The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly, than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother. Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and, accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in large bodies towards [[557]]the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.
Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man. She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently was she busied that she heard not his motion.
“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost thou there?”
The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died, and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.
“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one hand to help me? Oh, [[558]]water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas! Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind, and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.
It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.
“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, impatiently lifting up his head.
He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.
“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou, fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and leave me to mine.”
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When thou wert in thy full [[559]]strength and power I did boldly face thy wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”