“Oh! princely is the Baron’s hall,
And bright his lady’s bower,
And none may wed their eldest son
Without a royal dower.”
--_Wm. Kennedy._
Who may imagine and depict the emotions of Lady de Ermstein on being
presented with her long-lost son--that son whose loss was breaking her
heart? Like one in a dream she heard the glad revelation, and beheld
him with her eyes, and could even trace the features of the lost
child; and, overpowered by the intensity of her feelings, she swooned
away at his feet.
But the swoon was brief, and she awoke to happiness unalloyed.
Throwing herself upon his breast, she wept in the fulness of her joy,
and fervently gave thanks to Heaven for so eminent a blessing.
And from three hearts ascended bursts of gratitude to that over-ruling
Providence, which, in omniscient wisdom, watches over and regulates
human affairs. A blessing is intensified by the outpouring of a
grateful soul. That very gratitude is a blessing in itself. Men whose
minds are bound down and engrossed by the world may speak of this and
that fortunate accident, and how well their efforts succeeded, and how
skilfully they seized the all-important moment of Fortune; but a
higher hand rules all things, and to that hand--the _cause_, and not
the means--are all gifts to be assigned.
Thus had the outlaw discovered, at the eleventh hour, the secret of
his birth. For years he had fondly cherished the conviction that he
was descended from some noble line, and the whole effort of his life
had been untiringly devoted to the discovery of his parentage. He had
had his hours of deep depression and wild despair. As the clouds
seemed to gather more thick and black around him, he often thought
that they would never be dispelled; but always some hope cheered him
on, and in that hope he was not deceived. And now there could be no
obstacle to his union with the fair Eleanor; her hand he would
instantly gain.
All the forenoon was spent by the parents and their son in the
recital, by the latter, of the long and troubled history of his life.
He detailed each incident; his love for Eleanor; his expulsion from
Hawksglen; his union with the outlaws; his desperate adventures. The
parents heard the singular narration with feelings of deep sorrow.
“I could fervently thank Elliot for having protected your infancy,”
said Sir Dacre; “but my gratitude is destroyed by his cruel expulsion
of you at a time when your destiny might have become darker than it
has been. It was a hardhearted, almost atrocious deed. Had he no
thought that he would plunge you into despair?”
“It was not strictly an expulsion,” answered the youth, “for I
abandoned the castle to escape his reproaches and the insolence of his
wife.”
“That does not diminish his cruelty in my eyes,” replied Sir Dacre.
“What knight of honour and feeling would have so made unhappy and
wretched the life of an orphan youth who had no other protector?
Elliot has my gratitude for his care of your infancy; but my scorn and
hatred for the unmanly violence which made you what you have been. And
because you loved his daughter, too! It was a crime for the son of De
Ermstein to love the daughter of a paltry Scottish chief!”
“But you should consider, husband, that Elliot had no knowledge of
Stephen’s birth,” said the lady.
“No; he looked upon him as a beggar,” rejoined De Ermstein. “Had he
known my son’s rank he would have strained every nerve, and employed
every resource, fair or foul, to bring about an alliance which would
ennoble his name. But he will eagerly seek such alliance now. Let him
but hear this day’s news, and I may have a daughter-in-law from
Hawksglen to-morrow.”
“I do not lay every blame upon Elliot’s head,” said Stephen, “for, had
not his lady urged him on to hate me, I would never have left his
house. He repents his errors, and would atone for them were it in his
power. But, whatever his errors may be, let us never forget that he
brought me up from infancy as if I had been his own. Thrown upon his
mercy as a nameless, as an abandoned child, he cherished me with a
bounty, a care, and an affection which have no bounds.”
“You amply repaid all that bounty and care and affection,” said the
knight, “by defending him against inevitable downfall. Nevertheless, I
will not mar our felicity by harbouring hatred against him. But I
pray you to think no more of his daughter.”
Stephen was prepared for this. But he was firm in his devotion to
Eleanor; his heart never wavered from the fair object of its early
choice. He told his father of that maiden’s gentleness; that she had
plighted her faith to him; that her love had known no change even in
the depths of his degradation; that he would never forsake her; that
he would make her his bride. Rather than that his vows should be
slighted and broken, he would abandon the happiness which had come
upon him.
The old knight’s pride was wounded. There were many ladies in merry
England, he said, of ancient name and high fortune, from amongst whom
his son could choose a bride. But his son was inflexible. His mother
joined him, and Sir Dacre’s pride and wounded feelings at length gave
way.
The castle was now filled with festivity, and a proud day it now was
to him who had been so recently in the most dismal despair.