A calm, pure summer moonlight fell upon the Ayrshire mosses and deans,
but did not silver, as far as we are concerned, the Carrick Castle of
Bruce, nor Cameron's lair amidst the heather, nor landward Tintock, nor
even seagirt Ailsa Craig, but only the rolling waves of the Atlantic and
a grey turreted mansion-house built on a promontory running abruptly
into the water. The dim ivory light illuminated a gay company met in the
dwelling with little thought of stillness or solemnity, but with their
own sense of effect, grouped carelessly, yet not ungracefully, in an
old-fashioned, though not unsuitable drawing-room.
They needed relief, these brilliant supple figures; they demanded the
background of grey hangings, scant carpet, spindle-legged chairs, and
hard sombre prints. To these very cultivated, very artificial and
picturesque personages, a family sitting-room was but a stage, where
lively, capricious, yet calculating actors were engaged in playing
their parts.
The party were mostly French, from the mass of gallant, dauntless
emigrants, many of whom were thus entertained with grateful,
commiserating hospitality in households whose members had but lately
basked in the sparkling geniality of the southern atmosphere, now lurid
and surcharged with thunder.
There was a Marquise, worldly, light, and vain, whom adversity had not
broken, and could not sour; an Abbé, bland and double, but gentle and
kindly in his way; a soldier, volatile, hot-headed, brave as a lion,
simple as a child; an older man, sad, sneering, indifferent to this
world and the next, but with the wrecks of a noble head, and, God help
him, a noble heart.
Of the three individuals present of a different nation and creed, two
closely resembled the others with only that vague, impalpable, but
perceptible distinction of those whose rearing affords a superficial
growth which overspreads but does not annihilate the original plant. The
one was a young man, buoyant, flippant, and reckless as the French
soldier, but with a bold defiance in his tone which was all his own; the
other a young girl, coquettish and vivacious as the Marquise, but with a
deep consciousness under her feigning, an undercurrent of watchful pride
and passion, of which her model was destitute. The last of the circle
was a fair-haired, broad-shouldered lad, who stood apart from the
others, big, shy, silent:--but he was earnest amid their shallowness,
noble amid their hollowness, and devoted amid their fickleness. How he
gazed on the arch, haughty girl, with her lilies and roses, her
pencilled brows, her magnificent hair magnificently arranged, with her
rich silk and airy lace, and muslin folded and gathered and falling
into lines which were the very poetry of attire, unless where a piquant
provoking frill, band, or peak, reminded the gazer that the princess was
a woman, a mocking mischievous woman, as well as a radiant lady! How he
listened to her contradictory words, witty and liquid even in their most
worthless accents! how he drank in her songs, the notes of her harp, the
rustle of her dress, the fall of her foot! how he started if she moved!
how he saw her, though his eyes were on the ground, and though his head
was in his hands, while she marked him ceaselessly, half with cruel
triumph, half with a flutter and faintness which she angrily and
scornfully resisted and denied.
A few more gay _bons mots_ and repartees, a last epigram from the Abbé,
a court anecdote from the Marquise which might have figured in one of
those letters of Madame de Sévigné where the freshness of the haymaker
of Les Rochers survives the glare and the terrible staleness of the
Versailles of Louis XV., a blunt camp jest from the soldier, a sarcasm
from the philosopher, a joyous barcarole, strangely succeeded by a
snatch from that lament of woe wrung forth by the fatal field of
Flodden, and the company dispersed. The horse's hoofs of the single
stranger of the evening rung on the causeway, as he made for the smooth
sands of the bay, the lights one by one leaping out, and the pale moon
remaining mistress of Earlscraig as when the warder on yon tower peered
out over the waters for the boats of the savage Irish kern, or lit the
bale-fire that summoned Montgomery and Muir to ride and run for the love
or the fear of Boswell of Earlscraig.
Had these old-world times returned by magic? had a crazed serving-man
revived the vanished duties of his warlike predecessor? was the wraith
of seneschal or man-at-arms conjuring up a ghostly beacon to stream into
the soft air? was an evil spirit about to bewilder and mislead a fated
ship to meet its doom on the jagged rocks beneath the dead calm of that
glassy sea? So dense was the vapour that suddenly gathered over
Earlscraig, till like an electric flash, a jet of flame sprang from a
high casement and lit up the gathering obscurity. No horn blew, no bugle
sounded, no tramp of horse or hurrying feet broke the silence; the house
lay in profound rest, and the sleepers slept on, though truly that was
no phantom glare, no marsh gleam, but the near presence of an awful foe.
And the smoke burst forth in thicker, more suffocating volume; the red
streamers shot up again and again, and the burning embers fell like
thickest swarms of fire-flies, before a single hasty step roused an echo
already lost in the roar and crackle of fire. A scared, half-dressed
servant ran out into the court, flung up his hands as he looked around
him, then hurried back, and suddenly the great bell pealed out its
faithful alarum. "Good folk, good folk, danger is at the door! For
Jesu's sake and your dear lives, up and flee! The angels hold out their
hands, Sodom is around you--away, away!"
The summons was not in vain. Within a few seconds clamorous outcries,
shrieks of dismay, the dashing open of doors and windows, answered the
proclamation. A horror-struck crowd assembled rapidly in the court; but
notwithstanding that the Abbé's wan face and shaven crown appeared
speedily, and the soldier shouted, "Who is in danger? _mes camarades,
suivez-moi!_" the philosopher instinctively elected himself commander;
he rose, tall and erect, over the heads of his fellows; his face flushed
and brightened; and he spoke words of wisdom and resolution whose spirit
men recognised through the veil of his frozen tongue; while cravens
shrank back, brave men rallied round him!
"Where is Boswell? _Mon Dieu!_ the house is burning and the master is
not found! Adolphe, _sauve la Marquise, cet escalier n'est pas perdu_.
But where is Boswell? Show his room to me--the nearest way--quick, or he
perishes. _Ah, le voilà!_"
Down a flight of side steps stumbled the butler and a favourite groom,
bearing between them the young laird, motionless, senseless, his dress
dishevelled, but unscathed by flame, and unstained by blood; still
breathing, but his marked imperious features were unconscious, heavy,
and lethargic.
The Abbé and his elder friend exchanged glances. The brow of the latter
contracted in disgust and gloom.
"Adolphe and he played billiards against my desire, as if he were not
_bête_ enough already," he said in an undertone. "Lay him here, my
friends," to the servants, "and listen to me. If you love the Seigneur,
let him never know that thus it happened this night. Cover him with a
mantle; he will awake to see his chateau a ruin. _Mais, n'importe_, we
will do our best. Carry out what is most precious; bring up buckets of
water. _Ma foi!_ there is enough at hand."
Yes; at their feet, but by a few fathoms unavailable, lay the broad
sea, sufficient to extinguish the conflagration of a thousand cities,
while the house above was rent with fierce heat, which reddened the sea
like blood.
The Marquise was rescued sobbing and shivering, but she shared her
blanket with one of the poor servant-girls. Even the old bed-ridden
nurse, so blind and stupid with age that none could satisfy her of the
cause of the tumult and din, was carried out, and placed on the grass
terrace beside the master; where no sooner did she apprehend intuitively
the neighbourhood of her proudly cherished nursling, than she left off
her weak wailing, and began to croon over him as fondly and contentedly
as when he lay an innocent babe in his cradle:
"Are you weary, Earlscraig? Have you come back sorely tired from the
hunt or the race? Weary fa' the men folk that let you lie down with the
dew-draps on your bonny curls--bonnier than Miss Alice's, for a' their
fleechin'--as if it were high noon. No but noontide has its ills, too;
but you would never heed a bonnet, neither for sun nor wind. A wild
laddie, a wild laddie, Earlscraig!"
Eager but ignorant hands were piling up heaps of miscellaneous
goods--pictures, feather-beds, old armour, plate, mirrors, harness,
carpets, and wearing apparel. All were tossed together in wild
confusion. The moon was hidden; air, earth, and water were lurid; a
hot blast blew in men's faces, which alone remained white and haggard,
when a murmur and question, a doubt and frenzy, first stirred and fast
convulsed the mass. "Where is Miss Alice?" Ay, where was Miss Alice?
Who had seen her? Speak, in God's name!--shout her name until her
voice replies, and men's shuddering souls are freed from this ghastly
nightmare.
Miss Alice! Alice Boswell! are you safe, lamenting unseen the home of
your fathers? Or are you within that turret whose foundation rock
descends sheer into the sea--that turret close by which the demon began
his work, where his forked tongue is now licking each loophole and
outlet, where beams are bursting and the yawning jaws of hell are about
to swallow up the rapid wreck--forgotten, forsaken--the queen of hearts,
the wooed and worshipped beauty; fair and sweet, ripe and rare, the sole
daughter of the race; the charm and delight of its grey heads?
Oh, Father, thou art terrible in thy decrees! Oh, men, ye are miserable
fools! She is there by the blazing framework of the window of her
chamber, which she has never quitted; her hair loose, some portion of
her dress cast about her, her eyes wide open and glazing with terror,
but strangely beautiful--with a glory behind and about her; an unearthly
brightness upon brow and cheek, and white arms stretched out
imploringly, despairingly for help in her utmost need.
They pressed forward; they looked up in anguish; old men who had
followed her when a fairy child, friends of long standing, acquaintances
of yesterday. Again and again the gallant soldier penetrated the low
doorway; again and again he swerved and recoiled from the furnace fumes
that met him--a more fearful encounter than the fury of the
sans-culottes and the reeking pools beneath the guillotine.
"_Courage, soldats! Vive la mort, pour la femme et pour la gloire!_" and
with a shout half-exulting, half-maddened, the Gallic blood again fired
to the desperate feat. Then there was a diversion--a rush to the
opposite side of the building--a ladder might be of use there. A notion
of forcing open a closed-up and disused gallery of communication, seized
hold of these agitated minds, and this afforded a vent to the pent-up
sympathy and distress. New energy supplanted stupor; and through the
deep hush of the fire could be distinguished the blows of axe and
hammer, wielded lustily by stalwart and devoted arms, eager to clear a
way of life and liberty for the captive.
But this was a work of time, and louder crackled and hissed the flames.
A fiercer blaze filled the sky, and glittered back from the waves; the
serpent tongues drew together, and shot up through the room in a yellow
pyramid. In vain! in vain! The zealous labourers panted in the sickness
of horror and the chill of great awe.
"A boat! a boat!" called a voice from the outer circle. The thinker, the
scorner, stood on the verge of the rocks above the illuminated sea, his
head bare, his coat stripped off. "Let Mademoiselle cast herself from
the casement instantly; it is her only hope. I can swim; I will hold her
up until a boat is launched. _Courage, Mademoiselle!_ trust in God and
in me."
"Yes, Marquise," he whispered for a second to his countrywoman near him;
"I have lost God for many a day; I have found him again in this hour. A
_Te Deum_ for my requiem!" and looking aghast upon his face in the great
light, the Marquise crossed herself, and averred ever afterwards that
it was transformed like unto that of his patron saint, St. Francis. The
next moment he plunged into the midnight sea. Those who witnessed the
action declared that the reflection of the burning was so strong that he
seemed to sink into a lake of fire, where he rose again presently, and
breasted the waters stoutly.
The girl saw the design; she comprehended it, and the hoarse murmur of
encouragement that hailed its presence of mind. The concentration of the
flames, which threatened every moment to bring down a portion of the
ponderous roof in one destroying crash, left a freer passage. She
advanced quickly--she put her foot on the smouldering sill; she paused,
hesitated. It was a fearful alternative.
"Leap down, leap down, Miss Alice; a drowning man has two lives, a
burning man but one. Down, down, or you are lost!"
But another cry mingled with the vehement appeal--a piercing, confident
cry, that would have vibrated on the dull ear of the dying, though it
said only, "I am coming. Alice Boswell: I am coming!"
He was there, on his panting, foam-flecked horse: he flung himself from
his saddle; he heard her answer, "Hector Garret, save me, save me!"
He broke the circle as Samson burst the green withes: he paralysed all
remonstrance; he vanished into the abyss which the great staircase
presented. He must have borne a charmed life to reach thus far--when a
mightier roar, a perfect column of fire, a thundering avalanche of
glowing timber and huge stones descended with a shock of an earthquake,
and rebounded into the sea, engulfing for ever the fair slight form
within.
By daring and magnanimous effort and main force, other arms bore back
Hector Garret from the tottering walls and shaken foundation: and the
boat rowed out and delivered the heroic Frenchman. The sinking in of the
turret roof satiated the destroyer, so that the further wing of the
house was preserved. Its master lived unharmed, to rouse himself from
his portentous slumber and face his calamity, while the lover lay
writhing and raging in the clutch of wild fever.
But the summer sun shining down on the sea, once more blue and clear as
heaven, fell on black yawning gaps and mounds of ashes; on shivered
glass and strewn relics of former luxury; on the very grass of the
promontory, brown and withered, and trodden into the earth for many a
yard; on the horrible grave of the maiden who had watched her own image
in the crystal pools, lilted her siren songs to the break of the waves,
woven at once chains for her adorers and the web of that destiny which
buried her there, unshrouded and uncoffined.