There was a gleam of lightning filling the chapel with a glare that eclipsed the torchlight, and a burst of thunder that shook the whole castle from its massive foundations. Many averred afterwards that the face of Lord Ruthven, livid and ghastly in that intense light—wore such a look of fierce despair as never was seen on mortal countenance before. When the thunder ceased, he had disappeared, and the bride lay in a swoon on the steps of the altar.
When the first stunning moment of consternation and horror had passed, the proud baron turned to embrace his young kinsman, whose warning had saved his daughter. But Edgar heard not his thanks. The agony, the terror he had suffered, had driven reason from her throne!
A year elapsed before the young man was restored to consciousness, but peace returned no more to his breast! He went to Rome, where he entered a convent of the strictest order, and in a few years was released by death from the melancholy that had made life a burden.
Malvine mourned sincerely for her friend and cousins’ suffering, and wished also to become the inmate of a cloister; but the entreaties of her father prevailed with her to relinquish the thought of thus retiring from the world. After some time she was induced to listen to the suit of the real Lord of Marsden, who had arrived at his castle shortly after the tragic occurrences related. She had never cause to regret her marriage with him.
THE SLEEPLESS WOMAN, by William Jerdan
(1831)
CHAPTER I
“Blessed be he that invented sleep, for it covers a man all over like a mantle.”
Sanch Panza, passim.
Heavily set in massive brass, whose rich and ingenious carving was tarnished and dull, a ponderous lamp swung from a ceiling blackened by its smoke. Everything in the room spoke of time, but of time that had known no change. Knights, whose armor was, at the latest, of two centuries back—ladies, in dresses from which their descendants started in dismay—looked out from the discolored tapestry; and the floor, dark with age, added to the gloom. Beside the hearth, whose fire, from the rain beating down the huge chimney, burned every moment dimmer, sat two old domestics. The man in a scarlet gown, and a belt, from which hung a heavy bunch of keys, was the seneschal; and opposite was his wife, in a brown silk dress, and a string of ebony beads, which she was busily employed in counting. Between them was a small antique oak table, where a flask and two bell-mouthed glasses appeared temptations which, it must be owned, somewhat interrupted the telling of the beads. In the centre of the chamber stood an immense hearse-like bed; the purple velvet curtains swept to the ground, and at each corner dropped a large plume of black ostrich-feathers. On this bed lay a withered old man, apparently in the last extremity of age, and very close upon the border of death. His spare form was hidden in an ample black robe, fastened round the waist with a white girdle, on which were graved strange characters in red; and on his breast was a white square, covered with stars and signs wrought in gold. The old man’s face was ghastly pale, and rendered yet paler by the contrast of his black skull-cap, which was drawn down even to his gray and shagged eyebrows. But the features were restless; and the small keen eyes, though fast losing their brightness, were full of anxiety. The wind shook the tall narrow windows, and howled in the old trees of the avenue; at every fresh gust the baron’s impatience seemed to increase—for what we are telling relates to the Baron de Launaye.
“’Tis a rough night,” muttered he; “but Adolphe is as rough a rider—and a dangerous road; but I am the first De Launaye who ever drew bridle for that. And then my summons—it was sure to reach him; ay, though alone, in the midnight bower of the mistress whose name and his suspicion had never coupled together even in a dream—even though consciousness were drowned in the crimson flowing of the wine—though sleeping as men sleep after battle, pillowed on the body of their deadliest enemy—, or that of their nearest and dearest friend—my summons would be borne on his inmost soul. But will he come, at the bidding of his dying uncle?—will Adolphe, he, the only human being whom I ever loved—will he or will he not come?”
The question was answered even at the moment it was breathed. The horn of the castle-gate was blown impatiently—the fall of the drawbridge was heard—a moment’s pause; and a light foot sprang up the oaken staircase with all the speed of haste and youth. The door opened and in rushed a young cavalier. The white plumes of his cap were drenched with wet—the diamond clasp that fastened them was dim with damp—but his bright auburn hair glistened with the raindrops. Hastily flinging his riding-cloak, heavy with moisture, to the ground, the stranger sprang to the bedside. A gleam of human love, of human joy, passed over the old man’s face, as tenderly and gently his nephew asked for his tidings, and expressed such hopes as affection hopes when hope there is none.
“Child of my love,” murmured the dying baron, “for whose sake only have I ever given one thought to the things of this earth, bear yet a moment with the feeble wretch who but a brief while will stand between you and the title of your ancestors and wealth. Many a prince of your mother’s house would think his kingdom overpaid if purchased by its half. You are young—I never was—my heart, even in boyhood, was old with premature knowledge. You have that beauty the want of which has made my life a curse—you have that strength of body the want of which has paralyzed my strength of mind. I have doubted if happiness dwells on this evil earth—I will not doubt when I hope for yours. You will hear me called necromancer: out on the base fools who malign that which they understand not, and would bring down the lofty aim of science, the glorious dream of virtue, to their own level! You will hear me called miser: Adolphe, have you ever found me so?”
“My father—my more than father!” passionately exclaimed the young man, hiding his face on the pillow, as if ashamed of the violence of mortal grief, in the presence of one so soon to be immortal.
“Adolphe,” continued his uncle, “you have heard, though not from me—for I sought not to weigh down your ardent mind with all that has pressed upon me with the burden of hopelessness, and long has the knowledge been mine—that the fetters of clay are too heavy for the spirit. Your young hand was fitter for the lance than the crucible; and the bridle-rein would have been ill-exchanged for the lettered scroll. But something I know of that future, into which even the sage can look but dimly. Adolphe, the only question I asked was for thee! Alas! The vanity of such wisdom! It has told of danger that menaces, but not of the skill that avoids. My child, evil came into the world with woman, and in her is bound up the evil of your destiny. Vain as the glance they throw on the polished steel of their mirror—false as the vow they make for the pleasure of breaking—inconstant as the wind, which changes from point to point, and for whose change no philosophy hath ever discovered a cause: shun them, Adolphe, as you would disloyalty to your king, flight from your enemy, or falsehood to your friend.”
The old man’s voice became inaudible, and his head sank on Adolphe’s shoulder:—“Margharita, water—or, Jacques, give me the wine.” The youth tried to pour a few drops into the baron’s mouth. The dying man motioned back the glass, and looking in the cavalier’s face with a strong expression of affection and anxiety, muttered something of “woman” and “danger”—“bright,” “eyes,” “bright,” “beware”—these were his last broken words. He expired.
CHAPTER II
Contrary to the charitable expectations of his neighbors, the Baron de Launaye was buried with all the rites of the church; the holy water was sprinkled on the corpse, and the holy psalm was sung over the coffin. A marble tablet marked his grave; and there the moonlight slept as lovingly as it ever did on the sinless tomb of saint or martyr. The new Baron de Launaye lamented his uncle’s death in a very singular manner, for he was his heir—and the young and the rich have not much time for regret. But Adolphe (he was remarkable from a child for his memory) could not forget the kindness—and more than kindness—the love that his uncle had lavished on the little orphan, who, noble and penniless at the age of five years, was left dependent on his bounty. However,
sorrow cannot—indeed nothing in this world can—last forever. Adolphe’s grief became first only sad; next, melancholy; thirdly, calm; and fourthly, settled down into a respectful remembrance, and a resolve to bear his uncle’s last words in mind. Indeed, the muttered, vague, and uncertain prediction quite haunted him.
“I am sure,” said he, in one of his many pondering moods, “I am sure my past experience confirms his words. I never got into a scrape but a woman was the cause. I had been in my outset at court, page to the Duke Forte d’Imhault, and gone with him on that splendid embassy to Russia, had he not been displeased with my awkwardness in fastening the duchess’s sandal.”
And he laughed as he said this: who in the world could ever guess why the loss of his appointment should make the young baron laugh!
“And then, who caused the duel between me and my Pylades, the Marquis de Lusignan, but that little jilt Mdll. Laure? However, my sword only grazed his arm: he wore an exquisite blue silk scarf, and we were better friends than ever. Oh, my uncle was right: women were born to be our torment.”
Still was this conviction impressed on his mind like a duty. Yet he could not help thinking that a few bright eyes would light up the old hall better than the huge brazen lamps which now served to make darkness visible. From thinking of the pleasantness of such an illumination, he began to think of its difficulties; and the difficulties of the project soon referred only to the place. One thought suggests another; and from thinking how many obstacles opposed the introduction of bright eyes and sweet smiles into the castle, he arrived at the conclusion, how easily they were to be obtained in other parts.
To say the truth, Paris became daily more familiar to his mind’s eye; and, as he justly observed, staying at the dull old castle could do his uncle no good, and he was quite sure it did himself none. Now, in spite of philanthropy, people are not very fond of doing good gratuitously; but, to be sure, such doctrines were not so much discussed in those days as in ours, though the practice was about the same. Sometimes he argued with himself, “It is well to be out of harm’s way;”—and the prediction and a cold shudder came together. But we are ready enough to dare the danger we do not know: and though a few years of Parisian life had placed the nephew’s early on a level with the uncle’s late experience, touching the evil inherent in womanhood, nevertheless Adolphe supposed their bad qualities might be borne, at all events, better than the dullness of the Chateau de Launaye.
One day riding with his bridle on his horse’s neck, mediating whether his next ride should not be direct to Paris, a most uncommon spectacle in that unfrequented part of the country attracted his attention. This was a large lumbering coach, drawn by six horses, whose rich harness and housings bore the crest in gold—a lynx rampant. A very natural curiosity (by-the-by, all curiosity is natural enough) made him look in at the window. Was there ever a face half so beautiful as that of the girl who, like himself, actuated by natural curiosity, looked out as he looked in? The black silk wimple was drawn over her head, but allowed a very red upper lip, an exquisite Grecian nose, and a most brilliant pair of eyes to be seen. Our young cavalier sat as if he had been stupefied. This is a very common effect of love at first. It goes off, however—so it did with Adolphe. His first act on recovering his senses was to gallop after the coach. He spurred on, and caught a second glance of the most radiant orbs that ever revolved in light. Large, soft, clear, and hazel, as those of a robin—they were bright and piercing as those of a falcon. Certainly de Launaye had never seen such eyes before, or at least none that ever took such an effect upon him.
He ate no dinner that day—walked by moonlight on the terrace—and the only thing which excited his attention was the seneschal’s information, that the Marquise de Surville and her granddaughter were come to stay some months at their chateau.
“They could not have done that in the late baron’s time—the Lord be good unto his soul!” And the old man forthwith commenced the history of some mysterious feud between the two families, in which the deceased Baron Godfred had finally remained victor.
To this tedious narrative of ancient enmities Adolphe was little inclined to listen. “A name and an estate are all our ancestors have a right to leave behind them. The saints preserve us from a legacy of their foes! Nothing could be worse—except their friends.”
The next morning the baron arranged his suit of sable with unusual care, though it must be confessed he always took care enough.
“Pray Heaven the marquise may be of my way of thinking respecting the quarrels of our forefathers! Some old ladies have terrible memories,” were Adolphe’s uppermost ideas as he rode over the drawbridge at the Chateau de Surville, which had been promptly lowered to his summons;—their only neighbor, he had thought it but courteous to offer his personal respects. How much more cheerful did the saloon, with its hangings in sea-green silk, worked in gold, seem than his own hall, encumbered with the dusty trophies of his ancestors. To be sure, the young baron was not at that moment a very fair judge; for the first thing that met him on his entrance was a glance from the same pair of large bright eyes which had been haunting him for the last four-and-twenty hours.
The grandmother was as stern a looking old gentlewoman as ever had knights in armor for ancestors: still, her eyes, also bright, clear, and piercing, somewhat resembled those of her granddaughter. On the rest of her face time had wrought “strange disfeatures.” She was silent; and, after the first compliments, resumed the volume she had been reading on the baron’s appearance. It was a small book, bound in black velvet, with gold clasps, richly wrought. Adolphe took it for granted it was her breviary; and inwardly concluded how respectable is that piety in an old woman which leaves the young one under her charge quite at liberty! The visitor’s whole attention was soon devoted to the oriel window where sat the beautiful Clotilde de Surville. The Baron de Launaye piqued himself on fastidious taste in women and horses: he had had some experience in both. But Clotilde was faultless. There she leaned, with the splendor of day full upon her face; it fell upon her pure complexion like joy upon the heart, and the sunbeams glittered amid the thick ringlets till every curl was edged with gold. Her dress alone seemed capable of improvement; but it is as well to leave something to the imagination, and there was ample food for Adolphe’s, in picturing the change that would be wrought upon Clotilde by a Parisian milliner. “This comes,” thought he, “of being brought up in an old German castle.”
For very shame he at last rose; when, with a grim change of countenance, meant for a smile, the marquise asked him to stay for dinner. It is a remark not the less true for being old (though nowadays opinions are all on the change), that love-making is a thing “to hear, and not to tell.” We shall therefore leave the progress of the wooing, and come to the denouement, which was the most proper possible, viz. marriage. Adolphe had been the most devoted of lovers, and Clotilde had given him a great deal of modest encouragement; that is, her bright eyes had often wandered in search of his, and the moment they had found them, had dropped to the ground; and whenever he entered the room, a blush had come into her cheek, like the light into the pearl, filling it with the sweet hues of the rose. Never did love-affair proceed more prosperously. The old seneschal was the only person who grumbled. He begged leave to remind the young baron that it was not showing proper respect to his ancestors not to take up their quarrels.
“But things are altered since the days when lances were attached to every legacy,” returned Adolphe.
“We are altering everything nowadays,” replied the old man; “I don’t see, however, that we are a bit the better off.”
“I, at all events, expect happiness,” replied his master, “in this change in my condition.”
“Ay, ay, so we all do before we are married: what we find after there is no use in saying, for two reasons; first, that you would not believe me; secondly, my wife might hear what I’m telling.”
“Ah!” exclaims the young baron, “the caution that marriage teaches! If it were only for the
prudence I should acquire, it would be worth my while to marry.”
“Alas! Rashness never yet wanted a reason. My poor young master! The old marquise and her dark-eyed granddaughter have taken you in completely.”
“Taken me in!” ejaculated de Launaye angrily; “why you old fool, were this a mere match of interest I might thank my stars for such a lucky chance. Young, beautiful, high-born, and rich, Clotilde has but to appear at court and ensure a much higher alliance than mine. What motive could they have?”
“I don’t know; but when I don’t know people’s motives, I always suppose the worst,” replied the obstinate Dominique.
“Charitable,” laughed the master.
“And besides,” resumed the seneschal, “the old marquise plagued her husband into the grave; and I dare say her granddaughter means to do as much for you.”
“A novel reason, at all events, for taking a husband,” said de Launaye, “in order that you may plague him to death afterward.”
CHAPTER III
Well, the wedding-day arrived at last. De Launaye could have found some fault with his bride’s costume, but for her face. There was a stiffness in the rigid white satin, and the ruff was at least two inches too high—indeed he did not see any necessity for the ruff at all; they had been quite out some years at Paris. However, he said nothing, remembering that a former hint on the subject of dress had not been so successful as its merits deserved. He had insinuated, and that in a compliment too, a little lowering of the ruff before, as a mere act of justice to the ivory throat, when Clotilde had rejoined, answering in a tone which before marriage was gentle reproof (a few months after it would have sounded like reproach), that she hoped “the Baron de Launaye would prefer propriety in his wife to display.” The sense of the speech was forgotten in its sentiment; a very unusual occurrence by-the-by. However, the bride looked most beautiful; her clear, dark eyes swam in light—the liquid brilliancy of happiness—the brightness, but not the sadness of tears. The ceremony was over, the priest and the marquise had given their blessings; the latter also added some excellent advice, which was not listened to with all the attention it deserved. The young couple went to their own castle in a new and huge coach, every one of whose six horses wore white and silver favors. Neighbors they had none; but a grand feast was given to the domestics; and Dominique, at his master’s express orders, broached a pipe of Bordeaux. “I can’t make my vassals,” said de Launaye, “as happy as myself; but I can make them drunk, and that is something towards it.”
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