ROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER.

The old strength of Roseallan cannot now boast even a site on the face of the earth; for (so at least says tradition) the waters of the Whitadder run over the place where it reared its proud turrets. It is sad enough to look upon the green grass, and contemplate, with a heart beating with the feelings that respond to antiquarian reminiscences, the velvet covering of nature spread over the place where chivalry, love, and hospitality claimed the base-court, the bower, and the banqueting hall; but green grass, though long, and whistling in the winds of winter, carries not to the sensitive mind the feeling of mournful change and desolation suggested by the murmuring stream, as, rolling over the site of an old castle, it speaks its eloquent anger and triumph over the proud structures of man. So long as there is apparent to the eye a place where the cherished object of memory might, without violence to the ordinary conditions of nature, have stood, the plastic fancy asserts instantly her constructive power, and sets before the eye of the mind a structure that satisfies all our historical associations; but the moment we see the favoured place occupied by a running water, vindicating, apparently, a right to an eternal and unchangeable course, the many-coloured goddess takes fright, and refuses to obey the behest of the will that wishes her to compete with nature in the work of creation. We have stated a tradition, and we do not answer for it. There may be doubts now about the precise locality of the old strength of Roseallan, but there are none in regard to the fact of its last proprietor having been Sir Gilbert Rollo, a favourite of King James V., who saw no better mode of rewarding his loyal subject for important services, than by giving him a grant of the castle and domains, upon the old feudal tenure of ward-holding. This the king was enabled to do, from the property having fallen to the crown by the constructive rebellion of its former proprietor, whose name we have not been able to discover. Sir Gilbert Rollo had a wife and one daughter, the latter of whom was called Matilda. According to the account contained in some letters still extant in the possession of a branch of the family, this young lady was possessed of charms of so extraordinary a nature as to make her famous throughout "broad Scotland." Having little faith in verbal descriptions, as a mean of conveying to the mind of one who has not seen the original, any adequate idea of those peculiar qualities of form, colour, proportion, and expression that go to form what is called female beauty, we will not transcribe the elaborate account of her perfections which we have had the privilege of perusing. We content ourselves with stating, what will give a far better notion of her excellence, that there can be no doubt of the fact of her having been famous throughout Scotland at that period as the fairest woman in the kingdom. It has been stated that Queen Mary showed her picture to some of her French followers, with a view to impress upon their minds that, beautiful as she was, her country had produced one even transcending her; though some have asserted that the picture which hung in Mary's bedroom was that of a daughter of Crighton of Brunston. We cannot reconcile the different statements; but it is enough for our purpose that Matilda Rollo was supposed to be entitled to compete for this distinction.

Sir Gilbert and Lady Rollo were staunch Catholics of the primary church. They gratified King James, by extending their hatred to all those who showed any disposition to favour the partial reformation effected by Henry VIII. of England; whose law of the six articles was then a subject of bitter contention among all parties, both in England and Scotland. This religious prejudice was of greater importance in the family of Roseallan Castle than as a mere question of faith. It interfered with the success of a suitor for the hand of Matilda—an English knight of the name of Sir Thomas Courtney. This individual, who was much famed on the English side of the Borders for his knightly bearing, manly proportions, and beauty of person, was ambitious of carrying off the fairest woman of Scotland; as well from an ardent passion with which he was inflamed, as from the pride of having to boast among his English compeers of being the possessor of so inestimable a jewel as the "Rose of Roseallan." His suit had been favoured for a time by Matilda's father, but had been discharged as soon as it was known that the lover of Matilda was an admirer of Henry's new system of religious reformation. This determination on the part of her parents was not disagreeable to the daughter, who had never been able to see, in the proud stateliness of the handsome Englishman, those softer qualities which could enable him to respond to the high aspirations and impassioned feelings of what she conceived to be genuine romantic love.

For a considerable period, Sir Thomas had not been a visiter at Roseallan. He had, however, left a deputy in the person of Bertha Maitland, who had been Matilda's nurse, and was still retained in the family as a favoured domestic. A favourer of the religious tenets of the new English reformers, she had looked favourably on the suit of the lover; and there was reason to suppose that English gold, as well as English principles of religion, had been employed to gain over her interest in behalf of the Englishman. Her efforts had been sedulously devoted to the excitement of some feeling of attachment on the part of Matilda; but as women can only excite love in their female companions by rivalship, her praises went for nothing more than an old woman's garrulity. Matilda felt it impossible to give her affections to her English suitor, and was glad to take refuge behind the commands of her father, never to see him, and never to listen to his high-flown professions of passion.

Many other suitors sought the favour of the far-famed Rose of Roseallan. They were of the highest of the land—many of them the courtiers of King James; and the rules and canons of love-making, taken from the old romances—"Amadis de Gaul" and others—were learned by heart, and acted on by tongue and eyes. But all was in vain. There was not a single individual among all those who resorted to Roseallan, not even Sir George Douglas (who had been favoured by her father), that had been able to excite the least spark of affection in the bosom of the fair object of their suit. The circumstance was remarkable, but not the less true; and the difficulty could not be solved by the ordinary expedients. Though the most beautiful woman in Scotland at that time, she was the humblest; and no rejected lover could lay his bad fortune to the account of pride, or solace his self-love by an imputed arrogance of beauty. The perfect disengagement (so far as could be observed) of her affections, kept up the hopes of her English admirer, who learned everything that took place at the castle through the medium of his hired agent. The mediations of Bertha were kept up; but her praises had, by repetition, become tiresome, and fell upon the ear of her fair mistress like the tuneless notes of the birds that, unfitted to be of the choir of the forest, chirped on the old walls of Roseallan.

The castle was so situated that one end of it was almost washed by the waters of the Whitadder. A small bridge was thrown over the river, and communicated with a deep wood on the other side, then called the Satyr's Hall. In this wood, and towards the end of the bridge, was a small bower, which had been built for the sake of Matilda, and in which she often sat during the heat of the mid-day sun, listening to the songs of the birds, or reading some of the old romances and ballads of Scotland, which she loved with the devotion of the heart. It seemed to be in the imaginary world of these narratives that she had found the lover who defied the efforts of so many suitors to obtain a place in her affections. Her rapt fancy, occupied in the contemplation of some form which it had painted with all the fond colours of exaggerated beauty, carried her away from the ordinary thoughts and feelings of life. Yet it was not all imagination; she did not carry her romance so far as to uphold that no man of mere flesh and blood, however well put together, and however well decorated by the smiles of nature (the artificial ornaments of fashion she valued not), could satisfy the heart that had enshrined within it those hallowed images of a beautiful creative imagination. One who knew human nature, and the habits of thinking and acting of imaginative females, would have discovered, in this love of the fair inhabitants of her own Elysium, the true reason of her apparent coldness towards the most beautiful and accomplished men of her time; but they would have suspected that the form of beauty she thus cherished had some foundation in nature; and that—though an excited fancy engages in its service the young female heart, and, having limned for it an ideal object to contemplate, ceases not till it engages for the image the most pure, and sometimes the strongest affections of the heart—there is still a substratum in reality to which all may be referred. So was it with Matilda Rollo. One day, when sitting in her bower, she had fallen asleep with a volume of Italian poems in her hand. She had been busy culling roses—the bower was strewed with them; and the sun sent his rays past the window and entrance of the retreat, as if to avoid an interruption of her repose. She was, however, interrupted by another cause; and, looking up, she saw the face of a man gazing steadfastly upon her through the window. Alarmed, she started up—the individual disappeared; but the beauty of his countenance, which transcended anything she had ever seen on earth, or dreamed of in the grandest of her rapt imaginations, left an impression on her which she never forgot. She was supplied with a form of beauty on which her fancy might luxuriate, and to which she would refer all the descriptions in her favourite works; nor did she fail in this—for, though she could not discover who the individual was, and did not see him again, she cherished the beloved image as a treasure, and, day and night, in her fanciful musings and in her dreams, she delighted to contemplate the beauty of her imaginary lover.

One morning Bertha accosted her young mistress in such a manner as to excite her curiosity.

"The cushat doesna use to coo when the owl flies," said she. "Heard ye, my young leddy, the sounds last night in the beechwood?"

"The owl is generally busy there at night," replied Matilda. "I went to sleep early, and never waked till morning, when I heard the wind booming like a moon-baying spaniel through the forest. It had begun before you slept; but you know, Bertha, you find often a magic virtue in night sounds that no one else has the wits to discover."

"A lover's flute has mair virtue in it for young maidens than for auld witches," replied the other, looking knowingly. "Sir George Douglas has tried his looks and his speech upon you; his success may, peradventure, be greater through the means o' music, the lover's charm."

"I understand you not, good Bertha," replied Matilda; "you do not mean to say that Sir George Douglas was bold enough to serenade me in that house into which he might have entered, and, by a father's authority, claimed my attention."

"If it wasna Sir George, ye can maybe tell me wha it was," replied the old nurse, looking cunningly into the face of Matilda.

"I can tell ye nothing, Bertha, for I heard nothing," said the other.

This conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Rollo, roused the curiosity of Matilda, who, ignorant of the interest felt by Bertha in the suit of the English lover, did not observe in her words or manner any wish to acquire information, but only a simple badinage on a subject of love. She trusted her nurse implicitly as her best friend, and sought her counsel often in those moments of unhappiness when her mother interrupted the imaginative course of her life by some effort to get her affections fixed on a proud baron or a courtly knight. The consolations of Bertha were ever ready; and her innocent and unsuspicious friend did not observe, in the nurse's zealous efforts to confirm her against the marriage-plans of her mother, the anxious workings of the concealed and paid deputy of a lover also rejected. She intended to have questioned her father about the sounds in the wood; but that day did not afford an opportunity for the gratification of her wish. Left to her own imagination, she concluded that some of her lovers had presumed to address her after the Spanish form of the evening serenade; and, while she resolved upon listening on the following evening, she was determined to take no notice of the importunities of her impassioned lover.

The evening set in with great beauty. The full moon rose high in the heavens, in which there was not discernible the thinnest wreath of vapour to form a resting-place for the eye, as it wandered among the endless regions of pure illuminated ether. The bright queen, paramount over all, engrossed the whole hemisphere, reducing the twinkling stars to the dimensions of small satraps of distant provinces, whose smallness increased the splendour of her august majesty. The stillness of nature suggested the idea of a general worship of the presiding genius of the night. Every wind was stilled, and even the Whitadder seemed to glide along with a greater smoothness than usual; while its singing, mellow voice seemed as if it rejoiced in the bright reflection of the gay queen of the heavens it held in its bosom. It was now about nine o'clock. Matilda was sitting at the casement of her apartment, overlooking the stream—her eyes were fixed on the beautiful scene; the towers of Roseallan threw over a part of the river a shadow, at the farther extremity of which, and, as it were, at the point of the eastern turret, the round form of the moon, like a bright silver salver, lay still in the bosom of the water. A little beyond this striking object stood her bower in the wood; and so bright was the flood of light that penetrated every part of the forest, that she saw the door and window of the romantic retreat so perfectly, that she could have detected the entrance of the august Oberon, or even Piggwiggan himself, if either of them could have left their revels on the greensward, in that auspicious night, to favour her bower with a visit. The scene was so inviting, that she would have been tempted to wander over the bridge into the wood, if the information of Bertha had not pointed out to her the danger.

As she continued her gaze on the beautiful scene, her attention was claimed by the form of a man gliding between the trees in the wood. He came forward to the edge of the river, and stood in a contemplative attitude, with his arm resting on the branch of an old beech, and his head directed in such a way as to suggest the idea that he was looking towards the casement of Matilda's apartment. On seeing him take this attitude, she retired back, to prevent her white dress from attracting his attention. A slight examination satisfied her that he was an individual below the rank of life in which she moved. He was of great height and commanding aspect; but his dress was that of the son of a free farmer of that time, being composed of the rough doublet, bound with a broad leather belt, and the slouched hat, made of thick plaits of coarse straw, and ornamented with a black riband tied round the junction of the rim and the crown. Though worn by the inferior orders, the dress was a noble one, imparting to the wearer an air of robust strength, with that easy carelessness and rude grace which forms the dignité of the freeborn son of the mountain. It was only the general outline of his appearance and dress which Matilda could thus discover through the light of the moon; but she saw enough to excite her attention, and she continued to notice his motions.

The stranger stood in the same attitude of mute contemplation for a considerable time, his face still directed toward the same part of the building, in spite of the powerful claims on his eye and attention that were put forth by the splendid scene around him, with the round figure of the moon shining in the waters at his feet. At length he took his arm from the branch of the old beech, and, turning round, slowly directed his steps towards Matilda's wood-bower, into which he entered, bending his tall person to enable him to get in at the door—a circumstance that satisfied Matilda of his great height, as her father—a very tall man—could enter without that preliminary. All was for a time still and silent; the gentle rippling of the Whitadder deriving from the absence of any other sound a distinctness which, in its turn, added to the depth of the quiet of sleeping nature. A soft sound began to rise in low strains of sweet music, coming apparently from the bower. It was the voice of a man, modulated into the tones of the pathetic expression of heart-felt sentiment; the air was slow, and filled with cadences which brought down the voice to the lowest note; the words—pronounced in the low tone of the music, and run together by the fluent character of the melody which accompanied them—could not be distinguished; but the effect of the plaintive sounds, co-operating with the silence of night, and the extraordinary scene of lunar splendour exhibited by earth and heaven, was felt by Matilda as the nearest approximation she had yet experienced to the realisation of her imaginative creations. The music continued for some time, and then ceased at the termination of one of the deep cadences, prolonged apparently for the purpose of expressing a finale. The individual came out of the bower, and stood again on the side of the river—the shadow of his tall figure fell on the ground like the reflection of the beech on which he leaned; he continued his gaze for some time in dead silence, and then, turning, disappeared in the wood.

Matilda was unable, after all the consideration she could bestow on the subject, to come to any conclusion satisfactory to herself, as to either the identity of the individual, or the object he had in view. During the night, the scene, which had been deeply impressed on her mind, was verified by the power of fancy; and there was a certain romance about it which recommended it to her heart. In the morning she questioned Bertha, to whom she confided her every secret.

"I am perplexed, Bertha," she began. "You asked me yesterday if I had heard any sounds in the Satyr's Hall, and I have that question now to put to you. The man that sings in my bower must have some other object in view than gratifying his own ears or those of the night birds with his plaintive melody. What means it, Bertha? Come, my good friend, unravel the mystery, and the grateful thanks of your Matilda will reward you."

"If the throstle hen kens nae the mottled lover that sings to her, what other bird o' the wood can come to the knowledge?" answered Bertha. "I'm owre auld a bird to ken noo the notes o' a lover, or to tell a moulted feather frae the new plume; but, as far as my auld een would carry, your night freend looked mair curiously at the east tower o' Roseallan than men generally do at grey wa's in the light o' the moon. He's as tall, at ony rate, as Sir Thomas, and I thocht there was only ae man o' his height in the land where he sojourns. But I think I could unmask his secresy."

Bertha looked, to see the effect of her allusion to her principal; but she got no encouragement.

"Whoever he may be," answered Matilda, "he is a very different kind of individual from Sir George Douglas; nor is it Sir Thomas Courtney. The melody is too sweet for the execution of an English throat. He is a Scotchman; probably some of my Edinburgh courtly lovers, in the disguise of a free son of the mountains. I cannot listen to his strains; but you can safely approach the bower, and may, as you yourself have proffered, ascertain for me who and what he is."

"My young leddy's wish is Bertha's command," answered the old woman; "watch me with your hazel eyes, over the white bridge, this night at nine. If he comes again, he shall not go away unknown."

When the evening came, Matilda was again at her casement. The night was as beautiful as the preceding one; but there was a thin halo round the moon that gave her a softer aspect; and the diminished sound of the mellow ripple of the Whitadder seemed to indicate that there was a zephyr abroad whose presence could be detected only by that delicate test. About the hour of nine, she saw the thin figure of old Bertha, rolled up in a cloak, steal silently from a postern of the east wall, and creep slowly down to the end of the light, airy bridge, that spanned, with its pure white arms, the bosom of the river. Stretching forth her bony hand, she seized the rail, and, having got a firm footing, walked with slow steps along the planks. Her progress was slow, nervous, and unsteady. Matilda was solicitous for her safety; for she had never seen Bertha venture along the bridge at night, and she herself seldom crossed it after nightfall, even with the aid of a resplendent moon. Her attention was fixed upon her to the exclusion of all notice of any proceedings on the other side of the stream. The old woman had got to the middle of the bridge, and Matilda saw with horror her supposed faithful friend fall. Starting from her seat, she rushed down, and in an instant was at the end of the bridge. Seizing the rail, she hurried along, and found the body of the nurse lying extended on the planks, apparently senseless, though she had merely experienced an ordinary fall, the result of a stumble. Bending down, the anxious girl was proceeding to lift her up, when she was, in an instant, seized by the arms of a strong man, and hurried away to the further end of the bridge. Stunned by this sudden seizure, succeeding as it did the anxiety under which she laboured for her nurse, she was unable even to scream, and lay in the arms of the person that bore her away, helpless, and nearly senseless. When she recovered herself so far as to be conscious of her situation, she found she was in the wood, and heard the sound of the voices of several men, among whom she thought she observed the disguised figure of a gentleman. They had wrapped a large cloak round her, and were in the act of putting her on the back of a jennet that stood ready saddled and bridled, when the man that held her was struck to the ground by some one that came behind him. He lay senseless at her feet; a second one shared his fate in an instant; and a third, after dealing a treacherous blow on the head of her deliverer, flung himself on a horse that stood alongside of the jennet, and galloped off at the top of his speed. Meanwhile, she was again seized by another man, and soon found herself reclining in her own bower.

"The feet o' the remaining horses," said a voice at her feet, "are raisin the echoes o' the Satyr's wood. The spoilers have recovered, and have fled after their master, who is, by this time, by the side o' the Tweed. Hoo fares Matilda Rollo? Can it be excused by high birth and beauty that the salvation o' their possessor frae the arms o' an English reformer cam frae the courage or the good fortune o' ane that daurna lift his face to ask forgiveness for doin the duty o' a fellow-creature?"

"Whoever you are," cried Matilda, as she recovered, "you have done little in saving me, if Bertha Maitland lies drowned in the Whitadder; and that blood that flows down your face may be the dear price of my safety." And she started to her feet, as if she were to fly to save her friend.

"Content yersel, fair leddy," said the individual who still knelt at her feet; "my wound is sma', and as to your auld nurse, I saw her rise without a helpin hand, and, like the stunned bird, shake her feathers, and return to Roseallan wi' a steadier step than when she wiled ye owre the bridge."

The last words were pronounced with that irresolution which resulted from a fear of a false impeachment, and were not heard or understood by Matilda, who, made easy on the subject of her solicitude, now contemplated the individual who had saved her. The blood flowed profusely over his face, yet she could perceive that he was the same person whom she had seen on the previous night; and the estimate she had then made of his character was realised. But a new source of curiosity and interest was now opened to her. She recognised in his countenance, which was formed after the finest model that ever came from the pencil of Apelles or the chisel of Praxiteles, the original of the image which she had so often, in that bower, called up to the contemplation of a fancy excited by the reading of "Amadis" or "Cavalcante." She was surprised and confused; her mind recurred back to former times; a floating vision crossed her fancy; she fixed her eyes on the beautiful, though blood-stained countenance of her protector, and, blushing to the ears, threw them again on the ground. Her confusion prevented her from speaking, as well as from rising to return to the castle; and the doubt which clung to her mind, whether all the extraordinary proceedings of the last ten minutes were not a dream, added to her irresolution, and increased her embarrassment. A thought roused her suddenly to a sense of her position. Bertha would report her danger at the castle, and her father, with attendants, would instantly be in search of her, and in pursuit of the fugitives. Starting up, she made confusedly for the entrance of the bower; but the hem of her garment was held by her deliverer, who implored for a moment's delay.

"A second time have I been blessed," he ejaculated, as he wiped the blood from his face. "Three years have passed sin chance led me to look in at the window o' this wood-bower, where, gracious heaven! I saw the fair maiden o' Roseallan in the beauty o' a calm sleep. On this heather-bench, which was strewn wi' roses, her head rested; a book had fa'en frae her left hand, and her right was spread amang the flowing curls o' auburn hair that spread owre her neck and bosom. She dreamed, dootless, o' some happy lover; for, ever and anon, the smile played on her lips, and a tear struggled frae beneath the closed lids, and trickled down her cheeks. The vision enchanted me—I gazed, and could have gazed for ever. Matilda Rollo, you awoke, and saw my face as it disappeared from the window; but, Heaven have mercy on me! I have never awoke frae that hour! Wi' the might o' that enchantment, I wrestled as became a humble admirer o' what fate had put beyond my reach—but it was in vain, and I sought relief frae the new scenes o' Northumberland, while my brother tended a widowed mother. Fate has brought me again to the neighbourhood o' Roseallan; but duty must—ay, shall drive me again far away."

A sudden recollection glanced on the mind of Matilda; she threw her eyes upon his countenance, the origin of all her day-dreams, and quickly, and as if in terror, withdrew them. A slight struggle released her from his gentle hold; she sprang out of the bower, and, with trembling steps, sought quickly the bridge, along which she hurried to the castle, where she sought instantly the chamber of Bertha. She found the old woman on her knees, at her evening's devotion.

"Ah! my leddy!" ejaculated the nurse, "why did ye leave me to seek my way back owre the brig, without the helpin hand o' your love and assistance? I was stunned sair by the fa', but I heard a sound o' voices as I recovered. I looked for you, and thought ye had returned to your apartment, whar I intended to have sought ye, after offering up my prayers to our Leddy for my deliverance."

"Sore stunned you must have been, good Bertha," said Matilda, "when you did not see my peril. Surely it is impossible. Did you not see your own Matilda carried off by men? Yet, why do I put that question? Surely it is sufficient to satisfy me that my dear friend was insensible and ignorant of my fate, when I see her occupied in prayer, in place of rousing my father to my rescue."

"Carried awa by men, child!" ejaculated the nurse, "and me ignorant o' the base treachery! By'r Leddy, I'm petrified! Whar were you carried, and wha were the ruffians? Kenned ye ony o' them? Doubtless, some o' our Holyrude knights in disguise. Speak, love, and relieve the beating heart o' your auld freend."

Matilda took Bertha up to her chamber, and recounted to her, in the confidence of love and friendship, all that had occurred to her—not even excepting the interview she had had in the wood-bower with her unknown but interesting deliverer.

"It was indeed he," she continued, "whose angelic countenance has so long hovered over me in my hours of retirement and in my dreams. He said he first saw me sleeping in my bower, and he spoke truth; for you must recollect, Bertha, of my having informed you, at the time, years ago, of my terror on awakening and finding a human countenance staring in upon me through the window. My confusion prevented me from recognising him; but his countenance had got into my mind by the power of its beauty, while my memory sometimes let go the connection between the image which subsequently waxed so vivid, and the occasion by which it became a part of my thoughts. Oh, long have I cherished it, long assumed it as the face of the beatified hero of my histories, often limned it in air by the pregnant pencil of my fancy, dreamed of it, and wept as the light of day chased away the beloved form, and left me only in its place the things of ordinary life, the countenances of the knightly wooers of Holyrood!"

"And wha is he," inquired Bertha, "wha thus shoves his head into leddies' bowers, and sae timously saves them frae the hands o' kidnappers?"

"I know not, good Bertha," answered Matilda. "He is humble, and knows as well as I know that he and I never can be united. Already has duty taken him hence, and again is he to force himself far from me. I may never see him more. Would that I had never seen him, or were fated to see him ever!"

"Deliverer and spoiler are alike unkenned, then," said Bertha. "Hae ye nae suspicion o' the treacherous caitifs?" she added, looking searchingly into Matilda's face.

"None," replied the other. "I heard them not; but, Bertha, my best and truest friend, you must endeavour to learn for me some intelligence of my deliverer; for, though he cannot ever stand in any other relation to me, I could wish to know something of one whose image I have treasured up in my heart, even as a miser does the number that forms the index of his wealth. The widow loves the grave of her departed husband, and bedews it with tears, and carries away with her again the image of him she leaves to the worms: he is to me as the entombed lover: life and death are not more distant, than the pride of the Rollos and the humility of the poor; but his name may become as the graven letters of the monumental stone—I may weep over it."

"Auld age is a puir scout, my Matilda," replied Bertha. "Ance I have failed in my commission, and a watery grave in the Whitadder had nearly been my reward. Tak the advice o' eild, and seek neither his name nor nativity. The duty ye owe to the pride and power o' the braw house o' Roseallan must ever prevent ye frae being his wedded wife; and, if it is ordained that ye must forget him, ye will banish him from your mind the mair easily that ye ken nae mair o' him than ye do o' the bird that birrs past ye in the wood—that it has a bonny feather in its tail."

"Ah, Bertha, that ignorance will not be to me bliss," said Matilda, sighing; "but, in the meantime, I must hasten to my mother, and tell her of the danger I have escaped."

"And o' the lover that saved ye, guileless simpleton!" said Bertha, seizing her by the arm. "The Whitadder leads nae mair certainly to the Tweed, than will the story o' yer danger lead to the discovery o' him ye are ashamed to acknowledge as a lover. Darkness waukens the owl, and yer mystery will open the eyes o' Lady Rollo. Let the bird sleep, or its scream will mak the wood ring."

Matilda saw, so far as she herself was concerned, the prudence of secresy, and was about to take leave of Bertha for the night, when Lady Rollo entered, and informed her daughter that Sir George Douglas of Haughhead had arrived to pay his addresses to her, and that she behoved to be in a proper state for meeting him in the morning at the first meal. Having delivered her command, the proud dame retired, leaving her daughter to the many distracting reflections suggested by all the conflicting and painful events of the evening. She retired to her couch, where she was to resign herself to the domination of that rapt fancy that had so long led the train of her thoughts, and regulated the affections of her heart. Sleep forsook her pillow, or came only for short intervals, with the Genius of Dreams in his train. Waking or slumbering, the image of the unknown youth, who had made such an impression upon her heart, by the extraordinary deputed power of an imagination ever active in painting in bright colours all his perfections, was before her eyes. The higher these perfections and the brighter the beauties, the greater was the pain and the deeper the sobs of anguish that were wrung from her heart, by the conviction that her love was destined only to similate the cankerworm, that eats into the heart of the flower, and makes it perish.

Next day, she was compelled, with her hazel eyes still dimmed with tears, to meet Sir George Douglas, a man she had every reason to hate, as well from his proud assumption of a right to her affections, as from the mean and inconsistent mode of mediation he resorted to, and which she had learned from her mother that morning—by bribing her parents with large promises of a tempting dowery.

With her feelings never kindly affected towards him, her heart burning with the thoughts of another, and her prejudices excited by the information she received from her mother, she conducted herself towards the knight with a hauteur that called forth his hurt pride and the indignation of her parents. After breakfast, she retired to her apartment, to feast her eyes with the vision of her bower—to her now enchanted—while her angry parents closeted themselves for a conference on the subject of Sir George's splendid offer, and the conduct of their daughter. Wrought up to a pitch of excitement by the united feelings of anger and ambition, they came to the critical determination of submitting her entirely to the power and discretion of Douglas, who, if he chose to wed her upon the sanction of their consent, might, if he chose, dispense with that of the principal party interested. The project was instantly submitted to Douglas, a hard and unfeeling man, who, determined to possess Matilda upon any terms, closed readily with the offer, and a day was fixed at the end of a month for the marriage.

These preliminaries settled, Lady Rollo repaired to Matilda's apartment, where she found her with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed on the wood-bower, where she had conjured up the image of her unknown lover.

"Thy conduct this day, Matilda," she began, "towards one of the gayest and richest knights of our land, the confidant of King James, and our especial friend and favourite, requireth the chastisement of the reproof of parental authority; but we have witnessed too long this pride of beauty in thee (which disdaineth the loves of mortals, and seduceth thee and thy heart into the airy regions of profitless romance), to remain contented now with mere words of argument, persuasion, or reproach. The day of these is by, with the hopes of the many lovers thou hast turned away from the gates of Roseallan; and the time for action—maugre thy wishes or thy prejudices—hath approached. Sir George Douglas is destined to be thy husband, and the day after the next feast of our Church is thy appointed bridal-day, whereunto thou hadst best prepare thyself with as much grace and favour as thou mayest be able to call up into thy fair face."

Saying these words, Lady Rollo retired hurriedly, as if with the view of avoiding a reply, or witnessing the sudden effects of her announcement. The words had fallen upon her daughter's heart like the announcement of a doom, and closed up the fountains of her tears. She sat riveted to the chair, incapable of speech, or even of thought. On partially recovering her senses, she found Bertha standing before her. Rising into a paroxysm of struggling emotion, she flung her arms round the neck of the old nurse, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. The choking sobs seemed to come from the inmost recesses of her heart, and the burning tears, forcing the closed issues of their fountains, flowed down her cheeks, and dropped on the neck of her confidant. Bertha heard the intelligence, as it was communicated in detached syllables, in silence; and, having placed the unhappy maiden on her chair, sank into a train of thinking, which her young friend attributed to a sympathetic sorrow for her sufferings. The voice of Lady Rollo prevented the expected consolation, and obeying the command of her mistress, Bertha left the apartment, promising to return soon again. The day passed, and Matilda, unable to join the company in the western wing of the castle, remained in her apartment, sunk in despondency, and at times verging on the bleak province of despair.

Heedless of the gloom that overhung the minds of mortals, the bright moon rose again in the evening with undiminished splendour, throwing her silver beams over the tear-bedewed face of the sorrowful maiden, whose weeping was increased by the contrast of nature's loveliness. She sat again at the casement; her eyes wandered heavily over the scene that lay like a fair painting spread before her; the long, dark shadows of the wood, lying by the side of bright, moonlit plots of greensward, with their spangles of dew glittering like diamonds, reminded her of the chequered scenes of life, into the depth of one of the gloomiest of which she was now sunk; and her pain was increased as she felt herself, by the power of fate, contemplating again her wood-bower, which stood fair in the broad light of the moon. A sound struck her ears and called forth her attention. It was that of a lute, and came in dying notes from a distance in the wood. Gradually increasing in distinctness, it seemed to come nearer and nearer; and now she recognised the air that was sung by her preserver on that night when she discovered him. The sound ceased suddenly, and she saw the figure of her preserver emerge from a thick part of the wood and pass into her bower. The same plaintive air was again raised, and spread around in soft mellifluous strains, suggesting the union, by some process unknown to metaphysical analysis, of light and sound—so connected and blended were the feelings produced by the soft beams of the moon and the sounds of the lute. The blessed sensation passed over her racked nerves like the odorous incense of the altar on the excited sensibility of the bleeding victim; her eyes and ears were versant with heaven, while her thoughts were claimed by the evil workings of bad angels; her heart swelled with the conflicting emotions, and a fresh burst of tears afforded her a temporary relief. Her paroxysm over, the soft sounds fell again upon her ear. Retaining her breath to drink deeper of the draught, she heard the notes gradually diminishing, as if the performer were retiring in the wood. He had left the bower unobserved; and the silence that now reigned around announced that he was gone.

For seven successive nights the music in the wood-bower had assuaged the sufferings of the respective days; but for three nights there had been nothing heard but the cry of the screech-owl, and the moon had been illuminating other lands. The period of her sacrifice was drawing nearer and nearer, and the cloud of her sorrow was gradually becoming deeper and darker.

"'Tis now three nights since he was in the wood," she said to Bertha. "My silence and inattention have but ill repaid his services and his passion. The sound of his lute has been to me the voice of hope breaking through the clouds of despair. O Bertha! my sense of duty to my parents and the honour of the old house of Roseallan has so nearly perished amidst this persecution, that I could now feel it no crime to throw myself into his arms, and seek in humble worth the protection I cannot procure in the Castle of Roseallan's master."

"Wisely spoken, my bonny bairn," replied Bertha. "My auld blood boils wi' the passion o' youth, and drives frae my heart the gratitude I owe to the proud master and mistress o' Roseallan, as I witness this persecution o' the bonniest and the best o' Scotland's daughters. The arms o' George Templeton, the archer, the son o' the widow of Mosscairn, can send an arrow beyond the cast o' the best archer o' the Borders; and may weel defend (were he again in health) her for whom the proudest o' Scotland's knights would send the last shaft into the heart o' his rival."

"Is that the name of my preserver, Bertha?" ejaculated Matilda, in surprise. "How came you by your knowledge? Speak, and relieve me, that I may be certain that I know to whom I owe my life or my honour; and to whom I—unworthy, thankless, ungrateful being that I am!—have not yet vouchsafed one solitary look or word of thanks or gratitude. But what said you of his health? He was wounded for me—ha! Has adverse fate another evil in store for a daughter of affliction?"

"For your sake, my bairn, I traced out this man," replied the old nurse; "but, oh, that I should hae to add anither sorrow to the wo-worn child o' my early affection! He is ill. A wound he received in the wood has become, by ill treatment and exposure, the heart o' a fever that has eaten into the seat o' life."

"And he will die for me—killed by the second and severest wound, of ingratitude!" cried Matilda, starting up in violent emotion. "With death on him, received in my defence, has he nightly visited the bower of his ungrateful mistress, who never, even by the movement of her evening lamp, showed that she heard his strains, or understood their meaning. That countenance, streaming with blood, yet beautiful through his life's stream flowing for me, will haunt me through the short span that misery may allow me. Would to God that I had returned one token as a mark of my gratitude, if not of my love! Bertha, I must see this man, who holds in his hands the issues of my destiny."

"And ye will, guid child," answered the nurse; "but, should death deprive ye o' this refuge, we may think o' some ither means o' savin ye frae this forced match wi' this high Catholic knight o' Haughhead, wha persecuted the reformers as muckle as he does his lovers. Sir Thomas Courtney—whom your father has banned frae Roseallan—shows as muckle mercy to the Catholics as he does fair-seeming love to his lass-lemans. But are you able to wander to Mosscairn, child?"

"A bleeding head did not keep him from my wood-bower," replied Matilda—"a bleeding heart shall not prevent me from seeing him before he dies."

This resolution on the part of Matilda, though it did not meet with the entire approbation of Bertha, was adhered to; but no opportunity occurred for putting it into execution. Every hour, in the meantime, added to her unhappiness. Sir George Douglas had returned to Edinburgh, to make preparations for the marriage; her mother watched her, to detect what she termed the trick of simulated illness; and her father, who was led by her mother, seemed determined to carry their cruel scheme into execution. Tortured throughout the day, the moon, now late in rising, afforded her no solace at night; the scene from the castle was changed from lightness to darkness; the screeching of night birds came, in the fitful blasts, in place of the melody of her lover's lute; and the dreary view called up by the power of association the picture of her lover lying on a death-bed, paying, by the torture of death, the dreadful penalty of having dared to love one above his degree.

After a suitable inspection, her mother had, as she thought, discovered that there existed no illness about her to prevent her from taking her usual airing, and Bertha, who had apparently some purpose in view, came and urged her to walk as far as the Monks' Mound, a green hillock that stood on the borders of the property of Roseallan. They accordingly set out. The day was not propitious; lazy clouds lay sleeping on the sides of the hills, and wreaths of mist floated along like shadows, assuming grotesque forms, and suggesting resemblances to aerial beings in the act of superintending the operations of mortals; the wind was hushed to the gentlest zephyr; and the sun, obscured by the masses of sleeping clouds, was not able even to indicate the part of the heavens where he was. Nature, "dowie and wae," seemed to have shrouded herself in the pall of mourning, and the feathered tribes, overcome by the instinctive sympathy, were mute, and cowered among the branches of the trees, as if they had borrowed the habits of the wingless, tuneless reptiles that crawled among the rank grass that covered the ground of the wood. The couple wandered along slowly, Matilda resting on the arm of the nurse. They came to the Monks' Mound, and sat down. The burying-ground of the monastery of Dominicans lay on their right hand, and they could see the tombstones rearing their grey, moss-covered heads over the turf-dyke that surrounded the consecrated ground.

"See ye the little thatched house at the foot o' Lincleugh Hill yonder?" said Bertha, after some moments of solemn silence, and holding out her shrivelled hand. "The smoke frae its auld lum is curling among the mist-clouds; but there's a darker mist within, and nae sun to send a flaught through it."

"I see it well," replied Matilda, in a melancholy voice; "and, humble as it is, and gloomy as it may be in its interior, I could even seek there the peace I cannot find in the proud towers of Roseallan. There are no forced marriages under roofs of thatch."

"Ay, but there is death, in the cottage as well as in the bonniest ha'," muttered Bertha, ominously.

Matilda looked into the face of her nurse, who continued to gaze in the direction of the cottage of Lincleugh.

"The mist blinds my auld een," she continued, as she passed her hand over her eyes. "The hour is come, and there should be tokens o' gathering there—yet I see naething."

Matilda looked again inquiringly into her face.

"Young een are sharp," said she again, "and now the mist is rowing awa frae the side o' Lincleugh, and breaking into wreaths in the valley. Look again, Matilda, and tell me what ye see."

"The removal of the mist," replied Matilda, directing her eyes to the cottage, "has revealed a cluster of people dressed in black standing round the door of the cottage."

"Ay, I'm right," replied Bertha, straining her eyes to see the mourners; "the hour is near; and see the sextons stand there in Death's Croft, like twa ghouls, looking into the grave they have this moment finished."

Matilda intuitively turned her eyes to the burying-ground that went under the name of Death's Croft.

"You seem to know something more of this funeral than we of the castle generally learn of the fate of the distant cottagers," said she.

"They're lifting," said the nurse, overlooking Matilda's remark, "and the train moves to Death's Croft.

"Who is dead?" asked Matilda, as she fixed her eyes on the procession.

Bertha was silent. The procession reached Death's Croft, and, in a short time, the rattling of the stones and earth on the coffin-lid was distinctly heard. Matilda shuddered as the hollow sounds met her ear, and Bertha crooned the lines of poetry she had already repeated. The rattling sound ceased, and the loud clap of the spade indicated the approaching termination of the work. The mourners gradually departed, and the sextons, having finished their work, returned to the monastery.

"Come, come, now," said Bertha, "we've seen aneugh—the flesh to earth, the soul to heaven. A's dune—let us return to Roseallan."

"The inhabitant of that narrow cell has the advantage of me," muttered Matilda, sadly, as she rose to return home. "The marriage with the Redeemer is not forced, and the union endureth for ever."

Bertha, who remained silent, hastened home, and, old as she was, several times outwalked her weak and melancholy companion. When they arrived, they went direct to the apartment of Matilda, where they were met by Lady Rollo, who congratulated her daughter upon her increasing ability to go through, with the necessary decorum, the ceremony of the marriage. As soon as she retired, Matilda flung herself on her couch, and burst into tears.

"There is only one individual who can save me from this dreadful fate," she cried. "Bertha, it is borne in upon my mind, that I cannot endure this trial. Death or madness will be the alternative doom of the forced bride of the knight of Haughhead. What of George Templeton? Did you not promise to assist me to inquire for his health? Were we not to visit him when my strength permitted? Tell me, tell me—have you heard how he is?"

"He is weel, my bairn," replied Bertha; "better than either you or me."

"Bless you! bless you, dear Bertha!" cried Matilda, rising and flinging her arms round the neck of the old woman; "then there is some chance left for me. I may yet be saved from that dreadful doom. I would trust to the honour of that man who has already saved it with my life. Ah, if he is well, I may expect again to hear these dulcet sounds which thrill through my frame, and soften, by their sweet tones, the grief that sits like a relentless tyrant on my heart. When, Bertha, shall we visit him?"

"We hae already visited him," replied the nurse, with a strange meaning in her eye. "Did ye no see him this day, bairn, laid by the side o' his faither amang the saft mould o' Death's Croft?"

"What mean you, Bertha?" replied Matilda. "There is a strange light in your eye; I never before saw your face wear that expression. Ah! another doom impends over me—I see the opening cloud from which the thunder is to burst on my poor head. Why look thus upon me, nurse? is there a humour on your seriousness?—for you laugh not. Read the doom backwards, and do not incur from your Matilda the imputation of inflicting a cruel torture on her who has hung at your breast."

"It was to save pain to my beloved Matilda," replied the nurse, with a peculiar tone, "that I had ye hame before I told ye that the corpse ye this day saw laid in the grave, in Death's Croft, was that o' George Templeton."

Conscious of the effect that would be produced by this announcement, the old woman held out her arms to receive the falling maiden. With a loud scream she fainted, and forcing her way through the arms of the nurse, fell on the floor with a loud crash. The sound brought up her mother. As Matilda recovered, she looked about her wildly; her eyes recoiling from the face of her mother, on which was depicted a smile of incredulity, and seeking Bertha's, on which she found an expression equally painful. There was no refuge on either side; and, as the image of her dead lover rose on her fancy, she felt, in the consciousness of the utter ruin of all her hopes, the stinging reproof of a tender conscience, that charged her with cruelty to the devoted being who, in defending her honour, lost his life.

"All this will not impose upon me, Matilda," said her mother. "Thou wert well to-day, when thou didst walk forth; and this well-acted fit is intended to remove the impression I entertain of your perfect ability to perform the engagement your father and I have made for your benefit. Mark me, maiden!—I will not heed thee more, if thy simulation were as well acted as that of the wise King of Utica." And, saying these words, she abruptly departed, leaving Matilda still scarcely sensible of what was going on around her. The cruel dame called the nurse after her, and the miserable girl was left to wrestle with her secret and divulged griefs with the unaided powers of a mind broken down by her accumulated misfortunes. She lay extended on her couch; and fancy, deriving new energies from the impulse of feeling, became busy in the portrayment of the form of her lover, whom she had, as she was satisfied, killed. She recurred to the scene in the bower, with his manly countenance streaming with blood; his visits to her bower afterwards—when he must have been suffering the first approaches of that disease that proved fatal to him; and, above all, her heartless conduct in not even condescending to notice this tribute of devotion in one who had saved her life.

She lay under the agony of these thoughts till it was after nightfall, when the gloom of her mind increased as the shades of darkness spread around her. She felt that she could suffer the agonising thoughts no longer, and, starting up, and throwing over her shoulders a night-cloak, she hurried out of the castle. She found herself intuitively taking the way to Death's Croft. The night was getting dark, and there was a hollow, gousty wind blowing among the trees, and whistling among the whins and tall grass that lay in her path. Heedless of all obstructions, and insensible to danger, she wandered along, and soon found herself at the side of the turf-dyke that surrounded the place of the dead. Surmounting this slight obstacle, she groped her way among the tombstones, starting occasionally, as a gust of wind made the long grass rustle by her side, or produced a hollow sound from the reverberation of some hollow cenotaph. After considerable labour, she came to a new-made grave, and endeavoured to satisfy herself that there was not another equally new among the many tumuli that raised their green bosoms around her. On a stone at the foot of the grave she sat down, and wrapped the folds of the mantle round her, to keep from her tender frame the chill night-winds. She rose, and knelt down upon the new-made grave, the green sods of which she bedewed with her tears. The spot was doubly hallowed by recollections and self-criminations, and she could not, for a longer period than was consistent with her safety, drag herself away from it. Throwing herself on the grass in a paroxysm of grief, she kissed the sods, and, crying bitterly, rose, and mournfully sought the path that led to that home where a new misery awaited her. She wandered slowly along; and, as she approached the castle, saw with dismay a light shining in her chamber. Her mother, she concluded, was there, and would, by her absence, get all her suspicions fortified, that her illness was merely assumed. She stood for a moment, and paused, irresolute how to proceed—terrified to enter the house, yet unknowing whither to go. A voice struck her ear—it was that of Bertha; and, looking round, she saw her old nurse in close conversation with a man who had on the very dress worn by the individual who formerly endeavoured to carry her off, and who, she suspected, was no other than Sir Thomas Courtney. What could this mean? Was it possible that Bertha was in the interest of the man who had attempted to force her affections, by retaining possession of her person? The question was an extraordinary one, and startled her. She stood and looked for a moment. The man observed her, and retreated, while Bertha stealthily sought the castle by a back entry. Her suspicion increased, and, hurrying home, she threw herself on a couch. She was thus beset on every hand. Her lover was dead, and in his grave, and all left behind seemed to be against her. There appeared to be no refuge from the fate that awaited her. The marriage-day was on the wing, and would soon cast the cloud of its dark pinion on the turrets of Roseallan. Her reliance on Bertha was changed to the poignant suspicion of treachery. Her mind recurred to the scene on the bridge, which she suspected was a part of her scheme to get her into the hands of the English reformer, whose tenets, she thought, Bertha secretly favoured. Thus had she lost both friend and lover—the one by death, the other by infidelity; and she could scarcely tell which was most painful to her—such is the anguish felt on the discovery of the falsehood of friendship. Her mother's cruel and unjust reproof rung in her ears; her father was obdurate; her lover proud, determined, and, worse than all, filled with what he called an ardent love, and which she looked upon as a loathing, ribald passion, the indications of which she would fly as she would the embrace of the twisting serpent. Pained to the inmost recesses of her spirits, she could get no relief from tears; her dry, glowing eyes looked unutterable anguish; and a feverish heat pervaded her system, rendering her restless and miserable. She flung herself on her bed, where she lay tortured by her conflicting thoughts. Her mother did not again visit her, and Bertha remained absent, apparently from shame. A domestic obeyed her call, and administered the few necessaries she required. The night was passed in great anguish, and the morrow's light brought no assuagement of her pain. The domestic who waited upon her told her that Sir George Douglas had arrived at the castle with a party, and that her mother expected her presence in the hall next day. Bertha, she said, was indisposed, and could not attend her; but she would, in the meantime, supply her place. The day passed with no variation; there was no relief from the hope of succour; and her mind, dark and foreboding, sunk into a state of gloomy melancholy. The night came on, and threw the physical shades of gloom into a mind darkened with the misery of despair. As she lay in this state, she thought she heard the sound of a lute; and rising, she placed herself at the window. The night was still, and the moon, which had not for some time been visible, was sending forth faint beams before she set. The scene was composed and pleasant, and brought to her mind recollections that added to her griefs. She fixed her eye on the wood, and observed a figure passing between the trees. It was too indistinct to enable her to know who it was. A dark dress, unrelieved by any mixture of colours, suggested the idea of Bertha's friend, Sir Thomas Courtney. A new source of curiosity now arose in the individual playing (in, however, as she thought, a very indifferent manner) the tune that used to be played by her lover. The sounds went to her heart; but suspicion of treachery accompanied them, and fired her with as much anger as her gentle nature was capable of, against this new scheme to wile her from the castle. At this moment, her mother and father entered.

"We have got again, in the wood-bower, a lover," cried the father. "I insist, Matilda, that thou dost tell me who it is."

"I do not know, father," replied Matilda.

"Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that night when Bertha fell on the bridge?" asked the mother.

"I never attempted to elope," answered the maiden, weeping; "but I was attempted to be carried off by some one in disguise; and the man that is now in my bower may be he, but I know not."

"Sir Thomas Courtney!" cried the mother.

The father rushed out of the room. The sounds of voices were heard in the base-court, and that of George Douglas was pre-eminent. A shot was heard. Matilda looked out at the window, and saw some servants carrying the body of a wounded man across the bridge. Lights were brought, and some one called out the name of Templeton the archer. Matilda flew out of the room, and was in an instant in the ballium. She looked in the face of the wounded man. It was George Templeton. He opened his eyes, and fixed them on her face, took her hand into his, pressed it, sighed, and expired.

Some days afterwards, Matilda Rollo was led, dressed by the hands of her mother, into the presence of the priest who was to unite her and Sir George Douglas. When asked if she consented to receive the knight as her husband, she burst into a loud laugh. Her reason had fled; she was ever afterwards a maniac, and was tended by Bertha Maitland, who, sitting in the wood-bower, often contemplated, with feelings we will not attempt to describe, the unhappy victim of her treachery.