MADELINE HOME.
'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy;--
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man.
_Romeo and Juliet._
Left almost alone in the king's hall, Florence retired from it with a
heart that was alternately a prey to the emotions of sadness and
mortification, bitterness and anger.
He had seen Madeline Home in her place at court as Countess of
Yarrow, as maid of honour to Mary of Lorraine and as daughter of that
brave Quentin Home, sixth Earl of Yarrow, who bore the king's
standard at Flodden, and was warden of the middle marches--who was
cupbearer to James V., and his ambassador to John III. of Portugal.
Florence had seen the eyes of a hundred men surveying with admiration
her beauty, which rivalled and at times outshone that of the queen
she attended. The conference had lasted three hours. In all that
time his eyes had scarcely seen another object than Madeline, and yet
she had seldom turned her gaze towards him, and latterly not at all;
for she felt oppressively conscious that she was in his presence, and
that she had in some way wronged him.
She had become cold, he conceived; for it never occurred to him that,
in her timidity, and lest other eyes might read their secret, she
dared no longer trust herself to look upon him; and he knew not what
this steadiness of averted gaze cost her poor little heart.
The dream which had filled his imagination with so much joy during
the past few weeks--the dream of being loved by a woman young and
beautiful--was now passing away; and the grim, armed figure of Claude
Hamilton of Preston, with the warnings and incitements of his mother
to bloodshed and hostility, seemed to loom darkly out from amid the
shadows of the future.
In this sombre mood, and doubtful whether or not he ought to wait
upon the regent before leaving Stirling, he wandered from the castle
into the large tract of ground which lies south-west of it. Enclosed
by a massive stone wall, this place is still known as the king's
park, because there of old our monarchs kept tame deer. From thence
he passed into the royal gardens, which lay at the east end of this
park; and where vestiges of the walks and parterres, with the stumps
of decayed fruit-trees, are still remaining amid the weeds and rushes
of a marsh. In the centre of these parterres rises a mound of
circular form, flattened on the summit, and named still the Round
Table, from the games of chivalry played there by the princely
Jameses and their knights of old, when a warrior spirit was strong in
the land.
It was now one of the loveliest of August evenings. The green masses
of the giant Ochil range, the columnar fronts of the Abbey craig, and
of Craigforth, were basking in the sunshine; while the pale-blue or
deep-purple summits of the mightier Grampians--Britain's ridgy
backbone--stood sharply up against the clear glory of the golden sky;
and chief of all arose the hill of God Benledi.
The terraces of the royal garden were balustraded with carved
stonework, and were reached by flights of steps. They were decorated
with vases of flowers, statues, and rosariums; and, in the old
Scoto-French fashion, there were long grassy walks shaded by
hedgerows of privet and holly, closely clipped, and compact and dense
as a wall of leaves could well be.
As Florence wandered through these green alleys, oppressed by the
thoughts we have described, at a sudden turn he met a lady, who
carried upon her left wrist a hawk, the glossy pinions and plumage of
which she was caressing. It sat upon a hawk-glove which was set with
pearls, and with more than one ruby. Her other hand was bare, and of
wonderful whiteness and beauty. She looked up as they drew near; and
the heart of Florence beat painfully quick as his eyes met those of
the promenader.
She was the Countess of Yarrow!
Flushing for a moment, she became very pale as she gave Florence her
gloveless hand, which he kissed with a tremulous lip, ere it was
hurriedly withdrawn; and then ensued one of those dreamy and painful
pauses when, if doubt or fear exist in lovers, their eyes and hearts
seem striving to analyse each other.
"At last I have learned your secret," said Florence sadly. "This day
has discovered to me all--your rank, and, most sad and calamitous of
all, your name and race; for my own peace, O lady, a double
revelation most fatal!"
"Fatal!" she reiterated tremulously--her voice had a musical chord in
it, which made every word she uttered singularly sweet and
pleasing--"did you really say fatal?"
"Can the word excite your surprise?" he asked with a sadness
amounting to bitterness; "when you knew that I was Florence Fawside,
and the sworn enemy of your race--hating it and all its
upholders--hating your blood and all who inherit it--even as the
house of Preston have hated me and mine--with a rancour akin to that
of devils; for in this faith my mother reared me.
"Yet, while knowing all that, I ministered unto you in your perilous
illness, even as a sister--as a wife would have done," said the
countess, in a low voice.
"And by that most gentle ministry--by your dazzling beauty and
adorable manner, lured me to love you."
"Lured!"
"Oh, Lady Madeline! my heart is swollen to bursting. You said you
loved me."
"And I love you still, dear, dear Florence!" she replied, in a voice
broken by agitation.
"Alas! but yesternight I repelled the proffered friendship of your
kinsman--repelled it as my dead father, as my dead brother would have
done--with antipathy and scorn; and woe is me! the blood of both is
on his sword and on his soul!"
The countess bowed her face upon her hands, and wept bitterly; her
shoulders shook with emotion, and her bosom heaved with sobs. For a
moment the heart of Fawside was wrung.
"Countess--Lady Yarrow--dearest Madeline--do not weep! Pardon me if
I am rough of speech; your tears fall like molten lead upon my heart.
My love--my dear love--look up and listen to me," he continued,
taking her hands in his; while the hawk flew to the end of the cord
which retained it, and screamed and fluttered its wings. "Oh, what
shall I say to unsay the bitterness of words that should never have
escaped me, and least of all to one so gentle and so tender as you!"
"And you saved the life of my kinsman, my uncle Claude, in Cadzow
Wood?"
"And he mine----"
"In Millheugh tower?"
"Yes,--from Allan Duthie, and his vile marauders."
"He told me all, dear Florence, all, and did full justice to your
truth and courage," said the young countess, looking up, while her
bright eyes suffused with tears of joy; "after such services given
mutually, this hatred, so wicked and unnatural, must surely lessen
and die."
"Under favour, sweetest heart; these services so given and tendered,
but placed us again upon an equality. Thought and action in each are
still free. One cannot upbraid, or fetter the other's hand, by the
bitter taunt, _to me thou owest life_!"
"Alas! here ends my dream; for if I find you thus stubborn and wilful
to me, how shall I find my older, and sterner kinsmen?"
"Your dream, beloved Madeline,--of what?" asked the young man
tenderly.
"Of peace and goodwill at least, if not of love and amity between us;
for well do I know that so strong is your mother's hatred, that when
we ding down Tantallon, and make a bridge to the Bass,[*] we may
attempt to overcome it, but not till then."
[*] An old proverb, descriptive of an impossibility.
"Ah, speak not of my mother, Madeline," replied Florence, in an
agitated voice; "the foreknowledge of all with which she may--nay,
must taunt me, makes me think at times of bidding Scotland adieu for
a season at least, and of returning to the Duchess of Albany, at
Vendome; of joining the French army, now advancing into the Milanese;
or, in short, of going anywhere, Madeline, save back to my father's
old tower on Fawside Hill."
The eyes of the young countess were fixed on him sadly, sweetly, and
with somewhat of reproach in them.
"You could not--" she began;
"At this crisis, no--when duty requires every loyal gentleman to lay
his sword and service at the feet of Mary of Lorraine."
"Does no other sentiment than mere loyalty chain you here?" said the
countess reproachfully; "could you----"
"Leave you--you would ask, beloved Madeline! ah, no--I am bewildered,
and know not what I say."
He threw one arm round her, and pressed her to his breast, and his
lip to hers.
When with her now, all the hopes and desires of life seemed to be
gratified, and existence to have attained its culminating point, yet
they were without words to express their emotion.
Each, to the full, had admitted or owned their love for the other.
Then what more had they to say, for loverlike, their eyes were full
of eloquence, though their tongues remained silent.
Suddenly a group of ladies appeared at the end of the long leafy
alley. They were the queen-mother, the young queen Mary, and four
ladies of honour. Florence had only time to whisper,--
"God mark thee, sweet one; adieu!"--to snatch one other kiss--a kiss
never to be forgotten; and with a heart that beat joyously, and a
head that seemed to whirl with delight, he quitted the royal garden
with all speed, crossed the king's park, and ascended once more to
the castle of Stirling.