The Light of Scarthey: A Romance

by Egerton Castle

  CHAPTER V

  THE AWAKENING

  Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee?

  LONGFELLOW.

  Sir Adrian Landale, in his sea-girt fastness, still absorbed in dreamsof bygone days, loosed his grasp of faithful Rene's shoulder and fellto pacing the chamber with sombre mien; while Rene, to whom these fitsof abstraction in his master were not unfamiliar, but yet to hissuperstitious peasant soul, eerie and awe-inspiring visitations,slipped unnoticed from his presence.

  The light-keeper sate down by his lonely hearth and buried his gaze inthe glowing wood-embers, over which, with each fitful thundering rushof wind round the chimney, fluttered little eddies of silvery ash.

  So, that long strife was over, which had wrought such havoc to theworld, had shaped so dismally the course of his own life! The monsterof selfish ambition, the tyrannic, insatiable conqueror whose veryexistence had so long made peaceable pursuits unprofitable to mankind,the final outcome of that Revolution that, at the starting point, hadboded so nobly for human welfare--he was at last laid low, and all themisery of the protracted struggle now belonged to the annals of thepast.

  It was all over--but the waste! The waste of life and happiness, farand wide away among innocent and uninterested beings, the wasteremained.

  And, looking back on it, the most bitter portion of his own wreckedlife was the short time he had yet thought happy; three months, spentas knight-errant.

  How far they seemed, far as irrevocable youth, those days when, in thewake of that love-compelling emissary, he moved from intrigue tointrigue among the emigres in London, and their English sympathisers,to bustling yet secret activity in seafaring parts!

  The mechanical instrument directed by the ingenious mind of Cecile deSavenaye; the discreet minister who, for all his young years, securedthe help of some important political sympathiser one day, scoured thecountry for arms and clothing, powder and _assignats_ another; whotreated with smuggling captains and chartered vessels that were to runthe gauntlet on the Norman and Breton coast, and supply the means ofwar to struggling and undaunted loyalists. All this relentless work,little suited, on the whole, to an Englishman, and in a cause therights of which he himself had, up to then, refused to admit, was thenrepaid a hundredfold by a look of gratitude, of pleasure even, a fewsweet moments of his lady's company, before being sent hence againupon some fresh enterprise.

  Ah, how he loved her! He, the youth on the threshold of manhood, whohad never known passion before, how he loved this young widowed motherwho used him as a man to deal for her with men, yet so loftily treatedhim as a boy when she dealt with him herself. And if he loved her inthe earlier period of his thraldom, when scarce would he see her onehour in the twenty-four, to what all-encompassing fervour did thebootless passion rise when, the day of departure having dawned andsunk, he found himself on board the privateer, sailing away with hertowards unknown warlike ventures, her knight to protect her, herservant to obey!

  On all these things mused the recluse of Scarthey, sinking deeper anddeeper into the past: the spell of haunting recollection closing onhim as he sat by his hearthside, whilst the increasing fury of thegale toiled and troubled outside fighting the impassable walls of histower.

  Could it have been possible that she--the only woman that had everexisted for him, the love for whom had so distorted his mind from itsnatural sympathies, had killed in him the spring of youth and thesavour of life--never really learnt to love him in return till thelast?

  And yet there was a woman's soul in that delicious woman's body--itshowed itself at least once, though until that supreme moment of unionand parting, it seemed as if a man's mind alone governed it, becomingsterner, more unbendable, as hardships and difficulties multiplied.

  In the melancholy phantasm passing before his mind's eye, of a periodof unprecedented bloodshed and savagery, when on the one side Chouans,Vendeens, and such guerillas of which Madame de Savenaye was themoving spirit, and on the other the _colonnes infernales_ of therevolutionary leaders, vied with each other in ferocity and cunning,she stood ever foremost, ever the central point of thought, with avividness that almost a score of years had failed to dim.

  When the mood was upon him, he could unfold the roll of that storyburied now in the lonely graves of the many, or in the fickle memoriesof the few, but upon his soul printed in letters of fire and blood--toendure for ever.

  Round this goddess of his young and only love clustered the soleimpressions of the outer world that had ever stirred his heart: thegrandeur of the ocean, of the storm, the glory of sunrise over adishevelled sea, the ineffable melancholy of twilight rising from anunknown strand; then the solemn coldness of moonlight watches, thescent of the burnt land under the fierce sun, when all nature washushed save the dreamy buzz of insect-life: the green coolness ofunderwood or forest, the unutterable harmony of the sighing breeze,and the song of wild birds during the long patient ambushes ofpartisan war; the taste of bread in hunger, of the stream in the feverof thirst, of approaching sleep in exhaustion--and, mixed with these,the acrid emotions of fight and carnage, anguish of suspense, savageexultation of victory--all the doings of a life which he, bred tointellectual pleasures and high moral ideas, would have deemed anightmare, but which, lived as it was in the atmosphere of his longingand devotion, yet held for him a strange and pungent joy: a cup ofcruel memories, yet one to be lingered over luxuriously till thesavour of each cherished drop of bitterness be gathered to theuttermost.

  Now, in the brightness of the embers, between the fitful flames ofcrumbling wood, spreads before his eyes the dreary strand nearQuiberon, immense in the gathering darkness of a boisterous evening.Well hidden under the stone table of a Druidical men-hir glows a smallcamp-fire sedulously kept alive by Rene for the service of The Lady.She, wrapped up in a coarse peasant-cloak, pensively gazes into thecheerless smoke and holds her worn and muddy boots to the smoulderingwood in the vain hope of warmth.

  And Adrian stands silently behind her, brooding on many things--on thevicissitudes of that desultory war which has left them not a roofwhereunder they can lay their heads, during which the little Englishcontingent has melted from them one by one; on the critical action ofthe morrow when the republican columns, now hastening to oppose thelanding of the great royalist expedition to Quiberon (that supremeeffort upon which all their hopes centre) must be surprised and cutoff at whatever cost; on the mighty doings to follow, which are tocomplete the result of the recent sea fight off Ushant and crown theirdevoted toil with victory at last....

  And through his thoughts he watches the pretty foot, in its hideousdisguise of patched, worn, ill-fitting leather, and he sees it as onthe first day of their meeting, in its gleaming slipper and daintysilken stocking.

  Now and then an owl-cry, repeated from point to point, tells ofunremitting guard, but for which, in the vast silence, none couldsuspect that a thousand men and more are lying stretched upon theplain all around them, fireless, well-nigh without food, yet patientlywaiting for the morrow when their chiefs shall lead them to death; northat, in a closer circle, within call, are some fifty _gars_, remnantof the indomitable "Savenaye band," and tacitly sworn bodyguard to TheLady who came back from ease and safety over seas to share theirperil.

  No sound besides, but the wind as it whistles and moans over theheath--and the two are together in the mist which comes closing inupon them as if to shroud them from all the rest, for even Rene hascrept away, to sleep perhaps.

  She turns at last towards him, her small face in the dying light ofthis sullen evening, how wan and weather-beaten!

  "Pensive, as usual, cousin?" she says in English, and extends herhand, browned and scratched, that was once so exquisite, and shesmiles, the smile of a dauntless soul from a weary body.

  Poor little hands, poor little feet, so cold, so battered, soill-used! He, who would have warmed them in his bosom, given his heartfor them to tread upon, breaks down now, for the first time; andfalling on his kne
es covers the cold fingers with kisses, and thenlays his lips against those pitiful torn boots.

  But she spurns him from her--even from her feet:

  "Shame on you!" she says angrily; and adds, more gently, yet with somecontempt: "_Enfant, va!_--is this the time for such follies?"

  And, suddenly recalled to honour and grim actuality, he realises withdismay his breach of trust--he, who in their earlier days in Londonhad called out that sprightly little emigre merely for the vulgarflippancy (aimed in compliment, too, at the grave aide-de-camp), "thatthe fate of the late Count weighed somewhat lightly upon Madame deSavenaye;" he, who had struck that too literary countryman of his ownacross the face--ay, and shot him in the shoulder, all in the secretearly dawn of the day they left England--for daring to remark withinhis hearing: "By George, the handsome Frenchwoman and her cousin maybe a little less than kin, but they are a little more than kind."

  But yet, as the rage of love contending in his heart withself-reproach, he rises to his feet in shame, she gives him her handonce more, and in a different voice:

  "Courage, cousin," says she, "perhaps some day we may both have ourreward. But will not my knight continue to fight for my bidding, evenwithout hope of such?"

  Pondering on this enigmatic sentence he leaves her to her rest.

  * * * * *

  When next he finds himself by her side the anticipated action hasbegun; and it is to be the last day that those beautiful burning eyesshall see the glory of the rising sun.

  The Chouans are fighting like demons, extended in long skirmishinglines, picking out the cluster of gunners, making right deadly use oftheir English powder; imperceptibly but unflinchingly closing theirscattered groups until the signal comes and with ringing cries:"_Notre Dame d'Auray!_" and "_Vive le roi!_" they charge, undismayedby odds, the serried ranks of the Republicans.

  She, from the top of the druidical stone, watches the progress of theday. Her red, parted mouth twitches as she follows the efforts of themen. Behind her, the _gars_ of Savenaye, grasping with angry clutch,some a new musket, others an ancient straightened scythe, gazefiercely on the scene from under their broad felts. Now and then aflight of republican bullets hum about their ears, and they lookanxiously to Their Lady, but that fearless head never bends.

  Then the moment arrives, and with a fervent, "God be with you, bravepeople," she hurls, by a stirring gesture, the last reserve on to thefight.

  And now he finds himself in the midst of the furious medley, strikingmechanically, his soul away behind on that stone, with her. Presently,as the frenzy waxes wilder, he is conscious that victory is not withthem, but that they are pressed back and encompassed, and that foreach blue coat cast down amidst the yells and oaths, two more seem tocome out of the rain and smoke; whilst the bare feet and wooden shoesand the long hair of his peasants are seen in ever-lessening ranks.And, in time, they find themselves thrown back to the men-hir; she isthere, still calm but ghastly white, a pistol in each hand. Aroundher, through the wet smoke, rise and fall with sickening thuds theclubbed muskets of three or four men, and then one by one these sinkto the ground too. With a wailing groan like a man in a nightmare, hesees the inevitable end and rushes to place his body before hers. Abullet shatters his sword-blade; now none are left around them but thebegrimed and sinister faces of their enemies.

  As they stand prisoners, and unheeding the hideous clamour, he, withdespair thinking of her inevitable fate at the hands of such victors,and scarcely daring to look at her, suddenly sees _that_ in her eyeswhich fills his soul to overflowing.

  "All is lost," she whispers, "and I shall never repay you for all youhave done, cousin!"

  The words are uttered falteringly, almost plaintively.

  "We are not long now for this world, friend," she adds more firmly."Give me your forgiveness."

  How often has Adrian heard this dead voice during the strangevicissitudes of these long, long years! And, hearing it whisper in thevivid world of his brain, how often has he not passionately longedthat he also had been able to yield his poor spark of life on the lastday of her existence.

  For the usual fate of Chouan prisoners swiftly overtakes the survivingleaders of the Savenaye "band of brigands," as that doughty knot ofloyalists was termed by their arch-enemy, Thureau.

  A long journey towards the nearest town, in an open cart, under thepitiless rain, amidst a crowd of evil-smelling, blaspheming, woundedrepublicans, who, when a more cruel jolt than usual awakens theirwounds, curse the woman in words that should have drawn avenging boltsfrom heaven. She sits silent, lofty, tearless; but her eyes, when theyare not lost in the grey distance, ever wistfully seek his face.

  The day is drawing to a close; they reach their goal, a miserable,grey, draggled town at the mouth of the Vilaine, and are roughlybrought before the arbiter of their lives--Thureau himself, themonstrous excrescence of the times, who, like Marat and Carrier, seesnothing in the new freedom but a free opening for the lowest instinctsof ferocity.

  And before this monstrous beast, bedizened in his general's frippery,in a reeking tavern-room, stand the noble lady of Savenaye and theyoung heir of Pulwick.

  The ruffian's voice rings with laughter as he gazes on the silentyouthful pair.

  "Aha, what have we here; a couple of drowned rats? or have we trappedyou at last, the ci-devant Savenaye and her _godam_ from England? Iought really to send you as a present to the Convention, but I am toosoft-hearted, you see, my pigeons; and so, to save time and make sure,we will marry you to-day."

  One of the officers whispers some words in his ear, which Thureau,suddenly growing purple with rage, denies with a foul oath and anemphatic thump of his huge fist on the table.

  "Hoche has forbidden it, has he? Hoche does not command here. Hochehas not had to hunt down the brigands these last two years. Dead thebeast, dead the venom, I say. And here is the order," scribblinghurriedly on a page torn from a pocket-book. "It shall not be saidthat I have had the bitch of Savenaye in my hands and trusted her onthe road again. Hoche has forbidden it! Call the cantineer and hop:the marriage and quick--the soup waits."

  Unable to understand the hidden meaning of the order, Adrian looks athis lady askance, to find that, with eyes closed upon the sight of thegrinning faces, she is whispering prayers and fervently crossingherself. When she turns to him again her face is almost serene.

  "They are going to drown us together; that is their republicanmarriage of aristocrats," she says in soft English. "I had fearedworse. Thank heaven there is no time now for worse. We shall be firmto the last, shall we not, cousin?"

  There is a pathetic smile on her worn weather-stained face, as thecantineer and a corporal enter with ropes and proceed to pinion theprisoners.

  But, as they are marched away once more under the slanting rain, areforced into a worn-out boat and lashed face to face, her fortitudemelts apace.

  "There, my turtle-doves," sneers the truculent corporal, "anotherkindness of the general. The Nantes way is back to back, but hethought it would amuse you to see each other's grimaces."

  On the strand resounds the muffled roll of wet drums, announcing theexecution of national justice; with one blow of an axe the craft isscuttled; a push from a gaff sends it spinning on the swift swollenwaters into the estuary. Adrian's lips are on her forehead, but shelifts her face; her eyes now are haggard.

  "Adrian," she sobs, "you have forgiven me? I have your death on mysoul! Oh, Adrian, ... I could have loved you!"

  Helpless and palsied by the merciless ropes, she tries passionately toreach her little mouth to his. A stream of fire rushes through hisbrain--maddening frenzy of regret, furious clinging to escapinglife!--Their lips have met, but the sinking craft is full, and, with asudden lurch, falls beneath the eddies.... A last roll of the drums,and the pinioned bodies of these lovers of a few seconds are silentlyswirling under the waters of the Vilaine.

  And now the end of this poor life has come--with heart-breaking sorrowof mind and struggle of body, overpow
ering horror at the writhings oftorture in the limbs lashed against his--and vainly he strives toforce his last breath into her hard-clenched mouth.

  Such was the end of Adrian Landale, aged twenty--the end that shouldhave been--The pity that it was not permitted!

  After the pangs of unwelcome death, the misery of unwelcome return tolife. Oh, Rene, Rene, too faithful follower; thou and the other truemen who, heedless of danger, hanging on the flanks of the victoriousenemy, never ceased to watch your lady from afar. You would have savedher, could courage and faithfulness and cunning have availed! But,since she was dead, Rene, would thou hadst left us to drift on to theendless sea! How often have I cursed thee, good friend, who staked thylife in the angry bore to snatch two spent bodies from its mercilesstossing. It was not to be endured, said you, that the remains of theLady of Savenaye should drift away unheeded, to be devoured by thebeasts of the sea! They now repose in sacred ground, and I live on!Oh, hadst thou but reached us a minute later!--ah, God, or a minuteearlier!

  Rarely had Sir Adrian's haunting visions of the past assumed suchlurid reality. Rising in torment from the hearth to pace unceasinglythe length and breadth of the restful, studious room, so closelysecure from the outer turmoil of heaven and earth, he is once moreback in the unknown sea-cave, in front of the angry breakers. Slowly,agonisingly, he is recalled to life through wheeling spaces of painand confusion, only that his bruised and smarting eyes may see theactual proof of his own desolateness--a small, stark figure wrapped incoarse sailcloth, which now two or three ragged, long-haired men aresilently lifting between them.

  He wonders, at first, vaguely, why the tears course down those wild,dark faces; and then, as vainly he struggles to speak, and is gentlyheld down by some unknown hand, the little white bundle is gone, andhe knows that _there_ was the pitiful relict of his love--that he willnever see her again!

  * * * * *

  Sir Adrian halted in front of his seaward window, staring at thedriven rain, which bounded and plashed and spread in minute torrentsdown the glass, obscuring the already darkening vision of furious seaand sky.

  The dog, that for some moments had shown an anxious restlessness insingular concert with his master's, now rose at last to sniff beneaththe door. No sound penetrated the roar of the blast; but the oldretriever's uneasiness, his sharp, warning bark at length recalled SirAdrian's wandering thoughts to the present. And, walking up to thedoor, he opened it.

  Oh, God! Had the sea given up its dead?

  Sir Adrian staggered back, fell on his knees and clapped his handstogether with an agonised cry:

  "Cecile...!"