by Walter Scott
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Who comes from the bridal chamber? It is Azrael, the angel of death.
Thalaba.
AFTER the dreadful scene that had taken place at the castle, Lucy wastransported to her own chamber, where she remained for some time in astate of absolute stupor. Yet afterwards, in the course of theensuing day, she seemed to have recovered, not merely her spiritsand resolution, but a sort of flighty levity, that was foreign to hercharacter and situation, and which was at times chequered by fits ofdeep silence and melancholy and of capricious pettishness. Lady Ashtonbecame much alarmed and consulted the family physicians. But as herpulse indicated no change, they could only say that the disease was onthe spirits, and recommended gentle exercise and amusement. Miss Ashtonnever alluded to what had passed in the state-room. It seemed doubtfuleven if she was conscious of it, for she was often observed to raiseher hands to her neck, as if in search of the ribbon that had been takenfrom it, and mutter, in surprise and discontent, when she could not findit, "It was the link that bound me to life."
Notwithstanding all these remarkable symptoms, Lady Ashton was toodeeply pledged to delay her daughter's marriage even in her presentstate of health. It cost her much trouble to keep up the fair side ofappearances towards Bucklaw. She was well aware, that if he once saw anyreluctance on her daughter's part, he would break off the treaty, to hergreat personal shame and dishonour. She therefore resolved that, if Lucycontinued passive, the marriage should take place upon the day that hadbeen previously fixed, trusting that a change of place, of situation,and of character would operate a more speedy and effectual cure uponthe unsettled spirits of her daughter than could be attained by the slowmeasures which the medical men recommended. Sir William Ashton's viewsof family aggrandisement, and his desire to strengthen himself againstthe measures of the Marquis of A----, readily induced him to acquiescein what he could not have perhaps resisted if willing to do so. As forthe young men, Bucklaw and Colonel Ashton, they protested that, afterwhat had happened, it would be most dishonourable to postpone fora single hour the time appointed for the marriage, as it would begenerally ascribed to their being intimidated by the intrusive visit andthreats of Ravenswood.
Bucklaw would indeed have been incapable of such precipitation, had hebeen aware of the state of Miss Ashton's health, or rather of her mind.But custom, upon these occasions, permitted only brief and sparingintercourse between the bridegroom and the betrothed; a circumstance sowell improved by Lady Ashton, that Bucklaw neither saw nor suspected thereal state of the health and feelings of his unhappy bride.
On the eve of the bridal day, Lucy appeared to have one of her fitsof levity, and surveyed with a degree of girlish interest the variouspreparations of dress, etc., etc., which the different members of thefamily had prepared for the occasion.
The morning dawned bright and cheerily. The bridal guests assembledin gallant troops from distant quarters. Not only the relations of SirWilliam Ashton, and the still more dignified connexions of his lady,together with the numerous kinsmen and allies of the bridegroom, werepresent upon this joyful ceremony, gallantly mounted, arrayed, andcaparisoned, but almost every Presbyterian family of distinction withinfifty miles made a point of attendance upon an occasion which wasconsidered as giving a sort of triumph over the Marquis of A----, in theperson of his kinsman. Splendid refreshments awaited the guests on theirarrival, and after these were finished, the cry was "To horse." Thebride was led forth betwixt her brother Henry and her mother. Hergaiety of the preceding day had given rise [place] to a deep shade ofmelancholy, which, however, did not misbecome an occasion so momentous.There was a light in her eyes and a colour in her cheek which had notbeen kindled for many a day, and which, joined to her great beauty, andthe splendour of her dress, occasioned her entrance to be greeted withan universal murmur of applause, in which even the ladies could notrefrain from joining. While the cavalcade were getting to horse, SirWilliam Ashton, a man of peace and of form, censured his son Henry forhaving begirt himself with a military sword of preposterous length,belonging to his brother, Colonel Ashton.
"If you must have a weapon," he said, "upon such a peaceful occasion,why did you not use the short poniard sent from Edinburgh on purpose?"
The boy vindicated himself by saying it was lost.
"You put it out of the way yourself, I suppose," said his father, "outof ambition to wear that preposterous thing, which might have served SirWilliam Wallace. But never mind, get to horse now, and take care of yoursister."
The boy did so, and was placed in the centre of the gallant train. Atthe time, he was too full of his own appearance, his sword, his lacedcloak, his feathered hat, and his managed horse, to pay much regard toanything else; but he afterwards remembered to the hour of his death,that when the hand of his sister, by which she supported herself onthe pillion behind him, touched his own, it felt as wet and cold assepulchral marble.
Glancing wide over hill and dale, the fair bridal procession at lastreached the parish church, which they nearly filled; for, besidesdomestics, above a hundred gentlemen and ladies were present upon theoccasion. The marriage ceremony was performed according to the ritesof the Presbyterian persuasion, to which Bucklaw of late had judged itproper to conform.
On the outside of the church, a liberal dole was distributed to the poorof the neighbouring parishes, under the direction of Johnie Mortheuch[Mortsheugh], who had lately been promoted from his desolate quartersat the Hermitage to fill the more eligible situation of sexton atthe parish church of Ravenswood. Dame Gourlay, with two of hercontemporaries, the same who assisted at Alice's late-wake, seated apartupon a flat monument, or "through-stane," sate enviously comparing theshares which had been allotted to them in dividing the dole.
"Johnie Mortheuch," said Annie Winnie, "might hae minded auld lang syne,and thought of his auld kimmers, for as braw as he is with his new blackcoat. I hae gotten but five herring instead o' sax, and this disna looklike a gude saxpennys, and I dare say this bit morsel o' beef is an uncelighter than ony that's been dealt round; and it's a bit o' the tenonyhough, mair by token that yours, Maggie, is out o' the back-sey."
"Mine, quo' she!" mumbled the paralytic hag--"mine is half banes,I trow. If grit folk gie poor bodies ony thing for coming to theirweddings and burials, it suld be something that wad do them gude, Ithink."
"Their gifts," said Ailsie Gourlay, "are dealt for nae love of us, norout of respect for whether we feed or starve. They wad gie us whinstanesfor loaves, if it would serve their ain vanity, and yet they expect usto be as gratefu', as they ca' it, as if they served us for true loveand liking."
"And that's truly said," answered her companion.
"But, Aislie Gourlay, ye're the auldest o' us three--did ye ever see amair grand bridal?"
"I winna say that I have," answered the hag; "but I think soon to see asbraw a burial."
"And that wad please me as weel," said Annie Winnie; "for there'sas large a dole, and folk are no obliged to girn and laugh, and makmurgeons, and wish joy to these hellicat quality, that lord it ower uslike brute beasts. I like to pack the dead-dole in my lap and rin owermy auld rhyme--
My loaf in my lap, my penny in my purse, Thou art ne'er the better, and I'm ne'er the worse."
"That's right, Annie," said the paralytic woman; "God send us a greenYule and a fat kirkyard!"
"But I wad like to ken, Luckie Gourlay, for ye're the auldest and wisestamang us, whilk o' these revellers' turn it will be to be streikitfirst?"
"D'ye see yon dandilly maiden," said Dame Gourlay, "a' glistenin' wi'gowd and jewels, that they are lifting up on the white horse behind thathare-brained callant in scarlet, wi' the lang sword at his side?"
"But that's the bride!" said her companion, her cold heart touched withsome sort of compassion--"that's the very bride hersell! Eh, whow! saeyoung, sae braw, and sae bonny--and is her time sae short?"
"I tell ye," said the sibyl, "her winding sheet is up as high as herthroat already, believe it
wha list. Her sand has but few grains to rinout; and nae wonder--they've been weel shaken. The leaves are witheringfast on the trees, but she'll never see the Martinmas wind gar themdance in swirls like the fairy rings." "Ye waited on her for aquarter," said the paralytic woman, "and got twa red pieces, or I am farbeguiled?"
"Ay, ay," answered Ailsie, with a bitter grin; "and Sir William Ashtonpromised me a bonny red gown to the boot o' that--a stake, and a chain,and a tar-barrel, lass! what think ye o' that for a propine?--for beingup early and doun late for fourscore nights and mair wi' his dwiningdaughter. But he may keep it for his ain leddy, cummers."
"I hae heard a sough," said Annie Winnie, "as if Leddy Ashton was naecanny body."
"D'ye see her yonder," said Dame Gourlay, "as she prances on her greygelding out at the kirkyard? There's mair o' utter deevilry in thatwoman, as brave and fair-fashioned as she rides yonder, than in a' theScotch withces that ever flew by moonlight ower North Berwick Law."
"What's that ye say about witches, ye damned hags?" said JohnieMortheuch [Mortsheugh]; "are ye casting yer cantrips in the verykirkyard, to mischieve the bride and bridegroom? Get awa' hame, for if Itak my souple t'ye, I'll gar ye find the road faster than ye wad like."
"Hegh, sirs!" answered Ailsie Gourlay; "how bra' are we wi' our newblack coat and our weel-pouthered head, as if we had never kenn'd hungernor thirst oursells! and we'll be screwing up our bit fiddle, doubtless,in the ha' the night, amang a' the other elbo'-jiggers for miles round.Let's see if the pins haud, Johnie--that's a', lad."
"I take ye a' to witness, gude people," said Morheuch, "that shethreatens me wi' mischief, and forespeaks me. If ony thing but gudehappens to me or my fiddle this night, I'll make it the blackest night'sjob she ever stirred in. I'll hae her before presbytery and synod: I'mhalf a minister mysell, now that I'm a bedral in an inhabited parish."
Although the mutual hatred betwixt these hags and the rest of mankindhad steeled their hearts against all impressions of festivity, this wasby no means the case with the multitude at large. The splendour of thebridal retinue, the gay dresses, the spirited horses, the blythesomeappearance of the handsome women and gallant gentlemen assembled uponthe occasion, had the usual effect upon the minds of the populace.The repeated shouts of "Ashton and Bucklaw for ever!" the discharge ofpistols, guns, and musketoons, to give what was called the bridal shot,evinced the interest the people took in the occasion of the cavalcade,as they accompanied it upon their return to the castle. If there washere and there an elder peasant or his wife who sneered at the pompof the upstart family, and remembered the days of the long-descendedRavenswoods, even they, attracted by the plentiful cheer which thecastle that day afforded to rich and poor, held their way thither,and acknowledged, notwithstanding their prejudices, the influence ofl'Amphitrion ou l'on dine.
Thus accompanied with the attendance both of rich and poor, Lucyreturned to her father's house. Bucklaw used his privilege of ridingnext to the bride, but, new to such a situation, rather endeavoured toattract attention by the display of his person and horsemanship, thanby any attempt to address her in private. They reached the castle insafety, amid a thousand joyous acclamations.
It is well known that the weddings of ancient days were celebratedwith a festive publicity rejected by the delicacy of modern times. Themarriage guests, on the present occasion, were regaled with a banquetof unbounded profusion, the relics of which, after the domestics hadfeasted in their turn, were distributed among the shouting crowd, withas many barrels of ale as made the hilarity without correspond to thatwithin the castle. The gentlemen, according to the fashion of the times,indulged, for the most part, in deep draughts of the richest wines,while the ladies, prepared for the ball which always closed a bridalentertainment, impatiently expected their arrival in the state gallery.At length the social party broke up at a late hour, and the gentlemencrowded into the saloon, where, enlivened by wine and the joyfuloccasion, they laid aside their swords and handed their impatientpartners to the floor. The music already rung from the gallery, alongthe fretted roof of the ancient state apartment. According to strictetiquette, the bride ought to have opened the ball; but Lady Ashton,making an apology on account of her daughter's health, offered her ownhand to Bucklaw as substitute for her daughter's. But as Lady Ashtonraised her head gracefully, expecting the strain at which she was tobegin the dance, she was so much struck by an unexpected alterationin the ornaments of the apartment that she was surprised into anexclamation, "Who has dared to change the pictures?"
All looked up, and those who knew the usual state of the apartmentobserved, with surprise, that the picture of Sir William Ashton's fatherwas removed from its place, and in its stead that of old Sir MaliseRavenswood seemed to frown wrath and vengeance upon the party assembledbelow. The exchange must have been made while the apartments were empty,but had not been observed until the torches and lights in the sconceswere kindled for the ball. The haughty and heated spirits of thegentlemen led them to demand an immediate inquiry into the cause of whatthey deemed an affront to their host and to themselves; but Lady Ashton,recovering herself, passed it over as the freak of a crazy wench who wasmaintained about the castle, and whose susceptible imagination had beenobserved to be much affected by the stories which Dame Gourlay delightedto tell concerning "the former family," so Lady Ashton named theRavenswoods. The obnoxious picture was immediately removed, and the ballwas opened by Lady Ashton, with a grace and dignity which supplied thecharms of youth, and almost verified the extravagant encomiums of theelder part of the company, who extolled her performance as far exceedingthe dancing of the rising generation.
When Lady Ashton sat down, she was not surprised to find that herdaughter had left the apartment, and she herself followed, eager toobviate any impression which might have been made upon her nerves by anincident so likely to affect them as the mysterious transposition of theportraits. Apparently she found her apprehensions groundless, for shereturned in about an hour, and whispered the bridegroom, who extricatedhimself from the dancers, and vanished from the apartment. Theinstruments now played their loudest strains; the dancers pursued theirexercise with all the enthusiasm inspired by youth, mirth, and highspirits, when a cry was heard so shrill and piercing as at once toarrest the dance and the music. All stood motionless; but when the yellwas again repeated, Colonel Ashton snatched a torch from the sconce,and demanding the key of the bridal-chamber from Henry, to whom, asbride's-man, it had been entrusted, rushed thither, followed by SirWilliam Ashton and Lady Ashton, and one or two others, near relationsof the family. The bridal guests waited their return in stupifiedamazement.
Arrived at the door of the apartment, Colonel Ashton knocked and called,but received no answer except stifled groans. He hesitated no longerto open the door of the apartment, in which he found opposition fromsomething which lay against it. When he had succeeded in opening it, thebody of the bridegroom was found lying on the threshold of the bridalchamber, and all around was flooded with blood. A cry of surprise andhorror was raised by all present; and the company, excited by thisnew alarm, began to rush tumultuously towards the sleeping apartment.Colonel Ashton, first whispering to his mother, "Search for her; shehas murdered him!" drew his sword, planted himself in the passage, anddeclared he would suffer no man to pass excepting the clergyman anda medical person present. By their assistance, Bucklaw, who stillbreathed, was raised from the ground, and transported to anotherapartment, where his friends, full of suspicion and murmuring, assembledround him to learn the opinion of the surgeon.
In the mean while, Lady Ashton, her husband, and their assistants invain sought Lucy in the bridal bed and in the chamber. There was noprivate passage from the room, and they began to think that she musthave thrown herself from the window, when one of the company, holdinghis torch lower than the rest, discovered something white in the cornerof the great old-fashioned chimney of the apartment. Here they foundthe unfortunate girl seated, or rather couched like a hare upon itsform--her head-gear dishevelled, her night-clothes t
orn and dabbled withblood, her eyes glazed, and her features convulsed into a wild paroxysmof insanity. When she saw herself discovered, she gibbered, made mouths,and pointed at them with her bloody fingers, with the frantic gesturesof an exulting demoniac.
Female assistance was now hastily summoned; the unhappy bride wasoverpowered, not without the use of some force. As they carried her overthe threshold, she looked down, and uttered the only articulate wordsthat she had yet spoken, saying, with a sort of grinning exultation,"So, you have ta'en up your bonny bridegroom?" She was, by theshuddering assistants, conveyed to another and more retired apartment,where she was secured as her situation required, and closely watched.The unutterable agony of the parents, the horror and confusion of allwho were in the castle, the fury of contending passions between thefriends of the different parties--passions augmented by previousintemperance--surpass description.
The surgeon was the first who obtained something like a patient hearing;he pronounced that the wound of Bucklaw, though severe and dangerous,was by no means fatal, but might readily be rendered so by disturbanceand hasty removal. This silenced the numerous party of Bucklaw'sfriends, who had previously insisted that he should, at all rates, betransported from the castle to the nearest of their houses. They stilldemanded, however, that, in consideration of what had happened, four oftheir number should remain to watch over the sick-bed of their friend,and that a suitable number of their domestics, well armed, should alsoremain in the castle. This condition being acceded to on the part ofColonel Ashton and his father, the rest of the bridegroom's friends leftthe castle, notwithstanding the hour and the darkness of the night. Thecares of the medical man were next employed in behalf of Miss Ashton,whom he pronounced to be in a very dangerous state. Farther medicalassistance was immediately summoned. All night she remained delirious.On the morning, she fell into a state of absolute insensibility. Thenext evening, the physicians said, would be the crisis of her malady. Itproved so; for although she awoke from her trance with some appearanceof calmness, and suffered her night-clothes to be changed, or put inorder, yet so soon as she put her hand to her neck, as if to search forthe for the fatal flue ribbon, a tide of recollections seemed to rushupon her, which her mind and body were alike incapable of bearing.Convulsion followed convulsion, till they closed in death, without herbeing able to utter a word explanatory of the fatal scene.
The provincial judge of the district arrived the day after the younglady had expired, and executed, though with all possible delicacy tothe afflicted family, the painful duty of inquiring into this fataltransaction. But there occurred nothing to explain the generalhypothesis that the bride, in a sudden fit of insanity, had stabbed thebridegroom at the threshold of the apartment. The fatal weapon was foundin the chamber smeared with blood. It was the same poniard which Henryshould have worn on the wedding-day, and the unhappy sister had probablycontrived to secrete on the preceding evening, when it had been shown toher among other articles of preparation for the wedding.
The friends of Bucklaw expected that on his recovery he would throwsome light upon this dark story, and eagerly pressed him with inquiries,which for some time he evaded under pretext of weakness. When, however,he had been transported to his own house, and was considered in a stateof convalescence, he assembled those persons, both male and female, whohad considered themselves as entitled to press him on this subject, andreturned them thanks for the interest they had exhibited in his behalf,and their offers of adherence and support. "I wish you all," he said,"my friends, to understand, however, that I have neither story to tellnor injuries to avenge. If a lady shall question me henceforward uponthe incident of that unhappy night, I shall remain silent, and in futureconsider her as one who has shown herself desirous to break of herfriendship with me; in a word, I will never speak to her again. But if agentleman shall ask me the same question, I shall regard the incivilityas equivalent to an invitation to meet him in the Duke's Walk, and Iexpect that he will rule himself accordingly."
A declaration so decisive admitted no commentary; and it was soon afterseen that Bucklaw had arisen from the bed of sickness a sadder and awiser man than he had hitherto shown himself. He dismissed Craigengeltfrom his society, but not without such a provision as, if well employed,might secure him against indigence and against temptation. Bucklawafterwards went abroad, and never returned to Scotland; nor was he knownever to hint at the circumstances attending his fatal marriage. By manyreaders this may be deemed overstrained, romantic, and composed bythe wild imagination of an author desirous of gratifying the popularappetite for the horrible; but those who are read in the private familyhistory of Scotland during the period in which the scene is laid, willreadily discover, through the disguise of borrowed names and addedincidents, the leading particulars of AN OWER TRUE TALE.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Whose mind's so marbled, and his heart so hard, That would not, when this huge mishap was heard, To th' utmost note of sorrow set their song, To see a gallant, with so great a grace, So suddenly unthought on, so o'erthrown, And so to perish, in so poor a place, By too rash riding in a ground unknown!
POEM, IN NISBET'S Heraldry, vol. ii.
WE have anticipated the course of time to mention Bucklaw's recovery andfate, that we might not interrupt the detail of events which succeededthe funeral of the unfortunate Lucy Ashton. This melancholy ceremony wasperformed in the misty dawn of an autumnal morning, with such moderateattendance and ceremony as could not possibly be dispensed with. A veryfew of the nearest relations attended her body to the same churchyard towhich she had so lately been led as a bride, with as little free will,perhaps, as could be now testified by her lifeless and passive remains.An aisle adjacent to the church had been fitted up by Sir William Ashtonas a family cemetery; and here, in a coffin bearing neither name nordate, were consigned to dust the remains of what was once lovely,beautiful, and innocent, though exasperated to frenzy by a long tract ofunremitting persecution.
While the mourners were busy in the vault, the three village hags, who,notwithstanding the unwonted earliness of the hour, had snuffed thecarrion like vultures, were seated on the "through-stane," and engagedin their wonted unhallowed conference.
"Did not I say," said Dame Gourlay, "that the braw bridal would befollowed by as braw a funeral?"
"I think," answered Dame Winnie, "there's little bravery at it: neithermeat nor drink, and just a wheen silver tippences to the poor folk; itwas little worth while to come sae far a road for sae sma' profit, andus sae frail."
"Out, wretch!" replied Dame Gourlay, "can a' the dainties they could gieus be half sae sweet as this hour's vengeance? There they are thatwere capering on their prancing nags four days since, and they are nowganging as dreigh and sober as oursells the day. They were a' glisteningwi' gowd and silver; they're now as black as the crook. And Miss LucyAshton, that grudged when an honest woman came near her--a taid may siton her coffin that day, and she can never scunner when he croaks. AndLady Ashton has hell-fire burning in her breast by this time; and SirWilliam, wi' his gibbets, and his faggots, and his chains, how likes hethe witcheries of his ain dwelling-house?"
"And is it true, then," mumbled the paralytic wretch, "that the bridewas trailed out of her bed and up the chimly by evil spirits, and thatthe bridegroom's face was wrung round ahint him?"
"Ye needna care wha did it, or how it was done," said Aislie Gourlay;"but I'll uphaud it for nae stickit job, and that the lairds and leddiesken weel this day."
"And was it true," said Annie Winnie, "sin ye ken sae muckle about it,that the picture of auld Sir Malise Ravenswood came down on the ha'floor, and led out the brawl before them a'?"
"Na," said Ailsie; "but into the ha' came the picture--and I ken weelhow it came there--to gie them a warning that pride wad get a fa'. Butthere's as queer a ploy, cummers, as ony o' thae, that's gaun on evennow in the burial vault yonder: ye saw twall mourners, wi' crape andcloak, gang down the steps pair and pair!"
"What should ail u
s to see them?" said the one old woman.
"I counted them," said the other, with the eagerness of a person towhom the spectacle had afforded too much interest to be viewed withindifference.
"But ye did not see," said Ailsie, exulting in her superior observation,"that there's a thirteenth amang them that they ken naething about; and,if auld freits say true, there's ane o' that company that'll no be langfor this warld. But come awa' cummers; if we bide here, I'se warrant weget the wyte o' whatever ill comes of it, and that gude will come of itnane o' them need ever think to see."
And thus, croaking like the ravens when they anticipate pestilence, theill-boding sibyls withdrew from the churchyard.
In fact, the mourners, when the service of interment was ended,discovered that there was among them one more than the invited number,and the remark was communicated in whispers to each other. The suspicionfell upon a figure which, muffled in the same deep mourning with theothers, was reclined, almost in a state of insensibility, against one ofthe pillars of the sepulchral vault. The relatives of the Ashton familywere expressing in whispers their surprise and displeasure at theintrusion, when they were interrupted by Colonel Ashton, who, in hisfather's absence, acted as principal mourner. "I know," he said in awhisper, "who this person is, he has, or shall soon have, as deep causeof mourning as ourselves; leave me to deal with him, and do not disturbthe ceremony by unnecessary exposure." So saying, he separated himselffrom the group of his relations, and taking the unknown mourner by thecloak, he said to him, in a tone of suppressed emotion, "Follow me."
The stranger, as if starting from a trance at the sound of his voice,mechanically obeyed, and they ascended the broken ruinous stair whichled from the sepulchre into the churchyard. The other mourners followed,but remained grouped together at the door of the vault, watching withanxiety the motions of Colonel Ashton and the stranger, who now appearedto be in close conference beneath the shade of a yew-tree, in the mostremote part of the burial-ground.
To this sequestered spot Colonel Ashton had guided the stranger, andthen turning round, addressed him in a stern and composed tone.--"Icannot doubt that I speak to the Master of Ravenswood?" No answer wasreturned. "I cannot doubt," resumed the Colonel, trembling with risingpassion, "that I speak to the murderer of my sister!"
"You have named me but too truly," said Ravenswood, in a hollow andtremulous voice.
"If you repent what you have done," said the Colonel, "may yourpenitence avail you before God; with me it shall serve you nothing.Here," he said, giving a paper, "is the measure of my sword, and amemorandum of the time and place of meeting. Sunrise to-morrow morning,on the links to the east of Wolf's Hope."
The Master of Ravenswood held the paper in his hand, and seemedirresolute. At length he spoke--"Do not," he said, "urge to fartherdesperation a wretch who is already desperate. Enjoy your life while youcan, and let me seek my death from another."
"That you never, never shall!" said Douglas Ashton. "You shall die by myhand, or you shall complete the ruin of my family by taking my life. Ifyou refuse my open challenge, there is no advantage I will not take ofyou, no indignity with which I will not load you, until the very name ofRavenswood shall be the sign of everything that is dishonourable, as itis already of all that is villainous."
"That it shall never be," said Ravenswood, fiercely; "if I am the lastwho must bear it, I owe it to those who once owned it that the nameshall be extinguished without infamy. I accept your challenge, time, andplace of meeting. We meet, I presume, alone?"
"Alone we meet," said Colonel Ashton, "and alone will the survivor of usreturn from that place of rendezvous."
"Then God have mercy on the soul of him who falls!" said Ravenswood.
"So be it!" said Colonel Ashton "so far can my charity reach even forthe man I hate most deadly, and with the deepest reason. Now, break off,for we shall be interrupted. The links by the sea-shore to the east ofWolf's Hope; the hour, sunrise; our swords our only weapons."
"Enough," said the Master, "I will not fail you."
They separated; Colonel Ashton joining the rest of the mourners, and theMaster of Ravenswood taking his horse, which was tied to a tree behindthe church. Colonel Ashton returned to the castle with the funeralguests, but found a pretext for detaching himself from them in theevening, when, changing his dress to a riding-habit, he rode to Wolf'sHope, that night, and took up his abode in the little inn, in order thathe might be ready for his rendezvous in the morning.
It is not known how the Master of Ravenswood disposed of the rest ofthat unhappy day. Late at night, however, he arrived at Wolf's Crag, andaroused his old domestic, Caleb Balderstone, who had ceased to expecthis return. Confused and flying rumours of the late tragical death ofMiss Ashton, and of its mysterious cause, had already reached the oldman, who was filled with the utmost anxiety, on account of the probableeffect these events might produce upon the mind of his master.
The conduct of Ravenswood did not alleviate his apprehensions. To thebutler's trembling entreaties that he would take some refreshment, he atfirst returned no answer, and then suddenly and fiercely demanding wine,he drank, contrary to his habits, a very large draught. Seeing that hismaster would eat nothing, the old man affectionately entreated thathe would permit him to light him to his chamber. It was not until therequest was three or four times repeated that Ravenswood made a mutesign of compliance. But when Balderstone conducted him to an apartmentwhich had been comfortably fitted up, and which, since his return, hehad usually occupied, Ravenswood stopped short on the threshold.
"Not here," said he, sternly; "show me the room in which my father died;the room in which SHE slept the night the were at the castle."
"Who, sir?" said Caleb, too terrified to preserve his presence of mind.
"SHE, Lucy Ashton! Would you kill me, old man, by forcing me to repeather name?"
Caleb would have said something of the disrepair of the chamber, but wassilenced by the irritable impatience which was expressed in his master'scountenance; he lighted the way trembling and in silence, placed thelamp on the table of the deserted room, and was about to attempt somearrangement of the bed, when his master bid him begone in a tone thatadmitted of no delay. The old man retired, not to rest, but to prayer;and from time to time crept to the door of the apartment, in order tofind out whether Ravenswood had gone to repose. His measured heavy stepupon the floor was only interrupted by deep groans; and the repeatedstamps of the heel of his heavy boot intimated too clearly that thewretched inmate was abandoning himself at such moments to paroxysms ofuncontrolled agony. The old man thought that the morning, for which helonged, would never have dawned; but time, whose course rolls on withequal current, however it may seem more rapid or more slow to mortalapprehension, brought the dawn at last, and spread a ruddy light on thebroad verge of the glistening ocean. It was early in November, and theweather was serene for the season of the year. But an easterly wind hadprevailed during the night, and the advancing tide rolled nearer thanusual to the foot of the crags on which the castle was founded.
With the first peep of light, Caleb Balderstone again resorted to thedoor of Ravenswood's sleeping apartment, through a chink of which heobserved him engaged in measuring the length of two or three swordswhich lay in a closet adjoining to the apartment. He muttered tohimself, as he selected one of these weapons: "It is shorter: let himhave this advantage, as he has every other."
Caleb Balderstone knew too well, from what he witnessed, upon whatenterprise his master was bound, and how vain all interference on hispart must necessarily prove. He had but time to retreat from thedoor, so nearly was he surprised by his master suddenly coming out anddescending to the stables. The faithful domestic followed; and from thedishevelled appearance of his master's dress, and his ghastly looks, wasconfirmed in his conjecture that he had passed the night without sleepor repose. He found him busily engaged in saddling his horse, a servicefrom which Caleb, though with faltering voice and trembling hands,offered to relieve him. Ravenswood rejected his as
sistance by a mutesign, and having led the animal into the court, was just about to mounthim, when the old domestic's fear giving way to the strong attachmentwhich was the principal passion of his mind, he flung himself suddenlyat Ravenswood's feet, and clasped his knees, while he exclaimed: "Oh,sir! oh, master! kill me if you will, but do not go out on this dreadfulerrand! Oh! my dear master, wait but this day; the Marquis of A----comes to-morrow, and a' will be remedied."
"You have no longer a master, Caleb," said Ravenswood, endeavouring toextricate himself; "why, old man, would you cling to a falling tower?"
"But I HAVE a master," cried Caleb, still holding him fast, "while theheir of Ravenswood breathes. I am but a servant; but I was born yourfather's--your grandfather's servant. I was born for the family--I havelived for them--I would die for them! Stay but at home, and all will bewell!"
"Well, fool! well!" said Ravenswood. "Vain old man, nothing hereafter inlife will be well with me, and happiest is the hour that shall soonestclose it!"
So saying, he extricated himself from the old man's hold, threw himselfon his horse, and rode out the gate; but instantly turning back, hethrew towards Caleb, who hastened to meet him, a heavy purse of gold.
"Caleb!" he said, with a ghastly smile, "I make you my executor"; andagain turning his bridle, he resumed his course down the hill.
The gold fell unheeded on the pavement, for the old man ran to observethe course which was taken by his master, who turned to the left down asmall and broken path, which gained the sea-shore through a cleft in therock, and led to a sort of cove where, in former times, the boats ofthe castle were wont to be moored. Observing him take this course, Calebhastened to the eastern battlement, which commanded the prospect of thewhole sands, very near as far as the village of Wolf's Hope. He couldeasily see his master riding in that direction, as fast as the horsecould carry him. The prophecy at once rushed on Balderstone's mind, thatthe Lord of Ravenswood should perish on the Kelpie's flow, whichlay half-way betwixt the Tower and the links, or sand knolls, to thenorthward of Wolf's Hope. He saw him according reach the fatal spot; buthe never saw him pass further.
Colonel Ashton, frantic for revenge, was already in the field, pacingthe turf with eagerness, and looking with impatience towards the Towerfor the arrival of his antagonist. The sun had now risen, and showed itsbroad disk above the eastern sea, so that he could easily discern thehorseman who rode towards him with speed which argued impatience equalto his own. At once the figure became invisible, as if it had meltedinto the air. He rubbed his eyes, as if he had witnessed an apparition,and then hastened to the spot, near which he was met by Balderstone,who came from the opposite direction. No trace whatever of horse or ridercould be discerned; it only appeared that the late winds and high tideshad greatly extended the usual bounds of the quicksand, and thatthe unfortunate horseman, as appeared from the hoof-tracks, in hisprecipitate haste, had not attended to keep on the firm sands on thefoot of the rock, but had taken the shortest and most dangerous course.One only vestige of his fate appeared. A large sable feather had beendetached from his hat, and the rippling waves of the rising tide waftedit to Caleb's feet. The old man took it up, dried it, and placed it inhis bosom.
The inhabitants of Wolf's Hope were now alarmed, and crowded to theplace, some on shore, and some in boats, but their search availednothing. The tenacious depths of the quicksand, as is usual in suchcases, retained its prey.
Our tale draws to a conclusion. The Marquis of A----, alarmed at thefrightful reports that were current, and anxious for his kinsman'ssafety, arrived on the subsequent day to mourn his loss; and, afterrenewing in vain a search for the body, returned, to forget what hadhappened amid the bustle of politics and state affairs.
Not so Caleb Balderstone. If wordly profit could have consoled the oldman, his age was better provided for than his earlier years had everbeen; but life had lost to him its salt and its savour. His whole courseof ideas, his feelings, whether of pride or of apprehension, of pleasureor of pain, had all arisen from its close connexion with the familywhich was now extinguished. He held up his head no longer, forsook allhis usual haunts and occupations, and seemed only to find pleasure inmoping about those apartments in the old castle which the Master ofRavenswood had last inhabited. He ate without refreshment, and slumberedwithout repose; and, with a fidelity sometimes displayed by the caninerace, but seldom by human beings, he pined and died within a year afterthe catastrophe which we have narrated.
The family of Ashton did not long survive that of Ravenswood. SirWilliam Ashton outlived his eldest son, the Colonel, who was slain in aduel in Flanders; and Henry, by whom he was succeeded, died unmarried.Lady Ashton lived to the verge of extreme old age, the only survivorof the group of unhappy persons whose misfortunes were owing to herimplacability. That she might internally feel compunction, and reconcileherself with Heaven, whom she had offended, we will not, and we darenot, deny; but to those around her she did not evince the slightestsymptom either of repentance or remorse. In all external appearance shebore the same bold, haughty, unbending character which she had displayedbefore these unhappy events. A splendid marble monument records hername, titles, and virtues, while her victims remain undistinguished bytomb or epitath.
