Though the lady evidently brooked unwillingly the authority of the physician, she made no reply. Her father, however, upheld the right of Scymel to direct all arrangements touching his patient. Then turning to the window, near which he stood, he broke into exclamations on the beauty of the surrounding scenery, that led to a more general conversation. This, however, tending nothing to the progress of our history, may be well praetermitted.
Some time elapsed, when Scymel, after the interchange of a glance between Chiverton and himself, seized some occasion to withdraw from the apartment all save Sir Gamelyn, his daughter, and Chiverton.
“I think,” said the physician when they had left the apartment, “the company of others is not at present like to be very welcome to those we have left. At least the business in hand is of a nature that requires few interlocutors.”
“You judge well,” returned Faynton, “courtship is a flower that brooks not much gazing on. ’Tis a fit evening for such a gentle colloquy, as is wont to stream from the hurried lips of lovers. Leave we them to their converse — a stroll to the river’s bank will occupy our minutes, who have no such serious matters on hand. What think you, gentlemen — is the motion good?”
They assented to this proposal, and the party strolled towards the overhanging rocks, whose base confined the river on that side. The prospect was certainly a lovely one, and the rich suffusion of the evening splendour, shed over it as they gazed a mellowness of tints that sank pleasantly on the eye. The priest surveyed with a calm and delighted aspect, the expanse of the deepening sky as its thousand hues blended together in the vast and beautiful arch.
The physician’s looks were fixed on the dark dull waters that rolled at the base of the rock, and it seemed that his gaze sought to penetrate their depths, and dive into their secrets. Louis Faynton, less occupied by reflection, threw a lighter glance around him, and enjoyed in their turn, all the varieties of beauty that lay within his ken. The Moor stood as usual unmoved, and observant only of the motions of the others.
The silence in which they were buried was first interrupted by Faynton, who exclaimed that he saw Jaggar issuing from his cave, and making apparently towards the river. “Though,” added the speaker, “it is like to be some time ere he gets at, or rather into the river, which latter, from his demeanour, seems to be a probable casualty.”
“He does, indeed,” said Scymel, “appear to have been indulging somewhat freely in those enjoyments of which alone his nature is susceptible. I marvel what wind brings him hither.”
“His course seems bent hitherward surely,” said Faynton, “for he makes signs to the ferryman — the boat is even now crossing for him.”
“It is much an ha does not overset it — he would stand but a poor chance then,” said the physician. His anticipations had nighly been verified, for Niel having with difficulty got into N the vessel, swayed to and fro as he sat, with so much vehemence, that the utmost skill of the waterman was requisite to prevent the boat from dislodging its freight, and sobering the drunkard by an immersion in the river. The landing was, however, effected at that part of the bank, where it sloped most gently to the water, and Jaggar, taking his course round the hall, approached reeling and staggering towards the spectators of his voyage.
Addressing himself to the physician, he stammered out a few unintelligible words, motioning him at the same time, to step apart from his companions. The physician complied.
“What canst thou want now, thou sottish horse leech? — thou hast not been backward in enjoying, if thou so termest it, thy lord’s bounty. Speak if thou art able, for which I scarce give thee credit.”
“Ware words, ware words, Master Doctor; you have your way, and — and I have mine,” returned Jaggar, “I can bite as well as bark.”
“Thy abilities either way are nought to me,” replied Scymel, “but I will not spend time in listening to thy senseless jargon. An thou hast aught to say, say it; if not, begone and disturb us not.”
“Well then — I have seen him.”
“Prestwyche?”
“Aye, aye; ha’ ye not wit, wise Master Leech, to — to guess what I mean? Him that should have been crow’s meat by now, an somebody had — but what needs talking — him that yonder bungling imp of a pagan she devil — y our fine handy Mahmood Bali, missed at seven yards, as he had been a sparrow’s mark at seventy; blind and dumb — a fit helper — ha, ha!” None of this speech was lost upon the subject of it, who stood near to the speaker. He took no notice, but walking to the edge of the rock, seemed busily engaged in examining and trying with his foot the stability of a large portion of the stone, severed by a narrow fissure from the body of which it originally formed a part. It hung over the waters, projecting beyond the level of the bank, but without any mark which, to an inexperienced eye, could suggest its instability. The motions of the Moor were unobserved.
Meanwhile Scymel continued his discourse with Jaggar, from whom he obtained the information, that Prestwyche had, within the last two hours, been seen by him, skirting one of the woody thickets, which at a distance of about half a mile from the hall were clustered together. More he knew not, for Prestwyche had disappeared instantly from his sight, and he had in vain sought to trace his footsteps.
The Moor had walked to some distance, when Jaggar, having finished his communication to the physician, was stumbling away. In passing the spot where Mahmood had lately stood, the dagger of the latter lying, as if accidentally dropped, on the edge of the precipice, struck Niel’s sight. The hilt of the weapon studded with gold and enamelled, was a strong temptation to the greedy covetousness of the wretch. He hesitated — looked cautiously around, and again eyed the glittering object. The owner was at a distance, and seemingly incapable, from his position, of beholding Jaggar’s operations, and the physician and his companions were now engaged in conversation, and not likely to observe him, or if they did, it was but refunding the spoil. He stepped forward, and stretched out his hand to seize the weapon.
But ere his fingers had yet closed upon the object of temptation, the uncertain foundation of his footsteps, swayed by his weight from its precarious balance, was precipitated from its bed, and hurling along with it the unhappy Jaggar, was lost in the river, whose waters it cast around in high and foamy sheets.
The physician and his companions, attracted by the plunge of the stone, and missing Jaggar, hurried down the rude steps, that skirting a precipitous crag, to which some tradition had assigned the name of the Fisherman’s Rock, led to a narrow beach of sand, intervening between the bank and the waters of the stream. The first object that presented itself to their eyes, was the mangled and disfigured corpse of Niel Jaggar, the lower extremities of his frame immersed in the water, the rest extended on the sand. The dagger of the Moor lay by him. The physician took it up, with something like a smile, but without any remark to his companions. They drew the body from the water, and extended it on the beach.
“Did any one,” inquired the priest, “observe him approach the station from whence he was so fatally thrown? What could induce him, even in the state in which he was, to venture so nigh the edge of the bank?”
“The inducement,” replied Faynton, “I take to have been the hope of appropriating the weapon, which Master Scymel holds in his hand, and which I believe to be the property of Mahmood Bali who, it is like, lost it in departing from our neighbourhood. I have noted him to wear a similar one.”
“It is Mahmood Bali’s,” said the physician, “and was doubtless the temptation which led to this termination. The hilt you will observe is highly ornamented.”
“Unhappy wretch,” said Way word, as he contemplated the lifeless mass which lay at his feet, “who void of every good quality and feeling, and knowing no distinction of good and evil, hath found thy punishment in the indulgence of thy base passions. I tremble to think of his fate.”
The physician raised his eyes slowly from the object on which they had been fixed, until their line of vision encountered the priest’s. “His f
ate, say you, Master Way word! what need of such inquiry? it lies before you, and may be read in the perishable clod on which corruption is already at work, tracing, though as yet invisibly, the characters of the decree. To redissolve into the elements — to return to the worthless materials from whence he sprung, is the short chapter of the fate of the dead.”
“I might think as you do,” answered Wayword, “did the volume seem to me to close with the chapter you speak of. Such, indeed, as you have said, is the fate of the body, corruption is the last scene of its history. But the spirit which quickened and directed, decay cannot triumph over, — it rose not from the elements, nor will return to them.”
“I know not,” replied the physician, “that the spirit is independent of the bodily conformation; and if it exists in that, it will also cease with it. The brutes have it in common with us — surely they revive not to people the world of invisibles.”
“The beasts, Master Scymel,” answered Wayword, “have not the spirit we speak of; the spirit of existence may cease with the body it animates — the spirit that thinks, that reasons, and reflects, has a nobler term, unbounded as its own operations.”
“Alas,” said the physician, “what is this boasted reason of which you vaunt? What is this faculty which should give to man the semblance of a god? — where resident — essential or substantial — finite or infinite? and what are its operations? — Are they not weak, varying and uncertain as the course of the thistledown borne on the summer’s breeze; the purposes of this minute overthrown by those of the next — the discoveries of to-day proved false by the reflections of the morrow. Seek for a being the most inconstant, most trifling, and absurd, and you shall find him in the possession of these noble powers, of this directing and eternal soul.”
“That he is always so,” returned the priest, “is an assertion unwarranted by fact; that he is ever so, let him thank his own pride and passions, that turn him from the paths of peace, in which virtue and humility would guide their followers. He has his free choice — if he has chosen amiss, whom shall he arraign save himself?”
“He hath his choice, say you,” replied Scymel, “such choice as have the leaves carried down by the waters, or the ship when wrecked in the tempest. The child of chance, why should he be answerable, for that which he has neither skill to foresee, nor power, if seen, to avert?”
“That it is not so,” said the priest, “ every man’s own consciousness can tell him, and reason and religion confirm the truth. But thou laughest at the one, and deniest the other.”
“I do not deny thy religion,” answered the sciolist, after a slight pause: “ it may be true, though I believe it not. But of this I am satisfied, that I at least am that wave blown by the wind, that hath been driven by impulses not his own, that shall not rest but in that quiet sea, wherein I trust our being, with our sufferings, shall be together extinct.”
“Wretched hope,” exclaimed the priest, “ that looks to annihilation for the only cure of those sufferings, to which humanity must of need be subject. Bethink thee, Walter Scymel, can there be no better reliance than that? Cling whilst thou canst to a firmer, a more abiding prop; even from thy own words thou canst not be a loser. I grieve deeply that thou, with the time thou hast before thee, for thou art yet young, and with powers of no ordinary standard, shouldst be as the broken reed, or worthless bramble, rather than as the stately cedar of the forest. And I have noted when thou hast not marked me, that thine eye has glistened, thy cheek glowed, thy voice changed under the touch of kindly and noble feelings, such as I would fain believe are the natural attendants of thy spirit. Revive them again, be what thou oughtest to have been, what thou may’st yet be — free, generous, and noble in true nobility.”
The physician delayed ere he replied. “ I do believe, Wayward, thou meanest me well, albeit I cannot now profit by such intention. Thou hast read me not wholly wrong, better than I deemed any might read me. There has been a time when — hut ’tis idle to talk. The life that is before me is fixed; if as thou say’st man has a choice, I have chosen; whether ill or well, I care not — I am content.”
“But futurity?’
“Speak not of it. He who hath felt and learnt to endure the hell within, need dread no other. Yet give me thy hand. I thank thee, Wayword; I do thank thee. Thou hast seen me more exposed than I would wish another should; but speak not of these things again — Farewell.”
“Thou art fixed then—”
“As the rock,” replied the physician, as he struck with his foot the impenetrable bank, by which they stood.
Any reply, had the priest intended to make such, was prevented by the approach of domestics from the hall, for the purpose of removing the body. They had been sent by Louis Faynton, who had left the disputants on the commencement of the conversation. Scymel withdrew, the priest lingered a few moments to overlook the removal of the corpse, and give such directions as were needful.
As the physician approached the entrance of the garden, he was encountered by the Moor, who with his usual demeanour was slowly pacing to and fro, under the shade of a range of sycamores. On beholding the physician, Mahmood held out his hand to receive his dagger, which Scymel yet carried.
“Take thy dagger, it is a good weapon, and, like its master, can work more ways than one. Niel Jaggar hath found that.”
The Moor grinned a smile, and depositing the weapon in its sheath, continued his exercise. The physician passed on. Turning abruptly at the termination of a straight garden walk, he came upon Chiverton and his guests, who were standing in the soft breezes of the now rapidly declining evening. He whispered, without stopping, a few words to Chiverton, who making a hasty, though respectful excuse to his companions, followed the physician, and they entered the hall.
The Knight and his daughter lingered where Chiverton had left them. As the hour of separation approaches, the ties that bind together affectionate hearts are drawn closer, almost to painfulness, and the father and his child felt it so at that moment. Yet they felt in silence, for words do not constitute the language of sorrow, of that mild grief that is born not from the feeling of present calamity, but regret for former happiness. There were no exclamations of grief, no protestations; such would have been impertinent; but there was a light quiver of the lip as it essayed to smile, and the soft glance of the eye was dimmed by — one could not call it a tear, so slight apparently was the suffusing moisture. These were trifles; they sufficed, however, to communicate the feelings of the heart; more was not needed.
As they thus stood, absorbed in the thoughts which the approaching events naturally gave birth to, and which were heightened by the influence of the hour that sank upon them, silent and deepening in shadows, the Knight’s attention was arrested by a sudden whisper almost close to his ear.
“Dismiss your companion; I would speak with you alone,” were the words.
The Knight looked hastily around. There was no one visible, but he thought he discerned behind an ancient elm that stood near, the shadow of a man faintly traced, as the rising moon began to dispel the gloom. He was doubtful, and feared to alarm Isabel by any attempt to inquire into the cause of this occurrence.
He had not stood long, ere the same voice, in a like suppressed tone, again addressed him.
“You have nothing to fear: but decide quickly.”
The Knight again turned his eyes in the direction from whence the voice proceeded, and this time he could clearly perceive the dark drapery of a figure almost entirely concealed by the intervening trunk of the elm. Who it was that acted thus mysteriously — what were his purposes, and whether it would be prudent to attend to the suggestion conveyed, were questions that naturally suggested themselves to Vancouver. But it was necessary, without their discussion, to come to some conclusion, and he determined upon satisfying his curiosity, as to the person and intent of the whisperer.
“Isabel, my child,” said he, “the night damps are gathering, it were better you should retire to your apartment. I will accompany you
thither, and return.” He spoke in a tone calculated for the hearing of his secret neighbour.
“Return, Sir.” replied his daughter, “whither? — shall I not be made happy with your society in the cedar-room, during—”
“No, my Isabel,” returned the Knight, “I have occupations with Sir John and others,” laying a slight emphasis on the word, “which will detain me until my hour of rest.”
He took his daughter’s hand, and looked as he passed the elm towards the spot where the unknown had stood. But he had changed his position, so as to avoid being distinctly seen. After a brief absence the Knight returned.
“Now,” he exclaimed, as he approached the elm, “what is thy will with me?”
The stranger stepped forward from his place of concealment. A large dark cloak enveloped his person in its folds, and the feather of his cap falling down, obscured his features effectually. He removed the plume, and turning to the Knight was instantly recognized by him.
“Master Reginald Prestwyche, if I mistake not; but why are you, who are reported far from the friend of Chiverton, thus secretly on his demesnes?”
“Let it suffice, Sir Gamelyn,” returned the youth, “that I am your friend; my present purpose is not with Sir John Chiverton.”
“I do not know,” said Vancouver, “why I should rely on your profession of friendship. But I would gladly know the object of this meeting.”
“Follow me, and you shall know.”
“Nay then, Master Prestwyche, I will wish you a good night. Were I as young as yourself, I might perhaps have vigour enough in my legs, and folly enough in my head, to take a moonlight ramble with you, at your request, and be content to ask wherefore at the end of it. But at my years, I have somewhat too little of either. And so I say again good night to you.”
“Stay, Sir Gamelyn, you are too hasty. For your own sake — for the sake of the Lady Isabel, your—”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 10
