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 she
came from her chamber.
While walking on the cliffs at some distance from the castle to observe
the weather, he met Wallace and Edwin. They had already been across
the valley to the haven, and ordered a boat round, to convey them back
to Gourock. "Postpone your flight, for pity's sake!" cried Murray, "if
you would not, by discourtesy, destroy what your gallantry has
preserved!" He then told them that Lady Mar was preparing a feast in
the 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 to
sink us before we reach the shore."
After this the general meeting of the morning was not less cordial than
the separation of the night before; and when Lady Mar withdrew to give
orders for her rural banquet, that time was seized by the earl for the
arrangement of matters of more consequence. In a private conversation
with Murray the preceding evening he had learned that, just before the
party 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 her
friends. This having satisfied the earl he did not advert to her at
all in his present discourse with Wallace, but rather avoided
encumbering 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, was
meaning to beguile and destroy that manly spirit by soft delights,
which a continuance in war's rugged scenes, she thought, was too likely
to render invulnerable.
When her lord and his guests were summoned to the feast, she met them
at the mouth of the glen. Having tried the effect of splendor, she now
left all to the power of her natural charms, and appeared simply clad
in her favorite green.** Moraig, the pretty grandchild of the steward,
walked beside her, like the fairy queen of the scene, so gayly was she
decorated in all the flowers of spring. "Here is the lady of my elfin
revels, holding her little king in her arms!" As the countess spoke,
Moraig held up the infant to Lady Mar, dressed like herself, in a
tissue gathered from the field. The sweet babe laughed and crowed, and
made a spring to leap into Wallace's arms. The chief took him, and
with an affectionate smile, pressed his little cheek to his.
Though he had felt the repugnance of a delicate mind, and the shuddering
of a man who held his person consecrated to the memory of the only woman
he had ever loved; though he had felt these sentiments mingle into an
abhorrence of the countess, when she allowed her head to drop on his
breast in the citadel; and though, while he remained at Dumbarton,
(without absolutely charging her to himself with anything designedly
immodest), he had certainly avoided her; yet since the wreck, the danger
she had escaped, the general joy of all meeting again, had wiped away
even the remembrance of his former cause of dislike; and he now sat by
her as by a sister, fondling her child, although at every sweet caress
it reminded him of what might have been his--of hopes lost to him
forever.
The repast over, the piper of the adjacent cottages appeared; and,
placing himself on a projecting rock, at the carol of his merry
instrument the young peasants of both sexes jocundly came forward and
began to dance. At this sight Edwin seized the little hand of Moraig,
while Lord Andrew called a pretty lass from amongst the rustics, and
joined the group. The happy earl, with many a hearty laugh, enjoyed
the jollity of his people; and while the steward stood at his lord's
back describing whose sons and daughters passed before him in the reel,
Mar remembered their parents--their fathers, once his companions in the
chase or on the wave; and their mothers, the pretty maidens he used to
pursue over the hills in the merry time of shealing.
Lady Mar watched the countenance of Wallace as he looked upon the
joyous group; it was placid, and a soft complacency illumined his eye.
How different was the expression in hers, had he marked it! All within
her was in tumult, and the characters were but too legibly imprinted on
her face. But he did not look on her; for the child, whom the perfume
of the flowers overpowered, began to cry. He rose, and having resigned
it to the nurse, turned into a narrow vista of trees, where he walked
slowly on, unconscious whither he went.
Lady Mar, with an eager, though almost aimless haste, followed him with
a light step till she saw him turn out of the vista, and then she lost
sight of him. To walk with him undisturbed in so deep a seclusion; to
improve 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 teach
him to forget his Marion, in the hope of one day possessing her--all
these thoughts ran in this vain woman's head; and, inwardly rejoicing
that the shattered health of her husband promised her a ready freedom
to become the wife of the man to whom she would gladly belong, in honor
or in dishonor, she hastened forward as if the accomplishment of her
wishes depended on this meeting. Peeping through the trees, she saw
him standing with folded arms, looking intently into the bosom of a
large lake; but the place was so thickly surrounded with willows, she
could only perceive him at intervals, when the wind tossed aside the
branches.
Having stood for some time, he walked on. Several times she essayed to
emerge, and join him; but a sudden awe of him, a conviction of that
saintly purity which would shrink from the guilty vows she was
meditating to pour into his ear, a recollection of the ejaculation with
which he had accosted her before hovering figure, when she haunted his
footsteps on the banks of the Cart; these thoughts made her pause. He
might again mistake her for the same dear object. This image it was
not her interest to recall. And to approach near him, to unveil her
heat to him, and to be repulsed--there was madness in the idea, and she
retreated.
She had no sooner returned to the scene of festivity than she repented
of having allowed what she deemed an idle alarm of overstrained
delicacy to drive her from the lake. She would have hastened back, had
not two or three aged female peasants almost instantly engaged her, in
spite of her struggles for extrication, to listen to long stories
respecting her lord's youth. She remained thus an unwilling auditor,
and by the side of the dancers for nearly an hour, before Wallace
reappeared. 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 of
willows."
"Ah!" cried she, "it is called Glenshealeach, and a sad scene was acted
there! About ten years ago, a lady of this island drowned herself in
the 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 such
circumstances."
"Then you would not have consigned her to such a fate?"
Wallace was startled by the peculiar tone in which this simple question
was asked. It recalled the action in the citadel, and, unconsciously
turning a penetrating look on her, his eyes met hers. He need not have
heard further to have learned more. She hastily looked down, and
colored; and he, wishing to misunderstand a language so disgraceful to
herself, so dishonoring to her husband, gave some trifling answer; then
making a slight observation about the earl, he advanced to him. Lord
Mar was become tired with so gala a scene, and, taking the arm of
Wallace, they returned together into the house.
Edwin soon followed with Murray, gladly arriving in time enough to see
their little pinnacle draw up under the castle and throw out her
moorings. The countess, too, descried its streamers, and hastening
into the room where she knew the chiefs were yet assembled, though the
wearied earl had retired to repose, inquired the reason of that boat
having 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 upon
Wallace. "My gratitude is ever due to your kindness, noble lady," said
he, still wishing to be blind to what he could not perceive, "and that
we may ever deserve it, we must keep the enemy from your doors."
"Yes," added Murray, "and to keep a more insidious foe from our own!
Edwin and I feel it rather dangerous to bask too long in these sunny
bowers."
"But surely your chief is not afraid," said she, casting a soft glance
at Wallace.
"Yet, nevertheless, I must fly," returned he, bowing to her.
"That you positively shall not," added she, with a fluttering joy at
her 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 be
moved; "yet I must gallop off from your black-eyed Judith, as if chased
by the ghost of Holofernes himself."
"So, dear aunt," rejoined Edwin, smiling, "if you do not mean to play
Circe to our Ulysses, give us leave to go!"
Lady Mar started, confused she knew not how, as he innocently uttered
these words. The animated boy snatched a kiss from her hand, when he
ceased speaking, and darted after Murray, who had disappeared, to give
some speeding directions respecting the boat.
Left thus alone with the object of her every wish, in the moment when
she thought she was going to lose him, perhaps, forever, she forgot all
prudence, all reserve; and laying her hand on her arm, as with a
respectful bow he was also moving away, she arrested his steps. She
held him fast, but her agitation prevented her speaking; she trembled
violently, and weeping, dropped her head upon his shoulder. He was
motionless. Her tears redoubled. He felt the embarrassment of his
situation; and at last extricating his tongue, which surprise and shame
for her had chained, in a gentle voice he inquired the cause of her
uneasiness. "If for the safety of your nephews-"
"No, no," cried she, interrupting him, "read my fate in that of the
lady of Glenshealeach!"
Again he was silent; astonished, fearful of too promptly understanding
so disgraceful a truth, he found no words in which to answer her, and
her emotions became so uncontrolled, that he expected she would swoon
in his arms.
"Cruel, cruel Wallace!" at last cried she, clinging to him, for he had
once or twice attempted to disengage himself, and reseat her on the
bench; "your heart is steeled, or it would understand mine. It would
at least pity the wretchedness it has created. But I am despised, and
I can yet find the watery grave from which you rescued me."
To dissemble longer would have been folly. Wallace, now resolutely
seating her, though with gentleness, addressed her: "Your husband,
Lady Mar, is my friend; had I even a heart to give a woman, not one
sigh should arise in it to his dishonor. But I am lost to all warmer
affections 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 been
bound with chains, which my kinsmen forced upon me--had I not been made
the property of a man who, however estimable, was of too paternal years
for 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 now
to be scorned! Oh, kill me, too, dear Wallace, but tell me not that
you never could have loved me."
Wallace was alarmed at her vehemence. "Lady Mar," returned he, "I am
incapable of saying anything to you that is inimical to your duty to
the best of men. I will even forget this distressing conversation, and
continue through life to revere, equal with himself, the wife of my
friend."
"And I am to be stabbed with this?" she replied, in a voice of
indignant anguish.
"You are to be healed with it, Lady Mar," returned he, "for it is not a
man like the rest of his sex that now addresses you, but a being whose
heart is petrified to marble. I could feel no throb of yours; I should
be insensible to all your charms, were I even vile enough to see no
evil in trampling upon your husband's rights. Yes, were virtue lost to
me, still memory would speak, still would she urge, that the chaste and
last kiss, imprinted by my wife on these lips, should live there in
unblemished sanctity, till I again meet her angel embraces in the world
to come!"
The countess, awed by his solemnity, but not put from her suit,
exclaimed: "What she was, I would be to thee--thy consoler, thine
adorer. Time may set me free. Oh! till then, only give me leave to
love thee, and I shall be happy!"
"You dishonor yourself, lady," returned he, "by these petitions, and
for what? You plunge your soul in guilty wishes--you sacrifice your
peace, and your self-esteem, to a phantom; for I repeat, I am dead to
woman; and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell of her who
will never breathe it to me again." He arose as he spoke, and the
countess, pierced to the heart, and almost despairing of now retaining
any part in its esteem, was devising what next to say, when Murray came
into the room.
Wallace instantly observed that his countenance was troubled. "What
has 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 many
noble families have fallen." As he spoke, the paleness of his
countenance revealed to his friend that part of the information he had
found himself unable to communicate.
"I comprehend my loss," cried Wallace; "Sir Ronald Crawford is
sacrificed! Bring the messenger in."
Murray withdrew; and Wallace, seating himself, remained with a fixed
and stern countenance, gazing on the ground. Lady Mar durst not
breathe for fear of disturbing the horrid stillness which seemed to
lock up his grief and indignation.
Lord Andrew re-entered with a stranger, Wallace rose to meet him, and
seeing Lady mar-"Countess," said he, "these bloody recitals are not for
your ears;" and waving her to withdraw, she left the room.
"This gallant stranger," said Murray, "is Sir John Graham. He has just
left that new theater of Southron perfidy."
"I have hastened hither," cried the knight, "to call your victorious
arm to take a signal vengeance on the murderers of your grandfather.
He, and eighteen other Scottish chiefs, have been treacherously put to
death in the Barns of Ayr."
Graham then gave a brief narration of the direful circumstance. He and
his father, Lord Dundaff, having crossed the south coast of Scotland on
their way homeward, stopped to rest at Ayr. They arrived there the
very day that Lord Aymer de Valence had entered it, a fugitive from
Dumbarton Castle. Much as that earl wished to keep the success of
Wallace a secret from the inhabitants of Ayr, he found it impossible.
Two or three fugitive soldiers whispered the hard fighting they had
endured; and in half an hour after the arrival of the English earl,
every one knew that the recovery of Scotland was begun. Elated with
this intelligence, the Scots went, under night, from house to house,
congratulating each other on so miraculous an interference in their
favor; and many stole to Sir Ronald Crawford, to felicitate the
venerable knight on his glorious grandson.
The good old man listened with meek joy to their animated eulogiums on
Wallace; and when Lord Dundaff, in offering his congratulations with
the rest, said, "But while all Scotland lay in vassalage, where did he
imbibe this spirit, to tread down tyrants?" The venerable patriarch
replied, "He was always a noble boy. In infancy, he became the
defender of every child he saw oppressed by boys of greater power; he
was even the champion of the brute creation, and no poor animal was
ever attempted to be tortured near him. The old looked on him for
comfort, the young for protection. From infancy to manhood, he has
been a benefactor; and though the cruelty of our enemies have widowed
his youthful years--though he should go childless to the grave, the
brightness of his virtues will now spread more glories around the name
of Wallace than a thousand posterities." Other ears than those of
Dandaff heard this honest exultation.
The next morning this venerable old man, and other chiefs of similar
consequence, were summoned by Sir Richard Arnuf, the governor, to his
palace, there to deliver in a schedule of their estates; "that quiet
possession," the governor said, "might be granted to them, under the
great seal of Lord Aymer de Valence, the deputy-warden of Scotland."
The gray-headed knight, not being so active as his compeers of more
juvenile 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, and
leaning 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 on
him as he passed, and whispered-"It will not be long before my Wallace
makes even the forms of vassalage unnecessary; and then these failing
limbs may sit undisturbed at home, under the fig-tree and vine of his
planting!"
"God grant it!" returned Graham; and he saw Sir Ronald admitted within
the interior gate. The servants were ordered to remain without. Sir
John walked there some time, expecting the reappearance of the knight,
whom he intended to assist in leading home; but after an hour, finding
no signs of egress from the palace, and thinking his father might be
wondering at his delay, he turned his steps toward his own lodgings.
While passing along he met several Southron detachments hurrying across
the streets. In the midst of some of these companies he saw one or two
Scottish men of rank, strangers to him, but who, by certain
indications, seemed to be prisoners. He did not go far before he met a
chieftain in these painful circumstances whom he knew; but as he was
hastening toward him, the noble Scot raised his manacled hand and
turned away his head. This was a warning to the young knight, who
darted into an obscure alley which led to the gardens of his father's
lodgings, and was hurrying forward when he met one of his own servants
running in quest of him.
Panting with haste, he informed his master that a party of armed men
had come, under De Valence's warrant, to seize Lord Dundaff and bear
him to prison; to lie there with others who were charged with having
taken part in a conspiracy with the grandfather of the insurgent
Wallace.
The officer of the band who took Lord Dundaff told him, in the most
insulting language, that "Sir Ronald, his ringleader, with eighteen
nobles, his accomplices, had already suffered the punishment of their
crime, and were lying headless trunks in the judgment hall."
"Haste, therefore," repeated the man; "my lord bids you haste to Sir
William Wallace, and require his hand to avenge his kinsman's blood,
and to free his countrymen from prison! These are your father's
commands; he directed me to seek you and give them to you."
Alarmed for the life of his father, Graham hesitated how to act on the
moment. To leave him seemed to abandon him to the death the others had
received; and yet, only by obeying him could he have any hopes of
averting his threatened fate. Once seeing the path he ought to pursue,
he struck immediately into it; and giving his signet to the servant, to
assure Lord Dundaff of his obedience, he mounted a horse, which had
been brought to the town end for that purpose, and setting off full
speed, allowed nothing to stay him, till he reached Dumbarton Castle.
There, hearing that Wallace had gone to Bute, he threw himself into a
boat, and plying every oar, reached that island in a shorter space of
time than the voyage had ever before been completed.
Being now conducted into the presence of the chief, he narrated his
dismal tale with a simplicity and pathos which would have instantly
drawn the retributive sword of Wallace, had he had no kinsman to
avenge, no friend to release from the Southron dungeons. But as the
case stood, his bleeding grandfather lay before his eyes; and the ax
hung over the heads of the most virtuous nobles of his country.
He heard the chieftain to an end, without speaking or altering the
stern attention of his countenance. But at the close, with an
augmented suffusion of blood in his face, and his brows denouncing some
tremendous 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! and
then this arm shall show how I loved that good old man."
"Your men," interrupted Graham, "are already awaiting you on the
opposite shore. I presumed to command for you. For on entering
Dumbarton, and finding you were absent, after having briefly recounted
my errand to Lord Lennox, I dared to interpret your mind, and to order
Sir Alexander Scrymgeour, and Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, with all your own
force, to follow me to the coast of Renfrew."
"Thank you, my friend!" cried Wallace, grasping his hand; "may I ever
have such interpreters! I cannot stay to bid your uncle farewell,"
said he, to Lord Andrew; "remain, to tell him to bless me with his
prayers; and then, dear Murray, follow me to Ayr."
Ignorant of what the stranger had imparted, at the sight of the chiefs
approaching from the castle gate, Edward hastened with the news, that
all was ready for embarkation. He was hurrying out his information,
when the altered countenance of his general checked him. He looked at
the stranger; his features were agitated and severe. He turned toward
his cousin, all there was grave and distressed. Again he glanced at
Wallace; no word was spoken, but every look threatened, and Edwin saw
him leap into the boat, followed by the stranger. The astonished boy,
though unnoticed, would not be left behind, and stepping in also, sat
down beside his chief.
"I shall follow you in a hour," exclaimed Murray. The seamen pushed
off; then giving loose to their swelling sail, in less than ten
minutes, the light vessel was wafted out of the little harbor, and
turning a point, those in the castle saw it no more.