“Promise me only,” said he, “that when I return to save and deliver thee, thou wilt no longer baffle my hopes; that those ties shall then bind us, which no mischance shall have power to sever! — promise me this, and I will leave thee; — thou knowest not how much that word costs me.”
“Do I not,” returned the maiden; “thinkest thou, that I too cannot feel — that thine alone is the pang of this separation? But away — I promise what thou askest, but longer I must not tarry.”
She opened a small door nearly opposite the one by which she had entered. The fresh current of the breeze that rushed into the vault had nigh extinguished the lamp.
“Follow me,” said Ellice, “thou wilt soon be free.”
Prestwyche sighed, as he half unconsciously echoed her words. But she hastened on, allowing no time for further converse.
The passage into which they now entered, resembled the one Ellice had already traversed, except that it was yet more rude. As they proceeded the air they breathed became purer; the dashing of the waters more and more distinct. Presently the bright steady beams of the moon, shedding their light into the extremity of the passage, announced that they were near the opening in the rocks, which formed the sole external extrance to the wretched caverns they had left.
“Now,” said Ellice, as she stepped on the flat ledge of rock, under which, at the distance of some yards, ran the river, “now, Reginald, thou art free, and now we part — nay, thou knowest we must, and thou, I tell thee, art not the only sufferer in this. These steps,” she shewed him the rude ones, hewn in the rock, will conduct thee to the summit of the bank; beware of the turn there; I have heard me ’tis hard to pass.”
The path which she pointed out was well worthy of notice, from the singular propriety with which it had been framed to escape observation, by any whose attention was not particularly directed to it. The entrance from the cavern opening, as has been said, on a flat rock, was concealed on each side by thick clusters of underwood, whose roots found in the face of the rock a scanty, but as it seemed sufficient soil, and the impending projection of the stone above, precluded the possibility of the opening being discerned from the brink of the rock. The wood on the side of the opening from which the steps took their rise had been restrained or cut away, so as to form a sort of natural archway, which, without diminishing the secrecy of the spot, obviated the difficulties that the unchecked growth of the wild vegetation would have presented to the progress of those leaving or seeking the vaults. The steps were shaded by a curtain of the same shrubs, and the summit was so garlanded with foliage, and cast in so deep a gloom by the shade of the sycamores that clustered there, that the chances of discovery by an uninitiated person were almost infinitely small.
There was a strange contrast between the beaming and placid garb, in which the external objects around the lovers lay at this moment clothed, and the perturbed feelings with which they were themselves possessed. The moon shone in a heaven unspotted by a cloud. The river rolling calmly over its smooth bed, reflected, with the fidelity of a Venetian mirror, every illumined object that presented itself on either side of the stream; its serenity disturbed only where, stealing by the base of the rock, the waters were impeded in their course by some straggling projection, with which to raise a noisy but vain strife. All else was still.
They gazed on each other silently; — to a chance looker-on, it might have seemed with placidity, so calm and undisturbed was every feature. But the keener observer would have seen in that very calm, the index of that inward struggle with affliction which far more than its passionate overflow, tears and consumes the heart where it abides.
“Farewell!” there was a tremor in Ellice’s voice as she spoke the word — to her lover it was as a knell — he echoed it unconsciously. She pointed again to the path he was to take; for a moment he held her folded to his breast — for a moment her cheek reposed on his; he tore himself away, and springing up the rock, was lost to her sight.
The compelled firmness which had hitherto sustained Ellice, deserted her now, and she sank exhausted against the rock. Presently she revived.
“Farewell,” she repeated, “it is for ever — I know — I feel it is. Unhappy maiden! and more unhappy he who loves so wretched a one! Fortune has been unkind to us — me it will soon cease to oppress; this little heart has beat too long without happiness; the spirit’s endurance would last; the frame it inhabits must break beneath the burden.”
On preparing to retrace her steps down the passage, she perceived now for the first time, that her lamp was extinguished, and she shrunk from exploring in darkness, the wilderness of the vaults. She stepped into the passage, and started back again. She wondered at her own irresolution. “Surely,” said she, “I spoke too hastily of endurance, I have borne this last parting — do I shrink front a dark vault?”
In fact, the agitation she had undergone, and the unusual pitch to which she had been compelled to wind up her temper of mind, to enable her to bear the conflict, were succeeded by the usual effects of all violent excitement, and she now suffered under that nervous relaxation, which affects so as almost for the time to destroy the powers of thought and action. She endeavoured as much as possible to recover herself, and again proceeded.
The passage was of considerable length, and near the opening the floor was broken and uneven. She stepped cautiously on; often stopping in her course, and trembling with apprehensions, whose origin she was unable to account for. Scarcely did her limbs obey the directions of her will; weak and fearful, she wondered why her courage was now less than when she had first entered the vaults. She was now approaching the extremity of the passage, when a sudden noise arrested her progress.
She heard the sound of footsteps entering the vault from which she had so lately liberated Prestwyche, and this was followed by loud and violent exclamations of rage and disappointment. Ellice shrunk back instinctively into a broken recess, of which there were several in the sides of the passage.
“Good heaven!” she exclaimed, “it is my brother.”
It was indeed Chiverton, who, along with the Moor, had accompanied the physician; when after a long interval he prepared to visit the prisoner and dress his wounds.
The Knight had hoped, that l’restwyche, under fear of continued imprisonment, and finding himself wholly in his enemy’s power, would without much difficulty be induced to consent to terms, which would prevent his so acting as further to obstruct the schemes and actions of Chiverton. The physician, indeed, judged otherwise, and probably better. However, they were not permitted to make the experiment.
When on arriving at the dungeon in which Prestwyche had been confined, it was found tenantless, the fury of Chiverton was excessive. The remonstrances of the physician at length abated his vehemence.
“Canst thou tell me then — thou that art cool and calm — canst thou tell me what will be — or rather what will not be, the issue of this accursed chance? tell me that he will not return to seek — to carry away — to marry Ellice Chiverton, and to rob me of all, to triumph over the Chiverton; aye, that so there shall not be a churl but shall point and grin at the beggarly Knight, and — but enough, will it not be so; aye or no, be brief and quick “It will!” was the reply of the physician.
“It will,” echoed Chiverton; “thou sayest well. And now, task thy wit again, can it furnish a shield against the stroke? — is there remedy or none?”
“There is.”
“Speak then — what is it?”
“I must first premise, Sir, that what I suggest may be most unpleasant to you; still you will remember, it is free for you to adopt, or to reject.”
“Scymel, I tell thee, man, torture me not with this trifling; this hour may be my last; the inheritance of my fathers totters over my head. I may not survive the fall; speak — be thy plan what it may, I can hear patiently.”
“Then, Sir, when Prestwyche returns with the harpies of the law to search this mansion, it follows not they who seek must find. Our coming hither
hath taught us this.”
“Thou would’st have Ellice removed.”
“Removed!” repeated Scymel, his features at the same time contorting themselves into a smile, which was frightfully reflected from the countenance of the Moor. “Aye, Sir, removed.”
“But whither — whither — speak out?”
“Nay, Sir, I may but point out the path — to guess whither it conducts hath stranded the wits of many. But you are displeased at this suggestion.”
A sudden and angry flush did, indeed, for a moment, deepen the Knight’s cheek. But he repressed the rising wrath with more self-command than he was wont to exhibit. He turned to the speaker.
“No, Richard, it shall not be so. She hath, indeed, impeded the prosecution of my schemes, and put a gulf between me and that I aim at. But I have not yet lost all recollection that I am a man, —— I am not yet wholly devil. Stay — what noise was that?”
A faint and half suppressed scream interrupted him.
“I know not,” said Scymel; “it came from you passage.”
“Follow me then,” said Chiverton, drawing his sword, and he was rushing forward when his progress was stayed. It was Ellice, that springing into the vault, fell before him, and clung to her brother’s feet.
“Mercy — mercy, my brother,” she exclaimed, “do not — do not kill your Ellice.”
“Good heaven, what brought her here? Kill thee, my sister! I would myself die ere harm thee. Nay, nay, be comforted, fear nothing; no harm shall betide thee.”
“Oh, bless you — bless you — I know not — I thought I heard — but I am very — very foolish: — my head is—” She drew her hand over her forehead — looked up with a languid and vacant smile, and sank in utter exhaustion into the arms of her brother.
“Thou hast gone near to do that thyself which thou would’st counsel me,” said the Knight, in a low tone to Scymel, and with a look of bitter indignation.
“And is life, think you, Sir, such as she holds it, worth retaining?”
“Be silent, no more of that. Ellice — my sister, look up — fear not: what dreadest thou in my arms? I would to heaven she would recover. If harm happens her, look to it — for thyself.”
“Rather, Sir,” returned the physician, “look to the cause that brought her hither, and for which I surely am not accountable. How Prestwyche escaped, is no longer a mystery.”
“She would not — nay, she could not,” exclaimed the Knight, eagerly, as wishing to crush in its inception, some painful thought—” and yet, as thou say’st, what else should bring her here? — and by the mermaid, did I think she had set him free — it would go more to destroy me, than all thy sophistry ten times told.” He paused, and again renewed his endearments to Ellice.
“How passion fools him,” said the physician internally. But now, he was ready for mortal strife with me — for that I hinted aught affecting her; and now he is nigh as ready to sacrifice her; and for what? Because she has shewn favour to one with whom he has a quarrel, as if woman did not ever run counter to the wind of others wishes. And this is the nobility of a reasoning animal. Cut me an ash sapling, and I will carve me a man out of it, that shall be the same in summer, and in winter; and weigh him in the balance with one of these weathercocks, and I wit well, who shall kick the beam.”
His meditations were interrupted by Chiverton, who perceived signs of reviving consciousness in the form he supported.
“She revives — thank God — she revives!” he exclaimed, “how is it with thee, Ellice?”
She opened her eyes slowly — gazed vacantly around her. “Reginald, my Reginald.” The name she pronounced, operated as a spell upon her brother, and recalled in tenfold force the violence he had before suppressed. Ere she had uttered another word, he had dashed her to the ground — the act was scarce done, when he threw himself on his knees beside her, and essayed to lift her.
“No — no — touch me not,” she exclaimed, for the shock had fearfully shaken off the torpor, under which she had laboured; “touch me not; you are not my brother — you will murder me — help — God help me!” and dashing with frenzied haste through the door of the passage, she retraced, with all her speed, her steps towards the rock.
Her senses are gone!” exclaimed Chiverton, “and I wretch have,” — without completing his sentence, he speeded in pursuit of her.
In the heated, enfeebled state of her imagination, Ellice heard in the pursuing footsteps of her brother, and in his invocations to her to desist from her flight, only the fearful sounds of death: violently as she exerted herself to gain the extremity of the passage, her brother gained fast upon her, when the light from the opening burst at a short distance upon her sight. Yet the outstretched hand of Chiverton would, ere she had reached it, have arrested her flight, had he not at this moment stumbled on the broken and irregular path. He fell heavily, and was stunned; whilst Ellice having emerged from the cave, sprung wildly up the path which Prestwyche had previously ascended. At the very turn, of which she had warned him, the foot of the unfortunate girl slipped. His name was on her lips as she fell.
There was a deep sullen plunge.
The circling gyres, that dimpled the smooth surface of the river, as the waters closed, glittered with cold mockery in the moonbeams. They spread wider and wider, and wider: — at length the last vibration ceased, and the stream glided on smoothly as before.
“Who, what are ye?” exclaimed Chiverton, after a long interval, as the physician and Maltmood raised him from the ground; “where ant I — tell me, tell me? ah well, I know ye now, I have had a fearful dream. — Dream? ’tis surely no more — yet assure me — tell me ’twas but a dream, and no waking reality, that hath damned my senses in the thought that — By heavens! that scream I heard — it must be!” — He rushed with frantic violence to the entrance of the cave, and but for the joint strength of Scymel and the Moor, would have precipitated himself into the river.
“Unhand me!” he exclaimed—” Death, am I not free to come and to go when and whither I will, but ye must hold me like a child — ye would not stay her — Oh, Ellice, my sister — and thou, inhuman dog, must — but why blame another — let me look to my own burden; ’tis enough to sink me, and mine, and this rock, and these lands, to the deepest pit of hell — Kind, gentle girl — that didst love thy enemy, even when he tortured thy heart to the utmost — where shall I find other love like thine? He ceased, and remained lost in the deep and indistinct wilderness of scarcely conscious thought, that enwraps the mind after violent agitation.
Broken words escaped from his lips, but unaddressed to any one. His countenance was torn with rapidly succeeding muscular contortions — a cold clammy moisture sat on his brow, and his whole frame was convulsed with the throes of passion.
The physician, after a short lapse, essayed to work some change in him, “Not now — not now,” and in a lower tone he proceeded, “she loved me, and I have murdered her.”
The inward struggle could be sustained no longer. He became insensible in the arms of his attendants, and was in that state removed by them.
“I know not what to think of this,” said the physician inwardly— “to-morrow, he has told me, the wedding is to be; and as he now is, there seem little hopes of its accomplishment. I would myself it had been otherwise; I wished not it should thus terminate. But it was so fated. And she died by her own act — that I will represent to him, and it may be, I shall recall him to his self-command. If he were but firm — but the weakness of nature defeats the fairest plans.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE BRIDAL.
There’s death in his face already. —
WEBSTER.
THE morning was by no means answerable to the expectations, which the curious in the weather at Chiverton Hall had formed from the beauty of the preceding evening. The sun rose with a sickly glare, and seemed as if weary of his occupation. Dusky clouds chased each other indolently across the sky, gathering, mass over mass, till the whole wore one uniform dusky c
urtain. Then there was a low, moaning, disagreeable wind — in short it was one of those dark raw mornings, which no one loves, and which nervous people hold in utter abhorrence.
If the fair Isabel on her bridal morning rose later than her wont, she will doubtless find excuse — with lady readers at least. They will readily conceive, that the night had been one of little repose. At length, however, she sprung from her couch.
“What a slug-a-bed have I been!” said she—” Cicely, what’s o’clock?”
“After nine, madam.”
“A well — I shall have my father seeking me anon — Cicely, do thou assist me, and take heed, wench, that thou use all thy skill to-day.”
“Never trust me else, madam; all your bridal clothes are ready; beauties they are, I wot, fit for a prince’s bride.”
“Help me to don them then, or thou wilt praise them till I loathe them. But Cicely, tell me, didst thou hear aught last night?”
“Hear aught, madam! preserve us, what madam?”
“Nay, nay, thou need’st not turn so pale, and look as if thy two eyes had quarrelled with their dwelling places; I do think it was but fancy.”
“But what, madam, what was it?”
“Nothing — nothing — I dreamt I heard a scream, that was all — I slept indifferently, ’twas but a dream — yet it was a fearful cry. I would not have heard it waking for all the gay trappings thou hast laid out there.”
“But are you sure, madam, it was but a dream? It might be — they say—”
“Might be what? — what do they say? — who say? — thou art not wont to be so sparing of thy words.”
“They say, madam — that is the servants, that the vaults under the hall are—”
“Are what? — prythee, on with thy tale.”
“That something walks there.”
“Undoubtedly — rats, Cicely, in abundance — but what is the story, let us have the whole legend?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 14