Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XX Part 8

Within a few hours after his liberation, he was on his way to England, in company with Lady Arabella. He had devoted the whole period of his imprisonment to writing letters to her, and venting curses against Scotland. Margaret Williamson was forgotten, in the hope of finding in the arms of Lady Arabella a panacea for his wrongs, and a solace of his sufferings--for it is as true as it is remarkable, that the truly wicked are the most querulous of justice, and the most impatient of her retributions.

Nothing was, for a long time, heard of Sir Willoughby; but she whom he had ruined and deserted, remained to the inhabitants of Edinburgh as an object of their pity, and an example to their children. Margaret bore a son, and Janet Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for the loss of Adam.

Margaret was thus left to the charity of a world which is often moved to pity only through the selfish conceit of a comparison between the alms-giver and the alms-receiver, and begged her bread from the doors of the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

Now, it was five years after the transactions I have detailed, and when King James had been nearly as long seated on the throne of England, that Lionel Apsley, a gentleman in the confidence of the king, arrived in Edinburgh. He was observed to make inquiries after a person of the name of Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he was informed, resided in a small ground room in the White Horse Close, in the Canongate of Edinburgh. A man who was standing at the top of Leith Wynd took him to Margaret's residence. Upon entering the humble abode, he found the object of his search making porridge for the son of the English knight.

Lionel entered into conversation with Margaret, and endeavoured to draw her into a recital of the story of her life; but she evaded, though in the gentlest manner, his efforts, stating, that her griefs and her secrets were her own, and that the making the one known would not make the other unfelt. She had been much annoyed, she said, by the impertinent interrogations of gossiping people, who often insulted her by withholding their charity when they found their love of gossip ungratified.

Lionel made many visits to Margaret, and, by degrees, succeeded in breaking down her reluctance to speak of herself. He told her, that he had been commissioned to visit her, and had come down to Scotland for the sole purpose of seeing and serving her, and pledged his honour, as a gentleman, that the only use he would make of her information would be in turning it to her advantage. He was evidently already well acquainted with many parts of her story; but the chief object of his inquiry related to the written promise of marriage which, he had been given to understand, she had got from Sir Willoughby. Margaret, at first, would not admit that any such doc.u.ment existed, and appeared to feel acute pain from Lionel's urgent solicitation to see it. Overcome, at last, by his importunity, she went to a little chest, which was secreted in a recess dug into the wall of her apartment, and having drawn it out, and opened it with trembling hands, she took from it the small, but curiously folded piece of paper, still retaining the fragrance with which Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested it. With conclusive sobs, Margaret looked at the paper, and handed it to the stranger. Lionel read it, and found it to contain the following words, written in a small affected character, which bore evident traces of having been penned by the writer when in a state bordering at least on intoxication. "Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset Hall, knight of the n.o.ble order of--(here there was drawn a rude image of George and the dragon)--doth, by these lines, declare that he doth truly intend to wed Margaret Williamson, and this he promises to do on the faith of a knight of the order to which he belongs. Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 26th day of April, in the year of the succession of King James to the throne of England."

This doc.u.ment Lionel copied, and having returned the original to Margaret, he asked her if she would accompany him to London.

"If it be to meet Sir Willoughby Somerset," answered she, "I will sooner walk to the graves o' Sir Patrick Spence and the Scottish lords wha lie between Leith and Aberdour."

"It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my fair maiden," said Sir Lionel; "and if thou wilt trust to the honour of one who is your friend, I promise thee thou shalt not have cause to regret thy journey."

After much solicitation, Margaret agreed to go to London and take her child with her; and Lionel having got her equipped in a manner so as to escape observation, they departed for London, where they arrived after ten days' travelling. On their arrival, Margaret and her child were taken to respectable lodgings, where she was requested to remain till Lionel called for her.

After some days, a coach drove up to the door, and a lady, carrying a bundle, came out, and asked to be shown to the apartment occupied by the Scotch lady. This was the wife of Lionel, who brought with her a number of specimens of tartan, which she exhibited to Margaret, requesting her to point out the kind she wore when she lived with Adam Hunter. This Margaret did; and the next request made by the lady was, that Margaret should describe to her the shape of the garments, and the manner in which she wore them; all of which Margaret complied with, and the lady departed.

In two days more, the same lady called with the garment made, and requested Margaret to put them on, and, with the child, accompany her to the place where she was going. Margaret complied, and they departed together in a coach. After driving for some little time, the coach stopped at a large house, into which they entered. The lady led Margaret and her child up a great many stairs, and round winding pa.s.sages, until they came to a room, where she was requested to remain. After waiting about ten minutes, a gentleman of a fair complexion entered, and shook her kindly by the hand, launching, at the same time, and without any explanation, into a quick spoken and confused speech, which formed a part of his salutation.

"Why, woman, didna ye mak' some legal use o' the bit paper ye got frae your braw lover, Sir Willoughby Somerset? Can it be possible that ye didna ken, that by the law o' your country, a promise o' marriage, coupled wi' a--a--hem! hem!--a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, as gude a marriage as if it were celebrated wi' a' the solemnities o' haly kirk? By my royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silly la.s.sie, whatever folk may sae o' ye, praising ye for the hich and michtie honour ye made sae meikle fashion o', to save the life o' a ne'er-do-weel villain, wha ruined ye, and slew his servant, and cheated the wuddy o' my countrie, though made o' guid aik, a mair suitable wife to him, G.o.d wot, than the like o' ye. But lat that alane--_tempus reparabit_--ha! ha! ye ken naething o' Latin, I fancy, but I meant only by that flicht to tell ye that ye will be revenged."

While in the act of delivering this strange speech, the gentleman began to drag Margaret, somewhat rudely, out of the room where they were, into another; his speech and the dragging operation going on at the same time. She now found herself in a large hall, where she saw an elevated chair overshaded by a canopy of crimson velvet, on the top of which was a crown. The gentleman, still in the same confused manner--speaking sometimes to himself, and sometimes to her--shoved her behind a small screen, apparently placed there for the purpose of concealing some one, telling her to remain there until she was called for.

The folding doors of the apartment now opened, and Margaret heard the voices of heralds, and saw a great number of high-dressed ladies and gentlemen come in, and stand round the elevated chair. Among these she observed Sir Willoughby Somerset, and a lady (the same she had seen in the garden of the House of Gordon) leaning upon his arm. "Come forth, Margaret Williamson," cried the gentleman who had first spoken to her; and Margaret, with her tartan plaid around her, and her child at her foot, stood before King James. Opposite to her stood Sir Willoughby Somerset and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, and forming a strange and striking contrast with the plaided stranger.

"I am right glad," said James, "to see my auld subjects o' my native kingdom; and I greet ye weel, Peggy Williamson, and wish ye and your bairn mony braw days. I also greet ye weel, Sir Willoughby Somerset, Knight, and your braw leddie, wha is, nevertheless, only your wife, in sae meikle as she is nearest your heart, in the fashion o' the connection whilk exists between our auld Scotch wuddy and the heart o'

Mid-Loudon. But awa wi' this--_Et nunc labores exantlare_--whilk means, to wark, to wark. Ken ye this Scotch la.s.sie, Sir Willoughby Somerset?"

"No, sire," answered the knight, in evident confusion, but still retaining a portion of his natural impudence.

"It's fause, sir," answered the King, whose choler now rose to the boiling point of his royal fervour--"It's fause, sir; ye ken her as weel as did our royal faither our royal mither, or as Hamman did his wuddy, whilk was made o' sweet-smelling cedar, as is clearly made out by the learned Chrysostom. I canna believe you; for our royal brither Solomon hath said, that if a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants shall be wicked. But, maybe, ye may ken your ain handwriting better than ye do the la.s.sie. Look at that, man; do ye ken that?"

Sir Willoughby was silent.

"I will take your silence, man, for an ill-favoured confession; and now, sir, let it be understood by ye, that that bit writing and that bit callant--wha doesna ken ye sae weel as ye ken his mither--maks a gude marriage by the law o' Scotland. I dinna mean, sir, in the presence o'

this a.s.sembly, to disgrace ye, mair than will serve the purposes o'

justice; and I leave ye to reflect, if ye hae sic a thing about ye as reflection, how ye treated this po'r la.s.sie, wham ye ruined, and wha, though fire, and famine, and death, and scorpions, are given, as Ecclesiasticus says, for vengeance, sat quietly and--seeking nae other satisfaction--sucked, wi' her honied lips, the poison which your shaft carried to her broken heart; and wha, though exposed to terrible and racking tortures, saved, on twa occasions, your life, regardless o' her ain. Now, sir, though the la.s.sie can claim ye as her husband, she alane has the power o' severing that connection on the ground o' your cohabitation wi' that leddie, wham ye call your wife; whilk power, by my advice, she will doubtless exercise. But, sir, there maun here be a _solatium_; and I ask you if you are willing to sign that paper whilk Lionel Apsley is ready to shaw ye?"

Sir Willoughby took the doc.u.ment, which purported to be a conveyance to Margaret Williamson, in liferent, and her son in fee, of one-half of the domain of Somerset Hall, calculated to amount to 2,000 a year; and, having read it, he seemed to hesitate to sign it. During his hesitation, James whispered in his ear the name of Richard Foster. His manner changed, and he signed the deed.

Margaret Williamson received the deed from the King, giving, in return, one of her best curtsies. She came down to Scotland, prosecuted a divorce against Sir Willoughby Somerset, and lived a much honoured and respected lady, in Edinburgh, for many years.

THE BARLEY BANNOCK

Between Falkirk and Stirling are the remains of a wood, even yet pretty extensive, which existed in the times of Wallace and Bruce. It is the well-known Torwood, so frequently mentioned in the histories of these Scottish heroes, and so celebrated for the shelter and concealment it afforded them on frequent occasions during their seasons of adversity.

In those days, however, if we may believe old chronicles, the Torwood covered a great deal more ground than it does now, extending, on its northern side, it is said, to the banks of the Forth, a distance of about four miles. Experiencing the fate of our other ancient woods, the progress of cultivation and improvement has now greatly lessened its extent; but it forms even in the present day, a singularly striking and impressive piece of sylvian scenery. Its outward characteristics, striking as they are, may not differ from those of other forests; but there are a.s.sociations connected with the Torwood, which fill its sombre, solitary depths and recesses with a profound and solemn mystery, and which diffuse throughout its picturesque glades a golden atmosphere of poetry and romance. The spirit of the olden time is there, and has flung its bewitching glamoury around the forest scene. There are few who have wandered through its green arcades, and have penetrated its far and gloomy depths, with a knowledge and recollection of the scenes which they have witnessed, and the sounds they have heard--the mustering of Wallace's patriot bands, and the stirring strains of the bugle of Bruce--few, we say, who have roamed through the dark solitudes of the Torwood, and who have thought of these things, but must have felt the fullest, the deepest effect of those sacred a.s.sociations and recollections which enshrine the memory of the mighty dead.

At the period we refer to, namely, the glorious period when Bruce was struggling to complete the work which his great predecessor Wallace had begun--to compa.s.s the independence of Scotland--a rude little cottage or bothy reared its humble form on the eastern skirts of the Torwood, or rather a little way within the verge of the forest.

This lowly and lonely domicile was then occupied by a widow woman of the name of Margaret Grahame. Her husband had been killed, some years previous to the period at which we introduce her to the notice of the reader, in a skirmish with a party of the English garrison from Stirling; and she was thus left to bring up, as she best might, a family of young children; the eldest of whom, a beautiful girl, named after her mother, was only nine years of age at the time of her husband's death.

Margaret, however, was not one of those women who sink under misfortune--who unresistingly yield to the pressure of calamity. In that which had befallen her, she only saw an additional reason for redoubling those exertions in behalf of her family which had never, at any time, been wanting. After her husband's death, she continued to cultivate, with the a.s.sistance of her children, the little patch of ground, which, together with a small track of pasturage, on which two cows, her whole stock of b.e.s.t.i.a.l, grazed, formed her only means of subsistence.

Small and humble as these means were, however, the industry and thrifty management of Margaret Grahame rendered them sufficient to place herself and family beyond the reach of want. The fare, indeed, which she could put before her children, was homely enough in quality, but it was abundant.

In character, Margaret, who had been a remarkably good-looking woman in her day, and who was even yet a comely dame to look upon, was what we, in Scotland here, call "furthy." She was a lively, rattling, kind-hearted, out-spoken person; warm in her feelings, active in all her habits, and possessing a natural courage and presence of mind, that singularly fitted her for performing the duties of friendship in cases of difficulty, danger, or distress.

Such, then, was Margaret Grahame, and such were the circ.u.mstances in which she was placed at the period when we bring her before the reader.

These essential preliminary matters recorded, we proceed to say, that, on a certain evening, a wet and stormy one, in the month of October, 1307, as Margaret was busily employed, with the a.s.sistance of her eldest daughter--the younger children having been put to bed--in toasting some barley meal bannocks before the fire, some one rapped smartly at the door.

"Wha's there?" exclaimed Margaret, in some surprise at the lateness of the visit, and little accustomed to the calls of either friends or foes at her remote and solitary dwelling, wondering who the person could be who sought admittance. To her inquiry, a mellow-toned, but masculine voice replied--that the person without was one who had no other place of shelter to go to for the night, and who would cheerfully pay for a little refreshment, and an hour or two's shelter from the storm.

"A houseless stranger! Rin Margaret and open the door and let him in."

"I'm feart, mother," replied the timid girl, holding back, and putting her finger to her mouth.

"Feart, ye little cowardly thing; what are ye feart for?" exclaimed Mrs Grahame, hastening herself to the door. "Wha wad do us ony harm, ye gowk," she continued, as she undid the fastenings of the door; "and is't feer, think ye, that's to hinder us frae gien shelter to the shelterless, or food to the hungry?"

As she uttered the last word, she flung the door widely and boldly open; and there entered a figure which might well have appalled even the stout heart of Margaret Grahame. This figure was that of a man of gigantic stature and powerful frame, wearing a steel cap and shirt of mail that glanced through the openings of a leathern doublet by which it was covered, and in some measure concealed. From a belt which pa.s.sed over his right shoulder, depended a sword of dimension corresponding to the tremendous strength indicated by the proportions of the wearer; and in another belt, which pa.s.sed round his middle, and which was joined in front by a silver clasp, part of whose fashioning displayed two lion's heads, was stuck a richly hilted dagger. A small silver bugle horn, which was suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal, completed his appointments.

On the entrance of this formidable figure, the little girl uttered a scream of terror, and flew to a remote corner of the apartment. The gigantic stranger smiled, and, turning to her mother, said--

"I am sorry that my appearance is so alarming as to make young ladies fly me. I would have them believe that I would much sooner protect than injure them. G.o.d forbid it should ever be otherwise. Come hither, my little primrose, and let me a.s.sure thee of all safety at my hands." And the stranger drew out a silken purse and took from it a small gold coin, which he seemed desirous of presenting to the little fugitive fair one.

He was, however, interrupted.

"Never mind her, sir; never mind her," said her mother, who now perceived that her guest was a person apparently of some note; "she'll sune learn no to be sae frichtened for the men. Sit doon, sir, sit doon.

Tak a seat, and throw aff your wat jerkin, and I'll gie ye a pair o' my puir gude-man's stockins to draw on, for I'm sure ye're soakit to the skin; and a pair o' slippers to yer feet." And while the kindly-hearted and hospitable woman was thus rattling away, she was actively employed in seeking out the various comforts which she enumerated.

In a very few minutes after, the portly figure of the stranger filled the favourite arm-chair, by the fire, of Mrs Grahame's late husband, in as comfortable a plight as the hospitable attentions of his hostess could place him. Several of these, however, he declined. He would not part with his boots, nor divest himself of any part of his apparel or appointments, excepting his steel cap and sword, both of which he placed on the floor close by his chair, as if desirous that they should be within reach on the slightest appearance of emergency.

"Now, my good dame," said the stranger, after enjoying for a few minutes the invigorating warmth of a blazing fire, which his hostess had heaped with f.a.ggots for his comfort, "I must be plain enough to tell ye that I am famishing of hunger, and that these barley bannocks of yours look most tempting."

"And do ye think, sir, I wasna gaun to mak ye an offer o' a tastin o'

them? That wad be a gay churlish like thing, I think; I was but waiting till they war ready, to place some o' them before ye, wi' a soup milk, and a bit b.u.t.ter, cheese, and a cauler egg or twa. Ye'll hae them a' in ten minutes, and welcome."

"Thank you, my kind lady, thank you; and now, with your leave," added Margaret's guest, whose hunger seemed to be in one of its most active moods--"I'll just see what state the bannocks are in," and he stretched out his hand, took one from the fire, blew on it, tossed it quickly to and fro in his hands--for it was too hot to hold steadily--and, finally, when it had cooled a little, broke it, took a mouthful, p.r.o.nounced it nearly ready, and, with great gusto, despatched the remainder.

"Dear me, man," said Mrs Grahame, who witnessed this gastronomic feat of her guest with a feeling of increased compa.s.sion for his condition; "but ye are awfu' hungry, I dare say, or ye wadna hae eaten a half-raw barley bannock that way."

"The sweetest morsel ever I ate in my life!" replied the stranger, smiling. "I'll never forget it; nor you either, my good dame."

"Pho, nonsense, man; but I see you're dreadfu' hungry;" and she commenced an active turn of the bannocks, to expedite the process of toasting.