The Fair Maid of Perth; Or, St. Valentine's Day by Walter Scott (electronic reader .TXT) 📕

wench in Scotland! No—any more than thou hast forgotten the hand that thou hadst in the Curfew Street onslaught on St. Valentine’s Eve.”

“The hand that I had! Your Highness would say, the hand that I lost. As certain as I shall never regain it, Catharine Glover is, or will soon be, at Falkland. I will not flatter your Highness by saying she expects to meet you; in truth, she proposes to place herself under the protection of the Lady Marjory.”

“The little traitress,” said the Prince—“she too to turn against me? She deserves punishment, Ramorny.”

“I trust your Grace will make her penance a gentle one,” replied the knight.

“Faith, I would have been her father confessor long ago, but I have ever found her coy.”

“Opportunity was lacking, my lord,” replied Ramorny; “and time presses even now.”

“Nay, I am but too apt for a frolic; but my father—”

“He is personally safe,” said Ramorny, “and as much at freedom as ever he can be; while your Highness—”

“Must brook fetters, conjugal or literal—I know it. Yonder comes Douglas, with his daughter in his hand, as haughty and as harsh featured as himself, bating touches of age.”

“And at Falkland sits in solitude the fairest wench in Scotland,” said Ramorny. “Here is penance and restraint, yonder is joy and freedom.”

“Thou hast prevailed, most sage counsellor,” replied Rothsay; “but mark you, it shall be the last of my frolics.”

“I trust so,” replied Ramorny; “for, when at liberty, you may make a good accommodation with your royal father.”

“I will write to him, Ramorny. Get the writing materials. No, I cannot put my thoughts in words—do thou write.”

“Your Royal Highness forgets,” said Ramorny, pointing to his mutilated arm.

“Ah! that cursed hand of yours. What can we do?”

“So please your Highness,” answered his counsellor, “if you would use the hand of the mediciner, Dwining—he writes like a clerk.”

“Hath he a hint of the circumstances? Is he possessed of them?”

“Fully,” said Ramorny; and, stepping to the window, he called Dwining from the boat.

He entered the presence of the Prince of Scotland, creeping as if he trode upon eggs, with downcast eyes, and a frame that seemed shrunk up by a sense of awe produced by the occasion.

“There, fellow, are writing materials. I will make trial of you; thou know’st the case—place my conduct to my father in a fair light.”

Dwining sat down, and in a few minutes wrote a letter, which he handed to Sir John Ramorny.

“Why, the devil has aided thee, Dwining,” said the knight. “Listen, my dear lord. ‘Respected father and liege sovereign—Know that important considerations induce me to take my departure from this your court, purposing to make my abode at Falkland, both as the seat of my dearest uncle Albany, with whom I know your Majesty would desire me to use all familiarity, and as the residence of one from whom I have been too long estranged, and with whom I haste to exchange vows of the closest affection from henceforward.’”

The Duke of Rothsay and Ramorny laughed aloud; and the physician, who had listened to his own scroll as if it were a sentence of death, encouraged by their applause, raised his eyes, uttered faintly his chuckling note of “He! he!” and was again grave and silent, as if afraid he had transgressed the bounds of reverent respect.

“Admirable!” said the Prince—“admirable! The old man will apply all this to the Duchess, as they call her, of Rothsay. Dwining, thou shouldst be a secretis to his Holiness the Pope, who sometimes, it is said, wants a scribe that can make one word record two meanings. I will subscribe it, and have the praise of the device.”

“And now, my lord,” said Ramorny, sealing the letter and leaving it behind, “will you not to boat?”

“Not till my chamberlain attends with some clothes and necessaries, and you may call my sewer also.”

“My lord,” said Ramorny, “time presses, and preparation will but excite suspicion. Your officers will follow with the mails tomorrow. For tonight, I trust my poor service may suffice to wait on you at table and chamber.”

“Nay, this time it is thou who forgets,” said the Prince, touching the wounded arm with his walking rod. “Recollect, man, thou canst neither carve a capon nor tie a point—a goodly sewer or valet of the mouth!”

Ramorny grinned with rage and pain; for his wound, though in a way of healing, was still highly sensitive, and even the pointing a finger towards it made him tremble.

“Will your Highness now be pleased to take boat?”

“Not till I take leave of the Lord Constable. Rothsay must not slip away, like a thief from a prison, from the house of Errol. Summon him hither.”

“My Lord Duke,” said Ramorny, “it may be dangerous to our plan.”

“To the devil with danger, thy plan, and thyself! I must and will act to Errol as becomes us both.”

The earl entered, agreeable to the Prince’s summons.

“I gave you this trouble, my lord,” said Rothsay, with the dignified courtesy which he knew so well how to assume, “to thank you for your hospitality and your good company. I can enjoy them no longer, as pressing affairs call me to Falkland.”

“My lord,” said the Lord High Constable, “I trust your Grace remembers that you are—under ward.”

“How!—under ward? If I am a prisoner, speak plainly; if not, I will take my freedom to depart.”

“I would, my lord, your Highness would request his Majesty’s permission for this journey. There will be much displeasure.”

“Mean you displeasure against yourself, my lord, or against me?”

“I have already said your Highness lies in ward here; but if you determine to break it, I have no warrant—God forbid—to put force on your inclinations. I can but entreat your Highness, for your own sake—”

“Of my own interest I am the best judge. Good evening to you, my lord.”

The wilful Prince stepped into the boat with Dwining and Ramorny, and, waiting for no other attendance, Eviot pushed off the vessel, which descended the Tay rapidly by the assistance of sail and oar and of the ebb tide.

For some space the Duke of Rothsay appeared silent and moody, nor did his companions interrupt his reflections. He raised his head at length and said: “My father loves a jest, and when all is over he will take this frolic at no more serious rate than it deserves—a fit of youth, with which he will