Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 14

by Unknown

The experience which Ramorgny had thus acquired was completely corroborated by the common report of the Borders, where the young lady went by the name of Black Bess of Dunbar. She was represented as an incarnation of Mahoun—a fiend, whom all the efforts of her father and mother, aided by their relatives, had not been able to subdue, or soften into the ordinary flexile consistence of mortals. The excuses which were made to the knight by the parents, that she was ill, and had a headache, and so forth, only tended to corroborate his experience and the report of others. His only wonder was, that the Earl of March could have thought of recommending such a female to the arms of a civilised man—to a prince. No one but March could have dared!

Ramorgny next directed his steps to the Castle of Douglas, to make his survey and examination in that quarter. He was received by Earl Archibald, who was now an old man, with much cordiality, and in a short time introduced to Elizabeth. The contrast between this lady and the one he had left was remarkable at first sight, and before she had opened her mouth to reply to the elegantly-polished compliments of the most accomplished man of his time. She was fair, with auburn hair and blue eyes; tall, and elegantly formed; imbued with so much of the spirit of a gentlewoman, that her whole figure, in its easy, flexile movements, seemed to obey the slightest touch of the presiding genius of grace and beauty. Ramorgny felt and acknowledged, with that rapidity with which men of the world can detect the indications of an elevated soul, the power of the mute eloquence of this exquisitely-formed complex piece of nature's machinery. But when the spirit spoke, and the combination of so many charms started into new life, responding in every turn and lineament to music that seemed to have been formed to give them additional grace, and apparently claiming the voice as their own individual expression, the effect was completed, to the disturbance of Ramorgny's feelings, and the flight of his peace. Her soft and gentle tones went straight to his heart. The silken cords of love were cast around him by every look, motion, and expression; and the prince's deputy became, in spite of himself, his rival.

Ramorgny felt disinclined to leave the castle. Every additional circumstance that came under his observation increased his passion. The prevailing character of Elizabeth's mind and feelings was extreme gentleness, softness, and sensibility, in which could be discovered no affectation of sentimentality. Her manner was natural and easy; and it was impossible to behold her for a moment, without being sensible that she was a creature formed to sacrifice herself, and her individual thoughts, wishes, and aspirations, to the happiness of the man who should be so fortunate as to secure her affections. This softness of manner extended itself to the style of her speech, which was slow, smooth, and natural, seeming to derive its sweetness from the perennial smile that played upon her lips.

Struck with an intense passion, Ramorgny forgot the object of his mission. The prince was only recollected as an unpleasant object that came between him and the object of his affections. He resorted to every means of cultivating the good opinion, if not the love, of the lady; but, handsome and gallant as he was—invested with the powers of French love-making, in all its details of conversation, protestation, and badinage—he could not satisfy himself that the gentle and bewitching manners of the lady received any accession, from any increase, in his favour, of the regard and attention she seemed to extend to all the visiters who frequented her father's castle. Ramorgny surveyed this equability of enchanting manner, with the pain of one who, fired with, a strong passion, sees ordinary companions basking in the sunshine of favour which he wishes to be confined to himself. He felt pained, but the pain was an increase of passion, with a diminution of hope. His violent temper hurried him into secret cursing of the day on which he entered in so thankless an expedition; determinations to escape from his duty; and vows that he would secure Elizabeth's love, die, or sacrifice his prince.

Ramorgny's threats were no empty sounds. Restrained by no religion—no respect for laws—no terror of punishments—no fear of man—and despising reputation and honour as gewgaws for old women and children—he was fit for the execution of any measure, executed through treachery and blood, to gratify his passions. Chagrined by the manner of Elizabeth, which retained its torturing equability of gentleness and kindness, without any exhibition of partiality, he was ill prepared for a letter which arrived from the prince, chiding him for his delay; hinting, in his manner, that the rooks of Dunbar and Douglas had flown away with his heart, and requesting him to give up the chase, and return to his friend. He added, that he understood that his mother, the queen, had declared for the Douglas; and that he would take her, if she was as black as the good Sir James himself.

"If thou wilt," ejaculated Ramorgny, as he perused the letter, "thou shalt at least have the dowery of Ramorgny's sword!"

The incensed knight saw, in the midst of his passion, that little good would result from remaining at present longer at the castle. His efforts to produce a corresponding affection in the bosom of Elizabeth were unavailing. He resolved, therefore, to take his departure; and, having kissed the hand of his cruel mistress, and bid adieu to Lord Archibald, he departed. As he journeyed to Linlithgow, where he was to meet the duke, he occupied himself in deep meditation. His thoughts reverted continually to Elizabeth Douglas, whom he pictured to himself the loving and beloved wife of Rothsay, whose success with the fair he envied, but whose openness and generosity he despised as weakness. There already existed a rivalship between them as to the affections of a young lady who had eloped with Ramorgny from her father's house, but who afterwards left him for the more enchanting society of the young duke. This Ramorgny had borne with apparent indifference; but, though he was satisfied that the love of the damsel had not first been solicited by Rothsay, he could not forgive him his superiority of attraction, and imputed to him as a fault, what might, with more propriety, have been termed a misfortune. To lose another object of his affections, and that, too, by ministering to his own discomfiture, would ill become his character for intrigue, and ill accord with the present state of his love for the lady, and hatred for the rival. He must, therefore, endeavour to prevent the union between Rothsay and Elizabeth Douglas; and if that should fail, he was resolved that the loss of the lady would not involve the loss of his victim. His first step was to falsify his account of the two women; and in this he could not do better than reverse their attributes, and substitute Bess of Dunbar for the fair Douglas.

"Well, Ramorgny," cried the prince, as he met the knight in the audience-chamber of the palace, "what progress hast thou made in the south? Thy tarrying indicates enjoyment; for when did Ramorgny wait, when there was not something to afford him pleasure and amusement?"

"Your grace is right," answered Ramorgny. "The pleasures of March's castle are indeed intoxicating. But thou it was who didst send me in the way of temptation; and if Elizabeth of Dunbar has, by her enchantment, drawn largely on the time of thy commissioner, thou hast thyself to blame. Lord Salisbury, thou knowest, said that her predecessor's love-shafts—meaning the arrows she sent from the old castle walls—went straight to the heart; and, as the lieutenant of this kingdom, and the protector of its subjects, it was thy duty to guard me against a power which seems to be hereditary in the family of March."

"Oh, then, Black Bess is fair, after all!" cried the duke. "Give me thy hand. I am right glad on't; for I thought I had no choice—the one being fair, the other ugly; and to have been forced to marry one woman, to the exclusion of the darling liberty of selection, would, though she had been as fair as Venus, have made her like the famed daughter of Phoreus, whose face was as beautiful as that of the sister of Apollo, but whose hair was writhing serpents."