CHAPTER XIV.

THE HAWK AND THE DOVE.

O wae be to the orders, that marched my love awa, And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears' dounfa'; The drums beat in the morning, before the screich o' day, The wee fifes played loud and shrill, and yet the morn was grey; The bonnie flags were a' unfurled, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my soldier-lad, that marched to Germanie. MOTHERWELL.

The intense sadness of Lilian for some days after the march of the troops, soon led Lady Grisel to suspect that her heart and hopes were away with the Scottish host; and the blush that ever suffused her cheek on Walter's name being mentioned convinced the old lady that her conclusions were just. Lilian knew well what was passing in the mind of her grandaunt, and as she had never hitherto concealed a thought from her, she threw herself upon her neck, and with tears, blushes, and agitation, which made her innocence appear more than ever charming, confessed how she and Walter Fenton had plighted their solemn troth, and shewing his ring, implored her pardon and her blessing upon them both.

"God bless thee mine own dear child!" said the kind old lady; "though poor Walter Fenton hath nothing on earth but his heart and his sword, and though I might wish a longer pedigree than he, good lad, can boast of, still I esteem him for his manly bearing--I love him for his generosity, and I have ever loved thee, Lilian, much too well to withhold aught on which thy happiness depends. May the kind God bless thee, my fair-haired bairn! and may thy love be fortunate and happy as it is innocent and pure!"

Lilian's heart was full, and she wept on the breast of her kind old kinswoman.

After a time the idea did occur to Lady Bruntisfield, that the first love of her grand-niece, who since the captain's outlawry had become the only hope and last representative of an old baronial race, should be a nameless and penniless soldier, about to become a partisan in a dangerous civil war, was a matter for serious deliberation; but her blessing had been given, her honour had been pledged, and neither could be now withdrawn. She remembered too, that if William conquered in the coming struggle, that Lilian would be dowerless; for on her own demise, the lands of Bruntisfield and the Wrytes (of which as before stated she had but a life-rent) passed to her nephew the captain of the Scots Dutch, as next heir of entail; and she knew that the crafty Lord Clermistonlee, who had long been Lilian's avowed suitor, based his mercenary and ambitious hopes mainly on breaking this law by bringing the unfortunate captain under the ban of the Council, now no difficult matter, as he had openly joined the standard of the Prince of Orange.

Though his Lordship's rank made him, in one respect, an eligible suitor, his general character for cruelty, debauchery, and every fashionable vice, caused him to be viewed with detestation by all, save a few wild and kindred spirits; and there were current certain dark, and, perhaps, exaggerated stories concerning the death of his lady several years before; and these, more than any thing else, led every woman, in that moral age, to regard him with secret horror.

Yet all admitted that he was pre-eminently a handsome man, and that none dressed so magnificently, danced more gracefully, had better trained hawks and hounds, or fleeter racers than Randal, Lord Clermistonlee. Notwithstanding all this, Lady Grisel would rather have seen her dear-loved Lilian in the coils of a boa-constrictor than in his arms; and as the image of the daring roué came vividly before her, she blessed poor Walter more affectionately, and kissing her fair grand-niece again, made her feel more happy than she ever thought to have been in absence of her lover. Rendered buoyant in spirit by the hopes which the affection and approbation of her venerable kinswoman had kindled anew within her breast (for love and hope go hand in hand), she retired to the garden, to view, for the hundredth time, the spot where she had plighted her faith and love to Walter Fenton, a species of hand-fasting in those days so solemn and binding, that it was almost esteemed a half espousal.

Day was closing, and the old knotty oaks creaked mournfully in the evening wind: now their October foliage was crisped and brown; the branches of many were bare and leafless, and the voice of the coming winter was heard on the hollow gale; while the fallen leaves and faded flowers, the apparent exhaustion and decay of nature, increased the idea of desolation in her mind, and poor Lilian's heart swelled with the sad thoughts that oppressed it. Seated by the mossy dialstone, resigned to solitude and to sorrow, she yielded to the grief that gradually stole over her, and wept bitterly.

How vividly she recollected all the circumstances of that dear interview, and Walter's last injunction--"Remember the hour beside the fountain, and forget not the 20th of September!" The hour was the same; and the fountain was plashing with the same monotonous sound into the same carved basin, and the voice of Walter seemed to mingle with the echo of the falling water.

"Walter! Walter!" she exclaimed, and, dipping her hands again in the water, pressed to her lips the pledge he had given her at parting--his mother's ring, the only trinket he had ever possessed in the world; and though small its apparent value, it contained a secret that was yet to have a potent influence on the fortunes of both.

On the preservation of that ring depended the life of Walter and the mystery of his birth.

Absence had now rendered more dear to her that love which preference, chance, and congenial taste had previously made the all-absorbing feeling of her heart.

"And he was here with me three weeks ago! Only three weeks! Alas! dear Walter, if years seem to have elapsed since then, what will the time appear before we meet again? Oh, that I had the power of a fairy, to behold him now!" She turned her eyes to the south,--to where, above its thick dark woods, the embattled keep of the Napiers of Merchiston closed the view. There she had last seen the Scottish host winding over the muir, and remembered the last flash of arms in the sunlight as a straggling trooper disappeared over the ridge. Her heart yearned within her, and her agitation increased so much that she reclined against the cold dialstone, and covered her face with her hands.

At length she became more composed, and her grief gave way to softer melancholy, as the sombre tints of the balmy autumnal evening crept over the beautiful landscape. The sun was setting, and, amid the saffron clouds, seemed to rest afar off like a vast crimson globe above the dark-pine woods that cover the ridges of Corstorphine. The bright flush of the dying day stole along the level plain from the westward, lighting up the grated casements, the fantastic chimnies, and massive turrets of the old manor-house, and the gnarled trunks of its ivied beeches and old "ancestral oaks."

Pouring aslant from beneath a screen of dun vapour like a thunder-cloud edged with gold, the sun's bright rays gave a warm but partial colouring to the scenery, glittering on the dark-green leaves of the holly hedges, then gaudy with clusters of scarlet berries, and rendering more red the crisped and faded foliage that bordered the shining lake. White smoke curled up from many a cottage-roof embosomed among the coppice; and as the sunbeams died away upon the stirless woods and waveless water, Lilian recalled many an evening when, at the same hour, and in the same place, she had leant upon Walter's arm, and surveyed the same fair landscape; and the memory of his remarks, and the tones of his voice, came back to her with a fond but painful distinctness.

Her favourite pigeon, with the snow-white pinions and silver varvels, alighted on her shoulder and nestled in her neck; but the caresses of her little pet were unheeded. Lilian neither felt nor heard them; her heart was with her thoughts, and these were far away, where the Scottish drums were ringing among the Border hills and pathless mosses. The face, the air, the very presence of her lover, came vividly before the ardent girl; like a vision of the second sight, she conjured them up, and his voice yet sounded in her ears as she had last heard it--softened, tremulous, and agitated; but, alas! now mountains rose and rivers rolled between them, and kingdoms were to be lost and won ere again she felt his kiss upon her cheek. The dove seemed sensible of the sorrow that preyed upon its mistress, and, nestled in her soft bosom, lay still and motionless, with bowed head and trailing pinions.

"By Jove! she _is_ a magnificent being," said a voice. "Now, fair Lilian--now, by all that is opportune, you must hear me."

She started, but was unable to rise, from confusion and fear. Lord Clermistonlee stood beside her. His dark velvet mantle half concealed his rich dress, as the plumes of his slouched hat did the sinister expression of his proud and impressive features. He was armed with his long sword and dagger, and had a brace of pistols in his girdle. A large hawk sat upon his wrist, and the expression with which his large dark eyes were fixed on the shrinking girl, found an exact counterpart in those of the hawk when regarding the trembling dove, which cowered in the bosom of its mistress. From the ardour of his glance and a certain jauntiness in his air, it was evident that he was a little intoxicated, as usual.

Lilian, in great terror, looked hurriedly around her. She was at the extremity of a spacious garden, and now the evening was far advanced. Save old John Leekie, the gardener, none could be within hearing; and the cry she would have uttered died away upon her lips. Even had that venerable servitor approached, he would soon have been knocked on the head by Juden Stenton, who lay close by, concealed like a snake in the holly hedge.

"My Lord, to what do I owe this sudden visit?"

"To the attractive power of your charms, my beauty."

"Permit me to pass you," said Lilian sharply.

"Nay, my dearest Lilian," replied the lord, taking her hand, and retaining it in spite of all her efforts to the contrary. "The very modesty that makes you shrink from my polite admiration invests you with a thousand new attractions."

"Doubtless," said Lilian, with as much scorn as her gentleness permitted, "politeness is the peculiar characteristic of your lordship; and yours is not less flattering than your admiration."

"My adorable girl! you transport me--you open up a new vista of hope to me in these words," said Clermistonlee, with something of real passion in his voice. "You must be aware there are few dames in Scotland that would not be flattered by my addresses; and that few men in Scotland, too, would dare to cross me. For thee alone my heart has been reserved. On this fair hand let me seal----"

"Nay, nay, my lord," urged Lilian, struggling to be free, and becoming excessively frightened.

"By every sparkle of those beautiful eyes, and the amiable vivacity that illumines them," continued his lordship, making a theatrical attempt to embrace her,--"suffer me to implore----"

"Help! help, for God's sake!" exclaimed Lilian. "My Lord, this insolence shall not pass unpunished."

"Death and the devil! Dost mock me, little one? Is it insolence thus to fall at your feet?--thus to pour forth my soul in rapture, where a king might be proud to kneel?"

"My Lord, you are the strangest mixture of pride, presumption, and absurdity in all broad Scotland," said Lilian, spiritedly. "I command you to unhand me, and to remember that there is a pit under the house where much hotter spirits than yours have learned to become cool and respectful."

He released her.

"The pretty moppet is quite in a passion. My dear Lilian, why so cruel? Am I indeed so hateful that you despise me?"

"O, no," said she, gently, touched with his tone, for his voice was very persuasive, and his presence was surpassingly noble. "I cannot hate one who has never wronged me; and I dare not despise aught that God has made."

"Then you only respect me the same as the cows in yonder park?"

"Heaven forbid, my Lord, I should rate you so low!"

"Joy! beautiful Lilian. I now perceive that you do love me; and that coy diffidence alone prevents you revealing the sentiments of your heart." And throwing his arms around her, he embraced her, despite all her struggles, and though the girl was strong and active. Thrice she shrieked aloud; and having one hand at liberty, seized Clermistonlee by his perfumed and cherished mustachios, giving him a twist so severe, that he immediately released her, but still interposed between her and the house. His eyes sparkled with ill-concealed rage.

"Hoity toity!" he muttered, stroking his mustachios, and surveying her with a gloomy expression. "May the great devil take me if I understand you!"

Lilian now began to weep, and murmured--

"I request your lordship to learn----"

"That thou lovest another? Damnation, little fool! art still favouring that beardless beggar, whom some Dutchman's bullet will hurl to his father in the bottomless pit?"

"Wretch!" exclaimed Lilian, with undisguised contempt. "In heart and soul, Walter Fenton is as much above thee as the heavens are above the earth!"

Stung by her words, the eyes of Clermistonlee glared, and his lips grew white: he looked round for some object on which to pour forth the storm of rage and jealousy that blazed within him. He saw the poor dove which nestled in Lilian's breast, and, prompted by wickedness and revenge, suddenly snatched it away, and tossed it into the air; then, quick as thought, he slipped the jess of scarlet leather that bound the fierce hawk to his nether wrist, and like lightning it shot after the terrified pigeon, and soared far in air above it.

With fixed eyes and clasped hands Lilian watched it; and so intense was her fear for her favourite, that, in the imminence of its danger, she quite forgot her own. The stern eyes of Clermistonlee were alternately fixed on the soaring birds and on Lilian's pallid face; and he grasped her tender arm with the force of a vice with one hand, while pointing upward to the dove with the other.

"Behold! thou foolish vixen," said he--"_thou_ art the dove, and _I_ am the hawk; and thus shall I conquer in the end!" Even as he spoke, the hawk soused down upon its quarry, and both sank to the earth.

The pigeon was dead!

Lilian never spoke; but bent upon her tormentor a glance of horror, scorn, and contempt, so intense that he even quailed before it, while darting past him, she rushed towards the house.

The intruder then leaped the garden wall; and, followed by his stout henchman, hurried towards Edinburgh.