walking to-night.”
The boy caught these last words, and glanced quickly at the speaker. The meaning of these mysterious utterances suddenly flashed upon him. These men, then mistook him, their chief, their captain, for a coward!
A crimson flush suffused his face, a flush of shame and anger, as he sprang to his feet.
At that instant, and before he could utter a word, a bugle sounded at the gate, and there entered the hall a soldier whose appearance bore every mark of desperate haste.
“Singleton,” he cried, as he entered, “the king’s friends are up! Glencairn musters his men at daybreak at Scotsboro’, and expects the thirty men of the Singletons promised him, there and then!”
Here was a piece of news! The long-wished-for summons had come at last, and the heart of each Singleton present beat high at the prospect of battle! And yet in the midst of their elation a serious difficulty presented itself.
“Thirty men!” said Geordie, looking round him. “Why there are but thirty-one men here, counting the laird. Some must stay.”
But the young laird, who had noticed the same thing, cried out promptly to the messenger—
“Tell your general he shall have his thirty men before dawn,” and with that the soldier withdrew.
The joy of the Singletons now gave place to something like panic, as they comprehended what the rash pledge of their young chief really meant. It meant that thirty of them must go, and one must stay; and what could one man do to defend a castle like Singleton Towers? The elder soldiers were specially concerned.
“Call him back, Singleton,” said Geordie. “You cannot leave this place defenceless! Think of the peril! Ten men must stay, at the least.”
“Who says ‘must’ to me?” cried the young chief, impatiently. “Are the Singletons to be word-breakers as well as highwaymen? Thirty men shall go. Have we not promised?”
“But who will stay?” asked some one.
“Ah, that’s it,” cried another. “Who is to stay?”
Silence ensued on the question, and then—
“I will stay,” quietly replied Singleton.
“You! The laird!” shouted every one, in amazement. “That can never be!”
“Why not?” inquired the youth. “Who is chief here, you or I?”
“But who is to lead us in battle?”
“Ah,” said Singleton, “that is my duty, I know, but it is equally my duty to stay here!”
“But it is certain peril, and you could do no good. Let one of us stay. Let me stay with you,” said Geordie.
“No, brave Geordie, you must go. It must never be said the Singletons broke their word, even to save their castle. Take the thirty men to Glencairn. If he permits ten to return, well and good. You will find me here.”
“But your place is at our head,” said the men.
“And there I will be to-morrow. To-night I watch here; ay, and on the east terrace with Sir David, Tam,” he added, with a smile. “But come; to horse there! You lose time. Bring out the guns! On with your belts, men! Be brisk now! Take every man some bread and meat from the table!”
And with these words the martial fire of the father blazed out in the son, so that his men wondered more than ever how they could have suspected him of faint-heartedness.
“Are you all equipped and mounted? Lower the drawbridge there! Open the gate! Forward, men! and ‘Singleton for the king!’”
And waving his hand he bade them march forth, and watched them slowly defile across the drawbridge and turn their horses’ heads eastward.
The last man to cross was Tam.
“Heaven protect you,” he said, humbly, “and forgive me for the insult I put upon you.” Then reining in his horse, he added, almost beseechingly, “Once again, let me stay with you.”
“Not I,” replied young Singleton, gaily. “Forward, Tam, and to-morrow, if you return, you shall hear how I fared.”
Tam said nothing, but setting spurs to his horse, bounded across the drawbridge and rejoined his comrades.
Singleton, having watched the troop as they slowly wended their way among the trees of the wood till they were lost to sight, drew up the bridge and closed and barred the great gate. Then, with a stout though anxious heart, he turned and addressed himself to his solitary and hazardous undertaking.