engaged to be married--a very _good_ match--a Mr Rivers, in the law. He
has been called to the bar this year, and promises well. They will be a
little pinched at first, but we must see what we can do for them."
We stopped at a neat row of houses, I forget the name, and, as we drove
up, the servant, the only man-servant, came out, and took the ponies
round to the stable, while the maid received my luggage, and one or two
paper-bags, containing a few extras for the occasion. I was met with the
same warmth as usual by Mrs Willemott. The house was small, but very
neat; the remnants of former grandeur appeared here and there, in one or
two little articles, favourites of the lady. We sat down at five o'clock
to a _plain_ dinner, and were attended by the footman, who had rubbed
down the ponies and pulled on his livery.
"A good plain cook is the best thing, after all," observed Willemott.
"Your fine cooks won't condescend to roast and boil. Will you take some
of this sirloin, the under-cut is excellent. My dear, give Mr Reynolds
some Yorkshire pudding."
When we were left alone after dinner, Willemott told me, very
unconcernedly, of his losses.
"It was my own fault," said he; "I wished to make up a little sum for
the girls, and risking what they would have had, I left them almost
penniless. However, we can always command a bottle of port and a
beef-steak, and _what more_ in this world can you have? Will you take
port or white?--I have no claret to offer you."
We finished our port, but I could perceive no difference in Willemott.
He was just as happy and as cheerful as ever. He drove me to town the
next day. During our drive, he observed, "I like ponies, they are so
little trouble; and I prefer them to driving one horse in this vehicle,
as I can put my wife and daughters into it. It's selfish to keep a
carriage for yourself alone, and one horse in a four-wheeled double
chaise appears like an imposition upon the poor animal."
I went to Scotland, and remained about a year. On my return, I found
that my friend Willemott had again shifted his quarters. He was at
Brighton; and having nothing better to do, I put myself in the "Times,"
and arrived at the Bedford Hotel. It was not until after some inquiry,
that I could find out his address. At last I obtained it, in a
respectable but not fashionable part of this overgrown town. Willemott
received me just as before.
"I have no spare bed to offer you, but you must breakfast and dine with
us every day. Our house is small, but it's very comfortable, and
Brighton is a very convenient place. You know Mary is married. A good
place in the courts was for sale, and my wife and I agreed to purchase
it for Rivers. It has reduced us a little, but they are very
comfortable. I have retired from business altogether; in fact, as my
daughters are both married, and we have enough to live upon, what can we
wish for more? Brighton is very gay and always healthy; and, as for
carriages and horses, they are no use here--there are _flies_ at every
corner of the streets."
I accepted his invitation to dinner. A parlour-maid waited, but
everything, although very plain, was clean and comfortable.
"I have still a bottle of wine for a friend, Reynolds," said Willemott,
after dinner, "but, for my part, I prefer _whisky-toddy_--it agrees with
me better. Here's to the health of my two girls, God bless them, and
success to them in life!"
"My dear Willemott," said I, "I take the liberty of an old friend, but I
am so astonished at your philosophy, that I cannot help it. When I call
to mind Belem Castle, your large establishment, your luxuries, your
French cook, and your stud of cattle, I wonder at your contented state
of mind under such a change of circumstances."
"I almost wonder myself, my dear fellow," replied he. "I never could
have believed, at that time, that I could live happily under such a
change of circumstances; but the fact is, that, although I have been a
contractor, I have a good conscience; then, my wife is an excellent
woman, and provided she sees me and her daughters happy, thinks nothing
about herself; and, further, I have made it a rule as I have been going
down hill, to find reasons why I should be thankful, and not
discontented. Depend upon it, Reynolds, it is not a loss of fortune
which will affect your happiness, as long as you have peace and love at
home."
I took my leave of Willemott and his wife, with respect as well as
regard; convinced that there was no pretended indifference to worldly
advantages; that it was not, that the grapes were sour, but that he had
learned the whole art of happiness, by being contented with what he had,
and by "cutting his coat according to his cloth."
The Legend of the Bell Rock
There was a grand procession through the streets of the two towns of
Perth and of Dundee. The holy abbots, in their robes, walked under
gilded canopies, the monks chanted, the censers were thrown, flags and
banners were carried by seamen, lighted tapers by penitents; St Antonio,
the patron of those who trust to the stormy ocean, was carried in all
pomp through the streets; and, as the procession passed, coins of
various value were thrown down by those who watched it from the windows,
and, as fast as thrown, were collected by little boys dressed as angels,
and holding silver vessels to receive the largesses. During the whole
day did the procession continue, and large was the treasure collected in
the two towns. Everyone gave freely, for there were few, indeed none,
who, if not in their own circle, at least among their acquaintances, had
not to deplore the loss of some one dear to them, or to those they
visited, from the dangerous rock which lay in the very track of all the
vessels entering the Frith of Tay.
These processions had been arranged, that a sufficient sum of money
might be collected to enable them to put in execution a plan proposed by
an adventurous and bold young seaman, in a council held for the purpose,
of fixing a bell on the rock, which could be so arranged that the
slightest breath of wind would cause the hammer of it to sound, and
thus, by its tolling, warn the mariner of his danger; and the sums given
were more than sufficient. A meeting was then held, and it was
unanimously agreed that Andrew M'Clise should be charged with the
commission to go over to Amsterdam, and purchase the bell of a merchant
residing there, whom Andrew stated to have one in his possession, which,
from its fine tone and size, was exactly calculated for the purport to
which it was to be appropriated.
Andrew M'Clise embarked with the money, and made a prosperous voyage. He
had often been at Amsterdam, and had lived with the merchant, whose name
was Vandermaclin; and the attention to his affairs, the dexterity and
the rapidity of the movements of Andrew M'Clise, had often elicited the
warmest encomiums of Mynheer Vandermaclin; and many evenings had Andrew
M'Clise passed with him, drinking in moderation their favourite
scheedam, and indulging in the meditative meerschaum. Vandermaclin had
often wished that he had a son like Andrew M'Clise, to whom he could
leave his property, with the full assurance that the heap would not be
scattered, but greatly added to.
Vandermaclin was a widower. He had but one daughter, who was now just
arrived at an age to return from the pension to her father's house, and
take upon herself the domestic duties. M'Clise had never yet seen the
beautiful Katerina.
"And so, Mynheer M'Clise," said Vandermaclin, who was sitting in the
warehouse on the ground-floor of his tenement, "you come to purchase the
famous bell of Utrecht; with the intention of fixing it upon that rock,
the danger of which we have so often talked over after the work of the
day has been done? I, too, have suffered from that same rock, as you
well know; but still I have been fortunate. The price will be heavy; and
so it ought to be, for the bell itself is of no small weight."
"We are prepared to pay it, Mynheer Vandermaclin."
"Nevertheless, in so good a cause, and for so good a purport, you shall
not be overcharged. I will say nothing of the beauty of the workmanship,
or even of the mere manufacture. You shall pay but its value in metal;
the same price which the Jew Isaacs offered me for it but four months
ago. I will not ask what a Jew would ask, but what a Jew would give,
which makes no small difference. Have you ten thousand guilders?"
"I have, and more."
"That is my price, Mynheer M'Clise, and I wish for no more; for I, too,
will contribute my share to the good work. Are you content, and is it a
bargain?"
"It is; and the holy abbots will thank you on vellum, Mynheer
Vandermaclin, for your generosity."
"I prefer the thanks of the bold seamen to those of the idle churchmen;
but never mind, it is a bargain. Now, we will go in; it is time to close
the doors. We will take our pipes, and you shall make the acquaintance
of my fair daughter, Katerina."
At the time we are speaking of, M'Clise was about six-and-twenty years
of age; he was above the middle size, elegant in person, and with a
frankness and almost nobility in his countenance, which won all who saw
him.
His manners were like those of most seamen, bold, but not offensively
so. His eye was piercing as an eagle's, and it seemed as if his very
soul spoke from it. At the very first meeting between him and the
daughter of Vandermaclin, it appeared to both as if their destinies were
to unite them.
They loved not as others love, but with an intensity which it would be
impossible to portray; but they hardly exchanged a word. Again and again
they met; their eyes spoke, but nothing more. The bell was put on board
the vessel, the money had been paid down, and M'Clise could no longer
delay. He felt as if his heartstrings were severed as he tore himself
away from the land where all remained that he coveted upon earth. And
Katerina, she too felt as if her existence was a blank; and, as the
vessel sailed from the port, she breathed short; and when not even her
white and lofty top-gallant sail could be discovered as a speck, she
threw herself on her couch and wept. And M'Clise as he sailed away,
remained for hours leaning his cheek on his hand, thinking of, over and
over again, every lineament and feature of the peerless Katerina.
The months passed away, during which M'Clise was busied every ebb of the
tide in superintending the work on the rock. At last, all was ready; and
once more was to be beheld a gay procession; but this time it was on the
water. It was on a calm and lovely summer's morn, that the abbots and
the monks, attended by a large company of the authorities, and others,
who were so much interested in the work in hand, started from the shore
of Aberbrothwick in a long line of boats, decorated with sacred and with
other various banners and devices. The music floated along the water,
and the solemn chants of the monks were for once heard where never yet
they had been heard before, or ever will again. M'Clise was at the rock,
in a small vessel purposely constructed to carry the bell, and with
sheers to hang it on the supports imbedded in the solid rock. The bell
was in its place, and the abbot blessed the bell; and holy water was
sprinkled on the metal, which was for the future to be lashed by the
waves of the salt sea. And the music and the chants were renewed; and as
they continued, the wind gradually rose, and with the rising of the wind
the bell tolled loud and deep. The tolling of the bell was the signal
for return, for it was a warning that the weather was about to change,
and the procession pulled back to Aberbrothwick, and landed in good
time; for in one hour more, and the rocky coast was again lashed by the
waves, and the bell tolled loud and quick, although there were none
there but the sea-gull, who screamed with fright as he wheeled in the
air at this unusual noise upon the rock, which, at the ebb, he had so
often made his resting-place.
M'Clise had done his work; the bell was fixed; and once more he hastened
with his vessel to Amsterdam. Once more was he an inmate of
Vandermaclin's house; once more in the presence of the idol of his soul.
This time they spoke; this time their vows were exchanged for life and
death. But Vandermaclin saw not the state of their hearts. He looked
upon the young seaman as too low, too poor, to be a match for his
daughter; and as such an idea never entered his head, so did he never
imagine that he would have dared to love. But he was soon undeceived;
for M'Clise frankly stated his attachment, and demanded the hand of
Katerina; and, at the demand, Vandermaclin's face was flushed with
anger.
"Mynheer M'Clise," said he, after a pause, as if to control his
feelings; "when a man marries, he is bound to show that he has
wherewithal to support his wife; to support her in that rank, and to
afford her those luxuries to which she has been accustomed in her
father's house. Show me that you can do so, and I will not refuse you
the hand of Katerina."
"As yet, I have not," replied M'Clise; "but I am young and can work; I
have money, and will gain more. Tell me what sum do you think that I
should possess to warrant my demanding the hand of your daughter?"
"Produce twelve thousand guilders, and she is yours," replied the
merchant.
"I have but three thousand," replied M'Clise.
"Then, think no more of Katerina. It is a foolish passion, and you must
forget it. And, Mynheer M'Clise, I must not have my daughter's
affections tampered with. She must forget you; and that can only be
effected by your not meeting again. I wish you well, Mynheer M'Clise,
but I must request your absence."
M'Clise departed from the presence of the merchant, bowed down with
grief and disappointment. He contrived that a letter, containing the
result of his application, should be put in the hands of Katerina. But
Vandermaclin was informed of this breach of observance, and Katerina was
sent to a convent, there to remain until the departure of her lover; and
Vandermaclin wrote to his correspondent at Dundee, requesting that the
goods forwarded to him might not be sent by the vessel commanded by
M'Clise.
Of this our young captain received information. All hope was nearly
gone; still he lingered, and delayed his departure. He was no longer the
active, energetic seaman; he neglected all, even his attire.
M'Clise knew in which convent his fair Katerina had been immured; and
often would he walk round its precincts, with the hope of seeing her, if
it were but for a moment, but in vain. His vessel was now laden, and he
could delay no longer. He was to sail the next morning; and once more
did the unhappy young man take his usual walk to look at those walls
which contained all that was dear to him on earth. His reverie was
broken by a stone falling down to his feet; he took it up; there was a
small piece of paper attached to it with a silken thread. He opened it;
it was the handwriting of Katerina, and contained but two words--"_The
Bell_."
The bell! M'Clise started; for he immediately comprehended what was
meant. The whole plan came like electricity through his brain. Yes; then
there was a promise of happiness. The bell was worth ten thousand
guilders; that sum had been offered, and would now be given by Isaacs
the Jew. He would be happy with his Katerina; and he blessed her
ingenuity for devising the means. For a minute or two he was
transported; but the re-action soon took place. What was he about to
attempt? sacrilege--cruelty. The bell had been blessed by the holy
church; it had been purchased by holy and devout alms. It had been
placed on the rock to save the lives of his brother seamen; and were he
to remove it, would he not be responsible for all the lives lost? Would
not the wail of the widow, and the tears of the orphan, be crying out to
Heaven against him? No, no! never! The crime was too horrible; and
M'Clise stamped upon the paper, thinking he was tempted by Satan in the
shape of a woman; but when woman tempts, man is lost. He recalled the
charms of Katerina; all his repugnance was overcome; and he resolved
that the deed should be accomplished, and that Katerina should be
gained, even if he lost his soul.
Andrew M'Clise sailed away from Amsterdam, and Katerina recovered her
liberty. Vandermaclin was anxious that she should marry: and many were
the suitors for her hand, but in vain. She reminded her father, that he
had pledged himself, if M'Clise counted down twelve thousand guilders,
that she should be his wife; and to that pledge, she insisted that he
was bound fast. And Vandermaclin after reasoning with her, and pointing
out to her that twelve thousand guilders was a sum so large, that
M'Clise might not procure until his old age, even if he were fortunate,
acknowledged that such was his promise, and that he would, like an
honest man, abide by it, provided that M'Clise should fulfil his part of
the agreement in the space of two years; after which he should delay her
settlement no longer. And Katerina raised her eyes to heaven, and
whispered, as she clasped her hands, "The Bell." Alas! that we should
invoke Heaven when we would wish to do wrong; but mortals are blind, and
none so blind as those who are impelled by passion.
It was in the summer of that year that M'Clise had made his
arrangements: having procured the assistance of some lawless hands, he
had taken the advantage of a smooth and glassy sea and a high tide to
remove the bell on board his own vessel; a work of little difficulty to
him, as he had placed it there, and knew well the fastenings. He sailed
away for Amsterdam, and was permitted by Heaven to arrive safe with his
sacrilegious freight. He did not, as before, enter the canal opposite to
the house of Vandermaclin, but one that ran behind the habitation of the
Jew Isaacs. At night, he went into the house, and reported to the Jew
what he had for sale; and the keen grey eyes of the bent-double little
Israelite sparkled with delight, for he knew that his profit would be
great. At midnight the bell was made fast to the crane, and safely
deposited in the warehouse of the Jew, who counted out the ten thousand
guilders to the enraptured M'Clise, whose thoughts were wholly upon the
possession of his Katerina, and not upon the crime he had committed.
But, alas! to conceal one crime, we are too often obliged to be guilty
of even deeper; and thus it was with Andrew M'Clise. The people who had
assisted, upon the promise of a thousand guilders being divided among
them now murmured at their share, and insisted upon an equal division of
the spoils, or threatened with an immediate confession of the black
deed.
M'Clise raved, and cursed, and tore his hair; promised to give them the
money as soon as he had wedded Katerina; but they would not consent.
Again the devil came to his assistance, and whispered how he was to act:
he consented. The next night the division was to be made. They met in
his cabin; he gave them wine, and they drank plentifully; but the wine
was poisoned, and they all died before the morning. M'Clise tied weights
to their bodies, and sunk them in the deep canal; broke open his
hatches, to make it appear that his vessel had been plundered; and then
went to the authorities denouncing his crew as having plundered him, and
escaped. Immediate search was made, but they were not to be found; and
it was supposed that they had escaped in a boat.
Once more M'Clise, whose conscience was seared, went to the house of
Vandermaclin, counted down his twelve thousand guilders, and claimed his
bride; and Vandermaclin, who felt that his daughter's happiness was at
stake, now gave his consent. As M'Clise stated that he was anxious to
return to England, and arrange with the merchants whose goods had been
plundered, in a few days the marriage took place; and Katerina clasped
the murderer in her arms. All was apparent joy and revelry; but there
was anguish in the heart of M'Clise, who, now that he had gained his
object, felt that it had cost him much too dear, for his peace of mind
was gone for ever. But Katerina cared not; every spark of feeling was
absorbed in her passion, and the very guilt of M'Clise but rendered him
more dear; for was it not for her that he had done all this? M'Clise
received her portion, and hasted to sail away; for the bodies were still
in the canal, and he trembled every hour lest his crime should be
discovered. And Vandermaclin bade farewell to his daughter: and, he
knew not why, but there was a feeling he could not suppress, that they
never should meet again.
"Down--down below, Katerina! this is no place for you," cried Mr
M'Clise, as he stood at the helm of the vessel. "Down, dearest, down, or
you will be washed overboard. Every sea threatens to pour into our
decks; already have we lost two men. Down, Katerina! down, I tell you."
"I fear not; let me remain with you."
"I tell you, down," cried M'Clise in wrath; and Katerina cast upon him a
reproachful look, and obeyed.
The storm was at its height; the sun had set, black and monstrous
billows chased each other, and the dismasted vessel was hurried on
towards the land. The wind howled, and whistled sharply at each chink in
the bulwarks of the vessel. For three days had they fought the gale, but
in vain. Now, if it continued, all chance was over; for the shore was on
their lee, distant not many miles. Nothing could save them, but gaining
the mouth of the Frith of Tay, and then they could bear up for Dundee.
And there was a boiling surge, and a dark night, and roaring seas, and
their masts were floating far away; and M'Clise stood at the helm,
keeping her broadside to the sea: his heart was full of bitterness, and
his guilty conscience bore him down, and he looked for death, and he
dreaded it; for was he not a sacrilegious murderer, and was there not an
avenging God above?
Once more Katerina appeared on deck, clinging for support to Andrew.
"I cannot stay below. Tell me, will it soon be over?"
"Yes," replied M'Clise, gloomily; "it will soon be over with all of us."
"How mean you? you told me there was no danger."
"I told you falsely; there is death soon, and damnation afterwards: for
you I have lost my soul!"
"Oh! say not so."
"I say it. Leave me, leave me, woman, or I curse thee."
"Curse me, Andrew? Oh, no! Kiss me, Andrew; and if we are to perish, let
us expire in each other's arms."
"'Tis as well; you have dragged me to perdition. Leave me, I say, for
you have my bitter curse."
Thus was his guilty love turned to hate, now that death was staring him
in the face.
Katerina made no reply. She threw herself on the deck, and abandoned
herself to her feeling of bitter anguish. And as she lay there, and
M'Clise stood at the helm, the wind abated; the vessel was no longer
borne down as before, although the waves were still mountains high. The
seamen on board rallied; some fragments of sail were set on the remnants
of the masts, and there was a chance of safety. M'Clise spoke not, but
watched the helm. The wind shifted in their favour; and hope rose in
every heart. The Frith of Tay was now open, and they were saved! Light
was the heart of M'Clise when he kept away the vessel, and gave the helm
up to the mate. He hastened to Katerina, who still remained on the deck,
raised her up, whispered comfort and returning love; but she heard
not--she could not forget--and she wept bitterly.
"We are saved, dear Katerina!"
"Better that we had been lost!" replied she, mournfully.
"No, no! say not so, with your own Andrew pressing you to his bosom."
"Your bitter curse!"
"'Twas madness--nothing--I knew not what I said."
But the iron had entered into her soul. Her heart was broken.
"You had better give orders for them to look out for the Bell Rock,"
observed the man at the helm to M'Clise.
The Bell Rock! M'Clise shuddered, and made no reply. Onward went the
vessel, impelled by the sea and wind: one moment raised aloft, and
towering over the surge; at another, deep in the hollow trough, and
walled in by the convulsed element. M'Clise still held his Katerina in
his arms, who responded not to his endearments, when a sudden shock
threw them on the deck. The crashing of the timbers, the pouring of the
waves over the stern, the heeling and settling of the vessel, were but
the work of a few seconds. One more furious shock,--she separates, falls
on her beam ends, and the raging seas sweep over her.
M'Clise threw from him her whom he had so madly loved, and plunged into
the wave. Katerina shrieked, as she dashed after him, and all was over.