by Walter Scott
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WANDERER.
'Tis a naughty night to swim in.
_King Lear._
There was a wild uncertainty about Mowbray's ideas, after he startedfrom a feverish sleep on the morning succeeding this memorableinterview, that his sister, whom he really loved as much as he wascapable of loving any thing, had dishonoured him and her name; and thehorrid recollection of their last interview was the first idea which hiswaking imagination was thrilled with. Then came Touchwood's tale ofexculpation--and he persuaded himself, or strove to do so, that Claramust have understood the charge he had brought against her as referringto her attachment to Tyrrel, and its fatal consequences. Again, still hedoubted how that could be--still feared that there must be more behindthan her reluctance to confess the fraud which had been practised on herby Bulmer; and then, again, he strengthened himself in the first andmore pleasing opinion, by recollecting that, averse as she was toespouse the person he proposed to her, it must have appeared to her thecompletion of ruin, if he, Mowbray, should obtain knowledge of theclandestine marriage.
"Yes--O yes," he said to himself, "she would think that this story wouldrender me more eager in the rascal's interest, as the best way ofhushing up such a discreditable affair--faith, and she would have judgedright too; for, had he actually been Lord Etherington, I do not see whatelse she could have done. But, not being Lord Etherington, and ananointed scoundrel into the bargain, I will content myself withcudgelling him to death so soon as I can get out of the guardianship ofthis old, meddling, obstinate, self-willed, busybody.--Then, what is tobe done for Clara?--This mock marriage was a mere bubble, and bothparties must draw stakes. She likes this grave Don, who proves to be thestick of the right tree, after all--so do not I, though there besomething lordlike about him. I was sure a strolling painter could nothave carried it off so. She may marry him, I suppose, if the law is notagainst it--then she has the earldom, and the Oaklands, and Nettlewood,all at once.--Gad, we should come in winners, after all--and, I daresay, this old boy Touchwood is as rich as a Jew--worth a hundredthousand at least--He is too peremptory to be cut up for sixpence undera hundred thousand.--And he talks of putting me to rights--I must notwince--must stand still to be curried a little--Only, I wish the law maypermit Clara's being married to this other earl.--A woman cannot marrytwo brothers, that is certain:--but then, if she is not married to theone of them in good and lawful form, there can be no bar to her marryingthe other, I should think--I hope the lawyers will talk no nonsenseabout it--I hope Clara will have no foolish scruples.--But, by my word,the first thing I have to hope is, that the thing is true, for it comesthrough but a suspicious channel. I'll away to Clara instantly--get thetruth out of her--and consider what is to be done."
Thus partly thought and partly spoke the young Laird of St. Ronan's,hastily dressing himself, in order to enquire into the strange chaos ofevents which perplexed his imagination.
When he came down to the parlour where they had supped last night, andwhere breakfast was prepared this morning, he sent for a girl who actedas his sister's immediate attendant, and asked, "if Miss Mowbray was yetstirring?"
The girl answered, "she had not rung her bell."
"It is past her usual hour," said Mowbray, "but she was disturbed lastnight. Go, Martha, tell her to get up instantly--say I have excellentgood news for her--or, if her head aches, I will come and tell them toher before she rises--go like lightning."
Martha went, and returned in a minute or two. "I cannot make my mistresshear, sir, knock as loud as I will. I wish," she added, with that loveof evil presage which is common in the lower ranks, "that Miss Clara maybe well, for I never knew her sleep so sound."
Mowbray jumped from the chair into which he had thrown himself, ranthrough the gallery, and knocked smartly at his sister's door; there wasno answer. "Clara, dear Clara!--Answer me but one word--say but you arewell. I frightened you last night--I had been drinking wine--I wasviolent--forgive me!--Come, do not be sulky--speak but a singleword--say but you are well."
He made the pauses longer betwixt every branch of his address, knockedsharper and louder, listened more anxiously for an answer; at length heattempted to open the door, but found it locked, or otherwise secured."Does Miss Mowbray always lock her door?" he asked the girl.
"Never knew her to do it before, sir; she leaves it open that I may callher, and open the window-shutters."
She had too good reason for precaution last night, thought her brother,and then remembered having heard her bar the door.
"Come, Clara," he continued, greatly agitated, "do not be silly; if youwill not open the door, I must force it, that's all; for how can I tellbut that you are sick, and unable to answer?--if you are only sullen,say so.--She returns no answer," he said, turning to the domestic, whowas now joined by Touchwood.
Mowbray's anxiety was so great, that it prevented his taking any noticeof his guest, and he proceeded to say, without regarding his presence,"What is to be done?--she may be sick--she may be asleep--she may haveswooned; if I force the door, it may terrify her to death in the presentweak state of her nerves.--Clara, dear Clara! do but speak a singleword, and you shall remain in your own room as long as you please."
There was no answer. Miss Mowbray's maid, hitherto too much flutteredand alarmed to have much presence of mind, now recollected a back-stairwhich communicated with her mistress's room from the garden, andsuggested she might have gone out that way.
"Gone out," said Mowbray, in great anxiety, and looking at the heavyfog, or rather small rain, which blotted the November morning,--"Goneout, and in weather like this!--But we may get into her room from theback-stair."
So saying, and leaving his guest to follow or remain as he thoughtproper, he flew rather than walked to the garden, and found the privatedoor which led into it, from the bottom of the back-stair abovementioned, was wide open. Full of vague, but fearful apprehensions, herushed up to the door of his sister's apartment, which opened from herdressing-room to the landing-place of the stair; it was ajar, and thatwhich communicated betwixt the bedroom and dressing-room was half open."Clara, Clara!" exclaimed Mowbray, invoking her name rather in an agonyof apprehension, than as any longer hoping for a reply. And hisapprehension was but too prophetic.
Miss Mowbray was not in that apartment; and, from the order in which itwas found, it was plain she had neither undressed on the precedingnight, nor occupied the bed. Mowbray struck his forehead in an agony ofremorse and fear. "I have terrified her to death," he said; "she hasfled into the woods, and perished there!"
Under the influence of this apprehension, Mowbray, after another hastyglance around the apartment, as if to assure himself that Clara was notthere, rushed again into the dressing-room, almost overturning thetraveller, who, in civility, had not ventured to enter the innerapartment. "You are as mad as a _Hamako_,"[II-11] said the traveller; "letus consult together, and I am sure I can contrive"----
"Oh, d--n your contrivance!" said Mowbray, forgetting all proposedrespect in his natural impatience, aggravated by his alarm; "if you hadbehaved straight-forward, and like a man of common sense, this would nothave happened!"
"God forgive you, young man, if your reflections are unjust," said thetraveller, quitting the hold he had laid upon Mowbray's coat; "and Godforgive me too, if I have done wrong while endeavouring to do for thebest!--But may not Miss Mowbray have gone down to the Well? I will ordermy horses, and set off instantly."
"Do, do," said Mowbray, recklessly; "I thank you, I thank you;" andhastily traversing the garden, as if desirous to get rid at once of hisvisitor and his own thoughts, he took the shortest road to a littlepostern-gate, which led into the extensive copsewood, through some partof which Clara had caused a walk to be cut to a little summer-housebuilt of rough shingles, covered with creeping shrubs.
As Mowbray hastened through the garden, he met the old man by whom itwas kept, a native of the south country, and an old dependent on thefamily. "Have you seen my sister?" said Mowbray,
hurrying his words oneach other with the eagerness of terror.
"What's your wull, St. Ronan's?" answered the old man, at once dull ofhearing, and slow of apprehension.
"Have you seen Miss Clara?" shouted Mowbray, and muttered an oath or twoat the gardener's stupidity.
"In troth have I," replied the gardener, deliberately; "what suld ailme to see Miss Clara, St. Ronan's?"
"When, and where?" eagerly demanded the querist.
"Ou, just yestreen, after tey-time--afore ye cam hame yoursell gallopingsae fast," said old Joseph.
"I am as stupid as he, to put off my time in speaking to such an oldcabbage-stock!" said Mowbray, and hastened on to the postern-gatealready mentioned, leading from the garden into what was usually calledMiss Clara's walk. Two or three domestics, whispering to each other, andwith countenances that showed grief, fear, and suspicion, followed theirmaster, desirous to be employed, yet afraid to force their services onthe fiery young man.
At the little postern he found some trace of her he sought. The pass-keyof Clara was left in the lock. It was then plain that she must havepassed that way; but at what hour, or for what purpose, Mowbray darednot conjecture. The path, after running a quarter of a mile or morethrough an open grove of oaks and sycamores, attained the verge of thelarge brook, and became there steep and rocky, difficult to the infirm,and alarming to the nervous; often approaching the brink of aprecipitous ledge of rock, which in this place overhung the stream, insome places brawling and foaming in hasty current, and in others seemingto slumber in deep and circular eddies. The temptations which thisdangerous scene must have offered an excited and desperate spirit, cameon Mowbray like the blight of the Simoom, and he stood a moment togather breath and overcome these horrible anticipations, ere he was ableto proceed. His attendants felt the same apprehension. "Puir thing--puirthing!--O, God send she may not have been left to hersell!--God send shemay have been upholden!" were whispered by Patrick to the maidens, andby them to each other.
At this moment the old gardener was heard behind them, shouting,"Master--St. Ronan's--Master--I have fund--I have fund"----
"Have you found my sister?" exclaimed the brother, with breathlessanxiety.
The old man did not answer till he came up, and then, with his usualslowness of delivery, he replied to his master's repeated enquiries,"Na, I haena fund Miss Clara, but I hae fund something ye wad be wae tolose--your braw hunting-knife."
He put the implement into the hand of its owner, who, recollecting thecircumstances under which he had flung it from him last night, and thenow too probable consequences of that interview, bestowed on it a deepimprecation, and again hurled it from him into the brook. The domesticslooked at each other, and recollecting each at the same time that theknife was a favourite tool of their master, who was rather curious insuch articles, had little doubt that his mind was affected, in atemporary way at least, by his anxiety on his sister's account. He sawtheir confused and inquisitive looks, and assuming as much composure andpresence of mind as he could command, directed Martha, and her femalecompanions, to return and search the walks on the other side ofShaws-Castle; and, finally, ordered Patrick back to ring the bell,"which," he said, assuming a confidence that he was far fromentertaining, "might call Miss Mowbray home from some of her longwalks." He farther desired his groom and horses might meet him at theClattering Brig, so called from a noisy cascade which was formed by thebrook, above which was stretched a small foot-bridge of planks. Havingthus shaken off his attendants, he proceeded himself, with all the speedhe was capable of exerting, to follow out the path in which he was atpresent engaged, which, being a favourite walk with his sister, shemight perhaps have adopted from mere habit, when in a state of mind,which, he had too much reason to fear, must have put choice out of thequestion.
He soon reached the summer-house, which was merely a seat coveredoverhead and on the sides, open in front, and neatly paved with pebbles.This little bower was perched, like a hawk's nest, almost upon the edgeof a projecting crag, the highest point of the line of rock which wehave noticed; and had been selected by poor Clara, on account of theprospect which it commanded down the valley. One of her gloves lay onthe small rustic table in the summer-house. Mowbray caught it eagerlyup. It was drenched with wet--the preceding day had been dry; so that,had she forgot it there in the morning, or in the course of the day, itcould not have been in that state. She had certainly been there duringthe night, when it rained heavily.
Mowbray, thus assured that Clara had been in this place, while herpassions and fears were so much afloat as they must have been at herflight from her father's house, cast a hurried and terrified glance fromthe brow of the precipice into the deep stream that eddied below. Itseemed to him that, in the sullen roar of the water, he heard the lastgroans of his sister--the foam-flakes caught his eye, as if they were apart of her garments. But a closer examination showed that there was noappearance of such a catastrophe. Descending the path on the other sideof the bower, he observed a foot-print in a place where the clay wasmoist and tenacious, which, from the small size, and the shape of theshoe, it appeared to him must be a trace of her whom he sought. Hehurried forward, therefore, with as much speed, as yet permitted him tolook out keenly for similar impressions, of which it seemed to him heremarked several, although less perfect than the former, being muchobliterated by the quantity of rain that had since fallen,--acircumstance seeming to prove that several hours had elapsed since theperson had passed.
At length, through the various turnings and windings of a long andromantic path, Mowbray found himself, without having received anysatisfactory intelligence, by the side of the brook, called St. Ronan'sBurn, at the place where it was crossed by foot-passengers, by theClattering Brig, and by horsemen through a ford a little lower. At thispoint the fugitive might have either continued her wanderings throughher paternal woods, by a path which, after winding about a mile,returned to Shaws-Castle, or she might have crossed the bridge, andentered a broken horse-way, common to the public, leading to the Aultounof St. Ronan's.
Mowbray, after a moment's consideration, concluded that the last was hermost probable option.--He mounted his horse, which the groom had broughtdown according to order, and commanding the man to return by thefootpath, which he himself could not examine, he proceeded to ridetowards the ford. The brook was swollen during the night, and the groomcould not forbear intimating to his master, that there was considerabledanger in attempting to cross it. But Mowbray's mind and feelings weretoo high-strung to permit him to listen to cautious counsel. He spurredthe snorting and reluctant horse into the torrent, though the water,rising high on the upper side, broke both over the pommel and the croupeof his saddle. It was by exertion of great strength and sagacity, thatthe good horse kept the ford-way. Had the stream forced him down amongthe rocks, which lie below the crossing-place, the consequences musthave been fatal. Mowbray, however, reached the opposite side in safety,to the joy and admiration of the servant, who stood staring at himduring the adventure. He then rode hastily towards the Aultoun,determined, if he could not hear tidings of his sister in that village,that he would spread the alarm, and institute a general search afterher, since her elopement from Shaws-Castle could, in that case, nolonger be concealed. We must leave him, however, in his present state ofuncertainty, in order to acquaint our readers with the reality of thoseevils, which his foreboding mind and disturbed conscience could onlyanticipate.
FOOTNOTE:
[II-11] A fool is so termed in Turkey.
