THE HAWK AND THE DOVE.
O wae be to the orders, that marched my love awa,
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears' dounfa';
The drums beat in the morning, before the screich o' day,
The wee fifes played loud and shrill, and yet the morn was grey;
The bonnie flags were a' unfurled, a gallant sight to see,
But waes me for my soldier-lad, that marched to Germanie.
MOTHERWELL.
The intense sadness of Lilian for some days after the march of the
troops, soon led Lady Grisel to suspect that her heart and hopes were
away with the Scottish host; and the blush that ever suffused her
cheek on Walter's name being mentioned convinced the old lady that
her conclusions were just. Lilian knew well what was passing in the
mind of her grandaunt, and as she had never hitherto concealed a
thought from her, she threw herself upon her neck, and with tears,
blushes, and agitation, which made her innocence appear more than
ever charming, confessed how she and Walter Fenton had plighted their
solemn troth, and shewing his ring, implored her pardon and her
blessing upon them both.
"God bless thee mine own dear child!" said the kind old lady; "though
poor Walter Fenton hath nothing on earth but his heart and his sword,
and though I might wish a longer pedigree than he, good lad, can
boast of, still I esteem him for his manly bearing--I love him for
his generosity, and I have ever loved thee, Lilian, much too well to
withhold aught on which thy happiness depends. May the kind God
bless thee, my fair-haired bairn! and may thy love be fortunate and
happy as it is innocent and pure!"
Lilian's heart was full, and she wept on the breast of her kind old
kinswoman.
After a time the idea did occur to Lady Bruntisfield, that the first
love of her grand-niece, who since the captain's outlawry had become
the only hope and last representative of an old baronial race, should
be a nameless and penniless soldier, about to become a partisan in a
dangerous civil war, was a matter for serious deliberation; but her
blessing had been given, her honour had been pledged, and neither
could be now withdrawn. She remembered too, that if William
conquered in the coming struggle, that Lilian would be dowerless; for
on her own demise, the lands of Bruntisfield and the Wrytes (of which
as before stated she had but a life-rent) passed to her nephew the
captain of the Scots Dutch, as next heir of entail; and she knew that
the crafty Lord Clermistonlee, who had long been Lilian's avowed
suitor, based his mercenary and ambitious hopes mainly on breaking
this law by bringing the unfortunate captain under the ban of the
Council, now no difficult matter, as he had openly joined the
standard of the Prince of Orange.
Though his Lordship's rank made him, in one respect, an eligible
suitor, his general character for cruelty, debauchery, and every
fashionable vice, caused him to be viewed with detestation by all,
save a few wild and kindred spirits; and there were current certain
dark, and, perhaps, exaggerated stories concerning the death of his
lady several years before; and these, more than any thing else, led
every woman, in that moral age, to regard him with secret horror.
Yet all admitted that he was pre-eminently a handsome man, and that
none dressed so magnificently, danced more gracefully, had better
trained hawks and hounds, or fleeter racers than Randal, Lord
Clermistonlee. Notwithstanding all this, Lady Grisel would rather
have seen her dear-loved Lilian in the coils of a boa-constrictor
than in his arms; and as the image of the daring roué came vividly
before her, she blessed poor Walter more affectionately, and kissing
her fair grand-niece again, made her feel more happy than she ever
thought to have been in absence of her lover. Rendered buoyant in
spirit by the hopes which the affection and approbation of her
venerable kinswoman had kindled anew within her breast (for love and
hope go hand in hand), she retired to the garden, to view, for the
hundredth time, the spot where she had plighted her faith and love to
Walter Fenton, a species of hand-fasting in those days so solemn and
binding, that it was almost esteemed a half espousal.
Day was closing, and the old knotty oaks creaked mournfully in the
evening wind: now their October foliage was crisped and brown; the
branches of many were bare and leafless, and the voice of the coming
winter was heard on the hollow gale; while the fallen leaves and
faded flowers, the apparent exhaustion and decay of nature, increased
the idea of desolation in her mind, and poor Lilian's heart swelled
with the sad thoughts that oppressed it. Seated by the mossy
dialstone, resigned to solitude and to sorrow, she yielded to the
grief that gradually stole over her, and wept bitterly.
How vividly she recollected all the circumstances of that dear
interview, and Walter's last injunction--"Remember the hour beside
the fountain, and forget not the 20th of September!" The hour was
the same; and the fountain was plashing with the same monotonous
sound into the same carved basin, and the voice of Walter seemed to
mingle with the echo of the falling water.
"Walter! Walter!" she exclaimed, and, dipping her hands again in the
water, pressed to her lips the pledge he had given her at
parting--his mother's ring, the only trinket he had ever possessed in
the world; and though small its apparent value, it contained a secret
that was yet to have a potent influence on the fortunes of both.
On the preservation of that ring depended the life of Walter and the
mystery of his birth.
Absence had now rendered more dear to her that love which preference,
chance, and congenial taste had previously made the all-absorbing
feeling of her heart.
"And he was here with me three weeks ago! Only three weeks! Alas!
dear Walter, if years seem to have elapsed since then, what will the
time appear before we meet again? Oh, that I had the power of a
fairy, to behold him now!" She turned her eyes to the south,--to
where, above its thick dark woods, the embattled keep of the Napiers
of Merchiston closed the view. There she had last seen the Scottish
host winding over the muir, and remembered the last flash of arms in
the sunlight as a straggling trooper disappeared over the ridge. Her
heart yearned within her, and her agitation increased so much that
she reclined against the cold dialstone, and covered her face with
her hands.
At length she became more composed, and her grief gave way to softer
melancholy, as the sombre tints of the balmy autumnal evening crept
over the beautiful landscape. The sun was setting, and, amid the
saffron clouds, seemed to rest afar off like a vast crimson globe
above the dark-pine woods that cover the ridges of Corstorphine. The
bright flush of the dying day stole along the level plain from the
westward, lighting up the grated casements, the fantastic chimnies,
and massive turrets of the old manor-house, and the gnarled trunks of
its ivied beeches and old "ancestral oaks."
Pouring aslant from beneath a screen of dun vapour like a
thunder-cloud edged with gold, the sun's bright rays gave a warm but
partial colouring to the scenery, glittering on the dark-green leaves
of the holly hedges, then gaudy with clusters of scarlet berries, and
rendering more red the crisped and faded foliage that bordered the
shining lake. White smoke curled up from many a cottage-roof
embosomed among the coppice; and as the sunbeams died away upon the
stirless woods and waveless water, Lilian recalled many an evening
when, at the same hour, and in the same place, she had leant upon
Walter's arm, and surveyed the same fair landscape; and the memory of
his remarks, and the tones of his voice, came back to her with a fond
but painful distinctness.
Her favourite pigeon, with the snow-white pinions and silver varvels,
alighted on her shoulder and nestled in her neck; but the caresses of
her little pet were unheeded. Lilian neither felt nor heard them;
her heart was with her thoughts, and these were far away, where the
Scottish drums were ringing among the Border hills and pathless
mosses. The face, the air, the very presence of her lover, came
vividly before the ardent girl; like a vision of the second sight,
she conjured them up, and his voice yet sounded in her ears as she
had last heard it--softened, tremulous, and agitated; but, alas! now
mountains rose and rivers rolled between them, and kingdoms were to
be lost and won ere again she felt his kiss upon her cheek. The dove
seemed sensible of the sorrow that preyed upon its mistress, and,
nestled in her soft bosom, lay still and motionless, with bowed head
and trailing pinions.
"By Jove! she _is_ a magnificent being," said a voice. "Now, fair
Lilian--now, by all that is opportune, you must hear me."
She started, but was unable to rise, from confusion and fear. Lord
Clermistonlee stood beside her. His dark velvet mantle half
concealed his rich dress, as the plumes of his slouched hat did the
sinister expression of his proud and impressive features. He was
armed with his long sword and dagger, and had a brace of pistols in
his girdle. A large hawk sat upon his wrist, and the expression with
which his large dark eyes were fixed on the shrinking girl, found an
exact counterpart in those of the hawk when regarding the trembling
dove, which cowered in the bosom of its mistress. From the ardour of
his glance and a certain jauntiness in his air, it was evident that
he was a little intoxicated, as usual.
Lilian, in great terror, looked hurriedly around her. She was at the
extremity of a spacious garden, and now the evening was far advanced.
Save old John Leekie, the gardener, none could be within hearing; and
the cry she would have uttered died away upon her lips. Even had
that venerable servitor approached, he would soon have been knocked
on the head by Juden Stenton, who lay close by, concealed like a
snake in the holly hedge.
"My Lord, to what do I owe this sudden visit?"
"To the attractive power of your charms, my beauty."
"Permit me to pass you," said Lilian sharply.
"Nay, my dearest Lilian," replied the lord, taking her hand, and
retaining it in spite of all her efforts to the contrary. "The very
modesty that makes you shrink from my polite admiration invests you
with a thousand new attractions."
"Doubtless," said Lilian, with as much scorn as her gentleness
permitted, "politeness is the peculiar characteristic of your
lordship; and yours is not less flattering than your admiration."
"My adorable girl! you transport me--you open up a new vista of hope
to me in these words," said Clermistonlee, with something of real
passion in his voice. "You must be aware there are few dames in
Scotland that would not be flattered by my addresses; and that few
men in Scotland, too, would dare to cross me. For thee alone my
heart has been reserved. On this fair hand let me seal----"
"Nay, nay, my lord," urged Lilian, struggling to be free, and
becoming excessively frightened.
"By every sparkle of those beautiful eyes, and the amiable vivacity
that illumines them," continued his lordship, making a theatrical
attempt to embrace her,--"suffer me to implore----"
"Help! help, for God's sake!" exclaimed Lilian. "My Lord, this
insolence shall not pass unpunished."
"Death and the devil! Dost mock me, little one? Is it insolence
thus to fall at your feet?--thus to pour forth my soul in rapture,
where a king might be proud to kneel?"
"My Lord, you are the strangest mixture of pride, presumption, and
absurdity in all broad Scotland," said Lilian, spiritedly. "I
command you to unhand me, and to remember that there is a pit under
the house where much hotter spirits than yours have learned to become
cool and respectful."
He released her.
"The pretty moppet is quite in a passion. My dear Lilian, why so
cruel? Am I indeed so hateful that you despise me?"
"O, no," said she, gently, touched with his tone, for his voice was
very persuasive, and his presence was surpassingly noble. "I cannot
hate one who has never wronged me; and I dare not despise aught that
God has made."
"Then you only respect me the same as the cows in yonder park?"
"Heaven forbid, my Lord, I should rate you so low!"
"Joy! beautiful Lilian. I now perceive that you do love me; and that
coy diffidence alone prevents you revealing the sentiments of your
heart." And throwing his arms around her, he embraced her, despite
all her struggles, and though the girl was strong and active. Thrice
she shrieked aloud; and having one hand at liberty, seized
Clermistonlee by his perfumed and cherished mustachios, giving him a
twist so severe, that he immediately released her, but still
interposed between her and the house. His eyes sparkled with
ill-concealed rage.
"Hoity toity!" he muttered, stroking his mustachios, and surveying
her with a gloomy expression. "May the great devil take me if I
understand you!"
Lilian now began to weep, and murmured--
"I request your lordship to learn----"
"That thou lovest another? Damnation, little fool! art still
favouring that beardless beggar, whom some Dutchman's bullet will
hurl to his father in the bottomless pit?"
"Wretch!" exclaimed Lilian, with undisguised contempt. "In heart and
soul, Walter Fenton is as much above thee as the heavens are above
the earth!"
Stung by her words, the eyes of Clermistonlee glared, and his lips
grew white: he looked round for some object on which to pour forth
the storm of rage and jealousy that blazed within him. He saw the
poor dove which nestled in Lilian's breast, and, prompted by
wickedness and revenge, suddenly snatched it away, and tossed it into
the air; then, quick as thought, he slipped the jess of scarlet
leather that bound the fierce hawk to his nether wrist, and like
lightning it shot after the terrified pigeon, and soared far in air
above it.
With fixed eyes and clasped hands Lilian watched it; and so intense
was her fear for her favourite, that, in the imminence of its danger,
she quite forgot her own. The stern eyes of Clermistonlee were
alternately fixed on the soaring birds and on Lilian's pallid face;
and he grasped her tender arm with the force of a vice with one hand,
while pointing upward to the dove with the other.
"Behold! thou foolish vixen," said he--"_thou_ art the dove, and _I_
am the hawk; and thus shall I conquer in the end!" Even as he spoke,
the hawk soused down upon its quarry, and both sank to the earth.
The pigeon was dead!
Lilian never spoke; but bent upon her tormentor a glance of horror,
scorn, and contempt, so intense that he even quailed before it, while
darting past him, she rushed towards the house.
The intruder then leaped the garden wall; and, followed by his stout
henchman, hurried towards Edinburgh.