"I belonged to the convent of Ursulines at Steinkirke. At vesper-time the Count Solmes sacked it with his troopers; (God forgive him and them the sacrilege!) they expelled us with savage violence, and I found shelter in a cottage close by. Your groans drew me forth. Permit me to lead you, my poor son, for indeed you seem very weak. There is one poor fugitive there already, a countrywoman of our own, to whom I hope you will bring pleasant tidings; let us go."
They entered the humble Flemish cottage, the wide kitchen of which was brilliantly illuminated by a blazing fire of turf, that lit the furthest recesses of the great but rude apartment, that strongly resembled those represented by Rembrandt and Teniers, where every imaginable implement and article, garden and household utensil, hang from the beams of the open roof, load the walls, or encumber every available nook and corner; a heavy Flemish boor, in voluminous brown breeches, arose and doffed his fur cap, and with his wife made way for the sister of St. Ursula, who led Walter to a seat.
Thankfully he drained to the last drop a pewter flaggon of water that the housewife gave him, and was about to speak, when his attention was arrested by the sudden appearance of a young lady. She was very beautiful, and had an exquisitely fair complexion, the natural paleness of which grief and fear had very much increased; her blue eyes sparkled with animation, and her half dishevelled hair was of the brightest and glossiest but palest flaxen. Running to Walter Fenton she took both his hands in hers, and said, with a touching earnestness of manner,
"Ah, Sir! come you from the field of battle?"
"This moment, madam."
"Oh, you are Scottish by your voice, but alas! you wear the garb of Louis."
"My dear madam, it is the garb of loyalty and exile; of great suffering, and of much endurance."
"Unhappy Sir, you are——"
"One of the cavaliers of Dundee."
"Oh, tell me if you know aught of the fate of General Mackay in this day's carnage; Mackay, the Laird of Scoury?" she added a little proudly.
"Lady," faltered Walter, quite overcome by the question and the aspect of the speaker, "the brave champion of Presbyterianism is no more. I—I saw him slain."
"My father! oh, my father!" cried Margaret Mackay, in a voice that pierced the conscience-stricken Fenton to the heart; "I shall never see thee more—never behold thy kind old face and silver hair. Oh, my God! I am quite alone in the world, and what will become of me now? Oh, Lady Clermistonlee!" she exclaimed, and pressing against her heart the hand of the nun, sank into a chair and swooned.
"Clermistonlee!" reiterated Walter, starting; but the helpless condition of his young countrywoman demanded immediate attention, and he was compelled to smother his curiosity for a time, until she had partially recovered, and then the good Ursuline, after attending her with the most motherly care, left her engaged in prayer in another apartment, and turned all her attention to the wound on Walter's head.
With an adroit neatness of hand, a soft insinuating manner which drew the heart of Walter towards her as to a mother, the compassionate nun, assisted by the silent Flemish housewife, bathed the wound, cut away the long clotted locks, and bound it up, while the round visaged boor, whose mind was wholly absorbed by the loss of a field of corn, which had been cut down by Boufflers' foraging dragoons, sat with his eyes intently fixed on the smoke that curled from his pipe.
Walter had been so little accustomed to kindness, that all the strong feelings of his warm heart now gushed forth.
"A thousand thanks, dear madam!" he exclaimed. "I know not whether it is your kindness, the mere ardour of my heart, or some mysterious influence that Heaven alone can see, which calls forth all my fondest and most reverential sentiments towards you."
The Ursuline smiled sadly, and retired a pace.
"Oh, what is this new feeling that stirs within me?" continued Walter, in a half musing voice. "It seems as if your face bore the long remembered features of some kind friend or dear relative. Like a gleam of sunshine through a mist, they come back to me from the obscurity of the past like those of one whom—but, ah! whither is my enthusiasm carrying me? Dear madam, once more a thousand thanks, for now I must leave, and shall never see you more, but your kindness will ever be remembered by Walter Fenton with gratitude and love."
"Fenton!" said the Ursuline, putting back his hair, and tenderly surveying his emaciated features, "I once had a dear though humble friend of that name, and my heart yearns to thee for her sake. But wherefore this hurry to depart? Your wound?—"
"I know not where I am, lady, and should any of the Statholder's people come this way I should assuredly be shot."
"Then, in the name of all that is blessed, away! The fires of the French camp are still visible, and you may gain it ere daybreak."
This passed in French, but the boor understood it; his eyes twinkled, and knocking the ashes from his pipe he slowly stuck it in his leathern cap and stole out unperceived.
"And what will be the fate of this poor daughter of the brave Mackay, for everywhere the French are swarming around us?"
"Through a lady of the house of Nassau, who belongs to our now, alas! ruined convent, I will see her consigned to the care of her father's best friend, William of Orange."
"'Tis fortunate. It reminds me of what I scarcely dare to ask. She called you by the name of my bitterest enemy—Clermistonlee," said Walter, biting his lip; "Clermistonlee, who has been my rival and the bane of my existence. Oh, madam, what terrible mystery is concealed under this Ursuline habit!"
As Walter spoke the blood came and went in the faded face of the trembling recluse. One moment, when fired by animation, her features seemed almost beautiful, and the next they were withered, rigid, and aged.
"Mr. Fenton," faltered the nun—"Mr. Fenton, for so I presume you are named?"
"I am Sir Walter Fenton, lady, by the King's grace."
The nun bowed slightly.
"My heart warms, Sir Walter, to that dear native land which I shall never behold again, and in a moment of such weakness I revealed myself to that poor fugitive girl, whom fate so happily threw under my protection, when the confederates were defeated and dispersed——. You know him then, this wicked man, to whom fate in an evil hour gave me as a wife. Oh, Randal! Randal! ————. Let me not recall in bitterness the burning thoughts of years long passed and gone—thoughts which I have long since learned to suppress, or endure with calmness and resignation."
"Enough, dear madam, I am animated by no vulgar curiosity, and time presses. Oh, learn rather to forget your earlier griefs than to remember them. Too well do I know the Lord Clermistonlee, and can easily conceive a long and painful history of domestic woe and suffering. You are the unfortunate Alison Gilford?"
"Of the house of Gilford of that ilk in Lothian," continued the recluse with tearless composure. "In his earlier days, when young, gallant, and winsome, with an honoured name and spotless scutcheon, Randal Clermont became my lover and my husband. Oh, how happy I was for a time; how loving and beloved! But a change came over the unstable heart of my husband. His political intrigues and private excesses soon ruined our fortune, deprived me of his love and him of my esteem. We were driven into exile, and retired to Paris. There he plunged madly into a vortex of the lowest dissipation, and spent the last of my dowry, my jewels, and everything. He became a drunkard, a bully, and a gamester, if not worse. Long, long I endured without a murmur or reproach his pitiless cruelty and cutting contempt, until he eloped with one who in better days had been my companion and attendant, an artful wretch named Beatrix Gilruth. He joined the army of Mareschal Crecquy as a volunteer, and I saw him no more. Hearing afterwards that he was in Scotland fighting under the standard of the Covenant, and being driven to despair by the miseries into which he had plunged me, by leaving me a prey to destitution in a foreign land, I resolved to quit the world for ever; I have come of an old Catholic family, and a convent was my first thought.
"Our child, for we had one, our child was alternately a source of torment and delight," continued the poor nun, weeping bitterly—"my torment from the resemblance it bore to its perfidious father, and my delight as the only tie that bound me to earth; I resolved to see it no more, and sent the poor infant to Scotland in charge of a faithful female servitor, to whom I gave a letter for my husband, purporting to be written on my deathbed, and a ring he had given me in happier days. In an agony of grief I saw the woman depart, and gave her all I possessed, a few louis-d'ors I had acquired at Paris, where I had supported myself as a fleuriste, and was patronized by the Scottish Archers, who were ever very kind to me. I considered myself as dead to the world from that hour, and immediately commenced my noviciate in the licensed convent of St. Ursula in French Flanders.
"Here again all the wounds of my heart were torn open by tidings that the ship in which my loved little boy and his nurse embarked had perished at sea; whether they perished too God alone knoweth, for I heard of them no more. And now the fierce stings of remorse increased the sadness of my sorrow, and I upbraided myself with cruelty, with lack of fortitude and such resignation as became a Christian. I accused myself of infanticide, and in my thoughts by day and my dreams by night I had ever before me the sunny eyes and golden hair of my little child, and its lisping accents in my dreaming ear awoke me to tears and unavailing sorrow."
Here the poor nun again paused and wept bitterly.
"Time never fails to soften the memory of the most acute sorrow, and in the convent to which I had fled for refuge from my own thoughts, the soothing consolations of the sisterhood, the calm, the pious and blameless tenor of their way, charmed me as much as their holy meekness of spirit subdued my bitter regrets. After a time I tasted the sweets of the most perfect contentment, if not of happiness. In the duties of religion, of industry and charity, I soon learned to forget Clermistonlee, or to remember him only in my prayers—to forget that I had been a wife, to forget that I had been—oh, no! not a mother—never could I forget that."
"Villain that he is! and with the consciousness of your Ladyship's existence, he has, since he was ennobled, wooed many another to be his bride; but Heaven's hand or his own vices have always foiled him."
The eyes of the recluse sparkled beneath her veil; but folding her white hands meekly on her bosom, she said with exceeding gentleness—
"What have I to do with it now?—besides, youth, I am sure he believes me dead, for some of the Scottish Archers told him so—and dead I am to him and to the world."
"It is a very sad history, madam,"
"But God has comforted me." Her tears fell fast nevertheless, and a long pause ensued. Walter felt himself moved to tears, and he often sighed deeply, yet knew not why.
The sound of a trumpet roused him; it seemed close bye, and came in varying cadence on the passing wind.
"'Tis the trumpet of a Dutch patrole. I must begone, lady, or remain only to die. Farewell; a thousand blessings on you and a thousand more—for we shall never meet again;" and half kneeling he kissed her hand, and, slipping from the cottage, favoured by the darkened moon, hurried away towards the fires of Luxembourg's camp, just as a party of Dutch Ruyters led by the boor halted at the cottage door.
* * * * *
With fifty thousand men the Mareschal Duke of Luxembourg was posted at Courtray on the Lys; while William, with twice that number, lay at Grammont, inactive, phlegmatic, and afraid to attack him; an inertness which increased the growing ill-humour of Britain against him. Without a dinner and without a sou, abandoned to solitude and dejection, Walter Fenton one evening paced slowly to and fro on the ramparts of Courtray, watching the bright sunset as it lingered long on the level scenery. A page approached, who acquainted him that Monseigneur le Mareschal required his presence in the citadel, whither he immediately repaired, and found the great Henri of Luxembourg, the youthful Dukes of Chartres and Vendome, with other chevaliers of distinction, carousing after a sumptuous repast.
As he entered, De Chartres was singing the merry old ditty ofJean de Nivelle, while the rest chorused.
"Jean de Nivelle has three flails;Three palfrays with long manes and tails;Three blades of a terrible brand,Which he never takes into his hand.Ah! ouivraiment!Jean de Nivelle est bon enfant!"
The magnificence of their attire, the happy nonchalance and graceful ease of their manner, contrasted with his own tattered and humble uniform, fallen fortune, and jaded spirit, made Walter's heart sick as he entered; but, assuming somewhat of the old air of a cavalier officer, he bowed to the noble company, and awaited in silence the commands of the Mareschal.
"Approach, Monsieur," said the handsome young Duc de Chartres. "Tête Dieu! but you look very pale! You were wounded I believe?"
"It is nearly healed Monseigneur,"
"Ah, it is deuced unpleasant work this fighting and beleaguering."
"De Chartres would rather be at Chantilly," said the Duc de Vendome, laughing.
"Or at Versailles," said a Chevalier of St. Louis. "He is thinking of little Mariette Gondalaurier."
"Or St. Denis and adorable Isabeau Lagrange."
"Say Paris at once, Messieurs," said the boyish roué, smiling. "I have beauties everywhere."
"The Scottish officer will drink with us—here, boy, assist our friend to wine," said Luxembourg to his page. "'Tis only Frontiniac, Monsieur; but an hour ago it was Dutch William's, and we drink it out of pure spite."
Walter drank the fragrant wine from a massively embossed cup, and his head swam as he imbibed it, and waited to hear for what desperate duty these noble peers designed him.
"Chevalier," said Luxembourg with his most bland smile, "it is pleasant to reward the brave. Aware that the repulse of the confederate cavalry on my right flank, and consequently the whole success of that glorious day at Steinkirke was mainly owing to the valour of the Scottish cavaliers animated by your example, King Louis sends you this." And taking from his own neck the sparkling cross of the recently created order of St. Louis, the Duke placed it around the neck of Walter Fenton, who bowed his thanks in silence.
"Go, Chevalier—you are a gallant soldier! The Scots were ever brave, and the friends of France. Wear that cross with honour to the Most Christian King, to your native country—"
"And to the most sublime Madame Maintenon," said the young Duke, and his gay companions laughed.
"Monseigneur!" said Luxembourg warningly.
"Tête Dieu, Mareschal! dost think I fear her? Faith Madame, 'tis known, never gives a favour without a most usurious per centage. She is quite a Jewess in the intrigues of love and politics, ha! ha!"
"Attached to this cross, Chevalier, is a pension of four hundred livres yearly, which I doubt not will be acceptable in your present reduced circumstances."
"Oh, believe me, Monseigneur le Mareschal, and you most noble Dukes, it is indeed most acceptable; for with it I may in some sort alleviate the miseries of those gallant gentlemen, my comrades, who share your fortunes in the field."
"By St. Denis, you are a gallant fellow!" cried Luxembourg with kindling eyes, "Your generosity equals your courage. But this must not be. Messieurs your comrades must take the will for the deed. This night you must depart for the Court of St. Germain-en-laye, where King James requires your immediate attendance. My Secretary will supply you with money, and my Master of the Horse with a charger—adieu, Sir, and God be with you!"
Walter retired.
That night he bade a sad adieu to his comrades, and, mounted on one of the Mareschal's horses, departed from Courtray.
His brave companions in glory and exile he saw no more. After all their services and their sufferings, their achievements and their chivalry, the few survivors of the war, sixteen in number, were, by a striking example of French ingratitude, disbanded at the peace of Ryswick, on the upper part of the Rhine, far from their native land—without money or any provision to save them from starvation and death. Of these sixteen onlyfoursurvived to return to Scotland in extreme old age, when all fears of the Jacobites had passed away for ever.
Again the unclouded moon was shining over Steinkirke when Walter passed it, and vividly on his mind came back the fierce memories of that impetuous hour. The great plain was deserted, the full eared corn was waving heavily, and not a sound disturbed the silence of the moonlit scenery save the deep bay of a household dog or the croak of a passing stork.
Thickly on every hand lay the graves of the faithful dead. In some instances he saw great burial mounds; in others there was but one solitary grave secluded among the long grass and reeds, and his horse started instinctively as he passed them.
Fragments of clothing, accoutrements, and other relics, lay among the rank weeds by the side of the fields, under the green hedge-rows, in the wet ditches; and even fleshless bones, bare scalps, fingers and toes, protruded from the soil, imparting an aspect of horror to the moonlighted plain where the battle had been fought.
The abbatis still lay there, but the foliage of the trees that formed it had long since faded and decayed. A great tumulus, on which the young grass was sprouting, lay within it.
"Poor Finland!" muttered Walter, and with a moistened eye and heavy heart he plunged his horse into the Senne and swam to the opposite bank. The cottage where he had found shelter had now disappeared; its foundations, scorched and blackened by fire, alone marked the place where it stood. He thought of the poor Ursuline and her story, and sighed that he could learn nothing more of her fate; he sighed, too, at the memory of the beautiful Margaret Mackay, and felt the keenest remorse for having slain her father.
Of the recluse he never heard more; but the daughter of Mackay reached the camp of William in safety, and in after years became the wife of her kinsman and chief, George, third Lord Reay of Farre.
To daunton me, and me sae young,And guid King James's auldest son!Oh, that's the thing that never can be,For the man is unborn that'll daunton me!O set me once upon Scottish land,With my guid braid-sword into my hand,My bannet blue aboon my bree,Then shew me the man that'll daunton me!JACOBITE RELIQUES.
His confessor had just withdrawn, and King James was sitting in his closet involved in gloomy and distracting reverie—immersed in thoughts which even the mild exhortations of the priest had failed to soothe, and with his eyes intently fixed on the morning sun as it rose red and unclouded in the east, he gave way to the sadness that oppressed him.
Alternately he was a prey to a storm of revengeful and bitter political reflections, or to a gloomy fanaticism, which impaired the courage and lessened the magnanimity for which he had once been distinguished. On discovering that he was constantly conferring with the Jesuits upon abstruse theology, the ribald Louis spoke of him in terms of pity mingled with contempt. The French ridiculed, the Romans lampooned him, and, while the Sovereign Pontiff supplied him liberally with indulgences, the Archbishop of Rheims said ironically—"There is a pious man who hath sacrificed three crowns for a mass!"
And this was all the unfortunate and mistaken James had gained, by his steady and devoted adherence to a falling faith.
Bestowing a glance of undisguised hostility, not unmingled with contempt, at the follower of St. Ignatius Loyola as he withdrew, the Earl of Dunbarton, clad in his old uniform as a Scottish general, entered the apartment of the King. The green ribbon of St. Andrew was worn over his left shoulder, the star with its four silver points sparkled on his left breast, and around his neck hung the red ribbon of the Bath, and the magnificent collar of the Garter.
"Good morning, my Lord Dunbarton; you look as if you had something to communicate. Any news from Flanders? Is my dutiful son-in-law still playing at long bowles with Luxembourg? Has Sir Walter Fenton arrived?"
"He awaits your Majesty's pleasure in the ante-chamber."
"Let him be introduced at once! Why all this etiquette?"
"Because, please your Majesty, it is all that is left to remind me of other days."
"True," said the King thoughtfully.
"Welcome, my brave and faithful soldier!" he exclaimed, as Walter was introduced by the gentlemen in waiting, and kneeled to kiss his hand. "Welcome from Flanders, that land of fighting and fertility. My poor Sir Walter, you look very pale and emaciated."
"I was wounded at Steinkirke, please your Majesty; and with those unfortunate gentlemen, my comrades, have undergone such hardships and humiliations as no imagination can conceive."
Walter's eyes suffused with tears; his voice and his heart trembled. He felt a gush of loyalty and ardour swelling within his breast, that would have enabled him cheerfully to lay his life at the feet of the King. The remark of a celebrated modern writer is indeed a true one. "Unfortunate and unwise as were the Stuart family, there must have been some charm about them, for they had instances of attachment and fidelity shewn them of whichno other line of Kings could boast."
"You have indeed undergone sufferings which God only can reward," said the King, laying a hand kindly on his shoulder; "and your ill requited valour is a striking example of the falsehood and flattery of the Court of Versailles."
"When I consider our achievements," replied Walter, "my soul fires with pride and ardour; but when I think of the friends that have fallen, my heart dies away within me. To the last of my blood and breath I will serve your majesty; but, notwithstanding this gift of the Cross of St. Louis, I will follow the banner of the donor no more."
"Louis is a noble prince," said the Earl of Dunbarton, "and one who hath raised his realm to the greatest pitch of human grandeur."
"Oh, say not so, my Lord! When I remember the cruel persecution of his subjects after the Treaty of Nimguen, his repealing the edict of Nantes, his tyranny over the noblesse and the parliament, his unjust wars and usurpations, in which he pours forth so prodigally the blood and the treasures of his people; his blasphemous titles and lewd life; I can only remember with shame that I have served in his army, and from this hour renounce his service for ever. And were it not that this cross hung once on the breast of the gallant Luxembourg, I would hurl it into the Seine."
"The remembrance of your sufferings doubtless animates this unwise train of thought, Sir Walter," said the King, slightly piqued. "But permit me to remark, that to indulge your opinions thus in France, is to run your head into the lion's mouth. How goes the war in Flanders?"
"Still doubtfully, please your Majesty; but the recent arrival of the Duke of Leinster at Ostend, with fresh troops for William, may turn the fortune of the war against Henri of Luxembourg, and consequently please the people of England, who are not very favourably disposed towards this expensive and unnecessary war for the Dutch interests of the usurper."
"The best proof of this new sentiment, is the discontent of the Cameronians in the western districts of Scotland. What dost think, Sir Walter? They have engaged to muster 5000 horse and 20,000 infantry for my complete restoration, provided Louis will give them only one month's subsidy, beside other supplies, and these he hath solemnly promised me."
"From my soul I thank Heaven that again it is turning the hearts of your subjects towards you. If such is the spirit of the Cameronians, oh, what will be the energy and the ardour of the Cavaliers! But trust not in Louis; he has ruined every prince with whom he has been allied, in war or in politics, and assuredly he will shipwreck the interests of your Majesty, as he has done those of others."
"Still judging hardly of his most Christian Majesty," said James, smiling. "But I have the pledged words of better men. From the noble Drummonds', the gallant Keiths', the Hays', from the Lord Stormont and the Murrays', the gay Gordons and Grahames, I have received the most solemn promises of adherence and loyalty; and I know that the glorious clans of the northern shires will all rush to my standard the moment it is unfurled upon the Highland hills. Oh, yes!" continued the King, while his dark eyes flashed with joyous enthusiasm; "once again as in my father's days the war-cry of the Gael will ring from Lochness to Lochaber."
"But where is now Montrose, and where Dundee?" said Lord Dunbarton in a low voice.
"God will raise up other champions for those who have suffered so much in his service as the Princes of the House of Stuart," replied the King with Catholic fervour and confidence. "Meantime, Sir Walter, I would have you to set out for Scotland forthwith, to negotiate with those distinguished cavaliers, while the minds of my people are still inflamed by the memory of that fiend-like massacre at Glencoe, the defeat of Steinkirke, the slaughter of their soldiers, and all the disgusts incident to the Flemish campaign abroad and William's administration at home. My Lord Dunbarton avers that he will pledge his honour for the loyalty of his old regiment and the Scottish Guards, both horse and foot, for his Countess has questioned every man of them. You will not fail to visit Drummond of Hawthorndon; he comes of a leal and true race, and his house, with its deep caverns and secret outlets, is a noble place of rendezvous and security. You will be liberally supplied with money and letters of credit and compliment. You may promise, in my name, everything that seems requisite—titles, honours, pensions,—I will trust to your discretion, from what the Lord Dunbarton has told me of you. Flatter the vain, conciliate the stubborn, secure the wavering, and fire the loyal. Leave nothing undone, and remember that, perhaps on the success of your mission depend the fortune of the prince, my son, the ancient liberties of Scotland, the honour of her people, and the fate of her regal line."
The King ceased, and Walter was so overwhelmed by the magnitude of the diplomacy entrusted to him, and the joy at returning to Scotland, that he remained silent for some moments.
"Oh, with what a mission does your Majesty honour me!" he exclaimed, glowing with ambition, gratitude and joy. "How can I express my thanks for this great confidence reposed in one so poor, so friendless?"
"These are good qualities, Sir Walter, for a Jacobite agent; you may (being friendless and unknown) make your way through Scotland in safety, when a coroneted baron, or the chief of a powerful sept, would soon be discovered and committed to the Castle of Edinburgh or the Tower of London. Go, Sir Walter; Lord Dunbarton and my secretary will arrange the matters you require, and in addition to my holograph letters to the Lowland lords and Highland chiefs, will give you others to Mr. Brown, my English agent, and Father Innes, President of the Scots' College at Paris, who acts for me in Scotland. Go, Sir Walter, and prosper! If ever we meet again, let us hope it will be under very different circumstances. May God and his thrice-blessed mother keep their hands over you, and inspire you for the sake of my dear little son and the people over whom he is to rule! Farewell—I have in some sort rewarded your courage in the field, but if your talent in diplomacy equals it, I swear by the sceptre that my sires have borne for ages, you shall be Earl of Dalrulion in the north, and cock your beaver with the best peer in all broad Scotland. Farewell! may we meet again at the head of a loyal and faithful army, or part to meet no more!"
Again Walter Fenton kneeled, and after kissing the hand of James, was hurried away by the Earl of Dunbarton.
Furnished with a great number of letters addressed to the principal nobles and chiefs in Scotland, Walter artfully sewed them into the lining of his hat and the stiff buckram skirts of his coat, after which, without an hour's delay, he departed on his arduous and dangerous mission—to overturn the established governments of two kingdoms—to hurl down one dynasty and restore another.
Already he had gained a title which formerly he had possessed only in his day-dreams of success and glory; but now decorated by Louis with his new and famous military order, promised a peerage by his King, fired by loyalty, ardour, and love, he seemed to occupy a giddy eminence, from which he viewed distinctly a long and happy future.
It was a far-stretching and glorious vista of triumph and success; the restoration of the king by his means, and oh, far above all,—the exultation of placing a Countess's coronet on the bright tresses of Lilian Napier.
Then, Mary, turn awa'That bonnie face o' thine;Oh, dinna shew the breastThat never can be mine.
Wi' love's severest pangsMy heart is laden sair;And owre my breast the grass maun grow,Ere I am free from care.
In the gloaming of an evening in the autumn of 1693 a man left the western gate of Edinburgh, and, skirting the suburb of the Highriggs, struck into the roadway between the fields.
The sickly rays of a yellow sun shining faintly through the mist after throwing the shadows of the gigantic castle far to the eastward, had died away, and a deeper gloom succeeding, denoted the close of the day as the fall of the fluttering leaves did that of the dreary year.
The stranger was Walter Fenton; but how changed in aspect and attire! His form was thin and emaciated, his cheek pale, his eyes sunken from the pain of his wound and the toil of campaigning; but his step was as free, and his bearing erect as ever. His attire was of the plainest grey freize, with great horn buttons; a brown scratch wig and a plain beaver hat concealed the dark locks that curled beneath them; he carried a walking staff in lieu of a sword, and appeared to lean on it a little at times. He was now in the character of a Low Country merchant, and, favoured by a passport from the conservator of Scottish privileges at Campvere, had an hour before landed from the good ship Fame of Queensferry, at the ancient wooden pier of Leith.
Often he made brief pauses to view the desolate scene around him; for in that year a heavy curse seemed to have fallen upon the desolate kingdom of Scotland.
On an evening in the preceding summer, when everything was blooming and smiling—when the land was rich with verdure and the woods were heavy with foliage, a cold wind came from the eastward, and, accompanied by a dense and sulphureous mist, swept over the face of the country, blighting whatsoever was touched by its pestilential breath.
The fields seemed to whiten under its baleful influence; the ripening corn withered, and the land was struck with a barrenness. Dense, opaque, and palpable, like a chain of hills, this strange and horrid vapour lay floating in the valleys for many successive months, and there its effects were more disastrous. The heat of the sun seemed to diminish, the insects disappeared from the air and the birds from the withered woods, which, long ere the last month of summer, became divested of their faded foliage. The cattle became dwarfish and meagre, and the flocks perished by scores on the decaying heather of the blasted mountains. The people became sickly, ghastly, and prostrated in spirit; for a curse seemed to have fallen upon the land and all that was in it.
This terrible visitation continued until the year 1701, and thedear yearswere long remembered with horror in Scotland.
In some places, January and February became the months of harvest, and, amid ice and snow, and the sleet that drizzled through that everlasting and sulphureous mist, the half famished people reaped in grief and misery a small part of their scanty produce, while the other was left to rot in the ground. Famine, the lord of all, stalked grimly over the land, and strong men and wailing women, yea, and feeble children, fought like wild beasts for a handful of meal in the desolate market places.
"There was many a blank and pale face in Scotland," says Walker, the famous Presbyterian pedlar, "and as the famine waxed sore, wives thought not of their husbands, nor husbands of their wives," and the gloomy superstition and fanatical intolerance of the time added fresh horrors to this ghastly scourge.
The famine was not yet at its height; but there was a desolation in the aspect of the land that deeply impressed the mind of the returned exile, and he sighed in unison with the dreary wind as it swept over the blasted muir, shaking down the crisped leaves and acorns of stately old oaks of Drumsheugh. Save the solitary heron, wading as of old in the lake, not a bird was to be seen, not an insect buzzing about the leafless hedges. The air was dense and cold, and all was very still.
The country seemed to be wasting like a beautiful woman decaying in consumption. Walter felt that the manners of the people were changed; intense gravity and moroseness, real or affected, were visible in every face, while sad coloured garments, Geneva cloaks, and Dutch fashions were all the rage. Every trace of the smart mustache had disappeared, and with it the slashed doublets, the waving feathers and dashing airs of the gallant cavaliers.
Even the sentinels at the palace gates and the portes of the city, might have passed for those before the Town House orRasp Hausat Amsterdam. The smart steel cap of the old Scottish infantry had now given place to a vast overshadowing beaver looped up on three sides, and the scarlet doublet slashed with blue, and the jacket of spotless buff, to square tailed and voluminous coats of brick-red, with yellow breeches and belts worn saltier-wise.
Bitterly the reflection came home to the heart of the poor Cavalier, that
"The times were changed, old manners gone,And astrangerfilled the Stuarts' throne!"
Though confident of succeeding in his diplomacy with the loyal lords and chieftains of the Jacobite faction, he was well aware how arduous and difficult was the task to overthrow two Governments so well arranged, ably constituted and supported, as those of England and Scotland. It had long been the policy of William III. to conciliate domestic enemies, and, in pursuance of it, he had bestowed several lucrative offices on the leaders of the discontented and kirk-party. The Scottish Parliament, which had recently met, received from him an able and cunning letter, replete with flattering and cajoling expressions, which put all the Presbyterian Lords in such excellent humour, that they returned a most dutiful and affectionate address—granted him a supply of six new battalions of infantry, a body of seamen, and one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to enable him to carry on his useless wars with new vigour; but though the Parliament was thus obsequious, the people were far from being pleased; and the Jacobites, numerous, enthusiastic, and determined, every where fanned the flames of discord and dissension.
The institution of fines and oaths of assurance upon absentees from Parliament, which had direct reference to certain Cavalier Lords and lesser Barons, exasperated them as much as the horrible massacre of Glencoe did the commonalty, who raised throughout the land a cry for vengeance on William and his Government.
Walter Fenton reflected on these things as he walked onward, and knew that he had come at a critical time. Other thoughts soon succeeded, and, grasping his staff as he had often done his sword, he pushed forward with a sparkling eye and reddening cheek.
Without impairing his nobler sentiments, suffering and misfortune had powerfully strengthened his loyalty and virtue, as much as campaigning had improved his bearing and lent a firmness and manly determination to his aspect; but often his brow saddened and the fire of his eye died away, when he thought of Finland and those he had been permitted to survive and to mourn.
Glowing with sensations of rapture, and eagerly anticipating the flush of joy that awaited him, he passed the rhinns of the beautiful loch, the curious gable-ended old house where once the Regent Murray dwelt, and approached the gate of Bruntisfield.
His heart beat painfully; he was deeply agitated. Five weary years had elapsed since he had stood on that spot, and it seemed only as yesterday. Through all the hurry of events that had swept over him, his memory went back to that memorable eve of September (of which this was now the anniversary) and to the glorious ardour that animated his heart on the day he marched for England, when the long line of the Scottish host wound over yonder hill before him. Oh, for one hour more of those fierce longings and brave impulses! But alas! the spirit seemed to have passed away for ever.
He approached the avenue. The old gate with its massive arch, its mossy carvings and loopholed wall, had given place to a handsome new erection of more modern architecture, surmounted by a rich coat of arms; and Walter felt every pulse grow still, and every fibre tremble as he surveyed the sculptured blazon.
It bore the saltire of Napier, engrailed between four roses, but quartered, collared, and coroneted with other bearings.
His heart became sick and palsied. Oh, it was a horrible sensation that came over him; he stood long irresolute and apprehensive.
"Of what am I afraid!" he suddenly exclaimed with the enthusiasm of a true and impassioned lover. "There is some mistake here; the house has been sold or gifted away like many another noble patrimony to the slaves of the Statholder. Lilian! Dear Lilian, when shall I hold thee in my arms?"
He was about to rush forward, when a horseman, the glittering lace on whose bright coloured suit of triple velvet, and waving ostrich feathers that fluttered in his diamond hat-band, formed a strong contrast to the sombre fashions of the time, dashed down the leaf-strewn avenue on a beautiful charger, with the perfumed ringlets of his white peruke dancing in the wind—for white perukes, from a spirit of opposition, were all the rage then, asblackhad been under the three last princes of the old hereditary line. It was Lord Clermistonlee.
"Hollo, fellow!" he cried imperiously, "keep out of my horse's way—dost want thy bones broken!" and giving a keen but casual glance at the dejected wanderer, he spurred onward to the city.
Suddenly he reined up so sharply as almost to pull his pawing steed back upon its strained and bending haunches.
"'Tis he!" exclaimed the proud lord, as he thought aloud. "By the great father of confusion 'tis he! How could I mistake, though truly, poor devil, these last five years have sadly changed him. But on what fool's errand comes he here? By all the furies, I knew his lachrymose visage in a moment, though the despatches of Dalrymple of Stair, to our Lords of Council, had in some sort prepared me for his return, and for what?—to organize a plot for James's restoration. Poor fool! Infatuated in love as in politics. He believes in the faith of women and the word of Kings; let us see how they will avail him tonight."
He smiled scornfully, and twisted the heavy dark mustachios which he still cherished with more than Mahommedan veneration. Alternately sad and bitter thoughts swelled within him as he remembered the joyous revelry of King Charles's days, and the tyranny he could then exercise over all nonconformists, and the hunting and hosting-dragooning and drinking of the Covenanting wars; then came feelings of jealousy and revenge that, as they blazed up in his proud breast, bore all before them.
"How dares he now to prowl before my own gates? Gadso! if my Lady Lilian sees him once, there will be a pretty disturbance. A shipload of devils will be nothing to it. The girl will die, and my own house will become too hot to hold me. D——nation! too well have I seen the secret passion that has preyed upon her gentle and affectionate heart—the grief—the deep consuming grief that all my magnificent presents and gentle blandishments have failed to soothe. A thousand curses on this upstart beggar, and a thousand more on the mother of mischief, who has raised him up again to cross my path! By what power hath he escaped war and woe, and storm and every danger again to thwart and come in the way of Clermistonlee, whose purposes were never yet foiled by man, or woman either? 'S death! the time has come when the cord of the doomster, or the axe of the maiden, must rid me for ever of this old source of dark forebodings and secret inquietude. Ho, for a guard and a warrant of Council, and then Sir Walter Fenton, Knight Banneret, the Jacobite spy, Chevalier of St. Louis, ex-private soldier, and soi-disant ensign to the Lord Dunbarton, may look to himself! Ha, ha!" and dashing spurs into his horse he galloped madly into the city.
To linger when the sun of life,The beam that gilt its path is gone—To feel the aching bosom's strife,WhenHopeis dead, butLovelives on.ANONYMOUS.
Meanwhile, without recognising Clermistonlee, and not aware that he had been recognized by him, poor Walter, who was of that temperament which is easily raised and depressed, turned away from the gate, crushed beneath the load of a thousand fears at the sight of so gay a cavalier caracoling down the avenue of Bruntisfield.
His heart was overcharged with melancholy reflections. "I have been away for five years—in all that time we have never heard of each other. Oh, what if she should have deemed me dead!"
Drawing his last shilling from his pocket, the unfortunate cavalier entered a poor change-house by the wayside, where a great signboard creaking on an iron rod and representing a portrait in a red coat and white wig, and having a tremendously hooked nose, imported that it was the 'King William's head,' kept by Lucky Elshender, who promised good entertainment for "man and beast."
The small clay-floored apartment, with its well-scrubbed bunkers, and rack of shining plates and tin trenchers, kirn-babies on the mantelpiece, and blazing ingle, where turf and wood burned cheerfully in a clumsy iron basket, supported by four massive legs, looked very snug and comfortable.
A personage evidently a divine, long visaged and dark featured, with his lanky sable hair falling on his Geneva bands and coat of rusty black, sat warming his spindle legs at the warm hearth, and smoking a long pipe, on the bowl of which he fixed his great lack lustre eyes with an expression of the deepest abstraction. It was the Reverend Mr. Ichabod Bummel, who came every evening as regularly as six o'clock struck, to smoke a pipe, and hear the passing news at the change-house kept by his aunt-in-law old Elsie, and to bore every traveller who was disposed to hear the abstruse theology and ponderous arguments advanced in hisBombshell, for that immortal work had been printed at last, in thick quarto, and a copy of it now lay under his elbow all ready for action against the first good-natured listener or fool-hardy disputant.
In person this redoubtable champion of toleration was as lean as ever, though the goods and chattels of this world had flowed amply upon him of late, notwithstanding the oppression and famine of the time. He had cautiously purchased various tofts and pendicles on the banks of the Powburn, and to these he gave hard and unusual scriptural names, which they bear unto this day, and which the curious may find by consulting the City Directory. One he named the Land of Canaan, another the Land of Goshen, the Land of Egypt, Hebron, and so forth, while the little runnel that traverses them was exalted into the waters of Jordan. Meinie, whom he had espoused, had "proved," as he said, "ane fruitful vine," for she had brought him four sons, all long-visaged, hollow-eyed, and sepulchral counterparts of himself, and he named them Shem, Ham, Japhet, and Ichabod.
On the opposite side of the ingle, and far back in a corner, a miserable-looking woman crouched on the stone bench for warmth. A tartan plaid was muffled about her shoulders, and half concealed her hollow cheeks and ghastly visage. She seemed a personification of the famine and misery that reigned so triumphantly in Scotland. Her eyes were full of unnatural lustre; they flashed like diamonds in the light of the fire, but had a scrutinizing and stern expression in them that startled Walter, and he felt uneasy in her vicinity.
"It's only puir Beatrix Gilruth, my winsome gentleman," said Elsie in a low voice; "she is a gomeral—a natural body that bides about the doors, Sir; just a puir, harmless, daft creature. She'll no harm you, Sir."
In the tumult of his mind Walter did not at first recognise either Elsie or Ichabod, but assuming an air of as much unconcern as he could muster, he called for a bicker of French wine, and took possession of a cutty stool which the slipshod Elsie placed for him hurriedly and officiously opposite the divine, who regarded him with a keen scrutinizing glance, to ascertain his probable station in life, his errand, and objects in coming hither. He saw that he was a traveller, and being on foot must be a poor one.
"Good e'en to your reverence, for I presume I have the honour of addressing a clergyman," said Walter, politely.
"Hum—humph!" answered Ichabod, with a short cough, nodding his head, and never once moving his eyes from Walter's face. Every man was then doubtful and suspicious of strangers (the Scots are so to the present hour), and consequently Ichabod was singularly dry and reserved. But Elsie drew near Walter, and looked at him attentively. The grief that preyed upon his heart had imparted a singularly prepossessing mildness to his features, and a winning cadence to the tone of his voice, but the stark preacher neither saw one nor felt the influence of the other.
"A cold night, your reverence."
"Yea," gasped Ichabod, and there was another pause.
"My service to you, Sir. Wilt taste my wine? 'tis right Gascony, and I should be a judge."
"Yea, having been in those parts where it was produced, probably," observed Ichabod, becoming more curious and communicative as he imbibed the lion's share of Walter's wine pot, and waited for an answer, but there was none given.
"Verily, Sir," began Mr. Bummel, "these are times to chill the souls and bodies of the afflicted. Thou seest how sore the famine waxeth in the land, especially in these our once fertile Lothians, which whilome were wont to be overflowing with milk and honey."
"Ay," chimed in Elsie, "but I've seen them in mair fearfu' times, when they were overflowing wi' blude and soldiers."
"'Tis for that red harvest, woman, that we are visited by this lamentable scourge; plagued even as Egypt was of old. In these three fertile shires of Lothian I have seen a woeful change since the last harvest, and my heart grows heavy when I think upon it; but I am about to arise and go forth from them for ever."
"Indeed, Sir," said Walter.
"I have gotten a pleasant call from the Lord to another kirk——"
"Wi' abetterstipend, Sir," added the gleeful Elsie.
"Indubitably," said Mr. Bummel.
"Twa hunder pound Scots, a braw glebe, four bolls o' beir," replied Elsie, counting on her crooked and wrinkled fingers, "aucht chalders—"
"Peace, woman Elsie, for this enumeration of thine savours of a love for the things of this life."
"And a braw pulpit. O, but it's grand you'll be, Ichabod, when in full birr under your sounding board. But alake, Sir," she added, turning to Walter, "arena' these fearfu' times?'
"Sad indeed, gudewife."
"I was in the mealmarket this morning, and oh, Sirs, it was a sight to rend the heart of a nether millstane to see the hungry bairns and wailing mothers worrying about the half-filled pokes. God help them! the puir folk are deeing fast the west country we hear."
"'Tis a scourge on the land for its former sins," said the preacher in his most sepulchral tone; "but let us hope that the faith of its people will save it!"
"You'll hae come from some far awa' country I'm thinking, Sir?" said Elsie, inquisitively, for the extreme sadness of Walter interested her extremely.
"True I have, good woman."
"France, I fancy? that land o' priests and persecution."
"From Holland last. I am a merchant, and deal in broadcloths and cart saddles. From Holland last," he repeated, for their inquisitiveness made him uneasy.
"A blessed land, good youth," said Mr. Bummel. "I sojourned there long when there was a flaming sword over the children of righteousness."
"Reverend sir, canst tell me what are the news among you here?" asked Walter, who was in an agony of mind to lead the conversation to what lay nearest his heart.
"Verily, Sir, nought but the famine—the famine. The west winds hath detained the Flanders mail these two months, and we have heard nothing from London these many weeks, save anent plots of the Jacobites and Papists, of whilk we have ever enough and to spare."
"What have you heard of them of late?"
"'Tis said that one Walter Fenton, formerly an officer in the regiment of Dunbarton (that bloody oppressor of Israel) is now tarrying among us, plotting in James's cause, or on some such errand of hell."
"The rascal," said Walter, drinking to conceal the confusion that overspread his face.
"Yea," continued Ichabod, puffing vigorously, and luckily involving himself in a cloud of smoke. "This morning the heralds, in their vain-glorious trumpery, were proclaiming at the Cross the reward of a thousand merks to any that will bring his head to the Privy Council; and the Lord Clermistonlee, from the good will and affection he bears his Majesty, offers five hundred more?"
"Do you think he will be found?"
"Indubitably. The ports are closed, the guards on the alert; the messengers-at-arms, macers, and halberdiers are all in full chase. He must perish, and so may all who would restore the abominations of idolatry! Here in myBombshell(a work whilk I have lately imprinted with mickle care and toil), if I do not prove, from the epistles to the Thessalonians, that the great master of popery, the Bishop of Rome, is the grand Antichrist therein referred to, I will be well content to kiss the bloody maiden that stands under the shadow of the Tolbooth gable."
"Hear till him!" cried the delighted Elsie. "Hear till him! O wow, but my Meinie's man is a grand minister—he rides on the rigging of the kirk!"
"I am a stranger here," said Walter, no longer able to repress the torture of his mind; "I know nothing of the vile plot you speak of, having been long in the industrious Low Countries—and—and—cans't tell me, your Reverence, whose mansion is approached by yonder stately avenue of oaks and sycamores?"
"The House of Bruntisfield—called of old the Wrytes."
"Aich ay," added Elsie, shaking her head mournfully; "but a house o' wrongs now."
"Wherefore, gudewife?"
"It is a lang story, honoured Sir," replied Elsie, drawing her stool nearer Walter, and knitting very fast to hide her emotion. "The auld line o' the Napiers ended in a lassie, as bonnie a doo as the Lowdens three could boast o', and mony came frae baith far and near to the wooing and winning o' her; but nane cam speed save a neer-do-weel-loon o' a cavalier officer, to whom she plighted heart and troth—and the plighting pledge was a deid woman's ring. As might be expected, the hellicate cavalier gaed awa' to the wars and plundering in the Lowlands of Holland, and sair my young lady sorrowed for him; I ken that weel, for I was her nurse, and mony a lang hour she grat in my arms for her love that was far awa'. At last word came frae Low Germanie that the fause villain had married some unco' papistical woman, and, in a mad fit o' black despair, my lady accepted the most determined, if no the best o' her suitors——"
"Who?" asked Walter in an unearthly voice, and feeling for the sword he wore no longer. "Who?"
"Randal Lord Clermistonlee, and ehow! but sair hath been the change in our gude auld barony since then. Her braw lands and farmsteadings, her auld patrimony, baith haugh and holme, loch and lea, brae and burn, are a' melting and fleeing awa' by the wasterfu' extravagance o' the wildest loon in a' braid Scotland. Hawks and hounds, revellers and roisterers, and ill-women, thrang the great ha' house frae een to morn and morn till eenin'; and sae, between the freaks and follies, the pride and caprice o' her lord, my puir doo Lilian leads the life o' a blessed martyr. When mad wi' wine and ill luck at the dice tables, he rampages ower her like a Bull o' Bashan; while, at other times, he just doats on her as a faither would on a favourite bairn. But, alake! doating can never remove the misery that has closed over her for the short time she'll likely be amang us—for her heart is breaking fast—it is—it is!"
Here Elsie wept bitterly, and then resumed.
"Her marriage day was ane o' the darkest dool to a' the barony, for on that miserable day our auld lady died; and a' the leal servitors were soon after expelled to mak' room for the broken horse-coupers, ill-women and vagabonds, that were ever and aye in the train o' the new lord."
While Elsie ran on thus, Walter heard her not. His mind was a perfect chaos of distraction.
Oh, what a shock were these tidings to one whose head was so full of romance and enthusiasm, and whose heart was brimming with sensibility and love!
He felt an utter prostration of every faculty, and a deadly coldness seemed to pass over the pulses of his heart. He arose, and laying on the table the last coin he possessed in the world, hurried forth without waiting for change, and, bent on some desperate deed, blind and reckless, with anger, agony and despair in his soul, he entered the dark shadowy avenue, and approached the old castellated mansion—the place of so many tender memories.
Oh, these were only marks of joy, forsooth,For his return in safety! Were they so?And so ye may believe, and so my wordsMay fall unheeded! Be it so; what comesWill nevertheless come.AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS.
The shadows of the gloomy evening had deepened as he approached the ancient Place of Bruntisfield, and its dark façade, its heavy projecting turrets and barred casements, impressed him with additional sadness.
The wind sighed down the lonely avenue, and whirled the fallen leaves as it passed. Many a raven flapped its wings and screamed discordantly above his head, and all such sounds had a powerful effect on him at the time.
Confused, despairing, and feeling a sentiment of profound contempt and anger, struggling for mastery with his old and passionate love, his heart seemed about to rend with its conflicting emotions.
One sensation was ever present—it was one of desolation and loneliness—that he had nothing more to live for; that the world was all a blank. The light that had long led him on through so many miseries and dangers had vanished from his view: his idol was shattered for ever.
He felt that it was impossible to think with calmness; to tear from his breast the dear image and the cherished hopes he had fostered there so long—to exchange admiration for contempt—love for indifference. Oh, no! it could never be. Ages seemed to have elapsed since the sun had set that evening; while his parting with Lilian, the triumph of Killycrankie, the carnage of Steinkirke, and his mission from the King, seemed all the events of yesterday.
He felt sick and palsied at heart.
Irresistibly impelled to see her, heedless alike of the dangerous charm of her presence and the risk he ran if discovered, his whole soul was bent upon an interview, that he might upbraid her with her perfidy—hurl upon her a mountain of reprobation and bitterness, of obloquy and scorn, and then leave her presence for ever.
"I am alone in the world," thought he. "This is my native land—the land where I had garnered up my heart, my hopes, and my wishes, though not one foot of it is mine save the sod that must cover me. Of all the tens of thousands that tread its soil, there is not one now with whom I can claim kindred, who would welcome me in coming, or bless me in departing—not one to shed a tear on the grave where I shall lie. Oh! it is very sad to feel one's self so desolate. Where now are all those brave companions with whom I was once so daring, so joyous, and so gay? Alas! on a hundred fields their bones lie scattered, and I alone survive to mourn the glory of the days that are gone for ever! Oh, never more shall the drum beat or trumpet sound for me! Oh, never more shall love or glory fire my heart again! Oh, never more, for the hour is passed and never can return"—and he almost wept, so intensely bitter were his thoughts of sorrow and regret.
The barbican gate stood ajar, and the old and well remembered doorway at the foot of the tower was also open; they seemed to invite his entrance, and, careless of the consequences, he went mechanically forward.
The old portrait on horseback, the trophy of arms, and the wooden Flemish clock with its monotonoustick-tack, still occupied the vaulted lobby. Every thing seemed as he had seen them last. He turned to the left and entered the chamber-of-dais, breathless and trembling, for he seemed instinctively to know thatshewas there.
He entered softly, and, overpowered by the violence of his conflicting emotions, stood rooted to the spot. The old chamber, with its massive pannelling and rich decorations of the Scoto-French school was partially lighted by the ruddy glow from the great fire-place, and by the last deep red flush of the departed sun that streamed through its grated windows.
The dark furniture, the grotesque cabinets with their twisted columns, the stark chairs with their knobby backs and worsted bobs, the grim full-length of Sir Archibald Napier, cap-a-pie à la cuirassier, the dormant beam with its load of lances, swords, and daggers, were all as Walter had last seen them; but the old lady's well-cushioned chair, her long walking-cane and ivory virreled spinning-wheel had long since disappeared; and hawk's-hoods, hunting horns, spurs, whips, and stray tobacco pipes lay in various places, while in lieu of Lady Grisel's sleek and pampered tom cat, a great wiry, red-eyed, sleuth hound slept on the warm hearth-rug. On all this Walter bestowed not a glance, for his eyes and his soul became immediately rivetted on the figure of Lilian.
With her head leaning on her hand she sat within the deep recess of a western window, and the faint light of the setting sun lit up her features and edged her ringlets with gold. She was absorbed in deep thought.
Lilian, who for days, and months, and years, in health and in sickness, in danger and in safety, in sorrow and in joy, had never for a moment been absent from his thoughts, was now before him, and yet he had not one word of greeting to bestow. He seemed to be in a trance—to be oppressed by some horrible dream.
He observed her anxiously and narrowly. Nothing could be more tender than the love that was expressed in his eyes, and nothing more acute than the agony expressed by his contracted features.
Lapse of years, change of circumstances and of thought had considerably altered the appearance of Lilian. The light-hearted, slender, and joyous girl had expanded into a stately, grave, and melancholy matron. Oh, what a change those five sad years had wrought! Her dress was magnificent, as became the wife of a Scottish noble; her figure, though still slight, was fuller and rounder than of old; her face, though still dignified and beautiful, was paler—even sickly. Her blue eyes seemed to have lost much of their former brilliancy, and to have gained only in softness of expression. Her dark lashes were cast down, and her aspect was sad and touching. The bloom of her lip and her cheek had faded away together, for heavily on her affectionate heart had the hand of suffering weighed.
She wept, and the heart of Walter was melted within him. Had all the universe been his he would have given it to have embraced her. He sighed bitterly, but dared not to approach.
"He is gone," said Lilian,—"gone to spend another night in riot and debauchery, while I am left ever alone. Perhaps 'tis well, for often his presence is intolerable. Woe is me! Oh, how different was the future I once pictured to my imagination!"
The sound of that dear voice, which had so often come to him through his dreams in many a far and foreign camp and city, made Walter tremble. He was deeply moved. The fire in the arched chimney, which had been smouldering, now suddenly shot up into a broad and ruddy blaze that lighted the whole chamber. Lilian turned her head, and instantly grew pale as death, for full on the image of him who occupied her thoughts—of Walter Fenton, hollow eyed, emaciated, and supported on a walking-staff—fell the bright stream of that fitful light. He looked so unearthly, so motionless and spectral, that Lilian's blood ran cold.
She would have screamed, but the cry died away upon her lips. After a moment or two her spirit rallied; her respiration, though hurried, became more free; her face blushed scarlet up to the very temples, and then became ashy pale, as before, and her glazed eyes resumed their wild and inquiring expression. She arose, but neither advanced nor spoke. All power seemed to have left her.
"Oh, Lilian! Lilian!" said the poor wanderer in a voice of great pathos; "after the lapse of five long years of exile and suffering, what a meeting is this for us! Under what a course of perils have the hope of my return and your truth not sustained me? My God! that I should find you thus. Is this the welcome I expected?"
Summoning all her courage and that self-possession which women have in so great a degree, Lilian (though her eyes were full of tears) averted her face, and recalled the fatal letter of Finland, on which had turned the whole of her future fate.
"Look at me, adorable Lilian!" said Walter, kneeling and stretching his arms towards her.
Lilian dared not to look; but she trembled violently and sobbed heavily.
"Look at me, beloved one," said Walter wildly and passionately. "Changed though I am, and though another holds your heart, you cannot have forgotten me, or learned to view me with aversion and contempt. If this Lord has won your affection—"
"Oh, say not that, Walter," sobbed Lilian "do not say my affection."
"Oh, horror! what misery can equal such an avowal? My fatal absence has undone us both."
"Say, rather, your fatal inconstancy."
"Mine?" reiterated Walter.
"Oh, yes, yes; upbraid me not," said Lilian in a piercing voice. "I was faithful and true until you forsook me for another. To God I appeal," she cried, raising her clasped hands and weeping eyes to Heaven, "kneeling I appeal if ever in word, or thought, or hope I swerved in truth from thee, dear Walter, until tidings of your marriage reached me; when, stung by jealousy, by pride, by disappointment and despair, and urged by the unmerited contumely that had fallen upon me, I yielded to the exhortations of my friends, and in an evil hour——." She covered her face with her hands, and could say no more.
"Heaven preserve my senses!" ejaculated Walter Fenton, "for here the wiles of Hell have been at work. We have been deceived, cruelly deceived, dear Lilian, by some deep-laid plot of villany which this right hand shall yet unravel and revenge. And you are the wife of Clermistonlee? Hear me, unfortunate! You are less than—ah, how shall I say it? You are not and cannot be his wife!"
"You rave, poor Walter. Our doom is irrevocably sealed. Our paths in life must be for ever separate. Oh, for the love of gentle mercy begone, and let us meet no more, for at this moment I feel my brain whirling, and I am trembling on the very verge of madness."
"Lilian, this is the 20th of September," said Walter.
"Cruel, cruel; do not speak of it," said she, wringing her hands. "For Heaven's sake leave me, and take back the pledge—the ring, for to retain it longer were a sin, and too long have I sinned in treasuring it as I have done."
Unlocking a cabinet, she drew from a secret drawer a ring to which a ribbon was attached, and offered it to Walter; but he never approached.
"We have been cruelly duped, dear Lilian; but oh, how could you doubt me, for never did I mistrust you? But hear me, though my words should crush your heart as mine just now is crushed. Alison Gifford, the first wife of Lord Clermistonlee yet lives, though (as she told me) dead to him and to the world for ever!"
"What new horror is this?" said Lilian, pressing her hands upon her temples.
In a few words her unhappy lover explained how he had become acquainted with the existence of Lady Clermistonlee.
"Oh, this is indeed to bruise the bruised—to heap brands upon a burning heart," said Lilian, as she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. A long pause ensued, till Walter said in a low and trembling voice,
"Lilian, do you really love this man—this Clermistonlee?"
"He is my husband."
"It is impossible you can love him!"
"Love him!—oh, no! custom has in part overcome the aversion with which I once regarded him, and by his able flattery he has succeeded in soothing me into a temper of kind indifference and quiet resignation—but oh, this interview——"
Walter, who had never dared to diminish the distance between them, gazed wistfully and tenderly upon her; but at that moment an infant that was sleeping in its cradle awoke, and cried aloud. Its voice seemed to sting him to the heart, and he turned abruptly to withdraw.
"Farewell, Lilian," said he; "I will go, and my presence shall disturb your serenity no more. May you be happy, and may God bless and forgive you for the agony I now endure! Clermistonlee, like the matchless villain he has been through life, has wronged us both; but let him tremble in the midst of his success and his treason, for the hour is coming when our King shall enjoy his own again, and remember that in that hour the same hand which rends the baron's coronet from the brow of your betrayer, bestows on me the Earldom of Dalrulion! Farewell," said he through his clenched teeth; "to me the paths of ambition and revenge are open still, though those of happiness and love are closed, alas, for ever!" He gave her one long glance of agony, and turned to depart; but at that moment strong hands were laid upon him violently—the room was filled with soldiers and the beagles of justice; he was dragged down and bound with cords, ere he could make the slightest effort in his own defence.
"An out-and-out Jacobite, Papist, and a' the rest o' it—I ken by the look o' him!" cried Maclutchy, the macer, flourishing his badge of office. "Here will be some grand plots brought to light that will bring half the country under doom o' forfeiture and fine. Kittle times, lads, kittle times!'
"Away with him!" cried Clermistonlee, spurning the manacled unfortunate with his foot; "away with him! The Lords of the Privy Council meet in an hour. Lose no time, for by all the devils, the corbies of the Burghmuir shall pick his bones ere the morrow's sun be set."
As Walter was roughly dragged away, Lilian threw her hands above her head, uttered one wild shriek, and fell forward on her face, motionless as if dead.