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The country all around rang
with the beauty of Amy Gordon; and, although it was not known who first
bestowed upon her the appellation, yet now she bore no other than the Lily
of Liddisdale. She was the only child of a shepherd, and herself a
shepherdess. Never had she been out of the valley in which she was born;
but many had come from the neighbouring districts just to look upon her as
she rested with her flock on the hill-side, as she issued smiling from her
father's door, or sat in her serener loveliness in the kirk on
Sabbath-day. Sometimes there are living beings in nature as beautiful as
in romance; reality surpasses imagination; and we see breathing,
brightening, and moving before our eyes, sights dearer to our hearts than
any we ever beheld in the land of sleep.
It was thus that all felt
who looked on the Lily of Liddisdale. She had grown up under the dews, and
breath, and light of heaven, among the solitary hills; and now that she
had attained to perfect womanhood, nature rejoiced in the beauty that
gladdened the stillness of these undisturbed glens. Why should this one
maiden have been created lovelier than all others? In what did her
surpassing loveliness consist? None could tell; for had the most
imaginative poet described this maiden, something that floated around her,
an air of felt but unspeakable grace and lustre, would have been wanting
in his picture. Her face was pale, yet tinged with such a faint and
leaf-like crimson, that though she well deserved the name of the Lily, yet
was she at times also like unto the Rose. When asleep, or in silent
thought, she was like the fairest of all the lilied brood; but, when
gliding along the braes, or singing her songs by the river-side, she might
well remind one of that other brighter and more dazzling flower. Amy
Gordon knew that she was beautiful. She knew it from the eyes that in
delight met hers, from the tones of so many gentle voices, from words of
affection from the old, and love from the young, from the sudden smile
that met her when, in the morning, she tied up at the little mirror her
long raven hair, and from the face and figure that looked up to her when
she stooped to dip her pitcher in the clear mountain-well. True that she
was of lowly birth, and that her manners were formed in a shepherd's hut,
and among shepherdesses on the hill. But one week passed in the halls of
the highly-born would have sufficed to hide the little graceful symptoms
of her humble lineage, and to equal her in elegance with those whom in
beauty she had far excelled.
The sun and the rain had
indeed touched her hands, but nature had shaped them delicate and small.
Light were her footsteps upon the verdant turf, and through the birchwood
glades and down the rocky dells she glided or bounded along, with a beauty
that seemed at once native and alien there, like some creature of another
clime that still had kindred with this—an Oriental antelope among the roes
of a Scottish forest.
Amy Gordon had reached her
nineteenth summer, and as yet she knew of love only as she had read of it
in old Border songs and ballads. These ancient ditties were her delight;
and her silent soul was filled with wild and beautiful traditions. In them
love seemed, for the most part, something sad, and, whether prosperous or
unhappy, alike terminating in tears. In them the young maiden was spoken
of as dying in her prime, of fever, consumption, or a pining heart; and
her lover, a gallant warrior, or a peaceful shepherd, killed in battle, or
perishing in some midnight storm. In them, too, were sometimes heard
blessed voices whispering affection beneath the greenwood tree, or among
the shattered cliffs overgrown with light-waving trees in some long, deep,
solitary glen. To Amy Gordon, as she chanted to herself, in the blooming
or verdant desert, all these various traditionary lays, love seemed a kind
of beautiful superstition belonging to the memory of the dead. With such
tales she felt a sad and pleasant sympathy; but it was as with something
far remote—although at times the music of her own voice, as it gave an
affecting expression to feelings embodied in such artless words, touched a
chord within her heart, that dimly told her that heart might one day have
its own peculiar and overwhelming love.
The summer that was now
shining had been calm and sunny beyond the memory of the oldest shepherd.
Never had nature seemed so delightful to Amy's eyes and to Amy's heart;
and never had she seemed so delightful to the eyes and the hearts of all
who beheld her with her flock. Often would she wreathe the sprigs of
heather round her raven ringlets, till her dark hair was brightened with a
galaxy of richest blossoms. Or dishevelling her tresses, and letting fall
from them that shower of glowing and balmy pearls, she would bind them up
again in simpler braiding, and fix on the silken folds two or three
water-lilies, large, massy, and whiter than the snow. Necklaces did she
wear in her playful glee, of the purple fruit that feeds the small birds
in the moors, and beautiful was the gentle stain then visible over the
blue veins of her milk-white breast. So were floating by the days of her
nineteenth summer among the hills. The evenings she spent by the side of
her greyheaded father—and the old man was blessed. Her nights passed in a
world of gentle dreams.
But, though Amy Gordon knew
not yet what it was to love, she was herself the object of as deep, true,
tender, and passionate love, as ever swelled and kindled within a human
breast. Her own cousin, Walter Harden, now lived and would have died for
her, but had not hitherto ventured to tell his passion. He was a few years
older than her, and had long loved her with the gentle purity of a
brother's affection. Amy ad no brother of her own, and always called
Walter Harden by that endearing name. That very name of brother had
probably so familiarised her heart towards him, that never had she thought
of him, even for a single moment, in any other light. But, although he too
called Amy sister, his heart burned with other feelings, and he must win
her to be his bride, and possess her as his wife, or die. When she was a
mere child he had led her by the hand—when a fair girl he had in his arms
lifted her across the swollen burns, and over the snow-drifts—now that she
was a woman he had looked on her in
silence, but with a soul overcharged with a thousand thoughts, hopes, and
desires, which he feared to speak of to her ear; for he knew, and saw, and
felt, in sorrow, that she loved him but as a brother. He knew, however,
that she loved none else; and in that—and that alone—was his hope,—so he
at last determined to woo the Lily of Liddisdale, and win her, in her
beauty and fragrance, to bloom within his house.
The Lily was sitting alone
in a deep hollow among the hills, with her sheep and lambs pasturing or
playing around her, while over that little secluded circle a single hawk
was hanging far up in the sky. She was glad, but not surprised, to see her
brother standing beside her; and when he sat down by her side, and took
her hand into his, she looked upon him with a gentle smile, and asked if
he was going upon business further on among the hills. Walter Harden
instantly poured forth, in a torrent, the passion of his soul, beseeched
her not to shut up her sweet bosom against him, but to promise to become,
before summer was over, his wedded wife. He spoke with fervour but
trepidation; kissed her cheek; and then awaited, with a fast-throbbing and
palpitating heart, his Amy's reply.
There was no guile, no art,
no hypocrisy in the pure and happy heart of the Lily of Liddisdale. She
took not away her hand from that of him who pressed it; she rose not up
from the turf, although her gentle side just touched his heart; she turned
not away her face so beautiful, nor changed the silvery sweetness of her
speech. Walter Harden was such a man as in a war of freemen, defending
their mountains against a tyrant, would have advanced his plume in every
scene of danger, and have been chosen a leader among his pastoral
compeers. Amy turned her large beaming hazel eyes upon his face, and saw
that it was overshadowed.
There was something in its
expression too sad and solemn, mingling with the flush of hope and
passion, to suffer her, with playful or careless words, to turn away from
herself the meaning of what she had heard. Her lover saw in her kind but
unagitated silence, that to him she was but a sister; and, rising to go,
he said, "Blessed be thou all the days of thy life; farewell, my sweet
Amy, farewell!"
But they did not thus part.
They walked together on the lonely hill-side, down the banks of the little
wimpling burn, and then out of one small glen into another, and their talk
was affectionate and kind. Amy heard him speak of feelings to her unknown,
and almost wondered that she could be so dear to him, so necessary to his
life, as he passionately vowed. Nor could such vows be unpleasant to her
ear, uttered by that manly voice, and enforced by the silent speech of
those bold but gentle eyes. She concealed nothing from him, but frankly
confessed, that hitherto she had looked upon him even as her own father's
son. "Let us be happy, Walter, as we have been so long. I cannot marry
you— oh—no—no; but since you say it would kill you if I married another,
then I swear to you by all that is sacred—yes, by the Bible on which we
have often read together, and by yonder sun setting over the Windhead,
that you never will see that day." Walter Harden was satisfied ; he spoke
of love and marriage no more; and in the sweet, fresh, airless, and dewy
quiet of evening, they walked together down into the inhabited vale, and
parted, almost like brother and sister, as they had been used to do for so
many happy years.
Soon after this, Amy was
sent by her father to the Priory, the ancient seat of the Elliots, with
some wicker-baskets which they had made for the young ladies there. A
small plantation of willows was in the corner of the meadow in which their
cottage stood, and from them the old shepherd and his daughter formed many
little articles of such elegance and ingenuity, that they did not seem out
of place even in the splendid rooms of the Priory. Amy had slung some of
these pieces of rural workmanship round her waist, while some were hanging
on her arms, and thus she was gliding along a footpath through the old
elm-woods that shelter the Priory, when she met young George Elliot, the
heir of that ancient family, going out with his angle to the river-side.
The youth, who had but a short time before returned from England, where he
had been for several years, knew at the first glance that the fair
creature before him could be no other than the Lily of Liddisdale. With
the utmost gentleness and benignity he called her by that name, and after
a few words of courtesy, he smilingly asked her for one small
flower-basket to keep for her sake. He unloosened one from her graceful
waist, and with that liberty which superior rank justified, but, at the
same time, with that tenderness which an amiable mind prompted, he kissed
her fair forehead, and they parted — she to the Priory, and he down to the
linn at the Cushat-wood.
Never had the boy beheld a
creature so perfectly beautiful. The silence and the songs of morning were
upon the dewy woods, when that vision rose before him; his soul was full
of the joy of youth; and when Amy disappeared, he wondered how he could
have parted so soon—in a few moments—from that bright and beaming Dryad.
Smiles had been in her eyes and round her pearly teeth while they spoke
together, and he remembered the soft and fragrant lock of hair that
touched his lips as he gently kissed her forehead. The beauty of that
living creature sank into his soul along with all the sweet influences of
nature now rejoicing in the full, ripe, | rich spirit of summer, and in
fancy he saw that Lily springing up in every glade through which he was
now roaming, and when he had reached the linn, on the bank too of every
romantic nook and bay where the clear waters eddied or slept. "She must
recross the bridge on her way home," said the enamoured boy to himself;
and, fearing that Amy Gordon might already be returning from the Priory,
he clambered up the face of the shrubby precipice, and, bounding over the
large green mossy stones, and through the entangling briers and brushwood,
he soon was at the bridge, and sat down on a high bank, under a cliff,
commanding a view of the path by which the fair maiden must approach on
her homeward journey.
The heart of the innocent
Amy had fluttered, too, as the tall, slim, graceful stripling had kissed
her brow. No rudeness, no insult, no pride, no haughty freedom had been in
his demeanour towards her; but she felt gladly conscious in her mind, that
he had been delighted with her looks, and would, perhaps, think now and
then afterwards, as he walked through the woods, of the shepherd's
daughter, with whom he had not disdained to speak. Amy thought, while she
half looked back, as he disappeared among the trees, that he was just such
a youth as the old minstrels sang of in their war or love ballads, and
that he was well worthy some rich and noble bride, whom he might bring to
his hall on a snow-white palfrey with silken reins, and silver bells on
its mane. And she began to recite to herself, as she walked along, one of
those old Border tales.
Amy left her baskets at the
Priory, and was near the bridge, on her return, when she beheld the young
heir spring . down from the bank before her, and i come forward with a
sparkling countenance. "I must have that sweet tress that hangs over thy
sweeter forehead," said he, with a low and eager voice; "and I will keep
it for the sake of the fairest Flower that ever bloomed in my father's
woods—even the Lily of Liddisdale." The lock was given—for how could it be
refused ? And the shepherdess saw the young and highborn heir of the
Priory put it into his breast. She proceeded across the hill, down the
long Falcon-glen, and through the Witch-wood—and still he was by her side.
There was a charm in his speech, and in every word he said, and in his
gentle demeanour, that touched poor Amy's very heart; and as he gave her
assistance, although all unneeded, over the uneven hollows, and the
springs and marshes, she had neither the courage, nor the wish, nor the
power, to request him to turn back to the Priory. They entered a small
quiet green circlet, bare of trees, in the bosom of a coppice-wood; and
the youth, taking her hand, made her sit down on the mossy trunk of a
fallen yew, and said—"Amy—my fair Amy!—before we part, will you sing me
one of your old Border songs? and let it be one of love. Did not the sons
of nobles, long ago, often love the daughters of them that dwelt in huts?"
Amy Gordon sat there an
hour with the loving, but honourable boy, and sang many a plaintive tune,
and recited many a romantic story. She believed every word she uttered,
whether of human lovers, or of the affection of fairies, the silent
creatures of the woods and knowes, towards our race. For herself, she felt
a constant wild delight in fictions, which to her were all as truths; and
she was glad and proud to see how they held in silent attention him at
whose request she recited or sang. But now she sprang to her feet, and,
beseeching him to forgive the freedom she had used in thus venturing to
speak so long in such a presence, but at the same lime remembering that a
lock of her hair was near his heart, and perceiving that the little basket
she had let him take was half filled with wild-flowers, the Lily of Liddis-dale
made a graceful obeisance, and disappeared. Nor did the youth follow
her—they had sat together for one delightful hour—and he returned by
himself to the Priory.
From this day the trouble
of a new delight was in the heart of young Elliot. The spirit of innocence
was blended with that of beauty all over Amy, the shepherdess; and it was
their perfect union that the noble boy so dearly loved. Yet what could she
be to him more than a gleam of rainbow light—a phantom of the woods—an
imagination that passed away into the silence of the far-off green
pastoral hills? She belonged almost to another world—another life. His
dwelling, and that of his forefathers, was a princely hall. She, and all
her nameless line, were dwellers in turf-built huts. "In other times,"
thought he, "I might have transplanted that Lily into mine own garden; but
these are foolish fancies! Am I in love with poor Amy Gordon, the daughter
of a shepherd?" As these thoughts were passing through his mind, he was
bounding along a ridge of hills, from which many a sweet vale was visible;
and he formed a sudden determination to visit the cottage of Amy's father,
which he had seen some years ago pointed out when he was with a gay party
of lords and ladies, on a visit to the ruins of Hermitage Castle. He
bounded like a deer along; and as he descended into a little vale, lo! on
a green mound, the Lily of Liddisdale herding her sheep!
Amy was half terrified to
see him standing in his graceful beauty before her in that solitary place.
In a moment her soul was disquieted within her, and she felt that it
indeed was love. She wished that she might sink into that verdant mound,
from which she vainly strove to rise, as the impassioned youth lay down on
the turf at her side, and, telling her to fear nothing, called her by a
thousand tender and endearing names. Never till he had seen Amy had he
felt one tremor of love; but now his heart was kindled, and in that utter
solitude, where all was so quiet and so peaceful, there seemed to him a
preternatural charm over all her character. He burst out into passionate
vows and prayers, and called God to witness, that if she would love him,
he would forget all distinction of rank, and marry his beautiful Amy, and
she should live yet in his own hall. The words were uttered, and there was
silence. Their echo sounded for a moment strange to his own ears; but he
fixed his soul upon her countenance, and repeated them over and over again
with wilder emphasis, and more impassioned utterance. Amy was confounded
with fear and perplexity; but when she saw him kneeling before her, the
meek, innocent, humble girl could not endure the sight, and said, "Sir,
behold in me one willing to be your servant. Yes, willing is poor Amy
Gordon to kiss your feet. I am a poor man's daughter. Oh, sir! you surely
came not hither for evil? No—no, evil dwells not in such a shape. Away
then—away then, my noble master; for if Walter Harden were to see you!—if
my old father knew this, his heart would break!"
Once more they parted. Amy
returned home in the evening at the usual hour; but there was no peace now
for her soul. Such intense and passionate love had been vowed to her—such
winning and delightful expressions whispered into her heart by one so far
above her in all things, but who felt no degradation in equalling her to
him in the warmth and depth of his affection, that she sometimes strove to
think it all but one of her wild dreams awakened by some verse or incident
in some old ballad. But she had felt his kisses on her cheek; his
thrilling voice was in her soul; and she was oppressed with a passion,
pure, it is true, and most innocently humble, but a passion that seemed to
be like life itself, never to be overcome, and that could cease only when
the heart he had deluded—for what else than delusion could it be?— ceased
to beat. Thus agitated, she had directed her way homewards with hurried
and heedless steps. She minded not the miry pits—the quivering marshes
—and the wet rushy moors. Instead of crossing the little sinuous moorland
streams at their narrow places, where her light feet used to bound across
them, she waded through them in her feverish anxiety, and sometimes, after
hurrying along the braes, she sat suddenly down, breathless, weak, and
exhausted, and retraced in weeping bewilderment all the scene of fear,
joy, endearments, caresses, and wild persuasions, from which she had torn
herself away, and escaped. On reaching home, she went to her bed
trembling, and shivering, and drowned in tears; and could scarcely dare,
much as she needed comfort, even to say her prayers. Amy was in a high
fever; during the night she became delirious; and her old father sat by
her bedside till morning, fearing that he was going to lose his child.
There was grief over the
great strath and all its glens when the rumour spread over them that Amy
Gordon was dying. Her wonderful beauty had but given a tenderer and
brighter character to the love which her unsullied innocence and simple
goodness had universally inspired; and it was felt, even among the
sobbings of a natural affection, that if the Lily of Liddisdale should
die, something would be taken away of which they were all proud, and from
whose lustre there was a diffusion over their own lives. Many a gentle
hand touched the closed door of her cottage, and many a low voice inquired
how God was dealing with her; but where now was Walter Harden when his
Lily was like to fade? He was at her bed's foot, as her father was at its
head. Was she not his sister, although she would not be his bride? And
when he beheld her glazed eyes wandering unconsciously in delirium, and
felt her blood throbbing so rapidly in her beautiful transparent veins, he
prayed to God that Amy might recover, even although her heart were never
to be his, even although it were to fly to the bosom of him whose name she
constantly kept repeating in her wandering fantasies. For Amy, although
she sometimes kindly whispered the name of Walter Harden, and asked why
her brother came not to see her on her deathbed, yet far oftener spake
beseechingly and passionately as if to that other youth, and implored him
to break not the heart of a poor simple shepherdess who was willing to
kiss his feet.
Neither the father of poor
Amy nor Walter Harden had known before that she had ever seen young George
Elliot—but they soon understood, from the innocent distraction of her
speech that the noble boy had left pure the Lily he loved, and Walter said
that it belonged not to that line ever to enjure the helpless. Many a pang
it gave him, no doubt, to think that his Amy's heart, which all his
life-long tenderness could not win, had yielded itself up in tumultuous
joy to one—two —three meetings of an hour, or perhaps only a few minutes,
with one removed so high and so far from her humble life and all its
concerns. These were cold, sickening pangs of humiliation and jealousy,
that might, in a less generous nature, have crushed all love. But it was
not so with him; and cheerfully would Walter Harden have taken the burning
fever into his own veins, so that it could have been removed from
hers—cheerfully would he have laid down his own manly head on that pillow,
so that Amy could have lifted up her long raven tresses, now often
miserably dishevelled in her raving, and, braiding them once more, walk
out well and happy into the sunshine of the beautiful day, rendered more
beautiful still by her presence. Hard would it have been to have resigned
her bosom to any human touch ; but hideous seemed it beyond all thought to
resign it to the touch of death. Let heaven but avert that doom, and his
affectionate soul felt that it could be satisfied.
Out of a long deep
trance-like sleep Amy at last awoke, and her eyes fell upon the face of
Walter Harden. She regarded long and earnestly its pitying and solemn
expression, then pressed her hand to her forehead and wept. "Is my father
dead and buried—and did he die of grief and shame for his Amy? Oh ! that
needed not have been, for I am innocent. Neither, Walter, have I broken,
nor will I ever break, my promise unto thee. I remember it well—by the
Bible—and yon setting sun. But I am weak and faint. Oh! tell me, Walter!
all that has happened! Have I been ill—for hours—or for days—or weeks—or
months? For that I know not,—so wild and so strange, so sad and so
sorrowful, so miserable and so wretched, have been my many thousand
dreams!"
There was no concealment
and no disguise. Amy was kindly and tenderly told by her father and her
brother all that she had uttered, as far as they understood it, during her
illness. Nor had the innocent creature anything more to tell. Her soul was
after the fever calm, quiet, and happy. The form, voice, and shape of that
beautiful youth were to her little more now than the words and the sights
of a dream. Sickness and decay had brought her spirit back to all the
humble and tranquil thoughts and feelings of her lowly life. In the woods,
and among the hills, that bright and noble being had for a time touched
her senses, her heart, her soul, and her imagination. All was new,
strange, stirring, overwhelming, irresistible, and paradise to her spirit.
But it was gone; and might it stay away for ever: so she prayed, as her
kind brother lifted up her head with his gentle hand, and laid it down as
gently on the pillow he had smoothed. "Walter! I will be your wife! for
thee my affection is calm and deep,— but that other—oh ! that was only a
passing dream !" Walter leaned over her, and kissed her pale lips. "Yes
Walter," she continued, "I once promised to marry none other, but now I
promise to marry thee; if indeed God will forgive me for such words, lying
as I am, perhaps, on my deathbed. I utter them to make you happy. If I
live, life will be dear to me only for thy sake; if I die, walk thou along
with my father at the coffin's head, and lay thine Amy in the mould. I am
the Lily of Liddisdale,—you know that was once the vain creature's
name!—and white, pale, and withered enough indeed is, I trow, the poor
Lily now!"
Walter Harden heard her
affectionate words with a deep delight, but he determined in his soul not
to bind Amy down to these promises, sacred and fervent as they were, if,
on her complete recovery, he discovered that they originated in gratitude,
and not in love. From pure and disinterested devotion of spirit did he
watch the progress of her recover}', nor did he ever allude to young
Elliot but in terms of respect and admiration. Amy had expressed her
surprise that he had never come to inquire how she was during her illness,
and added with a sigh, "Love at first sight cannot be thought to last
long. Yet surely he would have wept to hear that I was dead." Walter then
told her that he had been hurried away to France the very day after she
had seen him, to attend the deathbed of his father, and had not yet
returned to Scotland; but that the ladies of the Priory had sent a
messenger to know how she was every day, and that to their kindness were
owing many of the conveniences she had enjoyed. Poor Amy was glad to hear
that she had no reason to think the noble boy would have neglected her in
her illness ; and she could not but look with pride upon her lover, who
was not afraid to vindicate the character of one who, she had confessed,
had been but too dear to her only a few weeks ago. This generosity and
manly confidence on the part of her cousin quite won and subdued her
heart, and Waller Harden never approached her now without awakening in her
bosom something of that delightful agitation find troubled joy which her
simple heart had first suffered in the presence of her young, noble lover.
Amy was in love with Walter almost as much as he was with her. and the
names of brother and sister, pleasant as they had ever been, were now laid
aside.
Amy Gordon rose from her
sickbed, and even as the flower whose name she bore, did she again lift up
her drooping head beneath the dews and the sunshine. Again did she go to
the hillside, and sit and sing beside her flock. But Walter Harden was
oftener with her than before, and ere the harvest moon should hang her
mild, clear, un-haloed orb over the late reapers on the upland
grain-fields, had Amy promised that she would become his wife. She saw him
now in his own natural light— the best, the most intelligent, the most
industrious, and the handsomest shepherd over all the hills; and when it
was known that there was to be a marriage between Walter Harden and Amy
Gordon, none felt surprised, although some, sighing, said it was seldom,
indeed, that fortune so allowed those to wed whom nature had united.
The Lily of Liddisdale was
now bright and beautiful as ever, and was returning homewards by herself
from the far-off hills during one rich golden sunset, when, in a dark
hollow, she heard the sound of horses' feet, and in an instant young
George Elliot was at her side. Amy's dream was over—and she looked on the
beautiful youth with an unquaking heart. "I have been far away,
Amy,—across the seas. My father—you may have heard of it—was ill, and I
attended his bed. I loved him, Amy—I loved my father—but he is dead!" and
here the noble youth's tears fell fast. "Nothing now but the world's laugh
prevents me making you my wife—yes, my wife, sweetest Lily ; and what care
I for the world? for thou art both earth and heaven to me."
The impetuous, ardent, and
impassioned boy scarcely looked in Amy's face ; he remembered her
confusion, her fears, her sighs, her tears, his half-permitted kisses, his
faintly repelled embraces, and all his suffered endearments of brow, lip,
and cheek, in that solitary dell; so with a powerful arm he lifted her
upon another steed, which, till now, she had scarcely observed; other
horsemen seemed to the frightened, and speechless, and motionless maiden
to be near; and away they went over the smooth turf like the wind, till
her eyes were blind with the rapid flight, and her head dizzy. She heard
kind words whispering in her ear; but Amy, since that fever, had never
been so strong as before, and her high-blooded palfrey was now carrying
her fleetly away over hill and hollow in a swoon.
At last she seemed to be
falling down from a height, but softly, as if borne on the wings of the
air; and as her feet touched the ground, she knew that young Elliot had
taken her from that fleet courser, and, looking up, she saw that she was
in a wood of old shadowy trees of gigantic size, perfectly still, and far
away from all known dwellings both on hill and plain. But a cottage was
before her, and she and young Elliot were on the green in its front. It
was thickly covered with honeysuckle and moss-roses that hung their
beautiful full-blown shining lamps high as the thatched roof; and Amy's
soul sickened at the still, secluded, lovely, and lonely sight. "This
shall be our bridal abode," whispered her lover into her ear, with panting
breath. "Fear me not—distrust me not; I am not base, but my love to thee
is tender and true. Soon shall we be married—ay, this very evening must
thou be mine; and may the hand that now clasps thy sweet waist wither, and
the tongue that woos thee be palsied, if ever I cease to love thee as my
Amy—my Lily—my wedded wife!"
The wearied and
half-fainting maiden could as yet make no reply. The dream that she had
believed was gone for ever now brightened upon her in the intense light of
reality, and it was in her power to become the wife of him for whom she
had, in the innocence and simplicity of her nature, once felt a consuming
passion that had brought her to the brink of the grave. His warm breath
was on her bosom; words charged with bewitching persuasion went thrilling
through her heartstrings; and if she had any pride (and what human heart
has it not?) it might well mingle now with love, and impel her into the
embrace that was now open to clasp her close to a burning heart.
A stately and beautiful
lady came smiling from the cottage door, and Amy knew that it was the
sister of Elliot, and kneeled down before her. Last time the shepherdess
had seen that lady, it was when, with a fearful step, she took her baskets
into the hall, and blushing, scarcely lifted up her eyes, when she and her
high-born sisters deigned to commend her workmanship, and whisper to each
other that the Lily of Liddisdale deserved her name. "Amy," said she, with
a gentle voice, as she took her hand, "Amy Gordon! my brother loves you;
and he has won me to acknowledge you as my sister. I can deny my brother
nothing; and his grief has brought low the pride—perhaps the foolish
pride— of my heart. Will you marry him. Amy? Will you, the daughter of a
poor shepherd, marry the young heir of the Priory, and the descendant,
Amy, of a noble race? Amy, I see that thou art beautiful; I know that thou
art good; may God and my mother forgive me this, but my sister must thou
be; behold my brother is at his shepherdess's feet!"
Amy Gordon had now nothing
to fear. That sweet, young, pure, noble lady was her friend; and she felt
persuaded now that in good truth young Elliot wished to make her his wife.
Might she indeed live the Lady of the Priory—be a sister to these
beautiful creatures—dwell among those ancient woods, and all those
spacious lawns and richest gardens ; and might she be, not in a dream, but
in living reality, the wife of him on whose bosom her heart had died with
joy in that lonely dell, and love him and yield him her love even unto the
very hour till she was dead? Such changes of estate had been long ago, and
sung of in many a ballad; and was she to be the one maiden of millions,
the one born in hundreds of years, to whom this blessed lot was to befall?
But these thoughts passed on and away like sun-rays upon a stream; the
cloud, not a dark one, of reality returned over her. She thought of Walter
Harden, and in an instant her soul was fixed ; nor from that instant could
it be shaken by terror or by love, by the countenance of death, or the
countenance, far more powerful than of death—that of the youth before her,
pale and flushed alternately with the fluctuations of many passions.
Amy felt in her soul the
collected voice, as it were, of many happy and humble years among her
hills, and that told her not to forsake her own natural life. The flower
that lived happily and beautifully in its own secluded nook, by the side
of the lonely tarn or torrent, might lose much both of its fragrance and
its lustre, when transplanted into a richer soil and more sheltered bed.
Could she forget for ever her father's angle—the earthen floor—its simple
furniture of day and night? Could she forget ail the familiar places round
about the hut where she was born? And if she left them all, and was taken
up even in the arms of love into another sphere of life, would not that be
the same, or worse than to forget them, and would it not be sacrilege to
the holiness of the many Sabbath nights on which she had sat at her
widowed father's knees? Yet might such thoughts have been destroyed in her
beating heart by the whispered music of young Elliot's eloquent and
impassioned voice. But Walter Harden, though ignorant of her present
jeopardy, seemed to stand before her, and she remembered his face when he
sat beside her dying bed, his prayers over her when he thought she slept,
and their oaths of fidelity mutually sworn before the great God.
"Will you, my noble and
honoured master, suffer me, all unworthy as I am to be yours, to leave
your bosom? Sir, I am too miserable about you, to pretend to feel any
offence, because you will not let me go. I might well be proud of your
love, since, indeed, it happens so that you do love me; but let me kneel
down at your beautiful sister's feet, for to her I may be able to speak—to
you I feel that it may not be, for humble am I, although unfortunately I
have found favour in your eyes." The agitated youth released Amy from his
arms, and she flung herself down upon her knees before that lovely lady.
"Lady! hear me speak—a
simple uneducated girl of the hills, and tell me if you would wish to hear
me break on oath sworn upon the Bible, and so to lose my immortal soul? So
have I sworn to be the wife of Walter Harden —the wife of a poor shepherd
; and, lady, may I be on the left hand of God at the great judgment-day,
if ever I be forsworn. I love Walter Harden. Do you counsel me to break
his kind, faithful heart? Oh, sir—my noble young master ! how dare a
creature such as I speak so freely to your beautiful sister? how dare I
keep my eyes open when you are at your servant's feet? Oh, sir, had I been
born a lady, I would have lived—died for you—gone with you all over the
world —all over the sea, and all the islands of the sea. I would have
sighed, wept, and pined away, till I had won your love, for your love
would have been a blessed thing—that do I well know, from the few moments
you stooped to let your heart beat against the bosom of a low-born
shepherdess. Even now, dearly as I love Walter Harden, fain would I lay me
down and die upon this daisied green, and be buried beneath it, rather
than that poor Amy Gordon should affect the soul of her young master thus;
for never saw I, and never can I again see, a youth so beautiful, so
winning, so overwhelming to a maiden's heart, as he before whom I now
implore permission to grovel in the dust Send me away—spurn me from
you—let me crawl away out of your presence—I can find my way back to my
father's house."
It might have been a trying
thing to the pride of this high-minded and highborn youth, to be refused
in marriage by the daughter of one of his poorest shepherds; so would it
have been had he loved less ; but all pride was extinguished, and so
seemed for ever and ever the light of this world's happiness, To plead
further he felt was in vain. Her soul had been given to another, and the
seal of an oath set upon it, never to be broken but by the hand of death.
So he lifted her up in his arms, kissed her madly a hundred times, cheek,
brow, neck and bosom, and then rushed into the woods. Amy followed him
with her streaming eyes, and then turned again towards the beautiful lady,
who was sobbing audibly for her brother's sake.
"Oh! weep not, lady! that
I, poor Amy Gordon, have refused to become the wife of your noble brother.
The time will come, and soon too, when he and you, and your fair sisters
and your stately mother, will all be thankful that I yielded not to
entreaties that would then have brought disgrace upon your house!
Never—never would your mother have forgiven you ; and as for me, would not
she have wished me dead and buried rather than the bride of her only and
darling son? You know that, simple and innocent as I am, I now speak but
the truth; and how, then, could your noble brother have continued to love
me, who had brought dishonour, and disagreement, and distraction, among
those who are now all so dear to one another? O yes—yes, he would soon
have hated poor Amy Gordon, and, without any blame, perhaps broken my
heart, or sent me away from the Priory back to my father's hut. Blessed be
God, that all this evil has not been wrought by me! All—all will soon be
as before."
She to whom Amy thus
fervently spoke felt that her words were not wholly without truth. Nor
could she help admiring the noble, heroic, and virtuous conduct of this
poor shepherdess, whom all this world's temptations would have failed to
lure from the right path. Before this meeting she had thought of Amy as
far her inferior indeed, and it was long before her proper pride had
yielded to the love of her brother, whose passion she feared might
otherwise have led to some horrible catastrophe. Now that he had fled from
them in distraction, this terror again possessed her, and she whispered it
to the pale, trembling shepherdess.
"Follow him—follow him,
gentle lady, into the wood; lose not a moment; call upon him by name, and
that sweet voice must bring him back. But fear not, he is too good to do
evil; fear not, receive my blessing, and let me return to my father's hut;
it is but a few miles, and that distance is nothing to one who has lived
all her life among the hills. My poor father will think I have died in
some solitary place."
The lady wept to think that
she, whom she had been willing to receive as her sister, should return all
by herself so many miles at night to a lonely hut. But her soul was sick
with fear for her brother; so she took from her shoulders a long rich
Indian silk scarf of gorgeous colours, and throwing it over Amy's figure,
said, "Fair creature and good, keep this for my sake; and now, farewell!"
She gazed on the Lily for a moment in delighted wonder at her graceful
beauty, as she bent on one knee, enrobed in that unwonted garb, and then,
rising up, gathered the flowing drapery around her, and disappeared.
"God, in His infinite
mercy, be praised!" cried Walter Harden, as he and the old man, who had
been seeking Amy for hours all over the hills, saw the Lily gliding
towards them up a little narrow dell, covered from head to foot with the
splendid raiment that shone in a soft shower of moonlight. Joy and
astonishment for a while held them speechless, but they soon knew all that
had happened; and Walter Harden lifted her up in his arms and carried her
home, exhausted now and faint with fatigue and trepidation, as if she were
but a lamb rescued from a snow-wreath.
Next moon was that which
the reapers love, and before it had waned Amy slept in the bosom of her
husband, Walter Harden. Years passed on and other flowers beside the Lily
of Liddisdale were blooming in his house. One summer evening, when the
shepherd, his fair wife, and their children were sitting together on the
green before the door, enjoying probably the sight and the noise of the
imps much more then the murmurs of the sylvan Liddal, which perhaps they
did not hear, a gay cavalcade rode up to the cottage, and a noble-looking
young man, dismounting from his horse, and gently assisting a beautiful
lady to do the same, walked up to her whom he had known only by a name now
almost forgotten, and with a beaming smile said, "Fair Lily of Liddisdale,
this is my wife, the lady of the Priory; come —it is hard to say which of
you should bear off the bell." Amy rose from her seat with an air graceful
as ever, but something more matronly than that of Elliot's younger bride;
and while these two fair creatures beheld each other with mutual
admiration, their husbands stood there equally happy, and equally
proud—George Elliot of the Priory, and Walter Harden of the Glenfoot, |
