Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XIII Part 20

"A bleeding head did not keep him from my wood-bower," replied Matilda--"a bleeding heart shall not prevent me from seeing him before he dies."

This resolution on the part of Matilda, though it did not meet with the entire approbation of Bertha, was adhered to; but no opportunity occurred for putting it into execution. Every hour, in the meantime, added to her unhappiness. Sir George Douglas had returned to Edinburgh, to make preparations for the marriage; her mother watched her, to detect what she termed the trick of simulated illness; and her father, who was led by her mother, seemed determined to carry their cruel scheme into execution. Tortured throughout the day, the moon, now late in rising, afforded her no solace at night; the scene from the castle was changed from lightness to darkness; the screeching of night birds came, in the fitful blasts, in place of the melody of her lover's lute; and the dreary view called up by the power of a.s.sociation the picture of her lover lying on a death-bed, paying, by the torture of death, the dreadful penalty of having dared to love one above his degree.

After a suitable inspection, her mother had, as she thought, discovered that there existed no illness about her to prevent her from taking her usual airing, and Bertha, who had apparently some purpose in view, came and urged her to walk as far as the Monks' Mound, a green hillock that stood on the borders of the property of Roseallan. They accordingly set out. The day was not propitious; lazy clouds lay sleeping on the sides of the hills, and wreaths of mist floated along like shadows, a.s.suming grotesque forms, and suggesting resemblances to aerial beings in the act of superintending the operations of mortals; the wind was hushed to the gentlest zephyr; and the sun, obscured by the ma.s.ses of sleeping clouds, was not able even to indicate the part of the heavens where he was.

Nature, "dowie and wae," seemed to have shrouded herself in the pall of mourning, and the feathered tribes, overcome by the instinctive sympathy, were mute, and cowered among the branches of the trees, as if they had borrowed the habits of the wingless, tuneless reptiles that crawled among the rank gra.s.s that covered the ground of the wood. The couple wandered along slowly, Matilda resting on the arm of the nurse.

They came to the Monks' Mound, and sat down. The burying-ground of the monastery of Dominicans lay on their right hand, and they could see the tombstones rearing their grey, moss-covered heads over the turf-d.y.k.e that surrounded the consecrated ground.

"See ye the little thatched house at the foot o' Lincleugh Hill yonder?"

said Bertha, after some moments of solemn silence, and holding out her shrivelled hand. "The smoke frae its auld lum is curling among the mist-clouds; but there's a darker mist within, and nae sun to send a flaught through it."

"I see it well," replied Matilda, in a melancholy voice; "and, humble as it is, and gloomy as it may be in its interior, I could even seek there the peace I cannot find in the proud towers of Roseallan. There are no forced marriages under roofs of thatch."

"Ay, but there is death, in the cottage as well as in the bonniest ha',"

muttered Bertha, ominously.

Matilda looked into the face of her nurse, who continued to gaze in the direction of the cottage of Lincleugh.

"The mist blinds my auld een," she continued, as she pa.s.sed her hand over her eyes. "The hour is come, and there should be tokens o'

gathering there--yet I see naething."

Matilda looked again inquiringly into her face.

"Young een are sharp," said she again, "and now the mist is rowing awa frae the side o' Lincleugh, and breaking into wreaths in the valley.

Look again, Matilda, and tell me what ye see."

"The removal of the mist," replied Matilda, directing her eyes to the cottage, "has revealed a cl.u.s.ter of people dressed in black standing round the door of the cottage."

"Ay, I'm right," replied Bertha, straining her eyes to see the mourners; "the hour is near; and see the s.e.xtons stand there in Death's Croft, like twa ghouls, looking into the grave they have this moment finished."

Matilda intuitively turned her eyes to the burying-ground that went under the name of Death's Croft.

"You seem to know something more of this funeral than we of the castle generally learn of the fate of the distant cottagers," said she.

"They're lifting," said the nurse, overlooking Matilda's remark, "and the train moves to Death's Croft.

'Round and round The unseen hand Turns the fate O' mortal man:

A screich at birth, A grane at even-- The flesh to earth, The soul to heav'n.'"

"Who is dead?" asked Matilda, as she fixed her eyes on the procession.

Bertha was silent. The procession reached Death's Croft, and, in a short time, the rattling of the stones and earth on the coffin-lid was distinctly heard. Matilda shuddered as the hollow sounds met her ear, and Bertha crooned the lines of poetry she had already repeated. The rattling sound ceased, and the loud clap of the spade indicated the approaching termination of the work. The mourners gradually departed, and the s.e.xtons, having finished their work, returned to the monastery.

"Come, come, now," said Bertha, "we've seen aneugh--the flesh to earth, the soul to heaven. A's dune--let us return to Roseallan."

"The inhabitant of that narrow cell has the advantage of me," muttered Matilda, sadly, as she rose to return home. "The marriage with the Redeemer is not forced, and the union endureth for ever."

Bertha, who remained silent, hastened home, and, old as she was, several times outwalked her weak and melancholy companion. When they arrived, they went direct to the apartment of Matilda, where they were met by Lady Rollo, who congratulated her daughter upon her increasing ability to go through, with the necessary decorum, the ceremony of the marriage.

As soon as she retired, Matilda flung herself on her couch, and burst into tears.

"There is only one individual who can save me from this dreadful fate,"

she cried. "Bertha, it is borne in upon my mind, that I cannot endure this trial. Death or madness will be the alternative doom of the forced bride of the knight of Haughhead. What of George Templeton? Did you not promise to a.s.sist me to inquire for his health? Were we not to visit him when my strength permitted? Tell me, tell me--have you heard how he is?"

"He is weel, my bairn," replied Bertha; "better than either you or me."

"Bless you! bless you, dear Bertha!" cried Matilda, rising and flinging her arms round the neck of the old woman; "then there is some chance left for me. I may yet be saved from that dreadful doom. I would trust to the honour of that man who has already saved it with my life. Ah, if he is well, I may expect again to hear these dulcet sounds which thrill through my frame, and soften, by their sweet tones, the grief that sits like a relentless tyrant on my heart. When, Bertha, shall we visit him?"

"We hae already visited him," replied the nurse, with a strange meaning in her eye. "Did ye no see him this day, bairn, laid by the side o' his faither amang the saft mould o' Death's Croft?"

"What mean you, Bertha?" replied Matilda. "There is a strange light in your eye; I never before saw your face wear that expression. Ah! another doom impends over me--I see the opening cloud from which the thunder is to burst on my poor head. Why look thus upon me, nurse? is there a humour on your seriousness?--for you laugh not. Read the doom backwards, and do not incur from your Matilda the imputation of inflicting a cruel torture on her who has hung at your breast."

"It was to save pain to my beloved Matilda," replied the nurse, with a peculiar tone, "that I had ye hame before I told ye that the corpse ye this day saw laid in the grave, in Death's Croft, was that o' George Templeton."

Conscious of the effect that would be produced by this announcement, the old woman held out her arms to receive the falling maiden. With a loud scream she fainted, and forcing her way through the arms of the nurse, fell on the floor with a loud crash. The sound brought up her mother.

As Matilda recovered, she looked about her wildly; her eyes recoiling from the face of her mother, on which was depicted a smile of incredulity, and seeking Bertha's, on which she found an expression equally painful. There was no refuge on either side; and, as the image of her dead lover rose on her fancy, she felt, in the consciousness of the utter ruin of all her hopes, the stinging reproof of a tender conscience, that charged her with cruelty to the devoted being who, in defending her honour, lost his life.

"All this will not impose upon me, Matilda," said her mother. "Thou wert well to-day, when thou didst walk forth; and this well-acted fit is intended to remove the impression I entertain of your perfect ability to perform the engagement your father and I have made for your benefit.

Mark me, maiden!--I will not heed thee more, if thy simulation were as well acted as that of the wise King of Utica." And, saying these words, she abruptly departed, leaving Matilda still scarcely sensible of what was going on around her. The cruel dame called the nurse after her, and the miserable girl was left to wrestle with her secret and divulged griefs with the unaided powers of a mind broken down by her acc.u.mulated misfortunes. She lay extended on her couch; and fancy, deriving new energies from the impulse of feeling, became busy in the portrayment of the form of her lover, whom she had, as she was satisfied, killed. She recurred to the scene in the bower, with his manly countenance streaming with blood; his visits to her bower afterwards--when he must have been suffering the first approaches of that disease that proved fatal to him; and, above all, her heartless conduct in not even condescending to notice this tribute of devotion in one who had saved her life.

She lay under the agony of these thoughts till it was after nightfall, when the gloom of her mind increased as the shades of darkness spread around her. She felt that she could suffer the agonising thoughts no longer, and, starting up, and throwing over her shoulders a night-cloak, she hurried out of the castle. She found herself intuitively taking the way to Death's Croft. The night was getting dark, and there was a hollow, gousty wind blowing among the trees, and whistling among the whins and tall gra.s.s that lay in her path. Heedless of all obstructions, and insensible to danger, she wandered along, and soon found herself at the side of the turf-d.y.k.e that surrounded the place of the dead.

Surmounting this slight obstacle, she groped her way among the tombstones, starting occasionally, as a gust of wind made the long gra.s.s rustle by her side, or produced a hollow sound from the reverberation of some hollow cenotaph. After considerable labour, she came to a new-made grave, and endeavoured to satisfy herself that there was not another equally new among the many _tumuli_ that raised their green bosoms around her. On a stone at the foot of the grave she sat down, and wrapped the folds of the mantle round her, to keep from her tender frame the chill night-winds. She rose, and knelt down upon the new-made grave, the green sods of which she bedewed with her tears. The spot was doubly hallowed by recollections and self-criminations, and she could not, for a longer period than was consistent with her safety, drag herself away from it. Throwing herself on the gra.s.s in a paroxysm of grief, she kissed the sods, and, crying bitterly, rose, and mournfully sought the path that led to that home where a new misery awaited her. She wandered slowly along; and, as she approached the castle, saw with dismay a light shining in her chamber. Her mother, she concluded, was there, and would, by her absence, get all her suspicions fortified, that her illness was merely a.s.sumed. She stood for a moment, and paused, irresolute how to proceed--terrified to enter the house, yet unknowing whither to go. A voice struck her ear--it was that of Bertha; and, looking round, she saw her old nurse in close conversation with a man who had on the very dress worn by the individual who formerly endeavoured to carry her off, and who, she suspected, was no other than Sir Thomas Courtney. What could this mean? Was it possible that Bertha was in the interest of the man who had attempted to force her affections, by retaining possession of her person? The question was an extraordinary one, and startled her.

She stood and looked for a moment. The man observed her, and retreated, while Bertha stealthily sought the castle by a back entry. Her suspicion increased, and, hurrying home, she threw herself on a couch. She was thus beset on every hand. Her lover was dead, and in his grave, and all left behind seemed to be against her. There appeared to be no refuge from the fate that awaited her. The marriage-day was on the wing, and would soon cast the cloud of its dark pinion on the turrets of Roseallan. Her reliance on Bertha was changed to the poignant suspicion of treachery. Her mind recurred to the scene on the bridge, which she suspected was a part of her scheme to get her into the hands of the English reformer, whose tenets, she thought, Bertha secretly favoured.

Thus had she lost both friend and lover--the one by death, the other by infidelity; and she could scarcely tell which was most painful to her--such is the anguish felt on the discovery of the falsehood of friendship. Her mother's cruel and unjust reproof rung in her ears; her father was obdurate; her lover proud, determined, and, worse than all, filled with what he called an ardent love, and which she looked upon as a loathing, ribald pa.s.sion, the indications of which she would fly as she would the embrace of the twisting serpent. Pained to the inmost recesses of her spirits, she could get no relief from tears; her dry, glowing eyes looked unutterable anguish; and a feverish heat pervaded her system, rendering her restless and miserable. She flung herself on her bed, where she lay tortured by her conflicting thoughts. Her mother did not again visit her, and Bertha remained absent, apparently from shame. A domestic obeyed her call, and administered the few necessaries she required. The night was pa.s.sed in great anguish, and the morrow's light brought no a.s.suagement of her pain. The domestic who waited upon her told her that Sir George Douglas had arrived at the castle with a party, and that her mother expected her presence in the hall next day.

Bertha, she said, was indisposed, and could not attend her; but she would, in the meantime, supply her place. The day pa.s.sed with no variation; there was no relief from the hope of succour; and her mind, dark and foreboding, sunk into a state of gloomy melancholy. The night came on, and threw the physical shades of gloom into a mind darkened with the misery of despair. As she lay in this state, she thought she heard the sound of a lute; and rising, she placed herself at the window.

The night was still, and the moon, which had not for some time been visible, was sending forth faint beams before she set. The scene was composed and pleasant, and brought to her mind recollections that added to her griefs. She fixed her eye on the wood, and observed a figure pa.s.sing between the trees. It was too indistinct to enable her to know who it was. A dark dress, unrelieved by any mixture of colours, suggested the idea of Bertha's friend, Sir Thomas Courtney. A new source of curiosity now arose in the individual playing (in, however, as she thought, a very indifferent manner) the tune that used to be played by her lover. The sounds went to her heart; but suspicion of treachery accompanied them, and fired her with as much anger as her gentle nature was capable of, against this new scheme to wile her from the castle. At this moment, her mother and father entered.

"We have got again, in the wood-bower, a lover," cried the father. "I insist, Matilda, that thou dost tell me who it is."

"I do not know, father," replied Matilda.

"Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that night when Bertha fell on the bridge?" asked the mother.

"I never attempted to elope," answered the maiden, weeping; "but I was attempted to be carried off by some one in disguise; and the man that is now in my bower may be he, but I know not."

"Sir Thomas Courtney!" cried the mother.

The father rushed out of the room. The sounds of voices were heard in the base-court, and that of George Douglas was pre-eminent. A shot was heard. Matilda looked out at the window, and saw some servants carrying the body of a wounded man across the bridge. Lights were brought, and some one called out the name of Templeton the archer. Matilda flew out of the room, and was in an instant in the ballium. She looked in the face of the wounded man. It was George Templeton. He opened his eyes, and fixed them on her face, took her hand into his, pressed it, sighed, and expired.

Some days afterwards, Matilda Rollo was led, dressed by the hands of her mother, into the presence of the priest who was to unite her and Sir George Douglas. When asked if she consented to receive the knight as her husband, she burst into a loud laugh. Her reason had fled; she was ever afterwards a maniac, and was tended by Bertha Maitland, who, sitting in the wood-bower, often contemplated, with feelings we will not attempt to describe, the unhappy victim of her treachery.

THE TWO SAILORS.

One dark and cloudy evening in September, two young men were seen walking on the road that winds so beautifully along the sh.o.r.e of the Solway, below the mouth of the Nith, between the quay and Caerlaverock.

The summit of Criffel was hidden in clouds; the sky was dark and threatening; and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, and the whitening crests of the waves, as they broke before the freshening breeze, gave warning that a storm was at hand. At some distance, a two-masted boat, or wherry, as it is there called, lay on the beach, half afloat on the rising tide; and a boy sat on the green bank near, apparently watching her.