“It was long ere a fitting opportunity offered for carrying my purpose into effect. At length, after frequent watching, I did one evening observe the nurse walking in a solitary place, with the babe in her arms. With my face concealed beneath a mask, and my person shrouded in a cloak, I came so suddenly on her, that I snatched the child from her arms before she was aware. Ere I could flee from the woman, she sprang on me like a she-wolf robbed of her young—pulled the mantle from the child in a vain attempt to reach her, and clung to me so firmly as I fled, that, to rid myself of her, I was compelled to wound her hand deeply with my dagger. My horse was at hand, and, to put the child equally beyond the reach of the affection of its fond parents or the cruelty of my mother, I wrapt it in my cloak, and, riding with it over to Lammermoor, consigned it to the care of a shepherd’s wife. To avoid suspicion, I returned home immediately; but conscious guilt would not permit me to remain long near those I had injured. I withdrew myself secretly, and entered on board the privateer of the brave Mercer, where for six or eight years of my life I encountered many a storm, and bore my part in many a desperate action. I was a favourite with the old man, and did gain considerable wealth with him; but my proud spirit would not brook command, so I quitted the sea-service, and travelled through foreign lands as a knight, when I did share in many a stubborn field of fight, and won many a single combat. Yet was I not always successful; and, having been overthrown in a certain tournament, I was so overwhelmed with mortification at the disgrace that followed me, that I became soured with the world, and straightway resolved to exchange the helmet and the cuirass for the Franciscan’s grey cowl and gown, vainly hoping to humble my haughty temper by the outward semblance of poverty. But my towering soul was not to be subdued by a mere garb of penance.
“From the foreign convent into which I entered, I chanced to be sent to England, and, having been recommended as a proper person for confessor in the family of the Earl of Northumberland, mine ambitious and proud heart did again begin to show itself. Sir Rafe Piersie, to whom I was more especially attached, made me large promises of future promotion in the Church; and, having set his affections on the Lady Eleanore de Selby, he did employ me to further his suit. To effect this, I bribed a certain villainous pretender to necromancy, who was well known to have much influence over the old knight. But the villain deceived me. Sir Rafe Piersie had a flat denial, as well from the father as the daughter, and this did I partly attribute [[620]]to the traiterie of the impostor, whose services I paid for, and partly to the interposition of Sir Walter de Selby’s adopted daughter, whom I did not then know to be my niece, the Lady Beatrice. Sir Rafe Piersie, believing that I had been playing the cheat with him, drove me indignantly away. I burned to be revenged against those who had occasioned this overthrow of my hopes, and soon afterwards I had nearly glutted my rage against the Ancient by a cruel death, from which he most narrowly escaped. I did then journey northwards to the Franciscan Convent at Elgin, where I arrived at the very time the Bishop of Moray was sorely lacking some one bold enough to beard the Wolfe of Badenoch. It was a task quite to my mind, and I accordingly readily undertook that, the which all others did most anxiously shun. Thou, who wert present at Lochyndorbe, mayest well remember how mine attempt was likely to have ended. As they dragged me from the hall I did detect the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby under her page’s disguise, having seen her by accident at Norham. One of mine old seamates, who chanced to be among the number of Lord Badenoch’s men, procured me admission to the Castle, and he it was who effected mine escape from the horrors of the Water Pit Vault. He would fain have had me flee instantly, but, much against his will, I did insist on his showing me the page’s chamber; and I went thither, determined to question closely her whom I did then only know to be the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby, as to what share she had in persuading her friend against an union with the Piersie. I sought her chamber with my mind rankling with the remembrance of my disgrace, inflamed and full of prejudice against her, and, Heaven pardon me, it is in truth hard to say how far my blind rage might have hurried me, had she not fled from me at the sight of my dagger.
“It was soon after this that my brother, William de Vaux, came to Elgin. The remembrance of my ingratitude to him came powerfully upon me. I contrived to bring him, at night, into the Church of the Franciscan Convent, and then it was I discovered that his heart, instead of being filled with a thirst of revenge against me, was full of charity, compassion, and forgiveness. This discovery so worked upon my soul, already beginning to feel compunction for mine early wickedness, that I should have confessed all to my much-injured brother, had not some one, accidentally approaching at that moment, unluckily interrupted the conference and compelled me to retreat. But I went straightway to the good Bishop of Moray, with whom by [[621]]this time I stood in high favour for my bold service, and to him did I fully confess my sins against my brother, of the which, until now, I had but little thought, and had never repented. I did then forthwith solemnly vow to do all that might be in my power to restore his child to him, if that she did yet live. In this good resolution the Bishop encouraged me; yea, and he did moreover lend me ample means for effectuating the purpose I had in view. I hastened to the South of Scotland, to find out the woman with whom I had left the baby. From her I learned that poverty and my neglect had induced her to part with Beatrice to Sir Walter de Selby. Then did I shudder to think of the scene at Lochyndorbe, where, but for the providence of God, I might have murdered mine own niece, and I secretly blessed a merciful Being who had snatched her from my hands.
“But now another cause of affliction took possession of me. Believing, as I did, that Beatrice was the unworthy partner of thy journey, and that thou hadst taken her with thee, by her own guilty consent, from Norham, where I did well know thou hadst been, I cursed my villainy, which had removed an innocent babe from that virtuous maternal counsel and protection, the lack of which, I believed, had been her undoing. My suspicions were confirmed when I beheld thee among the crowd at the funeral of Sir Walter de Selby in Norham Church. I doubted not but thou hadst come thither to meet with Beatrice, and by her own consent to carry her off. Her eyes encountered mine as I stood near the altar, and, as they were full of severity from the impressions then on my mind, it is little marvel that the sight of me should have produced the fainting fit into which she fell. That night I was deprived of all chance of an interview with her; and when I sought for one in the morning, I found that she had departed, no one knew whither. After seeking her for many days, I at last returned to Dunbar in despair, where I did by chance meet with the son of mine old sea captain, Mercer, and from him I learned that she had been sojourning for some time at Newcastle, but that she had sailed for London. Having heard of the expedition of the Scottish knights thither, I readily believed that her errand was for the purpose of meeting him who had so won her heart from virtue. My soul boiled within me to rescue her from so base an intercourse, and mine old sea-mate having offered to carry me to the Thames in his ship, I did accept his aid, and did take her from thence, as thou dost already know, Sir Knight; but instead of making the port whence we had sailed, we were driven northward by a storm, and, after much tossing, we suffered wreck on [[622]]the eastern coast of Moray Land, whence I conveyed Beatrice to the Hospital of the Maison-Dieu at Elgin, on that night the place was burnt by the Wolfe of Badenoch. As I was well assured that the lady had escaped from the fire, and that I could nowhere hear tidings of her, it was no wonder that I believed she had fled to thee; for our stormy voyage had left me no leisure to undeceive myself by the discovery of her innocence.”
The Franciscan then went on to give Sir Patrick such other explanations as his eager questions called for. But his patient seemed to be insatiable in his thirst of information. Afraid that he might do himself an injury, the learned leech forbade him further converse, and, having ordered some proper nourishment for the invalid, desired that he should be left quiet. Sir Patrick accordingly fell into a deep and refreshing sleep, from which he next day awakened, with pleasing dreams of future happiness.
Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder had not yet returned to Scone. The younger Sir Patrick saw less of the Franciscan after he became convalescent; but his friend, Assueton, was indefatigable in his attendance on him, and Mortimer Sang did not even permit his love for Katherine Spears to carry him away from the affectionate duty he paid his master. It was not surprising, then, that his cure went on rapidly, being so carefully looked to. As he got better, he was visited by many. The King sent daily inquiries for him; the Regent came himself; and the Wolfe of Badenoch, though his impatient temper would never permit him to make his visit long, generally called three or four times a day to see how he did. But the grateful Duncan MacErchar lay in the ante-room, like an attached dog, from the moment that Hepborne was carried into the Palace, and never quitted the spot save when he thought he could run off for something that might do him good or give him ease.
Hepborne was a good deal surprised, and even a little hurt, that, amongst all those who came to see him in his wounded state, he had never beheld the old Lord of Dirleton, who had ever shown so warm a heart towards him until the late unfortunate misunderstanding. The Franciscan, too, came but to dress his numerous wounds, which were fast healing up, and then left him in haste. But when some days more had passed away, and he was enabled to quit his bed, he learned intelligence that explained this seeming neglect of the De Vaux, and filled him with grief and anxiety. It was the anticipation of its producing this effect upon him, indeed, which had occasioned the concealment [[623]]of it, as the Franciscan feared that his recovery might have been retarded by the communication. Sir John Halyburton’s case had been much less favourable than Hepborne’s. His life still hung quivering in uncertainty. The Lord of Dirleton, his lady, and the unhappy Lady Jane de Vaux never left him; and the Franciscan, who had been the unfortunate cause of bringing it into its present peril, was reduced to the deepest despair.
No sooner had Sir Patrick learned those doleful tidings, than, calling to his esquire, he put on his garments, and demanded to be instantly led to the apartment of Sir John Halyburton, where he found those who were so deeply interested in him sitting drowned in affliction, believing that they should soon see him breathe his last. Sir Patrick mingled his tears with theirs; but he did more—he spoke the words of hope, comfort, and encouragement; and the Franciscan and the others being worn out, and almost rendered unserviceable with watching, he took his instructions from the learned leech, and then seated himself by the wounded knight’s bedside. It seemed as if a kind Providence had blessed the hand which had inflicted the wounds with a power of healing them. From the moment that Sir Patrick sat down by his friend’s couch, he had the satisfaction of finding his disease take a favourable turn. He never left his patient, who continued to improve hourly. In less than a week he was declared out of danger, and in a few days more he was able to join Hepborne and the two happy sisters, Beatrice and Jane de Vaux, in their walks on the terrace of the Palace.
The reader may easily fancy what was the subject of conversation that gave interest to these walks. It was during one of them that the Lady Beatrice de Vaux was suddenly met by a woman of the most graceful mien, who, standing directly in her path, threw aside a mantle that shrouded her face. Astonishment fixed Beatrice to the spot for an instant, when, recovering herself, she sprang into the arms of the stranger, exclaiming—
“Eleanore—my beloved Eleanore de Selby!”