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GRIZEL.

By

Marjorie Bowen.

-L. The July sun was blight over Edinburgh, and the still untainted breeze of

; the morning blew gently through the | streets as a girl stepped from the dark | porch of the Tolbooth prison and stood panting and bewildered against the sombre walls as if confused by the radiancy and freshness of the outer air after the dim closeness of the prison. She was not more than eighteen, and so frail and modest in appearance that she seemed better suited to the brocades of a lady s drawing room than the shadow of a prison ; but her pallid, agitated countenance, her careless and dark attire, her 1 air of horror and alarm well accorded with the heavy shadow of the awful building in which she stood, j After a few moments of struggle for | sell-control, she glanced up at the silver 1 blue sky, pearled with fragile clouds, as ! if the sight of the heavens gave her courage, and turned resolutely away from tho Tolbooth and down the narrow street. It was yet too early for many people | to be abroad, but the girl had not gone | far before a young man stepped from the I angle of a house, and crossed her path as if he bad been waiting for her. At sight of him she paused, flushed, and took a backward step. “Good morrow, Mistress Grizel,” he said. He was near as pale, as troubled as she; he looked at her in a distressed fashion. j “It_ is an ill place and an ill season. 1 Mr Ker, for you to be greeting me,” sai<J Grizel Cochrane, proudly and hotly: J ‘‘And I will take it as favour if you will pass by with no further speech.’* But Ker of Moriston stood his ground. “I'et you were kind enough once,” he replied, "and by token of that former * kindness I have waited for you now—have watched for you since I saw you enter : the prison. 1 “It- is an ill work that you do,” she cried, “to put your spying on one so un- : : fortunate. Who knows,” she added 1 I brokenly, “if I have not spoken with my j father for the last time.” j “Surely you have,” lie replied sombrely, j “What hope is there for a rebel? Sir, John Cochrane must share the expiation ; of my Lord Argyll.” “Ah, you mock at us?” she exclaimed. * “By Heavens, no!*’he answered passion- | atelv. “But I would spare you these j false hopes. Oh, Grizel, by those dear ) days gone, believe I an: not your enemy.” j “Enemy or no,” said the girl, drawing herself away against the wall, “you are a Government man, Ker of Moriston, and was it not your mother who informed about my father when he was in hiding in his brother Garvin’s house, at Craigmuir, after Muirdykes’ fight, and so delivered him to the bloody redcoats? Ah, what do our trysts and meetings and silly lovers’ talk count after a thing like

that? All that is over. In this awful moment, I tell you, you are but a stranger ( to me.” The young man answered with a subj dued force and passion equal to her own. “It was little liking or trust you had I for me, Grizel, since, so soon you hate j me; yet methought you were l’eadv to | give your whole life to me.” I “Man, man,” cried the girl impatiently, “what decency is there in deaving me with such talk when I am standing within sight of tlie place where my father lies condemned to die to death?” With that she tried to pass him, but he stepped before her, holding out his right hand imploringly. “Consider, dear.” he said, “that I cannot see vou in this trouble. Consider what the future will be—the motherless daughter of a rebel will have an ill life—the estates are forfeit ” “There are no estates to forfeit,” broke in Grizel with immense pride. “Mv father sold evervthing to help his Lordship of Argyll. Do von think we kept a broad piece while the soldiers went unpaid and hungry?” “Alas! alas!” said the young man sadlv. “And what hops have you got, Grizel?”’ “ ’Tis my grandfather who keeps us,” replied Grizel, but a terror in her voice betrayed that she was sensible of her forlorn condition. “But the Earl of Dundonald is ruined, too, and overwhelmed with grief,” cried Mr Ker. "I am neither rich nor great, Grizel. but 1 ” ‘T 1-now you are a Government man, and safe -at least, as Tong as this tyranny hoi she interrupted, j "T would not have said that,” he re--1 pliw!, flushing. “1 would have said my I poor all is at vour service—at least seenvitv and protection.” “Enough, enough!” cried Grizel, and, taking advantage of his troubled movement to one side, she passed him and began to hasten up the street. But he. in despair, caught the end of ! her humble cloak. ) "Grizel, Grizel ” he implored, “what . are •‘on oning to Jo?” , “1 will go to London.” she answered 5 wildly, “and intercede with the King.” “Yon must not. vou cannot —you. Mono j among those at St, James’s —who is to j protect you?” [ ■ 1 am a Cochrane!” replied the girl. 1 | “But, Grizel, the warrant will be in j Edinburgh be f orc—long before—you can j reach London.” 1 She p a led. for well she knew the truth ■ j of what he said • vet. shaken as she was, y I she kept her dignity. j %et mo pass, X liave no more to sajv

I beg you, sir, in the name of my great grief, to let me pass." He could not insist in the face of such an appeal. He stepped aside with a low reverence, as white as she, as shaken. She caught her “breath, and seemed about to add some word of kindness, but said nothing, and hurried on. “I suppose I love him still,” she said to herself as she looked back at his desolate figure. “But what is left of me. to love anyone?” Without again pausing or looking back, she steadily made her way to the mansion that was sheltering her—that of her grandfather, the Earl of Dundonald. Her father, Sir John Cochrane of Ochiltree, had been one of those patriots who had fled the kingdom during the tyrannies of the late reign, and had lived in exile in Holland, hoping and working for better days. When these hopes were shattered by the accession of a Papist King Cochrane had joined that bold and reckless band, more valiant than prudent, who, commanded by the Earl of Argyll, had landed in Scotland with the wild design of upsetting the Government and placing the Protestant Duke of Monmouth on the throne of the three kingdoms. When the invading army was scattered and Argyll had fled to his clansmen, it was Sir John Cochrane, aided by Sir Patrick Hume, who had gathered together the remnants of the army, not amounting to more than two hundred men, and valiantly endeavoured to cross the Clyde. In Renfrewshire, when their troops had fallen to as few as seventy, the troops were faced by the militia under Lord Ross and Captain Clellan; refusing to surrender, they made a desperate resistance, and finally beat off the Royalists, who retreated, leaving Captain Clellan dead. Cochrane and Hume saw, however, that their cause was now hopeless, and, retreating to a neighbouring morass, dismissed their men, bidding each shift for himself. Sir John, being twice wounded and almost insensible with fatigue, crept to the neatest house that offered, his uncle Gavin Cochrane’s house at Craigmuir. Under this roof was then residing Sir John’s cousin, Mrs Ker, of Moriston, the mother of the man to whom Grizel Cochrane had given her heart, and nearly her troth, last year by the quiet canals of The Hague. But Mrs Ker’s brother was that Captain Clellan slain in the late action, and her sympathies were entirely with the Government, and she, filled with rage and revenge, betrayed her cousin, who was immediately conveyed to Edinburgh, to await death in the Tolbooth. So were Grizel Cochrane and Ker of Moriston separated more effectually than by land and water, or even death itself. Of these things she was thinking as she entered the apartment where tile old earl bent above his papers. “Good news !” he cried in a trembling voice as he saw her. “Good news! They will listen to me at St. James’s—Father Petre will treat!” The bright flush of hope that glowed for a second in the girl’s eager face instantly faded. "”‘But the delay!” she exclaimed. “The warrant reaches Edinburgh by the next post—is even now in the road.” “Ah!” ejacu’ated the old man sharply, “then it is indeed hopeless. But are you sure, my child—sure?” She had that courage which will not flinch the truth; her white lips moved steadily: “Sir, I am sure. I heard it to-day at the Tolbooth. Ker of Moriston told me also. It is a matter of days.” The earl's shaking fingers moved feebly through the papers piled on the desk in front of him. “Then it is all of no use,” he said softly. “Father Petre would have done his best. I had good hopes. But we need three or four weeks at least.” He turned sharply to his granddaughter. “Ker of Moriston, did’st thou say? Hast thou still converse with him?” “He stopped me in the street against my will,” Grizel said calmly. “I do not look to see him again.” “Poor child: poor child !” murmured the earl, “but Ker of Moriston is not for thee—it is said they are sending him to the border to hunt fugitives.” “He hath joined the militia,” said Grizel, “but why speak of him, sir?” “Alas, alas!” answered Lord Dundonald in a broken voice. “I babble aimlessly— I hardly know what I speak of, or what I do—after all my pains, all my endeavours—to be defeated by these few weeks of time!” He dropped his head on his breast, and the slow, difficult tears coursed down his sunken cheeks. Grizel cast herself on his breast, and threw her arms round his bentshoulders ; their tears and their despair mingled together even as her gleaming brown locks flowed from the blue snood of maidenhood to mingle with his scanty grey tresses. And outside in the summer streets wandered Ker of Moriston, now passing the silent door of the Tolbooth that held Sir John Cochrane prisoner, now the quiet mansion which concealed the agony of his daughter and Ills father. Ker of Moriston was ambitious; he was all for the established Government; he had no sympathy with the reckless enterprise which had brought disaster into the family of Cochrane, but as he thought of Grizel, as he pictured what she. was suffering and what she must suffer, he vowed that he would sacrifice all his hopes and ambitions, nay, safety and life itself, if the post now travelling to Edinburgh with the fatal warrant might be delayed until the carl had negotiated the pardon for his son with the King’s confessor. 11. Outside an inn which stood beyond the little border town of Belford sat a solitary tlavellf-r. Behind him stood his stout palfrey, carelessly fastened to the porch; he was dressed in the plain garments of a country or upper servant, wrapped, despite the July weather, in a fairly heavy travelling cloak, carrying two pistols at his waist

and two in his holster, a tuck sword, and a stout riding whip. He was young, and, as far as was disclosed by his clumsy equipment, well-made and elegant. It was a beautiful summer day, about two of the clock; a haze of gentle heat lay over the lojiely country; the high road stretched white and winding through wood and heath to right and left of the little inn. There was no house or dwelling in sight, the town of Belford being hidden in a hollow behind the hostel. The warm air was perfumed by the scent of the pinks, gillyflowers, stocks, and southernwood in the garden, and by the exquisite odour of the boughs of honeysuckle which wreathed the porch; bees and butterflies flitted over the delights of the garden, the adjoining fields were full of the fragrance of the yet mime hay, and beyond an orchard and a clover field the thin pale wafer of the newly-risen moon showed in the cloudless sky. It was a scene of perfect peace and repose, but the young man in the porch seemed agitated by thoughts cf far different scenes, for he continually flushed and paled, frowned, started, and gave Icing, searching glances up and down the road, his hand on his pistol the while. At last the tranquillity was disturbed by the clatter of a- horse coming at a hand gallop, and the young man sprang up and slipped into the garden, where, from behind the shelter of the hedge, he observed the new-comer. This latter was the postman whose duty it was to carry the London mail from Durham to Berwick; the letters from the capital were in a sealed bag behind him. Another hag in front was ready for such letters as he might collect on his way. Dismounting and taking .his horse to the stable (for the inn boasted no ostler), he quickly reappeared and passed into the house, carrying his bags with him. The traveller concealed in the garden watched his movements keenly. He had already ascertained from the mistress of the change house that it was the postman’s custom to feed and rest in this lonely spot before proceeding on his journey to Durham. The young man paced about the garden, now looking to his pistols, now glancing at the faint moon or up the lonely road, until a full half-hour had gone by, then he stepped out of the latch gate, returned to the porch, and called the woman. ‘'Ye here yet?” she said as she came. ‘'Truly, sir, I thought it was long since ye had gone.” “X was tired,” he replied, and his pale face confirmed his words, “and thought to take some rest.” The traveller now carelessly stepped past her into the one public room. The remains of a meal stood on the table-, and the door of the wall bed stood open, revealing the sleeping form of the postman. “Be pleased,” said the landlady, “to be quiet as ye can, for the post is one whom I would ill like to wake.” He seated himself at the table, his grey eyes flashing one glance at the pair of pistols •which lay there. “Indeed?” he answered with a slight smile. “And how long does he take his ease here?” “Maybe an hour, maybe two, never more, for it wad’na do for the post to be late.” “Well, returned the young man, I have taken my ease- and must be on my way. But before I go maybe you would be pleased to give me a glass of water?” “There is water on the table.” was the reply; “but I am no’ pretending I think water drinking anything but an ill custom for a change house.” “Whether or no, ’tis mine,” replied he, “but I’m willing enough to pay the price of a pot of beer for it.” “That is reasonable speaking,” returned the woman mollified. ‘Tf you would get some from the well I should remember it in the laiving,” smiled the traveller after tasting that on the table, “for this is warm as June.” “The well is a good way off, but I’ll not refuse to go for a civil discreet gentleman like yourself—but have a care of those pistols, for they are loaded, and I am always fearful they will go off.” With that she left. The instant that her shadow had disappeared from the porch, the young man sprang lightly to his feet and crept to the bed where the postman slept. Cautiously opening the door wider, he gazed down upon the sleeper, underneath whose head rested the two mail bags. A second’s inspection sufficed to show him that it was impossible to touch the mail without waking the postman, and veclosing the bed door he returned to the table, took up the pistols, slipped them from their cases, unloaded them, put them back, and was in his former seat by tho time the landlady returned. The traveller drank lustily, then leaving on the table something above the nriee of a pot of beer, civilly took his leave, and, mounting, rode in the direction of Berwick. By the time the sun was' beginning to sink in the heavens, he had reached a spot midway between Belford and Berwick, where the road lay between a wood of beech and elm—a spot utterly lonely and silent. There he unused, and with a shudder and muttering what seemed to be n prayer, drew up his horse in the shade of a great beech and waited. He had come so slowlv, and with so many pauses that he had not long to wait now before the post, coming rapidly on his powerful horse, overtook him. As he saw the other rider coming towards him he walked his own animal across the road and civilly saluted the postman. “We seem two solitary travellers, friend,” he said, “and might keep each other company a little way.” “With all my heart, sir,” replied the man, a huge, hut pleasant-faced fellow. As he spoke, he had almost stopped his horse, and the young man was now beside him. “Diversion you shall have,” replied the

young gentleman. “I have taken a fancy to your mail bags, fellow, and must and will have them.” The postman stared in rage an-d amazement. “That is fine language from one whose windpipe I could squeeze between my finger and thumb !” he cried. “If it is a jest—be off!—if not ” He pulled out his pistol and grimly cocked it in the other’s face. The young traveller, though white as his own cravat, smiled. “In that wood,” he said calmly, pointing to the deep shade of the beech trees, “I have allies ready to come to my whistle. I advice you to give me the mails quietly.” For answer the postman, with a short, angry laugh, fired his pistol, which, however, only flashing in the pan, he hurdled to the ground, muttering an oath, and seizing the other, which he endeavoured to fire, with the same result. Meanwhile the traveller had presented, his weapon in the man’s face. “This is loaded,” he said, seizing the fellow’s bridle with his other hand. “And as you would save your life, surrender the mails !” For answer the postman sprang from his horse and endeavoured to seize his assailant, who, however, s-et spurs to his animal and cleverly eluded capture. “You will find your bags in the wood,” he cried, “in two or three hours’ time!” Then, setting his own horse to a gallop and leading beside him the other laden with the mails-, he turned off into the lane which led through the wood almost before the postman had gathered his wits; when he did grasp the full extent of his misfortune he turned back at’ a run towards Belford with the obvious intention of summoning help. Meanwhile the young man, checking the horses, fastened the postman’s mount to a tree, unstrapped the mail bags, and, with a sharp pen-knife cut away the locks and fiunc out the contents on the grass. With hasty fin gers he turned over the letters, then eagerly seized a heavy and large packet, hung with broad seals of office and addressed to the Council in Edinburgh. Hastily breaking this open, he found a number of warrants, among them that for the death of Sir John Cochrane. With a low but passionate exclamation he tore these papers into pieces, thrust the fragments into the bosom of his coat, hastily replaced the other letters in the mutilated sack, which he flung across the strange horse, unfastened the. bridle from the tree, so as to set the animal free, mounted his own palfrey, and made towards Berwick. The Iono; shadows of evening were merging into the first dusk of twilight when the young traveller, whose horse was now set at full speed, suddenly found himself confronted by another rider—a man in military appointments who came slowly round the turn of the road. “Halt!” he cried. The other glanced at him, pulled his hat over his eyes, and set his horse even faster. “What, so uncivil !” cried the newcomer, and put spurs to his animal and seized the bridle of the fugitive. “Stop, sir, I want to know if you have seen the London post, for whose safety I am responsible.” “He is close behind me,” was the hasty answer, “but detain me not. I am oil a matter of life and death.” “ ’Tis dangerous to ride lonely roads on such errands these times,” answered the other sternly. “Tell me your name and quality.” By now he had pulled up both tile horses and the young man was forced to turn and answer hiv.i. “I am too obscure to be thus tormented, ’’ he cried desperately. “Bv Heaven!” exclaimed the other, “I know the voice—is it possible -?” He snatched the leaf hat from the other’s head, and a mass of brown curls fell on to the horseman’s cloak. “It is Grizel Cochrane!” he stammered. “Ay, it is, Ker of Moriston,” replied the girl. “Now will you let me go?” But lie did not release her bridle. “What are you doing here—in this disguise?” he demanded fearfully. “Oh, Grizel. what danger are you putting vour- -- ■ 0* f “ x ° * self ill? Miss Cochrane suddenly changed from her cold defiance. She smiled and blushed. “Ah, Dick, dear,” she said breathlessly, “1 have been robbing the mail. I found father’s warrant and a dozen others, and destroyed ’em all. And as for this dress you see me in, ‘tis my foster brother’s. My old nurse lives near Berwick, and it was to her I went last night, and there changed.” “And you've robbed the King's mail on the King’s high road, and that is a- hanging matter!” cried Mr Ker in a tone of despair. “Nay,” she answered softly, “for it would never be you who would betray me —if only for the sake of the old days at The Hague-” “Ah, sweet temptation !” he smiled. “This was not your tone when last we met.” “Why, then,” said Miss Cochrane, calmly, “1 was thinking my father's case was hopeless, and I had no time to give to you, sir; but now I know he is safe.” “Are you sure of that, Grizel?” She answered proudly. “It is eight days from Edinburgh to London, so it is twenty days at least I have saved, and that is long enough. Father Petre, for five thousand pounds, is to pardon my father; it was but a question of time.” He gazed earnestly at her through the deepening twilight. “A brave thing you have clone, < Irizel ’’ She interrupted : “I drew his pistols,” sfie laughed, “and even then all the time I was cold and shivering—-with fear, sir, fear ! Now let me go on,’’ sty- added earnestly. “I must be in Edinburgh by to-morrow morning.” “And if I let you pass,” said Ker of

Moriston, “will you let it bo between us as it was in The Hague ?” “Everything has too much changed,” she said in a trembling voice. “We shall be exiles again—you are a Government man.” “A fine Government man,” he replied, drily, “to let a robber of his Majesty's mails ride off with her spoils!” Miss Cochrane flushed and held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she murmured. “It had best be good-bye between you and me!” “Aon have not forgiven me the betrayal at Muirdykes,” he said, clasping the small, brave right hand in his great glove. “But, Grizel, I will leave my employ and come abroad with you to wait better days. Grizel, dear heart, 1 was here to rob the mails myself. Do you believe in me now?” “Oh, Dick, dear!” she cried, “is it true?” “I rue enough,” he smiled. “To eave Sir John I was going to risk my place and my life.” “And now we are both of us rebels!” cried Miss Cochrane; then, unaccountably, she burst into tears. Before the moon was up Ker of Moriston had escorted her to the door of her nurse’s cottage; there they said “good-bye”; but three years later, when Grizel and her father returned from exile after the Revolution, she was no longer Mies Cochrane, but Mrs Ker of Moriston.

Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/OW19210125.2.233.1

Bibliographic details

Otago Witness, Issue 3489, 25 January 1921, Page 65

Word Count
4,133

GRIZEL. Otago Witness, Issue 3489, 25 January 1921, Page 65

GRIZEL. Otago Witness, Issue 3489, 25 January 1921, Page 65

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