obstinate lock, which resisted my most strenuous efforts, until, becoming quite vexed, I sat down determined to conquer it, whether I was thereby rendered late for dinner or no. At some time or other, the case had evidently been wet, consequently the snap was somewhat rusty and out of order. After devoting more time to the indulgence of my irritated temper than I had to spare, I succeeded in forcing the lid open, and was again struck with the beauty of the workmanship and the brilliancy of the stones in the ornaments; the largest clasp was peculiar in form, and somewhat thickly made, and as I passed it meditatively between my thumb and finger, testing its actual depth, I wondered what other hands had done the same—who was the original possessor—was she young or old, or beautiful or ugly? The ornaments were peculiar in device; perhaps some rich old woman had designed and ordered them for her own personal adornment, wearing them on her rich dress, where the jewels had flashed and sparkled with every rise and fall of her stout matronly bosom.
But this idea was unpleasing. I preferred to think them the property of some fair and gentle Austrian maid, who had—but, good gracious! here my surmises were interrupted by my thumb nail slipping into a chink hitherto indiscernible at the back of the large clasp, and prosecuting my discovery carefully, though with breathless interest, I removed a slide thin as a wafer, and there, in all its simple glory, lay a lock of golden hair, covering a miniature painting of a man’s face. There was nothing to mark the character or station of the original, therefore I say “a man’s face;” but if ever physiognomy showed the distinctive traces of nobility, this was a king’s! And even in the bright warm atmosphere of my room, amid the noises of a house full of people, I quailed before the indomitable eyes and silent majesty of the picture.
The dinner-bell pealed, but it was not its sound which made my hands tremble as, swiftly replacing the little slide, and ringing loudly for Mrs. Bennet, I commenced a far more hasty toilette than was my custom. Her exclamation, on entering the room, “Ech, sirs! My puir bairn, but yer pale and wearie, I’ll just ha’ to trick ye up like a babie!” did not rouse me. I drank the sal-volatile administered by her, and ran down stairs, long after the gong had growled its hospitable summons, feeling as if still in a dream—a dream of which the golden-haired chief, knight, or noble was the mysterious Alpha and Omega. The chatty Life Guardsman, who had the honour of handing me in to dinner, must have considered me a remarkably stupid person, as my interest in him was but to judge from his well-turned head whether the chief (so I will call him) of my Austrian jewels would have been worse looking with any covering on the throat, and I arrived at the conclusion that the portrait was so small that to have introduced drapery would have been impossible. Even the sight of Lora’s radiant beauty, so prettily set off by white silk, looped up with the large red cactus flowers, failed to divert my mind from the kingly face and lock of yellow hair. And it was a relief when the last song had been sung, the last reel footed, the last good-night uttered, even to that very last in the rooms of my guests where courtesy obliged me to see if they had everything they needed: but the last came at last, and I flew to my chamber to prepare as quickly as possible for the history, which somehow appeared to have a greater interest for me than ever; staying a few moments, however, with secured door to contend with the obstinate clasp, and take another look at my treasure. With reverent hands I lifted the lock of silky hair and gazed on the stedfast brow, when it occurred to me to use a powerful magnifying-glass which I had to see if I could discover any inscription or name; when, judge of my surprise, nay, almost terror, when I read in distinct little white letters these three words: ”Archdale. Mon Cœur,” written immediately beneath the face, where drapery would have commenced! The inexplicable feeling of sorrow which I had on deciphering these words almost drew tears from my eyes, and I replaced the lock of hair as gently and tenderly as though it had belonged to—well, mon cœur; and once more closing the obstinate case, which I had conceived a respect for, knowing what it so jealously guarded, I went into the adjoining room to await the entrance of Lora and Mrs. Bennet.
A strange feeling rendered me silent on the subject of my discovery, and my thoughts were far away during the earlier part of Mrs. Bennet’s narrative, which, however, soon attracted my wandering attention, the name of Lady Janet being in itself a talisman.
“Peace was an unco’ strange word for a Christian countree,” commenced Mrs. Bennet, “in the Lady Janet Johnstoun’s day. Mony a braw lad, understanding not its meaning, wud fain be lying stark and cauld on the muir than be thocht a mon o’ peace, believing it to be what we ca’ coward! There was never but ane o’ that likes in the Johnstouns, least o’ a’ amang the women, matron or maid; for if it was nae the ca’ o’ their time to strike the blow, there was ne’er an ane but could stan’ like the rocks theirselves to endure; and I’m thinking that wer the courage o’ the martyrs! The Lady Janet Johnstoun’s father wer a soldier and a saint if one e’er stepped this earth—what in my ain countree they aye ca’ ‘leal and loyal and trew’—and oh, Gude save us! if ever saint wer worshipped here, he wer, the brave, trew, old soldier, by his child the Lady Janet Johnstoun. He had several brothers, but they a’ died away wi’out leaving any survivors, except his youngest brother Kenneth, who lived to pruve his sel’ ane o’ the deil’s handy tools, and wha liked his master. This one, Kenneth, had a son and a daughter, Joan; the son’s name wer Patrick. I mind me not distinctly o’ a’ the bye ways and sly ways by which Kenneth mair na’ half ruined the Lady Janet’s father; but I have heard my mither tell that if the Lady Janet could ha’ gien her heart’s bluid drop by drop for her father, ’twould ha’ been dune, wi’ thanks to Heaven for the privilege. And sae she did, puir thing! but nae in a way as she recognised. Sin’ the time she wer cradled, there had been troth plighted ’twixt her and her cousin by her mother’s side, the Lord Archdale of