truth that he had lost her of whom he had dreamed for years in foreign
lands, and to see whom he had journeyed night and day, with the hope of
being blessed at the termination of his journey, was fully disclosed.
With not again seeing Elizabeth, he had laid his account; but that he
should lose Helen had never once entered his mind; and the intelligence,
accompanied as it was with the painful vision of seeing her a mother,
with the pledge of her love for another sitting smiling on her knee,
was too painful to be endured. For some time he again sat silent and
moody; but the evil was of that irremediable nature that often
contributes to its cure; and, as the first emotion wore off, he
gratified his auditors with a statement of what had befallen himself
since he left Minniegaff.
"It was with a trusty servant I left Elizabeth to join my father in
London, who had come over from his long exile in the train of King
William. Upon my arrival, I was received with rapture by my beloved
parent, and introduced to my sovereign. Proper masters were engaged to
finish my education. As soon as I was thought ready, I received a
captain's commission in the army, and set out with my regiment for
Ireland. I was present at the battle of the Boyne, where my uncle
fell--he having joined the army of James; and my father became, by this
event, the representative of the family. Being in favour with the court,
the attainder was reversed. I rose rapidly, and had important trusts
committed to my charge, which required my utmost vigilance. My mind was
so occupied with public affairs, that I had little time for indulging in
my own private feelings. I heard of the sufferings in Scotland, and
wrote twice; but these letters appear not to have reached, as I received
no answer. I could not send a special messenger, as I was in another
country, and had no one I could with confidence trust. I was also in
hopes, from year to year, of being relieved, and coming in person; and
thus twelve tedious years have rolled on."
Willie had just finished, when Helen's husband entered, and was
introduced by her. Willie shook hands with him, but not with that
cordiality he had done with the former. There was during tea a
constraint, which gradually wore off; and mutual confidence being
restored, they were as open with each other and kind, as if they had
long been friends. The minister said that he had papers in his
possession which Elizabeth had left in Helen's charge, and which he and
Helen had read, as Elizabeth had allowed; and mentioned the strange
surmises he had regarding the connection his wife had with them. Willie
listened in mute astonishment, and the conflict that was passing in his
mind was strongly marked upon his open and generous countenance.
"It cannot be," he said at length; "for my uncle always declared that he
had sent his child to France by a trusty agent, from whence he had
letters of their safe arrival. He showed these letters to the relations
of his wife, my aunt-in-law, but never would inform them where he had
placed her, or who the agent was. My aunt, who is still alive, has used
every effort to learn its fate, in vain, and still mourns the loss of
her babe."
The minister afterwards walked over to the manse and brought the papers.
Willie at once recognised the handwriting as that of his aunt. Rising,
he embraced Helen, kissed her cheek, and owned her for his cousin. Next
morning his servant was sent off express to H---- Castle, with a packet
to his aunt, who had for several years resided there--having given up
her fruitless search on the Continent. In a few days she arrived at the
manse, and embraced Helen as her long-lost daughter. The scrap of paper
she kissed again and again, as the means of her present happiness. The
silken dress in which Helen was found had been carefully preserved. She
had sewed it with her own hand, and it had been last put on by herself;
for Grizzel thought it too fine for her to wear. Not a doubt remained.
Willie, the widow's son, joined the army again, and made a conspicuous
figure in the wars of Queen Anne. Helen's mother took up her residence
in the manse, and once more, in the close of her life, enjoyed that
happiness in her grandchildren's infancy she had been denied in her own.
The unfeigned piety and example of her daughter and her husband
gradually weaned her from her early faith, which had been much shaken,
in her melancholy hours, by the studies she had pursued to solace her
grief. Till her death she was a devout member of her son-in-law's flock,
and is yet remembered to have been heard talked of as the Good Lady.
THE ORDER OF THE GARTER.
A STORY OF WARK CASTLE.
A little above Coldstream, on the south side of the Tweed, stands the
village of Wark, where a walled mound is all that remains to point out
where its proud castle once stood. "We know that," some dweller on the
Borders may exclaim; "but what has Wark Castle to do with the Order of
the Garter?" Our answer to this question simply is, that, if tradition
may be trusted, or the historian Froissart believed, but for Wark
Castle, and there would have been no Order of the Garter. But this the
following story will show:--It was early in the autumn of 1342 that
David Bruce, King of Scotland, led an army across the Borders, and laid
waste the towns and villages of Northumberland, as far as Newcastle. The
invading army seized upon the cattle, the flocks, the goods, and the
gold of the Northumbrians; and they were returning, overladen with
spoils, when they passed within two miles of Wark Castle, which was then
the property of the Earl of Salisbury. The earl was absent; but, on the
highest turret of the castle, stood his countess, the peerless Joan
Plantagenet, daughter of the Earl of Kent, and cousin of King Edward.
Her fair cheeks glowed, and her bright eyes flashed indignation, as she
beheld the long line of the Scottish army pass by, laden with the
plunder of her countrymen.
"Am not I a Plantagenet?" she exclaimed--"flows not the blood of England
in my veins?--and shall I tamely behold our enemies parade the spoils of
my country before mine eyes? Ho! warden!" she continued, in a louder
tone, "send hither Sir William Montague."
Sir William was the brother of her husband, and the governor of the
castle.
"Behold!" said she, sternly, as the governor approached, and pointing
towards the Scottish army. "Is it well that we should look like
imprisoned doves upon yon rebel host? Or shall ye, Sir Governor,
discharge your duty to your sovereign, if ye strike not one blow for
England and revenge?"
"Fair sister," returned the knight, "ere an hour after nightfall, and
the cry, 'For England and the Rose of Wark!' shall burst as the shout of
death upon the ears of our enemies. A troop of forty horsemen wait but
my word to become the messengers of vengeance."
"Good, my brother," she replied, while her former frown relaxed into a
smile; "and each man who hath done his duty shall, on his return, drink
a cup of wine from the hands of Joan Plantagenet."
Darkness began to gather round the turrets of the castle, and on the
highest the gentle figure of the countess was still indistinctly
visible; now walking round it with impatient steps, and again gazing
eagerly to obtain another glance of the Scottish army, or counting the
fires which sprung up along the lines where it had encamped for the
night, when Sir William and forty of the garrison, mounted on fleet
steeds, sallied from the gate of the outer wall.
"Our ladye speed ye, gallant hearts!" said the fair Joan, as she beheld
them sweep past like a dark cloud on their work of blood.
The Scottish army were encamped a little beyond Carham, carousing around
their fires from flagons filled with the best wine they had found in the
cellars of the Northumbrian nobility; over the fires, suspended from
poles, were skins of sheep and of bullocks, rudely sewed into the form
of bags, and filled with water--these served them as pots, and the flesh
of the animals was boiled in their own skins. Amongst the revellers were
veterans who had fought by the side of Wallace and Bruce; and, while
some recounted the deeds of the patriot, and inspired their comrades
with accounts of his lion-like courage and prodigious strength, others,
with the goblet in hand, fought Bannockburn o'er again. Thus the song,
the jest, the laugh, the tale of war, and the wine-cup went round,
amidst the bustle of culinary preparations, and each man laid his arms
aside, and gave himself up to enjoyment and security.
Suddenly there arose upon their mirth the trampling and the neighing of
war-steeds, the clang of shields, and the shouts of armed men, and naked
swords gleamed through the fire-light. "For England and the Rose of
Wark!" exclaimed Sir William Montague--"For England and our ladye!"
echoed his followers. They rushed through the Scottish lines like a
whirlwind, trampling the late revellers beneath their horses' feet, and
fleshing their swords in the bodies of unarmed men. For a time they left
carnage behind them, and spread consternation before them.
The surprise and panic of the Scottish army, however, were of short
duration. "To horse!--to horse!" rang through the camp, and they began
to enclose the small but desperate band of assailants on every side.
"England is revenged! To the castle with our spoils!" cried Sir William;
and they retreated towards Wark, carrying with them a hundred and sixty
horses laden with plunder, while the Scots pursued them to the very
gates. The countess hastened to the outer gate to meet them; and as, by
the torches borne by her attendants, she surveyed the number of horses
they had taken, and the rich booty which they bore--
"Thanks, Sir William!" cried she--"thanks, my gallant countrymen--ye
have done bravely; merry England hath still its chivalrous and stout
hearts upon the Borders. To-night shall each man pledge his ladye love
in the ruddy wine."
But there was one who welcomed Sir William Montague's return with
silent tears--the gentle Madeline Aubrey, the companion of Joan
Plantagenet, and the orphan daughter of a valiant knight, who had won
his golden spurs by the side of the first Edward, and laid down his life
in defence of his imbecile son. Madeline was, perhaps, less beautiful
than the countess; but her very looks spoke love--love, ardent, tender,
and sincere. Hers was the beauty of the summer moon kissing the quiet
lake, when the nightingale offers up its song--lovely and serene; Joan's
was as the sun flashing upon the gilded sea--receiving the morning
worship of the lark, and demanding admiration.
"Wherefore are ye sad, my sweet Madeline?" said Sir William, tenderly,
as he drew off his gauntlet, and took her fair hand in his. "Joy ye not
that I have returned sound in life and limb?"
"Yes, I joy that my William is safe," answered Madeline; "but will our
safety last? Think ye not that ye have done desperately, and that the
Scottish king, with to-morrow's sun, will avenge the attack ye have made
on his camp to-night?"
"St George! and I pray he may!" added Sir William. "I am the dependant
of my brother, with no fortune but my sword; and I should glory, beneath
the eyes of my Madeline, to win such renown as would gain a dowery
worthy of her hand."
"When that hand is given," added she, "your Madeline will seek no honour
but her William's heart."
"Well, sweetest," rejoined he, "I know that ye rejoice not in the
tournament, nor delight in the battle-field; yet would ye mourn to see
your own true knight vanquished in the one, or turn craven on the other.
Let Scotland's king besiege us if he will, and then with this good sword
shall I prove my love for Madeline."
"Madeline is an orphan," added she, "and the sword hath made her such.
She knows your courage as she knows your love, and she asks no farther
proofs. The deed of chivalry may make the ladye proud of her knight, but
it cannot win her affection."
"Well, sweet one," said he, playfully, "I should love to see thy pretty
face in a monk's cowl, for thou dost preach of peace right potently. But
come, love, wherefore are ye so sad--what troubles thee?"
"'Tis for you I fear," she replied. "I know your daring, and I know that
danger threatens us; and oh! Madeline's hands could not deck your bosom
for the battle; though, in her own breast, she would receive the stroke
of death to shield it. For my sake, be not too rash; for oh! in the
silent hours of midnight--when the spirits of the dead visit the earth,
and the souls of the living mingle with them in dreams--I have seen my
father and my mother, and they have seemed to weep over their
orphan--they have called on me to follow them; and I have thought of
you, and the shout of the battle, and the clash of swords have mingled
in my ears; and when I would have clasped your hands, the shroud has
appeared my bridal garment."
"Come, love, 'tis an idle fancy," said he, tenderly; "dream no more. But
that they have mewed me up in this dull castle, where honour seeks me
not, and reward awaits not, and ere now my Madeline had worn her
wedding-garment. But cheer up; for your sake I will not be rash, though,
for that fair brow I would win a coronet."
"'Tis an honour that I covet not," said she; "nor would I risk thy
safety for a moment to wear a crown."
Madeline was right in her apprehension that King David would revenge the
attack that had been made upon the rear of his army. When, with the
morning sun, he beheld two hundred of his soldiers lying dead upon the
ground--"Now, by my halidome," said he, "and for this outrage, I will
not leave one stone of Wark Castle upon another, but its ruins shall
rise as a cairn over the graves of these men."
Before noon, the entire Scottish host were encamped around the castle;
and the young king sent a messenger to the gates, demanding the countess
and Sir William to surrender.
"Surrender! boasting Scot!" said the chivalrous Joan; "doth your boy
king think that a Plantagenet will yield to a Bruce! Back and tell him
that, ere a Scot among ye enter these gates, ye shall tread Joan
Plantagenet in the dust; and the bodies of the bravest of your army
shall fill the ditches of the castle, that their comrades may pass
over."
"I take not my answer from a woman's tongue," replied the herald; "what
say ye, Sir Governor? Do ye surrender in peace, or choose ye that we
raze Wark Castle with the ground?"
"If King David can, he may," was the brief and bold reply of Sir William
Montague; "yet it were better for him that he should have tarried in
Scotland until his beard be grown, than that he should attempt it."
"Ye speak boldly," answered the herald; "but ye shall not fare the
worse, by reason of your free speech, when a passage shall be made
through these walls for the Scottish army to enter."
The messenger having intimated the refusal of the governor to surrender
to his prince, preparations were instantly made to commence the siege.
The besieged, however, did not behold the preparations of their enemies
and remain inactive. Every means of defence was got in readiness. The
countess hastened from post to post, inspiring the garrison with words
of heroism, and stimulating them with rewards. Even the gentle Madeline
showed that her soul could rise with the occasion worthy of a soldier's
love; and she, too, went from man to man, cheering them on, and with her
sweet and silver tones seemed to rob even death of half its terror. Sir
William's heart swelled with delight as he beheld her mild eye lighted
up with enthusiasm, and heard her voice, which was as music to his ear,
giving courage to the faint-hearted, and heroism to the brave.
"Heaven bless my Madeline!" said he, taking her hand; "ye have taught me
to know what true courage is, and our besiegers shall feel it. They may
raze the walls of the castle with the ground, as they have threatened;
but it shall be at a price that Scotland can never forget; and even
then, my Madeline shall be safe. Farewell now, love, but as night
gathers round, we must again prepare to assume the part of assailants."
"You must!--I know you must!" she replied; "yet be not too rash--attempt
not more than a brave man ought--or all may be lost; you, too, may
perish, and who, then, would protect your Madeline?"
He pressed her hand to his breast--again he cried, "Farewell!" and,
hastening to a troop of horsemen who only waited his commands to sally
from the gate upon the camp of their besiegers, the drawbridge was let
down, and, at the head of his followers, he dashed upon the nearest
point of the Scottish army. Deadly was the carnage which, for a time,
they spread around; and, as they were again driven back and pursued to
the gate, their own dead and their wounded were left behind. Frequently
and suddenly were such sallies made, as the falcon watcheth its
opportunity and darteth on its prey, and as frequently were they driven
back, but never without leaving proof to the Scottish monarch at what a
desperate price Wark Castle was to be purchased. Frequently, too, as
they rushed forth, the countess eagerly and impatiently beheld them from
the turrets; and, as the harvest-moon broke upon their armour, she
seemed to watch every flash of their swords, waving her hand with
exultation, or raising her voice in a strain of triumph. But by her side
stood Madeline, gazing, not less eagerly, and not less interested, on
the work of danger and despair; but her eyes were fixed upon one
only--the young leader of the chivalrous band who braved death for
England and their ladye's sake. She also watched the flashing of the
swords; but her eyes sought those only which glanced where the brightest
helmet gleamed and the proudest plume waved. Often the contest was
beneath the very walls of the castle, and she could hear her lover's
voice, and behold him dashing as a thunderbolt into the midst of his
enemies.
Obstinate, however, as the resistance of the garrison was, and bloody as
the price, indeed, seemed at which the castle was to be purchased, David
had too much of the Bruce in his blood to abandon the siege. He began to
fill the ditches, and he ordered engines to be prepared to batter down
the walls. The ditches were filled, and, before the heavy and ponderous
blows of the engines, a breach was made in the outer wall, and with a
wild shout a thousand of the Scottish troops rushed into the outer
court.
"Joan Plantagenet disdains ye still!" cried the dauntless countess.
"Quail not, brave hearts," she exclaimed, addressing the garrison, who,
with deadly aim, continued showering their arrows upon the besiegers;
"before I yield, Wark Castle shall be my funeral pile!"
"And mine!" cried Sir William, as an arrow glanced from his hand, and
became transfixed in the visor of one of the Scottish leaders.
Madeline glanced towards him, and her eyes, yet beaming with courage,
seemed to say, "_And mine!_"
"And ours!" exclaimed the garrison--"and ours!" they repeated more
vehemently; and, waving their swords, "Hurrah!" cried they, "for our
ladye, St George, and merry England!"
It was the shout of valiant but despairing men. Yet, as the danger rose,
and as hope became less and less, so rose the determination of the
countess. She was present to animate at every place of assault. She
distributed gold amongst them; her very jewels she gave in presents to
the bravest; but, though they had shed much of the best blood in the
Scottish army, their defence was hopeless, and their courage could not
save them. Almost their last arrow was expended, and they were repelling
their assailants from the inner wall with their spears, when _Want_, the
most formidable enemy of the besieged, began to assail them from within.
It was now that the gentle Madeline, when Sir William endeavoured to
inspire her with hope, replied, "I fear not to die--to die with
you!--but tell me not of hope--it is not to be found in the courage of
the brave garrison, whom famine is depriving of their strength. There is
one hope for us--only one; but it is a desperate hope, and I would
rather die than risk the life of another."
"Nay, name it, dearest," said Sir William, eagerly; "and if the heart or
hand of man can accomplish it, it shall be attempted."
Madeline hesitated.
"Speak, silly one," said the countess, who had overheard them--"where
lies your hope? Could true knight die in nobler cause? Name it: for I
wot ye have a wiser head than a bold heart."
"Name it, do, dear Madeline," entreated Sir William.
"King Edward is now in Yorkshire," she replied; "could a messenger be
despatched to him, the castle might hold out until he hastened to our
assistance."
"St George! and 'tis a happy thought!" replied the countess. "I have not
seen my cousin Edward since we were children together; but how know ye
that he is in Yorkshire? I expected that, ere now, he was conquering the
hearts of the dark-eyed dames of Brittany, while his arms conquered the
country."
"In dressing the wounds of the aged Scottish nobleman," answered
Madeline, "who was yesterday brought into the castle, he informed me."
"What think _ye_ of _your_ fair ladye's plan for our deliverance, good
brother?" inquired the countess, addressing the governor.
"Madeline said it would be a desperate attempt," replied he,
thoughtfully--"and it would, indeed, be desperate--it is impossible."
"Out on thy knighthood, man!" rejoined the countess. "Is this the
far-famed chivalry of Sir William Montague? Why, it is the proposition
of your own fair ladye, whom, verily, ye cannot believe chivalrous to a
fault. But is it to Joan Plantagenet that ye talk of impossibilities? I
will stake thee my dowery against fair Madeline's, I find a hundred men
in this poor garrison ready to dare and do what you declare impossible."
"You find not _two_, fair sister," said Sir William, proudly.
"Oh, say not _one_--not _one_!" whispered Madeline, earnestly.
Upon every man in the castle did the countess urge the dangerous
mission--she entreated, she threatened, she offered the most liberal,
the most tempting rewards; but the boldest rejected them with dismay.
The Scottish army lay encompassing them around--their sentinels were
upon the watch almost at every step, and to venture beyond the gate of
the castle seemed but to meet death and to seek it.
"At midnight have my fleetest horse in readiness," said Sir William,
addressing his attendant--"what no man dare, I will!"
"My brother!--thanks!--thanks!" exclaimed the countess, in a tone of
joy.
Madeline clasped her hands together--her cheeks became pale--her voice
faltered--she burst into tears.
"Weep not, loved one," said Sir William; "the heavens favour the
enterprise which my Madeline conceived. Should the storm increase, there
is hope--it is possible--it will be accomplished." And, while he yet
spoke, the lightning glared along the walls of the castle, and the loud
thunder pealed over the battlements. Yet Madeline wept, and repented
that she had spoken of the possibility of deliverance.
As it drew towards midnight, the terrors of the storm increased, and the
fierce hail poured down in sheets and rattled upon the earth; the
thunder almost incessantly roared louder and more loud; or, when it
ceased, the angry wind moaned through the woods, like a chained giant in
the grasp of an enemy; and the impenetrable darkness was rendered more
dismal by the blue glare of the lightning flashing to and fro.
Silently the castle gate was unbarred; and Sir William, throwing himself
into the saddle, dashed his spurs into the sides of his courser, which
bounded off at its utmost speed, followed by the adieux of his
countrymen, and the prayers and the tears of Madeline. The gate was
scarce barred behind him ere he was dashing through the midst of the
Scottish host. But the noise of the warring elements drowned the
trampling of his horse's feet, or where they were indistinctly heard for
a few moments, the sound had ceased, and the horse and its rider were
invisible, ere the sentinels, who had sought refuge from the fury of the
storm in the tents, could perceive them.
He passed through the Scottish lines in safety; and, proceeding by way
of Morpeth and Newcastle, on the third day he reached the camp of King
Edward, near Knaresborough. The gay and chivalrous monarch, at the head
of a portion of his army, like a true knight, hastened to the relief of
his distressed cousin.