“Blessed Virgin, protect us!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, horror-struck with the Lord of Dirleton’s story.
“She was the daughter of an old and much attached domestic,” continued de Vaux, “and she herself, devoted to us as a daughter, loved the infant as her own. Nothing but madness could have driven her to do a deed so horrible. Where she had disposed of the body of the poor innocent we could never discover, though our search for it was unceasing for some days. As for the wretched Sarah, whom God had so visited as to make her no longer accountable for her actions, she was brought back into the Castle, and put under that needful restraint to the which she was subjected for many years thereafter. When she [[347]]came to be examined more narrowly, some one discovered a dreadful gash on her right hand, as if given by a dagger, a circumstance the which did add to the heap of mystery the truth was buried under, and engendered full many a vague thought and idle surmise. I gave mine orders that some one should be for ever on the watch by Sarah, night and day, to catch up anything she might utter in her ravings, that might chance to illuminate the darkness that hung over this heart-breaking calamity. But albeit her voice was rarely silent for a moment, being unceasingly poured forth in elritch screams of laughter when she was in her wildest fits, or in piteous moaning and waymenting when she was low, yet did she rarely mould it into words of meaning. Full oft would she take up in her arms the mantle, the which she had never parted withal, and hush it with sad lullaby, as if the child had been within it; and more than once, when thus employed, she was seen to clasp it in agony to her bosom, to look wildly on vacancy, and to stretch forth her arm, as if dreading the approach of some one, and fleeing into the darksome corner of her cell, she was heard to yell out, ‘Murderer!—ha! the babe, the babe!—help, murder!—blood, blood!—my babe!’—and then she would lay open the mantle, and gazing into it with frenzy, would increase her screams to the very cracking of her voice, as if she had but that moment discovered that the infant was gone.
“Thou mayest right well conceive, Sir Patrick,” continued the Lord of Dirleton, after a pause, during which he yielded to the emotions so powerfully excited by this recapitulation of the circumstances of this so terrible affliction which had befallen him—“thou mayest easily imagine, I say, what a deep, nay, fathomless tide of sorrow poured over the souls of the Lady Dirleton and me. We loathed the very air of the scene tainted by this dreadful tragedy. Anxious to escape from it, we hastened abroad, and strove, by mixing in the society of a new world, to blunt the pangs we suffered from the very souvenance of our home. I need say no more, I wis, but to crave thy good pardon, Sir Patrick, for drawing so hugely on thy patience by this long narration, the which, I do natheless opine, hath not been altogether uninteresting to thee, sith I have observed that thou hast, more than once, showed signs of thy friendly sympathy for our misfortune.”
“In truth, my Lord, I am deeply affected by thy strange and melancholy history,” replied Hepborne. “But what, I pray thee, hath become of Sarah, thy child’s nurse, on whom so much mystery doth hang?” [[348]]
“After many years of confinement, Sarah’s wudness did become more tranquil; it seemed as if it was gradually worn out by its own fury. Then did succeed the mantling and stagnant calmness of idiocy—and seeing that she was no longer harmful, she was, by slow degrees, permitted greater license, until at last she was suffered to go about at the freedom of her own will. But will she seemed to have none. Supported by the Lady Dirleton’s charity, and tended by her order, she wandered to and fro in the neighbourhood of the Castle, like a living clod, hardly ever exhibiting even a consciousness of existence.”
“And dost thou believe, my Lord,” demanded Hepborne, “that the wudness of this poor afflicted wretch did verily work this sad malure to thee? Or didst thou never entertain aught of suspicion of crime against any who were more accountable for their deeds?”
“Ay,” replied the Lord of Dirleton, after a pause; “ay, we had suspicions—horrible suspicions. My brother John, that is my half-brother, for he was the son of my father by a woman of low birth and infamous character, who, by sacrifice of virtue and afterwards by her cunning, didst circumvent my father, then an old man, and did induce him to patch up a marriage with her. After the death of my father she would fain have kept the same place she had done during his life; but as I had just then married me I could not insult my wife by the introduction to her notice of a woman so notourly infamous. I natheless did what in prudence I might for my brother, then a young man of some eighteen or twenty winters. I took him under mine own roof, where I in vain endeavoured to bring down his naturally haughty and unbending temper, and to restrain the violence of his passions. I had shown him an elder brother’s kindness from very boyhood, and methought his heart did love me. But his wicked and infamous mother, stung with the disgrace of being refused admittance within our gates, so worked upon his young mind that she taught him to regard me rather as an enemy than as a benefactor. Forgetful of the anxiety I did ever display for the advancement of his fortunes and the improvement of his mind, he became impatient of reproof, and ever and anon he was guilty of the most gross and offensive insults to me, and yet more so to the Lady Dirleton, against whom his mother’s hatred was more particularly inflamed. Such ungrateful behaviour did naturally beget much unhappy brawling, and high and bitter words often passed between us. At length his daring arose to such a height that he presumed to usher in his impure dam [[349]]among the noble and honourable guests who assembled to witness the ceremonial baptism of our infant. O’ermastered by rage at the moment, and boiling with indignation, I forgot myself so far as to give him a blow; and I did hound both of them straightway forth with ignominious reproach from my walls. I saw not John ever again, yet I had good cause to fear that he——But hold! my wife and daughter approach; and, hark! the trumpets do sound for the march.”
As the Earls of Moray, Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, who led the line, were breaking through the oak forest through which they travelled for some time after leaving the halting-place, the proud towers of Elgin rose before them, and the tinkling of many a bell from its various convents and churches told them that its inhabitants were already aware of their approach. Soon afterwards the long train of a procession was seen winding down from the entrance of the town, and as they drew nearer they descried at the head of it the venerable Alexander Barr, bishop of the diocese. He was accompanied by his twenty-two canons secular, and various other members and servants of the Cathedral; and after him came a body of Black Dominican Monks, followed by the Grey Franciscan Friars, all marching in pairs. Ere the warlike body of nobles, and knights, and men-at-arms had reached the bridge, the procession had halted to receive them. The Bishop, in his episcopal robes, sat, patiently waiting them, on a well-fed milk-white palfrey, of sober and staid disposition, suited to his master’s habits. The Earl of Moray hastened to dismount, and would have run to assist the Prelate from his horse. But there was no pride in the old man, and seeing the Earl’s intention, he quitted his saddle with an agility hardly to be looked for from one of his years, and, hastening to meet his embrace, bestowed his willing benediction on him, as well as on the Earls of Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, and those who followed them.
“My Lord Bishop,” said the Earl of Fife, “verily I did scarcely look for this good countenance and gentle demeanour from thee, seeing how I am sykered to him who hath wrought the Church so much foul wrong. But thou well knowest——”
“Talk not of these matters, my Lord Earl of Fife, I beseech thee,” cried the Bishop, interrupting him; “talk not of these matters now. We shall have ample leisure to discuss these painful themes ere the hour of couchee. Mount, I beseech thee, and let me now do what honour I may to the son of my King, and to his noble brothers-in-law, the gallant Earls of Douglas and of Moray, by escorting them to the Royal Castle. Thy [[350]]messengers, my Lord,” continued he, turning to Earl Moray, “did out-run my tardy hospitality; for ere I gathered tidings of thy coming, or could bestir myself to make fitting provision for thy reception, and for the banqueting of these nobles, knights, and ladies, thy preparations at the Castle were already largely advanced, else had I assuredly claimed thee and all as my guests.”