Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

echoed around; and, with it still ringing gaily in his ears, Eliot of Whitterburn rode away, followed by a single attendant, along the well-known path to his kinsman's dwelling at Gowan Knows.

The next morning the sun rose as bright and beautiful as though there were neither hard nor sorrowing hearts beneath his brilliant rays; yet in Sybil Scott's chamber they fell on one whose eyes were dimmed with tears, and her cheeks paled with watching, and to whom that golden sunlight was far more terrible than is darkness to wanderers in unknown paths, for she knew it would light her to certain misery. And then the bridal attire was reluctantly donned. Sybil felt it the saddest garb she had ever worn; but not even her father's summons could draw her down among the quickly-gathering guests until the last dreaded moment, when she knew he would come himself to seek her.

Sad and heart-weary, Sybil threw herself on what was wont, in happier days, to be her favourite seat, for it commanded a view of the green and beautiful Westerdale, the glancing river, and farther off, the blue tops of the Rae Hills traced darkly against the summer sky. But it was not to dream the bright dreams of by-gone days that she had sought that place; all that remained to her now was the bitterness of her awakening; and though she knew her shipwreck was too complete for an outstretched hand to save her, yet the sounds of merriment that ever and anon ascended from the hall, seemed to proclaim aloud her friendlessness: for while she was almost overwhelmed by the dark waters of despair, her kinsmen stood upon the shore rejoicing-all, save one, and he might not come near her, but must hide his own regrets within the recesses of Glenconan. And the generous girl breathed a fervent prayer that the stormcloud might pass away from the spirit of Malcolm Scott, and

love for the blighted Flower of the Border soon die out of his heart.

The last words of that inaudible, though most devoted prayer, had scarcely passed her lips, when she startled, and a deep flush crimsoned the cheeks that but now had been so pale. A form, of which no sorrow could render her unobservant, had met her eye, and one whom she had pictured to herself, as mourning among those distant hills their life-long parting, was entering her father's gates as a guest at the bridal that was to make her another's.

During the last few weeks, Sybil Scott had suffered and sorrowed much, but all the sufferings and sorrows of the past were as nothing compared to the anguish of that moment, when she thus saw how light must be the affection of the lover for whose sake she would have borne poverty and toil. She had entreated and exacted a promise from Malcolm Scott that his sword should not cross that of Eliot: how easy, she thought bitterly, that behest seemed of fulfilment ; so easy, that, perchance, it were scarce needful it had been spoken; and in her newly-awakened indignation, she rose from her seat with a brilliant cheek and a flashing eye, such as her maidens had never seen their gentle lady wear before.

Had then a summons come for Sybil, it had not long remained unanswered; but she had descended to show her fickle lover that she could meet him as calmly as he had come to witness the sacrifice of her happiness and peace. But no such summons came, nor was her father's oft-dreaded foot heard on the stair. After a time, too, the bursts of laughter became less frequent, and, at length, ceased altogether; and the maidens noticed that the loiterers in the court gathered in groups, and conversed earnestly. Had they been nearer, they would have seen that a dark cloud rested on every brow, and every lip was

firmly compressed, for an insult had been that day received by the Scotts that the spirit of no borderer could brook.

The hour that should have brought the bridegroom and his friends had long passed by, yet no one bearing the name of Eliot had approached the tower. At first, his absence had merely occasioned surprise; then, as time wore on, and brought not even an apology, indignation followed, and threats both deep and loud were breathed against Eliot of Whitterburn. Amid all Sybil's kindred there was but one voice that was not raised in anger. It was that of Malcolm Scott; and more than once he strove to quell the angry passions of his clansmen, and bade them, ere they pursued their vengeance, see what the absent bridegroom could adduce in his defence. But the advice brought anger on his own head.

"You love not Sybil Scott, or you would never give such counsel!" said an old borderer, bitterly.

"Nor is the Flower of the Border so bright a blossom in your eyes as in those of her remaining kindred, or her being thus scorned would be as sair to ye, as though she had been the glory of ye❜r ain garden," added another.

Malcolm's eye flashed, and his cheek crimsoned at these accusations, which he felt to be so untrue; but he merely replied, "I will not yield to any of her kindred in love and devotion to Sybil Scott."

An angry reply was on the lips of the first of his accusers, when a stir in the hall, occasioned by the entrance of a stranger, checked it ere it found utterance. The new arrival was a messenger from Whitterburn, sent by its lady to account for the non-appearance of the bridegroom, who had not been seen since his departure from Gowan Knows.

A silence of some moments followed this strange tale, and then one of the most important guests demanded if Eliot had fixed any time for his return.

The messenger hesitated a moment, then replied, leddy said naething aboot it."

My

"But you know what her son said," rejoined the querist, sternly," and had better tell it."

[ocr errors]

Weel, then, he just said no to expec' him till she saw him," said the trooper, whose head was better fitted to resist a blow than to frame a tale.

A murmur, so fierce that it was almost a yell, rose in the hall, as this information met the ears of the kinsmen-guests; but when further question elicited Robin Eliot's observation as to his bridal, their indignation knew no bounds; and voices, whose wrath had oft proved death, were raised in anger; and swords, that had never failed their owners, rang in their scabbards, as though they panted to wipe away the insult offered to the name of Scott. Eliot's follower shrank back dismayed at the tumult, and he was about to leave the hall, to bear back to Whitterburn tidings of the anger his tale had aroused, when the voice of David Scott of Westerdale arrested him.

"Tell Eliot of Whitterburn from dour David Scott," he cried, "that no daughter of his shall ever be the bride of Robin Eliot, though he could make her a crowned queen ;" and he swore a terrible oath in confirmation of his words.

"And tell him from Scott of Blaehills," added a borderer, whose naturally fierce expression of countenance was increased by a scar that nearly crossed it; "tell him that, if he does na mak' haste hame, he's no like to find a cage to pit ony bird in."

These words were received with loud applause; and when the trooper had withdrawn, the borderers gathered eagerly round their host, and entreated him to lead forth them and their followers, and at once fulfil the threat of Scott of Blaehills. But again Malcolm interposed.

"Nay," he said, "not so. We are a clan accustomed to fight and conquer armed men; let it not be said we drew the

swords our fathers left us against an aged woman and unled men. Wait till Eliot himself returns, and then let him meet the fate he merits."

"And that will be to see his roof-tree blaze above his head," said the Laird of Blaehills. "How say ye, kinsmen," he added, speaking to those around him, " shall Eliot of Whitterburn find a hame or a smoking ruin?"

“Let him find a hame," they cried, "and we'll soon let him see it a pillar of smoke."

"And he who brings Eliot of Whitterburn, dead or alive, within these walls, shall have the hand of Sybil Scott, and any other boon beside he likes to claim," added the Laird of Westerdale.

A loud cheer burst from the young borderers at hearing that the Flower of the Border should be the reward of him who was most successful in revenging the affront offered to her, and many a heart beat high in the hope of winning so gentle and beautiful a prize.

But the opportunity was not so near at hand as they had dreamed; for weeks, and even months, passed by, and there was no sign of Robin Eliot. After a time, it was commonly believed that he had fallen beneath the hand of some unknown foe, and his mother mourned him dead, and his brother took possession of his inheritance; and then, like many another man, Robin Eliot was forgotten.

Meanwhile, Malcolm Scott of Glenconan, who had made his peace with Sybil, continued a frequent visitor at Westerdale; and, like as some fair blossom that the storm has spared, lifts up its head in yet brighter beauty to the returning sunshine, so the fair Flower of the Border again trod the banks of the rushing river with a light and joyous spirit, and in thankfulness of heart both for the wretchedness escaped and the happiness promised for Sybil wandered not alone beneath the alders'

« VorigeDoorgaan »