The next departure was made successfully. From Yorkshire to Scotland
is no great distance, though the wanderers did not cross the moors to
Hawkstone Craig, but proceeded by the more modern route of Keighley
and Sheffield.
Behold the pilgrims then, by the kind offices of the steam king, whose
miracles Sir Walter regarded with ‘half-proud, half-sad, half-angry,
and half-pleased feelings,’ landed within walking distance of
Abbotsford, and its haunting, magical memories of the Wizard of the
North. They gazed with awe, and almost adoration, at the towers and
turrets, pinnacles and mouldings of the famous abode of the more
famous owner and designer. It seemed to these ardent spirits not so
much a house, a family abode, as an enchanted Arabian Nights Palace,
compact of the flesh and blood, the brain and spiritual essence of him
whose pride and life-work it was. They were able to find suitable
lodging accommodation in the vicinity, whence they could sally forth
and live, so to speak, in that wondrous company of knights and nobles,
mediæval barons, Normans and Saxons, kings and queens, lovely
heroines, and all the _dramatis personæ_ of historical romance. They
therefore, without delay, conceived and carried out the project of
‘viewing fair Melrose aright.’
As it happened, the day had been doubtful, but towards evening the
wind dropped, and the night being cloudless, and resplendent with the
full radiance of the harvest moon, they had taken all proper
precaution to be deposited as nearly as possible at the exact spot
where the imagined spectator of ‘St. David’s ruined pile’ would have
located himself.
It was a night superbly beautiful—mild, calm, free from all disturbing
influences, and permitting our pilgrims the fullest freedom to gaze on
a scene at once romantic and inspiring, free from all such
interruptions as might be expected in the light of day.
‘I think I must ask for a vote in favour of the election of a
president, or chairman—if there was any place on which to sit,’ said
Mr. Banneret. ‘We cannot afford to spend the whole evening gazing at
these ruins, worthy as they are of our admiration.’
‘There is no one so fitted for the position, sir, as yourself,’ said
Falkland Aylmer, ‘and I beg to propose that you be elected by
acclamation to that honourable position.’
‘I suppose I can second the motion,’ said Hermione, ‘though I don’t
believe they have adult female suffrage in England yet; of course it’s
coming with other enlightened reforms.’
‘I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott literature by heart,’ said
Vanda—‘stock, lock, and barrel, or rather, prose, poetry, and
miscellany. Those who are for—hold up the right hand. Against—none:
carried unanimously. Who will contribute the immortal invocation?
Behold the hour and the man!’ as Eric Banneret stepped forward, in
answer to a signal from his mother.
That young man, who strongly resembled his mother in appearance and
leading characteristics, as sons are wont to do by the acknowledged
rules of heredity, responded with a look of assent to Mrs. Banneret’s
suggestive smile of approval, and, without further delay, began with
the opening lines:—
‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light’s uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin’d central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,
Then go—but go alone the while—
Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!’
‘Bravo, Eric!’ said Hermione. ‘I had no idea you had such poetical
leanings. Do they examine in modern verse and elocution at Cambridge?
I didn’t know they taught anything but Greek and Latin.’
‘Didn’t you?’ replied her brother. ‘Perhaps you would like to enter
next term?’
‘I shouldn’t mind,’ returned the young lady; ‘only it’s rather late in
life to begin. If I thought I’d pull off the classic tripos, as
Hypatia Tollemache did, it might be worth while. One girl did—an
Australian, too—a year or two back. I forget her name now. Oh, listen!
wasn’t that an owl? Let no one talk for five minutes, until “the
distant Tweed is heard to rave.” There it is; you can hear it quite
plainly now.’
The night was free from slightest breeze; no sound broke the air but
the weird, occasional cry of the night bird.
‘I hear the Tweed,’ said Corisande suddenly, as the ripple of the
river over the shallows of the upper stream came faintly but
distinctly on the ear. ‘What a solemn rhythm it has! We shall never
forget this night, shall we? I feel drawn so much nearer to dear Sir
Walter, and to think that he should no sooner have built and planted
this lovely place, decorated, beautified it—loved it, and benefited
every one within his reach, than the great brain and the great heart
wore out.’
‘Which exhibits the vanity of human wishes,’ said Mr. Banneret
musingly. ‘His great aim was to found a family, and that his
children’s children should inhabit Abbotsford after him.’
‘A very worthy ambition, sir,’ said Reggie, ‘which I trust other heads
of families will bear in mind, and, not being poets and novelists,
will be wise in time, and neither over-build nor over-speculate until
they have provided for the rising generation.’
‘And how about being the “architects of their own fortunes,” as the
phrase goes? Is that honourable occupation to be taken away from
them—the men of the family, of course, I mean. Who is to found New
Englands and Greater Britains if every young man in the old country is
left comfortably off?’
‘There’s a good deal to be said on both sides, sir,’ said Reggie.
‘Personally, I should prefer to go forth, like the prince in the fairy
tale, to “seek my fortune.”’
* * * * *
Melrose having ‘been viewed aright,’ studied, and discussed from every
possible point of view, the trend of public opinion set strongly
towards a visit to Abbotsford, as the central point of attraction. To
be personally conducted would, of course, be most desirable, the
family being absent in Switzerland. The housekeeper would, doubtless,
have instructions to permit such personages and pilgrims of
distinction to have, at any rate, a limited permission to view the
apartments with which they had been familiar by description, and in
which the interest of well-informed visitors chiefly centred.
Here, again, fortune favoured them, and a delightful surprise was
sprung upon the leaders of the party.
To their great joy Mrs. Banneret received a note from an Australian
compatriot (whom they had first met near the Pink and White Terraces
of Te Tarata, New Zealand), as fair, as graceful, as blue-eyed, as
truly compounded of the air and fire of the Scottish Highlands, as
ever was a Princess of Thule, though grown to woman’s estate ere ever
she saw the ancestral hills.
She was now ‘a woman grown and wed,’ though still too fairylike and
youthful-seeming for the matronly estate. Her husband was away on his
usual summer excursion, which she was sure he would deeply regret, but
as their home was within a few miles of Abbotsford she would only be
too delighted to supply his place, as far as guide and chaperon duties
could be united. Fortunately for the interests of the pilgrimage she
had been prevented from accompanying him.
‘We are being watched over by the _genius loci_, that is very
certain,’ said Reggie. ‘How it comes to pass that these delightful,
interesting personages seem to turn up at critical junctures, beats
me. May I ask if this Mrs. Maclean is above the average in point of
good looks?’
‘She is one of the sweetest, prettiest, most charming young women I
ever encountered,’ declared Mrs. Banneret.
‘And Dad met her on board ship, I think I gathered?’
‘Yes, coming from New Zealand,’ volunteered Vanda; ‘but wait till you
see her. She has a look of “Sheila” and “A Daughter of Heth”
combined.’
‘H—m, ha! There seems a certain uniformity in the pleasant
acquaintances Dad meets with on his travels. They are rarely to be
described as plain, I observe. But as long as you don’t object, mater,
it’s not our business.’
‘Your father’s taste is correct in all respects, Master Reggie,’
replied Mrs. Banneret, with an air of decision. ‘I hope we shall
always be able to say the same of your prepossessions.’
‘Hope and trust you will, mother dear! I suppose none of us boys will
have a chance with this ex-princess; she seems to have got such a
start.’
‘I saw her,’ said Hermione, ‘just before the Melbourne Cup. Corisande
and I are trembling in our shoes.’
The fair object of this discussion lost no time in commencing the
hospitable office which she had guaranteed to perform—making her
appearance, indeed, shortly after breakfast, and equipped for joining
the pedestrian party if such was desired. Needless to say, she was
enthusiastically received. After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Banneret with
true Highland cordiality, the needful introductions being completed,
Mrs. Maclean said:
‘And so these are the young people I remember in Sydney, after we
landed from the _Hauroto_? How they have grown! The young gentlemen
were in England, but Hermione and Vanda I should have known anywhere.
You can’t think what a joy it is to me to meet you all here “on my
native heath,” so to speak—only I wasn’t born on it; and it nearly
broke my heart when we came away from the old station on the
Wondabyne, and I was sent to school in England. I used to cry and cry
for hours. At last I got so low-spirited that mother began to talk of
going back to Australia. There was one book that brought back the dear
old days, however. I used to read it over and over again when I felt
homesick and almost too miserable to live. It brought back the scent
of the gum leaf in the early morn, the gold glint of the
wattle-blossom in spring, and the rattle of hoofs when the horses were
brought in for the day. At last they took it away from me, as it was
thought it had a bad effect. You will guess what book it was!’
‘And of course it was _The Marstons_,’ said Vanda; ‘we all went wild
about it too. We have a Rainbow in the family now, and a very dear
horse he is. I think every boy and girl in the world, from “India to
the Pole,” has read it. However, we have read other books as well, and
now we are pledged to talk heather and rowan tree, and Yarrow and Gala
Water, and Leader Haughs, no end.’
‘And such being the case we must not lose time in talking, but make a
start,’ said their charming visitor.
‘I know all about the “lay of the country,” as we used to say in
Australia, and am considered to be a competent cicerone. Where shall
we go first? I suppose you are all good walkers?’
‘Corisande can give us all points at that,’ said Hermione, ‘though she
seems to have lived in a flat country of late years; but no doubt her
ancestors, who came from Norway a thousand years ago, had different
experiences, and tripped up and down mountains like red deer.’
‘Nonsense, Hermie!’ said that young lady. ‘We did all our walking
exercise, as the grooms say, in good old Bruges, for a sufficient
reason—father’s cheque-book didn’t run to horses, or carriages either.
I daresay it was all the better for us then. But we know our Scott
fairly well: Mr. Banneret has been putting us through, till we know
the names of Sir Walter’s horses and dogs as well as his heroines and
heroes. Suppose we go to the top of “the range,” as Vanda says, where
he took Washington Irving?’
‘A very good idea,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘You remember he pointed out
Lammermoor and Smailholm, Gala Water and Torwoodlee, forbye (to be
very Scotch) Teviotdale and the Braes of Yarrow.’
‘Oh, delightful!’ cried Vanda. ‘We can fancy we see the Baron of
Smailholm and that poor, dear, undecided Lucy Ashton. How she could
have given up such a man as the Master of Ravenswood—dark, handsome,
mysteriously unhappy—I can’t think! However, girls have more liberty
nowadays, and mothers are not so despotic—not that this dear Mum will
ever interfere with our happiness.’
‘All depends upon the amount of sense the said daughters are credited
with,’ said her mother, with a meaning smile. ‘There _have_ been cases
where parental rule has prevented life-long misery. However, let us
hope that no such conflicts may arise among the members of this fair
company. And now that we have our dear Mrs. Maclean to guide our
steps, who, if she is not “to the manner born,” is much the same in
local knowledge, we must lose no more time than we can help.’
The ramble over the hills satisfied the most ardent pedestrians of the
party. The prospect was wide and majestic—the heather-bloom, of which
they availed themselves liberally, was pronounced to be equal to all
the praise bestowed upon it; the streams of Ettrick and Gala Water,
winding silverly through valley and meadow, before losing themselves
in Tweed’s fair river, worthy of all poetic praise. But, truth to
tell, they were disappointed with the absence of timber on the banks
of the world-famous river. The hills, too, were bare; and to eyes
accustomed to the primeval forests of giant eucalyptus which clothe
Australian mountain-sides, and overhang the river banks, there seemed
a want of adequate shelter. However, the whole surroundings were in
keeping with ‘Caledonia, stern and wild,’ and as the plantations
around Abbotsford, so lovingly tended by the Magician, whose art could
cause groves and fountains to appear and vanish at command, had grown
surprisingly since their establishment in 1812, it was decided finally
not to give utterance to a syllable of disparagement. The landscape
had sufficed for the home and happiness of the immortal possessor. On
this occasion a wide expanse of the Border country lay spread out
before them. They were thus enabled to verify the scenes of those
‘poems and romances which had bewitched the world.’
‘Kaeside,’ where ‘Willie Laidlaw,’ Sir Walter’s friend and amanuensis,
dwelt, was also visited. Traditionary legends tell of the curse of
chronic poverty, supposed to have been laid on the race by a malign
ancestress. The name was familiar to Arnold Banneret, who had known in
his youth a family of the same name in Australia. They were related to
the man of whom Sir Walter had so high an opinion, and whom he
honoured with his friendship. But the voyage across the wide Pacific,
or the influence of a new country, had apparently neutralised the
malediction, for the Australian Laidlaws, now a fairly numerous clan,
are in all cases held in respect, as well for their high character as
their large landed possessions.
And thus, the weather being gracious, and all accessories befitting,
they rambled through and around the haunted regions, upon which,
though familiar with the _dramatis personæ_ from childhood’s hour,
they had never before set foot, or gazed with admiring eye.
They did not depart without ocular experience of the Trossachs, or of
Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
They stood more than once on Turnagain on Tweedside, where
Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear
Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.
Under the guidance of their accomplished compatriot, the Banneret
family with their visitors were conducted successfully through scenes
world-known and historical, which they had never dreamed of exploring.
With such a chaperon they were received everywhere with the most
cordial hospitality—not only as dwellers in a far land, but as natives
of the dim and distant Australian waste (as their entertainers had
been contented to regard their country), and their hosts’ curiosity
was stimulated as keenly as it was pleasantly allayed by the refined
manners and cultured intelligence of the strangers. This familiarity
with Scottish scenery and character, albeit at second hand, surprised
as much as it gratified their entertainers. And indeed an offer was
made to Reggie, if he would consent to stand for a certain seat in the
Liberal interest, to ensure him a controlling vote, and in all
probability to return him for the locality specified. That rising
politician, in a neat speech, which showed that he had not been a
foremost member of the ‘Union’ for nothing, assured them that he felt
the compliment intensely, but would not, until he had completed his
_Wanderjahre_, be in a position to comply with their request. In the
meantime, let him assure them that he would never forget this mark of
their confidence.
After this memorable incident the pilgrims were reminded by the
president that, although they felt so charmed with the scenery and
inhabitants of this delightful region, time was flying, and if they
desired to form a true estimate of Scotland and the Isles, hardly
less historically important, they must not linger, however entrancing
the locality. The logic was unanswerable, so, with many a sigh and
groan, even a few tears from Hermione and Vanda, they tore themselves
away. One more evening was, however, granted to Mrs. Maclean’s
entreaties, by whom it was suggested that it should be distinguished
as a Sir Walter Scott symposium, making it compulsory for each one of
the party to recite a favourite passage, either prose or poetry, from
the works of the Magician—a prize to be given for the best selection,
as also for the quality of elocution. This was assented to, and great
researches were instituted in the library, where, fortunately, there
were editions of all dates and sizes. The order of precedence was
decided by vote, and resulted in favour of Mr. Banneret, who, without
loss of time, began at the first canto of _Marmion_.
‘I have always thought _Marmion_ to be in all respects the finest of
his, of any man’s, descriptive poems. The author commands the
attention and excites the admiration of readers of all ages, ranks,
and conditions, from the “dear school-boy, cheated of his holiday,” to
personages eminent in war or peace, patriots or peasants. Nothing in
the language rivals that of the battle of Flodden Field—the clash of
the sword-blades, the shock of the coursers.
‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.
Where was ever such a picture of a battle in actual engagement?
‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,
And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight:
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntly, and with Home.
Then the ghastly picture of the fallen knight, mortally wounded,
‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!
‘Passing from the fire and dash of the battle-piece, we have the
warrior’s despairing appeal—
‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,
Of all my halls have nursed,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!”
Here occurs the immortal tribute to the higher qualities of the sex,
nowhere seen to such advantage as in the dark hour of helpless
suffering:—
‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
‘In “L’Envoy” Sir Walter’s boundless benevolence, after wishing all
desirable gifts to statesmen and heroes, and of course to
‘Lovely lady bright,
What can I wish but faithful knight?
even includes that occasionally troublesome personage not often
honoured with poet’s notice—
‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay
Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday!
To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!
‘I was a small school-boy,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘when I knew by heart a
large portion of _Marmion_; and at not particularly protracted
intervals I seem to have been enjoying Sir Walter’s works, prose,
poetry, and even the records of his noble life, ever since. Marmion,
with the glamour of valour blinding the reader to his vices, is a
boy’s hero—brave, unscrupulous, successful, until
‘The Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs
appears at life’s close with tragic and dramatic effect. And what in
all poetry is more thrilling, more absorbing, than the closing scene
of “injured Constance’s” wasted career; what more dignified than her
invocation; more terrible, more piteous than that dread indictment
which will ring throughout the ages, than the lingering death under
the conventual law of a merciless age?—the gloomy rock-hewn vault that
“was to the sounding surge so near”
‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—
’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;
A tempest there you scarce could hear
So massive were the walls.
* * * * *
‘Distant as is the period, fictitious the personages, dimly historical
the action, the magic of genius invests them with an actuality which
causes mental, almost physical pain to the sympathetic reader. Surely
the Muse can desire no more transcendent tribute.’
A chorus of congratulations followed the conclusion of Mr. Banneret’s
reminiscent adoration of his favourite author. His wife thought that a
passage from one of the novels would be a fitting diversion from
perhaps the too melancholy episode to which they had been listening.
_Rob Roy_ had been an early favourite. The character of Diana Vernon
had always represented to her mind the attributes of the noblest type
of womanhood—presenting high courage, passionate personal attachment,
combined with deep devotion to parental duty, never suffered to be in
abeyance for a moment.
‘The highest personal courage combined with the loftiest sense of
self-sacrifice was hers, the whole illumined in befitting time and
place with gleams of humour and sportive playfulness, betokening how,
under happier circumstances, she could adapt herself to the joyous
_abandon_ of the hour. With all a man’s courage and steadfastness in
the hour of danger, she exhibited the fascination of her sex
undiminished, indeed heightened by the daily dangers amid which she
trod so warily and securely. Then she rode so well. I think she is one
among the few heroines that Sir Walter exhibits to his readers on
horseback. The ill-fated Clara Mowbray, poor girl! rode recklessly;
but she was half-crazed through treachery and evil fortune.’
‘How about Rebecca of York?’ said Reggie Banneret. ‘She rode to
Ashby-de-la-Zouche with her father, on a memorable occasion, though
when carried off and lodged in Front de Bœuf’s castle, together with
the wounded Ivanhoe, she seems to have been travelling in a litter.’
‘I always place Rebecca in the front rank of Sir Walter’s heroines,’
said Corisande. ‘Her beauty, her charity, even to the men of the race
that ill-used, despised, and plundered her nation, should gain her a
prize at any show of fair women in or out of Novel Land. But except
when she was carried off, and mounted before one of Brian de
Bois-Guilbert’s Eastern mutes, after the siege of Torquilstone Castle,
she hadn’t much chance of displaying her accomplishments in that line.
She was a dear creature, and any one who can read the ending of the
chapter, where she is sentenced to the stake, and Wilfred comes to the
rescue, hardly able to sit on his horse, and that wicked, fascinating
Templar dies of heart failure at the right time, without feeling the
tears in their eyes, has no sense, no feeling, no brains, and no
heart—that’s my opinion.’
‘What a gallery of beauties Sir Walter’s heroines would furnish!’ said
Eric. ‘Indeed, I do remember seeing one in school-boy days, but I am
afraid they were guilty of ringlets, and so would be voted
unfashionable by the latter-day Johnnies—Edith Bellenden, Flora
MacIvor, Rose Bradwardine, Julia Mannering, Amy Robsart, and a host of
others—among them one Vanda! but I have less pity for any of their
woes and misfortunes than for those of Clara Mowbray in _St. Ronan’s
Well_. Nothing finer in romantic tragedy can be found than her meeting
with Francis Tyrrel on the road to Shaw’s Castle.
‘“‘And what good purpose can your remaining here serve?’ [she
said]. ‘Surely you need not come either to renew your own
unhappiness or to augment mine?’
‘“‘To augment yours—God forbid!’ answered Tyrrel. ‘No; I came
hither only because, after so many years of wandering, I longed to
revisit the spot where all my hopes lay buried.’
‘“‘Ay, buried is the word,’ she replied—‘crushed down and buried
when they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there
are times when, Heaven help me! I can think of little else. Look
at me; you remember what I was—see what grief and solitude have
made me.’
‘“She flung back the veil which surrounded her riding-hat, and
which had hitherto hid her face. It was the same countenance which
he had formerly known in all the bloom of early beauty; but though
the beauty remained, the bloom was fled for ever. Not the
agitation of exercise—not that which arose from the pain and
confusion of this unexpected interview, had called to poor Clara’s
cheek even the semblance of colour. Her complexion was
marble-white, like that of the finest piece of statuary.
‘“‘Is it possible?’ said Tyrrel; ‘can grief have made such
ravages?’
‘“‘Grief,’ replied Clara, ‘is the sickness of the mind, and its
sister is the sickness of the body; they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel,
and are seldom long separate. Sometimes the body’s disease comes
first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands before the fire of
our mind and of our intellect is quenched. But mark me—soon after
comes her cruel sister with her urn, and sprinkles cold dew on our
hopes and loves, our memory, our recollections, and our feelings,
and shows us that they cannot survive the decay of our bodily
powers.’
‘“‘Alas!’ said Tyrrel, ‘is it come to this?’
‘“‘To this,’ she replied, speaking from the rapid and irregular
train of her own ideas, rather than comprehending the purport of
his sorrowful exclamation—‘it must ever come, while immortal souls
are wedded to the perishable substance of which our bodies are
composed. There is another state, Tyrrel, in which it will be
otherwise; God grant our time of enjoying it were come!’”
‘I cannot imagine anything more exquisite,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘than
the portraiture of the ill-fated lovers, whose lives the arts of an
unscrupulous villain had ruined, almost at their entrance into the
paradise of wedded love. But the characters depicted throughout the
novel are masterpieces of humour and descriptive accuracy. Lord
Etherington, the fashionable, dissipated nobleman of the period, might
have issued from a London Club. Touchwood, egotistical, kind-hearted,
interfering, is the nabob, common enough in old-fashioned fiction.
Lady Binks, John Mowbray, Sir Bingo, the choleric Highland half-pay
Captain MacTurk, Winterblossom, the dilettante art critic, and the man
of law, are exactly the denizens of a fourth-rate Spa; not to mention
Meg Dods, the very flower and crown of Scottish provincial landladies.
Then the dramatic incidents of the climax: Clara fleeing through storm
and snow, from her brother’s house in the night, to escape the forced
and hateful marriage; the duel; the late appearance of Touchwood on
the scene.’
‘“He was stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a
carriage, with an air of stern anxiety on his features very
different from their usual expression. ‘Whither would
ye?’—stopping him by force.
‘“‘For revenge—for revenge!’ said Tyrrel. ‘Give way, I charge you,
on your peril!’
‘“‘Vengeance belongs to God,’ replied the old man, ‘and His bolt
has fallen. This way—this way,’ he continued, dragging Tyrrel
into the house. ‘Know,’ he said, ‘that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s has
met Bulmer within this half-hour, and killed him on the spot.’
‘“‘Killed!—whom?’ answered the bewildered Tyrrel.
‘“‘Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.’
‘“‘You bring tidings of death to the house of death,’ answered
Tyrrel; ‘and there is nothing in this world left that I should
live for!’”’