THE CHAPEL OF ST. MARTIN.
With a graceful step and stately,
Proud of heart and proud of mien;
With her deep eyes shining grayly,
Cometh Lady Madeline,
Trembling as with cold;
With cheek red-flush'd like daisy tip,
And full-ripe pouting ruby lip,
And hair of tawny gold.
_Household Words._
Plato asserted that hopes were the dreams of people waking; and
Thales the Milesian affirmed that hope was the most lasting of all
things; for when all seemed lost to man, it still remained. Thus our
lover, like every other lover before the flood, or since, hoped on,
though prejudice, fortune, and hostility had raised between him and
Madeline Home barriers that seemed all but insurmountable.
Skirting the green hill of Carberry, he reached the banks of the
brawling and beautiful Esk, then a deeper and a broader river than
now. He boldly swam his horse through it near Edmondstone Edge, and
spurred over the then open wastes known as the mains of Sheriff Hall,
where on the purple muir lay the green ridges and trenches of a Roman
camp, with a gallows-tree--an old and thunder-riven oak, on which
hung the bony fragments of one malefactor and the recently-executed
body of another, who had been doomed to death by the Douglasses of
Dalkeith. Down the steep slope from Newton-kirk he rode heedlessly,
and passed the grey and ancient Ramparts of Craigmillar, where, with
beacon and culverin, barred gate and moated wall, old Sir Symon
Preston of that ilk, was preparing for the coming strife; then giving
his horse the reins, he let him wander on, or crop the grass by the
solitary way; for Florence was buried in sad thoughts, yet his eyes
failed not to linger from time to time on the distant outline of the
capital, upheaved upon its ridge of rock, all rugged, broken, and
fantastic; the castle, spires, and every clustered mass of building,
like the beetling brows of Salisbury and Arthur's bare round cone,
tinted by the deep red of the western sun--a tint that seemed the
brighter when contrasted with the fields of yellow corn that swayed
their full ripe ears in the foreground, and the green masses of oak
foliage that covered all the burghmuir in the middle distance of that
lovely landscape.
From the hill which is crowned by the ancient village of
Kirkliberton, he rode slowly on till he reached Kilmartin, a little
cell or chapel in a sequestered part of the eastern flank of the
broom-covered hills of Braid. It was a plain edifice with lancet
windows, and had a cross on its gable; it was of great antiquity,
having been built by a baron of Mortonhall, who had gone to the Holy
Land, and who, when lying wounded by a poisoned arrow, on the shore
at Galilee, had made a vow to found a cell, if he ever saw his native
land again. Two aged sycamores cast a sombre shadow over a few green
graves which lay within the low, half-ruined wall that enclosed the
precincts. Those grass-covered mounds marked the last resting-places
of various hermits who had succeeded Father Martin, who though
locally canonized as a saint, is now forgotten (at least his history
is only known to ourselves), and who, like him, had occupied the
little cottage close by the chapel, and had drawn the element of
baptism from the spring of pure water that sparkled as it poured in
the sunshine over a ledge of whin rock, and gurgled in torquoise-blue
between the ripe corn-rigs, and under the yellow broom-bells, to join
the Burn of Braid.
The story of Father Martin is somewhat singular. Among the five
thousand military pilgrims from Scotland, who accompanied David Earl
of Garioch to Palestine, there was a citizen of Edinburgh, named
Martin Oliver. In the year 1191 he found himself with the army of
Richard of England, then besieging Ptolmais. Having been guilty of
some crime, Oliver, to avoid punishment, deserted to the Saracens,
and became, outwardly, a renegade to his religion. Tormented day and
night by his conscience, he endured the utmost misery, and on his
knees vowed to atone to God for his crime. One day when posted as a
sentinel on the outworks of the town, he perceived not far from him a
Christian soldier, in whom he recognized a comrade, one of Earl
David's band, named John Durward, whom he addressed in the Scottish
tongue, telling him that he was weary of life, and longed to atone
for his pretended apostasy. A communication was thus kept up from
time to time, and on a certain night, Martin Oliver introduced the
Scottish Crusaders "into a part of the city." The English followed,
and Ptolmais was immediately captured. So says Hector Boethius, and
Maimbourg, in his "Histoire des Croisades," adds, that assuredly the
Christian princes had a sure intelligencer within the town. Oliver
returned to his native land, and in a hermitage amid the lonely hills
of Braid he passed his days in prayer and penance for his apostasy,
and to atone for serving the enemies of God, in a city where the true
cross was said to be destroyed.
Many little chapels like Kilmartin, and such as St. Catherine at the
Balm-well, St. John the Baptist on the Burghmuir, and of our Lady at
Bridge-end, studded all the fertile Lothians, and were each kept by
an old priest, who derived a scanty subsistence from the pious, the
charitable or the credulous; from farmers, for blessing their herds
and crops, for baptising their little ones, or praying for fine
weather,--even now, when Scotland was on the verge of that tremendous
change the Reformation. To Florence, the calm seclusion of this old
chapel, which was situated in a green hollow of those wild and barren
hills, seemed soothing and inviting, and there he resolved to rest
awhile, and if possible to give himself up to deeper thought, that
under its calm influence he might discover some means of extrication
from his present difficulties. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the
chapel door, and entered without observing that under the sycamores
there stood three richly-caparisoned horses, two of which were ridden
by armed grooms, in the royal livery, while the third, whereon was a
lady's pad of crimson velvet, was riderless.
A plain altar, with a stone step, well-worn by the knees of
generations of peasantry who had prayed there; a rude crucifix of
freestone, carved within a niche, and an old skull, which, if
abstracted, was said to have the power of always returning to the
chapel, were the sole features of the interior, unless we add a slab
in the centre, marked by a cross, and inscribed _Mater Dei memento
mei_. This marked the grave of Father Martin, the repentant soldier
of Ptolmais, who lived to the age of ninety, and died when Alexander
III. was on the throne of Scotland.
Florence had scarcely entered, dipped his fingers in the stone font
at the door, and surveyed the bare, bleak little oratory, with the
listlessness of a pre-occupied man, when the rustling of silk and the
sound of a light step behind, made him turn, and lo! Madeline Home,
wearing over her usual dress a long blue riding-robe of Flemish
cloth, and having on her pretty head one of the prettiest of little
Anne Boleyn hoods of purple velvet, stood before him, with her long
skirt gathered up gracefully in her left hand, on which sat her
favourite hawk (the same bird which had excited Dame Alison's
indignation), and in her right she held a jewelled riding-switch.
On beholding a person in the little chapel, she paused; but when
their eyes met, a bright flush passed over her sweet delicate face,
with an expression of surprise and inquiry. Her half-opened lips
revealed her little teeth, so white and closely set; and her dilated
eyes seemed to ask an explanation, but Florence pressed her hand, and
then they exchanged one of those long and tender kisses which are
never forgotten.
"Dearest Florence," she whispered, "how came you here?"
"At a time so strangely opportune, you would ask?"
"You did not follow me!"
"Follow you? Heavens, no!--and yet had I known----"
"Then how came you here?"
"By fatality--happy fortune--which you choose. God alone knoweth
how, for, my sweetest heart, I know not. I rode forth from Fawside
to escape from a bitterness too deep for telling; and riding on,
on--I knew not, cared not whither; my grey--the grey the queen gave
me--tarried at the chapel-door, and so I am here."
"How strange--when I was here too!" said Madeline, whose fine eyes
sparkled with pleasure and drollery.
"A fortunate coincidence!" said Florence, caressing her hands.
"To-day I was in Edinburgh with the queen, and being on my way home
to Preston, she gave me an alms for the Franciscan at Kilmartin here,
with that which the good man values more,--a fragment of St. Martin's
garment, no larger than a testoon; but brought from her sister,
Madame the prioress of Rheims, by Monsieur d'Oysell, the ambassador."
"And you are returning----"
"To Preston Tower."
"And to your uncle Claude?"
"Yes."
"When, so near--our residences being within view of each other,--may
I hope to see you?" urged Florence; "may I hope that we shall meet,
in some place where none can see or interrupt us?"
A pressure of his hand and a sweet smile were his assuring reply.
"Thanks, dear, dear Madeline; then I may escort you eastward?" said
he anxiously.
"So far as Carberry you may. Fortunately, I have the queen's
servants in attendance on me, and not my uncle's; so let us mount and
go, for the evening is drawing on, and probably we shall not ride
fast," she added, with a droll smile.
"I am with you so seldom, dearest Madeline, that I am loath to lessen
the joy of our happy meeting; do tarry with me here a little longer."
"But the queen's grooms----"
"Let them wait; for what do the varlets wear livery? I have a matter
near my heart on which I must speak with you."
"That you love me," said Madeline playfully; "but you have told me
that often already."
"Love you, Lady Yarrow! oh, I love you--love you dearly; but----"
"But what?"
"My heart beats so fast, and love so bewilders me, that I know not
what I say."
"To the point--you have some secret, Florence."
"Know you a gentleman named Shelly?"
"No;--but wherefore?"
"Edward Shelly?"
"No," she replied, her bright eyes filling with wonder.
"Edward Shelly, captain of the English band named the Boulogners?"
"No--I tell you no; but why all these questions?"
"It is most inexplicable!" exclaimed Florence; and he hastily told
her what he had overheard Shelly saying to Master Patten, and the
astonishment and perplexity of poor Madeline was great. Then she
switched the skirt of her riding-dress impatiently, and said
laughing,--
"'Tis the first time I have heard of this unknown lover. I hope he
is handsome and gallant,--I should like much to see him; but--but
'tis impossible all this, dearest Florence; you dreamed it, or you
but jest with me."
"Nay, 'tis no dream or jest, sweet Madeline, as I am to fight a
solemn duel anent it, on the Border-side, with the same Edward
Shelly, unless----"
"What--what?" she asked, growing pale.
"We meet in battle before a month be past, and of that there is every
probability."
"This cannot be; his falsehoods must be seen to! I shall know who
this impudent varlet is, who dares to use my name even in empty
jest!" said Madeline gravely; "but how truly spoke Mary of Lorraine
this morning, when she said that love is more transient than
friendship, for a lover is ever under delusions. But think no more
of this saucy fellow, dear Florence. We need not add jealousy to the
troubles that already environ our unfortunate passion. I am so happy
when with you, that all existence seems a blank between each of our
meetings. Poor dear Florence! I do love to read in your kind eyes
the joy my presence excites in your bosom--the love of which I am the
source!"
Her manner, so soft, so suave and winning, when contrasted to the
harsh, stern, and imperious bearing of his mother, lent her a charm
far surpassing all the attractions of mere loveliness. After a long
pause, during which her hot cheek was resting on his shoulder, and
his arm was pressed around her,--
"See," said she, "the sun has set, for the painted glass of the
windows has lost all its brilliance; we must go, Florence, lest
mischief befall us if we ride late,--and, of all things in the
world," she added, with a merry smile, "let us avoid that fated
place, the Elveskirk."
"What manner of kirk may it be?" he asked, as he led her forth.
"A place near this, where an ancestor of mine was borne away by a
fairy; so, beware of a damsel in green, Florence," said Madeline
merrily, as he lifted her to the saddle, and then, taking the bridle,
led her horse along the narrow road that traversed the Braid Hills.
He then mounted, and the two lackeys of Mary of Lorraine, dropping a
little to the rear, followed them at an easy pace.
"You see yonder steep knoll, so thickly covered by waving broom,"
said Madeline; "below it is a round hollow, called the Elveskirk,
where the grass is ever of the most brilliant and beautiful green, as
it is said to be mowed and watered by the fairies who dwell there,
and who, on the Eve of St. John, are wont to dance and hold their
revels in it. Once upon a time, an ancestor of mine, a brave young
knight, who was lord of the manor of Morton Hall--yonder moated tower
among the dark old woods--had been dining with the abbot of St. Mary,
at Newbattle, and was returning home, over the hills, near
Kirkliberton. This was long ago, in the days of James I.
"The night was clear, and the moon shone brightly, when he met by the
wayside a fair-skinned and golden-haired lady in green, whom he
addressed in the language of gallantry, and who beguiled him to spend
a few hours with her in the green hollow of the Elveskirk. Swift
flew these hours, when love and pleasure chased them! and when the
moon was sunk behind the Pentlands, and the east was streaked with
grey, the lady suddenly disappeared, and in her place, the knight
found only a wild rose-tree, that waved in the morning breeze, as if
mocking him. He turned to seek his horse, muttering the while, that
the father abbot's wine must have been over potent; but the steed had
disappeared; so he resolved to proceed homeward on foot. As he
walked on, to his astonishment, he found the face of the country
changed. The ridges of Braid, and the bluff, flinty brow of
Blackford, were the same as of old; but in some places where whilom
the purple heather grew with many a tuft of dark green whin, since
last night the yellow corn had sprung up, and was waving in the wind.
Cottages, which he knew to be his own property, had sunk into ruin,
and become mere piles of stones, or had totally disappeared; and
elsewhere others had sprung up as if by magic, and now large trees
were tossing their foliage where not a twig had grown the night
before!
"At the Burn of Braid, where he had been wont to cross by a dangerous
ford, and where a subtle kelpie had deluded and drowned many a
belated man, my ancestor found a goodly bridge of stone, and he
passed along it, as one in a dream. The Inch House, which whilom had
been moated round by the river, stood now alone high and dry upon a
grassy eminence; and the river itself, had shrunk between its banks
to a mere mountain burn.
"Full of terror, the lord of Morton Hall turned to seek Kilmartin,
the little cell we have just, left, and he saw it standing, as we see
it now, all unchanged, on the brow of the hill, just where the saint
was buried of old. He now discovered, that though yestereve he had
been close-shaven in the old Scottish fashion, his beard had grown to
a vast length, that it had become white as thistledown, and waved to
and fro as he walked. His hands were changed too, as if with age,
and his limbs, once so straight and strong, bent under the weight of
his body, and seemed every moment to become more feeble.
"'Can this palsied wretch be myself--I who, at Dumbarton, struck down
by a single blow of my axe the Red Stuart of Dundonald?' he thought,
as he tottered on.
"A horror came over him, with the conviction that he had spent a long
lifetime in a night, and he hastened towards the lonely chapel, the
priest of which, Father Michael, was his chief friend and confessor.
At the little arched door of the holy cell he met a churchman, whose
face he knew not; but to whom he said, trembling,--
"'Is not Father Michael here?'
"The priest gazed upon him with surprise, and then replied, after a
pause,--
"'Father Michael Ochiltree, if it be he you mean, old man, is with
the saints, I trust.'
"'Dead!'
"'He became dean of Dunblane, and thereafter bishop of that see,'
continued the priest, with increasing surprise; ''tis an old story,
my son--Bishop Michael died in 1430, and is interred in the choir of
his cathedral.'
"'Holy father,' said the lord of Morton Hall, with greater agitation
and bewilderment; 'what year of God is this?'
"'It is 1520.'
"'Swear it.'
"'I swear it to thee, strange old man--it is the seventh year of our
king's reign.'
"'And he is named----'
"'James.'
"'But James what?'
"'The _Fifth_.'
"'Mother of God!' exclaimed the knight; 'I knew but James the
_First_. I have been ninety years among the elves--my wife, my
children--yea, it may be my grandchildren, have all gone before me to
the grave!'
"Rushing past the startled priest, he threw himself in a paroxysm of
prayer at the foot of the altar.
"In terror, the father followed and entered; but only in time to see
the tall and reverend figure of the knight crumble away to a few
pieces of bone and impalpable dust. The skull alone remained, and
you saw it lying upon the altar."
The anecdote or legend of the countess (one of a kind common to many
countries) produced others, for the age was one of fable and fairy
mythology; so the time passed swiftly as the shades of evening
deepened, and the lovers rode lingeringly on.
"So, war is at hand," said the countess, after a pause; "O Florence,
my soul trembles for you!"
"Fear not, dearest--for your sake I shall be wary."
"You can afford to be so, Florence; one of courage so approved, and
in a close helmet----"
"Ah," said he smiling, "you fear that my face may have a ghastly
scar, like my Lord Kilmaurs'! But I can guard my head better than
he. As the doughty Douglas said to the King of France, 'I can aye
gar my hands keep my face.'"
"What would you feel, Florence, were I laid before you,
mutilated--mangled--dead?"
"Ah, why a thought so horrible!" he exclaimed, impressed by her
strange manner.
"That you may imagine what I shall feel, if such should be your fate."
"For Heaven's love, Madeline, let us talk of other things."
The moon was rising from the glittering sea, when Florence, with a
sigh, drew the bridle of his horse, a mile eastward of Carberry; for
now they were close to the barony of Claude Hamilton, and to have
proceeded further with the young countess would have been alike
unwary and unwise.
"So here we part, dear Madeline!" said he sadly.
"And part, we know not when to meet again."
"Nay, I cannot leave you without knowing when that joy again awaits
me. I must have promises, for they are better than hope."
"And I, Florence, have had a frightful dream, and dreams are said to
be warnings."
"Nay, Madeline; they are but the reflection of the past, and not the
foreshadowings of the future; so, no dream could scare me--but what
was yours?"
"That your mother--that Lady Alison was slaying me."
Florence felt a pang even at this improbable idea; though he smiled,
and to change the subject said,--
"May I hope that, at dusk to morrow, you will meet me--you pause--ah,
promise me----"
"Where!"
"In some secluded place--the church porch of Tranent--'tis always
open for vespers."
"I have a horror of that gloomy place, where so many dead are lying,
and at such an hour!"
"But what fear you, when I will be there?"
"I shall come--but Father John----"
"Will not betray us, dearest Madeline! be assured of that; the good
priest loves me well."
With some reluctance, she consented to meet him in the gloaming, at
the place appointed, on the morrow's eve. He kissed her hand, and
they separated; but so long as her light figure and her waving
riding-skirt were visible, he continued to gaze after her, as slowly
and thoughtfully he rode up the winding way that led to the gate of
his home. He gave a glance towards Soltra and Dumprender Law; still
their summits were dark, and no spark of light thereon as yet gave
token of the coming foe.
The evening was dark, and the tints of the landscape were sombre and
sad. It was the autumn of the year, and in his heart the ripe autumn
of a love, that might have no spring or summer.
On this night the grim and indignant Lady Alison did not appear; and
Florence, who, by his recent unexpected interview, and the hope of
another with Madeline Home, felt as if he was in the midst of some
tremendous treason against the peace and honour of his own family,
experienced some relief in the absence of his mother; for such is the
power that may be attained by a strong temper and resolute will over
a gentle and affectionate, but better nature. And now such was the
tender influence of Madeline, that Florence had returned with every
angry passion and bitterness soothed, and he became happy again, for
he seemed yet to hear her sweet voice lingering in his ear, and the
last Mss they had exchanged in the old chapel of St. Martin seemed
yet to be hovering on his lip and thrilling through his heart.