On recovering her powers of reflection and remembrance, Ellice perceived a man, whom she doubted not to be her preserver, busily endeavouring to raise a flame from the almost expired embers. The ruddy glare that arose from the kindling fuel, disclosed to her the general appearance of the stranger, for the natural light which found entrance into the cave, was too faint and uncertain to afford her information.
His stature, as he raised himself from the occupation over which he had bent, was, to say the least, tall; his figure, noble and prepossessing. His bat thrown aside, exposed a head of brown and thickly curled hair; the features were not at the moment visible. His dress, though partaking of little of the gaiety of the age, seemed such as denoted the gentleman of the time. It was in the early part of Elizabeth’s age. But a hasty glance, by so imperfect a light, could tell no more of any object; and the eyes of the gazer were scarcely averted, when the stranger, turning and approaching to the object of his solicitude, was about to convey her within the more immediate influence of the blaze that now curled up in lofty flakes. But at the moment when Ellice, faintly endeavouring to rise, by so doing assured her deliverer of her recovered sensibility, their eyes met. The effects of the recognition that ensued were equally remarkable and instantaneous. With a scream of astonishment, she sprung from her recumbent posture; gazed for a moment wildly and fearfully, as if doubting whether he who stood before her was indeed a living form; and unable from weakness to retain her upright position, would have fallen on the earth, had not an arm been ready to receive and support her, though from its violent trembling, and the agitated demeanour of the stranger, it might have been doubted which was really most in need of assistance. As she lay in her deliverer’s arms, a violent shuddering passed over her frame; she raised her eyes as it ceased, fearfully to the stranger’s—” It is — it must be he!”
“Doubt it not, my Ellice,” returned the stranger; “doubt not that it is thy Reginald; who hoped not that these lips again should call thee his, or these arms e’er fondly clasp the form that now trembles to his heart; who—”
“Nay, cease, Reginald,” interrupted Ellice; “cease: the heart that has forgot to feel, should teach the lips to forget to speak the passion they once feigned. Why talk of hope, when the wish was wanting? You wished not to behold her whom once you swore to enthrone in your heart; whose smile was once your pleasure; whose approbation was once the aim of all your cares. You said so then; and I, poor fool, believing the words, and thinking that — that I was loved—”
“Thinking that thou wert loved!” exclaimed the stranger; “Ellice, my — no — now no longer mine — torture me not too far — day hath witnessed — night hath witnessed — months — years of hopeless misery have witnessed my love; and now to doubt — to mock — to insult me thus. Thy heart was wont to be tender.”
“Were it not tender,” replied the weeping maiden, “tender even beyond a woman’s folly, thou wouldst not see me thus: these idle tears should ere this have ceased to flow for one who remembered not his vows, save as toys, as light as the air in which they were spent; formed but for the brief endurance of a summer hour, but fated to destroy the peace of a heart, to which they seemed the breathings of sincerity. But this is weaker than I thought I could have been,” continued she, withdrawing herself from his support, and, by a strong effort, repressing the tears that trembled on her eyelids: “it is time we parted; and yet I would not lightly pass over the generous service you have done me. I owe to you my life, and though the gift be little worth, believe me my thanks are sincere, and Ellice not ungrateful.”
“I obey you, lady,” answered he, “and yet, to part thus: — Ellice, you have wronged me. I have loved dearly, and suffered deeply — loved when hope was no longer the attendant of love; and now, when chance has unexpectedly thrown you to my arms, and shewn me that Ellice yet lives—”
“Lives, Reginald!” interrupted the lady.
“Aye, lives; for lying tongues had told me you were no more; and I, in heart a widower, even now am here, come to weep upon your grave, and now find you yet living, but so changed that—”
“Cease, Reginald, I pray, I beseech you,” interrupted the maiden; “your words are strange, and doubts still stranger throng upon me. Methinks,” added she, passing her slender fingers over her moist and chilly forehead, “my brain is well nigh touched by this untoward — and yet, not so, since!” — a light blush, penetrating through the paleness of her cheek, spoke what she would have said in a language more flattering to a lover’s heart than all the force of words. “But spare me your reproaches, we have been both deceived; by whom and wherefore I know not, but this is no time or place for explanations. My brother and his followers seek me, and will soon be here. But why, why do you look so wildly?”
“Brother! do you call him,” exclaimed the youth, “call him not — think him not a brother; he it was that feigned your death — he that detained my steps in distant lands — he that, to accomplish his own selfish views of ambition, wrests from you your inheritance, and would have made two faithful — they were once two happy hearts, Ellice, — the stepping stones to raise him in his course of darkness.”
“Thou dost him wrong, in truth thou dost,” replied the lady; “he loves me as a brother should a sister. There’s not a wish, a fancy, I could frame but he would gratify at any price — lie injure me? — No! sooner would he see perish all his state, and all his hopes, than his Ellice — than even the little finger of this hand should suffer.”
“Alas, Ellice, your heart, pure in its simplicity, knows not how to suspect. The show of kindness dims your eyesight, and makes you blind to the heaviest wrongs. But a day of justice,” added he, grasping suddenly the handle of his sword, “a day will come when the deceiver shall meet his due; when the wrongs he has inflicted shall return on his own head with double weight; when—”
“Cease to talk thus,” interrupted she, is it with threats against a brother you would entertain a sister’s ear? What is the meaning of your dark hints, I know not; this only I know, that his love to me has been unceasing and unchanging. But cast away these wild designs; come not near my brother as an enemy; touch him not — harm him not — by all the love thou ever borest me, by all we have suffered, by all we hope, I conjure, I charge thee to have no feud with him.”
The reply of the youth was prevented by the sudden entrance of some one into the cave; at the sound of whose footsteps Ellice and her preserver, suddenly turning their glances towards the entrance of the place, saw advancing an individual whose appearance was productive of the greatest surprise, scarcely unmingled with fear. His figure, short and uncommonly thick set, was sheltered by a dress of the coarsest materials, and irregular fashion. Hose of blue, and a doublet of dirty red woollen, were but partially concealed by a sleeveless garment, resembling a modern carter’s frock, of a dark drab, and corresponding in substance with the remainder of his garments. Clumsy boots, formed of oxhide, with the hair outwards, defended his huge splay feet; and his head was covered with a cap of a like nature, while a broad leathern belt girt round his middle, sustained a pouch, and a long ambiguous weapon, suited either for the ordinary employment of a knife, or for occasional use in dealings of another nature. He held in his hand a staff, armed at the upper end with a strong iron hook, and shod at the lower extremity with the same metal.
The features of the new corner were well suited to his person and habiliments; his grizzled black hair hung from beneath his cap, in huge disorderly masses, over a forehead, thronged with deep wrinkles, and rendered hideous by a wound, which, though healed, was still betrayed by a seam running longitudinally from one to the other temples, dividing the skin over each eye-brow, so as almost to leave bare the frontal bone. His eyes were placed deep, and shot forth from their shaggy sockets, looks, indicative only of surly and discontented malice; an expression with which every feature was charged. His right hand was closed round the staff which he carried, but when that was for a moment laid aside, and his extended palm exp
osed to view, there was visible on the flesh, the deep impress of a burn, the scar of which took the form of the well known letter, that proclaimed him branded as the felon his appearance and demeanour so strongly denoted him to be.
The dark glance of the tenant of the cave, for such he was, was directed to Ellice and her lover, and bespoke surprise; which, however, was instantly subdued into the stupid look of indifference, either natural, or assumed as the habitual cloak of his feeling, towards those with whom he came in contact. Ellice shrunk back at the sight of him, and grasped, unconsciously, the arm of her companion, who immediately addressed the object of her apparent alarm.
“I have made free with thy fuel, friend,” said he, “observing that the new corner had fixed his eyes on the glowing embers, whose now decaying blaze contended with the portion of daylight, that found its way into the cavern.”
“Hast thou ever seen me before, that thou callest me friend?” interrupted he who was addressed, in a tone strangely harsh and monotonous.
“A truce to thine impertinence,” said Prestwyche, sternly; “whatever thou callest thyself take this, it will pay thee for thy faggots.”
“I wanted no pay,” growled he of the strange apparel, “but as thy money burns thee, good youth, here are fingers can grasp it tighter.” As he spoke, he opened the pouch at his girdle, and dropping into it the coin he had received, retired to a farther part of the cave, seemingly inattentive to the speech or motions of his guests.
“Let us begone,” said Ellice, “the air of this place is thick and noisome, they will be here ere — Hark! I hear the trampling of their horses.”
In fact, immediately upon their leaving the cavern, they perceived, at a short distance, glimmering through the trees, the gay riders of Chiverton’s party. — Ellice looked fearfully at her companion.
“Reginald thou wilt be calm — be prudent — thou wilt not—”
“Ellice,” returned he, “fear me not: I will attempt no violence, until compelled in self-defence; — to your wishes I sacrifice revenge — the memory of our mutual wrongs. And if,” he added, “taking her trembling hand, I knew that Reginald Prestwyche yet holds in Ellice’s heart, the place she once allowed him to think he possessed, I might be happy almost even in parting from you.”
Did he deceive himself, in thinking that a scarce perceptible return — too slight for any but a lover to feel, of the pressure he bestowed upon the hand he held, answered fondly for his hopes! — But further converse was here precluded, for the Knight of Chiverton approaching with his followers, perceived his sister, sprung from his horse, and rushing towards her, encountered the glance of Prestwyche, who stood by her, in collected and undaunted composure.
The fabled powers of the basilisk could not have caused greater dismay to the beholder, than did the look of Ellice’s lover to her brother. He hesitated for a moment, in a conflict between pride and confusion, and then, suddenly turning aside, remounted his horse; and calling to his followers to conduct his sister, rode away.
Some emotion this rencounter produced, apparently amongst the members of his party: — the elders of the company looked at each other knowingly, and suspiciously, and one or two put their hands to their swords; — the younger men gazed as ignorant of the meaning of what was going forward. The hesitation which prevailed, was speedily dissipated by the behaviour of Prestwyche, who advancing with a determined coolness, that at once awed down any signals of hostility, previously displayed, surrendered his companion to the care of one of the party.
“Since the Lord of Chiverton deems it needless to thank a stranger, who has been fortunate enough to preserve his sister, I must, gentlemen, yield her to your protection. Yet, tell him from me, that there was once some slight acquaintance between us, which, should we meet again, may perchance be renewed. My name you may say is Prestwyche — he may possibly remember it. — Lady,” he added, turning to Ellice, “I wish you, farewell.” His glance told how temporary a farewell was intended.
She returned, with the peculiar grace which distinguished her, his deep parting obeisance, and accompanying her brother’s followers, left him still gazing on her retreating form.
As they approached the river, the ferryman unloosed his boat, and the party, after the little vessel had twice or thrice performed its voyage, were landed on the farther part of the stream, and immediately entered the hall.
CHAPTER II.
THE PHYSICIAN.
“Look who would see Destruction, lie a-sunning
In that perfidious model of face falsehood,
Hell is drawn grinning.”
THE GAME AT CHESS.
THOUGH the strong emotions, which had been raised in Ellice’s bosom, by the appearance in the character of her preserver, of one, whom she had been made to believe far distant, and with whom her own fate was deeply — too deeply for her peace of mind — interwoven, had, by a temporary excitation, enabled her to bear up against the terror and fatigue of her accident, the effects of the shock now became more sensible, and she was no sooner conducted by her maidens to her chamber, than being visited by the physician of the household, he pronounced her dangerously affected by what she had undergone, and having given his directions, retired to make known to Chiverton his sister’s precarious state. Descending the great staircase, which led the way from the gallery, into which the sleeping apartments opened, he was met by a domestic, who, in a confused manner, communicated his master’s wish to see the physician. As the staircase terminated hard by the anti-room to the banqueting chamber, where the Knight then was, the man of medicine made his appearance instantly before Chiverton.
The apartment into which he entered, was a spacious and handsome one. Its windows occupying the entire range of one side of the quadrangle, looked, as already mentioned, into the garden, and the light, partially intercepted by the foliage without, took a still deeper tinge, as passing through the richly stained panes, it fell upon the dark wainscotting of the chamber.
This was oak, black with age, and loaded with the most elaborate carvings, in which the invention of the artist had been exerted, to produce the quaintest and most grotesque images. Some of these represented demons, some human figures, and not a few were borrowed from the characters usually personated in the sports and mummeries, then in vogue, among the lower classes of the people. An aim at the ludicrous was visible in the grouping of the figures, nor were ideas bordering upon profane scrupulously avoided, in the associations intended to be awakened by these representations. The figure of the mermaid, the symbol of the family, was lavishly displayed, not only among these carvings, but in the ornaments of the cornice, where the ambiguous sea nymph appeared, dressing the streaming locks which flowed in rich gilding around her shoulders. In execution, these representations were superior to those commonly met with at the time, and were probably the work of a German artist. The spirit of decoration, so profusely displayed on the walls, had been extended to the ceiling of this apartment. Two huge beams of oak supporting it, were adorned with mouldings thickly gilt, and the spaces on either side of the timbers were painted in diamond formed compartments, and powdered with golden stars. To complete the highly ornamented appearance of the chamber, a gorgeous mantel-piece, also carved in oak, occupied nearly the entire end of the room, overhanging a hearth, whose capacious width promised a comfortable and jovial defiance to the snows and chills of winter. The furniture corresponded with the style of the apartment; stiff, ponderous, and shewy, bearing the same relation to the light manufacture of modern days, as the habitation to which it belonged might do to a Chinese cottage, a gay hunting box, that might now, perhaps, be met in the same district.
Along this chamber, the Knight of Chiverton was pacing hastily, and with irregular steps, and evidently under the dominion of violent and conflicting passions; his naturally handsome features were distorted with rage, and his eyes burning with a strange lustre, seemed roaming in search of some one, on whom to discharge the deep and angry hatred which dwelt in them. He was not wholly
alone. At the farther end of the apartment, stood a dark and swarthy Moor, whose ungainly figure was clothed in a costume, partaking in some degree of both the European and Asiatic fashions; his turban and vest of scarlet cloth, belonging to the latter, but the remainder of his dress was in the style of the other retainers of the hall. His arms were folded on his breast; his looks cast down; and from his fixed and motionless demeanour, he might have been mistaken for a statue, had it not been for an occasional glance, when, without changing the position of his head, he threw a disturbed look after Chiverton — a look, in which a triumphing hatred was so blended with an almost unearthly sneer, communicating to his unmoved features an expression of feelings unallied with humanity, as to startle even those who were accustomed to it, and fully to justify the suspicions which had taken root among many of the inmates of the hall, that the devil and Mahmood Bali, if not identically the same, were near relations at least. These glances were not, however, permitted to be perceptible by their object; nor did the Knight seem to be peculiarly subjected to them, for on the entrance of the physician, the same look, modified by somewhat more of human hatred, was directed towards him also. The right hand of the Moor rested on the hilt of a richly ornamented dagger, stuck in his embossed girdle. A collar of gold, beaten thin, surrounded his neck, which was bare, and showed, as did his limbs, the signs of extreme strength. His ears were laden with large drops of gold, and these completed the ornaments of his person.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 3