“’Tis nought but the burying o’ our auld Captain o’ Norham,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “I trust that we sall have some right gay and jolly knight to fill his boots. Auld de Selby was grown useless, I wot. Gi’e me some young rattling blade that will take pleasure in chatting to a bonny buxom quean when she comes in his way. I haena had a word frae the auld man for this I kenna how lang, but a rebuke now and then for the deboshing [[476]]o’ his men-at-arms, the which was more the fault o’ my good ale than o’ me. But where are ye running till, Master Sang?—Fye on him, he’s away.”
Sang did indeed hasten to tell his master of the passing funeral procession, and Hepborne ran out to follow it. It had already reached the church, and by the time he got to the door the interior was so filled that it was only by immense bodily exertion that he squeezed himself in at a small side door. His eyes immediately caught the figure of the lady, and there they rested, unconscious of all else. The moment she lifted her head he recognized the features of Maurice de Grey and of her whom he had seen on the battle-field of Otterbourne. But her fainting allowed him not a moment for thought. The crowd of men-at-arms between him and the object of his solicitude bid defiance to all his efforts to reach her, and ere he could regain the open air her litter was already almost out of sight.
“Poor soul,” said a compassionate billman, who had been looking anxiously after it, “thou hast indeed good cause to be afflicted. Verily, thou hast lost thy best friend.”
“Of whom dost thou speak, old man?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.
“Of the poor Lady Beatrice, who was carried to the Castle but now,” replied the man.
“What saidst thou?” demanded Hepborne; “Lady Beatrice! Was not that the daughter of thy deceased governor? was not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby, now the Lady de Vere?”
“Nay, Sir Knight, that she be not,” replied the man, “nouther the one nor the other, I wot; and if I might adventure to speak it, I would say that there be those who do think that the Lady Eleanore de Selby, now the Lady de Vere, hath no small spice of the devil in her composition, whilst the Lady Beatrice is well known to all to be an angel upon earth.”
“Who is she, and what is her history, my good fellow?” demanded Hepborne, slipping money into his hand.
“Meseems thou art a stranger, Sir Knight, that thou knowest not the Lady Beatrice,” said the man; “but I can well satisfy thy curiosity, seeing I was with good Sir Walter in that very Border raid during which she did become his. Our men had driven the herds and flocks from a hill on the side of one of the streams of Lammermoor, when, as we passed by the cottage of the shepherd who had fed them, his wife, with an infant in her arms, and two or three other children around her, came furiously out to attack Sir Walter with her tongue, as he rode at the head of his lances. ‘My curse upon ye, ye English loons!’ cried [[477]]she bitterly; ‘no content wi’ the sweep o’ our master’s hill, ye hae ta’en the bit cow that did feed my poor bairns. Better take my wee anes too, for what can I do wi’ them?’ A soldier was about to quiet her evil tongue by a stroke of his axe. ‘Fye on thee,’ said Sir Walter; ‘what, wouldst thou murder the poor woman? Her rage is but natural. Verily, our prey is large enow without her wretched cow.’ And then, turning to her with a good-natured smile on his face, ‘My good dame, thou shalt have thy cow.’ And the beast was restored to her accordingly. ‘The Virgin’s blessing be on thee, Sir Knight,’ said the woman. ‘And now,’ said Sir Walter, ‘by’r Lady, I warrant me thou wouldst have ill brooked my taking thee at thy word. Marry, I promise thee,’ continued he, pointing to a beautiful girl of five years, apparently her eldest child, ‘marry, I’ll warrant me thou wouldst have grudged mightily to have parted with that bonny face?’ ‘Nay, I do indeed love Beatrice almost as well as she were mine own child, albeit I did only nurse her,’ replied the dame; ‘but of a’ the bairns, she, I wot, is the only one that I could part with.’ ‘Is she not thy child, then?’ said Sir Walter; ‘whose, I pr’ythee, may she be?’ ‘That is what I canna tell thee, Sir Knight,’ replied the woman. ‘It is now about four years and a-half sith that a young lordling came riding down the glen. He was looking for a nurse, and the folk did airt him to me, who had then lost my first-born babe. He put this bairn, whom he called Beatrice, into my arms, and a purse into my lap, and away he flew again, saying that he would soon be back to see how the bairn throve. The baby was richly clad, so methought it must be some fair lady’s stolen love-pledge. But I hae never seen him sithence, nor need I ever look for him now. And troth, Robby and I hae enew o’ hungry mouths to feed withouten hers, poor thing—ay, and maybe a chance o’ mair.’ ‘Wilt thou part with the child to me, then?’ said Sir Walter; ‘I have but one daughter, who is of her age, and I would willingly take this beauteous Beatrice to be her companion.’ The poor woman had many scruples, but her husband, who now ventured to show himself, had none; and, insisting on his wife’s compliance, Beatrice was brought home with us to Norham, adopted by the good Sir Walter, and has ever been treated by him sithence as a second daughter. What marvel, then, Sir Knight, that she should swoon at his burying?”
Light now broke in at once on Sir Patrick Hepborne. As we have seen in the opening chapter of our story, he was struck, even in the twilight, by the superior manner and attractions of the lady who had lost her hawk, and whose gentle demeanour [[478]]had led him to conclude that she was the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose charms he had heard so much. Having been thus mistaken at first, he naturally went on, from all he heard and saw afterwards, and especially in the interviews he had at Norham, with her who now turned out to have been the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby, to mislead himself more and more. He returned to his inn to ruminate on this strange discovery; but be the beautiful Beatrice whom she might, he had loved her, and her alone, and he felt that his passion now became stronger than ever. His mind ran hastily over past events; he at once suspected that his inconsiderate jealousy had been, in fact, awakened by accidentally beholding an interview between the real Eleanore de Selby and her lover, and he cursed his haste that had so foolishly hurried him away from Norham; he remembered the fair hand that had waved the white scarf as he was crossing the Tweed; he recalled the countenance, the behaviour, and the conversation of his page, Maurice de Grey; he kissed the emerald ring which he wore on his finger; and his heart was drowned in a rushing tide of wild sensations, where hope and joy rose predominant. His generous soul swelled with transport at the thought of being the protector of her whom he now adored, and whom he now found, at the very moment she was left, as he believed, in a state of utter destitution. His impatience made him deplore that decency forbade his visiting the Lady Beatrice that night, but he resolved to seek for an audience of her early the next morning.