All was so extraordinary, so unlooked for, so bewildering, that from the moment in which she had retired in such a paroxysm of highly-wrought feelings from her first interview in the gallery with him, she became altogether like a person in a trance; and hardly answering her aunt, when she then led her up the stairs, only complained she was ill, and threw herself upon a couch.
At the very time that her heart told her in a language she could not misunderstand, that she irrevocably loved this too glorious, too amiable Wallace, it as powerfully denounced to her, that she had devoted herself to one who must ever be to her as a being of air. No word of sympathy would ever whisper felicity to her heart; no—the flame that was within her (which she found would be immortal as the vestal fires which resemble its purity) must burn there unknown; hidden, but not smothered.
"Were this a canonized saint," cried she, as she laid her throbbing head upon her pillow, "how gladly should I feel these emotions! For, could I not fall down and worship him? Could I not think it a world of bliss, to live forever within the influence of his virtues; looking at him, listening to him, rejoicing in his praises, happy in his happiness! Yes, though I were a peasant girl, and he not know that Helen Mar even existed! And I may live thus," said she; "and I may steal some portion of the rare lot that was Lady Marion's-to die for such a man! Ah! could I be in Edwin's place and wait upon his smiles! But that may not be; I am a woman, and formed to suffer in silence and seclusion. But even at a distance, brave Wallace, my spirit shall watch over you in the form of this Edwin; I will teach him a double care of the light of Scotland. And my prayers, also, shall follow you; so that when we meet in heaven, the Blessed Virgin shall say with what hosts of angels her intercessions, through my vigils have surrounded thee!"
Chapter XXXVIII.
The Bower, or Ladies' Apartment.
Thus did Lady Helen commune with her own strangely-affected heart; sometimes doubting the evidence of her eyes; then, convinced of their fidelity, striving to allay the tumults in her mind. She seldom appeared from her own rooms. And such retirement was not questioned, her father being altogether engaged at the citadel, the countess absorbed in her own speculations, and Lady Ruthven alone interrupted the solitude of her niece by frequent visits. Little suspecting the cause of Helen's prolonged indisposition, she generally selected Wallace for the subject of conversation. She descanted with enthusiasm on the rare perfection of his character; told her all that Edwin had related of his actions from the taking of Dumbarton to the present moment; and then bade Helen remark the miracle of such wisdom, valor, and goodness being found in one so young and handsome.
"So, my child," added she, "depend on it; before he was Lady Marion's husband he must have heard sighs enough from the fairest in our land to have turned the wits of half the male world. There is something in his very look, did you meet him on the heath without better barg than a shepherd's plaid, sufficient to declare him the noblest of men; and, methinks, would excuse the gentlest lady in the land for leaving hall and bower to share his sheep-cote. But, alas!" and then the playful expression of her countenance altered, "he is now for none on earth!"
With these words she turned the subject to the confidential hours he passed with the young adopted brother of his heart. Every fond emotion seemed then centered in his wife and child. When Lady Ruthven repeated his pathetic words to Edwin, she wept; she even sobbed, and paused to recover; while the deep and silent tears which flowed from the heart to the eyes of Lady Helen bathed the side of the couch on which she leaned. "Alas!" cried Lady Ruthven, "that a man, so formed to grace every relation in life—so noble a creature in all respects—so fond of a husband—so full of parental tenderness—that he should be deprived of the wife on whom he doted; that he should be cut off from all hope of posterity; that when he shall die, nothing will be left of William Wallace—breaks my heart!"
"Ah, my aunt," cried Helen, raising her head with animation, "will he not leave behind him the liberty of Scotland? That is an offspring worthy of his god-like soul."
"True, my dear Helen; but had you ever been a parent, you would know that no achievements, however great, can heal the wound made in a father's heart by the loss of a beloved child. And though Sir William Wallace never saw the infant, ready to bless his arms, yet it perished in the bosom of its mother; and that circumstance must redouble his affliction; horribly does it enhance the cruelty of the deed!"