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IT being Lady Ruthven’s wish,
that the remains of her brother should be entombed with his ancestors,
preparations were made for the
mournful cavalcade to set forth towards Braemar castle. The Countess,
hoping that Wallace might be induced to accompany them, did not long
object to this proposal, which Lady Ruthven had enforced with tears. Had
any one seen the two, and been called upon to judge, by their deportment,
of the relationship in which each lady stood to the deceased, he must have
decided that the sister was the widow. At the moment of her husband’s
death, Lady Mar had felt a shock; but it was not that of sorrow for her
loss: she had long looked to this event, as to the seal of her happiness:
it was the sight of mortality, that appalled her. The man she doted on,
nay, even herself, must one day lie as the object now before her—dead!—
insensible to all earthly joys, or pains! but awake, perhaps, fearfully
awake, to the judgments of another world !— This conviction caused her
shrieks, when she saw Lord Mar expire. But the impression was evanescent.
Every obstacle between her, and Wallace, she now believed removed. Her
husband was dead: Helen was carried away by a man devotedly enamoured of
her; and most probably was at that time his wife. The spectres of
conscience passed from her eyes; she no longer thought of death and
judgment; and, under a pretence that her feelings could not bear the sight
of her husband’s bier, she determined to seclude herself in her own
chamber, till the freshness of Wallace’s grief for his friend should
have passed away. But when she heard from the indignant Edwin, of the
rebellious conduct of the young Lord Badenoch; and that the Regent had
abdicated; her consternation superseded all caution. "I will soon
humble that proud boy," exclaimed she; "and let him know, that
in opposing the elevation of Sir William Wallace, he treads down his own
interest. You are beloved by the Regent, Edwin !" cried she,
interrupting herself, and clasping his hand with earnestness; "teach
his enthusiastic heart, the true interests of
his country !—l am the first woman of the house of Cummin; and, is not
that family, the most powerful in the kingdom? [The
family of Cummin was so powerful and numerous, that an incredible number
of chieftains of that name attended the first parliament which Robert I.
held at Dunstafinage castle. The relationship between the heiress of
Strathearn, and that family was very near; her paternal grandmother had
been the daughter of a Lord Badenoch.—(1809.)]
By the adherence of one branch to Edward, the battle of Falkirk was lost;
by the rebellion of another, the Regent of Scotland is obliged to
relinquish that dignity! It is in my power, to move the whole race at my
will: and if Wallace would mingle his blood with theirs, would espouse me,
(an overture which the love I bear my country, impels me to make,) every
nerve would then be strained, to promote the elevation of their nearest
kinswoman.—. Wallace would reign in Scotland, and the whole land lie at
peace."
Edwin eyed her with
astonishment, while she spoke. All her late conduct to his cousin Helen,
to his uncle, and to Wallace, was now explained; and he saw in her flushed
cheek, that it was not the patriot who desired this match, but the
enamoured woman.
"You do not answer
me?" said she: "have you any apprehension that Sir William
Wallace would reject the hand, which would give him a crown? which would
dispense happiness, to many thousand people?"
"No;" replied he;
"I believe, that much as he is devoted to the memory of her, whom
alone he can ever love, could he purchase true happiness to Scotland by
the sacrifice, he would espouse any virtuous woman who could bring him so
blest a dowry. But in your case, my honoured aunt, I can see no
probability of such a consequence. In the first place, I know, that now
the virtuous Earl of Badenoch is no more, he neither respects nor fears
the Cummins; and that he would scorn to purchase a crown, or even the
people’s happiness, by baseness in himself. To rise by their means, who,
you have seen, will at any time immolate all that is sacred to man, to
their own caprice, or fancied interests, would be unworthy of him;
therefore I am sure, if you wish to marry Sir William Wallace, you must
not urge the use he may make of the Cummins, as an argument. He need not
stoop to cajole the men he may command. Did he not drive the one half of
their clan, with the English host to boot, to seek any shelter from his
vengeance? And for them in the citadel; had he chosen to give the word,
they would now be all numbered with the dust! Aunt! he has a Divine
Master, whose example he follows, though in deep humility! he lays down
his power; it is not taken from him. Earthly crowns are dross to him, who
looks for a heavenly one. Therefore, honoured lady, believe it no longer
necessary to wound your delicacy, by offering him a hand, which cannot
produce the good you meditate!"
The complexion of the
Countess, varied a thousand times during this answer. Her reason assented
to many parts of it; but the passion she could not acknowledge to her
nephew, urged her to persist. "You may be right, Edwin;" she
replied; "but still, as there is nothing very repugnant in me, the
project is surely worth trying! At any rate, even setting the Cummins
aside, a marriage with the daughter of Strathearn, by allying your noble
friend to every illustrious house in the kingdom, would make his interest
theirs; and all must unite, in retaining to him the Regency. Scotland will
be wrecked, should he leave the helm. And,— sweet Edwin, though your
young heart is yet unacquainted with the strange inconsistencies of the
tenderest passion; I must whisper you, that your friend will never be
happy, till he again live in the bosom of domestic
affection?"
"Ah! but where is he
to find it?" cried Edwin: "what will ever restore his Marion to
his arms?"
"I," cried she;
"I will be more than ever Marion was to him ?—she knew not, O! she
could not, the boundless love that fills my heart for him !" Edwin’s
blushes at this wild declaration, told her how far she had betrayed
herself. She attempted to palliate, what she could no longer conceal; and
covering her face with her hand, exclaimed, "You, who love Sir
William Wallace, cannot be surprised that all who adore human excellence,
should participate the sentiment. How could I see him, the benefactor of
my family, the blessing to all Scotland, and not love him?"
"True:" replied
Edwin; "but not as a wife would love her husband!—You were married.
And was it possible you could feel thus when my uncle lived? So strong a
passion, cannot have grown in your breast since he died; for surely, love
should not enter a widow’s heart, at the side of an unburied husband
!"
"Edwin!" replied
she, "you, who never felt the throbs of this tyrant, judge with a
severity you will one day regret. When you love, and struggle with a
passion that drinks your very life, you will pity Joanna of Mar, and
forgive her!"
"I pity you now,
aunt:" replied he; "but you bewilder me.—I cannot understand
the possibility of a virtuous married woman, suffering any passion of this
kind to get such domination over her, as to cause her one guilty sigh. For
guilty must every wish be, that militates against the duty of her marriage
vow. Surely love comes not in a whirlwind, to seize the soul at once; but
grows by degrees, according to the developement of the virtues of the
object, and the freedom we give ourselves in their contemplation: —and,
if it be virtue that you love in Sir William Wallace, had you not virtue
in your noble husband ?"
The Countess perceived by
the remarks of Edwin, that he was deeper read in the human heart than she
had suspected; that he was neither ignorant of the feelings of the
passion, nor of what ought to be its source; and, therefore, with a deep
blush, she replied—"Think for a moment, before you condemn me. I
acknowledge every good quality, that your uncle possessed; but, oh! Edwin,
he had frailties that you know not of—frailties that reduced me to be,
what the world never saw,—the most unhappy of women."—Edwin
turned pale at this charge against his uncle; and, while he forbore to
draw aside the veil which covered the sacred dead; little did he think
that the artful woman meant a frailty in which she had equally shared; and
the consequences of which dangerous vanity, had constrained her to become
his wife. She proceeded; "I married your uncle when I was a girl, and
knew not that I had a heart. I saw Wallace; his virtues stole me from
myself; and I found— In short, Edwin, your uncle became of too advanced
an age, to sympathise with my younger heart. How could I then defend
myself against the more congenial soul of your friend ?—He was reserved
during Mar’s life! but he did not repulse me with unkindness; I
therefore hope! and, do you, my Edwin, gently influence him in my favour,
and I will for ever bless you."
"Aunt," answered
he, looking at her attentively; "can you, without displeasure, hear
me speak a few, perhaps ungrateful, truths ?"
"Say what you
will:" said she trembling; "only be my advocate with the noblest
of human beings, and I can take nought amiss."
"Lady Mar," resumed he,
"I answer you with unqualified sincerity, because I love you; and
venerate the memory of my uncle, whose frailties, whatever they might be,
were visible to you alone. I answer you with sincerity because I would
spare you much future pain, and Sir William Wallace, a task that would
pierce him to the soul. You confess, that he already knows you love him:
that he has received such demonstrations with coldness. Recollect, what it
is you love him for; and then judge, if he could do otherwise. Could he
approve affections, which a wife transferred to him from her husband; and
that husband, his friend?"- Ah! but he is now dead !"
interrupted she; "that obstacle is removed."—"But the
other, which you raised yourself!" replied Edwin; "while a wife,
you showed to Sir William Wallace, that you could not only indulge
yourself in wishes hostile to your nuptial faith, but divulge them to him.
Ah! my aunt! what could you look for as the consequence of this? My uncle
yet lived, when you did this! and that act, were you youthful as Hebe, and
more tender than ever was fabled of the queen of love, I am sure the
virtue of Wallace would never pardon. He never could pledge his faith, to
one whose passions had so far silenced her sense of duty; and, did he even
love you, he would not, for the empire of the world, repose his honour in
such keeping."
"Edwin!" cried
she, at last summoning power to speak; for during the latter part of this
address, she had sat gasping, from unutterable disappointment and rage;
"are you not afraid to breathe all this to me? I have given you my
confidence, and do you abuse it? Do you stab me, when I ask you to
heal?"—" No, my dear aunt," replied he; "I speak the
truth to you, ungrateful as it is, to prevent you hearing it in, perhaps,
a more painful form from Wallace himself."—"Oh, no!"
cried she, with contemptuous haughtiness; "he is a man, and he knows
how to pardon the excesses of love !—Look around you, foolish boy, and
see how litany of our proudest lords have united their fates with women,
who, not only loved them while their husbands lived, but left their homes
and children to join their lovers."
And what is there in me, a
princess of the crowns of Scotland and of Norway; a woman, who has had the
nobles of both kingdoms at her feet, and frowned upon them all; that I
should now be contemned? —Is the ingrate, for whom alone I ever felt a
wish of love, is he to despise me for my passion ?—You mistake, Edwin;
you know not the heart of man."—"Not of the common race of
men, perhaps," replied he; "but certainly, that of Sir William
Wallace. Purity, and he, are too sincerely one, for personal vanity, to
blind his eyes, to the deformity of the passion you describe. And mean, as
I am, when compared with him, I must aver, that were a married woman to
love me, and seek to excuse her frailty; I should see alone, her contempt
of the principles which are the only impregnable bulwarks of innocence,
and shrink from her as I would from pollution."— "Then you
declare yourself my enemy, Edwin ?"—" No," replied he;
"I speak to you as a son: but if you are determined to avow to Sir
William Wallace, what you have revealed to me, I shall not even observe on
what has passed; but leave you, unhappy lady, to the pangs I would have
spared you."
He
rose.—Lady Mar wrung her hands in a paroxysm of conviction that what he
said was true.—"Then, Edwin, I must despair !"—He looked at
her with pity: "Could you abhor the dereliction that your soul has
thus made from duty, and leave him, whom your unwidowed wishes now pursue,
to seek you; then I should say, that you might be happy: for penitence
appeases God, and shall it not find race with man ? "—"Blessed
Edwin!" cried she, falling on his neck, and kissing him;
"whisper but my penitence to Wallace; teach him to think I hate
myself. O! make me that in his eyes, which you would wish, and I will
adore you on my knees!"
The door opened at this moment, and
Lord Ruthven entered. The tears she was so profusely shedding on the bosom
of his son, he attributed to some conversation she might be holding
respecting her deceased lord; and taking her hand, he told her, he came to
propose her immediate removal from the scene of so many horrors. "My
dear sister," said he, "I will attend you as far as Perth. After
that, Edwin shall be your guard to Braemar; and my Janet will stay with
you there, till time has softened your griefs." Lady Mar looked at
him; "And where will be Sir William Wallace ?"—"Here,"
answered Ruthven. "Some considerations, consequent to his receiving
the French des-patches, will hold him some time longer south of the
Forth." Lady Mar shook her head doubtfully, and reminded him that the
chiefs in the citadel had withheld the despatches.
Lord Ruthven then informed her, that
unknown to Wallace, Lord Loch-awe had summoned the most powerful of his
friends then near Stirling; and attended by them was carried on a litter
into the citadel. It entered the council-hall; and from that bed of
honourable wounds, he threatened the assembly with instant vengeance from
his troops without, unless they would immediately swear fealty to Wallace,
and compel Badenoch to give up the French despatches. Violent tumults,
were the consequence: but Loch-awe’s litter being guarded by a double
rank of armed chieftains, and the keep being hemmed round by his men
prepared to put to the sword every Scot hostile to the proposition of
their lord; the insurgents at last complied, and forced Badenoch to
relinquish the royal packet. This effected, Loch-awe and his train
returned to the monastery. Wallace refused to resume the dignity he had
resigned; the re-investment of which, had been extorted from the lords in
the citadel. " No;" said he to Loch-awe; "it is indeed time
that I should sink into shades where I cannot be found, since I am become
a word of contention amongst my countrymen."
"He was not to be
shaken;" continued Ruthven; "but seeing matter in the French
despatches that ought to be answered without delay, he yet remains a few
days at Falkirk."
"Then we will await him here
;" cried the Countess.— "That cannot be;" answered
Ruthven: "it would be against ecclesiastical law to detain the sacred
dead so long from the grave. Wallace will doubtless visit Braemar;
therefore I advise that to-morrow you leave Falkirk."
Edwin seconded this counsel; and
fearing to make further opposition, she silently acquiesced. But her
spirit was not so quiescent.—At night, when she went to her cell, her
ever wakeful fancy aroused a thousand images of alarm. She remembered the
vow that Wallace had made, to seek Helen. He had already given up the
regency; an office which might have detained him from such a pursuit; and,
might not a passion softer than indignation against the ungrateful
chieftains, have dictated this act? "Should he love Helen, what is
there not to fear!" cried she; "and should he meet her, I am
undone !" Racked by jealousy, and goaded by contradicting
expectations, she rose from her bed, and paced the room in wild disorder.
One moment she strained her mind to recollect every gracious look or word
from him, and then her imagination glowed with anticipated delight ;—again
she thought of his address to Helen, of his vow in her favour, and she was
driven to despair. All Edwin’s kind admonitions were forgotten; passion
alone was awake; and forgetful of her rank and sex, and of her situation,
she determined to see Wallace,— and appeal to his heart, for the last
time. She knew that he slept in an apartment at the other end of the
monastery: and, that she
might pass thither unobserved, she glided into an opposite cell belonging
to a sick monk, and stealing away his cloak, threw it over her, and
hurried along the cloisters.
The chapel doors were open.
In passing, she saw the bier of her lord, awaiting the hour of its removal
surrounded by priests, singing anthems for the repose of his soul. No
tender recollections, no remorse, knocked at the heart of Lady Mar as she
sped along. Abandoned all, to thoughts of Wallace, she felt not that she
had a soul; she acknowledged not, that she had a hope, but what centered
in the smiles of the man she was hastening to seek.
His door was listened with
a latch: she gently opened it, and found herself in his chamber. She
trembled,—she scarcely breathed; she looked around; she approached his
bed,—but he was not there. Disappointment palsied her heart, and she
sunk upon a chair; "Am I betrayed?" said she to herself:
"Has that youthful hypocrite warned him hence?" And then again
she thought: "But how should Edwin guess that I should venture here?
Oh, no; my cruel stars alone are against me !"
She now determined to await his
return: and nearly three hours she passed there, enduring all the torments
of guilt and misery; but he appeared not. At last, hearing the matin-bell,
she started up, fearful that her maids might discover her absence.
Compelled by some regard to reputation, with an unwilling mind she left
the shrine of her idolatry; and once more crossed the cloisters. While
again drawing towards the chapel, she saw Wallace! himself issue from the
door, supporting on his bosom the fainting head of Lady Ruthven. Edwin
followed them. Lady Mar pulled the monk’s cowl over her face, and
withdrew behind a pillar. "Ah I" thought she, "absenting
myself from my duty, I fled from thee!" She listened with breathless
attention to what might be said.
Lord Ruthven met them at
that instant. "This night’s watching by the bier of her
brother;" said Wallace, "has worn out your gentle lady: we
strove to support her through these sad vigils, but at last she
sunk." What Ruthven said in reply,
when he took his wife in his arms, the Countess could not hear; but
Wallace answered, "I have not seen her."—"I left her late
in the evening, drowned in tears ;" replied Ruthven, in a more
elevated tone; "I therefore suppose, that in secret she offers those
prayers for her deceased husband, which my tender Janet pours over his
grave."
"Such tears;"
replied Wallace, "are Heaven’s own balm I know they purify the
heart whence they flow. Yes,— and the prayers we breathe for those we
love, unite our souls the closer to theirs. Look up, dear Lady
Ruthven," said he, as she began to revive; "look up, and hear
how you may, while still on earth, retain the society of your beloved
brother! Seek his spirit at the footstool of God. ‘Tis thus I live,
sister of my most venerated friend! My soul is ever on the wing for heaven
;—whether in the solitary hour, in joy, or in sorrow—for there my
treasure lives!"
"Wallace! Wallace!" cried
Lady Ruthven, looking on his animated countenance, with wondering rapture;
"and art thou a man of earth, and of the sword? Oh! rather say, an
angel; lent us here a little while, to teach us to live and to die !"
A glowing blush passed over the pale but benign cheek of Wallace. "I
am a soldier of Him who was, indeed, brought into the world to show us, by
his life and death, how to be virtuous and happy. Know me, by my life, to
be His follower; and David himself, wore not a more glorious title !"
Lady Mar, while she
contemplated the matchless form before her, exclaimed to herself,
"Why is it animated by as faultless a soul ;—Oh, Wallace! wert thou
less excellent, I might hope—but hell is in my heart, and heaven in
thine I" She tore her eyes from a view, which blasted while it
charmed her, and rushed from the cloisters.
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