DEEPLY chagrined, deeply grieved was the knight of Hawksglen, when, on his return, he was told by Eustace of what the lady had disclosed. Sir James, who hitherto had habitually evaded the young man’s enquiries in such a way as to leave him to suppose that he was of kin to the family in some degree, however remote, now endeavoured to soothe his lacerated feelings; but this was a vain effort, as the truth of the story could not be denied. The utmost the knight could do was to dissuade his protege from leaving the Castle in his first flush of shame and indignation. “A soft answer turneth away wrath,” but no soft words could allay the misery that filled the foundling’s bosom.

The ice being thoroughly broken, Lady Elliot, undeterred by her husband’s regrets and remonstrances, persevered in her bitter antagonism to Eustace, though covertly, for the most part. She justified herself that what she did was of imperative necessity. To her husband she justified herself on the score that affection was growing betwixt Eustace and Eleanor, which, if not nipped in the bud, might in the end lead to the disgrace of the house of Hawksglen. The reader may easily imagine what result followed. “A constant dropping weareth away stone.” The strong-willed and implacable lady won her purpose. Elliot wavered, and eventually seemed to yield to her incessant persuasives. Coolness and, occasionally, slight discords arose betwixt him and his protege, by whom the change could not be misunderstood, a change that pointed to ultimate separation.

Eustace felt in his inmost heart that now he loved Eleanor more tenderly than in the days of his ignorance. She was become the loadstar of his aching heart. On the other hand, such an attachment looked hopeless—nay, more, that it was very madness to be cherished by a stripling who knew no kindred, and had no fortune. He had resolved to quit Hawksglen; but still he lingered. It was his anxious desire that, before taking the final step, he should have an interview with his lady-love, to explain his motives and to bid her adieu. For a while the opportunity was denied him—trivial obstacles interposing (perhaps designed by the cunning of Lady Elliot) to baulk his wish, and causing him to tarry still for the fortunate moment.

On a bright May day, Eustace was returning alone from the hills and woods in the vicinity of Hawksglen, among which he had listlessly spent hours since the early morning. He had gone forth from the castle on foot—not to seek the chase, for he took neither his favourite hound, nor his steed Roland (named after the famous Paladin of Romance); and though he carried a hunting-spear, it was for defence in case of danger. His only object was to roam and meditate on his dark prospects amid the solitudes of nature, unseen by an evil eye. On his homeward way through the woodlands he reached a lake, near which, and surrounded by a clump of sepulchral yews, appeared the ruined chapel or hermitage, beneath which was the burial-vault of the Hawksglen family, where lay the ashes of his generous benefactress. The castle was within a short distance; but its turrets were not visible from the banks of the lake, being hidden by a wooded height.

The sunlight beamed on the sheet of water, the placidity of which was unbroken by the slightest ripple, save when a trout leaped at a fly and sank with a slight plash, or a waterfowl skimmed lightly across the lustrous surface. Yonder, half-hidden among tall, aquatic plants, a gaunt heron stalked stealthily in the bordering shallows, intent upon its prey. The sky was serenely blue, and the air profoundly still, as if Zephyrus slept in his cave of the west. This quiet, secluded scene of wood and water, which the fairy court may have frequented in the moonlight, awoke in the youth’s mind reminiscences of happy days past and gone. Wearied with his wanderings, he sat down upon the trunk of an aged tree which a recent storm had overthrown, and gave free scope to musings which recalled the “light of other days”—the “sunshine of the heart.” In the dreamy hush of the woodlands, whose fresh, green foliage marked the advent of summer, the inconstant carol of a bird fell sweetly on the ear.

Eustace spent some time sitting on the fallen tree, and then resumed his walk along the banks of the lake. In person he was of moderate stature, slenderly but handsomely made, with an aspect that wore the impress of a manly mind, whether his birth had been high or low. His complexion, originally fair, the sun had tinged to a somewhat swart hue; his eyes were hazel, but a physiognomist might have read in them indications of soul-depression, and thick brown locks escaped in profusion from beneath his velvet bonnet, mingling with the white plume that drooped on his left shoulder. He was dressed in a cloth jerkin of forest-green, fitting close to his body, and girt about his middle by a belt from which depended a short falchion, the hilt of which was chased with silver; and silver also was the mouthpiece of a small bugle which was suspended beneath his left arm by a steel chain around his neck. He carried a hunting spear, which, however, bore no trace of having drawn blood that day. In fine, he had all the exterior of a gallant squire, as was, indeed, the position he held in relation to the knight of Hawksglen.

Leisurely pursuing his homeward route, our squire had surmounted the woody height, when he suddenly perceived on the winding paths below him, but half-hidden among the trees, a lady descending the declivity. Evidently she heard his footsteps, for she turned and glanced back. It was Eleanor Elliot. She wore a dark robe, open in front, and showing a blue velvet kirtle (or gown), the breast of which was covered by a stomacher of the like cloth, richly embroidered with threads of silver; and on her head was a small hood of purple silk, which did not prevent dark glossy tresses from clustering about a neck of alabaster hue. Her brow was smooth and high, her eyes blue as the sunny vault above her, and her soft and winning features bespoke a gentle nature. When she discovered Eustace all her maidenly sensibilities glowed on her cheeks. Not the fairest of the fair creations of the Greek imagination could have surpassed the lady, who now bashfully advanced to meet the youth who had gained her esteem and love; yea, and had also awakened her keenest pity.

Quick throbbed the squire’s heart, and his countenance reddened, as he met and, laying down his spear, greeted the mistress of his affections. She took his hand, and giving it a gentle pressure, said—“I have been uneasy by reason of your prolonged stay; for, as you took neither horse nor hound with you, I thought your absence would be brief.”

“Perchance it would be well for Hawksglen were I to depart, never to return,” answered Eustace, sadly, unable to refrain from giving full utterance to the thought that was uppermost in his heart.

Instantly the lady became pale. But she replied in a calm tone—“Bethink you that there are those in Hawksglen who wish you well, and would have you not to brood over trifles.”

“They are momentous trifles, since trifles you call them,” said Eustace. “They are such trifles as have debased me in my own eyes.”

“It was my lady-mother’s fault, in hasty anger,” faltered Eleanor.

“I will impute no blame to either of your parents,” responded Eustace. “Your lady-mother only spoke what, in justice to me, she should have spoken long ago. It was right and just that I should know the truth. Why should I be protected and pampered by those upon whom I have no claim by ties of relationship? No, no, Eleanor, I have not the shadow of title to share the name, the favour, and the honours of the house of Hawksglen.”

“I cannot bear to hear you speak thus: it cuts me to the heart,” sighed Eleanor, shedding tears, which seemed to increase her lover’s distress.

“All this misery would have been spared me had I perished on that night when the unknown Borderer left me at your father’s gate!” exclaimed he, passionately, and striking his hand on his brow. But, after a moment’s pause, he added, in a subdued tone—“I must bow to inexorable fate: I must yield to the tide which I cannot stem. But O Eleanor! forbear these tears.”

She was weeping silently, but seemed more lovely in her attitude and aspect of sorrow. “Will the future never bring a time when the cold tide of misfortune will cease to flow betwixt us?” she murmured. “Heaven forbid!” she added firmly. “And I beseech you to think that better days will come, and that we need not part. You know not what end your destiny may work out. Trust it will be a good end. Why should you rashly judge that it will be bad?”

“Think as I may, Eleanor, our parting must come,” said Eustace. “If I am to retain respect in others’ eyes, I must carve out my own fortune. Avenues are open to adventurous spirits. Scottish soldiers are gladly welcomed at the courts of France, Italy, and other foreign states. Be my future fate what it may, I shall meet it with a fearless heart: and should I fail to win success—why, let me fail and fall, and be remembered only as one on whom an evil destiny had set its seal.”

Both were silent for a space. Sorrowful emotion had exhausted language. Eustace gazed vacantly towards the castle of Hawksglen, which was dimly seen through the trees. Eleanor raised her swimming eyes to his face, and his look met hers. Never, perhaps, till now, in this dark and troublous hour, had the fair girl felt how devotedly she loved him—how deep was her interest in his fate since she realised that he was about to launch forth upon that ocean whose depths bury many a blasted hope.

“Let us prepare to part,” said Eustace, breaking the silence. “To contemplate speedy separation is the surest way to lessen its pain when the inevitable hour arrives.”

“Speak not of parting, I implore you!” she ejaculated, whilst her tears dropped fast. “The word sounds like a knell.”

In what better terms could the fair girl have avowed her affection? Eustace tenderly grasped her hand. “We are no longer kinsfolk,” he said; “but the love I bear you can never die. I will cherish it in my heart of hearts, however fortune may frown or smile.”

She gave a loud sob, and fell upon his breast. He clasped her in his trembling arms, and kissed her cheek. Hark! a murmur of voices—the rustle of brackens, the crash of branches, the tread of hurrying footsteps—and Sir James Elliot and his lady stood before the pair! Eleanor started from her lover’s arms, and shrieking, would have sunk to the earth had not her father sustained her. She swooned in his embrace.

“Behold the proof of suspicions which you have scoffed at as often as I expressed them,” cried Lady Elliot, looking livid with anger, and darting a fiery glance at her husband. “This base-born minion will bring disgrace upon your house and name, and yet you are deaf and blind.”

“Youthful folly,” answered the knight. “But it shall never bring dishonour upon me. Eustace, both you and my daughter sadly forget your stations!”

“Forget!” echoed the lady. “Must such insolence be borne at his hands?”

“No, it shall not,” said the knight. “Eustace, I have protected you since your infancy; but the obligation was fully repaid when you saved my life in battle, and therefore we shall cry quits, and part.”

“The passing hour shall part us,” said Eustace, calmly.

Without a visible sign of agitation, he lifted his spear from where it lay among the brackens, and turning upon his path, plunged into the thicket and vanished from sight. The die was thrown: the old tie was snapped asunder; and he was a forlorn exile from the only home which he had ever known.

He hastened through “woods and wilds,” with no immediate purpose in view save that of quitting the domains of Hawksglen. On he went, heedless that the hours sped away on fleet wings. But he paused to consider his course when the sun was setting amid amber cloudlets, and the balmy influence of the “merry month of May” was in the gentle western breeze that now fanned the wanderer’s hot cheek. He remembered a hamlet at some distance, where he thought of staying till next morning; and fortunately he carried a well-filled purse, which would answer all requirements for a time.