The Brownie of Bodsbeck, and Other Tales Volume Ii Part 18

CHAPTER VI.

As the beautiful fairy-dame, or guardian spirit, or whatever she was, had predicted, so it came to pa.s.s. The Borderers, alarmed at the danger of the king, came down a thousand strong, thinking to surprise Douglas, and take their monarch out of his hands by force; and they would have effected it with ease, had not the Earl received some secret intelligence of their design. No one ever knew whence he had this intelligence, nor could he comprehend or explain it himself, but it had the effect of defeating the bold and heroic attempt. They found him fully prepared--a desperate battle ensued--120 men were left dead on the field--and then things remained precisely in the same state as they had been before.

The court left Melrose shortly after--the king felt as if he stood on uncertain ground--a sort of mystery always hung around him, which he never could develope; but ere he went, he presided at the trial of the maiden Pery, who stood indicted, as the _Choronikkle of Mailros_ bears, for being "Ane ranke wytche and enchaunteresse, and leigged hand and kneife with the devil."

A secret examination of the parties first took place, and the proof was so strong against the hapless Pery, that all hopes of escape vanished.

There was Croudy ready to make oath to the truth of all that he had advanced with regard to his trans.m.u.tation, and there were others who had seen her coming down from the Moss-Thorn at the very time that Croudy appeared to have been changed, just before he made his dashing entry into the loan among the cows; and even old Father Rubely had, after minute investigation, discovered the witch-mark, both on her neck and thumb-nail. The king would gladly have saved her, when he beheld her youth and beauty, but he had sworn to rid the country of witches, and no excuse could be found. All the people of the country were sorry on account of Pery, but all believed her guilty, and avoided her, except Gale, who, having had the courage to visit her, tried her with the repet.i.tion of prayers and creeds, and found that she not only said them without hesitation, but with great devotional warmth; therefore he became convinced that she was not a witch. She told him her tale with that simplicity, that he could not disbelieve it, and withal confessed, that her inquisitors had very nearly convinced her that she was a witch; and that she was on the point of making a confession that had not the slightest foundation in truth. The shepherd was more enlightened than the worthy clergyman, as shepherds generally are, and accounted for this phenomenon in a truly philosophical way. Pery a.s.sented; for whatever Gale said sounded to her heart as the sweetest and most sensible thing that ever was said. She loved him to distraction, and adversity had subtilized, not abated the flame. Gale found his heart interested--he pitied her, and pity is allied to love. How to account for the transformation of Croudy, both were completely at a loss; but they agreed that it was the age of witchery, and no one could say what might happen! Gale was never from the poor culprit's side: He condoled with her--wept over her--and even took her in his arms, and impressed a tender kiss on her pale lips. It was the happiest moment of Pery's existence! She declared, that since she was pure in his eyes, she would not only suffer without repining, but with delight.

As a last resource, Gale sought out Croudy, and tried to work upon him to give a different evidence at the last and final trial; but all that he could say, Croudy remained obstinately bent on her destruction.

"It's needless for ye to waste your wind clatterin English, man," said Croudy, "for foul fa' my gab gin I say ony sic word. She didna only change me intil an ill-faurd he-sow, but guidit me shamefully ill a' the time I was a goossy--kickit me wi' her fit, an' yerkit me wi' a rung till I squeeled, and then leuch at me--An' warst ava, gae the butcher her gairtens to bind me, that he might get me bled, an' plott.i.t, an'

made into beef-steaks--de'il be on her gin I be nae about wi' her now!"

Gale, hoping that he would relent if he saw her woeful plight, besought of him to go and see her; but this he absolutely refused, for fear lest she should "turn him into some daft-like beast," as he expressed it.

"Let her tak it," said he, "she weel deserves a' that she's gaun to get--the sooner she gets a fry the better--Odd, there's nae body sure o'

himsel a minute that's near her--I never gang ower the door but I think I'll come in a goossy or a cuddy-a.s.s--How wad ye like to gang plowin up the gittars for worms and dockan-roots wi' your nose, as I did!"

It was in vain that Gale a.s.sured him of her innocence, and told him how religious she was, and how well she loved him. Croudy remained obstinate.

"I wadna gie a boddle," said he, "for a woman's religion, nor for her love neither--mere traps for moudiworts. They may gar a fool like you trow that ae thing's twa, an' his lug half a bannock--Gin I wad rue an'

save her life, it wadna be lang till I saw her carrying you out like a taed in the erntings, an' thrawin ye ower the a.s.s-midden."

Gale asked if he would save her, if she would pledge herself to marry him, and love him for ever?

"Me marry a witch!" said Croudy--"A bonny hand she would make o' me, sooth! Whenever I displeased her, turn me into a beast--But ilka woman has that power," added he with a grin,--"an' I fancy few o' them mislippin it. The first kind thought I ever had toward a woman made a beast o' me--an' it will do the same wi' every man as weel as me, gin he wist it. As she has made her bed, she may lie down. I shall fling a sprot to the lowe."

Gale was obliged to give him up, but in the deepest bitterness of soul he gave him his malison, which, he a.s.sured him, would not fall to the ground. Pery was tried, and condemned to be choaked and burnt at the stake on the following day; and Croudy, instead of relenting, was so much afraid of himself, that he was all impatience until the cruel scene should be acted. His behaviour had, however, been witnessed and detested by some of whom he was not aware; for that very evening, as he was on his way home, he beheld a nymph coming to meet him, whom he took for Pery, dressed in her Sunday clothes, for one of the mysterious maids had taken her form. He was terrified out of his wits when he beheld her at liberty, and falling flat on his face, he besought her, with a loud voice, to have mercy on him.

"Such as you have bestowed," said she; and giving him three strokes with her wand, he was changed into a strong brindled cat, in which form, he remains to this day; and the place of his abode is no secret to the relater of this tale. He hath power one certain night in the year to resume his natural shape, and all the functions of humanity; and that night he dedicates to the relation of the adventures of each preceding year. Many a secret and unsuspected amour, and many a strange domestic scene, hath he witnessed, in his capacity of mouser, through so many generations; and a part of these are now in the hands of a gentleman of this country, who intends making a good use of them.

Poor Pery, having thus fallen a victim to the superst.i.tion of the times, she wist not how, was pitied and shunned by all except Gale, whom nothing could tear from her side; and all the last day and night that were destined for her to live, they lay clasped in each other's arms.

While they were thus conversing in the most tender and affectionate way, Pery told her lover a dream that she had seen the night before. She dreamed, she said, that they were changed into two beautiful birds, and had escaped away into a wild and delightful mountain, where they lived in undecaying happiness and felicity, and fed on the purple blooms of the heath.

"O that some pitying power--some guardian angel over the just and the good, would but do this for us!" said Gale, "and release my dearest Pery from this ignominious death!" and as he said this, he clasped his beloved maiden closer and closer in his arms. They both wept, and, in this position, they sobbed themselves sound asleep.

Next morning, before the rising of the sun, two young ladies, beautiful as cherubs, came to the jailor and asked admittance to the prisoner, by order of the king. The jailor took off his bonnet, bowed his grey head, and opened to them. The two lovers were still fast asleep, locked in each other's arms, in a way so endearing, and at the same time so modest, that the two sisters stood for a considerable time bending over them in delightful amazement.

"There is a delicacy and a pathos in this love," said the one, "into which the joys of sense have shed no ingredient. As their innocence in life hath been, so shall it remain;" and kneeling down, she gave three gentle strokes with her small golden rod, touching both with it at a time. The two lovers trembled, and seemed to be in slight convulsions; and in a short time they fluttered round the floor two beautiful moor-fowl, light of heart, and elated with joy. The two lovely and mysterious visitors then took them up, wrapt them in their snowy veils, and departed, each of them carrying one; and coming to Saint Michael's Cross, they there dismissed them from their palms, after addressing them severally as follows:

"Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen!

Keep to the south of the Skelf-hill Pen; Blithe be thy heart, and soft thy bed, Amang the blooms of the heather so red.

When the weird is sped that I must dree, I'll come and dwell in the wild with thee.

Keep thee afar from the fowler's ken-- Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen."

"c.o.c.k of the mountain, and king of the moor, A maiden's bennison be thy dower; For gentle and kind hath been thy life, Free from malice, and free from strife.

Light be thy heart on the mountain grey, And loud thy note at the break of day.

When five times fifty years are gone, I'll seek thee again 'mong the heath alone, And change thy form, if that age shall prove An age that virtue and truth can love.

True be thy love, and far thy reign, On the Border dale, till I see thee again."

When the jailor related what had happened, it may well be conceived what consternation prevailed over the whole country. The two moor-fowl were soon discovered on a wild hill in Tiviotdale, where they have remained ever since, until last year, that Wauchope shot the hen. He suspected what he had done, and was extremely sorry, but kept the secret to himself. On viewing the beauty of the bird, however, he said to himself,--"I believe I have liked women as well as any man, but not so well as to eat them; however, I'll play a trick upon some, and see its effect." Accordingly he sent the moor-hen to a friend of his in Edinburgh, at whose table she was divided among a circle of friends and eaten, on the 20th of October 1817, and that was the final end of poor Pery, the Maid of Eildon. The effect on these gentlemen has been prodigious--the whole structure of their minds and feelings has undergone a complete change, and that grievously to the worse; and even their outward forms, on a near inspection, appear to be altered considerably. This change is so notorious as to have become proverbial all over the New Town of Edinburgh. When any one is in a querulous or peevish humour, they say,--"He has got a wing of Wauchope's moor-hen."

The c.o.c.k is still alive, and well known to all the sportsmen on the Border, his habitation being on the side of Caret Rigg, which no moor-fowl dares to approach. As the five times fifty years are very nearly expired, it is hoped no gentleman will be so thoughtless as wantonly to destroy this wonderful and mysterious bird, and we may then live to have the history of the hunting, the fowling, fishing, and pastoral employments of that district, with all the changes that have taken place for the last two hundred and fifty years, by an eye-witness of them.

The king returned towards Edinburgh on the 14th of September, and on his way had twelve witches condemned and burnt at the Cross of Leader, after which act of duty his conscience became a good deal lightened, and his heart cheered in the ways of goodness; he hoped, likewise, to be rid of the spells of those emissaries of Satan that had beleaguered him all his life.

After they had pa.s.sed the Esk, his two favourite white hounds were missing; the huntsmen judged them to be following some track, and waited till night, calling them always now and then aloud by their names. They were however lost, and did not return, nor could they ever be found, although called at every Cross in the kingdom, and high rewards offered.

On that very eve Elen and Clara of Rosline returned to their native halls, after having been lost for seven weeks. They came to the verge of the tall cliff towards the east, from whence they had a view of the stately towers of Rosline, then in their pride of baronial strength.

The sun had shed his last ray from the summit of the distant Ochils; the Esk murmured in obscurity far below their feet; its peaceful bendings here and there appeared through the profusion of woodland foliage, uniting the brightness of crystal with the hues of the raven. All the linns and woody banks of the river re-echoed the notes of the feathered choir. To have looked on such a scene, one might have conceived that he dwelt in a world where there was neither sin nor sorrow; but, alas! the imperfections of our nature cling to us; they wind themselves round the fibres of the conscious heart, so that no draught of pure and untainted delight can ever allay its immortal earnings. How different would such a scene appear to perfect and sinless creatures, whose destiny did not subject them to the terrors of death, and the hideous and mouldy recesses of the grave! Were it possible for us to conceive that two such beings indeed looked on it, we might form some idea of their feelings, and even these faint ideas would lend a triple grandeur and beauty to such an evening, and indeed to every varied scene of nature, on which our eyes chanced to rest.

"Sister," said Clara, "we are again in sight of our native home, and the walks of our days of innocence; say, are our earthly forms and affections to be resumed, or are our bonds with humanity to be broken for ever? You have now witnessed the king of Scotland's private life--all his moods, pa.s.sions, and affections--are you content to be his queen, and sovereign of the realm?"

"Sooner would I be a worm that crawls among these weeds, than subject myself to the embraces, humours, and caprices of such a thing--A king is a block, and his queen a puppet--happiness, truth, and purity of heart are there unknown--Mention some other tie to nature, or let us bid it adieu for ever without a sigh."

"We have a widowed mother, beautiful, affectionate, and kind."

"That is the only bond with mortality which I find it difficult to break, for it is a wicked and licentious world--snares were laid for us on every side--our innocence was no shield--and, sister, do not you yet tremble to think of the whirlpool of conflicting pa.s.sions and follies from which we were so timeously borne away?"

The lovely Clara bowed a.s.sent; and away they went hand in hand once more to visit and embrace their earthly parent. They found her in the arms of a rude and imperious pirate, to whom she had subjected herself and her wide domains. They found themselves step-daughters in the halls that of right belonged to them, and instead of fond love and affection, regarded with jealousy and hate. Short and sorrowful was their stay; they embraced their mother once again; bade her farewell with looks of sorrow, and walking out to the fairy ring in the verge of the wood, vanished from the world for ever. It is said, that once in every seven years their forms are still to be seen hovering nigh to the ruins of Rosline. Many are the wild and incomprehensible traditions that remain of them over the country, and there are likewise some romantic sc.r.a.ps of song, besides the verses that are preserved in the foregoing chapter, which are supposed to relate to them. Many have heard the following verses chaunted to a tune resembling a dirge:

"Lang may our king look, An' sair mot he rue; For the twin flowers o' Rosline His hand shall never pu'.

Lie thy lane, step-dame; An' liefu' be thy lair; For the bonny flowers o' Rosline Are gane for evermair."

"O tell nae the news in the kitchen, An' tell nae the news in the ha', An' tell nae the news in the hee hee tower Amang our fair ladies a'.

How damp were the dews o' the gloamin', How wet were her hose and her shoon; Or wha met wi' fair Lady Rosline By the ee light o' the moon!"

"Douglas has lost his ba.s.sonet, The king his hawk, and milk-white hound; And merry Maxwell has taen the bent, And its hey! and its ho! for the English ground!"

"When seven lang years were come an' gane, By yon auld castle wa'; There she beheld twa bonny maids A playing at the ba;

But wha shall speak to these fair maids Aneath the waning moon; O they maun dree a waesome weird, That never will be doone!"