THE COUNTESS OF CASSILIS.

At a short distance from the ancient castle of Tyningham—the seat, at the period of our story (the beginning of the seventeenth century), of Thomas, first Earl of Haddington, a man remarkable at once for his talents and successful ambition—there is a sequestered little spot, enclosed with steep banks, now cleared and cultivated, but then covered with natural wood, which, together with the abruptness of the rising ground, excluded all view of the smooth strip of green sward that lay between, until approached within a few yards' distance.

Here, in this lovely and retired spot, met, every evening, or at least as often as circumstances would permit, two fond and happy lovers; and here had they vowed a thousand times to remain true to each other while life endured, under all changes of circumstance and time. One of these personages was a remarkably stout and tall young man, of about three-and-twenty, of a frank, bold, and sanguine expression of countenance; the other was a young lady in the nineteenth year of her age, possessing more than ordinary beauty, together with a singularly graceful form and carriage. The first was no other—a personage of no meaner note—than Sir John Faa of Dunbar; a gentleman who had already established a high reputation for bravery and for superior prowess and dexterity in all manly exercises. The other, more than his equal in rank, was the Lady Jane Hamilton, daughter of the Earl of Haddington, already spoken of.

It may be thought that such clandestine meetings between persons of such condition as this was not altogether becoming in either. But there was a reason for it.

The addresses of Sir John to the earl's daughter were not approved of by her father, who, desirous of connecting himself with the older peers—his own title being but a recent one—intended that Lady Jane should marry the Earl of Cassilis: a stern Covenanter, and a man, besides, of haughty and imperious temper, who had already made some overtures for the hand of the Lady Jane.

The interviews between the lovers, therefore, were—no uncommon thing—stolen ones; as the earl, aware of their attachment, had peremptorily forbidden Sir John his house, and had as peremptorily forbidden his daughter ever to see or hold any correspondence with him. But love was stronger than the sense of duty; and the fair lady continued to evade her father's injunctions, to elude his vigilance, and to meet with her lover in the little dell between the woods as often as occasion permitted or opportunity offered.

This intercourse, however, was carried on, on the part of the young knight, at the imminent risk of his life; since, had his stern rival, the Earl of Cassilis (who already considered himself as the affianced husband of the Lady Jane, although he had never deigned to consult the lady herself on the subject), been aware of his perseverance in his suit, his death would have been inevitable. The proud earl would not have brooked the insult; and it is not unlikely, had he known what was going forward, that others besides Sir John would have felt his vengeance. The lovers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the dangerous game they were playing; but this circumstance, instead of damping the ardour of their passion, had the effect only of increasing it, and of endearing them still more and more to each other.

It will readily be conceived, from what has been related, that the two rivals for the hand of the Lady Jane Hamilton entertained the most deadly dislike of each other—for the Earl of Cassilis was not ignorant of Sir John's pretensions; and this feeling never failed to evince itself when by any chance they happened to meet—a circumstance which more than once occurred.

On one of these occasions, they had even gone so far as to draw upon each other, and were prevented from closing in deadly strife only by the determined interference of some mutual friends who chanced to be present.

"Beware, Sir John," said the stern earl, on the occasion we allude to, at the same time returning his sword with violence into its scabbard—"beware, Sir John, of crossing my path—you know the quarter I mean—otherwise you may rue it. Remember, young man," he added, "I have cautioned you."

"And remember, I have defied you," replied the undaunted youth whom he addressed, "earl though ye be!" And he turned haughtily on his heel, and left the apartment which was the scene of this occurrence. To this defiance the earl made no reply; but those who were near him saw an expression of deadly wrath on his dark stern countenance, that made them at once congratulate themselves on not being the objects of it, and fear the worst for him who was, should he ever be unfortunate enough to fall into his power.

"And when, Sir John, will you return?" was a question put in a gentle and faint voice—faint with emotion—by the Lady Jane Hamilton to her lover, as they walked arm in arm in the little sequestered dell of which we have already spoken, one beautiful summer evening shortly after the occurrence of the circumstance just related. "When do you think you will return?" she said, sadly, on being informed by her lover that the following day was fixed upon for his departure for the Continent, whither he had, for some time previously, intended going—an intention of which the Lady Jane had been perfectly aware—to improve himself by a few months' travel.

"This is June," said the young knight, in a voice scarcely less tremulous than that of his fair companion. And he paused a moment, and then added, "I will be home, my love, God willing, about the latter end of October; and, believe me, Lady Jane, short as this time is, it looks an eternity to me."

A lengthened silence succeeded, for both were too much engrossed by the melancholy thoughts which their approaching separation gave rise to, to prosecute the conversation. Another short, but sad and yet happy hour quickly flew over the lovers, when the gathering shades of night intimated to them that their interview must terminate. Feeling this, the fond pair, for the thousandth time, solemnly pledged themselves, in the face of heaven, to continue faithful to their vows, tenderly embraced each other, and parted.

On the day following, Sir John set out for London, from whence he proceeded to Paris, thence to Madrid, where suddenly all traces of him were lost; and no after inquiries could ever elicit the slightest explanation of his mysterious disappearance.

Weeks, months, and years passed away, but they brought no intelligence of the fate of the unfortunate young knight. It was the universal belief that he had perished by the hands of assassins; and in this conviction all further inquiry regarding him finally ceased; while time, as it passed on, produced its usual effects in lessening the general interest in his fate, and in gradually obliterating the recollection of him from the minds of his acquaintance. But there was one over whose memory time had no such power—one who did not only fondly remember him, but who, night and day, sorrowed for his loss through long tedious years. Lady Jane Hamilton, although circumstances subsequently changed her destiny, never forgot the first love of her young and affectionate heart.

Soon after the departure of Sir John Faa, the Earl of Haddington, taking advantage of that circumstance, resolved, if possible, to accomplish the marriage of his daughter to the Earl of Cassilis before the return of the former; and fortunately, as he conceived, the latter himself, as if actuated by the same motive, renewed at this moment certain overtures connected with this matter which had lain for some time in abeyance, and pressed his suit with the lady's father with an urgency that would admit of no evasion or delay.

For full two years, however, after the departure of her lover, and fully a year and a-half after the period when he was first believed to have perished, neither the threats of her father, nor the importunities of her noble suitor, could prevail on the Lady Jane to become the Countess of Cassilis. At the end of this period, however, the broken-hearted maiden—believing in the death of her lover, and unable longer to withstand the incessant and remorseless persecution with which she was assailed, daily and hourly, by her ambitious father—permitted herself to be dragged to the altar, but not before she had been shown a letter, whether forged or not is not known, from the English ambassador at the Spanish court, giving assurance of the death of Sir John Faa, whom he represented as having perished in the way generally believed—namely, by the daggers of some bravos.

The marriage of the Lady Jane Hamilton to the Earl of Cassilis was celebrated at Tyningham Castle, with all the magnificence and pomp which the magic wand of wealth could call into existence. Its tall and numerous windows blazed with light. Its liveried lackeys flew through its illuminated halls, preciously burdened with silver trenchers, on which smoked the rarest and the richest viands; or bore massive flagons of the same precious metal, filled with the choicest wines; while its gorgeous apartments rung with the joyous sounds of mirth and music. But it was a striking thing to note, in the midst of all this splendid pageantry, and in the midst of this crowd of merry faces, that the only one who wore sad looks, the only one who appeared unmoved by this stirring scene, and who took no share in the rejoicing that was going forward, was she on whose account, and whom to honour, all this bustle and magnificence had been created.

In a corner of the principal hall, where all the élite of the night were assembled, the Countess of Cassilis sat all alone, pale as death, gazing with vacant eye on the moving and glittering spectacle before her, and looking only the more wretched and unhappy for the splendour with which she was attired. All the efforts of her father and her husband were unable to compel her even to assume the appearance of a becoming happiness; and, finding this, they at length refrained (from a fear that perseverance on their part would lead to some more awkward exposures) from insisting upon her taking any share in doing the honours of the evening, and allowed her to occupy undisturbed the retired seat which she had chosen, and to which, though frequently brought forward to receive the congratulations of newcomers, she seized every opportunity of instantly returning. Nor was the conduct of the unhappy bride during the ceremony of these congratulations, brief though they were, less marked by indications of the wretched feelings which overwhelmed her, than on other more important occasions. Her pale and emaciated countenance, the faint, forced smile, and the slight, cold, formal courtesy, with which she acknowledged the wishes of the guests for long life and happiness to the Countess of Cassilis, but too plainly showed how little of the latter she anticipated, and how little of the former she desired.

All the stirring and joyous revelry usual on such occasions, nevertheless, went on; but it was soon interrupted by an occurrence that threw a damp on the revellers, and finally hastened their departure. In the very midst of the mirth and rejoicing, and at the moment when those seemed to have attained their height, the whole assembly was suddenly thrown into the utmost consternation, by a loud and piercing shriek proceeding from that end of the hall where the Countess of Cassilis was seated. All hurried towards the spot—some leaving the dance unfinished, others hastily throwing down the untasted goblet—and crowded around the sufferer from whom the alarming cry had proceeded. It was the bride. Senseless, and extended on the floor, there lay the miserable Countess of Cassilis. But what had happened to cause this extraordinary accident no one could tell. It was ascertained that she had been sitting quite alone when the illness, of whatever nature it was, under which she was now suffering, had seized her; so that no sudden injury of any kind could have befallen her. Her illness, in short, was quite inexplicable. But, as she was about being removed, which was instantly done, there were one or two around her who, hearing her muttering, as she was being raised from the floor, "I've seen him! I've seen him!" more than guessed the cause of the poor lady's sudden illness.

On the removal of the countess, there were some attempts made to revive the revelries of the evening, and to re-infuse the spirit of mirth into the revellers, which the occurrence just related seemed to have dissipated; but in vain. After some ineffectual efforts of this kind, the company broke up; and, long before the anticipated hour, the guests were gone, the lights extinguished, and silence reigned in the halls of Tyningham Castle.

On the day following this event, the Countess of Cassilis was removed by her husband to Cassilis Castle, an old, heavy, gloomy-looking fortalice on the banks of the Doon, in the shire of Ayr, where the unhappy lady remained for four years, heart-broken, crushed in spirit, and looking forward to the grave as the only termination of her sorrows. Her stern husband took no pains to reconcile her to her destiny, nor did he even show her any of those little kindnesses and attentions which are so well calculated to win on the female heart, and which, had they been employed in this case, might have induced the Countess of Cassilis, since she could not love, at least to esteem, her lord. But the earl had obtained, in a large accession of wealth, all that he desired or cared for in uniting himself to the unfortunate Lady Jane; and the consequence was, that, soon after his marriage, he neglected her, to pursue his schemes of ambition and personal aggrandisement. Thus left alone, as she often was, for weeks, nay, for months, in the lonely castle in which she had been immured, the Countess of Cassilis might often be seen walking on the battlements—almost the only species of recreation within her power—in solitary sadness; at one time stopping to gaze, but with listless eye, on the wide and romantic scene that lay around her; at another, to look on the leaping and foaming waters of the Doon, immortalised by the poet's song, and to think of the days that were past, of her blighted hopes and untoward destiny.

Most appropriate to her, to her feelings and circumstances, would have been the melancholy song of Burns, of which her present locality was long afterwards to be the scene. Well might the poor Countess of Cassilis have exclaimed—

But this beautiful lyric was not then in existence, nor for nearly two centuries after.

It was about the end of the fourth year after her marriage, and while leading this solitary and melancholy life, that the Countess of Cassilis, as she walked one evening, as was her wont, on the battlements of the castle, was suddenly alarmed by seeing a numerous band of gipsies approaching the building; and she was the more alarmed, that the earl, with nearly all his immediate retainers, was at that moment from home, the former being then in attendance on the Assembly of Divines at Westminster. The countess, however, would have felt but little uneasiness at the threatened visit of these wanderers, although they had been even much more numerous than they were—for such visitations were then of ordinary occurrence—had they presented the usual appearance, and had the band been composed of the usual materials—that is, of men, women, and children. But in this case there were none of the latter. The whole were men—and all young, stout, active-looking men they were: and hence the alarm of the countess.

Her fears, however, did not prevent her watching their motions for some time, ere she descended from the battlements; and this surveillance discovered to her that they were under the conduct of a leader, and that they were approaching the castle with a very suspicious degree of caution, and yet with a still more startling haste.

Strongly suspecting that the designs of the gipsies were evil, the Countess of Cassilis hastened down from the battlements, and secured herself within the walls of the castle. In the meantime, the band of gipsies approached; but, instead of attempting any violence, they began to sing some of the wild strains with which they usually sought to attract the notice and excite the charity of those to whom they appealed. Her apprehensions somewhat allayed by this pacific indication, the countess ventured towards a window that overlooked the rude minstrels, and was about to fling them a suitable guerdon, when, on obtaining the nearer view of their leader which this step afforded, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless on the floor. His disguise had not been able to conceal from her—for sharp, sharp are the eyes of love—that in the leader of the gipsies she had met with the lost knight of Dunbar. In the next instant, the countess was in the arms of the lover of her youth. He it was who acted as leader of the gipsies; and the purpose for which he now came was to carry off, in the absence of her husband—of whose absence he was aware—the betrothed of his early years.

In place of having been assassinated, as was generally believed, Sir John had been consigned to the dungeons of the Inquisition, in consequence of some unguarded expressions regarding the holy office which he had allowed to escape him when in Madrid; and in these dungeons had he lain, from the time he was first lost sight of, till within about six weeks of his appearance at Cassilis Castle. On his return home, he had learned, for the first time, of the marriage of the Lady Jane to the Earl of Cassilis; and this information having been accompanied by the intelligence that the latter was then in London, had determined him on the desperate enterprise in which he was now engaged. All this Sir John now communicated to the countess, and ended with proposing that she should fly with him.

"No, no, Sir John," said the now weeping and dreadfully-agitated lady—"I cannot, I will not, do anything so unbecoming the daughter of the Earl of Haddington and the wife of Cassilis. However unwillingly I may have become the latter, I feel myself equally bound to consult his honour as my own, and do nothing that might sully either. Go then, Sir John," she continued; "oh, do depart from me—do leave me, and take with you an assurance of my continued and unabated"—she paused for a moment, and added—"esteem."

But vain, vain were the good resolutions of the unfortunate countess—vain her determination not to take so hazardous, and perhaps it ought to be added, so infamous a step as that proposed by her desperate and unthinking lover. Love, almighty love, finally prevailed—all the countess's resolutions melted away before the energetic importunities of her lover, like snow beneath the midsummer sun; and the succeeding hour saw her mounted on the mettled steed which he had brought for the express purpose of carrying her away—

This done, exactly as the poet has described it, the ill-starred pair commenced their flight, still attended, however, by the gipsy band which Sir John had employed to aid him in the abduction, and which he thought it necessary to keep around him till he should have got to a sufficient distance to be relieved from all apprehensions of pursuit.

Leaving the guilty lovers to pursue their way, we shall return to Cassilis Castle, destined to be almost instantly afterwards the scene of another interesting and most ominous event. This was the unexpected return of the earl, who, with a large body of retainers, suddenly rode into the castle yard, within less than half-an-hour after the departure of the countess and her lover.

Before he had yet got his foot to the ground, the earl was informed of what had occurred.

"Gone, said you!—the countess gone, and with Sir John Faa!" exclaimed the amazed and now infuriated nobleman, to the person who gave the intelligence. "Impossible! Thou liest, knave!—thou wouldst deceive me, and thou shalt hang for it." But, exhibiting a strange contradiction between his conduct and his language, the earl, even while he spoke, sprang again into his saddle, and fiercely calling on his retainers to follow him, set off at full speed in the direction which the fugitives had taken. Nor was his ride, though a rapid, a long one. At a ford across the Doon, not many miles from Cassilis Castle, and still called from the circumstance we are about to relate the "Gipsies' Steps," the earl and his party overtook his unfortunate countess and her still more unfortunate seducer.

On seeing the former approach, which the fugitives did with a degree of amazement which could only have been equalled had they seen them drop from the clouds, Sir John, his natural intrepidity not permitting him to reckon on the fearful odds that were coming against him, prepared to offer resistance; and in this hopeless resolution he persisted, although aware that he could place but little reliance on the co-operation of those around him—the gipsies showing but little inclination to fight, from a well-grounded fear that such a proceeding would increase the severity of their treatment in the event of their being taken; and of this, from the overwhelming superiority in point of numbers of the party coming down upon them, they had no doubt.

Dismounting now from his horse, Sir John assisted the countess to alight; and, placing her at a sufficient distance to insure her safety from any instant danger, the brave young man leaped again into his saddle, and, drawing his sword, awaited the onset of his enemies, determined to defend the fair companion of his flight so long as he could continue to wield the good weapon which he now so resolutely and proudly grasped.

In a few minutes after, the pursuing party were down upon the fugitives, when the earl, singling out Sir John, exclaimed, as he rushed upon him, "Have at thee, villain!" and with these words discharged a blow at him which would have immediately unhorsed him, had it not been adroitly warded off. But of what avail was the averting the stroke of one sword, when there were many to contend with, and one single arm only to oppose them; for the gipsies had not offered the slightest resistance. In an instant, a score of weapons were flashing around the head of the solitary combatant; yet long and obstinately did he continue the unequal fight, and well did he prove his manhood, although it could have been wished that it had been exhibited in a better cause. More than one of Sir John's assailants fell beneath his sword, and numbers felt the keenness of its edge, and the dexterity with which it was handled, in their gaping wounds.

Such a contest as this, however, when it was one to fifty, could be but of short duration. In a few minutes, Sir John was severely wounded, unhorsed, and borne, or rather dragged down, bleeding and exhausted, to the earth. The moment he fell, the points of some eight or ten swords were levelled at his heart, and would have instantly transfixed it, had not the earl called out to those who wielded them to desist.

"Don't kill him—don't kill him!" he shouted out, at the same time forcing his way through the crowd that surrounded him. "I will clear scores with him in another way," he added. "A dog's death is more befitting him than a gentleman's." These were ominous words, and well understood by all who heard them.

The earl now rode up, for the first time, to where his unhappy countess stood, and assuming a mock gallantry as he approached her, but with a bitter smile on his countenance, took off his hat, and pointing to Sir John, who was now bound and placed on horseback, informed her that her lover intended honouring his castle with another visit, and had commissioned him to say that he would be glad of the Countess of Cassilis' company. Having said this, he desired some of his attendants to assist his wretched wife to get on horseback, when, leaving her under their care, with instructions to see her safely conveyed to the castle, he left her without farther remark or observation, to join the party who surrounded the prisoners.

The whole cavalcade—the captives, consisting of Sir John and the whole of the gipsy gang, being placed in the middle—now set forward for Cassilis Castle. On their arrival there, the prisoners were halted beneath a large plane-tree, which grew, and, we believe, still flourishes, on a little knoll in front of the castle gate. All, both the prisoners and their captors, knew full well what the earl meant by his selection of their halting-place. The tree alluded to was one of dismal notoriety; it was known far and wide by the name of the "Dule Tree"—a name which it had acquired from its having been used by the Earl of Cassilis as a gallows on which all offenders, within his jurisdiction, who were condemned to death, were executed.

The prisoners were now drawn up in a line, and there kept until they had witnessed, what was immediately exhibited, the fatal preparations for execution; which consisted simply in fastening a rope, with a running noose, to one of the lower branches, and placing a cart underneath it, with a person standing in readiness by the horse's head to drive off at a given signal.

When these very primitive preliminaries were gone through, all the prisoners, including Sir John Faa, with the exception of one who was left for instant execution, were marched into the castle, and shut up with a strong guard in one of its apartments.

Everything being now ready for the performance of the dreadful tragedy which was about to be enacted, the Earl of Cassilis proceeded to the countess's chamber, and again assuming the mock air of politeness of which we have already spoken, he bowed low as he entered the apartment, and begged to inform the Countess of Cassilis that he had got up a play for her divertisement, in which her lover, Sir John, had obligingly undertaken to perform a principal part, and desired that she would condescend to witness the pastime. Saying this, he rudely seized the countess by the arm, and dragged her to an apartment where there was a window that overlooked the place of execution.

Having placed the countess at this window, the earl made a signal to those assembled beneath the "Dule Tree," and in an instant afterwards the first of the unhappy captives was seen suspended by the neck, struggling in the agonies of death. Another and another of these miserable men followed in due time, until of the whole party their unfortunate leader, Sir John, only remained.

On this ill-fated gentleman being brought out for execution, the earl roused the attention of his unhappy wife, by calling out to her, with savage glee, to look attentively, as her lover Sir John was now about to play his part; and he had no doubt, he said, that he would do it handsomely. The wretched lady glanced towards the fatal tree, and saw him who had been her first, and was yet her only, love about to suffer an ignominious death. The fatal rope was already about the neck of the gallant, but erring young man, whose bearing, in this dreadful situation, evinced all that unflinching fortitude for which he had always been remarkable.

Just before being thrown off, he caught a glimpse of the countess's figure at the window. He bowed gracefully towards her, kissed his hand to her, and waved an eternal adieu. In the next instant he was insensible to all earthly objects. These last proofs of the undaunted young man's unalterable affection, however, of which we have just spoken, were not seen by her for whom they were intended; for, although at the window (she was forcibly held there by her savage husband), her eyes were closed on the dreadful scene, and she herself wholly unconscious of what at that fatal instant was passing before her.

The apartment from which the miserable Countess of Cassilis was compelled to witness this dreadful tragedy is still pointed out by the name of the "Countess's Room." In this chamber the unhappy lady was kept a prisoner for several days after the execution of Sir John and his followers, when she was removed to another of the family residences in the town of Maybole, in Ayrshire, where she was confined during the remainder of her life—the earl her husband, in the meantime, marrying another wife.

Such is the story of the Countess of Cassilis and a veritable tale it is.