… “The troubled night pass’d away,
And morning returned. The shaggy mountains
Shew’d their grey heads; the blue face of ocean
Smil’d, and the white wave was seen tumbling round
The distant rock. I climbed the narrow path,
And stood on the cliff’s high brow.”
Our hero’s sacrifice was not quite so great as he imagined, the ball
of the last night being the concluding one, a circumstance he had not
considered.
Having written two notes of farewell, one to Lord Arandale, and one
addressed to Julia and Frances jointly, our hero left Ayr, just before
daybreak, riding, and without a servant. After forming, we suppose, very
proper determinations respecting his route, he unfortunately forgot to
communicate his plans to his horse; and, suffering the reins to lay very
loosely on the animal’s neck, himself fell into a deep reverie.
His Bucephalus, thus left to his own devices, happened to perceive a gap
in the boundaries of the high road, which particularly caught his eye,
as it not a little resembled the approach to the race-course. He turned
in accordingly on a rugged piece of moorland, and looked about him. Nor
right, nor left, nor straight before, offered other prospect than a wide
extent of close cropped sod, plentifully sprinkled with loose stones, and
diversified here and there by pools of water and patches of heath; the
horizon every where the only visible boundary; while on the extreme edge
of this monotonous waste, the just risen sun stood in lonely majesty.
Uninteresting as all this may appear, it seemed to please Bucephalus
mightily: he made wide his nostrils, snuffed the morning air, twice
swung his neck, to try the length of his rein, and then set out at full
speed. The road, or rather path he took, pursued a gradual ascent for
some time, when suddenly the spirited animal stopped short and snorted,
on which, Edmund perceived that he had reached the brow of a hill, or
rather edge of a precipice; whence, looking down an abrupt and wooded
descent, a valley presented itself, far below, possessing a species of
beauty in some respects peculiar to the spot. A small river or rivulet,
ran close beneath the overhanging cliffs which formed the opposite side
of the valley. Its stream varied in breadth; its banks were rugged and
irregular, while its course frequently divided and reunited, forming many
of the most picturesque spots, into little islets. On most of these, as
well as on many projecting points of the bank, stood, what, from this
distance at least, had the appearance of ruined towers: some round, some
square, all moss grown; some bearing small trees on their summits, and
in the crevices of their sides, and almost all having their own large
old tree or trees, standing close to them. The grassy carpet of the
vale was of a green peculiarly vivid. The opposite cliffs were thickly
wooded in every aperture; while, here and there, smooth brows of good
pasture land, dotted with grazing cattle, appeared on their summits. The
valley at one end opened on an extent of flat country, terminated by a
distant chain of mountains; at the other it admitted a view of the sea,
discernible between two bold headlands, the furthest and highest of which
was crowned by a single tower, that appeared destined to reign over all
those more humbly situated in the vale beneath. Tempted by the beauty of
the prospect, though not sufficiently acquainted with the country to know
where he now was, Edmund directed his horse to take a rather dangerous
looking, very narrow road, which by running along the side of the
precipice, lessened the steepness of the footing, while it promised to
lead him into the midst of the region he had thus been for some moments
contemplating.
As he gradually drew nearer and nearer the curious scene that lay beneath
him, and, at length, accomplishing his perilous descent, entered the
valley itself, and approached those objects which he had at first
thought were numerous ruins, they in general began to assume somewhat of
a different appearance, and, finally, on coming up to each, to his great
surprise as well as disappointment, they one by one, proved to be but
deep sided, perpendicular rocks; looking, however, as ancient as though
they had in the time of Noah, resisted the retiring waters of the flood,
when all more yielding substances had been borne along the narrow channel
of the glen, into the sea.
He now crossed the river by means of a single arched bridge, much
overhung by the trees of the opposite bank, under the thick cover of
which it immediately led. Through this copse he rode for a time and then
emerged just at the foot of the headland, the lofty summit of which bore
on high that which he could now ascertain to be the only real tower of
all he had in imagination so designated. Rock over rock, with wood
between, shelved and projected, till how the building itself was to be
reached seemed an impenetrable mystery; there did not appear to be nearly
space enough to conquer so perpendicular an ascent by any windings of the
road he still pursued. He next passed a lodge-gate, which was opened by a
little bare-footed girl, who stretched first the one side on its hinges,
then the other, though our hero had meanwhile passed through. At a second
gate he demanded if he might pursue his course through what thus seemed
to be an approach to some nobleman’s or gentleman’s place, though, as
yet, he could discern no residence. He was answered in the affirmative,
and proceeded till, having got round to the further side of the headland,
a part of the height of which he had meantime, by a gradual ascent,
achieved, he came suddenly in view of a magnificent castellated mansion,
apparently surrounded by an extensive richly wooded and beautifully
diversified demesne, some of the grounds of which, on one side, descended
by an inclined plane to the sea, and the whole of which had been screened
from view during the former part of his ride by the much greater height
of the side nearest the valley, on the rocky pinnacle of which, at an
elevation far above that of the castle, and surrounded up to its very
base by wood, still appeared conspicuous the same single tower which from
the first had attracted so much of his notice. Seeing a lad on the lawn,
who was employed rolling the newly mown grass, Edmund gave him his horse,
demanding to whom the place belonged, and if the family were at home? The
lad first stared awkwardly, and when about to reply was prevented doing
so, coherently, by the unruly movements of the animal committed to his
charge. Our hero, however, on ascertaining that the family was not at
home, without waiting to repeat the former part of his question, turned
into a footpath among the trees, which promised to lead in the direction
of the said solitary tower.
He soon found himself in a maze of gravel walks and abrupt turnings,
the ascent so steep as to be often indispensably assisted by flights
of irregular stone steps. On each shelf of the rock, lately so much
above his head, his feet now found a path; though one secured from the
precipice only by a superabundant growth of shrubs. On the side of the
cliff immediately over the sea it was sometimes quite terrific to peep
through the slender defences of a honeysuckle or jessamine at the foaming
billows dashing in far below on a wild and rocky beach. At length
arrived at the goal of all his labours, he entered the long seen, and,
at a distance, formidable-looking tower, and found it fitted up within
as a conservatory and well supplied with exotics in full bloom. Of these
he plucked, mechanically, a few of the finest blossoms, then sighed and
desisted, as the remembrance smote on his heart that he could not now, as
he had been wont, present them to Julia. He thrust, however, those he had
collected into his own bosom; he could not throw away what had once been,
even in thought, associated with her. Near this building the last of the
shelving paths tapered off gradually, till there was no longer footing.
The rock rose behind it more than perpendicularly—it overhung; while, in
front, there was now no defence whatever, not a shrub, not so much as
a tuft of grass, or even moss, to break the treacherous surface of the
polished flint.
On the furthest portion which it was possible to occupy of this perilous
spot, was placed a rustic seat; on this Edmund flung himself, and rested
his eyes with a peculiarly desolate feeling on his old friends and
companions, the waves of the sea. They seemed pressing after each other,
and all, as it were, crowding towards the foot of the steep cliff from
the summit of which he thus viewed them. He smiled bitterly: to his
distempered fancy they appeared hastening forward to welcome his return
amongst them, with a fierce and boisterous species of delight, very
uncongenial to the softer emotions in which he had of late so much too
frequently indulged.
“Yes,” he ejaculated, “the bosom of the deep is indeed my only home! the
wide waste of waters my comfortless domain! To spread desolation around
me with fire and with sword! to bring death and misery in my train! to
send destruction and despair in the whirlwind before me! these are my
daily duties! these my domestic joys!” He paused, then proceeded: “If
once there were—friends of the friendless—those who—could—could pity—fate
has torn them from me! Nay worse—I must tear myself from them! I must
seem ungrateful, unkind—I must teach those who might have loved—to
forget me—or—be a villain!” He hastened to add, for certain words in the
last sentence were shaking his best resolutions. “Yes, a villain!” he
repeated. “Is he less who, wrapped in mystery, without a name, without
a home, without a country, would ensnare the innocent affections of one
unknowing of the world, unable as yet to judge what may one day be her
own appreciation of its honours or even of its prejudices?” After a
moment’s pause he pronounced firmly, “I must never see her more!”
He now sunk back in perfect supineness. All the purposes of existence
seemed at an end for him. By his own free will act, he had quitted love
and happiness for ever. He felt every power of resistance weakened by the
supernatural effort. The image of Julia, hallowed, endeared, like that of
a departed friend, presented itself in a new, and, if possible, tenderer
light. Were he now, he thought, to behold that smile again, where would
be the restraints of duty? Forgotten! Utterly forgotten in the tumultuous
joy of such a moment! And had such felicity been his but yesterday?—Good
heavens! yesterday!—And now!——
Fatigued by contending thoughts, he now strove not to think at all; at
length, as he lay in the reclining position, induced by the languor
of despondency, the dashing of the waves began to sound more distant
than before, and a slender creeping plant, which hung from the rock
immediately above his head, was, during momentary and flitting visions,
mistaken for some part of the rigging of a ship, and then seen no more.
In fact, not having been in bed the night before, and having, ever since,
suffered great agony of mind, he was now so completely exhausted, that a
sort of torpor was gradually taking possession of his senses.
This, after some time, deepened into a sound and refreshing sleep, which
lasted for several hours. Towards the end of his protracted slumber,
our hero began to dream that he was in heaven. Yet, sublimely as he had
sometimes conceived of the glories of that abode of the blessed, he
could see nothing but clear sky every where; not even the angels, though
he heard them singing, (one of Julia’s songs too,) and, precisely with
her voice. The voice ceased; and then the general music of the spheres
seemed to arise all round him! By degrees he became sensible that the
music was real; and that his eyes, which had been for some seconds
partly open, were gazing upwards at the bright blue sky, which from the
circumstance of his lying on his back, was necessarily unvaried by any
other object. He started to his feet a little too suddenly, considering
the dangerous position he occupied, and of the particular nature of which
he had, at the moment, no precise recollection. Fortunately, however,
being uncommonly active, by a powerful effort, and a snatch at the
creeping plant before mentioned, he was enabled to recover his balance.
He observed where he was, called to mind the wanderings which had brought
him there, and acknowledged to himself, that he must have slept. So
far mysteries were cleared up. But the music he still heard, and now he
assuredly was awake! He walked a little way, in various directions, in
the hope of discovering the musicians; but from the effect produced by
the circular form of the rock, the occasional waftings of the breeze,
and the mazy labyrinth of the paths, it was impossible for him to decide
whether he approached, or retreated from the sounds.
After descending, however, till he was two or three shelves lower, it
became evident that the swell of wind instruments was fuller, though
still he could not tell in what direction it came. While listening
to discover this, his ear caught the hum of voices. He moved on, it
became more distinct; and through it he could even distinguish the very
uncelestial sound of knives and forks clanking on plates. Edmund,
notwithstanding, felt something like a responding inward emotion; for he
had not yet breakfasted, and it was now two o’clock.
He still moved on, and now the noise of the voices, &c. seemed to arise,
actually from below the spot on which he stood. He performed a species of
pirouette, looking the very personification of bewilderment. Then stood
some seconds motionless. Then, as though smitten by a sudden inspiration,
pushed his head and one shoulder through the tangled clusters of an
interposing honeysuckle; and, holding firmly with the contrary arm,
around the slender and yielding trunk of a young mountain ash, about
which the flowery screen had entwined itself, he leaned forward, and
beheld, on a broad part of the shelf or terrace of rock next below the
one on which he himself stood, a long luncheon table, with a large
company seated at it. Crowns of hats, cauls of bonnets, and figures,
foreshortened to excess, afforded no very sure criterion by which to
ascertain whether or not any of the party were known to him. The voices
too, were so blended with each other, and with the music, and with the
aforesaid clanking, that they brought no certainty of any thing; yet, as
he looked and listened, he could not divest himself of the idea, that all
was familiar to his eye, and to his ear. While impelled by increasing
curiosity, he strained forward in rather an imprudent manner, one of the
blossoms which he had collected in the conservatory, and placed loosely
within the breast of his coat, now, assisted by his bending attitude,
found its way out, and descending lightly as a thistle-down, rested on
the bosom of a lady, who immediately lifted up her face to see whence
it came. What was Edmund’s astonishment, when he saw the features of
Julia; and what was hers, when she, so unexpectedly, beheld Edmund in
his most strange and perilous situation, hanging over her very head. She
pronounced his name, and continued looking up, with as much terror as
surprise, till the whole company following the direction of her eyes,
with one accord, gazed upwards.
A general roar of laughter proceeded from the men; and several pretty
little screams from the ladies.
“Leap it, Edmund!” cried Henry. “Oh, don’t! don’t!” involuntarily
exclaimed Julia. “I wonder if he could!” said Frances, looking half
amused, and half alarmed.
“How funny it would be!” cried the Misses Morven.
“Take the path to the right, Montgomery, and come down to us,” said Lord
Arandale. Edmund disappeared from above, and, in a few minutes, joined
the party below. He made his way immediately to Julia and Frances, who
each extended a hand to him at the same time, making room for him between
them. “This is unexpected happiness, indeed!” he said, as he sprang
into the offered seat. He looked delighted, he even laughed, though
hysterically, as he trembled from head to foot, with uncontrollable
emotion.
“You know where you are, I suppose, Montgomery?” said the Earl. “Not
I,” answered Edmund, “further than that my present situation is a very
enviable one!” This he said with an air of light gallantry, which
concealed tolerably well both the reality and the extravagance of his
feelings.
“You do not know then that this place is the Craigs?” rejoined the
Earl. “We are all here to day, for the express purpose of displaying
its beauties to Julia and Frances, who have never had an opportunity of
visiting it before. We are to attempt the top of the rock, as soon as we
have fortified ourselves by luncheon.”
“I have seen many of its beauties,” he replied, “but without knowing
where I was. My horse, in fact, brought me here this morning, while I was
thinking of something else.” Then, too much confounded to talk any thing
but nonsense, and too much exhilarated to be silent, he addressed Julia,
enquiring if she were aware that the building on the top of the rock was
a conservatory. She replied in the negative.
“Allow me then,” he rejoined, with seeming playfulness, but breathless
from agitation, “allow me to be the first to present you with an offering
of its sweets!” As he spoke, he took the remainder of the flowers from
his bosom, and gave them to Julia; experiencing, at the moment, an
indescribable delight in reversing, as it were, the feeling with which he
had placed them there. This was mere trifling; but such was the effect
on Edmund’s spirits of all this happiness restored, and without any
fault of his too, just at the very moment when he had resigned it all,
that, under the intoxicating sense of the present pleasure, he scarcely
knew what he said or did; or how sufficiently to enjoy so much felicity
while it lasted; for through it all there was a vaguely recognised idea,
that it must pass away. Julia took the flowers with a smile, not at all
calculated to sober Edmund’s transports, and placed them (of course
without thinking what she was doing,) in so enviable a situation, that
they were followed by the eyes of our hero, and gazed upon, as their
delicate blossoms visibly vibrated to each pulsation of Julia’s heart,
till he wished himself, not “a glove upon that hand,” but a fair blossom,
&c.
“We are very much obliged to your horse, Captain Montgomery,” said
Lady Arandale, “as it is to him, it seems, we owe the pleasure of your
company; and now we shall certainly not allow you to escape again till
after our ball.” Edmund bowed assent. Several of the party asked him
if, in his wanderings, he had discovered the bower of the concealed
musicians. He described how much they had puzzled his researches. Julia
told him (and her voice, which so lately he had scarcely hoped to hear
again, thrilled through his heart as she spoke the unimportant words)
that this had all been contrived by Lord Arandale, as an agreeable
surprise; that his lordship had privately sent on musicians, directions
to the housekeeper, &c.; and then, when they were all on the way between
* * * * and Arandale, he had, very innocently, proposed that they should
look at the Craigs, as it lay but a couple of miles from the direct road.
“I dare say,” said Frances, “that Edmund was in the secret, and that he
just came on before to be a part of the surprise.”
Julia looked at him to see if this were true, but the question her eyes
had intended to ask was forgotten, something in the expression of his
producing a sad confusion of ideas just at the moment.
“I am sure he surprised me in a most especial manner,” drawled out Lady
Morven. “And quite astounded me,” said Graham, in exactly the same tone.
“Forgetting, I was not the fortunate tenant of a repose chair, I had
a narrow escape of falling through this jessamine, and going over the
immeasurable cliff!”
“Fye, don’t talk so, you creature,” said Lady Morven.
“I was more surprised than any one else, I am sure,” said Miss Morven;
“if I had not caught hold of this rose bush, and pricked all my fingers,
I should certainly have gone over!”
“And I, if it had not been for this sweet-briar, that has scratched all
the back of my neck!”
“And I, only for this honeysuckle, though one branch broke off, and
frightened me so!”
“And I, I’m sure, if Mr. Gordon had not just put out his arm and saved
me!” Thus had all the Misses Morven escaped. “The ladies mean, that
Captain Montgomery is the most agreeable part of the surprise,” said
the Earl, good humouredly. The Misses Morven tittered assent. Frances
questioned him as to how his joining them had really happened.
He gave as circumstantial an account of his morning adventure as the
flutter of his spirits would permit. When he described the situation
of his late _couche_, and how he had started to his feet, without
remembering where he was, Lady Arandale seriously reprimanded him for
his thoughtlessness. All the Misses Morven were clamorous; Lady Morven
said he might really have fallen on the centre of the luncheon table,
and frightened them all to death! Frances scolded him with tears in her
eyes. Julia alone did not speak, but she looked round, became pale, and
the next moment red. The blood rushed from and to the heart of Edmund
with a corresponding ebb and flow. After a pause, as though to change the
too engrossing subject, thus implied by the silence of both, he asked her
abruptly, if she had sung since she had been at the Craigs? One song had
been attempted, at Lady Arandale’s particular request, to try the effect
of an echo.
Luncheon ended, the whole party proceeded towards the handsome
castellated mansion already mentioned, to view the fine collection of
pictures it contained.