CHAPTER XVII.

A DISCLOSURE.

_'Tis night_;--and glittering o'er the trampled heath, Pale gleams the moonlight on the field of death; Lights up each well-known spot, where late in blood, The vanquished yielded, and the victor stood; When red in clouds the sun of battle rode, And poured on Britain's front its favoring flood. LORD GRENVILLE.

Again the summer moon rose brightly over the secluded village of Steinkirke, and poured its cold and steady lustre on cornfields drenched in blood, and trod to gory mire by the charge of the spurred squadrons, the closer movements of the compact squares of infantry, or the artillery's track; on the pale and upturned faces of the dying, the distorted and ghastlier lineaments of the dead,--on a wide battle-field strewn with all the trophies of war and destruction,--misery and agony.

Save where illumined by the gleams of moonlight, by the red flashes of a few distant fire-arms, and the redder glare from a convent burned by the retreating British, the ruddy conflagration of which mingled with the last faint glow of the departed sun, the field seemed gloomy and dark. A narrow lurid streak at the distant horizon shewed where the sun had set. The roar of that great battle had now died away, but it had sent forth an echo over France and Britain denoting joy to one and sorrow to the other. Where, then, was William of Orange, and where his mighty host?

The contest was now over, and, save the distant popping of a few skirmishers or plunderers, every sound of strife had ceased; but the cool night wind was laden with a sad and wailing murmur, a sound which it is seldom the lot of man to hear--the mingled moans of many thousands of men enduring all the complicated torture of sabre and gunshot wounds and the most excruciating thirst. Many a solemn prayer and pious ejaculation of deep contrition, uttered in many a varied tongue, were then ascending from that moonlit battlefield to the throne of God, while others in their ravings called only on Death to ease them of their torments; and long ere sunrise the stern king of terrors attended the summons of many.

A great cannon royal, drawn by eight horses and escorted by the artillerists of the Brigade de Dauphine, passed near the corpse-heaped abbatis where Walter Fenton lay, and he implored them to remove him from the field. They were passing him unheeded, when one exclaimed,

"_Il est un officier Ecossais!_" upon which the drivers reined up: the soldiers sprang from the tumbril, and placing him beside them, galloped across the field of battle towards the redoubts on the left of Luxembourg's position. The jolting occasioned Walter exquisite agony, and he could not repress a shudder when the cannon wheels passed over the crackling body of some dead or wounded soldier who lay prostrate in their path.

After riding a mile or two he fell from his seat with violence, and once more became insensible.

"_Il est morte_" said the Frenchmen, as they whipped up their horses and thought no more about him.

After lying long in a dreamy state, tormented by a burning thirst and feeling prickly and shooting pains over his whole body as the blood flowed back into its old channels, Walter made an attempt to rise, but the motion occasioned him exquisite pain, and the whole landscape swam around him. He thought he was mortally wounded; a cold perspiration burst over his temples; a stupor again stole upon his senses, and, believing he was dying, he piously recommended himself to God, closed his eyes, and lay down resigned to his fate.

But the mind was active though the frame remained inert, and he thought of Lilian, of Finland and Annie, and how the hand of Death had thrown a cold blight over all their fondest hopes and prospects, and so weak had he become that audible sobs burst from him.

The heavy dew was falling fast, and its moisture refreshed him; he raised his head, and near him saw the figure of a female in a sombre and peculiar garb: she was completely attired in black; a thick veil of the same colour with a little hood of white linen were drawn closely round her face, which seemed pale and colourless as that of death in the uncertain rays of a cruise which she carried; but though aged, she was marked by a serenity and air of repose singularly winning and prepossessing. She bent tenderly over him with a face expressive of the deepest commiseration.

"'Tis a vision!" was Walter's first thought; "'tis an Ursuline nun," was his second.

"Poor youth--unhappy youth!" said the stranger tenderly, and burst into tears.

"Heaven's blessing on you, gentle lady," said Walter, as he endeavoured to rise; "no tears can be more precious in the sight of Heaven than those shed by compassion. God save great Luxembourg! We have this day gained a glorious victory; but at what a price to me!" he continued in his own language. "Alake! my brave and noble friends, the best blood of Scotland has mingled yonder with the waters of the Senne."

"Scotland!" replied the venerable Ursuline, and her mild eyes became filled with animation and sadness. "I acknowledge with sorrow and pride that your country is also mine; but, alas! I can only remember it with horror and humiliation. Your voice takes me back to the pleasant days of other and happier years, and stirs an echo in the deepest recesses of my heart. Oh, my God! what is this that I feel within me? Intercede for me blessed Ursula, and save me from my own thoughts! Oh, let not the contentment in which I have dwelt these many years be disturbed by worldly regrets and old unhappiness!"

There was a deep pathos in her voice, an air of subdued sorrow, mildness, and melancholy in her features, and a soft expression in her eye that was very winning, and Walter kissed her hand with a sentiment of affection and respect, and, strange to say, she did not withdraw it.

"I belonged to the convent of Ursulines at Steinkirke. At vesper-time the Count Solmes sacked it with his troopers; (God forgive him and them the sacrilege!) they expelled us with savage violence, and I found shelter in a cottage close by. Your groans drew me forth. Permit me to lead you, my poor son, for indeed you seem very weak. There is one poor fugitive there already, a countrywoman of our own, to whom I hope you will bring pleasant tidings; let us go."

They entered the humble Flemish cottage, the wide kitchen of which was brilliantly illuminated by a blazing fire of turf, that lit the furthest recesses of the great but rude apartment, that strongly resembled those represented by Rembrandt and Teniers, where every imaginable implement and article, garden and household utensil, hang from the beams of the open roof, load the walls, or encumber every available nook and corner; a heavy Flemish boor, in voluminous brown breeches, arose and doffed his fur cap, and with his wife made way for the sister of St. Ursula, who led Walter to a seat.

Thankfully he drained to the last drop a pewter flaggon of water that the housewife gave him, and was about to speak, when his attention was arrested by the sudden appearance of a young lady. She was very beautiful, and had an exquisitely fair complexion, the natural paleness of which grief and fear had very much increased; her blue eyes sparkled with animation, and her half dishevelled hair was of the brightest and glossiest but palest flaxen. Running to Walter Fenton she took both his hands in hers, and said, with a touching earnestness of manner,

"Ah, Sir! come you from the field of battle?"

"This moment, madam."

"Oh, you are Scottish by your voice, but alas! you wear the garb of Louis."

"My dear madam, it is the garb of loyalty and exile; of great suffering, and of much endurance."

"Unhappy Sir, you are----"

"One of the cavaliers of Dundee."

"Oh, tell me if you know aught of the fate of General Mackay in this day's carnage; Mackay, the Laird of Scoury?" she added a little proudly.

"Lady," faltered Walter, quite overcome by the question and the aspect of the speaker, "the brave champion of Presbyterianism is no more. I--I saw him slain."

"My father! oh, my father!" cried Margaret Mackay, in a voice that pierced the conscience-stricken Fenton to the heart; "I shall never see thee more--never behold thy kind old face and silver hair. Oh, my God! I am quite alone in the world, and what will become of me now? Oh, Lady Clermistonlee!" she exclaimed, and pressing against her heart the hand of the nun, sank into a chair and swooned.

"_Clermistonlee!_" reiterated Walter, starting; but the helpless condition of his young countrywoman demanded immediate attention, and he was compelled to smother his curiosity for a time, until she had partially recovered, and then the good Ursuline, after attending her with the most motherly care, left her engaged in prayer in another apartment, and turned all her attention to the wound on Walter's head.

With an adroit neatness of hand, a soft insinuating manner which drew the heart of Walter towards her as to a mother, the compassionate nun, assisted by the silent Flemish housewife, bathed the wound, cut away the long clotted locks, and bound it up, while the round visaged boor, whose mind was wholly absorbed by the loss of a field of corn, which had been cut down by Boufflers' foraging dragoons, sat with his eyes intently fixed on the smoke that curled from his pipe.

Walter had been so little accustomed to kindness, that all the strong feelings of his warm heart now gushed forth.

"A thousand thanks, dear madam!" he exclaimed. "I know not whether it is your kindness, the mere ardour of my heart, or some mysterious influence that Heaven alone can see, which calls forth all my fondest and most reverential sentiments towards you."

The Ursuline smiled sadly, and retired a pace.

"Oh, what is this new feeling that stirs within me?" continued Walter, in a half musing voice. "It seems as if your face bore the long remembered features of some kind friend or dear relative. Like a gleam of sunshine through a mist, they come back to me from the obscurity of the past like those of one whom--but, ah! whither is my enthusiasm carrying me? Dear madam, once more a thousand thanks, for now I must leave, and shall never see you more, but your kindness will ever be remembered by Walter Fenton with gratitude and love."

"Fenton!" said the Ursuline, putting back his hair, and tenderly surveying his emaciated features, "I once had a dear though humble friend of that name, and my heart yearns to thee for her sake. But wherefore this hurry to depart? Your wound?--"

"I know not where I am, lady, and should any of the Statholder's people come this way I should assuredly be shot."

"Then, in the name of all that is blessed, away! The fires of the French camp are still visible, and you may gain it ere daybreak."

This passed in French, but the boor understood it; his eyes twinkled, and knocking the ashes from his pipe he slowly stuck it in his leathern cap and stole out unperceived.

"And what will be the fate of this poor daughter of the brave Mackay, for everywhere the French are swarming around us?"

"Through a lady of the house of Nassau, who belongs to our now, alas! ruined convent, I will see her consigned to the care of her father's best friend, William of Orange."

"'Tis fortunate. It reminds me of what I scarcely dare to ask. She called you by the name of my bitterest enemy--Clermistonlee," said Walter, biting his lip; "Clermistonlee, who has been my rival and the bane of my existence. Oh, madam, what terrible mystery is concealed under this Ursuline habit!"

As Walter spoke the blood came and went in the faded face of the trembling recluse. One moment, when fired by animation, her features seemed almost beautiful, and the next they were withered, rigid, and aged.

"Mr. Fenton," faltered the nun--"Mr. Fenton, for so I presume you are named?"

"I am Sir Walter Fenton, lady, by the King's grace."

The nun bowed slightly.

"My heart warms, Sir Walter, to that dear native land which I shall never behold again, and in a moment of such weakness I revealed myself to that poor fugitive girl, whom fate so happily threw under my protection, when the confederates were defeated and dispersed----. You know him then, this wicked man, to whom fate in an evil hour gave me as a wife. Oh, Randal! Randal! --------. Let me not recall in bitterness the burning thoughts of years long passed and gone--thoughts which I have long since learned to suppress, or endure with calmness and resignation."

"Enough, dear madam, I am animated by no vulgar curiosity, and time presses. Oh, learn rather to forget your earlier griefs than to remember them. Too well do I know the Lord Clermistonlee, and can easily conceive a long and painful history of domestic woe and suffering. You are the unfortunate Alison Gilford?"

"Of the house of Gilford of that ilk in Lothian," continued the recluse with tearless composure. "In his earlier days, when young, gallant, and winsome, with an honoured name and spotless scutcheon, Randal Clermont became my lover and my husband. Oh, how happy I was for a time; how loving and beloved! But a change came over the unstable heart of my husband. His political intrigues and private excesses soon ruined our fortune, deprived me of his love and him of my esteem. We were driven into exile, and retired to Paris. There he plunged madly into a vortex of the lowest dissipation, and spent the last of my dowry, my jewels, and everything. He became a drunkard, a bully, and a gamester, if not worse. Long, long I endured without a murmur or reproach his pitiless cruelty and cutting contempt, until he eloped with one who in better days had been my companion and attendant, an artful wretch named Beatrix Gilruth. He joined the army of Mareschal Crecquy as a volunteer, and I saw him no more. Hearing afterwards that he was in Scotland fighting under the standard of the Covenant, and being driven to despair by the miseries into which he had plunged me, by leaving me a prey to destitution in a foreign land, I resolved to quit the world for ever; I have come of an old Catholic family, and a convent was my first thought.

"Our child, for we had one, our child was alternately a source of torment and delight," continued the poor nun, weeping bitterly--"my torment from the resemblance it bore to its perfidious father, and my delight as the only tie that bound me to earth; I resolved to see it no more, and sent the poor infant to Scotland in charge of a faithful female servitor, to whom I gave a letter for my husband, purporting to be written on my deathbed, and a ring he had given me in happier days. In an agony of grief I saw the woman depart, and gave her all I possessed, a few louis-d'ors I had acquired at Paris, where I had supported myself as a fleuriste, and was patronized by the Scottish Archers, who were ever very kind to me. I considered myself as dead to the world from that hour, and immediately commenced my noviciate in the licensed convent of St. Ursula in French Flanders.

"Here again all the wounds of my heart were torn open by tidings that the ship in which my loved little boy and his nurse embarked had perished at sea; whether they perished too God alone knoweth, for I heard of them no more. And now the fierce stings of remorse increased the sadness of my sorrow, and I upbraided myself with cruelty, with lack of fortitude and such resignation as became a Christian. I accused myself of infanticide, and in my thoughts by day and my dreams by night I had ever before me the sunny eyes and golden hair of my little child, and its lisping accents in my dreaming ear awoke me to tears and unavailing sorrow."

Here the poor nun again paused and wept bitterly.

"Time never fails to soften the memory of the most acute sorrow, and in the convent to which I had fled for refuge from my own thoughts, the soothing consolations of the sisterhood, the calm, the pious and blameless tenor of their way, charmed me as much as their holy meekness of spirit subdued my bitter regrets. After a time I tasted the sweets of the most perfect contentment, if not of happiness. In the duties of religion, of industry and charity, I soon learned to forget Clermistonlee, or to remember him only in my prayers--to forget that I had been a wife, to forget that I had been--oh, no! not a mother--never could I forget that."

"Villain that he is! and with the consciousness of your Ladyship's existence, he has, since he was ennobled, wooed many another to be his bride; but Heaven's hand or his own vices have always foiled him."

The eyes of the recluse sparkled beneath her veil; but folding her white hands meekly on her bosom, she said with exceeding gentleness--

"What have I to do with it now?--besides, youth, I am sure he believes me dead, for some of the Scottish Archers told him so--and dead I am to him and to the world."

"It is a very sad history, madam,"

"But God has comforted me." Her tears fell fast nevertheless, and a long pause ensued. Walter felt himself moved to tears, and he often sighed deeply, yet knew not why.

The sound of a trumpet roused him; it seemed close bye, and came in varying cadence on the passing wind.

"'Tis the trumpet of a Dutch patrole. I must begone, lady, or remain only to die. Farewell; a thousand blessings on you and a thousand more--for we shall never meet again;" and half kneeling he kissed her hand, and, slipping from the cottage, favoured by the darkened moon, hurried away towards the fires of Luxembourg's camp, just as a party of Dutch Ruyters led by the boor halted at the cottage door.

* * * * *

With fifty thousand men the Mareschal Duke of Luxembourg was posted at Courtray on the Lys; while William, with twice that number, lay at Grammont, inactive, phlegmatic, and afraid to attack him; an inertness which increased the growing ill-humour of Britain against him. Without a dinner and without a sou, abandoned to solitude and dejection, Walter Fenton one evening paced slowly to and fro on the ramparts of Courtray, watching the bright sunset as it lingered long on the level scenery. A page approached, who acquainted him that Monseigneur le Mareschal required his presence in the citadel, whither he immediately repaired, and found the great Henri of Luxembourg, the youthful Dukes of Chartres and Vendome, with other chevaliers of distinction, carousing after a sumptuous repast.

As he entered, De Chartres was singing the merry old ditty of _Jean de Nivelle_, while the rest chorused.

"Jean de Nivelle has three flails; Three palfrays with long manes and tails; Three blades of a terrible brand, Which he never takes into his hand. _Ah! ouivraiment! Jean de Nivelle est bon enfant!_"

The magnificence of their attire, the happy nonchalance and graceful ease of their manner, contrasted with his own tattered and humble uniform, fallen fortune, and jaded spirit, made Walter's heart sick as he entered; but, assuming somewhat of the old air of a cavalier officer, he bowed to the noble company, and awaited in silence the commands of the Mareschal.

"Approach, Monsieur," said the handsome young Duc de Chartres. "Tête Dieu! but you look very pale! You were wounded I believe?"

"It is nearly healed Monseigneur,"

"Ah, it is deuced unpleasant work this fighting and beleaguering."

"De Chartres would rather be at Chantilly," said the Duc de Vendome, laughing.

"Or at Versailles," said a Chevalier of St. Louis. "He is thinking of little Mariette Gondalaurier."

"Or St. Denis and adorable Isabeau Lagrange."

"Say Paris at once, Messieurs," said the boyish roué, smiling. "I have beauties everywhere."

"The Scottish officer will drink with us--here, boy, assist our friend to wine," said Luxembourg to his page. "'Tis only Frontiniac, Monsieur; but an hour ago it was Dutch William's, and we drink it out of pure spite."

Walter drank the fragrant wine from a massively embossed cup, and his head swam as he imbibed it, and waited to hear for what desperate duty these noble peers designed him.

"Chevalier," said Luxembourg with his most bland smile, "it is pleasant to reward the brave. Aware that the repulse of the confederate cavalry on my right flank, and consequently the whole success of that glorious day at Steinkirke was mainly owing to the valour of the Scottish cavaliers animated by your example, King Louis sends you this." And taking from his own neck the sparkling cross of the recently created order of St. Louis, the Duke placed it around the neck of Walter Fenton, who bowed his thanks in silence.

"Go, Chevalier--you are a gallant soldier! The Scots were ever brave, and the friends of France. Wear that cross with honour to the Most Christian King, to your native country--"

"And to the most sublime Madame Maintenon," said the young Duke, and his gay companions laughed.

"Monseigneur!" said Luxembourg warningly.

"Tête Dieu, Mareschal! dost think I fear her? Faith Madame, 'tis known, never gives a favour without a most usurious per centage. She is quite a Jewess in the intrigues of love and politics, ha! ha!"

"Attached to this cross, Chevalier, is a pension of four hundred livres yearly, which I doubt not will be acceptable in your present reduced circumstances."

"Oh, believe me, Monseigneur le Mareschal, and you most noble Dukes, it is indeed most acceptable; for with it I may in some sort alleviate the miseries of those gallant gentlemen, my comrades, who share your fortunes in the field."

"By St. Denis, you are a gallant fellow!" cried Luxembourg with kindling eyes, "Your generosity equals your courage. But this must not be. Messieurs your comrades must take the will for the deed. This night you must depart for the Court of St. Germain-en-laye, where King James requires your immediate attendance. My Secretary will supply you with money, and my Master of the Horse with a charger--adieu, Sir, and God be with you!"

Walter retired.

That night he bade a sad adieu to his comrades, and, mounted on one of the Mareschal's horses, departed from Courtray.

His brave companions in glory and exile he saw no more. After all their services and their sufferings, their achievements and their chivalry, the few survivors of the war, sixteen in number, were, by a striking example of French ingratitude, disbanded at the peace of Ryswick, on the upper part of the Rhine, far from their native land--without money or any provision to save them from starvation and death. Of these sixteen only _four_ survived to return to Scotland in extreme old age, when all fears of the Jacobites had passed away for ever.

Again the unclouded moon was shining over Steinkirke when Walter passed it, and vividly on his mind came back the fierce memories of that impetuous hour. The great plain was deserted, the full eared corn was waving heavily, and not a sound disturbed the silence of the moonlit scenery save the deep bay of a household dog or the croak of a passing stork.

Thickly on every hand lay the graves of the faithful dead. In some instances he saw great burial mounds; in others there was but one solitary grave secluded among the long grass and reeds, and his horse started instinctively as he passed them.

Fragments of clothing, accoutrements, and other relics, lay among the rank weeds by the side of the fields, under the green hedge-rows, in the wet ditches; and even fleshless bones, bare scalps, fingers and toes, protruded from the soil, imparting an aspect of horror to the moonlighted plain where the battle had been fought.

The abbatis still lay there, but the foliage of the trees that formed it had long since faded and decayed. A great tumulus, on which the young grass was sprouting, lay within it.

"Poor Finland!" muttered Walter, and with a moistened eye and heavy heart he plunged his horse into the Senne and swam to the opposite bank. The cottage where he had found shelter had now disappeared; its foundations, scorched and blackened by fire, alone marked the place where it stood. He thought of the poor Ursuline and her story, and sighed that he could learn nothing more of her fate; he sighed, too, at the memory of the beautiful Margaret Mackay, and felt the keenest remorse for having slain her father.

Of the recluse he never heard more; but the daughter of Mackay reached the camp of William in safety, and in after years became the wife of her kinsman and chief, George, third Lord Reay of Farre.