if about to cut short the Major's importunity, and to break up their
conference with a courtly expression of regret, calculated to accompany a
positive refusal of the request solicited. This movement brought them so
near Edith, that she could distinctly hear Claverhouse say, "It cannot
be, Major Bellenden; lenity, in his case, is altogether beyond the bounds
of my commission, though in any thing else I am heartily desirous to
oblige you. - And here comes Evandale with news, as I think. - What tidings
do you bring us, Evandale?" he continued, addressing the young lord, who
now entered in complete uniform, but with his dress disordered, and his
boots spattered, as if by riding hard.
[Illustration: Claverhouse - 176]
"Unpleasant news, sir," was his reply. "A large body of whigs are in arms
among the hills, and have broken out into actual rebellion. They have
publicly burnt the Act of Supremacy, that which established episcopacy,
that for observing the martyrdom of Charles I., and some others, and have
declared their intention to remain together in arms for furthering the
covenanted work of reformation."
This unexpected intelligence struck a sudden and painful surprise into
the minds of all who heard it, excepting Claverhouse.
"Unpleasant news call you them?" replied Colonel Grahame, his dark eyes
flashing fire, "they are the best I have heard these six months. Now that
the scoundrels are drawn into a body, we will make short work with them.
When the adder crawls into daylight," he added, striking the heel of his
boot upon the floor, as if in the act of crushing a noxious reptile, "I
can trample him to death; he is only safe when he remains lurking in his
den or morass. - Where are these knaves?" he continued, addressing Lord
Evandale.
"About ten miles off among the mountains, at a place called Loudon-hill,"
was the young nobleman's reply. "I dispersed the conventicle against
which you sent me, and made prisoner an old trumpeter of rebellion, - an
intercommuned minister, that is to say, - who was in the act of exhorting
his hearers to rise and be doing in the good cause, as well as one or two
of his hearers who seemed to be particularly insolent; and from some
country people and scouts I learned what I now tell you."
"What may be their strength?" asked his commander.
"Probably a thousand men, but accounts differ widely."
"Then," said Claverhouse, "it is time for us to be up and be doing
also - Bothwell, bid them sound to horse."
Bothwell, who, like the war-horse of scripture, snuffed the battle afar
off, hastened to give orders to six negroes, in white dresses richly
laced, and having massive silver collars and armlets. These sable
functionaries acted as trumpeters, and speedily made the castle and the
woods around it ring with their summons.
"Must you then leave us?" said Lady Margaret, her heart sinking under
recollection of former unhappy times; "had ye not better send to learn
the force of the rebels? - O, how many a fair face hae I heard these
fearfu' sounds call away frae the Tower of Tillietudlem, that my auld een
were ne'er to see return to it!"
"It is impossible for me to stop," said Claverhouse; "there are rogues
enough in this country to make the rebels five times their strength, if
they are not checked at once."
"Many," said Evandale, "are flocking to them already, and they give out
that they expect a strong body of the indulged presbyterians, headed by
young Milnwood, as they call him, the son of the famous old roundhead,
Colonel Silas Morton."
This speech produced a very different effect upon the hearers. Edith
almost sunk from her seat with terror, while Claverhouse darted a glance
of sarcastic triumph at Major Bellenden, which seemed to imply - "You see
what are the principles of the young man you are pleading for."
"It's a lie - it's a d - d lie of these rascally fanatics," said the Major
hastily. "I will answer for Henry Morton as I would for my own son. He is
a lad of as good church-principles as any gentleman in the Life-Guards. I
mean no offence to any one. He has gone to church service with me fifty
times, and I never heard him miss one of the responses in my life. Edith
Bellenden can bear witness to it as well as I. He always read on the same
Prayer-book with her, and could look out the lessons as well as the
curate himself. Call him up; let him be heard for himself."
"There can be no harm in that," said Claverhouse, "whether he be innocent
or guilty. - Major Allan," he said, turning to the officer next in
command, "take a guide, and lead the regiment forward to Loudon-hill by
the best and shortest road. Move steadily, and do not let the men blow
the horses; Lord Evandale and I will overtake you in a quarter of an
hour. Leave Bothwell with a party to bring up the prisoners."
Allan bowed, and left the apartment, with all the officers, excepting
Claverhouse and the young nobleman. In a few minutes the sound of the
military music and the clashing of hoofs announced that the horsemen were
leaving the castle. The sounds were presently heard only at intervals,
and soon died away entirely.
While Claverhouse endeavoured to soothe the terrors of Lady Margaret, and
to reconcile the veteran Major to his opinion of Morton, Evandale,
getting the better of that conscious shyness which renders an ingenuous
youth diffident in approaching the object of his affections, drew near to
Miss Bellenden, and accosted her in a tone of mingled respect and
interest.
"We are to leave you," he said, taking her hand, which he pressed with
much emotion - "to leave you for a scene which is not without its dangers.
Farewell, dear Miss Bellenden; - let me say for the first, and perhaps the
last time, dear Edith! We part in circumstances so singular as may excuse
some solemnity in bidding farewell to one, whom I have known so long, and
whom I - respect so highly."
The manner differing from the words, seemed to express a feeling much
deeper and more agitating than was conveyed in the phrase he made use of.
It was not in woman to be utterly insensible to his modest and deep-felt
expression of tenderness. Although borne down by the misfortunes and
imminent danger of the man she loved, Edith was touched by the hopeless
and reverential passion of the gallant youth, who now took leave of her
to rush into dangers of no ordinary description.
"I hope - I sincerely trust," she said, "there is no danger. I hope there
is no occasion for this solemn ceremonial - that these hasty insurgents
will be dispersed rather by fear than force, and that Lord Evandale will
speedily return to be what he must always be, the dear and valued friend
of all in this castle."
"Of all," he repeated, with a melancholy emphasis upon the word. "But be
it so - whatever is near you is dear and valued to me, and I value their
approbation accordingly. Of our success I am not sanguine. Our numbers
are so few, that I dare not hope for so speedy, so bloodless, or so safe
an end of this unhappy disturbance. These men are enthusiastic, resolute,
and desperate, and have leaders not altogether unskilled in military
matters. I cannot help thinking that the impetuosity of our Colonel is
hurrying us against them rather prematurely. But there are few that have
less reason to shun danger than I have."
Edith had now the opportunity she wished to bespeak the young nobleman's
intercession and protection for Henry Morton, and it seemed the only
remaining channel of interest by which he could be rescued from impending
destruction. Yet she felt at that moment as if, in doing so, she was
abusing the partiality and confidence of the lover, whose heart was as
open before her, as if his tongue had made an express declaration. Could
she with honour engage Lord Evandale in the service of a rival? or could
she with prudence make him any request, or lay herself under any
obligation to him, without affording ground for hopes which she could
never realize? But the moment was too urgent for hesitation, or even for
those explanations with which her request might otherwise have been
qualified.
"I will but dispose of this young fellow," said Claverhouse, from the
other side of the hall, "and then, Lord Evandale - I am sorry to interrupt
again your conversation - but then we must mount. - Bothwell, why do not
you bring up the prisoner? and, hark ye, let two files load their
carabines."
In these words, Edith conceived she heard the death-warrant of her lover.
She instantly broke through the restraint which had hitherto kept her
silent.
"My Lord Evandale," she said, "this young gentleman is a particular
friend of my uncle's - your interest must be great with your colonel - let
me request your intercession in his favour - it will confer on my uncle a
lasting obligation."
"You overrate my interest, Miss Bellenden," said Lord Evandale; "I have
been often unsuccessful in such applications, when I have made them on
the mere score of humanity."
"Yet try once again for my uncle's sake."
"And why not for your own?" said Lord Evandale. "Will you not allow me to
think I am obliging you personally in this matter? - Are you so diffident
of an old friend that you will not allow him even the satisfaction of
thinking that he is gratifying your wishes?"
"Surely - surely," replied Edith; "you will oblige me infinitely - I am
interested in the young gentleman on my uncle's account - Lose no time,
for God's sake!"
She became bolder and more urgent in her entreaties, for she heard the
steps of the soldiers who were entering with their prisoner.
"By heaven! then," said Evandale, "he shall not die, if I should die in
his place! - But will not you," he said, resuming the hand, which in the
hurry of her spirits she had not courage to withdraw, "will not you grant
me one suit, in return for my zeal in your service?"
"Any thing you can ask, my Lord Evandale, that sisterly affection can
give."
"And is this all," he continued, "all you can grant to my affection
living, or my memory when dead?"
"Do not speak thus, my lord," said Edith, "you distress me, and do
injustice to yourself. There is no friend I esteem more highly, or to
whom I would more readily grant every mark of regard - providing - But" - A
deep sigh made her turn her head suddenly, ere she had well uttered the
last word; and, as she hesitated how to frame the exception with which
she meant to close the sentence, she became instantly aware she had been
overheard by Morton, who, heavily ironed and guarded by soldiers, was now
passing behind her in order to be presented to Claverhouse. As their eyes
met each other, the sad and reproachful expression of Morton's glance
seemed to imply that he had partially heard, and altogether
misinterpreted, the conversation which had just passed. There wanted but
this to complete Edith's distress and confusion. Her blood, which rushed
to her brow, made a sudden revulsion to her heart, and left her as pale
as death. This change did not escape the attention of Evandale, whose
quick glance easily discovered that there was between the prisoner and
the object of his own attachment, some singular and uncommon connexion.
He resigned the hand of Miss Bellenden, again surveyed the prisoner with
more attention, again looked at Edith, and plainly observed the confusion
which she could no longer conceal.
"This," he said, after a moment's gloomy silence, "is, I believe, the
young gentleman who gained the prize at the shooting match."
"I am not sure," hesitated Edith - "yet - I rather think not," scarce
knowing what she replied.
"It is he," said Evandale, decidedly; "I know him well. A victor," he
continued, somewhat haughtily, "ought to have interested a fair spectator
more deeply."
He then turned from Edith, and advancing towards the table at which
Claverhouse now placed himself, stood at a little distance, resting on
his sheathed broadsword, a silent, but not an unconcerned, spectator of
that which passed.
CHAPTER XIII.
O, my Lord, beware of jealousy!
Othello.
To explain the deep effect which the few broken passages of the
conversation we have detailed made upon the unfortunate prisoner by whom
they were overheard, it is necessary to say something of his previous
state of mind, and of the origin of his acquaintance with Edith.
Henry Morton was one of those gifted characters, which possess a force of
talent unsuspected by the owner himself. He had inherited from his father
an undaunted courage, and a firm and uncompromising detestation of
oppression, whether in politics or religion. But his enthusiasm was
unsullied by fanatic zeal, and unleavened by the sourness of the
puritanical spirit. From these his mind had been freed, partly by the
active exertions of his own excellent understanding, partly by frequent
and long visits at Major Bellenden's, where he had an opportunity of
meeting with many guests whose conversation taught him, that goodness and
worth were not limited to those of any single form of religious
observance.
The base parsimony of his uncle had thrown many obstacles in the way of
his education; but he had so far improved the opportunities which offered
themselves, that his instructors as well as his friends were surprised at
his progress under such disadvantages. Still, however, the current of his
soul was frozen by a sense of dependence, of poverty, above all, of an
imperfect and limited education. These feelings impressed him with a
diffidence and reserve which effectually concealed from all but very
intimate friends, the extent of talent and the firmness of character,
which we have stated him to be possessed of. The circumstances of the
times had added to this reserve an air of indecision and of indifference;
for, being attached to neither of the factions which divided the kingdom,
he passed for dull, insensible, and uninfluenced by the feeling of
religion or of patriotism. No conclusion, however, could be more unjust;
and the reasons of the neutrality which he had hitherto professed had
root in very different and most praiseworthy motives. He had formed few
congenial ties with those who were the objects of persecution, and was
disgusted alike by their narrow-minded and selfish party-spirit, their
gloomy fanaticism, their abhorrent condemnation of all elegant studies or
innocent exercises, and the envenomed rancour of their political hatred.
But his mind was still more revolted by the tyrannical and oppressive
conduct of the government, the misrule, license, and brutality of the
soldiery, the executions on the scaffold, the slaughters in the open
field, the free quarters and exactions imposed by military law, which
placed the lives and fortunes of a free people on a level with Asiatic
slaves. Condemning, therefore, each party as its excesses fell under his
eyes, disgusted with the sight of evils which he had no means of
alleviating, and hearing alternate complaints and exultations with which
he could not sympathize, he would long ere this have left Scotland, had
it not been for his attachment to Edith Bellenden.
The earlier meetings of these young people had been at Charnwood, when
Major Bellenden, who was as free from suspicion on such occasions as
Uncle Toby himself, had encouraged their keeping each other constant
company, without entertaining any apprehension of the natural
consequences. Love, as usual in such cases, borrowed the name of
friendship, used her language, and claimed her privileges. When Edith
Bellenden was recalled to her mother's castle, it was astonishing by what
singular and recurring accidents she often met young Morton in her
sequestered walks, especially considering the distance of their places of
abode. Yet it somehow happened that she never expressed the surprise
which the frequency of these rencontres ought naturally to have excited,
and that their intercourse assumed gradually a more delicate character,
and their meetings began to wear the air of appointments. Books,
drawings, letters, were exchanged between them, and every trifling
commission, given or executed, gave rise to a new correspondence. Love
indeed was not yet mentioned between them by name, but each knew the
situation of their own bosom, and could not but guess at that of the
other. Unable to desist from an intercourse which possessed such charms
for both, yet trembling for its too probable consequences, it had been
continued without specific explanation until now, when fate appeared to
have taken the conclusion into its own hands.
It followed, as a consequence of this state of things, as well as of the
diffidence of Morton's disposition at this period, that his confidence in
Edith's return of his affection had its occasional cold fits. Her
situations was in every respect so superior to his own, her worth so
eminent, her accomplishments so many, her face so beautiful, and her
manners so bewitching, that he could not but entertain fears that some
suitor more favoured than himself by fortune, and more acceptable to
Edith's family than he durst hope to be, might step in between him and
the object of his affections. Common rumour had raised up such a rival in
Lord Evandale, whom birth, fortune, connexions, and political principles,
as well as his frequent visits at Tillietudlem, and his attendance upon
Lady Bellenden and her niece at all public places, naturally pointed out
as a candidate for her favour. It frequently and inevitably happened,
that engagements to which Lord Evandale was a party, interfered with the
meeting of the lovers, and Henry could not but mark that Edith either
studiously avoided speaking of the young nobleman, or did so with obvious
reserve and hesitation.
These symptoms, which, in fact, arose from the delicacy of her own
feelings towards Morton himself, were misconstrued by his diffident
temper, and the jealousy which they excited was fermented by the
occasional observations of Jenny Dennison. This true-bred serving-damsel
was, in her own person, a complete country coquette, and when she had no
opportunity of teasing her own lovers, used to take some occasional
opportunity to torment her young lady's. This arose from no ill-will to
Henry Morton, who, both on her mistress's account and his own handsome
form and countenance, stood high in her esteem. But then Lord Evandale
was also handsome; he was liberal far beyond what Morton's means could
afford, and he was a lord, moreover, and, if Miss Edith Bellenden should
accept his hand, she would become a baron's lady, and, what was more,
little Jenny Dennison, whom the awful housekeeper at Tillietudlem huffed
about at her pleasure, would be then Mrs Dennison, Lady Evandale's own
woman, or perhaps her ladyship's lady-in-waiting. The impartiality of
Jenny Dennison, therefore, did not, like that of Mrs Quickly, extend to a
wish that both the handsome suitors could wed her young lady; for it must
be owned that the scale of her regard was depressed in favour of Lord
Evandale, and her wishes in his favour took many shapes extremely
tormenting to Morton; being now expressed as a friendly caution, now as
an article of intelligence, and anon as a merry jest, but always tending
to confirm the idea, that, sooner or later, his romantic intercourse with
her young mistress must have a close, and that Edith Bellenden would, in
spite of summer walks beneath the greenwood tree, exchange of verses, of
drawings, and of books, end in becoming Lady Evandale.
These hints coincided so exactly with the very point of his own
suspicions and fears, that Morton was not long of feeling that jealousy
which every one has felt who has truly loved, but to which those are most
liable whose love is crossed by the want of friends' consent, or some
other envious impediment of fortune. Edith herself, unwittingly, and in
the generosity of her own frank nature, contributed to the error into
which her lover was in danger of falling. Their conversation once chanced
to turn upon some late excesses committed by the soldiery on an occasion
when it was said (inaccurately however) that the party was commanded by
Lord Evandale. Edith, as true in friendship as in love, was somewhat hurt
at the severe strictures which escaped from Morton on this occasion, and
which, perhaps, were not the less strongly expressed on account of their
supposed rivalry. She entered into Lord Evandale's defence with such
spirit as hurt Morton to the very soul, and afforded no small delight to
Jenny Dennison, the usual companion of their walks. Edith perceived her
error, and endeavoured to remedy it; but the impression was not so easily
erased, and it had no small effect in inducing her lover to form that
resolution of going abroad, which was disappointed in the manner we have
already mentioned.
The visit which he received from Edith during his confinement, the deep
and devoted interest which she had expressed in his fate, ought of
themselves to have dispelled his suspicions; yet, ingenious in tormenting
himself, even this he thought might be imputed to anxious friendship, or,
at most, to a temporary partiality, which would probably soon give way to
circumstances, the entreaties of her friends, the authority of Lady
Margaret, and the assiduities of Lord Evandale.
"And to what do I owe it," he said, "that I cannot stand up like a man,
and plead my interest in her ere I am thus cheated out of it? - to what,
but to the all-pervading and accursed tyranny, which afflicts at once our
bodies, souls, estates, and affections! And is it to one of the pensioned
cut-throats of this oppressive government that I must yield my
pretensions to Edith Bellenden? - I will not, by Heaven! - It is a just
punishment on me for being dead to public wrongs, that they have visited
me with their injuries in a point where they can be least brooked or
borne."
As these stormy resolutions boiled in his bosom, and while he ran over
the various kinds of insult and injury which he had sustained in his own
cause and in that of his country, Bothwell entered the tower, followed by
two dragoons, one of whom carried handcuffs.
"You must follow me, young man," said he, "but first we must put you in
trim."
"In trim!" said Morton. "What do you mean?"
"Why, we must put on these rough bracelets. I durst not - nay, d - n it, I
durst do any thing - but I would not for three hours' plunder of a stormed
town bring a whig before my Colonel without his being ironed. Come, come,
young man, don't look sulky about it."
He advanced to put on the irons; but, seizing the oaken-seat upon which
he had rested, Morton threatened to dash out the brains of the first who
should approach him.
"I could manage you in a moment, my youngster," said Bothwell, "but I had
rather you would strike sail quietly."
Here indeed he spoke the truth, not from either fear or reluctance to
adopt force, but because he dreaded the consequences of a noisy scuffle,
through which it might probably be discovered that he had, contrary to
express orders, suffered his prisoner to pass the night without being
properly secured.
"You had better be prudent," he continued, in a tone which he meant to be
conciliatory, "and don't spoil your own sport. They say here in the
castle that Lady Margaret's niece is immediately to marry our young
Captain, Lord Evandale. I saw them close together in the hall yonder, and
I heard her ask him to intercede for your pardon. She looked so devilish
handsome and kind upon him, that on my soul - But what the devil's the
matter with you? - You are as pale as a sheet - Will you have some brandy?"
"Miss Bellenden ask my life of Lord Evandale?" said the prisoner,
faintly.
"Ay, ay; there's no friend like the women - their interest carries all in
court and camp. - Come, you are reasonable now - Ay, I thought you would
come round."
Here he employed himself in putting on the fetters, against which,
Morton, thunderstruck by this intelligence, no longer offered the least
resistance.
"My life begged of him, and by her! - ay - ay - put on the irons - my limbs
shall not refuse to bear what has entered into my very soul - My life
begged by Edith, and begged of Evandale!"
"Ay, and he has power to grant it too," said Bothwell - "He can do more
with the Colonel than any man in the regiment."
And as he spoke, he and his party led their prisoner towards the hall. In
passing behind the seat of Edith, the unfortunate prisoner heard enough,
as he conceived, of the broken expressions which passed between Edith and
Lord Evandale, to confirm all that the soldier had told him. That moment
made a singular and instantaneous revolution in his character. The depth
of despair to which his love and fortunes were reduced, the peril in
which his life appeared to stand, the transference of Edith's affections,
her intercession in his favour, which rendered her fickleness yet more
galling, seemed to destroy every feeling for which he had hitherto lived,
but, at the same time, awakened those which had hitherto been smothered
by passions more gentle though more selfish. Desperate himself, he
determined to support the rights of his country, insulted in his person.
His character was for the moment as effectually changed as the appearance
of a villa, which, from being the abode of domestic quiet and happiness,
is, by the sudden intrusion of an armed force, converted into a
formidable post of defence.
We have already said that he cast upon Edith one glance in which reproach
was mingled with sorrow, as if to bid her farewell for ever; his next
motion was to walk firmly to the table at which Colonel Grahame was
seated.
"By what right is it, sir," said he firmly, and without waiting till he
was questioned, - "By what right is it that these soldiers have dragged me
from my family, and put fetters on the limbs of a free man?"
"By my commands," answered Claverhouse; "and I now lay my commands on you
to be silent and hear my questions."
"I will not," replied Morton, in a determined tone, while his boldness
seemed to electrify all around him. "I will know whether I am in lawful
custody, and before a civil magistrate, ere the charter of my country
shall be forfeited in my person."
"A pretty springald this, upon my honour!" said Claverhouse.
"Are you mad?" said Major Bellenden to his young friend. "For God's sake,
Henry Morton," he continued, in a tone between rebuke and entreaty,
"remember you are speaking to one of his majesty's officers high in the
service."
"It is for that very reason, sir," returned Henry, firmly, "that I desire
to know what right he has to detain me without a legal warrant. Were he a
civil officer of the law I should know my duty was submission."
"Your friend, here," said Claverhouse to the veteran, coolly, "is one of
those scrupulous gentlemen, who, like the madman in the play, will not
tie his cravat without the warrant of Mr Justice Overdo; but I will let
him see, before we part, that my shoulder-knot is as legal a badge of
authority as the mace of the Justiciary. So, waving this discussion, you
will be pleased, young man, to tell me directly when you saw Balfour of
Burley."
"As I know no right you have to ask such a question," replied Morton, "I
decline replying to it."
"You confessed to my sergeant," said Claverhouse, "that you saw and
entertained him, knowing him to be an intercommuned traitor; why are you
not so frank with me?"
"Because," replied the prisoner, "I presume you are, from education,
taught to understand the rights upon which you seem disposed to trample;
and I am willing you should be aware there are yet Scotsmen who can
assert the liberties of Scotland."
"And these supposed rights you would vindicate with your sword, I
presume?" said Colonel Grahame.
"Were I armed as you are, and we were alone upon a hill-side, you should
not ask me the question twice."
"It is quite enough," answered Claverhouse, calmly; "your language
corresponds with all I have heard of you; - but you are the son of a
soldier, though a rebellious one, and you shall not die the death of a
dog; I will save you that indignity."
"Die in what manner I may," replied Morton, "I will die like the son of a
brave man; and the ignominy you mention shall remain with those who shed
innocent blood."
"Make your peace, then, with Heaven, in five minutes' space. - Bothwell,
lead him down to the court-yard, and draw up your party."
The appalling nature of this conversation, and of its result, struck the
silence of horror into all but the speakers. But now those who stood
round broke forth into clamour and expostulation. Old Lady Margaret, who,
with all the prejudices of rank and party, had not laid aside the
feelings of her sex, was loud in her intercession.
"O, Colonel Grahame," she exclaimed, "spare his young blood! Leave him to
the law - do not repay my hospitality by shedding men's blood on the
threshold of my doors!"
"Colonel Grahame," said Major Bellenden, "you must answer this violence.
Don't think, though I am old and feckless, that my friend's son shall be
murdered before my eyes with impunity. I can find friends that shall make
you answer it."
"Be satisfied, Major Bellenden, I will answer it," replied Claverhouse,
totally unmoved; "and you, madam, might spare me the pain the resisting
this passionate intercession for a traitor, when you consider the noble
blood your own house has lost by such as he is."
"Colonel Grahame," answered the lady, her aged frame trembling with
anxiety, "I leave vengeance to God, who calls it his own. The shedding of
this young man's blood will not call back the lives that were dear to me;
and how can it comfort me to think that there has maybe been another
widowed mother made childless, like mysell, by a deed done at my very
door-stane!"
"This is stark madness," said Claverhouse; "I must do my duty to church
and state. Here are a thousand villains hard by in open rebellion, and
you ask me to pardon a young fanatic who is enough of himself to set a
whole kingdom in a blaze! It cannot be - Remove him, Bothwell."
She who was most interested in this dreadful decision, had twice strove
to speak, but her voice had totally failed her; her mind refused to
suggest words, and her tongue to utter them. She now sprung up and
attempted to rush forward, but her strength gave way, and she would have
fallen flat upon the pavement had she not been caught by her attendant.
"Help!" cried Jenny, - "Help, for God's sake! my young lady is dying."
At this exclamation, Evandale, who, during the preceding part of the
scene, had stood motionless, leaning upon his sword, now stepped forward,
and said to his commanding-officer, "Colonel Grahame, before proceeding
in this matter, will you speak a word with me in private?"
Claverhouse looked surprised, but instantly rose and withdrew with the
young nobleman into a recess, where the following brief dialogue passed
between them:
"I think I need not remind you, Colonel, that when our family interest
was of service to you last year in that affair in the privy-council, you
considered yourself as laid under some obligation to us?"
"Certainly, my dear Evandale," answered Claverhouse, "I am not a man who
forgets such debts; you will delight me by showing how I can evince my
gratitude."
"I will hold the debt cancelled," said Lord Evandale, "if you will spare
this young man's life."
"Evandale," replied Grahame, in great surprise, "you are mad - absolutely
mad - what interest can you have in this young spawn of an old
roundhead? - His father was positively the most dangerous man in all
Scotland, cool, resolute, soliderly, and inflexible in his cursed
principles. His son seems his very model; you cannot conceive the
mischief he may do. I know mankind, Evandale - were he an insignificant,
fanatical, country booby, do you think I would have refused such a
trifle as his life to Lady Margaret and this family? But this is a lad
of fire, zeal, and education - and these knaves want but such a leader to
direct their blind enthusiastic hardiness. I mention this, not as
refusing your request, but to make you fully aware of the possible
consequences - I will never evade a promise, or refuse to return an
obligation - if you ask his life, he shall have it."
"Keep him close prisoner," answered Evandale, "but do not be surprised if
I persist in requesting you will not put him to death. I have most urgent
reasons for what I ask."
"Be it so then," replied Grahame; - "but, young man, should you wish in
your future life to rise to eminence in the service of your king and
country, let it be your first task to subject to the public interest, and
to the discharge of your duty, your private passions, affections, and
feelings. These are not times to sacrifice to the dotage of greybeards,
or the tears of silly women, the measures of salutary severity which the
dangers around compel us to adopt. And remember, that if I now yield this
point, in compliance with your urgency, my present concession must exempt
me from future solicitations of the same nature."
He then stepped forward to the table, and bent his eyes keenly on Morton,
as if to observe what effect the pause of awful suspense between death
and life, which seemed to freeze the bystanders with horror, would
produce upon the prisoner himself. Morton maintained a degree of
firmness, which nothing but a mind that had nothing left upon earth to
love or to hope, could have supported at such a crisis.
"You see him?" said Claverhouse, in a half whisper to Lord Evandale; "he
is tottering on the verge between time and eternity, a situation more
appalling than the most hideous certainty; yet his is the only cheek
unblenched, the only eye that is calm, the only heart that keeps its
usual time, the only nerves that are not quivering. Look at him well,
Evandale - If that man shall ever come to head an army of rebels, you will
have much to answer for on account of this morning's work." He then said
aloud, "Young man, your life is for the present safe, through the
intercession of your friends - Remove him, Bothwell, and let him be
properly guarded, and brought along with the other prisoners."
"If my life," said Morton, stung with the idea that he owed his respite
to the intercession of a favoured rival, "if my life be granted at Lord
Evandale's request" -
"Take the prisoner away, Bothwell," said Colonel Grahame, interrupting
him; "I have neither time to make nor to hear fine speeches."
Bothwell forced off Morton, saying, as he conducted him into the
court-yard, "Have you three lives in your pocket, besides the one in your
body, my lad, that you can afford to let your tongue run away with them
at this rate? Come, come, I'll take care to keep you out of the Colonel's
way; for, egad, you will not be five minutes with him before the next
tree or the next ditch will be the word. So, come along to your
companions in bondage."
Thus speaking, the sergeant, who, in his rude manner, did not altogether
want sympathy for a gallant young man, hurried Morton down to the
courtyard, where three other prisoners, (two men and a woman,) who had
been taken by Lord Evandale, remained under an escort of dragoons.
Meantime, Claverhouse took his leave of Lady Margaret. But it was
difficult for the good lady to forgive his neglect of her intercession.
"I have thought till now," she said, "that the Tower of Tillietudlem
might have been a place of succour to those that are ready to perish,
even if they werena sae deserving as they should have been - but I see
auld fruit has little savour - our suffering and our services have been of
an ancient date."
"They are never to be forgotten by me, let me assure your ladyship," said
Claverhouse. "Nothing but what seemed my sacred duty could make me
hesitate to grant a favour requested by you and the Major. Come, my good
lady, let me hear you say you have forgiven me, and, as I return
to-night, I will bring a drove of two hundred whigs with me, and pardon
fifty head of them for your sake."
"I shall be happy to hear of your success, Colonel," said Major
Bellenden; "but take an old soldier's advice, and spare blood when
battle's over, - and once more let me request to enter bail for young
Morton."
"We will settle that when I return," said Claverhouse. "Meanwhile, be
assured his life shall be safe."
During this conversation, Evandale looked anxiously around for Edith; but
the precaution of Jenny Dennison had occasioned her mistress being
transported to her own apartment.
Slowly and heavily he obeyed the impatient summons of Claverhouse, who,
after taking a courteous leave of Lady Margaret and the Major, had
hastened to the court-yard. The prisoners with their guard were already
on their march, and the officers with their escort mounted and followed.
All pressed forward to overtake the main body, as it was supposed they
would come in sight of the enemy in little more than two hours.
CHAPTER XIV.
My hounds may a' rin masterless,
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree,
My lord may grip my vassal lands,
For there again maun I never be!
Old Ballad.
We left Morton, along with three companions in captivity, travelling in
the custody of a small body of soldiers, who formed the rear-guard of the
column under the command of Claverhouse, and were immediately under the
charge of Sergeant Bothwell. Their route lay towards the hills in which
the insurgent presbyterians were reported to be in arms. They had not
prosecuted their march a quarter of a mile ere Claverhouse and Evandale
galloped past them, followed by their orderly-men, in order to take their
proper places in the column which preceded them. No sooner were they past
than Bothwell halted the body which he commanded, and disencumbered
Morton of his irons.
"King's blood must keep word," said the dragoon. "I promised you should
be civilly treated as far as rested with me. - Here, Corporal Inglis, let
this gentleman ride alongside of the other young fellow who is prisoner;
and you may permit them to converse together at their pleasure, under
their breath, but take care they are guarded by two files with loaded
carabines. If they attempt an escape, blow their brains out. - You cannot
call that using you uncivilly," he continued, addressing himself to
Morton, "it's the rules of war, you know. - And, Inglis, couple up the
parson and the old woman, they are fittest company for each other, d - n
me; a single file may guard them well enough. If they speak a word of
cant or fanatical nonsense, let them have a strapping with a
shoulder-belt. There's some hope of choking a silenced parson; if he is
not allowed to hold forth, his own treason will burst him."
Having made this arrangement, Bothwell placed himself at the head of the
party, and Inglis, with six dragoons, brought up the rear. The whole then
set forward at a trot, with the purpose of overtaking the main body of
the regiment.
Morton, overwhelmed with a complication of feelings, was totally
indifferent to the various arrangements made for his secure custody, and
even to the relief afforded him by his release from the fetters. He
experienced that blank and waste of the heart which follows the hurricane
of passion, and, no longer supported by the pride and conscious rectitude
which dictated his answers to Claverhouse, he surveyed with deep