"No; my heart is filled wi' a grief which nane on earth can lessen; and it is a sad change that has come owre me, when I can hae a sorrow which ye canna ken, and though ye kenned it, couldna relieve. Yet sae it is: yer puir Mary is nae langer what she was, and may never be what she was again. The flowers o' Arthur's Seat hae lost their colours and their scents—the bluebells o' the Hunter's Bog ring nae mair peals—and the water o' St Anthony's spring is drumly and dark, as it is when the spirit o' the storms sits on the tap o' the 'Lion's Head.' 'Waly, waly,' is now my sang, the joys o' a bricht morning hae fa'en to the bottom, like the lees o' a vessel o' wine; and I maun drink thae lees, bitter as they may be; for Heaven has said the word, and Mary Glenday is obedient to its behests."
The high-toned determination of the maiden satisfied John that it would be vain to press a suit at present, which was so clearly interdicted by some hidden circumstance. What that could be was a subject of intense interest and curiosity; but, though he thought of it daily and nightly, he could not even approach the mysterious reason which could change a human being so entirely, as to make a light-laughing maiden, high in the hope of being married, a sorrowful and sentimental woman, giving grave injunctions that her intended nuptials should not be broached in her presence. At times John thought that her mind was tinged with a superstitious melancholy, arising from some presentiment that, as their marriage was interrupted in such an awful manner, Heaven had set its decree against it. This opinion deserved weight, from the circumstance that the condition attached by Mary to their union still taking place was the discovery of the author of the murder; but even that condition was itself qualified, as if it depended upon the nature of that discovery whether she would consent to become a wife. The whole matter appeared a mystery, and John could make nothing of it.
The people in the Abbey discovered that Mary Glenday was entirely changed. Her cheek became blanched, and her blue eyes dim; while her general appearance was that of a person labouring under a consumption. She was seldom seen going out, except to church; and even there she never looked up. Many questions were put to her, as to the cause of her dejection, but no satisfactory answers could be got from her. Towards her father, her kindness continued. It was indeed a kindness altogether overdone—the result of a wish to heap attentions on him, as if from a morbid fear that he would not long be preserved to receive or she to impart them. William Glenday was extremely pained by the change which had taken place on his daughter. He could not go out without producing terror in her mind. She was even at times seen following him; and, when he would turn round and perceive her, she would, as if caught and ashamed, slip out of his sight. If any person knocked at the door, she trembled; and if a question was put to her, as to where her father was, her answer was so confused, that very often the inquirer was obliged to go away without the information sought. If any one approached the place where the sword hung, she betrayed uneasiness; and, on one occasion, one of the grooms under her father having taken down the sword to look at it, she fainted. She never allowed her father to wear the coat he had on that night when the murder was committed; and, when he asked for it, she said she could not find it, although it was carefully secreted in one of her drawers.
This state of mind in the unhappy girl was not unknown to Giulio Massetto. He observed her changed appearance, and was well pleased to hear that there was at present no great likelihood of a union between her and John Connal. He was observed often to be watching about the door of the house; and his bold and blustering manner towards John, and his readiness to speak in his presence about Mary, betrayed a kind of triumph, mixed with a hope that he might yet succeed where his most ardent wishes still pointed. He had the boldness, indeed, one day to make up to her, as she came from church; but she shrank away from him, and left him in conversation with her father, who still kept on friendly terms with him.
William Glenday took every method of dispelling his daughter's melancholy. He proposed, one afternoon, a walk to Duddingston, which she reluctantly agreed to. They set off accordingly, and visited an acquaintance who resided there. After they had been there for some time, a messenger, on horseback, and holding another horse, saddled and bridled, in his hand, inquired at the door if William Glenday was within. Mary heard the question, and, having seen the messenger and the horses from the window, rushed out, and cried that her father was not within. Her manner betrayed the utmost agitation. She endeavoured to prevent the servant from stating that William Glenday was in the house; and it was not until her father, who heard the noise, came out, that the messenger could know what was the truth. The people of the house could not account for her conduct on any other principle than that she was deranged. The messenger bore a request that William Glenday should instantly repair to the palace; and having committed Mary to the charge of his friends, he departed.
Mary returned home in the evening. The weather was calm and delightful, and the sun was setting in that fine amber-coloured radiance, which, in Scotland, is often so remarkable on an autumn evening. Wearied by her day's fatigues, she sat down to rest herself. A train of images rose in her mind, which took away all perception of time, or of the increasing shades of evening that gradually closed over her. In the midst of her reverie, she was suddenly startled by a human voice. It was that of Giulio Massetto.
"Anima mia!" cried the Italian, when he saw her. "Mary Glenday here, on the brow of the hill, in the gloom of approaching night! Io Godo! Io Godo! I am well pleased. And now we shall, if it please thee, have some conversation on a subject which, notwithstanding thy coldness, still lies next my heart. Thou knowest how I love thee, my sweet Mary; and I am well pleased to know that thou hast discarded thy old lover, Connal, who was not, indeed, worthy of the love of such a maiden. Thy father I shall yet appease and persuade, if thou wilt but answer to my love." And he held out his hands to embrace her.
"Stand back, sir," said the indignant Mary. "The power does not exist on this earth that can e'er mak Mary Glenday love Giulio Massetto; and Heaven winna interfere in sic an affair. I hae tauld ye aften—and this, I hope, will be the last time—that it is waur than useless to persevere in a suit which I can ne'er gie ony favour or countenance to. Ye may perceive, sir, that I am very far frae being in a guid state o' bodily health; the bloom has gane frae my cheek, and sorrow has flung her gloomy mantle owre the heart whar joy loved ance to dwell. Ye may, if it be yer pleasure, continue to persecute ane wha ne'er wranged ye—ye may shake doun the few lingering grains that remain in the sand-glass o' my life, and hasten the end o' a miserable existence. Ye may do a' this, sir; and when ye hae dune it, what will ye hae accomplished? When ye see the green turf lying on the grave ye hae helped to dig, will that be ony cause o' pride, or exultation, or thanksgiving? If it will, or if it can, then I truly say that the heart o' an Italian is no like that o' a Scotsman. Let me gang, sir, or I will wauken the spirit o' this place wi' the cries o' a determined and desperate woman."
"I cry thee mercy, maiden," replied Giulio, perfectly unmoved, except by hurt pride and bitterness. "I'osservo something troubles thee, and thou makest that a reason for rejecting my love; but what wouldst thou say if Giulio Massetto, whom thou despisest so much, could tell thee of the cause of thy illness. It is sometimes more easy to take the grief from the heart of an unwilling maiden, than to wash the gore from a sword, or from a garment which has been drenched in the heart's blood of a friend."
These words operated like lightning on the unhappy Mary. She intuitively fell on her knees, clasped the Italian's legs, clinging to them with the grasp of death—struggled for breath and power to speak, and convulsively screamed, "Tak—tak back thae words, and tell me that ye never uttered them—say that ye didna see me wash the sword, and scoor it, and hang it up i' my faither's room—say that I didna wash the bluid frae my faither's coat, and dry it at the fire—say that, and—and—Mary Glenday will——"