her light locks and her blue eyes. She was the mother of that fair
child. Don't you see the daughter in the mother and the mother in the
daughter? But I cannot look long on these pictures. My heart fails and
my head runs round. Look at the dark one. It was a terrible night that
when she came to Redcleugh. My wife, who now lies in Deathscroft, down
among the elms yonder, could not sleep for the screeching of the owls,
as if every horned devil of them shouted woe! woe!--to the house of
Redcleugh."
"Nonsense, Francis, omens--all nonsense," I said, interrupting him.
"So said I to Christy, just as you say, doctor. So say we all, every one
of us, here and everywhere, always, just until we are pulled up at a
jerk by some one of God's acts, when we see His finger pointed to the
sign. You are not so old as I am, and have something to learn. Signs are
made only when there are to be judgments, and judgments are not
according to the common ways of heaven."
"What did Mr. Bernard do," asked I, "to bring upon him this judgment
which appears to you to have been so fearful?"
"I am not in the secrets of God's ways with erring man," replied he.
"But who can tell how my master got Lillah--that's her there with these
dark eyes--his first wife? He had been away for years in the eastern
countries, and he never wrote to any one that he was to bring a wife
with him. He brought her, amidst the storm of that fearful night, as if
she had been a bird which he had rescued from the blast, so cowering and
timid did she appear, always clinging to the laird, and looking at him
with such beseeching eyes, and so unlike the women of our land--aye, for
it was no northern sun lighted up these eyes; and as for a heathen faith
imparting such gentleness, we could understand it no way. 'Twas all a
hurry in Redcleugh as well as a sort of fright among us in the hall,
every one whispering and wondering and questioning all to no end; for
from that night we never knew more of her home or kindred, save that it
was suspected she was a Circassian, and had left a noble home for the
love she bore to master. Nor was she ever inquired after by her friends,
except once, when a great eastern lord, as they said, came in a strange
equipage to see her; but her change to a Christian shocked and angered
him, so that high words rose and even reached our ears. He spoke of the
faith she had forsworn, of Allah, and Mahomet, and the Koran, and she
with tears responded Christ, the Saviour of all mankind, and his holy
mother, and the cross of Calvary, so that he was made more angry; and
then he spoke of Euphrosyne, her mother, as we thought, and again the
tears rolled down these cheeks, as she clung to master and lay upon his
neck, sobbing as if her heart would burst in the battle between the
daughter and the wife. The stranger departed in anger, nor did he break
his fast at Redcleugh, and many a day afterwards my young lady was in
tears. 'Twas not long till she had that boy, whom she bore after many
days of labour, with such pain that there was not a servant in the
household did not look as if her own salvation depended upon the issue
of that protracted struggle, so beloved was she, sir; so respected, so
adored, so pitied; and as for Mr. Bernard, he was not himself--scarcely
a man--and little wonder either, for his face was ever the attraction
of her eyes, and every look seemed to be watched by her as if all her
happiness hung upon one of his smiles. Such doings were the wonder of us
all in these parts; for you know we are rougher lovers in our cold land,
and neither Christy, nor I, nor any of us, could understand how, on the
face of this earth, there could be such affection--not a single drop of
bitterness, not a ruffle on the smooth surface. Why, sir! did we not
all, to satisfy our self-love, and our country's custom, call it very
idolatry; but it was only a little envy which we, as it were, stole to
ourselves, as a sweet unction to our sores, and when these were mended
we loved her the more--nay, we could do nothing less; for even the
devil's spleen couldn't detect an unevenness to hang upon it a suspicion
against her."
"You are even more partial, Francis, than the painter," said I, "whom I
have been charging with the fault of drawing upon his fancy to enable
him to draw upon our credulity. She looks scarcely earthly."
"It's no use my description, sir. There are certain perfections
we cannot attribute to God's creatures, because we suffer by the
comparison. They say if there's not now and then a little anger there's
a want. Oh! they will say God's image is not perfect if it have not a
dash of our own evil in it. But experience is the mother of wonders as
well as wisdom. Aye, sir, years of intercourse, even at a servant's
distance, are worth more than your theories in these days."
"I suspect you have been in the library, Francis," said I; "you have
opened books as well as bottles."
"Aye, sir, and _the book_ of all books," replied he seriously; "but I
hope I am not irreverend when I say that God may lead us to understand
the first image in Eden by showing us sometimes something better here
than what we can feel within our own hearts."
"Oh, I am not sceptical," said I; for I thought he was pained by my
remark, as if I doubted the qualities of his idol. "I believe all you
have said of poor Lillah; and I love for the sake of my own matrimonial
hopes to believe it, and more. But this idol died!"
"And died young, sir; perhaps because she was an idol," replied he.
"They don't live long, sir, these creatures. They're like some of those
bright winged things of the East, of which I have read, that exist only
so long as the rose blooms on which they hang and live. But my lady
Lillah never dwined--only there came a sadness over her, and master
noticed that she began to cherish more than usual a miniature which she
carried about with her in her bosom--the figure of a lady--I have seen
it often--so like herself you'd have said they were of the same
family--'twas her mother, whom she called Euphrosyne. Even now I think I
see her sitting in the rose arbour in the garden, with little Caleb by
her side, gazing at that picture, so long, so thoughtfully, so pitifully
that she seemed ready to weep; then she would, as if recalled by
remorse, hug the child, and bid him run for his father; then Mr. Bernard
would no sooner come than she would be so much more loving than was even
her wont, that he seemed oppressed by the very fervour of her affection.
Master was a quiet man, sir, and full of thought; and he soon saw that
it would be good for my lady that she should have a companion. So the
next thing we heard was that Amelia Temple, who had been governess over
the muir at Abbey Field, and had been several times at Redcleugh with
Mr. Orchardstoun's daughters, was engaged to come to us at the term. And
she came. The wind did not whistle that night, nor the owl sound his
horn; there was no omen, sir, and this will please you, though it does
not shake me in my faith in heaven's warnings. You see Amelia there
(holding up the candle, now nearly in the socket), I need not describe
what the painter has copied so faithfully. But master did not look
kindly on that face, beautiful as it is, with that flashing eye and
joyful expression. No, 'twas not till my lady grew distractedly fond of
her that he looked sweetly on her (in the right way) for the love she
gave to and got from her he loved the best of all the world. Oh! 'twas a
beautiful sight, sir, those women. The rose of the west was a match for
the lily of the east; then the pensive sweetness of the one, and the
innocent light-heartedness of the other, met and mingled in a friendship
without guile--a love without envy."
"Your last visit, Francis," I said, with a smile which I could not
conceal, "must have been to the poets of the library."
"'Tis only truth, sir," resumed he. "When one sees a beautiful thing
and feels the beauty--a privilege which is probably never denied at all
times to any of God's creatures, and does not belong exclusively to the
high born or the learned--he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye,
sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the mouth of a
bottle of burgundy, vintage '81."
"And not very poetical when he reflects that there is not a bottle left
in the house," said I.
"He has still 'the pleasures of hope,'" rejoined Francis, with a little
newborn moisture on his dry lips.
"Well," rejoined I, as I began to yawn from pure want of sleep, "there
is at least little of either poetry or pleasure in 'hope deferred.' We
will moisten these dry legends of the Bernards by a little of that
burgundy of theirs now."
And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of something better than
small beer, soon handed me a large glassful of this prince of wines.
"You will require all the benefit of that, sir," said he, "if I am to go
on with my story."
"I'm not afraid," said I, listlessly, "after what I have read of the
Grierson horrors."
The old man turned upon me a strange, wild look, rendered grotesque, if
not ludicrous, by the effect of the glassful he had at that moment taken
at my request. "Ah! you have heard--yet surely it is impossible. Was it
not all between me and master? Who other could know of it? And the book!
Oh, it was never found."
"I know nothing of these mysteries," replied I, not really understanding
him, yet amazed at his appearance, as with long grey locks, shaking by
his excitement, he kept staring at me in the dim light--for the candle
was now out, and the fire burned red and dull. A little more conjuring
would have brought all these pictures out into the room, and even as it
was, I was beginning to transform my companion's shadow, as it lay on
the arm chair behind him, into the very person itself of Lillah Bernard.
"Doctor," he said, gravely, "you must know the dark secret of this
apartment."
"Nothing," replied I. "Go on; you have roused my curiosity. I know
nothing of the Bernard's but what you have told me, and I request to
know more. Go on, Francis."
He was not satisfied; continued to search, so far as he could, my face;
but I wore him out.
"It's no use denying it, sir," he at length said, "but take your own
way now;" then heaving a deep sigh, which might have been heard at the
farthest end of the large room, so silent was all, he went on: "'Twas
not to last, sir, all that happiness among those three, and little Caleb
was the centre by which they were all joined. There's an enemy abroad to
such heart-unions--unseen by all but God, who views him with the eye of
anger, but lets him have his way for a season, and why we know it. Such
little Edens grow up here and there among roses, as if to remind us of
the one paradise which has gone, and to make us hope for the other which
is to come; the old tragedy is wrought within a circuit of a few feet
and the reach of a few hearts. Oh! the old fiend triumphs with the old
laugh on his dark cheek. Yes, sir, it is even so; there is nothing new
with the devil, nor nothing old, nor will there be till his neck is
fastened; but in this meanwhile of days and years of time, oh! how the
soul pants as it looks through the clouds of sorrow which rise under his
dark wing, and can see no light, save through the deep grave where lie
those once beautiful things in corruption. 'Twas the beauty did it all,
sir; the enemy cannot stand that loveliness; it makes him wild; he raves
to get between the hearts and tear them so that the sanctified temples
shall have no incense in them--nothing save the heavy odours of carrion.
My lady Lillah one day felt a drowsiness come over her; it seemed, as
Christy said, she felt only as if she had been inclined to sleep at an
unusual time; she made no complaint, but Mr. Bernard observed something
in her eye, and his watchfulness took alarm at every turn of her quiet
manner. The drowsiness increased, and then it was observed that her
pulse was slow and languid; it seemed to beat with fewer pulses every
hour, and then master became more alarmed, and Amelia could not be away
from her an instant. 'Twas strange the change which all of a sudden took
place in Miss Temple; the gay laugh which Mr. Bernard used to encourage
as a welcome light thrown on the soul of his wife was no more heard; a
pitiful sympathy took its place, and, as Christy described it, looked
like the light which we see so beautiful in the thin haze when the sun
seems to melt all through it; it was the spirit of love, sir, dissolved
in the shadows of grief. She hung over our dear lady as if she would
have poured her own spirit into her to raise the still ebbing pulses.
Nothing would stop that ebbing; the pulse would beat a little stronger
after something given to her, but never quicker. Then these long silken
eyelashes fell farther and farther down, and the voice which had ever
been all meekness, fell and fell into half whispers. At length she said
something into master's ear; and he motioned to Miss Temple to go out
for a little, but Christy remained. It was an awful moment, sir, when
she made a sign that she would speak. 'Dear Edward,' she said, as she
seemed to try to lift higher the drooping lids, 'I will never more see
the beautiful valley of the Kabarda, where stands my father's castle,
with its gardens and roses of Shiraz. Oh, strange it seems to me, as all
the things about me grow dim, the vision of those beloved scenes of my
childhood wax brighter and brighter. I hear my father's voice crying
Euphrosyne, and my mother's Lillah; my brothers and sisters take up the
cry, and the mountaineers salute the favourite daughter of their chief.
But she is here in this far land, and you, my best beloved, are there
before her. Edward, I am going to die--soon--soon. I wished the dear
Amelia away for a little--only a little--to be here again, and never to
go more. She is faithful and loving and true. Edward; listen, my love:
when I am gone, and you can forget me, take that dear girl into that
place where you treasured me--into your affections, as your wife,
Edward. The thought pleases me, for I think you will in her marry
happiness, and my life seems to ebb away in the hope that you may be
with her as you have been with me. Farewell; bring Caleb to kiss me
before I go. There is a voice in my ears; it is Allah! Allah! but it is
not listened to by the heart which whispers Jesus! the Mediator! the
Saviour!'
"And with these words in her lips she died. O, sir, had you seen
master--it was pitiful; and as for Amelia, who knew nothing of Lillah's
words, she kept weeping till her eyes were inflamed. But the grief was
everywhere throughout Redcleugh. It seemed as if some dreadful fate had
befallen the whole household; gloom--gloom and sadness all about--in
every face--in every heart; for never was a daughter of Scotland
beloved as was this dear lady of the far east; and I think somehow
it was her having died so far away from the land of her kindred that
softened the hearts of the people, and made them take on as I never saw
servants take on for a mistress. 'Twould be a sharp eye, sir, that could
distinguish now, in the vault of death's croft, the grey ashes of the
beautiful Circassian from the dust of the Bernards--ay, or that of my
poor Christian Dempster! It was now a long dark night to the house of
Redcleugh, but the longest night is at last awakened by a sun in the
morning. Mr. Bernard--always a moody man--scarcely opened his mouth for
months and months. He was like a tree, that stands erect after being
blasted--it may move by the winds, but the sun has no warmth for it, and
there is nothing inside or at the root to give it life. They say that
when a beloved wife dies, it is to the husband like the sun going away
out of the firmament, and that by-and-by she appears as a pale moon. Ay,
sir; everything here is full of change. Mr. Bernard's moon had no waning
in it, till he began to catch the echoes of Miss Amelia's voice as he
wandered among the woods. It was the grey dawn of another sun, and the
sun rose and rose, promising to gild the east again with its glory. The
long burden was taken off Amelia. Her laugh began again to enliven
Redcleugh, when she saw that Mr. Bernard was able to bear it. Then,
sir, to bear it was to begin to love it, for it was the most infectious
joyfulness that ever gladdened man's ears. The change, once begun, went
on; he hung upon her voice as if it had been music. Every laugh shook
him out of his long misery--it appeared to be to him like new life
running along the nerves of the old dead tabernacle. So might one think
of a man in the desert, as he looks down into the well, with the
reflection of the sun in it; the water is drunk in living light; he
shakes off all the horrors of his long-borne thirst, and rises renewed
and glad. It was pitiful--yea, it was pleasant too--to see how he
followed her, gazed at her, listened to her, just as if he were always
praying her, for mercy's sake, to give him some more of that medicine
of his spirit. But, perhaps, he never would have thought of marrying
Amelia, but for the parting words of Lillah. Christy, in her curious
way, said that it was Lillah's moon that lighted him on to the rising of
the new sun of Amelia; and as Christy wanted this new match, for the
sake of saving, as she thought, the life of our master--it was strange
enough that she saw no omens now save good ones; for was it not a good
one, that every living thing about Redcleugh looked as joyful as Amelia
herself? A wonderful work this world, sir! No magician could have worked
a greater wonder than the scene of that marriage after the scene of that
deathbed; yet it delighted me to see old Redcleugh all in a blaze again,
and to go down into the old catacombs for the old-crusted vintages.
Bless your heart!--it was just like the beginning of a new term of
life to me. Then the memory of Lillah threw no shade over the scene of
enjoyment, for we all knew that if her spirit were not hovering over her
beloved Circassia, it would be here looking down on the fulfilment of
her dying wish."
Here Francis drew breath, as if to prepare himself for something much
more wonderful. It may easily be conceived that he had enlisted my
sympathy, as well by the facts of his story, as his manner of telling
it; and as one turns to the woodcut of a tale to get his impressions
enlivened or verified, I felt a desire to see again, by the light of a
candle, the face of the second wife. Francis gratified me by getting
another candle, lighting it, and holding it up full in the face of
Amelia.
"'Twas all well for Redcleugh for a time," he resumed, "save for me, who
lost my dear Christy shortly after Mira was born. That's she there, sir,
as I have told you, alongside of my lady Amelia. When the grief was
still heavy upon me, I was surprised by an almost sudden change in Mr.
Bernard. I had gone up in the morning, expecting to find him in his
dressing-room, which, as you see, enters as well from the lobby as by a
door from the parlour, where breakfast was served. As I proceeded along
the passage, I saw my lady hurrying away, with her handkerchief over her
eyes, and her right hand held up, as if she were addressing Heaven; then
deep sobs came from her, and a groan, which burst from the heart as she
turned away into the west angle, sounded through the long lobbies and
corridors. Master was not in his dressing-room. I heard his voice
calling me from his bed-room, and I started at the sound, so unlike his
utterance--so deep, heart-ridden, and agonized. On entering, I found him
in his morning gown, sitting in that chair; his head thrown back, and
his eyes fixed on my lady Lillah's portrait. It seemed, also, as if
Amelia could not rest in the room in the west angle, where I thought I
had seen her hurrying. Her foot was distinctly heard as she passed again
along the lobby, which stretches along to the east tower, and passes
this room, where my master and I were. A succession of groans followed,
and died away as she receded. Mr. Bernard was too much occupied by some
heart-stupefying thought to heed these sounds, and I stood before him
not knowing what to say, far less what to do. At length he held up his
hands, and placing one on my arm, said, in a voice which seemed the
sound of one choking:--
"'Francis, you are an old friend, not a servant--not now at least. I
trust you. The house of Redcleugh is doomed, nor shall a Bernard be ever
again happy within its walls.'
"'What is wrong, master?' I inquired.
"'The core,' said he; 'the master's heart. I must go to the East again.
There may be peace there for me; here, in my father's house, there is
none. But what shall become of Caleb and Mira?'
"My heart was too full to answer, and still Amelia's groans came from
the passages, changing and changing, like the voice of a restless
spirit. My master rose, and, folding his arms, paced along the room. His
brow was knit tight as the muscles would draw. He seemed to contract his
arms, as if to compress his heart--nor did a word escape from him. A
thought seized me, that, like the older Bernards, he was under a fit of
alienation. I made for the door, to seek my lady Amelia, and even in her
agonies to consult her what was to be done. My master seized me sharply
by the arm.
"'Whither going?' he said.
"'For my lady,' replied I.
"'For Amelia?' he said--'for the murderer of my Lillah, my first love,
my angel?'
"I stood petrified, the word 'murderer' twittering on my shaking lips in
fragments.
"'Yes,' he said, 'come in, come in--bolt that door; the other is
already cared for. Francis, you know how my Lillah died; there was no
disease--she slept away as a drugged victim. Now, listen. During this
last night I was awoke by the restlessness of Amelia. I heard her leave
my side, and rise from the bed'--that on which you are now lying.--'The
rush-light burned on the mantelpiece, and I could see my wife, as she
rose and began to pace the floor. I called out gently, "Amelia;" but
got no answer. Her eyes, I saw, were fixed; and she moved her arms,
as if she were addressing some imaginary being. I concluded she was
sleep-walking, and immediately she began to speak, as she paced
backwards and forwards. Part of what she said I lost, but I could join
together enough for conviction.
"'"She stood between me and my love," she said, as she stopped for a
moment, laying one hand upon another, "and it was necessary she should
be put out of the way. A Grierson was never a waverer when a deed of
blood was to be done." "How did you do it?" "How did I do it? Poison! I
made her sleep the long sleep, which the sun never breaks, nor the moon,
nor time." "What poison did you say?" "The sleepy poison. I made for her
a draught, that I might draw the sweet life away; and"--
"'She stopped and laughed, as a sleep-walker laughs--hollow and distant.
"'"And get into the _Temple_ she occupied. Was you still kind to her
while you watched the effect of your draught?" "Was I, did you say? Yes,
very kind. Oh! I nursed her dying spirit, that he might think me a
ministering angel to his wife, whom I wanted to succeed. He was
deceived. Yes, yes; simple fool, he was deceived. Ay, and not deceived,
for I loved him."
"'She began to walk again to and fro, sometimes slowly, sometimes
quickly, then of a sudden turned and stood--"She was fair," she
continued, as she kept looking at the wall; "but so am I. He got as good
a bargain in me as in her." Then she made devious movements, turning and
returning, muttering to herself, but so thickly that I only caught words
much disjointed--"Remorse!--yes, yes!--no, no!--not till I am to be
hanged; but that cannot be; no one saw me. Say nothing, nothing!--mix
the draught--away to bed. 'Tis late, late! and I am cold."
"'She came to bed, Francis, cold and shivering. My mind began to regain
some form of thinking, after having been tossed about by the effect of
her horrible monologue, or rather part of a dialogue. The conviction was
instant, unavoidable, and certain. I never thought of awakening her to
question her, but lay distant from her as from a reptile. I slept none.
In the morning she turned to kiss me. I drew back my head in horror,
and saw that she too was horrified at my manner. I bade her begone for a
murderer, and, committed thus by my agony, told her she had confessed
the whole story in a fit of somnambulism. Then she flew from me, crying
she was innocent, tearing her hair in good acting--and there she walks
by the passages under the sting of her guilt. Oh! she dare not face me,
even were I to allow a meeting, which I wont. Francis, I am convinced.'