Oh the night after Ralph Woodhall's trial for treason, at the end of a lane, which at that time ran at the back of Dorchester jail, stood a man holding the bridles of two horses over his arm. From time to time he looked forward toward the prison, but more frequently kept his eyes fixed upon the ground. At length his sharp ear caught the sound of steps; and shortly after, the figures of two men appeared advancing at a quick pace. The watcher did not move from the spot, but put his hand on the hilt of his sword, and ascertained that it moved easily in the scabbard. The two men he had seen came forward rapidly, and when quite close, one of them said, "Stilling?" in an inquiring tone.
"The same, sir," said the man. "Here, fellow--here are the other two hundred pounds for you; look at it, and count it, if you will."
The third man took a bag which was held out to him, withdrew the shade of a dark lantern, and by its light examined what he had received. He soon saw that the contents of the bag were gold, and, after weighing it in his hand, seemed to be satisfied that the count must be about right.
"I dare say it's all fair," he said, "but I can not stop to count it. Good-night, sir, and good speed to you. You will be far enough by this time to-morrow, I hope."
"That he will," answered Stilling; and, drawing one of the horses forward, while the jailer closed his dark lantern and hurried rapidly away, he continued, "Let us mount and be gone, sir; we ought to be ten leagues at sea before daybreak."
Ralph sprang upon the horse's back, and in a few moments he and Gaunt Stilling were riding away from Dorchester at full speed.
The latter led the way; and very little was said by either for somewhat more than an hour end a half, when Stilling turned to his young master, saying, "We are beyond pursuit, I think, sir. Twenty minutes more will bring us to the boat's side. All is ready and arranged; and they but wait for us, to put off."
"I have much to thank you for, Stilling," replied his master; "but you must have had some assistance from others. Who has furnished you with the means to bribe these men?"
"Faith, no one furnished me with any thing for that purpose," replied Stilling; "but Lady Danvers's steward gave me five hundred pounds, to make all smooth at Bridgewater, when we were going there. I had no scruple in using it now, as I knew she would wish it used; so I paid these knaves three hundred and fifty pounds to let you out, and hired a good lugger for another hundred."
New questions and answers succeeded; and Ralph found that the cause of Stilling's never having returned to the farmhouse at the edge of Sedgemoor, when sent to obtain information, was very simple. He had fallen in with some men of the Tangier regiment, and had been carried to the quarters of Colonel Kirke. That worthy officer had thought fit to detain him, strongly suspecting that he had some design of joining the forces of Monmouth.
"I do not mean to say," continued Stilling, "that I had not a strong inclination to do so; for there was one good stroke I would fain have given in that battle. However, Kirke could prove nothing against me, except that I had made my way straight to the quarters of the king's army, which didn't suit his purpose, otherwise he would have had as much pleasure in hanging his old comrade as any of the poor rebels whom he butchered. He was forced, in the end, to let me go; and the first thing I heard was that you were in Dorchester jail. I took what measures I thought necessary, regarding the first charge against you; but I was quite unprepared for the second--and marvelous well they got it up; so I had nothing for it but to do my best to get you out after condemnation, which, knowing well all the people here in Dorchester, was no very difficult matter."
Less than half an hour more bought the two horsemen to the sea-shore at a spot where the coast was low and sandy; and after riding along for some way, they came upon a small group of fishermen's houses, where lights were still to be seen, and several persons moving about. At some little distance from the shore was a large lug sail-boat of some forty or fifty tons burden, and Ralph and his companion were instantly accosted by one or two of the fishermen, who urged them to hurry their movements, as the tide was going out.
Neither was inclined to make any long delay. Ralph sprang to the ground at once. Stilling gave the horses to one of the men, with injunctions to do with them as they had been directed before, and both entering a little row-boat which lay at the beach, were pushed off by two of the fishermen who accompanied them, and were soon safely on board the lugger. A favorable breeze was blowing, the large, heavy sails were speedily filled, and away the boat went, bounding over the waves, directing her course right toward the coast of France.
It might render the narrative more interesting, perhaps, if I could recall any hair-breadth escapes or marvelous passages in the voyage; but, alas! there were none such to chronicle. The wind was perfectly fair; the water slightly agitated, but not stormy; no king's vessels appeared, to give chase to the little craft; and the only objects they saw, except sea and sky, until they reached the French coast, were several other large fishing-boats like their own, and, just about daybreak, one man-of-war, in the far distance, with all sails set, but steering away from them. She looked like a phantom upon the waters, with her hull below the line of vision, and her sails figured faintly on the distant sky.
Toward the close of the day they reached a little French port; and doubtless it would not be very interesting to the reader to hear all the little difficulties that beset them in making their way to Holland, or how they overcame them. Suffice that they were overcome, and that Ralph and his companion crossed the frontier line in about a fortnight after they had quitted England. They made their way as rapidly as possible to Amsterdam--the Hague not being a place quite safe at that time for refugees from England. Having passed all his early life at college or in the country, Ralph Woodhall only found one person in the city with whom he had any acquaintance. This was a dry, melancholy young man, who had been at Cambridge with him for some time, but had abandoned the Church of England, and adopted the views of the most extreme Calvinists. He was kind in his own way, and Ralph was in need of kindness; but the views of this fellow-collegian were so different from his own that there could be no great companionship between them; and certainly the young Dissenter's conversation was not at all likely to lighten the load of care for any man.
Gaunt Stilling, on the contrary, found numerous acquaintances among the English who had taken refuge at Amsterdam. But both Gaunt Stilling and his master had too many dark and gloomy chambers in the palace of the breast to be willing to admit many to their intimacy. Ralph Woodhall, on his arrival at the Dutch capital, it must be recollected, was in no degree aware that a pardon had been obtained for him in regard to the crime of high treason with which he had been charged; nor did he know that Lord Woodhall, satisfied with his innocence, had ceased to pursue him for the murder of his son. Condemned for one offense which he had never committed; liable to be tried the moment he returned for another of which he was equally innocent; and, moreover, charged with a third, which was little less heinous in the eyes of the court than murder or treason, he saw nothing before him but a long and hopeless exile, the loss of all bright prospects, and the vanishing of all his dreams of love. At the same time, gnawing care preyed upon him. It may easily be supposed that he carried no great sum of money with him. Almost all he possessed had been expended in the prison; the fifty pounds which remained in Gaunt Stilling's hands from the money given by Lady Danvers was nearly exhausted, and coming want stared him in the face. Many an anxious consultation did he hold with Gaunt Stilling as to what was to be done in the circumstances in which they were placed; and but little comfort did he get from the servant, of a kind that could be at all available. Stilling's reply always was, "Oh, you will have money soon, sir, from England, and so shall I. I have taken care to let the people know where we are, and they won't leave us destitute. Your father will take care of you, and I have friends who will look out for me."
"But I can not and will not bear to be a burden upon my father," replied Ralph; "I must seek out some employment here, in the service of the state as a soldier, or in any other capacity for which I may be suited. Methinks I will go to the Hague and see the Prince of Orange. I can show him that I have had no share in this mad insurrection of Monmouth's, and prove my innocence pretty well of all other crime. I have letters, also, for several gentlemen at the Hague from the Duke of Norfolk, and doubtless they will use their influence to obtain for me some employment."
"Wait a little, sir--wait a little," was Gaunt Stilling's reply; "we shall hear something from England soon. There is news that must be sent to me, and that speedily. In the letter that brings them, we shall most likely hear more of those in whom you take an interest."
He was not wrong in his anticipations. Ten days had hardly passed when several letters reached Amsterdam for Ralph, and two for Gaunt Stilling. Ralph's intelligence was joyful on all points but one. The letters conveyed to him information that a full pardon had been obtained for him on the charge of treason; that a nolle prosequi had been entered by the attorney general in regard to the charge for murder; and that Lord Woodhall was fully convinced, from evidence that had been laid before him, of his innocence of the death of Henry Woodhall. But it seemed, from the tenor of all the letters, that a charge still hung over his head of having comforted and assisted a Nonconformist clergyman, and attended a Dissenting conventicle, which might subject him, if he returned unadvisedly, to lengthened imprisonment. Several passages in these letters were somewhat obscure; for his father, by whom one was written, did not seem to be aware that he had made his escape without any knowledge of the pardon, and Hortensia, who wrote to him likewise, though she appeared to have comprehended at once how his flight to Holland had been effected, alluded to the painful and unhappy circumstances in which he was placed in terms which he thought hardly applicable to the mere chance of his being tried for a very inferior offense.
A third letter, which surprised him much, was from his cousin, Lord Coldenham. It was written in a frank, but not cheerful vein, congratulating him on his escape from death, but urging him strongly to return to England immediately. It assigned no motives on the part of the young lord himself for pressing this point so strongly; but the concluding words of the letter were, "For the sake of your own best interests, Ralph--for the sake of your dearest hopes--come, and come directly."
The effect of the intelligence he received upon his mind was to render him thoughtful, but not sad; and he was still hesitating in some degree how he should act, for his father's letter contained a remittance which enabled him to act freely, when Gaunt Stilling joined him with an expression of countenance which puzzled the young gentleman a good deal. His brow was contracted with a heavy frown, but his eyes were bright and sparkling, and there was a quivering sort of eagerness about his lip at every word he spoke, which betrayed no inconsiderable agitation within.
"Well, sir, what news?" he said, abruptly.
Ralph gave him a summary of the intelligence he had received, and the man laughed rather wildly, saying, "Ay--is that all? better news than mine."
"I am sorry to hear that you have had bad tidings," replied Ralph; "I hope they are not of a very serious character."
"Family matters--family matters," answered Gaunt Stilling, walking twice up and down the room. "The old man is ill, and well he may be--a bad complaint, sir--a broken heart."
"I have just been pondering, Stilling," said Ralph, "whether it would be better or not for me to return to England at once. My cousin, Lord Coldenham, urges me strongly to do so, and if I do, we can go together."
"Let me go first, sir," said Gaunt Stilling, quickly and eagerly. "You shall soon hear more from me or of me--more than all the rest have told you, I'll answer for it. As for myself, I must go, and this very day. See what there is written to me;" and he put in Ralph's hand a letter containing the following few words:
"Come back instantly. You are wanted here at once, for the great work which must be done at length. I have refrained too long. I will hesitate no longer.Moraber."
"This is strange," said Ralph, returning the letter.
"Not so strange as some tidings in this letter, sir," said Gaunt Stilling, striking lightly the other he held in his hand. "However, before I go, let me ask you one question, sir, which is of more importance than you may think. I am very bold; but you will pardon me. Are you to be married, as men say, to Lady Danvers?"
"Not the most remote chance of it," replied Ralph. "Have you too, Stilling, been deceived by appearances, the deceitfulness of which none could judge better? Neither Lady Danvers nor myself ever dreamed of such a thing. She knows my heart too well, Stilling."
"Thank you, sir--thank you," said Gaunt Stilling, warmly; "and now good-by."
"But is there such great haste?" said Ralph; "I would fain have an hour or two's time for consideration as to whether I had better accompany you or not."
"Better stay where you are, sir," replied Stilling, "for the present, at least. I would not stop one hour after having received this letter for more than King James could give. I owe this man, sir, a deep debt of gratitude, which must be paid in whatever way he chooses."
"Besides," added Ralph, "I am deeply your debtor, Stilling, and I would fain do something, however little is in my power."
"Never mind that, sir," said Stilling, slowly inclining his head with a very significant gesture; "all debts, to me and from me, will soon be paid. Fare you well, sir; may God speed you better when I have gone from you than you have sped while I have been with you;" and, without further leave-taking, he turned and quitted the room.
There was something very remarkable in his manner, a sort of sharp, wild abruptness, which, in all the variations of his mood, and they had been many, Ralph had never remarked before. He mused over the matter for a moment or two, but we are too apt to look upon the signs of suppressed passion in others as matters of no moment, not seeming to comprehend that where emotion is so strong as to carry with it a sense of the necessity of concealing it, the very temporary resistance with which it meets only seems to concentrate its power, and it bursts forth at length in act because it was denied expression in words.
After thinking over the character and conduct of Gaunt Stilling for a few minutes in silence, Ralph dismissed the subject from his mind, and returned to other thoughts. He wrote to his father, to Hortensia, and to Margaret, without much hope, indeed, of finding an opportunity to forward the letter to her in safety and with secrecy. He wrote, too, to Lord Woodhall, repeating his assurance that he had never drawn his sword against his cousin Henry, and buoying himself up with false and flattering hopes that Margaret might still be his. To Hortensia and his father, he judged it necessary, from the ambiguous expression in their letters, to give a detailed account of his escape, as far as it could be done without committing any of the persons engaged in it, and assuring them both that he had never heard of the pardon till the morning on which he wrote. Lord Coldenham's letter he reserved for further consideration; and a gleam of peaceful hope seemed to break upon him once more, after so many had passed away, overshadowed as soon as seen.
Ormebar Castle presented a gay and festive scene--such as had not been beheld within its walls since the time of the first Charles. A number of the neighboring nobility and gentry had been invited to pass a few days there, in a sport already beginning to fall into disuse, although it had been revived for a short time by the favor of Charles the Second. A mew had long been attached to the castle; and the hawks of Ormebar were famous throughout the country. The merry monarch himself had even considered the present of a couple of pair of well-reclaimed birds of that breed as a great gift; and a grand hawking party at Ormebar was sure to attract all that was gay and graceful in the county. Two facts were remarked as strange by the guests: that the young Lord Coldenham was not present at the castle, for which various unsatisfactory reasons were assigned; and that Margaret Woodhall, publicly announced as the affianced bride of her cousin Robert--though in the castle with her father, and appearing occasionally at meal-time in the hall--shared not in any of the sports or amusements which were going on, and when seen, came with a pale cheek and sorrowful brow, self-involved in her own thoughts, and smiling not at the gayest jests or most pleasant amusements. She seemed to take no interest in any thing. She hardly appeared to notice aught around her. She looked like a person walking in a dream, and that a sad one; and vain was every effort to call her attention, or to awaken her interest. Lady Coldenham for several days seemed to take no heed of this conduct--let it pass as if it were undeserving a thought; but at length, one day, as Margaret sat alone in her room, the imperious woman entered, and seated herself with an air of proud disdain.
"I come," she said, "to inquire what you mean, my pretty cousin, by your treatment of my son."
"Me, madam," said Margaret, gazing at her with a look of abhorrence; "I have no particular meaning in my conduct."
"Then I wish you would have," replied Lady Coldenham, bitterly; "and a very different meaning from that which every one puts upon your demeanor. I wish you would mean to please your promised husband--to show him some sort of courtesy, if not respect."
Margaret was roused. "Respect!" she said; "what should I respect in Robert Woodhall?"
"You should respect him whom you have promised to marry," said Lady Coldenham; "you should respect the house from which he springs."
"My promise to marry him," replied Margaret, with cold calmness, "was cruelly wrung from me in a moment of the greatest agony. It is sufficient that I keep it, without exacting more. He can not make me more than his slave. Knowing that I abhorred him, he persisted in a suit which he ought to have felt could only make me abhor him more--obtained from my poor father, by what means I know not, a solemn promise that I should be his--instigated my father to take advantage of the most terrible circumstances to obtain a pledge from me. And now, Lady Coldenham, my father will redeem his vow. I will redeem my pledge. My hand shall be his; the estates, which he covets more than my hand, will be his likewise; but ask nothing further. My heart never can be his--my esteem, my respect, my love, he can never obtain."
"Impudent girl!" exclaimed Lady Coldenham; "this to his mother?"
"Ay, to any one, to every one, to all who question me on the subject," answered Margaret. "I am no longer the timid child whom you once knew, to quail at your presence, and to shrink from your proud eye. You and yours have taken from me all hope and all fear. You have strengthened me by misery. You have made life valueless--death a blessing to be coveted, and not far off, I trust. My father has brought me here, Lady Coldenham, against my will; but I trust at least that the privacy of my own chamber will be allowed to me."
"Good! mighty good!" cried Lady Coldenham, with a scornful laugh. "Now mark me, Mistress Margaret Woodhall, we will tame you a little. You seek, I know, to put off this marriage till the latest possible hour; but as we find that kindness has no effect upon you, we will try sterner measures. We will not allow you to trifle with us; the marriage shall take place soon--immediately."
"That will be as my father shall decide," replied Margaret, in as calm a tone as before. "I have always held that a man, doomed to die, shows himself a coward if he attempts to put off his execution for a moment. You have made me brave, Lady Coldenham; you can not frighten me."
"Ha, ha!" said the old lady, rising with an air of triumph; "lucky that no compulsion will be needed;" and she passed majestically out of the room.
Well might she triumph, for the object of her visit to Margaret was attained with less difficulty than she had expected. No opposition had been shown to a speedy marriage, and she hastened to Lord Woodhall to tell him that his daughter consented.
The old man could hardly believe his ears; but the assurance of Lady Coldenham was strong, and she told him, with a slight gloss, what had passed between her and Margaret.
Robert Woodhall came to her aid, seeming to understand his mother's schemes almost by intuition. Between them both, they soon obtained Lord Woodhall's consent that a very early day should be fixed, and preparations were immediately begun.
Margaret bore up well when the public eye was upon her. She quailed not, she wavered not; no tear was seen to dim her eyelids; not a word of opposition did she utter. Her character seemed to be entirely changed. The frank, simple, timid girl, blooming in rich health, and agitated by manifold emotions, was now the cold, grave, firm, decided woman--pale as monumental marble, and unmoved by any of the passing things of life. A petrifying hand had touched her--that of despair, and she was indeed no longer the same.
Robert Woodhall saw it all--understood it all. But he had no pity: he rejoiced.
Margaret was more alone than ever. She seldom, when she could avoid it, quitted her own room. She left to others all preparations, and only stipulated that the marriage should be performed by the good Irish clergyman who had been for so many years her father's chaplain--who had known her mother, and been the friend of her childhood. She knew that he had many faults; but she knew that he had many virtues too, and she thought that his familiar face would be a comfort and a support to her.
She was sitting alone one day in a little chamber communicating with her bed-room, while all the family and guests were absent on some gay occasion at Dorchester, when her maid announced to her that Doctor M'Feely had come to visit her.
"Bring him hither--bring him hither," cried Margaret, with the first appearance of eagerness she had displayed for many a day. "Here we shall not be interrupted, and I want much to speak with him."
In two minutes more, Doctor M'Feely, with his portly person and buoyant step, swung into the room, and, taking her hands in his, exclaimed, "Ah, my dear child--my dear young lady, that is--I am glad to see you again, but not to see you looking so. Bother it, Mistress Margaret, they have worried all the color out of your cheeks. They used to bloom like a couple of roses in a summer's day, but now they are like lilies in the shade. Well, man's a curious beast! I would not have had a hand in withering those roses to be Archbishop of Canterbury."
"The stem on which they grew will soon wither too," said Margaret, sadly. "The tree is dead at the heart, doctor, and can never bloom again."
"Don't say that, Mistress Margaret--don't say that, my dear child," cried the good parson; "that's just what I came to see you about, with just the least possible hope that one way or another--what between representations and denunciations--oh, that I were but a Roman Catholic, and believed in transubstantiation; wouldn't I curse them from the altar, and put a great seal upon them!--but, as I was saying, I do think something might be done; though what the foul fiend, the man intends to do, I don't know; for your father seems to me like a rock; and as to Robert Woodhall, he is mischief itself, and the more he thinks he vexes you, the more he'll do it. Couldn't you get up early one moonlight morning, my darling, and just make a run of it? There's a young man on the other side of the water who would be glad enough to hold you to his heart, and I'd go over and marry you to prevent mischief."
"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Margaret, clasping her hands wildly. "Oh forbear, forbear, my good friend! No," she continued, "my father has called down the curse of God upon his head if he does not give me to Robert Woodhall. I have consented, in order to save poor Ralph's life; and I will be honest. I will keep my word, though it kill me."
"Ay, but wasn't that word cheated out of you, my darling?" asked the parson, earnestly. "Did they not persuade you that poor Ralph had killed your brother Harry? If they did, I can show you in this paper here that it was one of the biggest lies that ever was told. I may show you the paper, dear Mistress Margaret; for, though it was given to me in confidence--sub sigillo confessionis, as I should say if I were a Romanist--God help the benighted people, and the king at the back of them--I was permitted by the letter to bring it forward, if they tried Ralph for the murder, and to show it to you if need be. Now I say I can prove from this--"
"No need--no need," replied Margaret, laying her hand upon his arm. "There is only one thing you can do for me, and that I wish you much to do. I have never been deceived in regard to Ralph's innocence of my brother's death--I have always done him justice; but I want you to tell him, Doctor M'Feely--I want you to tell him hereafter" (and the tears rolled plentifully down her face) "that Margaret loved him to the last hour she was permitted to love any one on earth. At the altar I renounce all earthly love. The ceremony might as well be my funeral as my marriage, for it consigns my heart to the tomb, and leaves my spirit only to seek its Maker. Thank God, I have wept again! I believe these tears will save my reason."
The good clergyman wept too--wept like a child; but in the midst of his tears, he kept feeling in his pocket till he brought forth an unsealed letter, from the midst of which he took out another paper. "But what answer do you mean to give to this man?" he asked, totally forgetting that poor Margaret knew not who the man was. "He's a strange creature, and deals with the devil, I've little doubt. I spent a couple of hours with him one day, and he told me all manner of things--a learned man, too. I was his match in Latin, but he beat me to mud in Greek; and as to Hebrew and Arabic, Lord ha' mercy upon us!"
"Who--who?" cried Margaret; "do you mean Moraber?"
"Oh, ay, just Moraber," answered the parson; "Moraber's his surname, and Devil, I suppose, is his Christian name, though not a very Christian name either. But here--see what he writes to you here; for I take it for granted it's intended for you, because he told me to give it you;" and he spread out the inner paper before Margaret's eyes.
"Misguided girl!" the paper ran, "you have nearly destroyed your own happiness forever, for want of truth and confidence. Did I not tell you to be true and faithful to the last, and your happiness would be secure? Write me down an answer to these questions:
"Do you still love him whom you loved first?
"Has your heart never swerved from him through vanity, lightness, or caprice?
"Was it solely to save his life that you consented to wed a man whom, if there be any honesty in the heart of woman, you are bound to hate?
"Answer at once, and answer truly."
"Here's a pen and ink, darling," said Doctor M'Feely, bringing the implements for writing from a distant table. "I'll take it upon me that you can answer all the questions handsomely enough; and the man says something about a hope, in his letter to me--though how the devil he found me out, or his little spalpeen of a boy in blue and silver either, I can't tell. He can't have an optic glass that will look all the way from Lincolnshire to Cerne Abbas--to say nothing of the corners it would have to look round."
"I will answer truly at all events," replied Margaret, "be there hope or no hope;" and, taking the pen, she wrote rapidly, "I love him ever. No feeling of my heart has ever swerved from him. It was solely to save his life that I consented to wed a man whom I do hate. This is all true, so help me Heaven at my utmost need."
"There, Doctor M'Feely," she said, "give him that. But it is all in vain. You know the marriage is appointed for Friday next."
"Friday!" said the doctor; "that's an unlucky day, my dear; I never knew any one married on Friday in all my life."
"There never before was such a bridal," said Margaret. "Unlucky! Oh, Doctor M'Feely, if they chose the most unlucky day in all the calendar, they had hardly found one black enough to fit my wedding. I will not be married in mourning," she said, "for it would grieve my father; but I will have no bridal finery; I will not affect to rejoice while my heart is dying."
"Well, I think it would have been but civil," said the doctor, "to have let me know about the Friday."
"Doubtless you will hear of it to-day," replied Margaret. "Originally the day was fixed for the Monday after, but something seems to have affected Lady Coldenham strangely, and she has urged my father to curtail even the short space allowed. To me it is indifferent what is the day of execution. Doubtless Jane Grey shrunk from the block and ax, as I shrink from the altar and the ring; but she met her fate firmly, and so will I. Hark! there is a halloo in the fields; they are coming back. Take the paper, but say I have no hope; that my fate is sealed. Remember to tell Ralph what I have said; and bid him think of me as one dead; for to every thing that makes existence life, I must be dead from the moment the ring is upon my finger."
After a few words more, Doctor M'Feely left her; and in less than a quarter of an hour, the house, so lately silent and solitary, was full of gay sounds and heedless laughter, jarring painfully with the thoughts of the melancholy tenant of that solitary room. Indeed, it seemed as if the whole party, with the exception of Lord Woodhall, had determined to leave the poor girl to her own imaginations. No one came to console or support her; no one even attempted to cheer her by conversation, or to withdraw her from her sad and lonely state. Her father did come to see her, and strove to speak cheerfully; but there was a silent reproach in his daughter's deep gloom which sent him ever away with a heart depressed, and a consciousness that he had destroyed the peace of his only remaining child.
There were horses and carriages at the door of Ormebar Castle. The court-yard was crowded with servants in all kinds of livery. Lady Coldenham had resolved that the marriage should not want witnesses; and every one of noble blood in the county had been invited. One or two, who had been there the preceding week, asked, as they arrived, whether Lord Coldenham had returned; and though the answer was no, they did not much marvel, for Lady Coldenham was so completely monarch in her own family, that no one could expect she would make any alteration in her arrangements for the pleasure or convenience of a son.
The great hall was thrown open on that inauspicious morning, and richly decorated with evergreens and the few flowers which still lingered after the year's brighter part had passed away. Not less than forty or fifty people were assembled in that hall; but none of the family yet appeared among them, with the exception of Robert Woodhall, who had entered the room, remained for a few minutes, and retired again, explaining that some deeds and other writings had to be signed in the small room hard by, where Lady Coldenham usually received her guests. It is to that room which we must, in the first place, turn our eyes, before we relate what occurred afterward in the hall when the party was setting out for the wedding.
It was a handsome and beautifully decorated chamber, nearly square, with a highly-ornamented ceiling of black oak. It was called in those days the little withdrawing-room, but was at least thirty feet in length, and seven or eight-and-twenty in width. A large table was placed in the middle of the room, and at it was seated old Lady Coldenham, in a large armchair. She was richly attired, and looked in her stern dignity like a queen upon her throne. She had become awfully pale, however, during the last few weeks. The delicate blending of color in her cheek was gone, and the flesh looked not like marble, but wax.
Old Lord Woodhall was seated near, with a nervous, anxious, apprehensive expression of countenance. Two or three lawyers were further down the table, with a number of parchments before them. Robert Woodhall and two of his gay friends, somewhat older than himself--loose, debauched men, with that weak, supercilious expression of countenance which almost always gathers upon the face after a life of promiscuous licentiousness--stood at a little distance from the table on Lord Woodhall's right, while Margaret appeared behind, near a window, leaning heavily on the arm of Hortensia Danvers--the only bridemaid she had chosen, and whom she had persisted in choosing, notwithstanding a cold sneer from Lady Coldenham, and some opposition on the part of the poor girl's father. Hortensia was in a blaze of beauty, and magnificently attired. Her bright eyes were flashing with light, her brow slightly contracted, her beautifully chiseled nostrils expanding like those of a proud horse, and her fine arching lip quivering with feelings of indignation that hardly could be repressed. Her arm passed across her waist, and her hand rested upon poor Margaret's, as she leaned upon her, with a fond and comforting pressure; but her eyes were turned forward toward Lord Woodhall and Lady Coldenham, and seemed to express wonder as well as disgust. Behind her and Margaret stood their two maids, and the faithful old attendant of the unhappy bride often put her handkerchief to her eyes, which bore marks of many tears.
Some conversation took place between the persons seated at the table regarding the contents of the documents before them. There were some points which Lord Woodhall seemed not to comprehend easily, and which the lawyers did not explain clearly.
At length, however, after some minutes had passed in question and answer, the old lord seemed to grow impatient. "Well, give me the pen," he cried; "it does not much matter. I dare say it is all right;" and in a bold, dashing manner, which hardly covered the trembling of his hand, he wrote the word "Woodhall."
"Now, my lady," said one of the lawyers, addressing Lady Coldenham, "you will have the goodness to sign this paper, and your son will sign below."
A slight shade of hesitation seemed to pass across Lady Coldenham's face; and though she took the pen and dipped it in the ink, she held it suspended for a moment ere she wrote her name. The noise, perhaps, of the opening door, which was a little behind her on the left, hurried the act, and the paper was signed.
Robert Woodhall had already advanced to write his name after his mother's, and had received the pen from Lady Coldenham's hand. But at that moment Lord Coldenham himself came forward, and put his brother aside, saying, "Stop a moment, sir."
His tone was so stern and decided that Robert drew back, and Lady Coldenham fixed her eyes upon her eldest son with an expression of fierce but yet apprehensive inquiry, as one may see a chained eagle, when menaced by a child's cane, gaze at him, ready to strike, yet watchful for the blow.
"Nonsense, Coldenham, no trash just now!" cried Robert Woodhall, with an affected laugh.
"Trash, sir!" said Lord Coldenham, in a stern and bitter tone, which he had never assumed in his life before; "do you suppose that I would jest even at a moment like this? I ask you, madam," he continued, turning to his mother, "is this to go on? There stands a poor girl, driven by hard usage to marry a man whom she detests. This marriage has been hurried rapidly forward for fear of the appearance of certain unpleasant impediments. Though I wrote from a distant part of the country, it would seem either that it was not understood how much I knew--or that it was believed I could not get here in time--or that I was supposed to be so base and mean as to conceal facts detrimental to myself which could be beneficial to others. I am here, madam. Those who have so judged me are mistaken. I ask you again, is this to go on?"
"Yes!" said Lady Coldenham, between her closed teeth, grasping tightly the arm of her chair. "Yes, serpent!"
"It shall go on, so help me Heaven!" cried Lord Woodhall; "I have pledged my honor and my word, and no power on earth can shake me. She shall be his, if I live three hours longer. I will not live perjured and forsworn."
"Yes, generous brother," said Robert Woodhall, "it shall go on. That I will maintain with my voice and with my sword."
"Your sword!" said Lord Coldenham, with a bitter sneer. "Those who rest upon that had better ask Sedgemoor of its glory--But tell me, sir, what name are you going to sign to that paper?"
"My own, of course," replied the young man.
"And what is your own?" asked his brother.
"Forbear! forbear!" shrieked Lady Coldenham.
"Forbear!--Have you forborne?" said her son, sternly; and then, turning to Margaret, he took her hand kindly, saying, "Margaret, my dear cousin, I ask you, shall this go on? I tell you, you are in no degree bound to that young man; that he is not what he seems; that he stands before you there, a lie. Speak one word, and I will end it all. I tell you, you are not bound to him."
"I am bound by my promise to my father," replied Margaret, in a low, still, solemn voice.
Lord Woodhall's face had been becoming redder and more red; and as his daughter answered, he exclaimed, "And I say she shall marry him, be he who or what he may;" and he added a fearful oath.
"Well, then, without there!" cried Lord Coldenham, raising his voice high, and the door was immediately partly opened.
"You can not go in there, sir," said a voice, in quick accents, without; "we are ordered to keep every one out but the family."
"Out of my way, knaves!" said a loud, rich, powerful voice, which echoed round and round the room. "Learn that I am master here!" and, at the same moment, the door flew wide open, and two of Lady Coldenham's servants were cast headlong into the room.
Following them, with a firm, calm step, and a brow stern and gloomy, came a man of some sixty years of age, above the ordinary height, powerful in frame, and dignified in carriage. He was richly though somewhat darkly attired, and in his hand he carried a large roll of paper.
All eyes turned in that direction, and Lady Coldenham's with the rest. She uttered no word--no scream; but a low groan escaped her, and her eyes closed.
A multitude of questions were asked, and sudden exclamations uttered.
"Why, that is the old man we saw in Lincolnshire," cried Robert Woodhall.
"God bless my life! why, I recollect you quite well, Sir Robert," said one of the old lawyers sitting at the table.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded old Lord Woodhall, almost fiercely.
"That woman's husband!" replied Moraber, pointing to Lady Coldenham, "otherwise Sir Robert Hardwicke, of Ormebar Castle. Take her away. She has fainted, as well she may, at the sight of one who has forborne too long."
"But you were supposed dead," said the lawyer who had before spoken; "she married under a false impression. She thought you had been killed by the Moors on the coast of Africa."
"She knew that I was a slave of the Moors," replied Sir Robert Hardwicke, "and she amused me with hopes of ransom for three long years after she had married Lord Coldenham, as these loving letters will testify. Then, indeed, she thought me dead; for I discovered the fraud, and suffered the tale of my death in captivity to go forth."
"Then I am Lord Coldenham," exclaimed Robert, with a disgusting laugh of exultation; "for I was born more than four years after my mother's marriage."
"Not so," replied Sir Robert Hardwicke, seating himself in the chair from which Lady Coldenham had just been removed; "your mother's marriage was a fraud, and, as such, invalid altogether."
"We will have proof of that," said Robert Woodhall.
"Were these letters not proof," answered the other, gravely, "the fact of her having a monument erected to a man whom she knew to be living, and having buried therein a wooden figure, pretending it to be a corpse brought from beyond sea, would, methinks, be sufficient. I tell you, sir, and I tell all, that you are simply Robert Ratcliffe--the natural son of Catharine Ratcliffe, Lady Hardwicke, by the Earl of Coldenham. Now let us see whether Lord Woodhall will marry his only child to you or not."
"He promised her to me without reservation," cried Robert, vehemently. "He did it for services I performed to him, unconnected with my birth. He took God to witness--he pledged his honor and his faith--"
"And I will keep them sacredly!" cried Lord Woodhall, after an instant's hesitation. "Margaret, there stands your husband: let us end this scene. The clergyman is waiting. The guests are all prepared. Shuffle those parchments to the dogs. My heiress can build up a new family. It was not his fault if his mother played the fool!"
Margaret pressed her hand upon her brow, for a momentary hope had risen up in her breast but to be extinguished. Lord Woodhall, however, grasped her arm, saying, "Come on."
"Leave her with me, my lord," said Hortensia, sadly; "you go on with him; we will follow."
"Come on, then, Robert," said the old lord, taking the young man's arm. "Sir Robert Hardwicke, we leave you and your wife's eldest son to finish as you please the fine scene you have arranged this day. This one, at least, I will take care of."
"So be it!" said Moraber. "But methinks, in courtesy, I must grace the wedding, seeing it is so joyful a one. Lead on, my lord; and, if the bride comes living from the altar, we will still feast the gay company here, in this place, where one happy marriage was celebrated some thirty years ago. Lead on, my lord, I say."
"I will so," replied Lord Woodhall, sharply. "Come, Margaret: follow close behind."
Thus saying, he walked on with Robert Woodhall, throwing wide the door which led into the great hall beyond.
Margaret followed with a faint step, and a hand which Hortensia felt trembling on her arm.
Lady Danvers whispered to her eagerly, and her last words were, "At the altar--at the very altar! He has no claim; your promise is not to him; you promised to wed Robert Woodhall, not this man."
But still Margaret moved on.
The gay company in the hall separated, making a sort of lane as the bridal party passed, and several voices said, "Health and happiness to the bride and bridegroom!"
But the cheek of Robert Woodhall, which had been flushed with excitement, turned deadly pale a moment or two after he had entered the hall. What was it produced the change? and why did his eyes stare so fixedly forward? There was nothing in the way to the hall door but an old man and a young one. But that young man was taking a step forward, and the old one tried to hold him back in vain.
"Robert Ratcliffe, you are a knave, a liar, a villain, a cheat, a traitor!" said Gaunt Stilling, approaching close to him and striking him a blow.
The ladies scattered back in terror; the gentlemen gazed in surprise without interfering; and Robert, after an instant's hesitation, laid his hand upon his sword and drew it. The moment it was done, Gaunt Stilling's sword was crossed with his blade.
Lord Woodhall and Robert's brother beat up the weapons ere two passes had been exchanged; but as they did so, Robert Woodhall fell back upon the pavement; and then Gaunt Stilling thrust his sword into the sheath, and dropped his hands by his side, for any one to take him who would.
The confusion that succeeded was indescribable. Some rushed round the fallen man and raised him up, gazing on his face, or striving to stanch the bleeding of a small wound on the right side, which would have seemed of no great importance, had not the torrent of gore which poured from it told how deep the avenging blade had gone. Those who gazed upon his face soon saw that the attempt to keep in the flood of life was vain. The unhappy young man's eyes rolled in his head; but they were meaningless--lifeless. Their motion was merely convulsive, as probably were also the gasping efforts he made as if to speak.
Others rushed upon his slayer and seized him roughly, while Stilling's father approached slowly and exclaimed, "Oh, my son, what have you done?"
To the latter he answered sternly, "Avenged my sister, old man--avenged her whom he deceived, and wronged, and killed by falsehood. The serpent, whom your weak compliance with his mother's fraud warmed into venomous power, stung your own child to the death, and your other child has crushed him."
Then turning sharply upon those who had laid hands upon him, he shook them off, saying, "What need to seize a man who seeks not to escape--who is neither ashamed of the deed he has done, nor afraid of its consequences? Stand back, and let me look upon the villain!" and, striding forward, he gazed upon the face of Robert Woodhall, while the dead man's brother supported the flaccid form partly on his knee, and Sir Robert Hardwicke held his hand upon the pulse.
"Ay, young rebel," said Gaunt Stilling, looking sternly in his face, "I warned thee; but thou wouldst not be warned: thou hadst timely notice to forbear--thou hadst timely notice to keep thy word with my poor Kate. But thou must wed a great lady, must thou? Thou must have the broad lands of Woodhall. Thou must leave Kate Stilling to die of grief and shame, after having poisoned her mind against father and brother. But I warned thee--I warned thee long ago; and thou didst contrive, too, to make me take the life of thy noble cousin--believing that one who bore the name of Woodhall was bold enough to fight his rival manfully, and not to put the peril upon another. That is the only thing I regret in life. You stare," he continued sharply, turning to one of the guests; "do you suppose that, standing here, and seeing him be there--a piece of carrion--with his soul fresh flown to another world, whither I must soon follow to stand before the same judgment seat, that I feel the least regret, remorse, or shame for having sent him thither? No, man, no. I am proud of the deed--Society is my debtor--God has taken vengeance by my hand; and only timely did it come. Look at that lady there," and he pointed to Margaret, who stood trembling like an aspen leaf hard by, "trapped to his snares by the most deceitful artifices--loathing him, yet bound to him by lie-obtained promises--on the point of sacrificing happiness, and life itself, rather than break her plighted word. Look at that old man," and he pointed to Lord Woodhall, "whose heart would have been one everlasting curse--a core of fire in his bosom, if he had been suffered to drag his daughter to the altar to unite her fate to that reprobate. These have I saved by that one blow; but not only these. All you around me owe me much. From such a pitiful villain as this--from such a dark and secret plotter, who did his blackest deeds by other men's hands, no heart is safe, no home is sacred. Hark you, Robert Ratcliffe! I come after you very speedily. Prepare to meet me before the throne of the great Judge--the God who judges the heart, and knows whether mine has been upright and honest, even in this last deed. To Him I appeal my cause; let Him judge between me and thee."
He spoke so vehemently, with such a rapid flow of words and sternness of aspect, that no one even dreamed of interrupting him. All seemed horror-struck--paralyzed, as it is called, by the terrible event which had just taken place and the strong passion of the young man's demeanor.
At length, however, Sir Robert Hardwicke spoke, letting drop Robert Ratcliffe's hand lifeless from his own. "Thou speakest to the dead, unhappy young man," he said. "For many years thou didst my bidding well in every thing. Alas! why didst thou not obey unto the end? But it was thy fate: in vain I sent thee to a foreign land--the doom was to be fulfilled."
"It was my fate," answered Gaunt Stilling, "and I thank God for it! Now take me hence. Put me where you will. I know what I have to undergo, and I will meet it as a man. This heart may throb as if it would burst, but it shall never quail."
They laid hands upon him gently, and led him away unresisting. The corpse of Robert Ratcliffe was taken up by the servants, and removed quietly to another chamber. The guests gazed strangely upon each other; and those the least familiar with the family began to drop away one by one, begging to be excused to Lady Coldenham. These words of ceremony had been repeated once or twice to her eldest son, who had merely bowed coldly, till one flippant woman added, with an inquiring air, "though we have not had the honor of seeing her ladyship."
"There is no such person as Lady Coldenham," said the young man, impatiently; and the news was whispered round that Lady Coldenham was dead, but that this strange family had been going to celebrate the marriage even while she lay a corpse in the house.
There was more truth in the rumor than rumors usually have; for Lady Coldenham never woke completely from the terrible fit of fainting into which she had fallen. She once made an effort, as if to get up from the bed on which they had laid her; and one of the servants raised her suddenly; but she instantly fell back, and expired without a word. This event had already taken place when her son spoke, but he knew it not; and, turning his eyes from the departing guests, he looked round for one who had greatly moved his interest that day.
Margaret was seated by this time in a distant corner of the room, with her head leaning on Hortensia's shoulder, and her handkerchief pressed upon her eyes. The young man approached her kindly (while another and another of the guests took their departure in silence), and said, "Be comforted, Margaret--be comforted, my dear cousin--for you are still my cousin Margaret. These are sad and terrible scenes for a young and gentle thing like you; but you have borne yourself nobly and well; and I trust a better Lord Coldenham will console and repay you for all you have suffered on his account."
Margaret started, and gazed in his face.
"Ay, Margaret!" he said. "In the common course of events, Ralph Woodhall will soon be Lord Coldenham, as his father now is. For myself, I am so no longer; and what will become of me I know not. My mother's small property will but be sufficient for herself; but I have my sword unstained, and my heart unburdened, and I too can carve a way for myself in the world."
"Young man," said a voice close to him, while a hand was laid upon his arm, "I have not put you to these bitter trials without motive. You are my son, if you will be so, and heir of all that I possess. Your mother I once loved well, till her imperious temper drove me forth to wander over the world. In her ambition she soon forgot and hated me. I became a captive, a slave, a favorite, a rich merchant, as is often the case in Eastern lands. The liberty which she would not seek for me, I repurchased by my own industry and skill. This estate of Ormebar, good as it is in these lands, is but small to what I possess. If you have lost rank and station, with me you may find affluence and peace; and I promise you, after all I have seen of your noble conduct in such trying circumstances, that you shall ever find the affection of a parent also."
The young man grasped his hand, but bent his head, and something like a tear stained his cheek.
Old Lord Woodhall had remained nearly alone in the middle of the room. Some of the guests had come up and spoken to him ere they departed; but he seemed hardly to notice or to hear them, remaining with his eyes bent upon the ground and his arms crossed upon his chest. Suddenly something seemed to move him. He strode across the hall with a rapid step, and took Margaret's hands in his.
"Forgive me, my child, forgive me!" he said. "Henceforth your fate is at your own disposal. Your father will never seek to mar it again."