by Jane Porter
Chapter XXV.
The Citadel.
During the repast, the countess often fixed her unrestrained gaze onthe manly yet youthful countenance of the heroic Wallace. His plumedhelmet was now laid aside; and the heavy corselet unbuckled from hisbreast, disclosing the symmetry of his fine form, left its gracefulmovements to be displayed with advantage by the flexible folds of hissimple tartan vest. Was it the formidable Wallace she looked on,bathed in the blood of Heselrigge, and breathing vengeance against theadherents of the tyrant Edward! It was, then, the enemy of her kinsmenof the house of Cummin! It was the man for whom her husband hadembraced so many dangers! It was the man whom she had denounced to oneof those kinsmen, and whom she had betrayed to the hazard of anignominious death! But where now was the fierce rebel--the ruiner ofher peace--the outlaw whom she had wished in his grave?
The last idea was distraction. She could have fallen at his feet, andbathing them with her tears, have implored his pity and forgiveness.Even as the wish sprung in her mind, she asked herself-"Did he knowall, could he pardon such a weight of injuries?" She cast her eyeswith a wild expression upon his face. The mildness of heaven wasthere; and the peace, too, she might have thought, had not his eyecarried a chastened sadness in its look, which told that something direand sorrowful was buried deep within. It was a look that dissolved thesoul which gazed on it. The countess felt her heart throb violently.At that moment Wallace addressed a few words to her but she knew notwhat they were; her soul was in tumults, and a mist passed over hersight, which, for a moment, seemed to wrap all her senses in a trance.
The unconscious object of these emotions bowed to her inarticulatereply, supposing that the mingling voices of others had made him hearhers indistinctly.
Lady Mar found her situation so strange, and her agitation soinexplicable, that feeling it impossible to remain longer withoutgiving way to a burst of tears, she rose from her seat, and forcing asmile with her courtesy to the company, left the room.
On gaining the upper apartment, she threw herself upon the nearestcouch, and striking her breast, exclaimed: "What is this within me?How does my soul seem to pour itself out to this man! Oh! how does itextend itself, as if it would absorb his, even at my eyes! Only twelvehours--hardly twelve hours, have I seen this William Wallace, and yet myvery being is now lost in his!"
While thus speaking, she covered her face with her handkerchief, but notears now started to be wiped away. The fire in her veins dried thesource, and with burning blushes she rose from her seat. "Fatal, fatalhour! Why didst thou come here, too infatuating Wallace, to rob me ofmy peace? Oh! why did I ever look on that face?-or rather, blessedsaints!" cried she, clasping her hands in wild passion, "why did I evershackle this hand?-why did I ever render such a sacrifice necessary?Wallace is now free; had I been free? But wretch, wretch, wretch; Icould tear out this betrayed heart! I could trample on that of theinfatuated husband that made me such a slave!" She gasped for breath,and again seating herself, reclined her beating temples against thecouch.
She was now silent; but thoughts not less intense, not less fraughtwith self-reproach and anguish, occupied her mind. Should this god ofher idolatry ever discover that it was her information which had sentEarl de Valence's men to surround him in the mountains; should he everlearn that at Bothwell she had betrayed the cause on which he had sethis life, she felt that moment would be her last. For, now, to sateher eyes with gazing on him, to hear the sound of his voice, to receivehis smiles, seemed to her a joy she could only surrender with herexistence. What then was the prospect of so soon losing him, even tocrown himself with honor, but to her a living death?
TO defer his departure was all her study--all her hope; and fearful thathis restless valor might urge him to accompany Murray in his intendedconvoy of Helen to the Tweed, she determined to persuade her nephew toset off without the knowledge of his general. She did not allow thatit was the youthful beauty, and more lovely mind of herdaughter-in-law, which she feared; even to herself she cloaked heralarm under the plausible excuse of care for the chieftain's safety.Composed by this mental arrangement, her disturbed features becamesmooth, and with even a sedate air she received her lord and his bravefriends, when they soon after entered the chamber.
But the object of her wishes did not appear. Wallace had taken LordLennox to view the dispositions of the fortress. Ill satisfied as shewas with his prolonged absence, she did not fail to turn it toadvantage; and while her lord and his friends were examining a draft ofScotland (which Wallace had sketched after she left thebanqueting-room), she took Lord Andrew aside, to converse with him onthe subject now nearest to her heart.
"It certainly belongs to me alone, her kinsman and friend, to protectHelen to the Tweed, if there she must go," returned Murray; "but, mygood lady, I cannot comprehend why I am to lead my fair cousin such apilgrimage. She is not afraid of heroes! you are safe in Dumbarton,and why not bring her here also?"
"Not for worlds!" exclaimed the countess, thrown off her guard. Murraylooked at her with surprise. It recalled her to self-possession, andshe resumed: "So lovely a creature in this castle would be a dangerousmagnet. You must have known that it was the hope of obtaining herwhich attracted the Lord Soulis and Earl de Valence to Bothwell. Thewhole castle rung with the quarrel of these two lords upon her account,when you so fortunately effected her escape. Should it be known thatshe is here, the same fierce desire of obtaining her would give doubleincitement to De Valence to recover the place; and the consequences,who can answer for?"
By this argument Murray was persuaded to relinquish the idea ofconveying Helen to Dumbarton; but remembering what Wallace had saidrespecting the safety of a religious sanctuary, he advised that sheshould be left at St. Fillan's till the cause of Scotland might be morefirmly established. "Send a messenger to inform her of the rescue ofDumbarton, and of your and my uncle's health," continued he, "and thatwill be sufficient to make her happy."
That she was not to be thrown in Wallace's way satisfied Lady Mar; andindifferent whether Helen's seclusion were under the Elidon tree or theHolyrood, she approved Murray's decision. Relieved from apprehension,her face became again dressed in smiles, and, with a bounding step, sherose to welcome the re-entrance of Wallace with the Earl of Lennox.
Absorbed in one thought, every charm she possessed was directed to thesame point. She played finely on the lute and sung with all the graceof her country. What gentle heart was not to be affected by music?She determined it should be once of the spells by which she meant toattract Wallace. She took up one of the lutes (which with othermusical instruments decorated the apartments of the luxurious DeValence), and touching it with exquisite delicacy, breathed the mostpathetic air her memory could dictate.
"If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter than the down of Cana; If on the sea-beat shore, than the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two stars of light. Her face was Heaven's bow in showers; Her dark hair flowed around it, like the streaming clouds, Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strinadona!"
Wallace rose from his chair, which had been placed near her. She haddeigned that these tender words of the bard of Morven should suggest toher hearer the observation of her own resembling beauties. But he sawin them only the lovely dweller of his own soul; and walking toward awindow, stood there with his eyes fixed on the descending sun. "Sohath set all my joys. So is life to me, a world without a sun-cold,cold, and charmless!"
The countess vainly believed that some sensibility advantageous to hernew passion had caused the agitation with which she saw him depart fromher side; and, intoxicated with the idea, she ran through many amelodious descant, till toughing on the first strains of Thusa ha measgna reultan mor, she saw Wallace start from his contemplative position,and with a pale countenance leave the room. There was something inthis abruptness which excited the alarm of the Earl of Lennox, who hadalso been listening to the songs; he rose instantly, and overtaking thechief at the threshold, inq
uired what was the matter? "Nothing,"answered Wallace, forcing a smile, in which the agony of his mind wastoo truly imprinted; "but music displeased me." With this reply hedisappeared. The excuse seemed strange but it was true; for she whosenotes were to him sweeter than the thrush--whose angel strains used togreet his morning and evening hours--was silent in the grave! He shouldno more see her white hand upon the lute; he should no more behold thatbosom, brighter than foam upon the wave, to him? A soulless sound, ora direful knell, to recall the remembrance of all he had lost.
Such were his thoughts when the words of Thusa ha measg rung from LadyMar's voice. Those were the strains which Halbert used to breathe fromhis heart to call Marion to her nightly slumbers--those were the strainswith which that faithful servant had announced that she slept to wakeno more!
What wonder, then, that Wallace fled from the apartment, and buriedhimself, and his aroused grief, amid the distant solitudes of thebeacon-hill!
While looking over the shoulder of his uncle, on the station whichStirling held amid the Ochil hills, Edwin had at intervals cast aside-long glance upon the changing complexion of his commander; and nosooner did he see him hurry from the room, than fearful of somedisaster having befallen the garrison (which Wallace did not chooseimmediately to mention), he also stole out of the apartment.
After seeking the object of his anxiety for a long time, without avail,he was returning on his steps, when, attracted by the splendor of themoon silvering the beacon-hill, he ascended, to once at least treadthat acclivity in light which he had so miraculously passed indarkness. Scarce a zephyr fanned the sleeping air. He moved on with aflying step, till a deep sigh arrested him. He stopped and listened:it was repeated again and again. He gently drew near, and saw a humanfigure reclining on the ground. The head of the apparent mourner wasunbonneted, and the brightness of the moon shone on his polishedforehead. Edwin thought the sound of those sighs was the same he hadoften heard from the object of his search. He walked forward. Againthe figure sighed; but with a depth so full of piercing woe, that Edwinhesitated.
A cloud had passed over the moon; but, sailing off again, displayed tothe anxious boy that he had indeed drawn very near his friend. "Whogoes there?" exclaimed Wallace, starting on his feet.
"Your Edwin," returned the youth. "I feared something wrong hadhappened, when I saw you look so sad, and leave the room abruptly."
Wallace pressed his hand in silence. "Then some evil has befallenyou?" inquired Edwin, in an agitated voice; "you do not speak!"
Wallace seated himself on a stone, and leaned his head upon the hilt ofhis sword. "No new evil has befallen me, Edwin; but there is such athing as remembrance, that stabs deeper than the dagger's point."
"What remembrance can wound you, my general? The Abbott of St. Colombahas often told me that memory is a balm to every ill with the good; andhave not you been good to all? The benefactor, the preserver ofthousands! Surely, if man can be happy, it must be Sir WilliamWallace!"
"And so I am, my Edwin, when I contemplate the end. But, in theinterval, with all thy sweet philosophy, is it not written here 'thatman was made to mourn?'" He put his hand on his heart; and then, aftera short pause, resumed: "Doubly I mourn, doubly am I bereaved, for, hadit not been for an enemy, more fell than he who beguiled Adam ofParadise, I might have been a father; I might have lived to havegloried in a son like thee; I might have seen my wedded angel claspsuch a blessing to her bosom; but now, both are cold in clay! Theseare the recollections which sometimes draw tears down thy leader'scheeks. And do not believe, brother of my soul," said he, pressing thenow weeping Edwin to his breast, "that they disgrace his manhood. TheSon of God wept over the tomb of his friend; and shall I deny a fewtears, dropped in stealth, over the grave of my wife and child?"
Edwin sobbed aloud. "No son could love you dearer than I do. Ah, letmy duty, my affection, teach you to forget you have lost a child. Iwill replace all to you but your Marion; and her, the pitying Son ofMary will restore to you in the kingdom of heaven."
Wallace looked steadfastly at the young preacher. "'Out of the mouthsof babes we shall hear wisdom!' Thine, dear Edwin, I will lay toheart. Thou shalt comfort me when my hermit-soul shuts out all theworld besides."
"Then I am indeed your brother!" cried the happy youth; "admit me butto your heart, and no fraternal, no filial tie, shall be more stronglylinked than mine."
"What tender affections I can spare from those resplendent regions,"answered Wallace, pointing to the skies, "are thine. The fervors of myonce ardent soul are Scotland's, or I die. But thou art too young, mybrother," added he, interrupting himself, "to understand all hisfeelings, all the seeming contradictions, of my contending heart."
"Not so," answered Edwin, with a modest blush; "what was Lady Marion's,you now devote to Scotland. The blaze of those affections which werehers, would consume your being, did you not pour it forth on yourcountry. Were you not a patriot, grief would prey upon your life."
"You have read me, Edwin," replied Wallace; "and that you may neverlove to idolatry, learn this also. Though Scotland lay in ruins, I washappy; I felt no captivity while in Marion's arms; even oppression wasforgotten when she made the sufferer's tears cease to flow. Sheabsorbed my thoughts, my wishes, my life!-and she was wrested from me,that I might feel myself a slave, that the iron might enter into mysoul, with which I was to pull down tyranny, and free my country. Markthe sacrifice, young man," cried Wallace, starting on his feet; "it noweven smokes, and the flames are here inextinguishable." He struck hishand upon his breast. "Never love as I have loved, and you will be apatriot, without needing to taste my bitter cup!"
Edwin trembled; his tears were checked. "I can love no one better thanI do you, my general! and is there any crime in that?"
Wallace in a moment recovered from the transient wildness which hadpossessed him. "None, my Edwin," replied he; "the affections are nevercriminal but when by their excess they blind us to other duties. Theoffense of mine is judged, and I bow to the penalty. When that ispaid, then may my ashes sleep in rescued Scotland! Then may the God ofvictory and of mercy grant that the seraph spirits of my wife andinfant may meet my pardoned soul in paradise." Edwin wept afresh."Cease, dear boy!" said he; "these presages are very comforting; theywhisper that the path of glory leads thy brother to his home." As hespoke he took the arm of the silent Edwin (whose sensibility locked upthe powers of speech), and putting it through his, they descended thehill together.
On the open ground before the great tower they were met by Murray. "Icome to seek you," cried he. "We have had woe on woe in the citadelsince you left it."
"Nothing very calamitous," returned Wallace, "if we may guess by themerry aspect of the messenger."
"Only a little whirlwind of my aunt's, in which we have had airs andshowers enough to wet us through and blow us dry again."
The conduct of the lady had been even more extravagant than her nephewchose to describe. After the knight's departure, when the chiefsentered into conversation respecting his future plans, and Lennoxmentioned that when his men should arrive (for whom he had that eveningdispatched Ker), it was Wallace's intention to march immediately forStirling, whither, it could hardly be doubted, Aymer de Valence hadfled, "I shall be left here," continued the earl, "to assist you, LordMar, in the severer duties attendant on being governor of this place."
No sooner did these words reach the ears of the countess than, struckwith despair, she hastened toward her husband, and earnestly exclaimed,"You will not suffer this!"
"No," returned the earl, mistaking her meaning; "not being able toperform the duties attendant on the responsibilities station with whichWallace would honor me, I shall relinquish it altogether to LordLennox, and be amply satisfied in finding myself under his protection."
"Ah, where is protection without Sir William Wallace?" cried she. "Ifhe go, our enemies will return. Who then will repel them from thesewalls? Who will defend your wife and only son from falling again intot
he hands of our doubly incensed foes?"
Mar observed Lord Lennox color at this imputation on his bravery, andshocked at the affront which his unreflecting wife seemed to give sogallant a chief, he hastily replied, "Though this wounded arm cannotboast, yet the Earl of Lennox is an able representative of ourcommander."
"I will die, madam," interrupted Lennox, "before anything hostileapproaches you or your children."
She attended slightly to this pledge, and again addressed her lord withfresh arguments for the detention of Wallace. Sir Roger Kirkpatrick,impatient under all this foolery, as he justly deemed it, abruptlysaid, "Be assured, fair lady, Israel's Samson was not brought into theworld his duty better than allow himself to be tied to any nurserygirdle in Christendom."
The brave old earl was offended with this roughness, but ere he couldso express himself, the object darted her own severe retort onKirkpatrick, and then, turning to her husband, with an hysterical sob,exclaimed, "It is well seen what will be my fate when Wallace is gone!Would he have stood by and beheld me thus insulted?"
Distressed with shame at her conduct, and anxious to remove her fears,Lord Mar softly whispered her, and threw his arm about her waist. Shethrust him from her. "You care not what may become of me, and my heartdisdains your blandishments."
Lennox rose in silence, and walked to the other end of the chamber.Sir Roger Kirkpatrick followed him, muttering, pretty audibly, histhanks to St. Andrew that he had never been yoked with a wife.Scrymgeour and Murray tried to allay the storm in her bosom bycircumstantially detailing how the fortress must be equally safe underthe care of Lennox as of Wallace. But they discoursed in vain; she wasobstinate, and at last left the room in a passion of tears.
On the return of Wallace, Lord Lennox advanced to meet him. "Whatshall we do?" said he. "Without you have the witchcraft of Hercules,and can be in two places at once, I fear we must either leave the restof Scotland to fight for itself, or never restore peace to this castle!"
Wallace smiled, but before he could answer, Lady Mar, having heard hisvoice ascending the stairs, suddenly entered the room. She held herinfant in her arms. Her air was composed, but her eyes yet shone intears. At this sight Lord Lennox, sufficiently disgusted with thelady, taking Murray by the arm, withdrew with him from the apartment.
She approached Wallace: "You are come, my deliverer, to speak comfortto the mother of this poor babe. My cruel lord here, and the Earl ofLennox, say you mean to abandon us in this castle?"
"It cannot be abandoned," returned the chief, "while they are in it.But if so warlike a scene alarms you, would not a religious sanctuary-"
"Not for worlds!" cried she, interrupting him; "what altar is heldsacred by the enemies of our country! O! wonder not, then," added she,putting her face to that of her child, "that I should wish thisinnocent babe never to be from under the wing of such a protector."
"But that is impossible, Joanna," rejoined the earl; "Sir WilliamWallace has duties to perform superior to that of keeping watch overany private family. His presence is wanted in the field, and we shouldbe traitors to the cause did we detain him."
"Unfeeling Mar," cried she, bursting into tears, "thus to echo thewords of the barbarian Kirkpatrick; thus to condemn us to die! Youwill see another tragedy: your own wife and child seized by thereturning Southrons, and laid bleeding at your feet!"
Wallace walked from her much agitated.
"Rather inhuman, Joanna," whispered Lord Mar to her in an angry voice,"to make such a reference to the presence of our protector! I cannotstay to listen to a pertinacity as insulting to the rest of our braveleaders as it is oppressive to Sir William Wallace. Edwin, you willcome for me when your aunt consents to be guided by right reason."While yet speaking he entered the passage that led to his own apartment.
Lady Mar sat a few minutes silent. She was not to be warned from herdetermination by the displeasure of a husband whom she now regardedwith the impatience of a bondwoman toward her taskmaster; and onlysolicitous to compass the detention of Sir William Wallace, sheresolved, if he would not remain at the castle, to persuade him toconduct her himself to her husband's territories in the Isle of Bute.She could contrive to make the journey occupy more than one day, andfor holding him longer she would trust to chance and her owninventions. With these resolutions she looked up. Edwin was speakingto Wallace. "What does he tell you?" said she; "that my lord has leftme in displeasure? Alas! he comprehends not a mother's anxiety for hersole remaining child. One of my sweet twins, my dear daughter, died onmy being brought a prisoner to this horrid fortress, and to lose thisalso would be more than I could bear. Look at this babe," cried she,holding it up to him; "let it plead to you for its life! Guard it,noble Wallace, whatever may become of me!"
The appeal of a mother made instant way to Sir William's heart; evenher weaknesses, did they point to anxiety respecting her offspring,were sacred with him. "What would you have me do, madam? If you fearto remain here, tell me where you think you would be safer, and I willbe your conductor?"
She paused to repress the triumph with which this proposal filled her,and then, with downcast eyes, replied: "In the seagirt Bute standsRothsay, a rude, but strong castle of my lord's. It possesses nothingto attract the notice of the enemy, and there I might remain in perfectsafety. Lord Mar may keep his station here until a general victorysends you, noble Wallace, to restore my child to its father."
Wallace bowed his assent to her proposal; and Edwin, remembering theearl's injunction, inquired if he might inform him of what was decided.When he left the room, Lady mar rose, and suddenly putting her soninto the arms of Wallace, rose, and said: "Let his sweet caresses thankyou." Wallace trembled as he pressed its little mouth to his; and,mistranslating this emotion, she dropped her face upon the infant's,and in affecting to kiss it, rested her head upon the bosom of thechief. There was something in this action more than maternal; itsurprised and disconcerted Wallace. "Madam," said he, drawing back,and relinquishing the child. "I do not require any thanks for servingthe wife and son of Lord Mar."
At that moment the earl entered. Lady mar flattered herself that therepelling action of Wallace, and his cold answer, had arisen from theexpectation of this entrance; yet blushing with something likedisappointment, she hastily uttered a few agitated words, to inform herhusband that Bute was to be her future sanctuary.
Lord Mar approved it, and declared his determination to accompany her."In my state, I can be of little use here," said he; "my family willrequire protection, even in that seclusion; and therefore, leaving LordLennox sole governor of Dumbarton, I shall unquestionably attend themto Rothsay myself."
This arrangement would break in upon the lonely conversations she hadmeditated to have with Wallace and therefore the countess objected tothe proposal. But none of her arguments being admitted by her lord,and as Wallace did not support them by a word, she was obliged to makea merit of necessity, and consent to her husband being their companion.