Chapter I.
There is an old story which I have often heard related, about a great Laird of Cassway, in an outer corner of Dumfriesshire, of the name of Beattie, and his two sons. The incidents of the story are of a very extraordinary nature. This Beattie had occasion to be almost constantly in England, because, as my informant said, he took a great hand in government affairs, from which I conclude that the tradition had its rise about the time of the civil wars; for about the close of that time the Scotts took advantage of the times to put the Beatties down, who for some previous ages had maintained the superiority of that district.
Be that as it may, the Laird of Cassway’s second son, Francis, fell desperately in love with a remarkably beautiful girl, the eldest daughter of Henry Scott of Drumfielding, a gentleman, but still only a retainer, and far beneath Beattie of Cassway, both in point of wealth and influence. Francis was a scholar newly returned from the university; was tall, handsome, of a pale complexion, and gentlemanly appearance, while Thomas, the eldest son, was fair, ruddy, and stout made, a perfect picture of health and good humour,—a sportsman, a warrior, and a jovial blade; one who would not suffer a fox to get rest in the whole moor district. He rode the best horse, kept the best hounds, played the best fiddle, danced the best country bumpkin, and took the stoutest draught of mountain dew, of any man between Erick Brae and Teviot Stone, and was altogether the sort of young man, that whenever he cast his eyes on a pretty girl, either at chapel or at weapon-shaw, she would hide her face, and giggle as if tickled by some unseen hand.
Now, though Thomas, or the Young Laird, as he was called, had only spoken once to Ellen Scott in his life, at which time he chucked her below the chin, and bid the deil take him if ever he saw as bonny a face in his whole born days; yet for all that, Ellen loved him. It could not be said that she was “in love” with him, for a maiden’s heart must be won before it is given absolutely away; but hers gave him the preference to any other young man. She loved to see him, to hear of him, and to laugh at him; and it was even observed by the domestics, that Tam Beattie o’ the Cassway’s name came oftener into her conversation than there was any good reason for.
Such was the state of affairs when Francis came home, and fell desperately in love with Ellen Scott; and his father being in England, and he under no restraint, he went frequently to visit her. She received him with a kindness and affability that pleased him to the heart; but he little wist that this was only a spontaneous and natural glow of kindness towards him because of his connections, and rather because he was the young laird of Cassway’s only brother, than the poor but accomplished Francis Beattie, the scholar from Oxford.
He was, however, so much delighted with her, that he asked her father’s permission to pay his addresses to her. Her father, who was a prudent and sensible man, answered him in this wise:—“That nothing would give him greater delight than to see his beloved Ellen joined with so accomplished and amiable a young gentleman in the bonds of holy wedlock, provided his father’s assent was previously obtained. But as he himself was subordinate to another house, not on the best terms with the house of Cassway, he would not take it on him to sanction any such connection without the old Laird’s full consent. That, moreover, as he, Francis Beattie, was just setting out in life as a lawyer, there was but too much reason to doubt that a matrimonial connection with Ellen at that time would be highly imprudent; therefore it was not to be thought further of till the old laird was consulted. In the meantime, he should always be welcome to his house, and to his daughter’s company, as he had the same confidence in his honour and integrity as if he had been a son of his own.”
The young man thanked him affectionately, and could not help acquiescing in the truth of his remarks, promised not to mention matrimony farther till he had consulted his father, and added,—“But indeed you must excuse me, if I avail myself of your permission to visit here often, as I am sensible that it will be impossible for me to live for any space of time out of my dear Ellen’s sight.” He was again assured of welcome, and the two parted mutually pleased.
Henry Scott of Drumfielding was a widower, with six daughters, over whom presided Mrs Jane Jerdan, their maternal aunt, an old maid, with fashions and ideas even more antiquated than herself. No sooner had the young wooer taken his leave than she bounced into the room, the only sitting apartment in the house, and said, in a loud, important whisper, “What’s that young swankey of a lawyer wanting, that he’s aye hankering sae muckle about our town? I’ll tell you what, brother Harry, it strikes me that he wants to make a wheelwright o’ your daughter Nell. Now, gin he axes your consent to ony siccan thing, dinna ye grant it. That’s a.’ Tak an auld fool’s advice gin ye wad prosper. Folk are a’ wise ahint the hand, and sae will ye be.”
“Dear Mrs Jane, what objections can you have to Mr Francis Beattie, the most accomplished young gentleman of the whole country?”
“’Complished gentleman! ’Complished kirn-milk! I’ll tell ye what, brother Harry,—afore I were a landless lady, I wad rather be a tailor’s lay-board. What has he to maintain a lady spouse with? The wind o’ his lungs, forsooth!—thinks to sell that for goud in goupins. Hech me! Crazy wad they be wha wad buy it; and they wha trust to crazy people for their living will live but crazily. Tak an auld fool’s advice gin ye wad prosper, else ye’ll be wise ahint the hand. Have nae mair to do with him—Nell’s bread for his betters; tell him that. Or, by my certie, gin I meet wi’ him face to face, I’ll tell him!”
“It would be unfriendly in me to keep aught a secret from you, sister, considering the interest you have taken in my family. I have given him my consent to visit my daughter, but at the same time have restricted him from mentioning matrimony until he has consulted his father.”
“And what has the visiting to gang for, then? Awa wi’ him! Our Nell’s food for his betters. What wad you think an she could get the young laird, his brother, wi’ a blink o’ her ee?”
“Never speak to me of that, Mrs Jane. I wad rather see the poorest of his shepherd lads coming to court my child than see him;” and with these words Henry left the room.
Mrs Jane stood long, making faces, shaking her apron with both hands, nodding her head, and sometimes giving a stamp with her foot. “I have set my face against that connexion,” said she. “Our Nell’s no made for a lady to a London lawyer. It wad set her rather better to be Lady of Cassway. The young laird for me! I’ll hae the branks of love thrown ower the heads o’ the twasome, tie the tangs thegither, and then let them gallop like twa kippled grews. My brother Harry’s a simple man; he disna ken the credit that he has by his daughters—thanks to some other body than him! Niece Nell has a shape, an ee, and a lady-manner that wad kilhab the best lord o’ the kingdom, were he to come under their influence and my manoovres. She’s a Jerdan a’ through; and that I’ll let them ken! Folk are a’ wise ahint the hand; credit only comes by catch and keep. Good night to a’ younger brothers, puffings o’ love vows, and sabs o’ wind! Gie me the good green hills, the gruff wedders, and bobtailed yowes; and let the law and the gospel-men sell the wind o’ their lungs as dear as they can!”
In a few days, Henry of Drumfielding was called out to attend his chief on some expedition; on which Mrs Jane, not caring to trust her message to any other person, went over to Cassway, and invited the young laird to Drumfielding to see her niece, quite convinced that her charms and endowments would at once enslave the elder brother, as they had done the younger. Tam Beattie was delighted at finding such a good back friend as Mrs Jane, for he had not failed to observe, for a twelvemonth back, that Ellen Scott was very pretty, and either through chance or design, he asked Mrs Jane if the young lady was privy to this invitation.
“She privy to it!” exclaimed Mrs Jane, shaking her apron. “Ha, weel I wat, no! She wad soon hae flown in my face wi’ her gibery and her jaukery, had I tauld her my errand; but the gowk kens what the tittling wants, although it is no aye crying, ‘Give, give,’ like the horse loch-leech.”
“Does the horse-leech really cry that, Mrs Jane? I should think, from a view of its mouth, that it could scarcely cry anything,” said Tom.
“Are ye sic a reprobate as to deny the words o’ the Scripture, sir? Hech, wae’s me! what some folk hae to answer for! We’re a’ wise ahint the hand. But hark ye,—come ye ower in time, else I am feared she may be settled for ever out o’ your reach. Now, I canna bide to think on that, for I have always thought you twa made for ane anither. Let me take a look o’ you frae tap to tae—O yes—made for ane anither. Come ower in time, before billy Harry come hame again; and let your visit be in timeous hours, else I’ll gie you the back of the door to keep.—Wild reprobate!” she exclaimed to herself, on taking her leave; “to deny that the horse loch-leech can speak! Ha—ha—the young laird is the man for me!”
Thomas Beattie was true to his appointment, as may be supposed, and Mrs Jane having her niece dressed in style, he was perfectly charmed with her; and really it cannot be denied that Ellen was as much delighted with him. She was young, gay, and frolicsome, and she never spent a more joyous and happy afternoon, or knew before what it was to be in a presence that delighted her so much. While they sat conversing, and apparently better satisfied with the company of each other than was likely to be regarded with indifference by any other individual aspiring to the favour of the young lady, the door was opened, and there entered no other than Francis Beattie! When Ellen saw her devoted lover appear thus suddenly, she blushed deeply, and her glee was damped in a moment. She looked rather like a condemned criminal, or at least a guilty creature, than what she really was,—a being over whose mind the cloud of guilt had never cast its shadow.
Francis loved her above all things on earth or in heaven, and the moment he saw her so much abashed at being surprised in the company of his brother, his spirit was moved to jealousy—to maddening and uncontrollable jealousy. His ears rang, his hair stood on end, and the contour of his face became like a bent bow. He walked up to his brother with his hand on his sword-hilt, and, in a state of excitement which rendered his words inarticulate, addressed him thus, while his teeth ground together like a horse-rattle:—
“Pray, sir, may I ask you of your intentions, and of what you are seeking here?”
“I know not, Frank, what right you have to ask any such questions; but you will allow that I have a right to ask at you what you are seeking here at present, seeing you come so very inopportunely?”
“Sir,” said Francis, whose passion could stay no farther parley, “dare you put it to the issue of the sword this moment?”
“Come now, dear Francis, do not act the fool and the madman both at a time. Rather than bring such a dispute to the issue of the sword between two brothers who never had a quarrel in their lives, I propose that we bring it to a much more temperate and decisive issue here where we stand, by giving the maiden her choice. Stand you there at that corner of the room, I at this, and Ellen Scott in the middle; let us both ask, and to whomsoever she comes, the prize be his. Why should we try to decide, by the loss of one of our lives, what we cannot decide, and what may be decided in a friendly and rational way in one minute?”
“It is easy for you, sir, to talk temperately and with indifference of such a trial, but not so with me. This young lady is dear to my heart.”
“Well, but so is she to mine. Let us, therefore, appeal to the lady at once whose claim is the best; and, as your pretensions are the highest, do you ask her first.”
“My dearest Ellen,” said Francis, humbly and affectionately, “you know that my whole soul is devoted to your love, and that I aspire to it only in the most honourable way; put an end to this dispute, therefore, by honouring me with the preference which the unequivocal offer of my hand merits.”
Ellen stood dumb and motionless, looking stedfastly down at the hem of her jerkin, which she was nibbling with her hands. She dared not lift an eye to either of the brothers, though apparently conscious that she ought to have recognised the claims of Francis.
“Ellen, I need not tell you that I love you,” said Thomas, in a light and careless manner, as if certain that his appeal would be successful; “nor need I attempt to tell how dearly and how long I will love you, for, in faith, I cannot. Will you make the discovery for yourself, by deciding in my favour?”
Ellen looked up. There was a smile on her face; an arch, mischievous, and happy smile, but it turned not on Thomas. Her face turned to the contrary side, but yet the beam of that smile fell not on Francis, who stood in a state of as terrible suspense between hope and fear, as a Roman Catholic sinner at the gate of heaven, who has implored St Peter to open the gate, and awaits a final answer. The die of his fate was soon cast; for Ellen, looking one way, yet moving another, straightway threw herself into Thomas Beattie’s arms, exclaiming, “Ah, Tom! I fear I am doing that which I shall rue, but I must trust to your generosity; for, bad as you are, I like you the best!”
Thomas took her in his arms, and kissed her; but before he could say a word in return, the despair and rage of his brother, breaking forth over every barrier of reason, interrupted him.
“This is the trick of a coward, to screen himself from the chastisement he deserves. But you escape me not thus. Follow me, if you dare!” And as he said this, Francis rushed from the house, shaking his naked sword at his brother.
Ellen trembled with agitation at the young man’s rage; and while Thomas still continued to assure her of his unalterable affection, Mrs Jane Jerdan entered, plucking her apron so as to make it twang like a bowstring.
“What’s a’ this, Squire Tummas? Are we to be habbled out o’ house and hadding by this outrageous young lawyer o’ yours? By the souls o’ the Jerdans, I’ll kick up sic a stour about his lugs as shall blind the juridical een o’ him! Its’ queer that men should study the law only to learn to break it. Sure am I, nae gentleman, that hasna been bred a lawyer, wad come into a neighbour’s house bullyragging that gate, wi’ sword in han’, malice prepense in his eye, and venom on his tongue. Just as if a lassie hadna her ain freedom o’ choice, because a fool has been pleased to ask her! Haud the grip you hae, niece Nell; ye hae made a wise choice for aince. Tam’s the man for my money! Folk are a’ wise ahint the hand, but real wisdom lies taking time by the forelock. But, Squire Tam, the thing that I want to ken is this—Are you going to put up wi’ a’ that bullying and threatening, or do you propose to chastise the fool according to his folly?”
“In truth, Mrs Jane, I am very sorry for my brother’s behaviour, and could not, with honour, yield any more than I did to pacify him. But he must be humbled. It would not do to suffer him to carry matters with so high a hand.”
“Now, wad ye be but advised and leave him to me, I would play him sic a plisky as he shouldna forget till his dying day. By the souls o’ the Jerdans, I would! Now, promise to me that ye winna fight him.”
“O promise, promise!” cried Ellen, vehemently; “for the sake of Heaven’s love, promise my aunt that.”
Thomas smiled and shook his head, as much as if he had said, “You do not know what you are asking.” Mrs Jane went on.
“Do it then—do it with a vengence; and remember this, that wherever ye set the place o’ combat, be it in hill or dale, deep linn or moss hag, I shall have a thirsdman there to encourage you on. I shall give you a meeting you little wot of!”
Thomas Beattie took all this for words of course, as Mrs Jane was well known for a raving, ranting old maid, whose vehemence few regarded, though a great many respected her for the care she had taken of her sister’s family, and a greater number still regarded her with terror, as a being possessed of superhuman powers; so after many expressions of the fondest love for Ellen, he took his leave, his mind being made up how it behoved him to deal with his brother.
I forgot to mention before, that old Beattie lived at Nether Cassway with his family; and his eldest son Thomas at Over Cassway, having, on his father’s entering into a second marriage, been put in possession of that castle and these lands. Francis, of course, lived in his father’s house when in Scotland; and it was thus that his brother knew nothing of his frequent visits to Ellen Scott.
That night, as soon as Thomas went home, he despatched a note to his brother to the following purport: That he was sorry for the rudeness and unreasonableness of his behaviour. But if, on coming to himself, he was willing to make an apology before his mistress, then he (Thomas) would gladly extend to him the right hand of love and brotherhood; but if he refused this, he would please to meet him on the Crook of Glendearg next morning by the sunrising. Francis returned for answer, that he would meet him at the time and place appointed. There was then no farther door of reconciliation left open, but Thomas still had hopes of managing him even on the combat field.
Francis slept little that night, being wholly set on revenge for the loss of his beloved mistress; and a little after daybreak he arose, and putting himself in light armour, proceeded to the place of rendezvous. He had farther to go than his elder brother, and on coming in sight of the Crook of Glendearg, he perceived the latter there before him. He was wrapt in his cavalier’s cloak, and walking up and down the Crook with impassioned strides, on which Francis soliloquized as follows, as he hasted on:—“Ah, ha! so Tom is here before me! This is what I did not expect, for I did not think the flagitious dog had so much spirit or courage in him as to meet me. I am glad he has! for how I long to chastise him, and draw some of the pampered blood from that vain and insolent heart, which has bereaved me of all I held dear on earth.”
In this way did he cherish his wrath till close at his brother’s side, and then, addressing him in the same insolent terms, he desired him to cease his cowardly cogitations and draw. His opponent instantly wheeled about, threw off his horseman’s cloak, and presented his sword; and, behold, the young man’s father stood before him, armed and ready for action! The sword fell from Francis’ hand, and he stood appalled, as if he had been a statue, unable either to utter a word or move a muscle.
“Take up thy sword, caitiff, and let it work thy ruthless work of vengeance here. Is it not better that thou shouldst pierce this old heart, worn out with care and sorrow, and chilled by the ingratitude of my race, than that of thy gallant and generous brother, the representative of our house, and the chief of our name? Take up thy sword, I say, and if I do not chastise thee as thou deservest, may heaven reft the sword of justice from the hand of the avenger!”
“The God of heaven forbid that I should ever lift my sword against my honoured father!” said Francis.
“Thou darest not, thou traitor and coward!” returned the father. “I throw back the disgraceful terms in thy teeth which thou usedst to thy brother. Thou camest here boiling with rancour to shed his blood; and when I appear in person for him, thou darest not accept the challenge.”
“You never did me wrong, my dear father; but my brother has wronged me in the tenderest part.”
“Thy brother never wronged thee intentionally, thou deceitful and sanguinary fratricide. It was thou alone who forced this quarrel upon him; and I have great reason to suspect thee of a design to cut him off, that the inheritance and the maid might both be thine own. But here I swear by Him that made me, and the Redeemer that saved me, if thou wilt not go straight and kneel to thy brother for forgiveness, confessing thy injurious treatment, and swearing submission to thy natural chief, I will banish thee from my house and presence for ever, and load thee with a parent’s curse.”
The young scholar, being utterly astounded at his father’s words, and at the awful and stern manner in which he addressed him, whom he had never before reprimanded, was wholly overcome. He kneeled to his parent, and implored his forgiveness, promising, with tears, to fulfil every injunction which it would please him to enjoin; and on this understanding, the two parted on amicable and gracious terms.