THE LOCH.
"And quickly Walter seeks once more,
With eager steps, the ocean's shore;
And lingers on impatient there,
The appointed hour--now do and dare!
He eyed the high and rugged steep
Which overhung the foaming deep."
_The Convent of Algarve._
To avoid the vast crowds that were assembling on the Castle-hill, and
before the Port of the Spur, Redhall left the fortress by the postern
gate; and though the descent from thence to the foot of the cliffs on
the west was steep and extremely dangerous, even in daylight, he
plunged down from rock to rock, grasping the hazel-bushes and wild
willows in his progress, until he reached the old and narrow
horsepath which led from the King's Meuse and the tilting-ground
towards the venerable kirk of St. Cuthbert the Bishop.
Breathless and exhausted by the rapidity of his descent down these
pathless and precipitate rocks, and overcome by the load of agony
that pressed upon his heart, he sank upon the turf, and lay there for
a few minutes motionless.
Above him, the fortress and its stupendous rocks towered away into
the obscurity of the midnight sky; before him, spread the ripening
corn-fields, divided by thick hedgerows; and in the hollow on his
left lay the kirk of St. Cuthbert, with the dim lights twinkling in
its aisles, and shedding through its Gothic windows an uncertain
radiance on the adjacent water; for it had then two minor altars, the
great lamps before which were never extinguished until 1559. The sky
was starless, and the moon had gone down enveloped in clouds. The
great square tower of the church, a monastic relic of the eighth
century, built by the Culdees of Lothian, stood boldly, in black
outline, against the dark gauzy vapour that shrouded the north; a
rising wind moaned through the marshy hollow, shaking the old woods
which overshadowed the Kirkbraehead, and rippling the waters of the
loch, which almost washed the castle rock.
There was a voice of reproach in that midnight wind; and from the
passing clouds many a grim face seemed to peer upon the unhappy
wretch, who, at the foot of the rocks, lay below the postern,
listening to the fierce beating of his tortured heart.
And save its beating, and the moaning wind, all seemed deathly still
around him. The Guelder roses and the wild violets filled the air
with perfume, though the dew of midnight rested on their leaves.
The appearance of Jane, the expression of her eyes, and the familiar
sound of her voice, had recalled his first passion in all its
strength; and before it, for a time, revenge melted away like summer
mist. He contemplated himself with horror; but now to save her,
would be to cover his own name with disgrace and contumely; and to
avow his master-villany and deep-laid vengeance, though it might
snatch Jane from the jaws of death, would but restore her to the arms
of Vipont, and afford that hated rival a triumph which could not be
contemplated with calmness. The agony, the repentance, the fear, the
shame, the abhorrence of himself, and the chaos of his mind, were
frightful.
A flame shot across the sky.
It was but the sheet lightning of summer flashing redly behind the
afar-off hills, and showing the dark woods of Coats, and of the Dean
that waved between.
For a moment it illuminated the dark hollow where this repentant
sinner lay, and gave him a startling shock; for he thought of the
funeral pyre that was soon to blaze before the gates of the fortress
which overhung him.
"Jane, oh Jane!" he cried, incoherently and aloud; "oh, thou whom I
could have worshipped with the adoration of an idolater, but whom I
have destroyed with the blind fury of a fiend! Can I not save thee
without burying myself under a mountain of disgrace as well as of
misery? And for this paltry tremor thou art left to die! thou, so
beautiful, so innocent, so pure in spirit and so single in heart!
The icy sweat is again on my brow, the iron in my heart--for all
thine image is before me, as it was once, so full of smiles and
pride, of bloom and high-born loveliness, as on that night at
Holyrood.... Thy voice is ever in my ear, thy name on my lip!...
Oh, misery! oh, for one hour of oblivion!..."
He sprang up, and slowly descending the narrow path by the base of
the castle rock, below St. Margaret's Tower, approached the loch, but
without any defined object. The stillness of its dark and almost
waveless water had something in it that attracted him involuntarily
towards it.
The loch was then full and the water deep.
"Coward that I am!" he thought; "one bold plunge and all would be
over."
The temptation was a strong one: there was a rushing in his ears, a
whirling in his brain, and a fearful palsy in his heart, which seemed
to stand for a moment still; he looked around him hurriedly, and no
one seemed near.
But a single star was visible, like a watching eye, and its rays were
reflected in the motionless water under the solemn shadow of the
impending rocks.
At such a moment the human mind is like a bullet which a hair may
turn aside.
He took one step backward, and was about to make the desperate leap,
when the sound of voices and footsteps arrested him; and, like one
surprised in a guilty action, he shrunk behind a clump of wild hazel
bushes, and thus was saved from the committal of another heavy crime.
Two men, whom he had not before observed, now appeared on the narrow
pathway below. One was mounted, clad in half armour, and by the
ostrich feather which waved in his bonnet, appeared to be a
gentleman; the other was on foot, and led a horse by the bridle.
Redhall heard the name of _Vipont_.
It called up all his evil passions and bitter memories. It restored
him to life and energy of purpose. He put his hand on the hilt of
his sword, and listening, approached them stealthily.