Bothwell Chapel.
Night having passed over the sleepless heads of the inhabitants of
Bothwell Castle, as soon as the sun arose, the Earl of Mar was carried
from his chamber, and laid on a couch in the state apartment. His lady
had not yet left the room of his daughter, by whose side she had lain
the whole night in hopes of infecting her with the fears which
possessed himself.
Helen replied that she could see no reason for such direful
apprehension, if her father, instead of joining Wallace in person,
would, when he had sent him succors, retire with his family into the
Highlands, and there await the issue of the contest. "It is too late
to retreat, dear madam," continued she; "the first blow against the
public enemy was struck in defense of Lord Mar; and would you have my
father act so base a part, as to abandon his preserver to the wrath
such generous assistance has provoked?"
"Alas, my child!" answered the countess, "what great service will he
have done to me or to your father, if he deliver him from one danger,
only to plunge him into another? Edward's power in this country is too
great to be resisted now. Have not most of our barons sworn fealty to
him? and are not the potent families of the Cummin, the Soulis, and the
March, all in his interest? You may perhaps say, that most of these
are my relations, and that I may turn them which way I will; but if I
have no influence with a husband, it would be madness to expect it over
more distant kindred. How, then, with such a host against him, can
your infatuated father venture, without despair, to support the man who
breaks the peace with England?"
"Who can despair, honored lady," returned Helen, "in so just a cause?
Let us rather believe with our good King David, that 'Honor must hope
always; for no real evil can befall the virtuous, either in this world
or in the next!' Were I a man, the justice that leads on the brave
Wallace would nerve my arm with the strength of a host. Besides, look
at our country; God's gift of freedom is stamped upon it. Our
mountains are his seal. Plains are the proper territories of tyranny;
there the armies of a usurper may extend themselves with ease; leaving
no corner unoccupied in which patriotism might shelter or treason hide.
But mountains, glens, morasses, lakes, set bounds to conquest; and
amidst these stands the impregnable seat of liberty. To such a
fortress, to the deep defiles of Loch Katrine, or to the
cloud-curtained heights of Corryarraick, I would have my father retire.
In safety he may there watch the footsteps of our mountain-goddess,
till, led by her immortal champion, she plants her standard again upon
the hills of Scotland."
The complexion of the animated Helen shone with a radiant glow. Her
heart panted with a foretaste of the delight she would feel when all
her generous wishes should be fulfilled; and pressing the now completed
banner to her breast, with an enthusiasm she believed prophetic, her
lips moved, though her voice did not utter the inexpressible rapture of
her heart.
Lady Mar looked at her. "It is well, romantic girl, that you are of my
own powerless sex; had it been otherwise, your rash-headed disobedience
might have made me rue the day I became your father's wife."
"Sex," returned Helen, mildly, "could not have altered my sense of
duty. Whether man or woman, I would obey you in all things consistent
with my duty to a higher power; but when that commands, then by the
ordinance of Heaven, we must 'leave father and mother, and cleave unto
it.'"
"And what, O foolish Helen, do you call a higher duty than that of a
child to a parent, or a husband to his wife?"
"Duty of any kind," respectfully answered the young daughter of Mar,
"cannot be transgressed with innocence. Nor would it be any
relinquishing of duty to you, should my father leave you to take up
arms in the assertion of his country's rights. Her rights are your
safety; and therefore, in defending them, a husband or a son best shows
his sense of domestic, as well as of public duty."
"Who taught you this sophistry, Helen? Not your heart, for it would
start at the idea of your father's blood."
Helen turned pale. "Perhaps, madam, had not the preservation of my
father's blood occasioned such malignity from the English, that nothing
but an armed force can deliver his preserver, I, too, might be content
to see Scotland in slavery. But now, to wish my father to shrink
behind the excuse of far-strained family duties, and to abandon Sir
William Wallace to the blood hounds who hunt his life, would be to
devote his name of Mar to infamy, and deservedly bring a curse upon his
offspring."
"Then it is to preserve Sir William Wallace you are thus anxious. Your
spirit of freedom is now disallowed, and all this mighty gathering is
for him. My husband, his vassals, your cousin, and, in short, the
sequestration of the estates of Mar and Bothwell, are all to be put to
the hazard on account of a frantic outlaw, to whom, since the loss of
his wife, I should suppose, death would be preferable to any gratitude
we can pay him."
Lady Helen, at this ungrateful language, inwardly thanked Heaven that
she inherited no part of the blood which animated so unfeeling a heart.
"That he is an outlaw, Lady Mar, springs from us. That death is the
preferable comforter of his sorrows, also, he owes to us; for was it
not for my father's sake that his wife fell, and that he himself was
driven into the wilds? I do not, then, blush for making his
preservation my first prayer; and that he may achieve the freedom of
Scotland, is my second."
"We shall see whose prayers will be answered first," resumed Lady Mar,
rising coldly from her seat. "My saints are perhaps nearer than yours,
and before the close of this day you will have reason to repent such
extravagant opinions. I do not understand them."
"Till now, you never disapproved them."
"I allowed them in your infancy," replied the countess, "because I
thought they went no further than a minstrel's song; but since they are
become so dangerous, I rue the hour in which I complied with the
entreaties of Sir Richard Maitland, and permitted you and your sister
to remain at Thirlestane, to imbibe these romantic ideas from the
wizard of Ercildown.** Had not Sir Richard been your own mother's
father, I would not have been so easily prevailed on; and thus am I
rewarded for my indulgence."
**Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Ercildown,
usually called the Rhymer. He was a poet and a sage, and believed by
his contemporaries to be a prophet. He was born at Ercildown, a
village on the Leeder (or Lauder), where the ruins of his paternal
castle, called Learmont Tower, still remain.-(1809.)
"I hope, honored madam," said Helen, still wishing to soften the
displeasure of her step-mother, "I hope you will never be ill-rewarded
for that indulgence, either by my grandfather, my sister, or myself.
Isabella, in the quiet of Thirlestane, has no chance of giving you the
offense that I do; and I am forced to offend you, because I cannot
disobey my conscience." A tear stood in the eye of Lady Helen.
"Cannot you, dear Lady Mar," continued she, forcing a smile, "pardon
the daughter of your early friend, my mother, who loved you as a
sister? Cannot you forgive her Helen for revering justice even more
than your favor?"
More influenced by the sweet humility of her daughter-in-law than by
the ingenuous eloquence with which she maintained her sentiments, or
with the appeal to the memory of the first Lady Mar, the countess
relaxed the frigid air she had assumed, and kissing her, with many
renewed injunctions to bless the hand that might put a final stop to so
ruinous an enthusiasm in her family, she quitted the room.
As soon as Helen was alone, she forgot the narrow-minded arguments of
the countess; and calling to recollection the generous permission with
which her father had endowed her the night before, she wrapped herself
in her mantle, and, attended by her page, proceeded to the armory. The
armorer was already there, having just given out arms for three hundred
men, who, by the earl's orders were to assemble by noon on Bothwell
Moor.
Helen told the man she came for the best suit of armor in his
custody-"one of the most excellent proof."
He drew from an oaken chest a coat of black mail, studded with gold.
Helen admired its strength and beauty. "It is the richest in all
Scotland," answered he; "and was worn by our great Canmore in all his
victories."
"Then it is worthy its destination. Bring it, with its helmet and
sword, to my apartment."
The armorer took it up; and, accompanied by the page carrying the
lighter parts, followed her into the western tower.
When Helen was again alone, it being yet very early in the morning, she
employed herself in pluming the casque, and forming the scarf she meant
should adorn her present. Thus time flew, till the sand-glass told her
it was the eighth hour. But ere she had finished her task, she was
roused from the profound stillness in which that part of the castle
lay, by the doleful lament of the troop returning from Ellerslie.
She dropped the half-formed scarf from her hand; and listened, without
daring to draw her breath, to the deep-toned lamentations. She thought
that she had never before heard the dirge of her country so piercing,
so thrillingly awful. Her head fell on the armor and scarf. "Sweet
lady," sighed she to herself, "who is it that dares thus invade thy
duties? But my gratitude--gratitude to the once-loved lord, will not
offend thy pure spirit!" Again the mournful wailings rose on the air;
and with a convulsion of feelings she could not restrain, she threw
herself on her knees, and leaning her head on the newly-adorned helmet,
wept profusely.
Murray entered the room unobserved. "Helen! my dear cousin!" cried he.
She started, and rising, apologized for her tears by owning the truth.
He now told her, that the body of the deceased lady was deposited in
the chapel of the castle; and that the priests from the adjacent priory
only awaited her presence to consign it, with the church's rites, to
its tomb.
Helen retired for a few minutes to recover herself; and then
re-entering, covered with a black veil, was led by her cousin to the
awful scene.
The bier lay before the altar. The prior of St. Fillan, in his holy
vestments, stood at its head; a band of monks were ranged on each side.
The maids of Lady Helen, in mourning garments, met their mistress at
the portal. They had wrapped the beautiful corpse in the shroud
prepared for it; and now having laid it, strewed with flowers, upon the
bier, they advanced to their trembling lady, expecting her to approve
their services. Helen drew near--she bowed to the priests. One of the
women put her hand on the pall, to uncover the once lovely face of the
murdered Marion. Lady Helen hastily resisted the woman's motion, by
laying her hand also upon the pall. The chill of death struck through
the velvet to her touch. She turned pale; and waving her hand to the
prior to begin, the bier was lowered by the priests into the tomb
beneath. As it descended, Helen sunk upon her knees, and the anthem
for departed souls was raised. The pealing notes, as they rose and
swelled, seemed to bear up the spirit of the sainted Marion to its
native heaven; and the tears which now flowed from the eyes of Helen,
as they mingled with her pious aspirations, seemed the balm of paradise
descending upon her soul.
When all was over, the venerable Halbert, who had concealed his
overwhelming sorrow behind a pillar, threw himself on the cold stone
which now closed the last chamber of his mistress. With faint cries,
he gave way to the woe that shook his aged bosom, and called on death
to lay him low with her. The women of Lady Helen again chanted forth
their melancholy wailings for the dead; and unable longer to bear the
scene, she grasped the arm of her cousin, and with difficulty walked
from the chapel.