The coffin had been borne from the place where it rested. The mourners,

in regular gradation, according to their rank or their relationship

to the deceased, had filed from the cottage, while the younger male

children were led along to totter after the bier of their brother, and

to view with wonder a ceremonial which they could hardly comprehend.

The female gossips next rose to depart, and, with consideration for

the situation of the parents, carried along with them the girls of the

family, to give the unhappy pair time and opportunity to open their

hearts to each other and soften their grief by communicating it. But

their kind intention was without effect. The last of them had darkened

the entrance of the cottage, as she went out, and drawn the door softly

behind her, when the father, first ascertaining by a hasty glance that

no stranger remained, started up, clasped his hands wildly above his

head, uttered a cry of the despair which he had hitherto repressed,

and, in all the impotent impatience of grief, half rushed half staggered

forward to the bed on which the coffin had been deposited, threw

himself down upon it, and smothering, as it were, his head among the

bed-clothes, gave vent to the full passion of his sorrow. It was in vain

that the wretched mother, terrified by the vehemence of her husband's

affliction—affliction still more fearful as agitating a man of hardened

manners and a robust frame— suppressed her own sobs and tears, and,

pulling him by the skirts of his coat, implored him to rise and

remember, that, though one was removed, he had still a wife and children

to comfort and support. The appeal came at too early a period of

his anguish, and was totally unattended to; he continued to remain

prostrate, indicating, by sobs so bitter and violent, that they shook

the bed and partition against which it rested, by clenched hands which

grasped the bed-clothes, and by the vehement and convulsive motion of

his legs, how deep and how terrible was the agony of a father's sorrow.

"O, what a day is this! what a day is this!" said the poor mother, her

womanish affliction already exhausted by sobs and tears, and now almost

lost in terror for the state in which she beheld her husband—"O, what an

hour is this! and naebody to help a poor lone woman—O, gudemither, could

ye but speak a word to him!—wad ye but bid him be comforted!"

To her astonishment, and even to the increase of her fear, her husband's

mother heard and answered the appeal. She rose and walked across

the floor without support, and without much apparent feebleness, and

standing by the bed on which her son had extended himself, she said,

"Rise up, my son, and sorrow not for him that is beyond sin and sorrow

and temptation. Sorrow is for those that remain in this vale of sorrow

and darkness—I, wha dinna sorrow, and wha canna sorrow for ony ane, hae

maist need that ye should a' sorrow for me."

The voice of his mother, not heard for years as taking part in the

active duties of life, or offering advice or consolation, produced its

effect upon her son. He assumed a sitting posture on the side of the

bed, and his appearance, attitude, and gestures, changed from those of

angry despair to deep grief and dejection. The grandmother retired to

her nook, the mother mechanically took in her hand her tattered Bible,

and seemed to read, though her eyes were drowned with tears.

They were thus occupied, when a loud knock was heard at the door.

"Hegh, sirs!" said the poor mother, "wha is that can be coming in that

gate e'enow?—They canna hae heard o' our misfortune, I'm sure."

The knock being repeated, she rose and opened the door, saying

querulously, "Whatna gait's that to disturb a sorrowfu' house?"

A tall man in black stood before her, whom she instantly recognised to

be Lord Glenallan. "Is there not," he said, "an old woman lodging in

this or one of the neighbouring cottages, called Elspeth, who was long

resident at Craigburnfoot of Glenallan?"

"It's my gudemither, my lord," said Margaret; "but she canna see

onybody e'enow—Ohon! we're dreeing a sair weird—we hae had a heavy

dispensation!"

"God forbid," said Lord Glenallan, "that I should on light occasion

disturb your sorrow;—but my days are numbered—your mother-in-law is in

the extremity of age, and, if I see her not to-day, we may never meet on

this side of time."

"And what," answered the desolate mother, "wad ye see at an auld woman,

broken down wi' age and sorrow and heartbreak? Gentle or semple shall

not darken my door the day my bairn's been carried out a corpse."

While she spoke thus, indulging the natural irritability of disposition

and profession, which began to mingle itself with her grief when

its first uncontrolled bursts were gone by, she held the door about

one-third part open, and placed herself in the gap, as if to render the

visitor's entrance impossible. But the voice of her husband was heard

from within— "Wha's that, Maggie? what for are ye steaking them out?—let

them come in; it doesna signify an auld rope's end wha comes in or wha

gaes out o' this house frae this time forward."

The woman stood aside at her husband's command, and permitted Lord

Glenallan to enter the hut. The dejection exhibited in his broken frame

and emaciated countenance, formed a strong contrast with the effects of

grief, as they were displayed in the rude and weatherbeaten visage of

the fisherman, and the masculine features of his wife. He approached

the old woman as she was seated on her usual settle, and asked her, in

a tone as audible as his voice could make it, "Are you Elspeth of the

Craigburnfoot of Glenallan?"

"Wha is it that asks about the unhallowed residence of that evil woman?"

was the answer returned to his query.

"The unhappy Earl of Glenallan."

"Earl!—Earl of Glenallan!"

"He who was called William Lord Geraldin," said the Earl; "and whom his

mother's death has made Earl of Glenallan."

"Open the bole," said the old woman firmly and hastily to her

daughter-in-law, "open the bole wi' speed, that I may see if this be

the right Lord Geraldin—the son of my mistress—him that I received in my

arms within the hour after he was born—him that has reason to curse me

that I didna smother him before the hour was past!"

The window, which had been shut in order that a gloomy twilight

might add to the solemnity of the funeral meeting, was opened as she

commanded, and threw a sudden and strong light through the smoky and

misty atmosphere of the stifling cabin. Falling in a stream upon the

chimney, the rays illuminated, in the way that Rembrandt would have

chosen, the features of the unfortunate nobleman, and those of the old

sibyl, who now, standing upon her feet, and holding him by one hand,

peered anxiously in his features with her light-blue eyes, and holding

her long and withered fore-finger within a small distance of his face,

moved it slowly as if to trace the outlines and reconcile what she

recollected with that she now beheld. As she finished her scrutiny, she

said, with a deep sigh, "It's a sair—sair change; and wha's fault is

it?—but that's written down where it will be remembered—it's written on

tablets of brass with a pen of steel, where all is recorded that is done

in the flesh.—And what," she said after a pause, "what is Lord Geraldin

seeking from a poor auld creature like me, that's dead already, and only

belongs sae far to the living that she isna yet laid in the moulds?"

"Nay," answered Lord Glenallan, "in the name of Heaven, why was it that

you requested so urgently to see me?—and why did you back your request

by sending a token which you knew well I dared not refuse?"

As he spoke thus, he took from his purse the ring which Edie Ochiltree

had delivered to him at Glenallan House. The sight of this token

produced a strange and instantaneous effect upon the old woman. The

palsy of fear was immediately added to that of age, and she began

instantly to search her pockets with the tremulous and hasty agitation

of one who becomes first apprehensive of having lost something of great

importance;—then, as if convinced of the reality of her fears, she

turned to the Earl, and demanded, "And how came ye by it then?—how came

ye by it? I thought I had kept it sae securely—what will the Countess

say?"

"You know," said the Earl, "at least you must have heard, that my mother

is dead."

"Dead! are ye no imposing upon me? has she left a' at last, lands and

lordship and lineages?"

"All, all," said the Earl, "as mortals must leave all human vanities."

"I mind now," answered Elspeth—"I heard of it before but there has been

sic distress in our house since, and my memory is sae muckle impaired—

But ye are sure your mother, the Lady Countess, is gane hame?"

The Earl again assured her that her former mistress was no more.

"Then," said Elspeth, "it shall burden my mind nae langer!—When she

lived, wha dared to speak what it would hae displeased her to hae had

noised abroad? But she's gane—and I will confess all."

Then turning to her son and daughter-in-law, she commanded them

imperatively to quit the house, and leave Lord Geraldin (for so she

still called him) alone with her. But Maggie Mucklebackit, her first

burst of grief being over, was by no means disposed in her own house to

pay passive obedience to the commands of her mother-in-law, an authority

which is peculiarly obnoxious to persons in her rank of life, and which

she was the more astonished at hearing revived, when it seemed to have

been so long relinquished and forgotten.

"It was an unco thing," she said, in a grumbling tone of voice,—for the

rank of Lord Glenallan was somewhat imposing—"it was an unco thing to

bid a mother leave her ain house wi' the tear in her ee, the moment her

eldest son had been carried a corpse out at the door o't."

The fisherman, in a stubborn and sullen tone, added to the same purpose.

"This is nae day for your auld-warld stories, mother. My lord, if he be

a lord, may ca' some other day—or he may speak out what he has gotten to

say if he likes it; there's nane here will think it worth their while

to listen to him or you either. But neither for laird or loon, gentle or

semple, will I leave my ain house to pleasure onybody on the very day my

poor"—

Here his voice choked, and he could proceed no farther; but as he had

risen when Lord Glenallan came in, and had since remained standing,

he now threw himself doggedly upon a seat, and remained in the sullen

posture of one who was determined to keep his word.

But the old woman, whom this crisis seemed to repossess in all those

powers of mental superiority with which she had once been eminently

gifted, arose, and advancing towards him, said, with a solemn voice,

"My son, as ye wad shun hearing of your mother's shame—as ye wad not

willingly be a witness of her guilt—as ye wad deserve her blessing and

avoid her curse, I charge ye, by the body that bore and that nursed ye,

to leave me at freedom to speak with Lord Geraldin, what nae mortal ears

but his ain maun listen to. Obey my words, that when ye lay the moulds

on my head—and, oh that the day were come!—ye may remember this hour

without the reproach of having disobeyed the last earthly command that

ever your mother wared on you."

The terms of this solemn charge revived in the fisherman's heart the

habit of instinctive obedience in which his mother had trained him up,

and to which he had submitted implicitly while her powers of exacting

it remained entire. The recollection mingled also with the prevailing

passion of the moment; for, glancing his eye at the bed on which the

dead body had been laid, he muttered to himself, "He never disobeyed me,

in reason or out o' reason, and what for should I vex her?" Then, taking

his reluctant spouse by the arm, he led her gently out of the cottage,

and latched the door behind them as he left it.

As the unhappy parents withdrew, Lord Glenallan, to prevent the old

woman from relapsing into her lethargy, again pressed her on the subject

of the communication which she proposed to make to him.

"Ye will have it sune eneugh," she replied;—"my mind's clear eneugh now,

and there is not—I think there is not—a chance of my forgetting what I

have to say. My dwelling at Craigburnfoot is before my een, as it were

present in reality:—the green bank, with its selvidge, just where the

burn met wi' the sea—the twa little barks, wi' their sails furled, lying

in the natural cove which it formed—the high cliff that joined it with

the pleasure-grounds of the house of Glenallan, and hung right ower the

stream—Ah! yes—I may forget that I had a husband and have lost him—

that I hae but ane alive of our four fair sons—that misfortune upon

misfortune has devoured our ill-gotten wealth—that they carried the

corpse of my son's eldest-born frae the house this morning—But I never

can forget the days I spent at bonny Craigburnfoot!"

"You were a favourite of my mother," said Lord Glenallan, desirous to

bring her back to the point, from which she was wandering.

"I was, I was,—ye needna mind me o' that. She brought me up abune my

station, and wi' knowledge mair than my fellows—but, like the tempter of

auld, wi' the knowledge of gude she taught me the knowledge of evil."

"For God's sake, Elspeth," said the astonished Earl, "proceed, if you

can, to explain the dreadful hints you have thrown out! I well know you

are confidant to one dreadful secret, which should split this roof even

to hear it named—but speak on farther."

"I will," she said—"I will!—just bear wi' me for a little;"—and again

she seemed lost in recollection, but it was no longer tinged with

imbecility or apathy. She was now entering upon the topic which had long

loaded her mind, and which doubtless often occupied her whole soul

at times when she seemed dead to all around her. And I may add, as a

remarkable fact, that such was the intense operation of mental energy

upon her physical powers and nervous system, that, notwithstanding her

infirmity of deafness, each word that Lord Glenallan spoke during this

remarkable conference, although in the lowest tone of horror or agony,

fell as full and distinct upon Elspeth's ear as it could have done at

any period of her life. She spoke also herself clearly, distinctly, and

slowly, as if anxious that the intelligence she communicated should

be fully understood; concisely at the same time, and with none of the

verbiage or circumlocutory additions natural to those of her sex and

condition. In short, her language bespoke a better education, as well as

an uncommonly firm and resolved mind, and a character of that sort from

which great virtues or great crimes may be naturally expected. The tenor

of her communication is disclosed in the following CHAPTER.

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

Remorse—she neer forsakes us—

A bloodhound staunch—she tracks our rapid step

Through the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy,

Unheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed us

Then in our lair, when Time hath chilled our joints,

And maimed our hope of combat, or of flight,

We hear her deep-mouthed bay, announcing all

Of wrath, and wo, and punishment that bides us.

Old Play.

"I need not tell you," said the old woman, addressing the Earl of

Glenallan, "that I was the favourite and confidential attendant of

Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, whom God assoilzie!"—(here she crossed

herself)—"and I think farther, ye may not have forgotten that I

shared her regard for mony years. I returned it by the maist

sincere attachment, but I fell into disgrace frae a trifling act of

disobedience, reported to your mother by ane that thought, and she wasna

wrang, that I was a spy upon her actions and yours."

"I charge thee, woman," said the Earl, in a voice trembling with

passion, "name not her name in my hearing!"

"I must," returned the penitent firmly and calmly, "or how can you

understand me?"

The Earl leaned upon one of the wooden chairs of the hut, drew his hat

over his face, clenched his hands together, set his teeth like one who

summons up courage to undergo a painful operation, and made a signal to

her to proceed.

"I say, then," she resumed, "that my disgrace with my mistress was

chiefly owing to Miss Eveline Neville, then bred up in Glenallan House

as the daughter of a cousin-german and intimate friend of your father

that was gane. There was muckle mystery in her history,—but wha dared to

inquire farther than the Countess liked to tell?—All in Glenallan House

loved Miss Neville—all but twa, your mother and mysell—we baith hated

her."

"God! for what reason, since a creature so mild, so gentle, so formed to

inspire affection, never walked on this wretched world?"

"It may hae been sae," rejoined Elspeth, "but your mother hated a'

that cam of your father's family—a' but himsell. Her reasons related to

strife which fell between them soon after her marriage; the particulars

are naething to this purpose. But oh! doubly did she hate Eveline

Neville when she perceived that there was a growing kindness atween

you and that unfortunate young leddy! Ye may mind that the Countess's

dislike didna gang farther at first than just showing o' the cauld

shouther—at least it wasna seen farther; but at the lang run it brak

out into such downright violence that Miss Neville was even fain to seek

refuge at Knockwinnock Castle with Sir Arthur's leddy, wha (God sain

her!) was then wi' the living."

"You rend my heart by recalling these particulars—But go on,—and may

my present agony be accepted as additional penance for the involuntary

crime!"

"She had been absent some months," continued Elspeth, "when I was ae

night watching in my hut the return of my husband from fishing, and

shedding in private those bitter tears that my proud spirit wrung frae

me whenever I thought on my disgrace. The sneck was drawn, and the

Countess your mother entered my dwelling. I thought I had seen a

spectre, for even in the height of my favour, this was an honour she had

never done me, and she looked as pale and ghastly as if she had risen

from the grave. She sat down, and wrung the draps from her hair and

cloak,—for the night was drizzling, and her walk had been through the

plantations, that were a' loaded with dew. I only mention these things

that you may understand how weel that night lives in my memory,—and weel

it may. I was surprised to see her, but I durstna speak first, mair than

if I had seen a phantom— Na, I durst not, my lord, I that hae seen mony

sights of terror, and never shook at them. Sae, after a silence, she

said, Elspeth Cheyne (for she always gave me my maiden name), are not ye

the daughter of that Reginald Cheyne who died to save his master, Lord

Glenallan, on the field of Sheriffmuir?' And I answered her as proudly

as hersell nearly—As sure as you are the daughter of that Earl of

Glenallan whom my father saved that day by his own death.'"

Here she made a deep pause.

"And what followed?—what followed?—For Heaven's sake, good woman—But why

should I use that word?—Yet, good or bad, I command you to tell me."

"And little I should value earthly command," answered Elspeth, "were

there not a voice that has spoken to me sleeping and waking, that drives

me forward to tell this sad tale. Aweel, my Lord—the Countess said to

me, My son loves Eveline Neville—they are agreed—they are plighted:

should they have a son, my right over Glenallan merges—I sink from

that moment from a Countess into a miserable stipendiary dowager, I

who brought lands and vassals, and high blood and ancient fame, to my

husband, I must cease to be mistress when my son has an heir-male. But

I care not for that—had he married any but one of the hated Nevilles,

I had been patient. But for them—that they and their descendants should

enjoy the right and honours of my ancestors, goes through my heart like

a two-edged dirk. And this girl—I detest her!'—And I answered, for my

heart kindled at her words, that her hate was equalled by mine."

"Wretch!" exclaimed the Earl, in spite of his determination to preserve

silence—"wretched woman! what cause of hate could have arisen from a

being so innocent and gentle?"

"I hated what my mistress hated, as was the use with the liege vassals

of the house of Glenallan; for though, my Lord, I married under my

degree, yet an ancestor of yours never went to the field of battle, but

an ancestor of the frail, demented, auld, useless wretch wha now speaks

with you, carried his shield before him. But that was not a'," continued

the beldam, her earthly and evil passions rekindling as she became

heated in her narration—"that was not a'; I hated Miss Eveline Neville

for her ain sake, I brought her frae England, and, during our whole

journey, she gecked and scorned at my northern speech and habit, as her

southland leddies and kimmers had done at the boarding-school, as they

cald it"— (and, strange as it may seem, she spoke of an affront offered

by a heedless school-girl without intention, with a degree of inveteracy

which, at such a distance of time, a mortal offence would neither have

authorized or excited in any well-constituted mind)—"Yes, she scorned

and jested at me—but let them that scorn the tartan fear the dirk!"

She paused, and then went on—"But I deny not that I hated her mair than

she deserved. My mistress, the Countess, persevered and said, Elspeth

Cheyne, this unruly boy will marry with the false English blood.

Were days as they have been, I could throw her into the Massymore* of

Glenallan, and fetter him in the Keep of Strathbonnel.

* Massa-mora, an ancient name for a dungeon, derived from the Moorish

language, perhaps as far back as the time of the Crusades.

But these times are past, and the authority which the nobles of the

land should exercise is delegated to quibbling lawyers and their baser

dependants. Hear me, Elspeth Cheyne! if you are your father's daughter

as I am mine, I will find means that they shall not marry. She walks

often to that cliff that overhangs your dwelling to look for her

lover's boat— (ye may remember the pleasure ye then took on the sea, my

Lord)—let him find her forty fathom lower than he expects!'—Yes! ye may

stare and frown and clench your hand; but, as sure as I am to face the

only Being I ever feared—and, oh that I had feared him mair!—these were

your mother's words. What avails it to me to lie to you?—But I wadna

consent to stain my hand with blood.—Then she said, By the religion of

our holy Church they are ower sibb thegither. But I expect nothing but

that both will become heretics as well as disobedient reprobates;'—that

was her addition to that argument. And then, as the fiend is ever ower

busy wi' brains like mine, that are subtle beyond their use and station,

I was unhappily permitted to add—But they might be brought to think

themselves sae sibb as no Christian law will permit their wedlock.'"

Here the Earl of Glenallan echoed her words, with a shriek so piercing

as almost to rend the roof of the cottage.—"Ah! then Eveline Neville was

not the—the"—

"The daughter, ye would say, of your father?" continued Elspeth. "No—be

it a torment or be it a comfort to you—ken the truth, she was nae mair a

daughter of your father's house than I am."

"Woman, deceive me not!—make me not curse the memory of the parent I

have so lately laid in the grave, for sharing in a plot the most cruel,

the most infernal"—

"Bethink ye, my Lord Geraldin, ere ye curse the memory of a parent

that's gane, is there none of the blood of Glenallan living, whose

faults have led to this dreadfu' catastrophe?"

"Mean you my brother?—he, too, is gone," said the Earl.

"No," replied the sibyl, "I mean yoursell, Lord Geraldin. Had you not

transgressed the obedience of a son by wedding Eveline Neville in secret

while a guest at Knockwinnock, our plot might have separated you for

a time, but would have left at least your sorrows without remorse to

canker them. But your ain conduct had put poison in the weapon that we

threw, and it pierced you with the mair force because ye cam rushing to

meet it. Had your marriage been a proclaimed and acknowledged action,

our stratagem to throw an obstacle into your way that couldna be got

ower, neither wad nor could hae been practised against ye."

"Great Heaven!" said the unfortunate nobleman—"it is as if a film fell

from my obscured eyes! Yes, I now well understand the doubtful hints

of consolation thrown out by my wretched mother, tending indirectly

to impeach the evidence of the horrors of which her arts had led me to

believe myself guilty."