by Jane Porter
Chapter XXVIII.
Isle of Bute.
The morning would have brought annihilation to the countess'new-fledged hopes, had not Murray been the first to meet her as shecame from her chamber.
While walking on the cliffs at some distance from the castle to observethe weather, he met Wallace and Edwin. They had already been acrossthe valley to the haven, and ordered a boat round, to convey them backto Gourock. "Postpone your flight, for pity's sake!" cried Murray, "ifyou would not, by discourtesy, destroy what your gallantry haspreserved!" He then told them that Lady Mar was preparing a feast inthe glen, behind the castle; "and if you do not stay to partake it,"added he, "we may expect all the witches in the isle will be bribed tosink us before we reach the shore."
After this the general meeting of the morning was not less cordial thanthe separation of the night before; and when Lady Mar withdrew to giveorders for her rural banquet, that time was seized by the earl for thearrangement of matters of more consequence. In a private conversationwith Murray the preceding evening he had learned that, just before theparty left Dumbarton, a letter had been sent to Helen at St. Filan's,informing her of the taking of the castle, and of the safety of herfriends. This having satisfied the earl he did not advert to her atall in his present discourse with Wallace, but rather avoidedencumbering his occupied mind with anything but the one great theme.
While the earl and his friends were marshaling armies, taking towns,and storming castles, the countess, intent on other conquests, wasmeaning to beguile and destroy that manly spirit by soft delights,which a continuance in war's rugged scenes, she thought, was too likelyto render invulnerable.
When her lord and his guests were summoned to the feast, she met themat the mouth of the glen. Having tried the effect of splendor, she nowleft all to the power of her natural charms, and appeared simply cladin her favorite green.** Moraig, the pretty grandchild of the steward,walked beside her, like the fairy queen of the scene, so gayly was shedecorated in all the flowers of spring. "Here is the lady of my elfinrevels, holding her little king in her arms!" As the countess spoke,Moraig held up the infant to Lady Mar, dressed like herself, in atissue gathered from the field. The sweet babe laughed and crowed, andmade a spring to leap into Wallace's arms. The chief took him, andwith an affectionate smile, pressed his little cheek to his.
Though he had felt the repugnance of a delicate mind, and the shudderingof a man who held his person consecrated to the memory of the only womanhe had ever loved; though he had felt these sentiments mingle into anabhorrence of the countess, when she allowed her head to drop on hisbreast in the citadel; and though, while he remained at Dumbarton,(without absolutely charging her to himself with anything designedlyimmodest), he had certainly avoided her; yet since the wreck, the dangershe had escaped, the general joy of all meeting again, had wiped awayeven the remembrance of his former cause of dislike; and he now sat byher as by a sister, fondling her child, although at every sweet caressit reminded him of what might have been his--of hopes lost to himforever.
The repast over, the piper of the adjacent cottages appeared; and,placing himself on a projecting rock, at the carol of his merryinstrument the young peasants of both sexes jocundly came forward andbegan to dance. At this sight Edwin seized the little hand of Moraig,while Lord Andrew called a pretty lass from amongst the rustics, andjoined the group. The happy earl, with many a hearty laugh, enjoyedthe jollity of his people; and while the steward stood at his lord'sback describing whose sons and daughters passed before him in the reel,Mar remembered their parents--their fathers, once his companions in thechase or on the wave; and their mothers, the pretty maidens he used topursue over the hills in the merry time of shealing.
Lady Mar watched the countenance of Wallace as he looked upon thejoyous group; it was placid, and a soft complacency illumined his eye.How different was the expression in hers, had he marked it! All withinher was in tumult, and the characters were but too legibly imprinted onher face. But he did not look on her; for the child, whom the perfumeof the flowers overpowered, began to cry. He rose, and having resignedit to the nurse, turned into a narrow vista of trees, where he walkedslowly on, unconscious whither he went.
Lady Mar, with an eager, though almost aimless haste, followed him witha light step till she saw him turn out of the vista, and then she lostsight of him. To walk with him undisturbed in so deep a seclusion; toimprove the impression which she was sure she had made upon his heart;to teach him which she was sure she had made upon his heart; to teachhim to forget his Marion, in the hope of one day possessing her--allthese thoughts ran in this vain woman's head; and, inwardly rejoicingthat the shattered health of her husband promised her a ready freedomto become the wife of the man to whom she would gladly belong, in honoror in dishonor, she hastened forward as if the accomplishment of herwishes depended on this meeting. Peeping through the trees, she sawhim standing with folded arms, looking intently into the bosom of alarge lake; but the place was so thickly surrounded with willows, shecould only perceive him at intervals, when the wind tossed aside thebranches.
Having stood for some time, he walked on. Several times she essayed toemerge, and join him; but a sudden awe of him, a conviction of thatsaintly purity which would shrink from the guilty vows she wasmeditating to pour into his ear, a recollection of the ejaculation withwhich he had accosted her before hovering figure, when she haunted hisfootsteps on the banks of the Cart; these thoughts made her pause. Hemight again mistake her for the same dear object. This image it wasnot her interest to recall. And to approach near him, to unveil herheat to him, and to be repulsed--there was madness in the idea, and sheretreated.
She had no sooner returned to the scene of festivity than she repentedof having allowed what she deemed an idle alarm of overstraineddelicacy to drive her from the lake. She would have hastened back, hadnot two or three aged female peasants almost instantly engaged her, inspite of her struggles for extrication, to listen to long storiesrespecting her lord's youth. She remained thus an unwilling auditor,and by the side of the dancers for nearly an hour, before Wallacereappeared. But then she sprung toward him as if a spell were broken.
"Where, truant, have you been?"
"In a beautiful solitude," returned he, "amongst a luxuriant grove ofwillows."
"Ah!" cried she, "it is called Glenshealeach, and a sad scene was actedthere! About ten years ago, a lady of this island drowned herself inthe lake they hang over, because the man she loved despised her."
"Unhappy woman!" observed Wallace.
"Then you would have pitied her?" rejoined Lady Mar.
"He cannot be a man that would not pity a woman under suchcircumstances."
"Then you would not have consigned her to such a fate?"
Wallace was startled by the peculiar tone in which this simple questionwas asked. It recalled the action in the citadel, and, unconsciouslyturning a penetrating look on her, his eyes met hers. He need not haveheard further to have learned more. She hastily looked down, andcolored; and he, wishing to misunderstand a language so disgraceful toherself, so dishonoring to her husband, gave some trifling answer; thenmaking a slight observation about the earl, he advanced to him. LordMar was become tired with so gala a scene, and, taking the arm ofWallace, they returned together into the house.
Edwin soon followed with Murray, gladly arriving in time enough to seetheir little pinnacle draw up under the castle and throw out hermoorings. The countess, too, descried its streamers, and hasteninginto the room where she knew the chiefs were yet assembled, though thewearied earl had retired to repose, inquired the reason of that boathaving drawn so near the castle.
"That it may take us from it, fair aunt," replied Murray.
The countess fixed her eyes with an unequivocal expression uponWallace. "My gratitude is ever due to your kindness, noble lady," saidhe, still wishing to be blind to what he could not perceive, "and thatwe may ever deserve it, we must keep the enemy from your doors."
"Yes," ad
ded Murray, "and to keep a more insidious foe from our own!Edwin and I feel it rather dangerous to bask too long in these sunnybowers."
"But surely your chief is not afraid," said she, casting a soft glanceat Wallace.
"Yet, nevertheless, I must fly," returned he, bowing to her.
"That you positively shall not," added she, with a fluttering joy ather heart, thinking she was about to succeed; "you stir not this night,else I shall brand you all as a band of cowards."
"Call us by every name in the poltroon's calendar," cried Murray,seeing by the countenance of Wallace that his resolution was not to bemoved; "yet I must gallop off from your black-eyed Judith, as if chasedby the ghost of Holofernes himself."
"So, dear aunt," rejoined Edwin, smiling, "if you do not mean to playCirce to our Ulysses, give us leave to go!"
Lady Mar started, confused she knew not how, as he innocently utteredthese words. The animated boy snatched a kiss from her hand, when heceased speaking, and darted after Murray, who had disappeared, to givesome speeding directions respecting the boat.
Left thus alone with the object of her every wish, in the moment whenshe thought she was going to lose him, perhaps, forever, she forgot allprudence, all reserve; and laying her hand on her arm, as with arespectful bow he was also moving away, she arrested his steps. Sheheld him fast, but her agitation prevented her speaking; she trembledviolently, and weeping, dropped her head upon his shoulder. He wasmotionless. Her tears redoubled. He felt the embarrassment of hissituation; and at last extricating his tongue, which surprise and shamefor her had chained, in a gentle voice he inquired the cause of heruneasiness. "If for the safety of your nephews-"
"No, no," cried she, interrupting him, "read my fate in that of thelady of Glenshealeach!"
Again he was silent; astonished, fearful of too promptly understandingso disgraceful a truth, he found no words in which to answer her, andher emotions became so uncontrolled, that he expected she would swoonin his arms.
"Cruel, cruel Wallace!" at last cried she, clinging to him, for he hadonce or twice attempted to disengage himself, and reseat her on thebench; "your heart is steeled, or it would understand mine. It wouldat least pity the wretchedness it has created. But I am despised, andI can yet find the watery grave from which you rescued me."
To dissemble longer would have been folly. Wallace, now resolutelyseating her, though with gentleness, addressed her: "Your husband,Lady Mar, is my friend; had I even a heart to give a woman, not onesigh should arise in it to his dishonor. But I am lost to all warmeraffections than that of friendship. I may regard man as my brother,woman as my sister; but never more can I look on female form with love."
Lady Mar's tears now flowed in a more tempered current.
"But were it otherwise," cried she, "only tell me, that had I not beenbound with chains, which my kinsmen forced upon me--had I not been madethe property of a man who, however estimable, was of too paternal yearsfor me to love; ah! tell me, if these tears should now flow in vain?"
Wallace seemed to hesitate what to answer.
Wrought up to agony, she threw herself on his breast, exclaiming,"Answer! but drive me not to despair. I never loved man before--and nowto be scorned! Oh, kill me, too, dear Wallace, but tell me not thatyou never could have loved me."
Wallace was alarmed at her vehemence. "Lady Mar," returned he, "I amincapable of saying anything to you that is inimical to your duty tothe best of men. I will even forget this distressing conversation, andcontinue through life to revere, equal with himself, the wife of myfriend."
"And I am to be stabbed with this?" she replied, in a voice ofindignant anguish.
"You are to be healed with it, Lady Mar," returned he, "for it is not aman like the rest of his sex that now addresses you, but a being whoseheart is petrified to marble. I could feel no throb of yours; I shouldbe insensible to all your charms, were I even vile enough to see noevil in trampling upon your husband's rights. Yes, were virtue lost tome, still memory would speak, still would she urge, that the chaste andlast kiss, imprinted by my wife on these lips, should live there inunblemished sanctity, till I again meet her angel embraces in the worldto come!"
The countess, awed by his solemnity, but not put from her suit,exclaimed: "What she was, I would be to thee--thy consoler, thineadorer. Time may set me free. Oh! till then, only give me leave tolove thee, and I shall be happy!"
"You dishonor yourself, lady," returned he, "by these petitions, andfor what? You plunge your soul in guilty wishes--you sacrifice yourpeace, and your self-esteem, to a phantom; for I repeat, I am dead towoman; and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell of her whowill never breathe it to me again." He arose as he spoke, and thecountess, pierced to the heart, and almost despairing of now retainingany part in its esteem, was devising what next to say, when Murray cameinto the room.
Wallace instantly observed that his countenance was troubled. "Whathas happened?" inquired he.
"A messenger from the mainland, with bad news from Ayr."
"Of private or public import?" asked Wallace.
"Of both. There has been a horrid massacre, in which the heads of manynoble families have fallen." As he spoke, the paleness of hiscountenance revealed to his friend that part of the information he hadfound himself unable to communicate.
"I comprehend my loss," cried Wallace; "Sir Ronald Crawford issacrificed! Bring the messenger in."
Murray withdrew; and Wallace, seating himself, remained with a fixedand stern countenance, gazing on the ground. Lady Mar durst notbreathe for fear of disturbing the horrid stillness which seemed tolock up his grief and indignation.
Lord Andrew re-entered with a stranger, Wallace rose to meet him, andseeing Lady mar-"Countess," said he, "these bloody recitals are not foryour ears;" and waving her to withdraw, she left the room.
"This gallant stranger," said Murray, "is Sir John Graham. He has justleft that new theater of Southron perfidy."
"I have hastened hither," cried the knight, "to call your victoriousarm to take a signal vengeance on the murderers of your grandfather.He, and eighteen other Scottish chiefs, have been treacherously put todeath in the Barns of Ayr."
Graham then gave a brief narration of the direful circumstance. He andhis father, Lord Dundaff, having crossed the south coast of Scotland ontheir way homeward, stopped to rest at Ayr. They arrived there thevery day that Lord Aymer de Valence had entered it, a fugitive fromDumbarton Castle. Much as that earl wished to keep the success ofWallace a secret from the inhabitants of Ayr, he found it impossible.Two or three fugitive soldiers whispered the hard fighting they hadendured; and in half an hour after the arrival of the English earl,every one knew that the recovery of Scotland was begun. Elated withthis intelligence, the Scots went, under night, from house to house,congratulating each other on so miraculous an interference in theirfavor; and many stole to Sir Ronald Crawford, to felicitate thevenerable knight on his glorious grandson.
The good old man listened with meek joy to their animated eulogiums onWallace; and when Lord Dundaff, in offering his congratulations withthe rest, said, "But while all Scotland lay in vassalage, where did heimbibe this spirit, to tread down tyrants?" The venerable patriarchreplied, "He was always a noble boy. In infancy, he became thedefender of every child he saw oppressed by boys of greater power; hewas even the champion of the brute creation, and no poor animal wasever attempted to be tortured near him. The old looked on him forcomfort, the young for protection. From infancy to manhood, he hasbeen a benefactor; and though the cruelty of our enemies have widowedhis youthful years--though he should go childless to the grave, thebrightness of his virtues will now spread more glories around the nameof Wallace than a thousand posterities." Other ears than those ofDandaff heard this honest exultation.
The next morning this venerable old man, and other chiefs of similarconsequence, were summoned by Sir Richard Arnuf, the governor, to hispalace, there to deliver in a schedule of their estates; "that quietpossession," the
governor said, "might be granted to them, under thegreat seal of Lord Aymer de Valence, the deputy-warden of Scotland."
The gray-headed knight, not being so active as his compeers of morejuvenile years, happened to be the last who went to this tiger's den.Wrapped in his plaid, his silver hair covered with a blue bonnet, andleaning on his staff, he was walking along attended by two domestics,when Sir John Graham met him at the gate of the palace. He smiled onhim as he passed, and whispered-"It will not be long before my Wallacemakes even the forms of vassalage unnecessary; and then these failinglimbs may sit undisturbed at home, under the fig-tree and vine of hisplanting!"
"God grant it!" returned Graham; and he saw Sir Ronald admitted withinthe interior gate. The servants were ordered to remain without. SirJohn walked there some time, expecting the reappearance of the knight,whom he intended to assist in leading home; but after an hour, findingno signs of egress from the palace, and thinking his father might bewondering at his delay, he turned his steps toward his own lodgings.While passing along he met several Southron detachments hurrying acrossthe streets. In the midst of some of these companies he saw one or twoScottish men of rank, strangers to him, but who, by certainindications, seemed to be prisoners. He did not go far before he met achieftain in these painful circumstances whom he knew; but as he washastening toward him, the noble Scot raised his manacled hand andturned away his head. This was a warning to the young knight, whodarted into an obscure alley which led to the gardens of his father'slodgings, and was hurrying forward when he met one of his own servantsrunning in quest of him.
Panting with haste, he informed his master that a party of armed menhad come, under De Valence's warrant, to seize Lord Dundaff and bearhim to prison; to lie there with others who were charged with havingtaken part in a conspiracy with the grandfather of the insurgentWallace.
The officer of the band who took Lord Dundaff told him, in the mostinsulting language, that "Sir Ronald, his ringleader, with eighteennobles, his accomplices, had already suffered the punishment of theircrime, and were lying headless trunks in the judgment hall."
"Haste, therefore," repeated the man; "my lord bids you haste to SirWilliam Wallace, and require his hand to avenge his kinsman's blood,and to free his countrymen from prison! These are your father'scommands; he directed me to seek you and give them to you."
Alarmed for the life of his father, Graham hesitated how to act on themoment. To leave him seemed to abandon him to the death the others hadreceived; and yet, only by obeying him could he have any hopes ofaverting his threatened fate. Once seeing the path he ought to pursue,he struck immediately into it; and giving his signet to the servant, toassure Lord Dundaff of his obedience, he mounted a horse, which hadbeen brought to the town end for that purpose, and setting off fullspeed, allowed nothing to stay him, till he reached Dumbarton Castle.There, hearing that Wallace had gone to Bute, he threw himself into aboat, and plying every oar, reached that island in a shorter space oftime than the voyage had ever before been completed.
Being now conducted into the presence of the chief, he narrated hisdismal tale with a simplicity and pathos which would have instantlydrawn the retributive sword of Wallace, had he had no kinsman toavenge, no friend to release from the Southron dungeons. But as thecase stood, his bleeding grandfather lay before his eyes; and the axhung over the heads of the most virtuous nobles of his country.
He heard the chieftain to an end, without speaking or altering thestern attention of his countenance. But at the close, with anaugmented suffusion of blood in his face, and his brows denouncing sometremendous fate, he rose. "Sir John Graham," said he, "I attend you."
"Whither?" demanded Murray.
"To Ayr," answered Wallace; "this moment I will set out for Dumbarton,to bring away the sinews of my strength. God will be our speed! andthen this arm shall show how I loved that good old man."
"Your men," interrupted Graham, "are already awaiting you on theopposite shore. I presumed to command for you. For on enteringDumbarton, and finding you were absent, after having briefly recountedmy errand to Lord Lennox, I dared to interpret your mind, and to orderSir Alexander Scrymgeour, and Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, with all your ownforce, to follow me to the coast of Renfrew."
"Thank you, my friend!" cried Wallace, grasping his hand; "may I everhave such interpreters! I cannot stay to bid your uncle farewell,"said he, to Lord Andrew; "remain, to tell him to bless me with hisprayers; and then, dear Murray, follow me to Ayr."
Ignorant of what the stranger had imparted, at the sight of the chiefsapproaching from the castle gate, Edward hastened with the news, thatall was ready for embarkation. He was hurrying out his information,when the altered countenance of his general checked him. He looked atthe stranger; his features were agitated and severe. He turned towardhis cousin, all there was grave and distressed. Again he glanced atWallace; no word was spoken, but every look threatened, and Edwin sawhim leap into the boat, followed by the stranger. The astonished boy,though unnoticed, would not be left behind, and stepping in also, satdown beside his chief.
"I shall follow you in a hour," exclaimed Murray. The seamen pushedoff; then giving loose to their swelling sail, in less than tenminutes, the light vessel was wafted out of the little harbor, andturning a point, those in the castle saw it no more.