THE BALCONY.
The nymph must lose her female friend,
If more admired than she;
But where will fierce contention end,
If flowers can disagree?--COWPER.
"Is it so with you?" said the countess, roughly grasping her arm;
"is it so--still mourning for that scurvy captain of the king's
morris-pikes?"
"Morris-pikes! Oh, sister, can you compare to mummers, the men who
formed the van at Piperden?"
"Ay, where a Douglas routed Piercy--a service, like others, committed
to oblivion now," was the bitter response.
Murielle wept in silence, while her haughty sister continued to regard
her with an expression in her eyes very much akin to disdain.
The poor girl had frequently been fretted and galled by hearing
a much-loved name--alas! it might only be a much-revered
_memory_--reviled; yet she bore it meekly, hoping daily for a change.
But weeks became months, and months became seasons, yet no change came
in the bearing of her sister; which, always haughty, turned at times
violent and tempestuous.
The proud Margaret felt that she had done a wrong action by her second
espousal, which had raised doubts in her mind that even the papal
dispensation might fail to dispel; and while she writhed under this
conviction, and longed for vengeance on the slayers of that handsome
lover and boy-husband--whom she secretly mourned, even when in the
arms of the subtle Earl James, she felt--she knew not why--irritated,
and at times exasperated, by the meek, quiet, and passive tenor of
Murielle's existence.
"Tears still," she resumed, "always tears; but beware how the earl
finds you thus."
"Oh, Margaret, I have studied to conceal my living sorrow from
him--from you--from all."
"But in vain, for _all_ have seen it. There is not a trencher-boy in
the kitchen, or a groom in the stables, but knows of it as well as I
do."
"Have you never considered, sister, what a terrible thing it is to have
to forget--to strive at crushing all memory of the past--all hope for
the future; to rend from the heart a love it has cherished for years?"
"Years!" reiterated Margaret, with an angry laugh; "you are but
eighteen, Murielle."
"And you not twenty."
"Yet I have wept for a dead husband."
"And been consoled," was the unwise reply.
Margaret's cheek grew white with suppressed passion at the inference
which might be drawn from this casual remark; but she said,
emphatically,--
"Enough of this; my husband, to strengthen his house, has resolved that
you shall become the bride of one who is second to none in Scotland;
and he has sworn it on the cross of his sword, by God and St. Bryde,
that it shall be so, even should he chain you to the altar-steps, in
Tongland Abbey kirk."
"Oh, Maggie," said Murielle, in a piercing voice, "do not talk to me
thus. I have given my heart into the keeping of Patrick Gray, and death
itself cannot restore it to me, or rend it from him. Trustingly I gave
it, dear sister, yonder--yonder, at the three auld thorns of the
Carlinwark; so be merciful to me, for no better, fonder, or purer love
than his, was ever offered up to woman."
"A king's minion!" said the countess, spitefully; "but it is the will
of God you shall never be this."
"Never! Say not so; it sounds like a prophecy. Never----"
"But as the earl, my husband, has sworn----"
"Oh, impiety!"
"The bride of a nobler and better."
"A better, say you?" exclaimed Murielle, with an angry laugh.
"Dispute it if you can--Robert, duke of Albany."
"An outlawed traitor," said Murielle, warming in her turn; "is this
your husband's scheme?"
"Yes, a scheme formed for your honour."
"It is a bold one."
"Most of his schemes are so," replied Margaret, quietly.
"Duke Robert is contracted to a daughter of Charles VII. of France,"
said Murielle, taking courage.
"The same power that permitted _my_ second marriage, can annul his
contract, and give him back his troth, from Mademoiselle Radegonde."
"Well, rather than _break_ mine, and be his bride, sister, you shall
see me stretched in Tongland Abbey kirk, as cold as the marble tombs
that lie there!"
"We shall see," replied Margaret, biting her cherry-like nether lip,
and stamping her foot in growing wrath; but Murielle threw her white
arms round her neck, and said plaintively,--
"You do not, you cannot mean all you say, Maggie. Ah, do not scold,
when you should guide and aid me."
"Is it not my desire to see you happy?"
"Yes," sobbed Murielle; "I know, I hope that it is."
"And my husband's?"
"My kinsman, the earl, is a fearsome man!" said Murielle, with an
ill-repressed shudder.
"Have I not striven for years to be your guide, your friend, your
comforter, and now----"
"You would undo all the past, by making me the wife of the exiled
Albany, that your husband's terrible aims and ends may be furthered,
his feudal power and splendour increased."
"By raising you, perhaps, to"--the countess paused--"to a throne,
little fool!"
"A throne?" reiterated Murielle, in absolute bewilderment.
"Yes, a throne," said Margaret, in a low voice, as she bent her black
flashing eyes close to her startled sister's face; "where can all this
leaguing and combination with Henry of England, Christian of Oldenburg,
John of the Isles, and with so many discontented barons, end, but in
the destruction of Livingstone, of Crichton, and of that boy-king, in
whose name they slew the earl of Douglas?"
"Saint Mary keep us, sister; but this is murder, treason, regicide!"
said Murielle, in terror and incredulity.
"I am speaking in our castle of Thrave," said the countess,
significantly, as she patted the strong rampart with her white jewelled
hand; "but I am unwise in talking to you of schemes, the magnitude of
which you cannot comprehend, and the daring of which appals you."
"Oh, Maggie, all this can end but in one way."
"How?"
"Destruction, forfeiture, and death!"
"We shall see," replied the countess, calmly smoothing back her silky
hair; "but to resume about this Patrick Gray--_who_ is he, that he
should aspire to love my sister, the daughter of a line of powerful
earls?"
"He is a gentleman of stainless reputation, the trusted subject of the
late king and of his son; a loyal soldier, whom, if I choose, I might
marry to-morrow, and defy you all!" said Murielle, angrily.
Margaret now laughed in good earnest at her sister.
"Defy us?" she exclaimed; "lassie, you have gone crazy! I speak not
of Ormond, of Pompherston, of Glendoning; but know you not that the
smallest laird who bears our name could muster lances enough to harry
his father's nest at Foulis, level his tower to the ground-stone, and
swing his whole generation on the nearest tree?"
Murielle knew fully the truth of this, but she felt an increasing
emotion of anger at the injustice and control to which she was so
bluntly subjected, and now her haughty sister spoke again.
"Bear this in mind, that thrice has Earl James sworn by his most sacred
oath, God, and his father's bones 'that our heather lintie, Murielle,
shall be the bride of Albany, and sib to the throne, if not one day
_upon_ it;' so cease to think more of this lover of yours, who, by the
bye, I believe, once loved _me_."
"Loved you!" exclaimed Murielle, in a breathless voice; "_you_,
Margaret?"
"Yes," continued the imperious beauty, with confidence.
"He ever admired you, and as _my_ sister, felt a friendship for you;
but be assured that his dear heart never wandered from me," was the
equally confident reply.
"You are a child!" retorted the countess.
"Perhaps I am, to endure all this petty tyranny; but a day may
come--there are times when even a poor worm may turn."
"But think no more of him, I command you, for he is better as he is,
dead, than living to be the rival of Robert, duke of Albany."
"Do not tell me, sister, that he was slain," said Murielle, in an
imploring voice, while, her tears again fell fast; "he is not dead. I
know that he is _not_ dead!"
"You _know_?" said Margaret, changing colour.
"Yes."
"Indeed--how?"
"Because I am living still!" replied Murielle, with divine confidence
and hope.