After it became known that the wily Sir Robert Carey had hurried away from the deathbed of Queen Elizabeth, to announce to the delighted monarch of Scotland his succession to the crown of England, a great many English noblemen and gentlemen came north on much the same errand that brings so many of them at this day—viz., to hunt; the game, in the one case, being place and favour, and in the other, blackcock and grouse. Among the rest, was one Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset-Hall, in Devonshire, a knight of gay and chivalric manners, excellently set off by an exterior on which nature and art had expended their best favours, but exhibiting, at same time, in his total want of true honour and mental acquirements, that tendency to a fair distribution, which nature, in all her departments, delights to display—suggesting, as it did, to an ancient philosopher, that the pulchrum and the utile are dealt out in equal portions under a whimsical law against their union in one person.
Having arrived, with his gay suit of servants and splendid equipage, at the palace of Holyrood, Sir Willoughby was informed that there were no apartments close to the palace which could be given to him for his accommodation, in consequence of the great influx of noble visiters who had come from all parts of Scotland and England to testify their allegiance, and express their satisfaction, whether real or assumed, on the occasion of King James' succession. Sir Willoughby, therefore, took up his abode in a house in the Canongate, which was pulled down more than a hundred years ago—at that time known by the name of the House of Gordon, in consequence, it is supposed, of having at one time been occupied by the ducal family of that name. It was situated on the south side of the street, and nearly opposite to the close called Big Loch-end Close, which possessed at that time a very different appearance from what it does at present; for the double row of low Flemish-looking huts which lined the narrow entry, have given place to modern buildings, which do not look half so well as their more humble predecessors.
Now, in one of these little huts there lived, at that time—unconscious, doubtless, that their names would thus become of historical interest centuries after they were gathered to their fathers—a man called Adam Hunter, and his wife, Janet, both of some importance in the small sphere of their own little gossiping world; but, if these humble individuals had been all that their lowly mansion contained, the chronicler would scarcely have stooped to notice either it or its inhabitants. There was a third inmate in that house—an orphan girl, called Margaret Williamson—a young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about seventeen years of age, of bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, kindness, and meekness of disposition, that endeared her to thousands. Producing that kind of interest and sensation in her own limited circle, which is so often found to be the effect of the mysterious power of beauty, though allied to poverty, which, indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret seemed as unconscious of the magic influence of her charms, as she was of the singular fate that awaited her. She had been heard of where she was not seen; and, innocent and harmless as she was, she had not been passed unheeded by the "wise women" of her day, who, in spite of fire and King James' wrath, provided her, according to their love or their spite, with a prison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. As already hinted, Margaret was represented as being an orphan, brought up by the gratuitous kindness of Adam Hunter and his wife, though there were not wanting some who thought that her parentage was not of the equivocal kind that was represented.
Scotland was not, at that time, so far behind in the love and practice of gossiping, as that there should be any want of the usual kind and number of remarks on the new-comers to the house of Gordon; and the family of Adam Hunter were not behind their neighbours in their curiosity.
"He's a braw knight that wha has come to the House o' Gordon," said Janet Hunter, one night when they were sitting round the fire.
"Ken ye wha, or what, or whence he is," inquired Adam, "atour the mere title an' form o' his knighthood?"
"I ken naething aboot him," replied Janet, "save that his name is Sir Willoughby Somerset, and that he has a great number o' servitors, wham he treats like princes. They say he is gallant and weel-favoured, and Elspet Craig, the wise woman o' the Watergate, says, in her fashion o' speech, that he is a rock whereon the happiness, and peace o' mind, and honour o' mony a bonny maiden may perish, like the silly boats that trust to the smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no cheated, Peggy Williamson can tell mair aboot the knight than a' the 'wise women' frae the Watergate to St. Mary's."
"An' if she can," said Adam, "it may be waur for her than if she were as deep learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries o' that art, whereby she works sae meikle mischief to her faes, and may, peradventure, bring upon her head the vengeance o' the law. I houp better things o' Peggy."
"I ken naething aboot the Knight o' the White Feather," said Margaret, with a deep sigh; "and wherefore should I?—he's far abune my degree."
"But ye ken, at least," rejoined Adam, "that he wears a white feather, my bonny bird—and feathered creatures are flichtie, especially when they're far frae their ain countrie. Even our ain robin, wha condescends to come and eat our crumbs, when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in summer; and, mair than a' that, he's a bird o' prey, and doesna hesitate, when he has a guid opportunity, to soil his bonny red breast wi' the blood o' his companions."