The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Well, man, be quiet,” he at last said, “why, I did but jest, and it were prudent in thee, to reserve thy rage for the terror or amusement of some one, who is less familiar with thy engaging moods, than I, — to me they have lost their novelty, and I need not tell thee, that bugbears are somewhat indifferent to me. But what thinkest thou of the day’s work? — a subject thou seest is provided whereon to experiment thy curious skill in the art in which thou delightest. Prestwyche is a morsel of thy liking; brave, noble, and handsome, are qualities which will insure him thy best aid in making a speedy transit from this turbulent world.”

  At this address, the features of Mahmood, subsiding from their stormy expression of rage, into a smile, in which a malicious anticipation was blended with an unearthly rejoicing, raised as before his dagger from his sheath, and after once letting it drop, again elevated it, holding it, as if waiting for a signal of repetition. The physician understood him.

  “Why, thou insatiate dog of Mahound,” said he, “cannot one victim suffice thee, for this turn, but, ere he is secured, thou pantest for another? Did I not laugh to scorn, the fables that priestly cunning and womanish fear have given birth to, I would believe, that in thee, I saw the identical Sathan, of whose amiable qualities thine own are so close a counterpart. But how now? — as I live, thy countenance is marked with a pious horror at my prophanity, and thou marvellest I warrant, why, Mahound strikes not to death the unhallowed blasphemer; what, thou dreamest of the joys of paradise, and the youthful Houris whose charms shall delight thee and all true believers? Oh, truly, thou raisest my laughter, to think what need of lodging superstition must have, when she is fain to seek an habitation in such a tenement as thee. But, thou longest to strike twice; who is the next to whom thou wouldst vouchsafe the favour of a speedy deliverance?”

  The Moor looked cautiously around; smiled his grim smile, and striking down his dagger firmly into its sheath, ejaculated his deep and horrible laugh, fixing his glance at the same time upon the physician, with a doubtful and searching expression. A momentary pause ensued before Scymel spoke.

  “I understand,” said he then—” but it must not be.” He then turned away, and seemed lost in reflection.

  “No,” said he, speaking aloud, although addressing himself, rather than his companion, “young, beautiful, and amiable, and wise beyond her years, even I — who have known and suffered by the blind follies of mankind, until convinced, that we are but the tools of fate, and as such, no more responsible, than the stone kicked by the foot, for the mischief its course may occasion; even I cannot, will not be a sharer in the destruction of such a creature. And this the rather, because I may not forget, there was a time when the bright chimera of virtue, and the delusions of the affections, were to me as things of truth and reality; when not yet awakened from the dream of happy ignorance into the misery of understanding, Walter Scymel had, like an enthusiast, dreamed of woman’s love, and man’s friendship — bubbles both, and broken like their fellows of the stream — as sparkling, as hollow, and as chill. But what forbids that I should pay a tribute to the remembrance of my youthful hopes? Such a tribute shall he the life I will save, the care with which I will watch over the only one, that, if any could, might make me doubt my creed of unbelief — even in contradiction to those principles, whereby, unmoved by trifling and nominal distinctions, I love to shape my unhesitating course.”

  Such were the muttered musings that bespoke the wreck of a mind, naturally fitted for lofty and humane aspirations, but impelled by unhappy and inexplicable circumstances, aided by a dangerous love of independence, imprudently indulged into a cold and settled adherence to doctrines, alike destructive to the wretched possessor, and those with whom he came in contact. Thus it was, that the very excellence of natural disposition, conduced only to render more complete the chill, that striking to the heart, had made it a prey to scornful and unhesitating wickedness, as the iron, most fiercely glowing, becomes when suddenly quenched, most brittle and impenetrable.

  Recovering himself from his abstracted remarks, he addressed the Moor, who had watched with unsuppressed scorn the workings of the physician’s mind.

  “What, thou! in faith, I had well nigh forgot that thou wert here, or I had hardly given so wide a scope to the weakness of a minute, that few have seen in Walter Scymel. But I heed it not, thou art no tale bearer, and I let thee laugh the easier, because I know thou fearest me. But away — he dies at least, and yet, perchance she loves him — and what then, or of what regard is the silly liking of a lovesick girl, that if indulged, would draw down ruin on them both? I trifle — speed — dispatch then — thou art not slow to such an errand; but see that thou be cautious — what thou doest, do in secret. Begone,” adding as the Moor left the apartment, “sure I am less than what I was, that the thought of lovers day dreams should stay but for a second, my orders, my resolves. For shame, Walter, what not yet resolute?”

  With these words, he followed the direction that Mahmood had taken.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE OLD KNIGHT.

  “A tall Gentleman by Heaven.”

  SECOND PART HEN. IV.

  THE reader already knows, that the ordinary passage over the river, was by means of a ferryboat, stationed for the convenience of the inhabitants of the hall on that side of the river, on which the mansion was situated. A few minutes only had elapsed, since the conversation detailed in our last chapter, when the pilot of this little vessel was seen preparing for his accustomed voyage. The person by whom his services were put in requisition, was clad in a dark suit, carrying with him what bore a strong resemblance to an arquebuss. Was he a sportsman? it was like enough; hut an inmate of the Hall would have had no difficulty in answering in the negative, when, as the boat gained the other side of the stream, the voyager in leaping to the bank, displayed the powerful frame of the Moor.

  He bent his way towards the cave, near which it will be remembered, we left Prestwyche, after delivering to her brother’s followers the rescued Ellice, and to whose subsequent progress, we will, for a time revert. When the last glimpse of her he loved had faded from his eyes, he turned his steps, and proceeding to a rude habitation at the distance of about half a mile, called to the inmates for his horse. A beautiful Spanish jennet, whose proud curvetings as the man brought him forth, and ready submission to his master’s hand, shewed his noble nature, and perfect training, was speedily led out of a half cultivated inclosure, roughly fenced off from the surrounding grounds. Rewarding this rude groom for his services, Prestwyche mounted his steed, and quickly lost sight of the hall and its surrounding scenery.

  Having removed himself from the immediate vicinity of a spot, which he believed with reason, was for him scarcely a place of safety, he slackened his speed, and abandoning himself to the meditation of the subjects that crowded upon his mind, proceeded at the easy rate favourable to mental revisings.

  His reflections were of a mingled nature, — the pleasant with the painful; but the former far predominating. In rescuing from the waves a fellow creature, he had recovered a mistress, fondly loved, and believed to be lost for ever — he found her still unchanged; his heart told him, that Ellice was still as much his own as when they parted; compelled by circumstances to visit foreign countries, he had been detained there by the arts of Chiverton, between whom and himself, a casual and unexplained quarrel had bred, on the part of the former, invincible and deadly hatred; persuaded by false reports, that the object of his affections was no more, all that remained for him was to visit the tomb, where his most cherished feelings lay buried with her from whom they took their birth.

  With that intent he had visited the neighbourhood of Chiverton Hall, and had been now requited by clasping to his heart the living form, whose shade his spirit had invoked to look upon him from the world beyond the tomb; their eyes had met; their hands had exchanged the mutual pressure, that told to each how dear was this unexpected meeting; and the accents of affection had fallen on his ear, from lips whose sweetnes
s gave to every word a charm of more than music.

  Lost in the soothing delirium in which such contemplations speedily enwrap the soul, Prestwyche traversed, almost regardless of its charms, the beautiful tract of country through which his route lay. In place of the dusty turnpike road, now occupying nearly the same ground the traveller rode along, was a broad path of close green turf, interrupted by occasional stumps of trees, hewed down to lay open the way, which winding through a thickly wooded district, and guarded on either side, by continuous masses of luxuriant foliage, lay shrouded in a sombre, but not unpleasing gloom, except when, at a later hour, the beams of the evening sun threw their mellow radiance down the long vistas, which stretching westerly, were but little visited by the garish beams of the earlier part of the day.

  There was something in this secluded aspect, gratifying to a mind fond of retiring into itself, and the rider, whilst indulging his day dreams, could not but feel a quiet pleasure in the circumscribed scene around him. Lordly trees, individuals among the hosts that flourishing there, grew old, undisturbed but by the casual tempest, cast their enormous and twisted branches over the avenue, until meeting in a natural archway, they half intercepted the dim light that illuminated the path. Broad oaks, of antique growth, were gathered in clumps, and interspersedly, sycamores spread their lighter foliage, and ranges of beech reared aloft their silvery stems. Tall pine, and dusky evergreen, deepening the wildness of vegetation, lent in their summits a habitation for tribes of clamorous rooks. At intervals the sad wild cry of the woodpecker pierced the ear, whilst from the bushes swelled the more delightful music of the linnet and thrush; mingled with the strains of countless birds, pouring on the still air the exquisite thrillings of native melody.

  Where the scene, less confined, opened into occasional glades, thronged with wild plants, and unrestrained herbage, every thing conspired to heighten the idea of a solitary and unfrequented region. The rabbit, and the hare, the minor rangers of the earth, skipped carelessly before, and almost under the horse’s feet. Scattered herds of cattle idly raised their heads to mark the intruder on their domains, and returned to browse upon the luscious vegetation. Here and there the less dense trunks shewed at a distance herds of deer, stepping with dainty majesty, on their slim and taper limbs, over rich and expanding meads, tossing proudly aloft their antlered brows, and bounding lightly over rivulet and hillock that occurred in their course. Here, too, wild flowers and shrubs, diversified the surface of the ground; cherished by clear brooks, rippling over their shallow beds, or foaming with mimic fury, as the straggling roots of plants, or other incidental interruptions, impeded their progress.

  The character of the scenery harmonized well with the dreamy mood of the traveller, who proceeded almost unconsciously, enjoying the beauties with which he was surrounded, uninterrupted by any chance wayfarer on the same road. Once, a noise, indeed, a rustling, seemingly not distant, among the bushes, as of some one cautiously making way through them, caused him to turn his looks in the direction from which the sounds proceeded; — but, as often as he listened, the silence was broken only by the song of the birds, the gurgling of the brooks, and the whispering tremor of the leaves, as they quivered in the low wind. He, therefore, ceased to take notice of what he could not but deem an illusion of fancy, and proceeded on his way.

  Prestwyche had thus pursued his way some time, when, not lamenting the near approach of his journey’s end, he arrived at a spot in which the darker characteristics of the scene assumed a still deeper character; the road here became narrower, scarce allowing space for more than one horseman to pass without difficulty, and the ground, broken and uneven, called for all the skill of the rider to make good his way without accident. The privation of light was here almost complete, for though a narrow defile among the trees on the left, seemed to open as a passage into the woods, the eye strained up in vain to catch a glimpse of the excluded day beams.

  No sooner had Prestwyche proceeded so far as to bring his person in a line with the direction of the opening, than a sudden blaze darting through the gloom, dazzled his horse’s eyes. The animal started, and in so doing, struck his rider with violence against the blighted arm of an oak, and stumbling in the obscurity, amid the broken ground, came down at the moment that the flash of an arquebuss shed its red light down the defile, and the well directed ball, whizzing over the head of Prestwyche as he fell, lodged itself deep in the trunk of the tree. When the screams of the affrighted birds, and the flapping of their wings, as they rose skimming aloft, had at length subsided, the silence seemed deeper than before.

  Stunned by the blow, which had at first deprived him of his command over his steed, and bruised by his fall, Prestwyche lay for a time motionless and insensible. He was aroused from the trance by which he was possessed, by the sensation of a gentle motion, seemingly caused by the efforts of some one to raise him.

  “Where am I, and with whom?” asked he, recovering the power of speech.

  “He is safe — he speaks,” answered a mild voice, and continued, “thou art in good hands, my son, but I fear art sorely bruised with thy fall: speak, how art thou?”

  “I know not of what you speak,” answered Prestwyche, “ but explain, I”

  “Be still awhile, and you shall know all — all that is, which we can tell you; but in the mean time be obedient, and talk not; thou wilt harm thyself else. And now, Jennings, help me to place this youth upon his horse.”

  The kind and gentle manner in which the unknown spoke, assured Prestwyche that he was, as had been said, in good hands; he submitted, therefore, quietly to the directions of his chance friend, and with the assistance rendered him, regained his seat. The stranger and his attendant supported him at either side, and they proceeded at a moderate rate. The road expanded, the imminent branches became less closely connected, and an increased quantity of light, shewed the travellers the smooth easy green-sward over which they rode.

  The light refreshing breeze that played among the leaves, came a seasonable relief to Prestwyche, who was not long in recovering some, though an imperfect recollection, of what had passed. His hurts were trifling, but his head still felt stunned by the blows he had received. Fortunately they were not far from the village, which had been his place of destination, and the spire of the wood-immured church was hailed as a friendly welcome.

  They arrived at the door of the village inn, a small tenement, but whose spacious porch was far from unattractive, while the anticipations conveyed by glimpses of an orchard, a poultry-yard, and a cow-house, were to a travelling imagination, things of great and joyous invitation.

  At the door of the hospitium, stood ready to receive his guests, the rotund host of the Bell and Beetle; a mellow man, whose cares had left no scores upon his sleek countenance, and whose thoughts seemed divided between his guests, his daughter, and the goodly tankard that adorned his sinister hand.

  This vessel had just swung up to the summit of the arc it was wont to describe, when the approach of Prestwyche and his companions arrested mine host’s eye and hand. Dropping the tankard to the situation which might be called its aphelion, he wiped from his lips the foam of the double stout, from which he had been so abruptly doomed to sever, and waddling forward some steps, gave his salutation to the travellers.

  “A good day is this, your Reverence, that sees your mule amble twice to the door of the Bell and Beetle; and another in company, and — but by bonny Bowden bells, — how now, my morning’s guest, and in this plight! An I would not rather my tankard were empty for a day — and that would go near to parch my whistle, than have seen this sight.”

  “My good host,” interrupted the priest, for such was Prestwyche’s companion, “I doubt not your concern for the misfortunes of a brother; the more as I gather from your speech, that you have but lately called him guest. Nevertheless, let us not waste time in words that profit little, but assist this youth to dismount, an exertion which, I fear, he is little able to accomplish unaided.”

  “As your worship
pipes, so will I dance,” answered the good-natured publican, “and that before I touch my tankard — so, ho, cheerily now, there, so we have reached terra firma. Plague on the cause of this unlucky accident. But forward, Sir Knight, and forward Sir Priest, and if I show you not to as nice a room, and as clean and as snug as any within two counties, — aye, and as good a cup of canary sack to boot, why may my tankard be empty for a day.”

  “A truce,” said the priest, “to sack and canary; rest, and not drink, is what is wanted. A bed if one be ready.”

  “And that,” said the host, “I’ll warrant for — Ellen — clean sheets — why, daughter — scented with sprigs of lavender. How now, girl, I say — see that the green-room be in order instanter, my child, that is without delay, and, hear me, girl, send me my tankard. I left it, I bethink me, in the porch— ’tis a sore thing that parts us — via — speed for thy life. But I will myself see that things be done well.”

  “Do so, and speedily,” replied the priest; and then addressing himself to St. Maurice, he inquired with great kindness how he felt.

  “I feel little,” was the reply, “save a weariness of the whole person, and it seems to me that my head is giddy, and my memory tells me but imperfectly of what has happened lately; but I would fain know to whom I am so deeply indebted — since but for your care — my—”

  “Repay this mighty obligation, then, by observing my directions. I will for the present, minister as your bodily physician, and my first direction,” he continued, smiling, “is that you ask no questions, and converse with no one. All that you wish to know, shall be told in due time.”