On the day following, Sir John set out for London, from whence he proceeded to Paris, thence to Madrid, where suddenly all traces of him were lost; and no after inquiries could ever elicit the slightest explanation of his mysterious disappearance.
Weeks, months, and years passed away, but they brought no intelligence of the fate of the unfortunate young knight. It was the universal belief that he had perished by the hands of assassins; and in this conviction all further inquiry regarding him finally ceased; while time, as it passed on, produced its usual effects in lessening the general interest in his fate, and in gradually obliterating the recollection of him from the minds of his acquaintance. But there was one over whose memory time had no such power—one who did not only fondly remember him, but who, night and day, sorrowed for his loss through long tedious years. Lady Jane Hamilton, although circumstances subsequently changed her destiny, never forgot the first love of her young and affectionate heart.
Soon after the departure of Sir John Faa, the Earl of Haddington, taking advantage of that circumstance, resolved, if possible, to accomplish the marriage of his daughter to the Earl of Cassilis before the return of the former; and fortunately, as he conceived, the latter himself, as if actuated by the same motive, renewed at this moment certain overtures connected with this matter which had lain for some time in abeyance, and pressed his suit with the lady's father with an urgency that would admit of no evasion or delay.
For full two years, however, after the departure of her lover, and fully a year and a-half after the period when he was first believed to have perished, neither the threats of her father, nor the importunities of her noble suitor, could prevail on the Lady Jane to become the Countess of Cassilis. At the end of this period, however, the broken-hearted maiden—believing in the death of her lover, and unable longer to withstand the incessant and remorseless persecution with which she was assailed, daily and hourly, by her ambitious father—permitted herself to be dragged to the altar, but not before she had been shown a letter, whether forged or not is not known, from the English ambassador at the Spanish court, giving assurance of the death of Sir John Faa, whom he represented as having perished in the way generally believed—namely, by the daggers of some bravos.
The marriage of the Lady Jane Hamilton to the Earl of Cassilis was celebrated at Tyningham Castle, with all the magnificence and pomp which the magic wand of wealth could call into existence. Its tall and numerous windows blazed with light. Its liveried lackeys flew through its illuminated halls, preciously burdened with silver trenchers, on which smoked the rarest and the richest viands; or bore massive flagons of the same precious metal, filled with the choicest wines; while its gorgeous apartments rung with the joyous sounds of mirth and music. But it was a striking thing to note, in the midst of all this splendid pageantry, and in the midst of this crowd of merry faces, that the only one who wore sad looks, the only one who appeared unmoved by this stirring scene, and who took no share in the rejoicing that was going forward, was she on whose account, and whom to honour, all this bustle and magnificence had been created.
In a corner of the principal hall, where all the élite of the night were assembled, the Countess of Cassilis sat all alone, pale as death, gazing with vacant eye on the moving and glittering spectacle before her, and looking only the more wretched and unhappy for the splendour with which she was attired. All the efforts of her father and her husband were unable to compel her even to assume the appearance of a becoming happiness; and, finding this, they at length refrained (from a fear that perseverance on their part would lead to some more awkward exposures) from insisting upon her taking any share in doing the honours of the evening, and allowed her to occupy undisturbed the retired seat which she had chosen, and to which, though frequently brought forward to receive the congratulations of newcomers, she seized every opportunity of instantly returning. Nor was the conduct of the unhappy bride during the ceremony of these congratulations, brief though they were, less marked by indications of the wretched feelings which overwhelmed her, than on other more important occasions. Her pale and emaciated countenance, the faint, forced smile, and the slight, cold, formal courtesy, with which she acknowledged the wishes of the guests for long life and happiness to the Countess of Cassilis, but too plainly showed how little of the latter she anticipated, and how little of the former she desired.
All the stirring and joyous revelry usual on such occasions, nevertheless, went on; but it was soon interrupted by an occurrence that threw a damp on the revellers, and finally hastened their departure. In the very midst of the mirth and rejoicing, and at the moment when those seemed to have attained their height, the whole assembly was suddenly thrown into the utmost consternation, by a loud and piercing shriek proceeding from that end of the hall where the Countess of Cassilis was seated. All hurried towards the spot—some leaving the dance unfinished, others hastily throwing down the untasted goblet—and crowded around the sufferer from whom the alarming cry had proceeded. It was the bride. Senseless, and extended on the floor, there lay the miserable Countess of Cassilis. But what had happened to cause this extraordinary accident no one could tell. It was ascertained that she had been sitting quite alone when the illness, of whatever nature it was, under which she was now suffering, had seized her; so that no sudden injury of any kind could have befallen her. Her illness, in short, was quite inexplicable. But, as she was about being removed, which was instantly done, there were one or two around her who, hearing her muttering, as she was being raised from the floor, "I've seen him! I've seen him!" more than guessed the cause of the poor lady's sudden illness.
On the removal of the countess, there were some attempts made to revive the revelries of the evening, and to re-infuse the spirit of mirth into the revellers, which the occurrence just related seemed to have dissipated; but in vain. After some ineffectual efforts of this kind, the company broke up; and, long before the anticipated hour, the guests were gone, the lights extinguished, and silence reigned in the halls of Tyningham Castle.
On the day following this event, the Countess of Cassilis was removed by her husband to Cassilis Castle, an old, heavy, gloomy-looking fortalice on the banks of the Doon, in the shire of Ayr, where the unhappy lady remained for four years, heart-broken, crushed in spirit, and looking forward to the grave as the only termination of her sorrows. Her stern husband took no pains to reconcile her to her destiny, nor did he even show her any of those little kindnesses and attentions which are so well calculated to win on the female heart, and which, had they been employed in this case, might have induced the Countess of Cassilis, since she could not love, at least to esteem, her lord. But the earl had obtained, in a large accession of wealth, all that he desired or cared for in uniting himself to the unfortunate Lady Jane; and the consequence was, that, soon after his marriage, he neglected her, to pursue his schemes of ambition and personal aggrandisement. Thus left alone, as she often was, for weeks, nay, for months, in the lonely castle in which she had been immured, the Countess of Cassilis might often be seen walking on the battlements—almost the only species of recreation within her power—in solitary sadness; at one time stopping to gaze, but with listless eye, on the wide and romantic scene that lay around her; at another, to look on the leaping and foaming waters of the Doon, immortalised by the poet's song, and to think of the days that were past, of her blighted hopes and untoward destiny.
Most appropriate to her, to her feelings and circumstances, would have been the melancholy song of Burns, of which her present locality was long afterwards to be the scene. Well might the poor Countess of Cassilis have exclaimed—