Jane Seton; or, The King's Advocate: A Scottish Historical Romance
same breath with John of Gaddesden," said the physician, indignantly,
as he arose and grasped his sand-glass; "a man whose virtues shone
bright as the rays of Acarnan--the star of Eridanus. Ah! he was a
fortunate man, that John of Gaddesden; he was born when Astroarch,
queen of the planets, was shining in all her glory in Abdevinam--the
head of the twelfth mansion; while I, unhappy! was born, as I have
discovered by the aid of my new astrolabe, on a night of storms."
"Thou hast brought back my poniard, I hope?"
"It is here," replied the visitor, taking a dagger from his belt;
"the _contents_ of this cause death within two hours after they are
taken."
"Two hours?"
"He who imbibes them," he continued, in a low voice, "falleth down
senseless, lifeless, and dies without a groan--suddenly as if shot
with a hand-gun. Sir Michael Scott had this secret of a learned
clerk at Salamanca, whither he rode in one night, and ere daybreak
was again at his castle of Balwearie."
"There is a powder, too--zounds! I had well nigh forgot it: 'the
sleeping powder.'"
"'Tis here," replied the physician, taking a packet from the pocket
that hung at his girdle; "this was first prepared for a caliph of the
East, by Geber, the learned Arabian astrologer, who flourished in the
eighth century, and whose three works on chemistry were published at
Strasbourg seventeen years ago, that is, in 1520."
"Hand it hither: thou weariest me; for, by St. Grisel! all thy messes
seem to be compounded by devils and philosophers."
"Thou still appliest my _Unguentum Armarium_?"
"Regularly," replied the advocate, resuming impatiently the writing
at which he had been interrupted.
"And thy wound?"
"Is almost closed, thank God!"
"Good--good," muttered the physician to himself; "I knew well that my
ointment, compounded of the ashes of that written charm, brayed with
those of the dried Zusalzef of the Arabians, would cure the deadliest
wound; 'tis a potent fruit, for it ripens in the sun, and the sun
acts upon the heart, the source of life."
"I would fain see some of this wonderful fruit."
"I have one in my pouch--behold!"
"'S life! 'tis but a common prune!"
"The _prune_ of the unlettered is the _Zusalzef_ of Geber and
Paracelsus; but farewell, Sir Adam, I go; and omit not to continue
the potion and the _Unguentum Armarium_."
"Devil go with thee for a plague," muttered the advocate, as he
seemingly bowed with courtesy, and became again immersed in his
writing.
Nichol Birrel again approached.
"And this was all thou hadst to tell me?" said Redhall; "that no
tidings had arrived from Douglasdale; and that, in short, neither
Vipont nor young Balquhan had come to blows with any of the Douglas
faction."
"Exactly sae, my lord."
"And that they spent their time in hunting and hawking, with free
inquartering for horse and man, wherever it pleased them to halt."
"Just sae," replied Birrel, with an obsequious nod.
"Thou knowest the lands of my kinsman, Fleming of the Cairntable,
whose bounds they are approaching?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then take a good horse, and ride for your life and death; and take
with thee these three-hundred groats of the fleur-de-lys to pay thy
way. Tell my kinsman Fleming, that I wish this viper, this Vipont I
mean, should take up his last abode in Douglasdale."
"In the kirkyard thereof?"
"Yes, yes; set them by the ears if thou canst; I will see Fleming
skaithless, even though he resists the royal banner; but either by
fair means or foul, keep Vipont from returning here. Dost thou see
this poniard which the apothegar hath just left? observe me, and
observe narrowly."
He unscrewed the pommel, and showed Birrel that the steel knob, which
was hollow, contained several large red grains.
"Each of these grains," said he, carefully rescrewing it, "is a human
life; there are _ten_, and Sir Roland Vipont hath but one life; take
it in thy belt to Douglasdale, for they may prove useful if the blade
fails. One word ere thou goest: how is the Lady Seton this morning?"
"Composed and quiet, as weel she may be, after the girning and
graning of a fortnight."
"Tib, thy niece, Tib Trotter, from Redhall, still attends her with
care, and Dobbie keeps watch?"
"Like a deerhound, my lord; and I forewarned Tib that the lady she
was to attend was a puir demented and brain-braised creature, that
would tell her a' kind o' queer stories about you, Sir Adam--stories
o' whilk, on peril of her life, she was to tak nae heed; and I said
that death would be as nothing to her doom, if the daft lady (whom I
call a kins-woman of your ain, frae the north countrie) fled; and as
puir Tib is mair frightened for you than for the devil himself, she
scarcely sleeps for fear that her charge escapes."
"And Dobbie?"
"Considers her a State prisoner awaiting a private precognition."
"Good--I will ere long requit this trust, and amply too; meantime,
away thou for Douglasdale: remember all my instructions; and now give
me thy thumb on them, that thou wilt be for ever my firm man and
true."
"Sir Adam! Sir Adam!" said the pricker, presenting his thumb
reproachfully, "surely this was na' needed frae me."
But the cautious baron ratified their despicable compact by that
mysterious pressure of thumbs, without which no bargain in Scotland,
either for good or for evil, was ever held binding.*
* See Note.
During this conversation, Redhall had never ceased writing with the
utmost rapidity, that he might lose no time; but the moment Birrel
retired to prepare for his embassy, he closed his portfolio, and
stepped into the little dressing closet which opened off the study or
library.
He examined his face with scrupulous accuracy, and a foppishness at
which he smiled, as if in contempt of himself. With some concern he
observed, that confinement and his wound had rendered his features
paler and more haggard than ever. That wound! Every time he thought
of it, and of the blood, the pain, and anxiety it had cost him, he
ground his teeth vengefully; but after arranging his long dark hair,
and carefully pointing and perfuming his handsome beard and
moustaches, he concluded there were many worse looking men in the
city. Although his nether man was cased in sad-coloured hosen, he
put on a full-skirted doublet of blue velvet, with loose hanging
sleeves and a broad rolling collar of ermine; he wore diamond-studded
ruffs at his wrists, a vest with sleeves of cloth-of-gold, and the
collar of his shirt, which was pinched and embroidered with red silk
and gold thread, was spread over the ermine. His sword was sheathed
in crimson velvet, his poniard sparkled with jewels, and he was
perfumed to excess, for it was the fashion of age.
Tall and stately, pale and dark, his aspect was alike magnificent and
impressive; as thus deliberately prepared with a foppery of which he
could not have believed himself capable, he took his way for the
first time toward the chamber of his fair prisoner.
He felt that his step was feeble as he walked; the room swam around
him; and ever and anon an admonitory twinge shot through his wounded
shoulder.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FIRST VISIT.
"Ah! false and cruel fortune! foul despite!
While others triumph, I am drowned in woe.
And can it be that I such treasure slight?
And can I then my weary life forego?
No! let me die; 'twere happiness above
A longer life, if I must cease to love."--_Orlando Furioso_.
Sunk in an abyss of deep and gloomy thoughts, Jane Seton sat at a
window of the apartment which had been allotted to her, until Sir
Adam Otterburn could have her removed to his house of Redhall, a
strong square tower, situated on an eminence near the village of
Hailes, a few miles south-west of Edinburgh.
This he intended to have done the moment he was able to ride; and
nothing but his wound--"that accursed wound," as he called
it--prevented the removal of the lady and her brother, on the very
day succeeding their capture, to this lonely fortlet, which stood
among thick woodlands above the Leith, and just where a modern
mansion occupies the site of that more ancient Redhall which the
soldiers of General Monk besieged and destroyed.
A stupid but good-natured country girl from his barony--one who stood
in dread of Sir Adam, regarding him as a demi-god and superior being,
rather than a mere man and master--attended Jane; and, considering
her a poor deranged lady, had been most provokingly sympathetic, and
inaccessible to bribes, to threats, and entreaties; while Dobbie,
like a watchful bull-dog, sat always in a niche near the door, with a
small barrel of ale to solace him, and a pack of cards, with which he
practised tricks and sleight-of-hand against himself.
The walls were of enormous thickness, and the small windows were
massively barred; the apartment was hung with rich cream-coloured
arras, studded with gorgeous red flowers; the cornices, the chairs,
the panelling of the doors and shutters were all profusely gilded; a
gittern, an embroidery frame, a few black-letter books of poetry and
romance, and a few vellum illuminations of Scripture, with various
other things which might serve to wile away a lady's time, were
scattered on the buffets and window-seats; while several boxes of the
most splendid jewels which the art of Master Mossman could produce,
stood most alluringly on the table, with their lids open, but all
unnoticed.
The window at which Jane sat faced the south, but the line of
venerable chesnut-trees obstructed the view of the Craigs and of St.
Leonard's Hill. A grass park, some hundred yards in length, extended
to the wall, which these trees overhung, together with a mass of ivy
and wild roses. Ruined and deserted houses lay on the right and
left; and thus, for fourteen days, had the poor girl sat at that
window, without an hour's cessation, watching for a passenger to whom
she might cry for succour; but though the chamber was lofty, the
height of the surrounding wall, the thickness of the trees, and the
loneliness of the path which passed under them, had prevented her
from seeing a single person (though several passed that way daily),
save the girl who attended her, and occasional glimpses of the
indefatigable Dobbie, on guard outside; neither of whom could afford,
even to her most piteous entreaties, a single word concerning the
fate of her brother; why she was thus confined; or what had become of
Sir Roland Vipont, for whose silence and inertness she could in no
way account, unless that he was in a State prison for the wound which
she understood he had given Redhall, whose consequent illness had
agreeably accounted to her for his absence.
On the table lay fourteen notes, being those he had sent every
morning, containing compliments, condolences, and entreaties to be
forgiven for that rash act, to which the excess of his love, and the
feverish dread of losing her, his hopes that she might yet learn to
esteem him, and so forth, had driven him; but of these laborious
epistles not one had been read, and the fourteen lay on the table
unopened.
These fourteen days had soothed the first burst of her grief and
anger; intense weariness and bitter impatience had succeeded: yet she
could not but acknowledge that in all, save the loss of liberty, she
was treated with the utmost delicacy, attention, and respect.
It was evening now--the evening of the fourteenth weary day, as she
was reckoning, for the thousandth time, on her fingers; the sun was
setting on the flinty brows of Salisbury; and the leaves of the
trees, as they fluttered in the wind, seemed formed alternately of
green and gold. A mass of verdure overhung the walls which
surrounded the tall old mansion, the cold dewy shadow of which fell