The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Oh, Sir,” replied the maiden, half weeping, in the midst of her smiling mood, “you know not half my father; his goodness is blind to the faults of his child — never shall I know kindness equal to his — if I could tell you half his love to me, I could love myself, for having been thought worthy of it.”

  “Aye, aye,” exclaimed the Knight, “you women are all of the same tree. Love enough for old faces till new ones put them out of mind. Let a month go, and Dame Chiverton will be too fond and loving to her husband, to remember a quarter of the duty and affection of Isabel Vancouver to her father.”

  “Nay, dearest father, now you are unjust to your — fie on the word, did I say unjust? — but are you not too hard upon your daughter! Think not, Sir, that your child can ever, or for any one, forget the love, the duty she owes to the best of parents.”

  “And I, too, will venture,” said Wayword, “ to speak, since better advocate may not be had at hand, in defence of the sex, to whom, Sir Gamelyn, you do scant justice. Are women always the changeable beings you would represent them? In sickness, where is the endurance that equals the patient constancy she shews? — what hand so tenderly administers the draught, and binds the wound? In prosperity, her hopes are unclouded, and her way wet with no tears, she is gay and lightsome; it may be capricious. But let sorrow and calamity draw forth the stronger points of her nature, and arouse those exertions, of which woman, and woman alone, is capable, and in anxious watchfulness, in soothing tenderness, in persevering suffering for those with whom her affections have linked her, and all these heightened and multiplied in value, by the extinguishment of every selfish thought; where shall we find her excelled, or where indeed equalled?”

  “Now God-a-mercy,” interrupted the Knight, “an you are both set against me, I had best run for it — Why, Master Wayword — —”

  His speech was cut short by a renewed knocking at the door of the apartment, and the subsequent entry of the host, who apologized after his fashion for the intrusion, and addressing the priest! in a low tone, informed him, that his patient had made frequent inquiries after him, and was desirous of seeing his benefactor. The clergyman arose.

  “I must, for a while, crave your excuse, Sir Gamelyn, and yours, fair lady; a trifling duty will a while deprive me of your society. You will pardon the abruptness of my departure.” The knight was vociferous in his protestations against Way word’s departure; his daughter, too, joined her gentler entreaties. The priest, however, excused himself, and followed the landlord to the chamber in which Prestwyche had been placed.

  On entering the apartment, he found his patient, loosely dressed, and pacing the room with some impatience. The youth approached him hastily as he entered —

  “My memory,” said he, “surely played me a treacherous trick, when I remembered not the worthy Master Wayword. And yet, it seemed to me that some recollection was in my mind, of the benevolent countenance of the friend to whom I am so much indebted. Allow me to say, friend, if not on my own account, yet for the sake of one with whom you are connected — one to whom you have often spoken the words of consolation and kindness, and in whose fate, he who speaks to you is more interested than in ought that concerns himself. Accept of my thanks for your goodness to both.”

  “You have little to thank me for,” returned the priest, “the service I was fortunately enabled to render you, was so trifling, and the Lady Ellice, I wit it is of her you speak, repays abundantly by her gratitude, all those who can serve her: but I hope your hurts are not painful?”

  “Oh, nothing! nothing at all; thanks to your goodness, I am, I may say, wholly recovered; indeed the hurt was so insignificant — and I have slept, though awakened by an unusual commotion in the house.”

  “I feared so, much,” said the priest.

  “An arrival of unexpected guests, I suppose.”

  “Your conjecture is right: an arrival of guests was the cause of the disturbance which annoyed you.”

  “Nay, as to that, the annoyance I heed not, but the new comers must be of some rank, from the number of servants, with whom my ear seemed to tell me they were accompanied.”

  “A gentleman and his daughter, only attended by a moderate retinue,” answered the priest, who was not desirous that the name of the guests should be known to Prestwyche — but he was disappointed.

  “And his daughter,” repeated Prestwyche, “then it must be as I guessed, Sir Gamelyn Vancouver, and the bride that may be, of — of the Knight, with whom I believe, you, Reverend Sir, at present reside.”

  “And why not at once, of Sir John Chiverton? Is there ought in the name that would blister my patient’s lips to pronounce! I would not be thought rudely to interfere, with advice unasked for; but yet, deep and abiding anger, far less hatred, never profited those who harboured it; do not take amiss my words.”

  “I am sensible of your kindness, in thus interesting yourself, my good Sir, in the conduct of one who has need of such friendly assistance; believe me, I am not ungrateful for it. But you know not the causes which forbid a kindly feeling to be shared between Chiverton and myself.”

  “I have heard,” said the priest, “of the unhappy occasion of strife which arose—”

  “True,” interrupted Prestwyche, “you have heard of that foolish quarrel, the ostensible cause of a feud, the true sources of which are of as much deeper a nature, as our difference is deeper than the idle broils, that such accidents as you think of give birth to. Were personal wrongs all I could impute to him, they should seldom rise to remembrance. The mere precaution of absence from the neighbourhood of a man whom I dislike, would then be enough — but the injury I dwell upon is not to Reginald Prestwyche.”

  “Your words are mysterious, and I fear bode not good. Whom but yourself can Chiverton have injured, to give such deadly cause of quarrel to you?”

  “To one whom I have already told you, I value more than myself. To his sister — to your Ellice, your pupil once, who now rejoices to call you friend.”

  “To his sister impossible! — what, or how could—’

  “Bear with me, Master Way word, and you shall hear. That sister whom he persuades others, and would persuade himself, he so dearly regards — her, he wrongs of her inheritance, and keeps immured in his hall yonder, lest the knowledge of her right should overturn his schemes of ambition and aggrandizement.”

  He proceeded to relate to his hearer, those circumstances of Chiverton’s conduct with respect to his sister’s title to the domains of Chiverton, with which the reader is already acquainted.

  Having concluded this detail he continued:

  “And now, Master Wayword, can you wonder at our enmity? You were unwilling, I perceived, that I should know of Sir Gamelyn de Vancouver being in this house. You were afraid some difference should take place between us; the knight is free and open hearted, yet choleric; and knows my feud with his intended son-in-law, though unaware as you were of what I have related to you. Can you now object to my seeking and disclosing to him, what I have just detailed. Can you wish that his daughter, amiable and beautiful, as I hear she is, should become the bride of Sir John Chiverton?”

  “I am surprised,” said the priest, after a pause, “at what you tell me, yet you may be mistaken: have you wherewith to prove what you assert? I doubt not your honour, but others will not hastily believe, what may appear to them an unfounded tale; suspicious, you will allow, as coming from a known enemy. Sir Gamelyn, too, is prejudiced in favour of Chiverton, and by consequence, against you.”

  “I have proofs,” returned the other, “strong enough to confound’ the arts of Chiverton and his assistants. To-morrow, my servant, whom I have dispatched to bring them hither, will arrive. What then shall delay the disclosure?”

  “I am not as yet,” said the priest, “able to give advice to assist you in your proceedings; yet I would recommend, that you be not over hasty. Defer this discovery. Sir Gamelyn will be on his road to Chiverton Hall early in the morning, and would hardly delay his journey to exami
ne the proofs you mention, even were they then arrived. Meanwhile, be assured, that Richard Way word, humble as are his means, will be no patient spectator of mischief, nor will rest without endeavours to counteract it. The well being of Ellice is not less dear to me, than to you. I will guard her as my own child — present not yourself now to Sir Gamelyn or his daughter — let them not know of your residence here — you can, after their departure, follow secretly, if you desire it, to the neighbourhood of the Hall — remain in private, and you may contrive to let me know of your residence; within two days you shall see me again. Till then will you promise me to act no further in this matter?”

  “I consent, though with reluctance,” answered the youth, “and will give the promise you require. Yet remember, it is the fate of Ellice depends on us — let her not be sacrificed by delay.”

  “Depend on me,” replied the priest, “your confidence shall not be misplaced. And now farewell! I must return to Sir Gamelyn, whom I left. Doubt not that the right shall succeed — and again farewell!”

  He took a friendly and affectionate leave of Prestwyche, and returned to the father and daughter whom he had left.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE MEN OF DEATH.

  “Avoid him. — The argument

  Is fearful when churchmen stagger in’t.”

  WEBSTER.

  THE night succeeding the events which have been detailed, was spent by Ellice in vain endeavours to obtain the rest that comes most slowly when most needed. This, the consequence of the illness which had attacked her exhausted frame, was aggravated by the severity of mental affliction. Her brother and herself, she had ever regarded as linked together by peculiar ties of kindred and affection. Almost the sole remaining branches of a noble and ancient stock, it seemed that the ties of fraternity should be strengthened by a more than ordinary dependance on each other; an impression which her mind early received, and retained with undiminished force. Those then who know how deeply acute is the pang, when suspicion, though the slightest, enters the mind, of the unworthiness of a beloved object — of the one whom the imagination has delighted to invest with the qualities that can best inspire, or heighten affection, need not be told what were the feelings of Ellice, excited by the words of Prestwyche respecting her brother. It is, indeed, a harsh voice that tells us, that the images that the heart had given birth to, and which hope and memory have joined to foster, till they have become a new existence, and interwoven with the spirit’s every most secret aspiration, are after all a dream, as frail and illusory as the frost work glittering in the morning beams, and worse than all, as chilling. When confidence has no longer whereon it may repose, nor hope whereunto it may turn its gaze, the death of happiness is not afar off. In that hour, endurance itself fails, and the heart indeed knoweth its own bitterness.

  The physician, on visiting his patient early in the morning, found her accordingly restless, fevered, and dispirited. After the customary inquiries, and such directions as he judged proper, he retired to communicate to Chiverton, the result of his visit.

  He found him in an apartment, which from the frequent repetitions among the carvings of its pannels, of the figure of the mermaid, was known among the household, by the name of the Maiden’s Chamber: there was not wanting, however, an imperfect tradition, which assigned as the origin of this denomination, circumstances of a fearful and mysterious nature, connected with the fate of a lady, the daughter of a former inmate of the hall. The feeling thus attached to the room, was heightened by its appearance and situation: the darkness of the wood-work, with which its walls were clothed, lent to it a gloom, which the dim light that fell through a single casement, could but partially dispel. This window commanded a view, broken and intercepted by the intervening branches of the river, and a part of the scenery, including the cave beyond it. It was built over the deepest vaults of the castle, with which it was said to have some secret communication, and so situated, as to be overlooked by no other part of the mansion. A sentiment of fear was attached to it in the minds of all the inmates of the Hall, excepting only Chiverton, his two more immediate followers, and the lady Ellice, the latter of whom, took an interest in the melancholy spot, and would often retire thither, when the evening sun slanted his deepening beams athwart the sparkling river, and the variegated hues of the spreading foliage. To all others, the chamber was a spot interdicted, as well by their fears as by the commands of Chiverton, who often held there his conferences with his most especial counsellors and associates.

  On the entry of the physician, he perceived Chiverton seated at the extremity of the room, and apparently absorbed in gloomy meditations. At a little distance, stood the dark form of Mahmood Bali, in his usual posture, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground, The latter cast a momentary glance on the physician, but the Knight remained, as it seemed, unconscious of his entrance. Scymel approached the casement, and without interrupting the silent mood of Chiverton, gazed leisurely on the river, whose sullen waters glided beneath the chamber with a noiseless progress. The contrast presented by the countenances of the three, was worthy observation. The clouded aspect of the Knight bore an expression of disquiet, that seemed at times heightened to the bitterness of remorse, and was agitated at intervals by sudden and violent gleams of passion. Strikingly different was the cold and placid indifference, that reposed in the looks of the physician, and seemed to disown all kindred or sympathy with the feelings or business of mankind. Yet ere he had long continued in the chamber, his features changed, and became almost beautiful, as one of those momentary gleams passed over them, which sometimes intimated that the cold and sneering spirit that characterized Scymel, was not the natural inmate of his breast; it came, amid the eclipse of hope and feeling, like the memory that haunts us in dreams, of those early flowers of the heart, whose first decay tells us they know no second spring. The Moor alone preserved, without relaxation, and without alloy of aught savouring of humanity, the steady expression of cherished malice.

  Chiverton was the first to break the prevailing silence. Rising suddenly from his seat, he abruptly approached the physician, and grasping his wrist with an earnestness that almost startled him, gazed for a brief space steadily upon him ere he spoke.

  “Remember, Walter,” said he at last, “it was thou who didst advise it.”

  “Advised what, Sir John? — you are pleased to—”

  “What! what! say’st thou; — that thou canst look as thou lookest now, and ask me, what. — It were enough, by heaven!—” his tone rose almost to fierceness — then suddenly dropping it, he added—” Go ask Mahmood Bali — mute as he is, he may refresh thy memory.”

  “I should grieve, noble Sir,” returned the physician, “that my temporary absence of mind should give birth to your displeasure. In truth I deemed not that the subject, on which alone, I now bethink me, I have of late presumed to offer my poor opinion, had so engrossed your mind, as to cause that earnestness in your demeanour towards your servant but now, which I was about to attribute to some cause of weightier moment, of which I was ignorant But I rejoice, that—”

  “Stay, Walter Scymel,” said the Knight, interrupting by a slight motion of his hand the physician’s discourse, “stay a while — thou say’st thou understandest of what I speak; and did’st yet treat it as a thing of no moment; a deed by which, I fear me, the honour of Chiverton hath taken a wound that will be long in healing; and it hath escaped thy memory, who wert it’s author. I would fain know, of what mould thou art made, that canst look with eye unmoved, and mind undisturbed, on scenes which others shudder but to hear of.”

  “I know not, Sir,” returned the physician, “how I have merited what bears the semblance of a reproach. It may be, that in my humble zeal for your service, I have disregarded those distinctions in the nature of actions which the very herd who profess to be governed by them can neither understand nor practice, and which, therefore, I account but nominal and chimerical. Ask me what is most fitting to be done; I tell you, that which is most exp
edient. Such I deemed to be the measure I ventured to recommend, and as such I advised it. Yet had I foreseen the annoyance its execution would cause you, I had forborn to speak so openly.”

  “Nay, Scymel,” answered Chiverton, “I blame not thee for thy advice, given with sincerity. Yet this deed — I know not how it is, hangs heavily on my mind. I would it had not been, yet cannot wish it undone.”

  “I cannot but marvel,” said Scyrael, “that the firmness which men were wont so much to admire in Sir John Chiverton, should, pardon me, Sir, seem in this business to have given place to a changeful hesitation unsuited to the daring spirit of a soldier, to your former actions, and to your present purposes. Your own sword blade can testify, that its master’s hand hath not been nerveless; on occasions, too, whose weight, when compared with the present, were but as the warrior’s plume to the steel on which it nods.”

  “True,” returned the Knight; “but mine have ever been encounters, in which my enemy has had an equal chance with myself. I have lain in no ambush — have studied no secrecy. Sword to sword, and blow for blow, none can accuse me of unfairness: if my adversary fell, as it was his fate, so it might have been mine.” The physician smiled. “And yet,” said he, “how easily might unequal strength or unequal skill make this combat, which you, Sir, esteem for its fairness, capable but of one termination. You see you heron,” he pointed through the casement as he spoke, “how stately he soars above you cluster of tall beeches; he has alighted on the topmost branch; with what a lordly air he flaps his wings, as he sways on the pliant bough. Suppose, my lord, your favourite gerfalcon Jet loose upon the victim; — how swift would be his flight; how fearful his terrors, the agony of pursuit — the fruitless straining of his torn sinews, the panting fierceness of his dosing struggle — how would they add to the pangs of death, to the pain which, unaccompanied by such additions, had been but of a moment — a speedy cessation of the animal life. And now, Mahmood, if I mistake not, there lies a crossbow behind thee.” — He fitted the instrument which the Moor handed him, a ponderous, and then popular weapon; opened the casement, claimed with a glance of his eyes the attention of Chiverton and in a moment the heron fell fluttering to the ground, and his shattered plumage floated on the air.”