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.