"Opening lawns, deep glooms, and airy summits,"
"Opening lawns, deep glooms, and airy summits,"
of their own domain untenanted in the most attractive season of the year.
From St. Aubyn's Castle, the long talked of journey into Wales was to commence. Ellen longed once more to revisit the haunts of her infancy, and to see her father and her early friends; and St. Aubyn willingly consented to gratify her.
The child was to travel with them, attended by the faithful Bayfield and his nurses: they waited till the end of May, knowing that the bad roads of North Wales would be hardly passable at an earlier period.
They went from St. Aubyn's to Shrewsbury, and from thence to Carnarvon, stopping on the way, as in their former journey, to see all that was worthy of observation; and as this route was entirely different from that they had before taken, many new objects presented themselves to their notice. Amongst other picturesque scenes, they passed the woody banks of the Dee, whence they obtained a striking view of the beautiful and romantic town of Llangollen, with its church, and elegant bridge, embosomed in trees.
At Llangollen they rested, and though it has in itself nothing particularly interesting, yet its environs afford much sublime and pleasing scenery: amongst these the Vale of Crucis is one of the most lovely secluded situations that fancy can portray; it is adorned by the fine remains of Valle Crucis Abbey, and its back-ground, formed by a lofty mountain, on whose summit stands the venerable ruin of Castle Dinas Bran.
After seeing all that was deserving observation in this charming spot, they proceeded through a fine romantic country to Carnarvon, and from thence to Llanwyllan.
The latter part of the roads were intolerably bad, and the English servants, who had never seen any thing like them, were in momentary expectation of having their necks broken; indeed, Lord Mordaunt's nurses walked several miles, fearing lest the baby should be injured; and in truth, even Ellen, though fearless for herself, felt a little uneasy for the infant.
All these perils and dangers, however, at length happily past, and Ellen's heart beat with ecstacy when she saw the white chimnies of Llanwyllan Farm peeping above the ancient oaks around it. The carriages stopt before the house, and in an instant Ellen was folded in the arms of her father: her fair face pressed tenderly to the rough cheek of the good old man, while the mingled drops of filial love and parental affection fell in showers from their eyes: repeatedly Powis clasped his lovely daughter to his heart, and felt enraptured, that though "so great a lady, his dear Ellen had not forgotten him:" at length he was at leisure to see and speak to his noble son-in-law, and the awkward air of respect he endeavoured to assume was soon changed to one of more cordial affection by the kind greeting Lord St. Aubyn gave him. In the meantime Ellen stept into the hall where the nurses and servants were waiting, and taking the infant from Mrs. Bayfield, returned with him into the parlour, and with delighted looks, placed him in her father's arms.
Oh, moment of exquisite bliss! moment which might have repaid the sorrows of many years! Can there be in this world an instant of such pure delight as the daughter feels when she places her first-born on the bosom of a venerable parent.
Some feelings are to mortals givenWith less of earth in them than heaven;And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meekIt would not stain an angel's cheek;'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head.Scott's Lady of the Lake.
Some feelings are to mortals givenWith less of earth in them than heaven;And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meekIt would not stain an angel's cheek;'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head.
Scott's Lady of the Lake.
Mrs. Ross's domestic talents had been exerted to the utmost to prepare Llanwyllan Farm in the best possible manner for its noble guests: she did not indeed quite understand all the various arrangements which are absolutely necessary for the tolerable comfort of such a family; but with the assistance of Dame Grey, who picqued herself on remembering how things used to be when she lived at 'Squire Davis's, and the ready aid of the active Joanna, every thing was far beyond Ellen's expectations; and as she encouraged no fine lady-like airs in her nursery attendants, nor even in her own woman, none of those vexatious murmurs disturbed her which servants often have the happy art of contriving where no real cause for complaint exists; and certainly the furniture for the nursery was not quite so rich as Lady Juliana had chosen for that at the Castle: the nurses found that the young Lord slept quite as well, and his cheeks bloomed quite as freshly beneath the clean white cotton hangings of this little couch as under the quilted satin cradle at St. Aubyn's.
The whole party was speedily arranged, for there was plenty of room and abundance of provisions.
The Earl and Countess had brought no more servants than were absolutely necessary; and Bayfield, highly as she was respected by her noble employers, was not above directing the management of their table, or any other domestic office which could make her useful, and though Powis, at first, thinking her a much greater lady than he had been accustomed to associate with, was very much disposed to treat her as his equal; she soon convinced him by her respectful conduct towards her lady's father that she considered herself as greatly his inferior.
As soon as Ellen had looked round the house, and seen the arrangements for her child's accommodation settled, she began to be anxious to see her good friends the Rosses; and finding from her father they talked of not coming till the next day, she begged him to give her his arm, and she would walk to the Parsonage: all fatigue, she said, had vanished from the moment she found herself beneath her father's roof.
"Come, my dear father," said she, "let us all go: the baby shall come too: the dear good people will be delighted to see us; they will give us some tea, and we can return here to eat our fruit supper: you know we never used to eat anything else at night, and I hope the cream is as good as it used to be when I managed the dairy."
Powis looked with delight on the sweet unaffected creature, who was, as he expressed himself afterwards to Mrs. Ross, "Not a bit set up by her high fortune, but just as she used to be when only Ellen Powis."
The infant now "awaking from his rosy nap," and arrayed with the nicest care, his lovely face shaded by a rich lace border to his cap, and his fine cambric robe cut to shew his fair bosom and dimpled arms, with his beautiful mother in a plain white gown and straw hat, attended by St. Aubyn and Powis, set out for the Parsonage.
On the way, Ellen spoke with the sweetest condescension to all she met, and many of the villagers who knew she was arrived contrived to throw themselves in her way.
Mrs. Howel, who used to do her many little services at the market-town, happened now to cross her path, and profoundly courtesying, would have passed on, but Ellen, saying—"Excuse me a moment, my dear St. Aubyn," turned and ran after her.
"How do you do, Mrs. Howel?" said she, holding out her hand, which the good woman hardly ventured to touch, again courtesying.
Ellen made kind inquiries for all her family by name; and seeing her old neighbour's eyes involuntarily wandering towards the child, as if she anxiously wished, but was ashamed to ask a nearer view of him, she beckoned the nurse to bring him towards her, and said:—
"Do look at my little boy, Mrs. Howel: is he not a fine fellow?"
"Ah, Madam," said the good woman, "he is the loveliest babe I ever saw, except your Ladyship, at the same age.—God bless him, and God bless you, Madam; for you deserve every kind of happiness."
"Thank you, thank you, my good neighbour. Come to the Farm and see us when it is convenient: at present, my Lord is waiting for me, so good-bye." And she lightly ran on, leaving the farmer's wife charmed and delighted by her sweetness and kind attention.
They soon reached the Parsonage, and were received with unaffected joy.
Great indeed, at first, was the bustle of poor Mrs. Ross, who, not hoping for such an honour, was not drest, nor her parlour, though always neat, in that high state of preparation it would have been had she expected them; but she was soon convinced that the string of apologies she meditated were totally unnecessary, by finding the warm-hearted Ellen first in her own arms, and leaving them to fly to those of Joanna, and then with sweet filial reverence bending to the kind parental embrace of the venerable Ross. St. Aubyn and the good Powis, in the meantime, stood gazing on her with rapturous emotion, and both thinking there never was so enchanting a creature. The babe was admired, caressed, and finally pronounced a prodigy of beauty and early apprehension, and his sweet good-humoured smiles were uninterrupted even by one frown, though handed from one to the other with raptures which would have made an infant of a less amiable disposition cross and fretful.
"Well, my excellent friend," said St. Aubyn, aside to Ross, "you see once more your lovely pupil, from whom you parted with so much regret, not, I hope, injured either in person or mind by her intercourse with the great world. Oh, my good Sir, how infinitely am I indebted to you for implanting principles in her youthful bosom which have stood the test of many trying scenes. You and I must have a great deal of conversation, and I know you will be charmed to hear how admirably she conducts herself on all occasions."
"Iamcharmed," said Ross, while an affectionate tear stood in his eye, "charmed with all I see and hear of both: indeed, my Lord, that lovely unaffected creature adorns the rank to which you have raised her: the choice you made reflects as much honour on your penetration as I hope it will ensure happiness to your future life; nor could any young person have better stood the trying test of sudden elevation, of that admiration which doubtless has surrounded her. Now see how sweetly she returns to us without one high air, one look of dissatisfaction at the inferiority of accommodations or manners she must see.
"Polite as all her life in courts had been,Yet good as she the courts had never seen."
"Polite as all her life in courts had been,Yet good as she the courts had never seen."
"You have, indeed," said St. Aubyn, "most happily characterized her; but you cannot think half so highly of her as I have reason to do."
By this time the tea was over; and Ellen, wrapping up her boy, sent him home; but instead of returning with him, she remained at the Parsonage all the evening, delighted herself, and delighting all around her.
"Well," said Mrs. Ross, after her visitors were departed, "well, I never saw any thing in my life so strange! Why, I thought to have seen a fine lady, all dressed in silks and jewels, and looking stiff and formal-like; and I thought to have said, my Lady Countess, and your Ladyship—and behold! here she comes in a plain white gown, but little better than one I scolded her for wearing once—you remember it, Joanna?—And flies to me, kisses me, and calls me dear mamma, as she used to do; and if I had been to have died for it, I could not call her any thing but Ellen, and child, the whole evening almost, except once or twice I recollected myself, and said my Lady, when we were at the window together, and she put her dear arms round my neck, and said dear mamma, I amyourEllen!—and then she is grown such a beauty!—to be sure, she always was as pretty a creature as could be I thought, but now she looks somehow so sensible, and so happy; and then her carriage is so easy, and yet so grand, that if I did not know to the contrary, I should think she was born a great princess.—And then the sweet baby—with his little laughing mouth, and pretty eyes!—And my Lord too, to be so kind—that I once as good as told I wished he would go away from Llanwyllan: and so I did wish it, for could I ever have thought it would come to such honour and happiness for Ellen!"
Ross and Joanna listened with smiles to this long harangue, and though not quite so fluent in their praises, were at least equally charmed and delighted with herself.
St. Aubyn and his Ellen remained thus beloved and happy at Llanwyllan for some time, during which Ellen visited with the utmost kindness every farmhouse of which she had formerly known the inhabitants, and gladdening every poor cottage not only with her smiles, but with more substantial marks of her favour and benevolence.
In the course of the first fortnight Ellen learned that there was a mutual attachment between her friend Joanna and a young clergyman, who did the duty of a parish not more than three miles from those filled by the worthy Ross, and learning from that good man that he had no objection to the match, for that Mr. Griffiths was a man of excellent character, and well suited to Joanna, both in age and temper, and that the only possible objection was the narrowness of his income, and there being no parsonage-house on the living he served, nor any house within many miles where they could reside, she consulted with her Lord, and the next opportunity said to Ross:
"My dear Sir, I have a proposal to make to you. It is the mutual request of my Lord and myself, and you cannot think how much you will oblige us by complying."
"I know not," said Ross, "what I could refuse to either of you."
"My father," said she, "complains much of the loneliness of his winter evenings; yet he does not like to remove from Llanwyllan and come to live near us, as we earnestly wished him to do; but he says our modes of life are so different from those to which he has been accustomed, and the journey appears so alarmingly long to him, who has never been fifty miles from home, that he says he must be contented with the hope of seeing us here sometimes, and end his life where he began it. But ah, my dear Sir, his wishes, as well as our's, are, that you and Mrs. Ross would remove to Llanwyllan Farm, and leave this house for Joanna and your future son-in-law. You are now, we all think, too much advanced in life to serve three churches, as you have done for many years: give up two of them to Mr. Griffiths, with the stipend attached to them: and surely, surely, my dearest Sir, you will not refuse from Ellen, from your little pupil, a trifling token of her love to make your life and dear Mrs. Ross's comfortable, and to enable you to give Joanna to her lover with a sufficiency to make them easy."
She rose, and putting a pocket-book into his hand, said, "Not one word: I will not hear one word. For once, your Ellen will be obstinate, and not listen even toyou."
She ran out of the room, and seeking Joanna, made her put on her bonnet, and come with her to dine at the Farm, leaving a gay message with Mrs. Ross, that she should hope to hear a favourable answer to her request the next day.
This hint was sufficient to send the good lady to know of Ross what Lady St. Aubyn meant: she found him overwhelmed with tender gratitude. The pocket-book contained notes to a large amount, with a slip of paper containing these words:
My dear Sir,I have adapted the enclosed rather to your very limited wishes than to my own sense of what I ought to have done. Pray let this little transaction never be mentioned more, unless any plan more pleasing to you than that I shall propose when I give you this should occur to you. If my request be at all unpleasant to you, pray reject it without hesitation.Your ever obligedEllen St. Aubyn.
My dear Sir,
I have adapted the enclosed rather to your very limited wishes than to my own sense of what I ought to have done. Pray let this little transaction never be mentioned more, unless any plan more pleasing to you than that I shall propose when I give you this should occur to you. If my request be at all unpleasant to you, pray reject it without hesitation.
Your ever obliged
Ellen St. Aubyn.
Ross now explained to his wife what had passed, and they both agreed no plan could be devised more desirable for all parties; and that it would be both rude and ungrateful to refuse a present, which, however, they sincerely wished had been of less value.
All was soon finally settled to the great joy of Powis, who was delighted with the idea of his friendly inmates. The young lovers also were full of grateful joy, and Ellen relinquished the idea she had at one time entertained of taking Joanna home with her: Ross objected to it, as he did not wish her to be introduced into scenes of life so different from those she had been, or ever would be again accustomed to; and Griffiths did not like the idea of her going to such a distance: nay, Joanna herself, much as she had wished to see St. Aubyn Castle, seemed now very well contented to remain for life in the vale of Llanwyllan.
The sky it seems would pour down stinking pitch,But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'dWith those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel,Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her,Dash'd all to pieces. Oh! the cry did knockAgainst my very heart!—Poor souls, they perish'd!Shakespeare's Tempest.
The sky it seems would pour down stinking pitch,But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'dWith those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel,Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her,Dash'd all to pieces. Oh! the cry did knockAgainst my very heart!—Poor souls, they perish'd!
Shakespeare's Tempest.
St. Aubyn had related to Ross the conclusion of those circumstances which he had confided to him before his marriage with Ellen, and though that venerable man rejoiced that Edmund's vindictive intentions had been so happily conquered, neither he nor the Earl felt entirely satisfied on the subject.
Lord De Montfort was certainly an excentric character, and it was possible his impetuous feelings might yet take another direction, especially if the bigotted Catholics, by whom he generally was surrounded, should obtain any intimation of those apparent facts which militated so much against the character of St. Aubyn, and which only his own word opposed; and that they might do so, was by no means improbable, when his occasional night-wanderings were remembered, in which, as he had done to Ellen, he might hereafter to some other reveal what would induce them to insist on an explanation.
Ellen, it was true, had so touched him with admiration and tenderness, that he could not resist her influence, but now removed from any chance of seeing her again, there was no saying what new turn his ardent imagination would take.
All these ideas, which St. Aubyn had carefully concealed from his wife, he communicated to his venerable friend, who could not deny their rationality. The wishes of both centered in one point, and that was the discovery of De Sylva; and nothing could be more improbable than that he should now be found after years had elapsed, in which the agents of St. Aubyn, and of the Marquis of Northington, had sought him in vain, though their search had been extended through every great city in Spain, Portugal, France, Italy, and England: it was, in fact, most likely, either that he was dead, or had so completely changed his appearance and name as to be living obscurely, perhaps on one of the very spots where they had vainly endeavoured to find him.
These wishes and reflections they never discussed except when without other witnesses, being mutually unwilling to impart any of their anxieties to Lady St. Aubyn, who, happy in her benevolent plans, in the society of her father and early friends, in the improving beauty and health of her lovely boy, and the undeviating and increasing love of St. Aubyn, seemed not to have a care remaining.
From Charles Ross, about this time, his father received letters, expressive of the happiness he felt in his present situation, and of gratitude to Lord St. Aubyn, who had procured it for him, adding, he hoped to remain on his present station for some months, as they were constantly taking prizes, and his share already amounting to a considerable sum of money.
The Earl or Countess never mentioned either to his parents or sister his mad mistake respecting them during his stay in London, nor the mischievous consequences of it, unwilling to give them pain by a knowledge of those unpleasant transactions.
The situation of Llanwyllan was not above a mile from the sea-shore, and frequently Ellen and Joanna, attended by the nurses and child, walked thither, Lady St. Aubyn thinking that the fine breeze invigorated and strengthened both herself and little Constantine; nor had the indulgences which her unexpected elevation had procured for her rendered her unequal to a long country ramble, or less pleased to explore the haunts of her infancy. Frequently St. Aubyn and Mr. Griffiths, who was a sensible intelligent young man, with the education and manners of a gentleman, were their escorts: but there was nothing to fear on this unfrequented shore, for though ships often passed at a distance, there was not even a fishing town within three miles of their accustomed walk.
About the middle of July, the weather for three or four days became so excessively hot, as seemed to preclude any exercise, except very late in the evening: this uncommon degree of warmth was followed by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning; and though the weather cleared a little in the middle of the day, the evening again closed with a renewal of the tempestuous weather, attended by a violent wind.
While the weather had been tolerable, the Rosses had walked to the Farm to spend the remainder of the day, and were there when the tempest began again with added horrors, and indeed not one of the party was totally without alarm, lest the violence of the wind should injure the ancient mansion.
One of the men who had been sent to Carnarvon in the morning on some commission, and whose road lay near the sea, returned about nine o'clock. The thunder and lightning had by that time abated, but the violent wind continued, attended by torrents of rain and excessive darkness. This man said he had seen a large ship near the coast, and evidently in great danger, from the beach on which she was driving being rocky and inaccessible, the tide coming in, and the wind blowing from the sea, which he said was rougher than he had ever seen it, and the ship laboured so much he feared she must be lost.
This account soon travelled from the servants'-hall to the parlour: the cheeks of the females were blanched by terror, and Mrs. Ross, clasping her hands together, exclaimed,
"God preserve my poor Charles!"
"He is far enough from hence, my dear," said the good Ross, "and in all probability quite out of the way of this tremendous weather."
"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Ross, "but I never hear the wind blow without thinking of him, and a sailor's life is so uncertain, one never knows where they are, or what they are exposed to."
While she spoke, they distinctly heard the sound of a gun fired at sea.
"Hark!" said St. Aubyn, "that is a signal gun! and again! another!—those are guns of distress: can we do nothing for these poor creatures?"
"Oh! try, pray try," said Ellen: "but without exposing yourselves to danger, it is, I fear, impossible."
"There will be no danger for us in going down to the shore," said St. Aubyn. "You and I, my young friend," (speaking to Griffiths) "with the men servants, and all the assistance we can collect in the village, will hasten thither: we can at least light some fires on the beach, or make signals of some kind or other, which may be of service; you, my dear Sir," (speaking to Powis) "and Mr. Ross, will stay and sooth the fears of the ladies."
"Oh, but," said Ellen, "do not expose yourselves too much: the weather is dreadful."
"We will take care of ourselves, my love, depend upon it: there are plenty of box-coats in the hall; we will wrap ourselves up, and if we save one life our trouble will be amply repaid."
"God bless you for your goodness," said Mrs. Ross, "and prosper your undertaking! Oh! these poor sailors have perhaps mothers and sisters praying for them, as we do for poor Charles." She wept, and Joanna and Ellen could not restrain their tears.
The gentlemen, attended by all St. Aubyn's male servants, and several stout workmen belonging to the Farm, now sallied forth with lanterns, and such torches as could be hastily prepared: their numbers were considerably augmented by many of the villagers, who, independent of the rewards St. Aubyn offered, were prompted by humanity and curiosity to assist.
They soon reached the shore, on which a high tide was violently beating; and by the flashes of lightning, which, though fainter and less frequent, still at intervals broke the total darkness of the night, they soon discerned a ship of considerable size, now very near the shore; her sails rent in pieces, and scarcely a mast standing, driving towards them, and firing minute guns as signals of distress. They all saw that to prevent her being stranded on that rocky and impracticable coast was totally impossible, and therefore some of the men were dispatched to the village for ropes and other articles which might be used in saving the lives of the crew. In the meantime, those remaining on the shore collected all the rubbish they could find, and lighted two or three large fires, shouting when the wind lulled a little, to encourage the sailors, which a minute after was answered by a shout from the men on board.
In less than an hour after their arrival, the ship was driven on a ledge of rocks, almost at the foot of the cliff on which St. Aubyn and his party stood; and they saw some of the crew crowding into two small boats, and others coming on shore on pieces of timber, or whatever they could find. At intervals they rose or disappeared, as the waves were more or less powerful; but in the end, a considerable number, more dead than alive, were thrown on the land.
Several of the men, cheered by large promises from St. Aubyn, waded as far as possible into the sea, and assisted some of the crew with ropes and by other means, so that at last more than fifty men were saved.
To paint the gratitude of these poor creatures, their mingled exclamations of joy for their escape, and horror at the recollection of their danger, would be a vain attempt. Some of them appeared to be foreigners, and two or three wore the dress of Turks. Amid the darkness and confusion that prevailed, however, it was scarcely possible to distinguish one person from another. Several of the English sailors (for the ship had evidently been English, and the foreigners were apparently prisoners of war), were busily engaged in succouring a man who had come to shore with scarcely any signs of life, and about whom they appeared very assiduous.
St. Aubyn's people had brought spirits and other cordials to the sea-shore, and after administering such present refreshment as their wants seemed to require, he now put all that were able to walk under the care of Griffiths, desiring him not to take them to the Farm, fearing lest the sight should be too affecting to its female inhabitants, but dispose of them in the best manner he could, amongst the cottages or barns belonging to the farmhouses; for in the abodes of all, his bounty and kindness had procured a welcome reception for any whom he chose to send; he requested Griffiths also just to shew himself at the Farm, to say they were safe, and then return again. Some of his party he dispatched for carts, with blankets, &c. to convey to the village such of the men who were unable to walk.
The storm by this time had nearly subsided, and a late moon began to struggle through the black clouds which still hung upon the horizon: pieces of the unfortunate vessel, with seamens' chests and other articles, were from time to time thrown ashore; several bodies also came to land, and St. Aubyn found, though at least fifty had been saved, several lives were unfortunately lost.
St. Aubyn now saw that the young man, about whom the sailors had been so assiduous, and whom they called Captain, was beginning to revive, and approached to speak some words of consolation and kindness. One of the sailors was giving him a glass of wine, while another held a lantern almost close to him; for the faint light of the moon hardly served to distinguish objects. But what was the surprize, what the tumultuous emotions of St. Aubyn, when, as the light fell full upon the shipwrecked, half-expiring object before him, he retraced the features of Charles Ross!—of him, for whom, but two hours before, his mother had expressed so many tender fears, and poured so many fervent prayers, though not even imagining he shared the actual danger which excited them.
St. Aubyn started, but with tender caution, lest the surprize should overpower the unfortunate man, whispered to his servants not to name him or the place where they were; and approaching still nearer, he took Charles's cold hand, and drawing his own hat over his face, bade him be comforted, for all would yet be well.
The poor young man, too languid to do more than glance his eyes over the person who addressed him, spoke a few words in a faint voice, expressive of his thanks, and then feebly murmured a request to know on what coast he and his friends had been thrown.
"On no unfriendly, no inhospitable shore, assure yourself," replied St. Aubyn. "Whatever property the sea spares will be cautiously protected for you and your followers. Many chests have been thrown on shore; and as the weather is becoming calm, when the morning dawns, the boats of your ship shall go off to the wreck, and every thing of value, if possible, be saved."
"I am then on English ground?"
"On the coast of Wales."
"Of Wales! Oh, heavens!—--What part of Wales?"
"Be not impatient: you shall know all in good time."
"That voice," said Charles—"surely I have heard that voice before."
"I have been a great traveller," replied St. Aubyn: "we may have met elsewhere."
Charles asked a few more questions, to which St. Aubyn cautiously replied; and a cart being by this time arrived from the village, Charles and two or three others were placed in it, under the escort of Griffiths, to whom the Earl recounted the late interesting discovery, requesting him to take care that Charles was not too suddenly surprised with a knowledge of where he was.
Griffiths saw him safely lodged in the best place that could be found for him; and leaving St. Aubyn's valet to watch by him, and take care that no one spoke to him till his return, hastened with Lord St. Aubyn to Powis's, where they found the whole family had been up all night, anxious beyond expression; and when Ellen saw St. Aubyn dripping wet, his hat and great coat heavy with the rain and spray of the sea, she tenderly reproached him for so exposing himself, while Joanna's looks read the same lecture to Griffiths: but both were so rejoiced at the good their exertions had effected, that the chiding was little heeded; and soon, by the assistance of dry clothing, they made a more comfortable appearance; and after dispatching as many necessaries as could be collected to the poor mariners, and above all to Charles (though yet his being so near was kept a profound secret to his parents and friends), the whole party retired to rest, which indeed the fatigues of the night rendered extremely necessary to all.
The image of a wicked heinous faultLives in his eye: that close aspect of hisDoes shew the mood of a much-troubled heart!King John.
The image of a wicked heinous faultLives in his eye: that close aspect of hisDoes shew the mood of a much-troubled heart!
King John.
St. Aubyn would not disturb the repose of Ellen that night, or rather that morning, for the sun had risen before they retired, by mentioning the discovery of Charles amongst the shipwrecked mariners; but his own anxiety how best to break the matter to Ross and his wife would not allow him to sleep late, in spite of the fatigue he had undergone.
As soon as he was drest, he went to the cottage where Charles had been placed, and found him greatly recovered: he had been greatly exhausted during the storm, which had lasted longer at sea than at land: he had laboured with unceasing activity to save the ship, of which he was the commander, though he had not the rank of captain, and had not left her till all hope of her escaping was lost: he was also considerably bruised, for he would not embark in the boats, but had floated to land on a piece of timber. Rest, however, had in some measure recruited his strength, and though still languid, he hoped to be able to rise in the course of the day, and see what could be done to save his property, and that of his shipmates.
All this St. Aubyn learned from his valet, who sat by the young man, and prevented any one from approaching who might too suddenly have informed him his parents were so near.
St. Aubyn, however, now judged it proper this information should reach him: he went therefore to the little room where Charles lay—it was darkened as much as possible; and St. Aubyn sat down by his bed-side without being recognized. He inquired with great kindness for the health of the invalid, to which Charles replied he was better: "But surely," added he, "I have heard that voice before: even amid the horrors of last night, when it was so generously exerted in comforting me, and directing others for the comfort of my poor shipmates, it struck me as one deeply engraved on my memory, though I cannot recollect the name of its owner."
"It is a voice," said St. Aubyn, "you certainly have heard before: I recognize your's also, and know your name—it is Ross."
"It is, indeed," said Charles: "pray tell me your's, for it is cheering to think I am not quite amongst strangers."
"You will be convinced you are not, when I tell you my name is St. Aubyn."
"St. Aubyn?LordSt. Aubyn?"
"The same."
"Oh, how much do I owe to you!" exclaimed Charles: "I blush to remember my former ingratitude and folly."
"Speak no more of it—it is quite forgotten."
"Ah, my Lord, how good you are. But did you not say last night we were on the coast of Wales? Tell me, I beseech you, on what part of that coast. I begin to hope, knowing Lady St. Aubyn's former residence."
He paused breathless, with contending emotions.
"Lady St. Aubyn and myself," replied St. Aubyn calmly, "are on a visit to somefriendsin this neighbourhood. The storm of last night, and the hearing a ship was in distress, induced me to take out my servants and some others to see if we could be of any service to the unfortunate mariners. One of the friends we were with blessed me, and prayed that my undertaking might prosper. Her prayers were heard: they were the fervent supplication of amotherfor herson, though then she knew not nor could believe he was implicated in the danger."
"Ah! Heavens!" exclaimed Charles, "it wasmymother! Speak, my Lord, speak! Are we not at, or near Llanwyllan?"
"Be composed, and I will tell you."
"I am composed, and able to hear all."
"You are at Llanwyllan. Your father, mother, and Joanna, were obliged by the storm of last night to remain at Powis's: there I left them sleeping in peace, not knowing or imagining their son and brother was so near."
The tears ran down the cheeks of Charles, and his heart swelled high with thankfulness both to his earthly and heavenly preserver.
After a few minutes, for St. Aubyn was glad to see his emotions find a relief so desirable, and would not interrupt him, he grasped the hand which the Earl had given him, and would have said something expressive of his gratitude, but St. Aubyn prevented him by saying:
"Not a word on that score, Mr. Ross: mine was the impulse of mere humanity, and I rejoice truly that it led me to save a life so dear to friends greatly respected by me and Lady St. Aubyn. Make your mind easy. I hope in the course of the day you will be in a state to be placed beneath your father's roof; in the meantime I will prepare his mind, and those of your mother and sister, for a meeting so tender; and there is also another friend at Llanwyllan who will be glad to see you: your former playmate and youthful companion, Ellen, will rejoice in your safety. Be at rest; all will go well, and I trust even your property will go secured, for boats are already gone off to the wreck, and I have sent such persons as I can depend on, to see all that is saved protected from depredation."
"You are too good, my Lord; too good!" said Charles, quite overpowered.
"I must now leave you," said St. Aubyn: "our mutual friends will expect me, and I have an arduous task in prospect, for I dread the effect on the minds of your parents of the disclosure I must now make to them."
He now took his leave, directing every possible care to be taken of the invalid.
St. Aubyn waited till after breakfast to unfold to Ross and his wife the late events; when that meal was concluded, they talked of returning to the Parsonage, but he requested them not to go, for he had something of great consequence to tell them: he then in the gentlest and most judicious manner revealed to them the discovery of the night before, and they supported the communication better than he had expected.
The pious Ross lifted his eyes and heart to Heaven in thankfulness for his son's wonderful escape, while Mrs. Ross and Joanna sobbed upon each others bosom, and mingled tears with their expressions of joy and gratitude. Ellen dropt a tear of tender sympathy, and rejoiced, without fear of offending the no longer jealous St. Aubyn, in the safety of her early friend.
In the afternoon, Charles found himself able to rise, and St. Aubyn sent his carriage to convey him to the Parsonage, where Ellen and himself were ready to receive him, and to support the spirits of his venerable parents and tender sister.
They all bore the meeting with tolerable composure, and, the first emotions past, were eager to hear how Charles, whom they had supposed to be cruising near Gibraltar, happened to be exposed to the fury of a storm on the coast of North Wales.
He told them, that almost immediately after the date of the last letters he wrote to them, orders had been received for the return of the vessel he commanded to England, and after refitting at Falmouth to join a small squadron which was cruising off the coast of France: that on his return homeward he had fallen in with a French frigate, superior to his own in force, but which, after an obstinate battle, during which his own vessel had been much injured he had succeeded in taking; that he had put some of his own officers and men aboard the prize, and had taken some of the French and some Algerines, whom they had previously captured, on board his own ship; that the violence of the storm and the disabled state of his vessel, prevented him from making the port he wished to have done, and finally had driven him on that coast, the darkness of the night not allowing him to ascertain where-abouts he was: what was become of his prize he knew not, but as she was a better sailer than his own ship, it was probable she had reached some port on the coast of Cornwall in safety.
"And now, my dear mother," said Charles, "if we can but secure my chest, we shall find in it a snug little hoard of dollars, and a few pretty valuable jewels, which I intend to dispose of as a marriage portion for Joanna, if any body will have her," (and he glanced archly at Griffiths, whose tender solicitude about his sister had not escaped him) "and if not, I shall be entitled to a tolerable share of prize-money, for which I have fought hard, and will serve to make you and my father easy. To be sure I must stand a court-martial for the loss of his Majesty's ship, but that is only a matter of form, and I am sure that my men will bear witness I did all in my power to save her—and a pretty creature she was: I never wish to sail in a better, but she was not lost through my fault, so I must be contented."
They smiled at his sailor-like nonchalance, and were very glad to hear his sea-chest and all its contents were safely landed.
Amongst St. Aubyn's humane cares for his own countrymen, the unfortunate prisoners thus cast on a strange shore were not forgotten. He saw that their more immediate wants were supplied, and wrote to the proper persons in London to know what was to be their future lot, contenting himself in the meantime with having a slight guard kept over them; though of their attempting to escape in their present state, some wounded, all weak and helpless, there was not much probability.
One of the French captives turned out to be a Catholic priest, a venerable and respectable man, who had been for many years resident at Gibraltar, from whence, learning he might now with safety return to France, he had embarked in the vessel Charles Ross had captured, hoping to end his days where he had begun them, on the banks of the Garonne.
This circumstance had not been known till two days after the shipwreck, and the good Ross considering this unfortunate man as the servant of the same master, though speaking another language, and differing in many points of belief, had invited him to share his own table; and Mrs. Ross had, like the pious Shunamite, prepared for him "a little chamber with a bed," where he might be at rest.
On the evening of that day, the weather being extremely fine, Lady St. Aubyn and Joanna expressed a wish to walk to the sea-shore to look at the wreck, and see the place where Charles and his friends had landed.
All the more painful vestiges of the shipwreck had been removed, and the bodies of the unfortunate sailors which had floated on shore had been interred in the church-yard, where Griffiths had read the funeral service.
St. Aubyn and Charles had some little business relative to the survivors to transact, but they desired Griffiths to attend the ladies, and they would shortly follow. Mrs. Bayfield also wished to see the place where the shipwreck happened, and Ellen desired her little Constantine might go also, as she thought the sea air did him good. They set out therefore early in the evening, for the storm had cooled the air, and they wished to spend some time on the shore.
They soon reached the beach, and found the sea so calm, so beautiful, it seemed unlike the same element which had wrought such destruction the night before.
Griffiths pointed out to them the wreck, which, as it was now low water, appeared very near the shore, and shewed them the precise spot where Charles and the rest had landed.
They both shuddered and turned pale at the painful retrospection, and Joanna again expressed her thankfulness to St. Aubyn and Griffiths, whose exertions had saved them.
While they were walking up and down the beach, they met two or three of the English sailors, who were upon the look-out for any other articles the sea might have left upon the sands, and speaking to them received their thanks and blessings for the care and kindness they had experienced.
On a large piece of timber near the edge of the water sat one of the Algerines: he looked excessively weak and sickly, and as they approached him, he surveyed them with a look of gloomy despair.
"How ill that man looks," said Ellen to one of the sailors: "he seems likely to die."
"Yes, my Lady, and die he will, for he with difficulty crawled hither, he is so ill; and the woman where he lodges says he bewails himself all night, and takes no rest."
"Poor creature!" said Ellen: "he laments, doubtless, his native land, and the friends he has left behind."
"I believe, my Lady," replied the sailor, "he laments his crimes, for one of the French prisoners that speaks a little English tells me this fellow owns he has been a great sinner, and that he was bred a Christian, but renounced his religion and denied his God for the lucre of gain, amongst the Turks, and Mahometans, and such like."
"Horrible!" said Ellen: "are there such wretches?"
As she spoke, the poor miserable being approached her with feeble steps, and in French asked her if she would have the goodness to purchase a trinket he had to sell—all he had left of better days.
Ellen spoke French but imperfectly: she could read and understand it pretty well, but did not attempt to converse in it; she knew, however, what he said, and though her nature shuddered at a being of whom she had heard such a shocking account, endeavoured to answer him with civility: her voice, however, was low, and her accent not perfectly intelligible to the Algerine; and thinking she intended to accept his offer, he drew from his bosom a cross, composed of large rubies set in gold, and put it into her hand: he sighed heavily; and the sight of this ornament, which seemed to corroborate the story that this man had been bred a Christian, gave to Ellen a painful sensation: she endeavoured to make him understand that his wants should be relieved without his parting from the trinket, which she offered again to him.
At that moment Mrs. Bayfield, with the nurses and little Constantine, came towards them: she cast her eyes upon the Algerine—she trembled, again she looked; she caught the glance of his dark gloomy eyes, and the sound of his voice met her ears: instantly she exclaimed:
"Thatwretch!" and snatching the infant from his nurse, she folded him to her bosom and fled away, crying as she ran—"Come, my Lady, oh, come for God's sake! leave that monster: come, Miss Ross—run! fly! he will murder us all."
Wild and extraordinary as this panic seemed to Ellen, her feet involuntarily obeyed, and with the cross still in her hand, she suddenly fled from this poor sickly wretch, who, unable to follow, stood amazed at their apparently frantic demeanour.
Joanna and Griffiths ran after the Countess; though still no one knew the cause of this extraordinary alarm; and so eagerly did the affrighted Bayfield speed, that though encumbered with the child, and advanced as she was in years, they could not easily overtake her.
While they hastened on, each unable to account for the strange terror which had seized them all, they were met by St. Aubyn and Charles Ross, who, passing Bayfield at some little distance, were unobserved by her, and seeing Ellen and Joanna apparently terrified, ran by a shorter cut to meet them.
"What on earth has happened?" said St. Aubyn, seeing them pale and almost breathless. "Ellen! Joanna! what has happened? Has any one frightened you? Griffiths, what has alarmed them thus?"
"Indeed, my Lord," said Griffiths, "I am as ignorant as you are; the ladies were talking to the poor sick Turk on the shore, and Mrs. Bayfield on a sudden seized the child from his nurse, ran away, and called to us to follow, for we should be all murdered: Lady St. Aubyn and Joanna instantly obeyed, and I followed, but why, or what was the cause of the alarm, I am unable to imagine."
"I believe—I think," panted Ellen, "that Bayfield knew something of the man we were speaking to, for she trembled as she looked at him, and said he would murder us, or words to that effect."
"What is that in your hand, Ellen?" said St. Aubyn. "Heavenly powers! What is it?"
His limbs trembled, and he grew so pale, she thought he was fainting.
"It is a cross, my Lord," she replied, "a cross that the man—the Turk—offered to sell to me.—I forgot that I had it in my hand."
She gave it to him; he cast his eyes upon it and exclaimed:—
"That man! Where is he? Merciful heaven! Can it be!"
And suddenly recovering himself, he darted towards the place where the sick Algerine was slowly endeavouring to follow them.
"Go with him," said Ellen; "follow him, Charles; go, Mr. Griffiths: surely he cannot know this man; perhaps some mischief may ensue."
They instantly obeyed; and now Ellen and Joanna standing still and looking earnestly after St. Aubyn, saw him with the rapidity of lightning fly to the Algerine: what he said they could not hear, but with an action of the most eager impatience, they saw him with one hand tear the turban from the brow of the Turk, and with the other seized him violently by the collar, while the poor trembling wretch sunk prostrate on the ground before him. By this time Griffiths and Charles Ross had reached them. St. Aubyn spoke, and instantly they seized the Algerine, raised, or rather dragged him from the ground, but kept him from moving, though indeed to move far was not in his power.
Ellen, unable longer to restrain her impatience to learn the meaning of this scene, now hastened towards them, though trembling so much Joanna could scarcely support her. As they approached, St. Aubyn exclaimed in a voice hoarse with contending passions:—
"Come not here, my Ellen; let not purity like thine breathe the air contaminated by that monster!
"Robber! Murderer! Vile apostate from thy God!" he cried, with gestures almost frantic, to the shaking wretch before him. "The hand of vengeance has at length overtaken thee, and long and dreadful is the account thou now must render. Yes, look at me; I am the man you so deeply injured; I am St. Aubyn.
"Go, Ellen," again he cried, "leave us; Joanna, go with her; Griffiths, attend them; Charles and I are enough to secure this villain; besides here are sailors who will assist us."
Ellen obeyed in silence as fast as her terrors would permit, for now she no longer doubted of the cause of all this scene, which to Joanna and Griffiths appeared as if some sudden madness had seized first Bayfield and then St. Aubyn.