Clennel anxiously entered the apartment of his lady, to reveal to her the tale of joy; but when he entered, he wist not how to introduce it. He knew that excess of sudden joy was not less dangerous than excess of grief, and his countenance was troubled, though its expression was less sad than it had been for many years.
"Eleanor," he at length began, "cheer up."
"Why, I am not sadder than usual, dear," replied she, in her wonted gentle manner; "and to be more cheerful would ill become one who has endured my sorrows."
"True, true," said he, "but our affliction may not be so severe as we have thought--there may be hope--there may be joy for us yet."
"What mean ye, husband?" inquired she, eagerly; "have ye heard aught--aught of my children?--you have!--you have!--your countenance speaks it."
"Yes, dear Eleanor," returned he, "I have heard of our daughter."
"And she lives?--she lives?--tell me that she lives!"
"And I shall see her--I shall embrace my child again?"
"Yes, love, yes," replied he, and burst into tears.
"When--oh, when?" she exclaimed, "can you take me to her now?"
"Be calm, my sweet one. You shall see our child--our long-lost child. You shall see her now--she is here."
"Here!--my child!" she exclaimed, and sank back upon her seat.
Words would fail to paint the tender interview--the mother's joy--the daughter's wonder--the long, the passionate embrace--the tears of all--the looks--the words--the moments of unutterable feeling.
I shall next notice the confession of Susan. Clennel promised her forgiveness if she would confess the whole truth; and he doubted not, that from her he would also obtain tidings of his son, and learn where he might find him, if he yet lived. I shall give her story in her own words.
"When I came amongst you," she began, "I said that I was an orphan, and I told ye truly, so far as I knew myself. I have been reared amongst the people ye call gipsies from infancy. They fed me before I could provide for myself. I have wandered with them through many lands. They taught me many things; and, while young, sent me as a servant into families, that I might gather information to assist them in upholding their mysteries of fortune-telling, I dared not to disobey them--they kept me as their slave--and I knew that they would destroy my life for an act of disobedience. I was in London when ye cruelly burned down the bit town between the Keyheugh and Clovencrag. That night would have been your last, but Elspeth Faa vowed more cruel vengeance than death on you and yours. After our king had carried away your son, I was ordered from London to assist in the plot o' revenge. I at length succeeded in getting into your family, and the rest ye know. When ye were a' busy wi' your company, I slipped into the woods wi' the bairn in my arms, where others were ready to meet us; and long before ye missed us, we were miles across the hills, and frae that day to this your daughter has passed as mine."