"The stain of crime--the stain of crime
Glows in immortal colours there!
Not e'en the coursing flood of time
Can make that foulest plague-spot fair.
My love was thine; it would have stood
The test of years, or falsehood even;
But thine own hand, imbued in blood,
Hath shut to thee both earth and heaven.
Away, away! there flows 'tween thee and me
The deep, dark ocean of eternity."
The worthy burghers assembled before the inn of _frau_ Jost Stoll had
not been alone in their anxiety for the return of the Ger-Falcon, nor in
their curiosity about the strange vessel which had sailed so boldly into
their harbour.
Between the Rondeel and the alehouse, amid a park of majestic trees with
a lawn before it sloping to the water, stood, as has been before
described, the ancient White Hall, the gubernatorial residence of the
Earl of Bellamont. It was an antiquated, rambling edifice, with divers
bastion-like projections, chimneys terminating in turrets, lofty-peaked
gables, and long, low wings. Running along the whole front was a
balcony, upon which the windows of the second story opened, converting
it into an airy and elevated promenade for the occupants of the suite of
rooms connecting with it. At the eastern extremity of this terrace,
which here wound round an octagonal-shaped tower obtruding from the
angle, was a deep curtained window, which led into a boudoir. The
slanting rays of the setting sun fell in rich tints through it upon the
carpet, and, reflected from its crimson curtains, diffused a roseate
light throughout the chamber. Near the centre of this apartment, which
was furnished with the most costly articles of luxury, stood a superb
harp, with its music lying open upon a stand beside it, as if just
deserted. Paintings, of subjects tastefully appropriate for such a
scene, from the pencils of the old masters, hung upon the walls, and
shelves of gilded books filled the sides of a niche, in which, on a
pedestal of black marble, stood a snowy statue of Calliope. In an
opposite recess answering to it was a Clio; and in a third, fronting the
window, was a Madonna and child, by Guido, before which, on a tall
tripod of silver and ivory exquisitely carved, was placed a crucifix of
gold, set with precious stones, and several books of prayer and of pious
reading.
By the open window which faced the south sat a female, in the white and
flowing evening costume of the times. Her face lay in the palm of her
right hand, which rested on a slab supported by bronze lions that stood
beneath a lofty mirror half hidden in tapestry. A guitar lay unheeded
upon her lap, on the silent strings of which her fingers unconsciously
lingered, while her eyes were turned towards the sea, whither, it was
plain, her thoughts had also flown. At her feet was a silken flag, on
which was embroidered the crest of Bellamont--a boar's head--and
beneath, in Gothic characters, the letters =R. F.=, the latter
unfinished, with the needle left in it. She was exceedingly lovely,
beautiful as the houris that awake the glowing lyre of the Persian bard.
Her beauty was oriental too--soft, languishing, dreamy, and most
dangerous to look upon. The amorous sun lingered and still lingered on
her olive brow, rioting on its beauty, and, to the last, entwined his
golden rays among her glorious hair. And such hair! It was dark as the
midnight cloud. Evenly parted on her forehead, it was turned back from
her blue veined temples to the top of the head, and braided to resemble
the crest of a helmet; but several flowing waves of the luxuriant braid
had burst the bondage of the fillet, and now sported about her superb
neck in the gentle evening wind.
Five years had passed, and Kate Bellamont had become the lovely woman
she now appeared. She had grown taller, being now a little above the
common height, and her ripened figure was moulded in the most finished
model of feminine grace. Nothing could be more fascinatingly perfect
than the undulating outline of her person; and from the rounded arm and
elegant hand, to the symmetrical foot just peeping from beneath her
robe, resting its tip on an ottoman, all was grace and harmony. Her
features, too, were in keeping with the enhanced beauty of her person.
The expression of her face was something loftier and more decided, but
blending, nevertheless, much sweetness with that peculiar and graceful
dignity becoming a very beautiful woman. Her dark, floating eyes were
fuller of passion and thought, and far more fatal to the beholder were
their animated glances. The budding loveliness of her ruby, laughing lip
had changed to a sweeter and more quiet character; yet love, now a
practised archer, lay hidden there still, nestled amid smiles and
dimples; perhaps, too, they bore a stronger impress of pride of birth
and firmness of character than heretofore. Indeed, all that the youthful
maiden had promised was fulfilled in the more matured woman, and the
unfolding bud had burst into glorious flower.
As she gazed forth from the window, and looked long and anxiously down
the bay, which stretched before her reflecting all the hues of the
gorgeously painted sky, a pensive shadow would at times steal across her
features, and a sigh escape her bosom; then, with a conscious blush, she
would drop her eyes, thrum a nervous note or two on the guitar, and
again bend her searching, wishful gaze over the water.
At length, just as the sun was setting, a vessel appeared afar off in
the entrance of the harbour, and with an exclamation of joy she bounded
to the balcony, and watched, with no less interest than the skipper and
his companions had done, its approach towards the town. As it came
nearer, a look of disappointment clouded her features, and anxiety and
suspicion began to take the place of hope.
"No, it is not he; such was not the fashion of his sails; nor does the
flag of England fly from her mast as it is wont to do. Heaven forbid
that accident should have befallen him. Oh, that he would return and
relieve my anxious watching.--Yet perhaps this stranger may bring me
news of him."
As this thought occurred to her, she watched the motions of the vessel
with renewed interest, until she dropped anchor within gunshot of the
town. The gun from the Rondeel, and the confused murmur of voices from
the inn below, increased her curiosity; and the deepening twilight still
found her at the window, with her eyes fixed on the scarcely visible
hull, as if, although it might not contain him she looked for, it was
yet in some way connected with her destinies.
Elpsy, it will be remembered, after her appearance at the inn of Jost
Stoll, waited until nightfall, and then, hearing the approach of a boat
from the strange vessel, hastened to meet it. It pulled in close by a
large rock; and as the person it bore stepped to the beach, she at once
knew him by his bearing to be him she sought. He gave a few brief orders
to his men, warning them to be guarded against surprise, and then,
wrapping his mantle about him, first loosening his sword in its
scabbard and bringing his pistols round to be ready for use, he moved
across the beach towards the silent inn. She permitted him to pass her
unseen, and followed him till he reached the open space in front of the
alehouse, when, seeing him pause as if to reconnoitre, she approached
him from behind and lightly touched his arm.
Quick as lightning, his hand was upon her throat, and a pistol was held
to her heart. But as quickly the hand was released and the weapon put
up.
"Is it thou, Elpsy? Thou shouldst come less stealthily upon a man who is
accustomed to the use of steel. Had I not recognised thy accursed shape,
not to be mistaken even in this faint starlight, thou wouldst have
caused me to shed thy blood. What wouldst thou?"
"The fulfilment of thy promise."
"Have they come?"
"All. 'Tis five weeks since the ship that bore them from the old country
anchored in the harbour."
"All?"
"All, even thy--that is, even to the Lady Lester!"
"Ah, the poor lady! Does she live?"
"Scarcely. For years she shut herself in her castle; but the Earl of
Bellamont, pitying her loneliness and her sorrows, a year since did
prevail on her to take up her abode at Castle Cor."
"And so, when he was appointed governor, she came hither with him? I
would see her, Elpsy."
"Nay, thou hadst better not. There is one who alone will demand all thy
time and thought! Hast thou the will to perform? will no
faint-heartedness come over thee?"
"None. I love her still. Time only increases my passion. Five years has
given me worldly lessons. I am ready to fulfil the vow I made to thee
when in port a few months ago, in expectation of her arrival, and now
assert my claim to the rank and title of Lester, for I have been taught
that kings have been bastards, and bastards kings."
"And to this title seek to annex that of the house of Bellamont?"
"But will she hear me still? I fear even thy art, aided by thy subtlest
filters, could not make her love if love has once died in her heart."
"It will depend on thee--as it chance that thou love her or her title
more."
"I care not for her title so I be once more her accepted wooer. Elpsy,"
he said, with animation, "I have loved this maiden well; never, save
when sleeping--nor even then, for my dreams were of her alone--have I
ceased to think of her. There is none, save thyself, that know I am not
the true Lester?"
"None. Even Lady Lester still mourns thee as her son, and would be first
to hail thee."
"The Mark Meredith?"
"Is lost at sea, and so thou art the only claimant."
"Canst prove it?"
"His name appeared, 'tis said, in every print, as one lost in a king's
ship, that went down at sea, in a storm off Calais four years ago."
"'Tis better than I thought. Yet he was a brave lad! Does Lady Lester
know of thy presence here?"
"She lives secluded in the White Hall, and knows naught that passeth in
the world. But did she, am I not beyond the reach of justice, should she
seek my death on suspicion of slaying thee? Was I not tried and nothing
found against me--as how should there be? I am an exile and under
sentence. Ha, ha, law cannot reach me; and man, unaided by it, dare
not. I reign here; I rule all minds. It is they who fear, not I. They
are the slaves of superstition, and I make them obedient to my will.
Even thou, proud man, dost acknowledge my power."
"I do, Elpsy."
"Therefore shalt thou have its aid in thy wooing."
"Nay, first let me try my fortunes on the footing of our former love."
"If she will not listen to thee?"
"She will."
"Wilt thou resign her if she will not?"
He was silent for a moment, and then said,
"What would you have me do?"
"Take her with thee to thy vessel--once there, thy will must be her
will. I shall give thee neither rest nor peace, on sea or land, till
thou art the acknowledged Earl of Lester, and, by marriage, Lord of
Bellamont. Go. Where you see the light burning in yonder window is her
chamber. I saw her there as the sun went down. Go, and when thou hast
spoken with her, come to my hut and tell me how thou art received. See
thou lag not, for I have prepared the rites thou hast sought of me--and
if thou wouldst have thy buried treasures hid from mortal eyes, and
prosper in what thou undertakest, see thou art with me before the
midnight hour."
"Stay, Elpsy; should she discover that Kyd and Lester are the same?"
"Then," said the woman, in a sneering and malicious tone of voice, "thou
wilt have to woo the rougher, and 'twill be more to thy credit if thou
carry her off. Would it humble thy pride to have her know it?"
"By Heaven, did I believe she did, I would not go near her."
The witch laughed in such a way that he half suspected her of betraying
him. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and said quickly,
"Woman, thou hast told her, to gratify thy malicious soul."
"Think you I would crush the seed, when, by a little patience, I can
pluck the fruit of the full-grown tree? Go, boy!"
As she spoke she pointed towards the White Hall. He left her without
replying, and walked in the direction of the mansion, which stood silent
and majestic amid its noble grove of oaks.
As the night advanced, lights were brought into the boudoir of Kate
Bellamont. Turning away from the window with a sigh of disappointment,
she struck a few sad notes on her guitar, and then, throwing it aside,
took up the flag she was embroidering, and began mechanically to ply the
needle, occasionally pausing in her graceful toil, with her head
inclined towards the open window, as if she fancied she heard sounds
from the water. Suddenly she started and sprung to the balcony. The
regular dip of oars now struck distinctly upon her ears, each instant
approaching nearer and nearer, and a dim object soon advanced from the
distant gloom; and, as it came swiftly on, she could distinguish the
bodies of men and the outline of a boat boldly relieved against the
glassy flood. In a few seconds it was hidden by an oak and a clump of
shrubbery, but she could hear it still as it made its way towards the
entrance of the canal in front of the "Boat and Anchor," as the inn of
Jost Stoll was designated. After listening a while longer, and hearing
nothing to confirm her hopes that it bore a message to the White Hall,
she re-entered her boudoir and once more resumed her embroidery. This in
a little while she restlessly cast aside, and, approaching her harp,
struck its golden chords, and, accompanying it by her voice, sung, in a
wild and thrilling strain, a popular Irish air. Now slow and solemn
sounded the deep, majestic notes; now light and free; now soft, and
touching, and most melancholy, even to sadness, they wailed beneath the
magic touch of her fingers--her voice, or deep as an angel's trumpet, or
soft as a guitar, or clear as a flute, or wild and high like a clarion,
following in faultless harmony through the rangeless fields of melody.
"Like an emerald gem on the breast of the sea,
Dear Erin, my home! is thy vision to me;
As the sun to the day--as the moon to the night,
Is thy thought to my soul--'tis its warmth and its light.
"Sweet clime of my kindred--loved land of my birth!
The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth;
Oh! where'er I may roam--howe'er bless'd I may be,
My spirit all lonely returns unto thee.
"There first budded passion--there burst into bloom
The flower of young hope--though it droop'd to the tomb!
But that brief life of love! though whole ages may roll
O'er my heart in despondence--'tis fresh in my soul.
"Let the winds wildly blow--let the waves madly rise,
Till the storm-sprite's libation is flung in the skies;
Still my spirit will seek, o'er the ocean's bright foam,
For my home in dear Erin--my own native home!"[A]
[Footnote A: Composed by Owen Grenliffe Warren, Esq.]
The last notes of the music were trembling on the chords, and the maiden
stood as if entranced by her own strains, when a noise like the flitting
of a humming-bird in the chamber caused her to start, and, at the same
instant, something glittered past her eyes and fell at her feet. She
stooped to lift it from the carpet with an exclamation between fear and
surprise.
"A silver arrow! What can it mean? Ha! surely I have seen it before--no,
no, it cannot be! I will examine it! what strange recollections--what
long buried memories start up! I will see if my suspicions are true!"
She held it to the light with a trembling hand, and with undisguised
astonishment read:
"Field of Archery, Castle Cor, May,
MDCXCIV."
"Merciful Heaven!" she almost shrieked, "it is--_it is the same_! Who
can have done this? Whence came it? 'Tis Lester!"
"It is Lester!" repeated a deep, rich voice.
She turned with a half cry and startled look towards the window, and, to
her terror, beheld standing just without on the balcony, in the shadow
of the curtain, a tall dark figure enveloped in a cloak, his features
shaded by sable plumes drooping over his brow from a Spanish hat looped
boldly up in front.
She would have shrieked, but her surprise and alarm for a moment denied
her utterance. She leaned on her harp for support, and gazed on the
intruder without the power to move. He advanced a step and stood within
the window. The movement restored her presence of mind, and with a
degree of self-possession that surprised herself, and in the tone and
manner of one who feels herself insulted by intrusion rather than
intimidated by the presence of the intruder, she cried,
"Stand, sir, whoever thou art! Approach no nearer, or I alarm the Hall."
As she spoke she extended her hand towards a silver bell that stood on a
table near her. Quicker than thought, the stranger's hand was upon hers,
and he was kneeling, without cloak or bonnet, at her feet. Surprise,
rather than fear, rooted her to the spot. She gazed on him with
astonishment; and, as she gazed, her features worked with extraordinary
emotion. The light shone full upon his face, and exhibited the features
of a fair, handsome man, scarce twenty-five, with light flowing hair,
an eye like a hawk's, and a figure of the most noble and manly
proportions. He wore a short Flemish cloak of green cloth, richly
embroidered, and a short Spanish sword, with a jewelled hilt, hung at
his side. His face was lifted to hers with eloquent pleading. She met
his gaze with a wild, alarmed look--clasped her hands on her forehead as
if she would recall the past, and steadfastly fixed her eyes upon him as
if tracing in his features a resemblance that startled her.
"Kate."
Soft were the tones of his deep, rich voice as he spoke, and full of
tenderness were his eyes as he lifted them to hers.
"Robert of Lester!" she cried, starting back as if memory had vividly
returned at the sound of his voice.
"I am he," was the reply of the stranger, bending his head lowly, as if
deprecating her displeasure.
"Leave me, sir," she said, haughtily, though returning love was
evidently struggling for the mastery over her sense of right. As she
spoke she drew herself up commandingly, though her bosom heaved with
emotion, and her averted eyes contradicted her words.
"Dearest Kate!"
"Robert of Lester, I bid you leave me. Your presence is an intrusion,
sir."
"Lady," he said, with tenderness, "do you not remember when, five years
since, you placed, with your own fair hands, the arrow you now hold in
them, in my bonnet."
"Nay, bring not up the past; 'tis buried--long forgotten," she cried,
nervously, and in a voice tremulous with feeling. "Would to God you had
not appeared to revive it."
"Lady," he continued, in a soft, subdued tone, that touched her heart,
"does not love's early dream--"
"That dream is o'er. Oh, that you would cease to recall what will only
render me miserable!" she added, with feeling, burying her face in her
hands.
"Is there no room for pardon--none for forgiveness? Hear me, Kate!
dearest Kate! You who were my playmate in childhood--who in youth first
awakened love in this bosom. Dash not the cup of hope for ever to the
ground! I have sought thee, and now kneel to thee, to tell thee how
fondly, how madly I love--"
"Cease, sir. This is no language for me to hear. Once--but, no
matter--'tis past. If you have aught to say touching matters foreign to
this, speak, and I can listen; then, prithee depart. Oh, that thou hadst
kept away from me for ever! The sight of thee has torn my heart!"
"Then there is hope?"
"None."
"Hast forgotten," he said, with passionate tenderness, "how often we
have sailed together on the little mere by Castle More; how together we
have pursued the stag through the forests of Castle Cor; how oft we have
rambled by the shores of its bay by moonlight, entwined in each other's
arms as we walked; how we loved one another, and did pledge in the sight
of Heaven undying love--"
"Robert, Robert--" she cried, moved by the touching images he had
recalled.
"Have you forgotten," he continued, in the same tone, rising and
advancing a step nearer to her, while she leaned against the harp, nor
thought to retreat from him, "oh, have you quite forgotten all this?
Can you recall it and bid me leave thee? Will you spurn him you have
loved and still love--"
"Hold, hold! I love thee not! no, no, I love thee not. You presume too
much, sir," she added, starting from her attitude, and with difficulty
assuming a haughty bearing. "A maiden may once love, and, finding she
has loved unworthily, hate!"
"Dearest Kate," he said, in a tone that reminded her of the days when
they were lovers, gently taking her hand.
"Nay, stand back, sir!" she cried, troubled and with difficulty
governing the tones of her voice, which returning love fain would have
fashioned in its own sweet way.
"Nay, dearest Kate, you love me still! Wherefore this shrinking form and
averted eye--this wild look of alarm--this struggle to reprove when your
heart gushes with returning love? Why do you gaze on me with looks of
horror! At one moment terror is depicted on your face, at another
tenderness takes its place. It could not be thus if you scorned me!"
"Robert, I cannot listen to you--'tis dangerous--fatal. If--if I did
love you still, thy crimes--"
"Ha! do you know me!"
"As 'the Kyd.'"
"Who told thee this?" he asked, fiercely.
"Elpsy."
"When?"
"Yesterday!"
"The foul fiend!" he cried, pacing the floor. He then muttered,
"So--this plan is defeated. I can no longer rewoo her as Lester! Ten
minutes since, this false witch told me that none save herself knew that
the bastard Lester and Kyd were one! I would have made her believe I had
returned from five years of honourable exile, to which her anger had
banished me, and penitent, wooed her as Lester, as I have promised the
sorceress--for I can do now what then I could not do: five years of
crime makes a wonderful difference in a man's feelings! Yet I will deny
all. She should believe me before this witch."
Such were the thoughts that run rapidly through his mind as he walked
the room. Turning round to her, he said, in the tone of voice that
innocence would assume,
"Alas, dearest Kate! has this baleful sorceress, with envenomed breath,
instilled her poison in a flower so fair. Alas, and were I 'the Kyd,'
would you, with the taproom gossips of the babbling town, believe me
such as Rumour with her hundred tongues would make me? Shall I to _her_
refer this altered air--this cold look--this hand that's neither given
nor withdrawn? Dost remember when first we parted after our plighted
vows beneath the linden by the southern tower of Castle Cor ('twas the
third day before thy birthday, I remember it well); thy heart against
mine beat wildly--thy head lay upon my breast--my arm encircled thy
waist--my lips were pressed to thine--and this 'kerchief, bearing thy
initials wrought by thine own fingers, and which I have kept sacred as
the pious monk a relic of the cross, was saturate with tears--_thy_
tears, Kate. And thus, though five long years have separated us, do we
meet now!"
"'Fore Heaven, sir! hast thou not given cause?" she exclaimed,
recovering herself after a brief but terrible struggle with her
feelings, for she was fast melting at his words. "Dost remember how thou
didst leave me, and to what end? Hast forgotten thy crimes? I am mad to
talk with thee. Thou art no longer Lester. In thee alone I see the
freebooter, the bucanier, the terrible Kyd! Shame that a noble, for a
light word spoken by a spirited maiden in anger, should thus have cast
himself away!"
"I had other cause--thou dost yet believe me to be Lester--but--"
"I will hear no palliation--thou hast thrown thyself away--when, if thou
hadst really loved me, thou wouldst have come back and sought to heal
the breach."
"I would have done it--but--"
"Thou didst not. Therefore are we no longer aught to each other!"
"Thy words tell me what I have scarce dared to hope--that thou wouldst
have received and pardoned me! But there was an impassable barrier--"
"Which was thy pride. Fatal, fatal has it been to thee."
"Nay, but a dark stain--"
"Enough, Robert of Lester! I will hear no more in extenuation or plea.
Let this interview cease."
She turned from him as she spoke, though it evidently cost her an effort
to do so, and made a step towards the door communicating with the main
body of the mansion.
"Lady! Kate--dear Kate," he cried, passionately, approaching her and
kneeling before her, "you have said you would have received me had I
then returned. If thy love was true love, five years should not kill it,
but increase it rather. Behold me returned; forget the long lapse of
time; see me only at thy feet to atone the deep offence given on thy
birthday, which has so long separated us; receive me as if but a day,
and not years, had intervened; take me once more to the throne of thy
affections; let me again be the Lester of thy early years--the Lester
whom thou hast loved--_thy_ Lester--thy--"
"Nay, Robert," she cried, with softness, yet turning her head away as
she spoke, as if fearing to trust herself to meet his glance; "nay, it
may not be. I pity you; but love!--love?--no, no, it lives no longer.
Then art thou not guilty?" she cried, with sudden energy, recoiling from
him. "Thou didst make me for the moment forget Kyd in Lester. Go, thou
art not the Lester I have known. I no longer love thee, Robert; and if I
did, crime on thy part has placed between us a wall high as heaven!"
"I am not so guilty as you believe, lady; but, if I have sinned against
thee, thus here at thy feet I do atone my deep offence."
"Rise, sir. I accuse you not; with Heaven lies the knowledge of your
guilt. But, if conscience goad thee not to it, why thus a suppliant?"
"Conscience useth neither spur nor exhortation. If I am proved innocent,
yet is the homage of my knee still due to thee as the divinity that my
soul for years has worshipped."
"Enough, sir! I tremble to hear thee link my name with such gross
impiety. Detain me no longer."
"Dear Lady Kate!" he pleaded, entreatingly.
"Release my hand! and remember," she added, with a suddenness
characteristic of this _capricieuse creation_, "when you fashion your
speech, that you address Lady Catharine of Bellamont!"
She drew back haughtily as she spoke, and the guilty lover bent his head
low before the reproof, while resentment and grief were mingled in the
expression of his countenance.
"Lady," he said, without looking up, and speaking in a voice apparently
modulated by injured feelings, "do you believe the tales of crime men
charge me with?"
"How else," she replied, pausing and turning back, losing, in her just
resentment, the lover in the pirate, and speaking in tones of virtuous
dignity, "How else? 'Tis rife on every tongue. Thy deeds are the undying
theme of fireside wonder and village gossip. Nay, mothers use the
dreaded name of Kyd to scare rude children to obedience!"
"By the cross!" he cried, starting up and speaking with fierce
vehemence, "'tis all a foul invention; an idle tale and lying calumny;
the escaped bile of some long-festering sore, nourished and fattened in
the breast of scandal. Nay, dear Kate," he continued, changing his
manner and voice, and speaking as if he made light of it all, "'tis not
worth a passing thought! 'Tis an old-wives' tale only; and for such
inventions thou hast too much good sense to crush the hopes of years;
thou hast," he added, tenderly, "too deep remembrance of our former love
to tear a heart that, like the rootless mistletoe which borrows life
from that it clings to, lives only by its hold on thine!"
"Robert," she said, moved by the solemn and impassioned tones of his
voice, his pleading look, his face upturned to hers, all eloquent with
love and bringing him, as in happier days, before her memory, "Robert, I
once loved you--how truly, Heaven and my own heart were witnesses. Thou
wert virtuous then, and helmeted with truth, and thy heart was girt
about with honour, like plate of proof. Thy look was noble, and thy port
such as became the nobleness within. I was proud of thee. Absent, I
treasured thee in my heart of hearts, and lived only--was happy only, in
thy presence! When Rumour came trumpeting your misdeeds, _I_ was the
_last_ to believe them true."
"Kate--dearest Kate--"
"Nay, speak not. Your tongue and eyes are not yet drilled to play their
parts together."
"Kate--I entreat--"
"True love for a noble maiden should have been to thee a shield and
buckler, Robert, and kept thee from this sad fall."
"Lady, you do me wrong. My hand, but not my heart, has erred--"
"I have not yet done. From one source, that mingles not with the noisy
torrent Rumour has let loose throughout the world, I've gathered most
certain proof that you are guilty both in heart and hand. Ay, men do
not, for very fear, tell the half of what thou hast done."
"This source--the witch?"
"No. Long had I heard of Kyd the outlaw; long had crime and guilt, in
shapes most dreadful and appalling, come to my shrinking ears coupled
with his name. Night and day, as we crossed the sea, was double watch
set, lest he should come upon us unawares. Everywhere did I hear of him
and his deeds of blood, till I did believe him to be a demon human only
in shape, let on earth for its punishment. 'Twas from one who had been
thy prisoner I heard the sanguinary tale. 'Twas told me ere I knew thee
other than the world knew thee--for 'twas only yesterday Elpsy told me,
what before had crossed my mind as the mere shadow of a suspicion,
banished as soon as it came, that thou wert Lester, and that revenge
against me had driven thee to piracy. This I believe not; Heaven keep me
from answering for thy guilt--rather attribute it to thy own evil
passions, and, I fear, an innate love for rapine; for how else wouldst
thou have torn thy noble mother's heart (I speak not of hers to whom thy
troth was plighted), and foregone thy rank and title among men?"
"If thou didst know all, lady, thou wouldst not judge me thus--"
"Thou canst say nothing I will believe. He who told me is, as once thou
wert, the soul of truth and honour!"
"Who is this Daniel come to judgment?" asked the bucanier, with irony.
"A naval officer, who was taken prisoner in the Indian Seas by a rover,
and afterward made his escape by stratagem."
"This rover?"
"Thyself."
"There is but one of rank above a common sailor who was my captive and
escaped," he muttered, turning away as if recalling the past; "Fitzroy I
think was his name; it may be he; if so, I will no longer urge my
innocence, but woo her under my proper colours. Pray," he said, abruptly
addressing her in a voice in which awakened jealousy was mingled with
sarcasm, "hast thou ever chanced to know a youthful officer called
Fitzroy?"
"Fitzroy!" she repeated, with embarrassment, while the blood mounted to
her cheek in a way in which it never does in a maiden's save when a
lover is suddenly named.
"Ay, I said Fitzroy. Is there aught in the name to call up the rich
blood to the face? Fitzroy's the name--Rupert Fitzroy, I think!"
In her agitation her eyes involuntarily turned to the spot where she had
dropped the colours she was working, and, to her increased confusion,
the letters she had just completed met her eye. His glance followed
hers, and instantly he exclaimed, with an eye sparkling with jealousy
and surprise,
"By the rood! lady, there are the very initials! So this pretty bit of
bunting can tell tales! Now, by the cross, I see it all," he said,
walking the room with anger and speaking in an under tone; "behind this
tale of my deeds she let slip so glibly, and under cover of believing
it, she fain would conceal her transferred love. Woman," he cried,
sternly addressing her, "know you this Rupert Fitzroy well?"
"You hold no right to question me," she firmly replied, "and I refuse to
answer."
"So, I have a rival! 'Tis love for another, and not hatred of the crimes
you lay to my charge, that leads you to scorn me thus. The arms of thy
house above his name! Ha! 'tis a well-ripened love! I'll find it out;
and if he who stands between me and thee be on the sea or wide earth, I
will cross blades with him. A proper youth, that thou art ashamed to own
him--perhaps the young fisher's lad has taken my place--I have heard he
took to the seas."
"Even he, if honourable, were worthier than thou, with the nobility
which thou hast dishonoured. But he no longer lives. Lest you give wrong
motives to my silence, I will confess to thee that I do know a Captain
Fitzroy--Rupert Fitzroy--once your captive by most foul-handed
treachery--now as far removed above you as the eagle, that looks
unblenching on the sun, above the tortoise."
"You love him?"
"I do."
"Then, by the holy Heaven! thou shalt repent thy love and he, crossing
my path ere the sun, that shall rise to-morrow, be a month older."
As he spoke he turned from her and disappeared through the window,
leaving her overwhelmed with surprise, wonder, and alarm. She heard him
strike the ground as he sprung from the low balcony, and listened with
trembling to his departing footsteps as they rapidly crossed the lawn
towards the seaside. For a few moments she remained standing as he had
left her, as if endeavouring to realize what had passed, her eyes
strained, her hands clasped across her forehead, her lips parted.
"Oh God, that this had been spared me!" she cried, with the bitterness
of a soul surcharged with intense grief. "Have I seen him? Was it he?
His voice--his air--oh, it was Lester's self!--he whom I have never
ceased to love--whom--but these are dangerous thoughts--I must think of
him no more. Oh crime, crime! what a deep and impassable gulf hast thou
placed between us! Yet I have seen him, spoken with him! His hand has
pressed mine in gentleness as it was wont. Oh how the past came back!
time seemed obliterated, and I could at one moment have given myself up
to him--but crime, crime! No, no, I must think no more of him; yet I am
not sorry I have beheld him once more. Strange that, after so many
years, and years of crime, have elapsed, he should still be dear to me!
No, no, he is not dear to me--not _he_ as he is--it is Lester of my
youth--it is he that I love--he I alone think of, whose memory I can
never cease to cherish; but this guilty being I know not! Yet he is
Lester! My poor, poor head--my poor heart--how they strive with one
another. Oh that my love could wash out his crimes! But whither do my
thoughts wander? The sight of him has made me forget that I am no longer
a wild girl at Castle Cor. I must root out his young love, and try no
longer to identify myself now with myself then. I am now the betrothed
of another--of another who has won me by his sympathy and gentleness, by
his nobleness and his honour, by his manly virtues, and the deep
devotion of his pure and elevated love. Rupert, I will not be false to
thee; the trial is over. Henceforward I will fill my heart with thee
alone, though I did tell thee, when thou didst woo me on the sea, that I
would not give it all up to thee; that in one part was sacredly embalmed
the sad memory of a first, yet unworthy love!"
Such were the conflicting thoughts that were passing through the mind of
the troubled maiden, when she was startled by a low tap at the door. It
was a second time repeated before she could command her voice to bid the
applicant enter. The door slowly opened, and the family confessor of the
Earl of Bellamont entered the boudoir. He was a man of commanding
figure, with light flowing hair, and a peaked, auburn beard reaching to
his breast, giving the appearance of the usual pictorial representations
of the Saviour. He was about fifty years of age, and in the full prime
and vigour of life. His forehead was white and high, his features noble,
and his face eminently handsome, with a gay and youthful expression,
while a light smile played constantly about his fine mouth. The under
lip had a slight voluptuous fulness, with which the soft expression of
his sparkling blue eyes harmonized, while both gave intimation of a
liberality in morals by no means in strict conformity with the letter of
his order.
Though holding the station of confessor in Lord Bellamont's family,
Father Nanfan had not come with him from England. Twenty years before, a
hermit had taken up his abode in a cave among the cliffs of Hoboken; his
country, name, or order no one knew. He soon acquired great reputation
for sanctity, and his fame spread far and wide. At length Governor
Fletcher, hearing of him, visited him, and, for some cause which has not
transpired, prevailed upon him to live with him as his private
secretary. Subsequently, Father Nanfan won the confidence and esteem of
the first Robert Livingston and other leaders of the time, and, through
his talents, knowledge, and ambition, exercised great influence in the
government. He moved the wires of the famous Leslierian rebellion, and,
though unacknowledged, was the real leader of the faction. When
Bellamont succeeded Fletcher, he had sufficient influence with the party
to induce them to adhere to the new governor, who rewarded him by
appointing him his private secretary and family confessor. He had been
an inmate of the White Hall but a few days, when, concealed beneath his
religious guise, Kate Bellamont thought she detected a dangerous and bad
man. It might have been imagination, for she confessed that neither by
word nor look had he given ground for such suspicion; yet, from the
first, she had felt a dislike towards him, and experienced a fear in
being alone in his presence, which she could neither define, nor, on any
reasonable grounds, defend.
He paused an instant, with his hand upon the half-closed door, as he saw
the embarrassment of her manner, and fixed upon her inquiringly his
large penetrating eyes, and then said, in a voice the words of which
alone conveyed a reproof, for the gentle tone in which they were
addressed to her were calculated to alarm from their tenderness rather
than from their severity,
"Thou wert not present at vespers, maiden; and, at the bidding of thy
noble mother, I have sought thee to learn why of late thy thoughts are
more given to earthly than to heavenly things. If thou wilt kneel, I
will now confess thee here."
"Nay, father, I will meet thee at matins and there confess. Beshrew me,
sir, thou art full bold, and art disposed to carry thy priestly
privileges to their full compass, that you intrude upon a lady in her
private chamber. Hast heard me, sir? I would be alone; or, if thou wilt
remain, thou art at liberty to do so, if first thou wilt move from the
door and permit me to pass out."
"Nay, daughter, thou art troubled; the quick flush--the startled
eye--the timid aspect--thou dost need to disburden thy heart!"
"I bid thee leave me," she cried, with mingled alarm and aversion.
"Calm your spirits, lady," he said, closing the door, and taking her
hand ere she could prevent him, though she instantly withdrew it with a
quick impulsive action, and retreated towards the window.
"Lady, I see you know me; you have read aright the admiring expression
of my eyes when first I met thee--the devoted deference of my
manner--the impassioned tones of my voice. Yes, sweet Lady Catharine,
thy charms have fired me--thy image has taken the place of that of the
Virgin Mother in my heart; for one smile, one look from thee, I am ready
to sacrifice even my hopes of Heaven!"
He kneeled at her feet as he spoke, and his noble features, noble even
through the guilt that shadowed them, were animated with passionate
ardour.
"Hoary blasphemer, silence! Thank Heaven that gave me secret and
instinctive warning of thy black character! Leave me, sir, or I shall
call on my father!"
"He is not within hearing," he said, rising and taking both her hands;
"and, if thou shouldst rouse his vengeance against me, his life, not
mine, would be the sacrifice. So, if thou lovest him, beware!"
"Release me, then, sir. Coward--false priest--unhand me."
"One kiss from those voluptuous lips," he said, throwing his arm about
her waist, "for full long have I fasted from beauty's favours."
"Ho, within there!" she shrieked.
Instantly he released her hand, but said, in a hoarse whisper, while his
eyes flashed with resentment,
"If thou alarm the house, or give the least shadow of a hint of what has
passed, and evil to me do come of it, the lives of all dear to thee
shall be the sacrifice. If you will not love me, you shall fear me.
Beware!" The next moment, changing his manner, he said, "Lady, it was
but a momentary passion; it is passed; thy matchless beauty maddened me;
fear me no longer. Forever keep silence, and thou wilt hear no more of
my ill-matched love. Wilt thou forgive me, lady?"
"Seek it first of Heaven, dreadful man, if heavenward thou hast the
boldness to lift thine eyes."
"Can I now hope to confess thee, maiden?"
"_Thou_, hypocrite! If it be that thou canst thus deceive thyself, and
mingle holiness with sin, I am not to be part with thee in thy
sacrilege! No, sir; rather would I ask absolution at the hands of the
arch fiend than at thine. I know thee!"
"And of thy knowledge shall thou one day reap the bitter fruit," he
said, in a voice and with a changed manner that intimated a threat.
"I do not fear thee, trusting in a power stronger than thou!"
"Thou wouldst have made a sublime priestess! Indignation but adds
dignity to thy beauty, and excitement gives richness to thy cheek,
brilliancy to thine eyes, and the haughty curl of thy lip is but the
more tempting with its ripe fulness unrolled. By Heaven, I will not be
thwarted; I am no mewly boy, to be frightened at a woman's frown. I
will clasp thee in my arms, and ravish a kiss from that mouth, which
even scorn cannot make less lovely, in punishment for thy pride!"
As he spoke he approached, and was about to clasp her in his embrace,
when he received a blow from a mace which felled him to the floor, and
the next instant the sorceress was standing above him, with one foot
upon his chest.
"Ha, ha, ha! we are well met, Father Nanfan. 'Tis thus thou dost
assoilzie the souls of maidens, by first teaching them to sin! Oh, thou
hypocrite. But there will be a time! Nay, thou canst not get up," she
added, pressing the end of her mace hard upon his forehead as he
struggled to rise. "Maiden, I have saved thy lips from pollution! and
thou, monster, do I not know thee? Oh, ho! Get thee up and go!"
As she spoke she stepped aside from his body, and he rose to his feet,
his countenance black with mingled fury and shame.
"Foul witch, I will have thy life--and thou, haughty lady, shalt not
escape me!"
He was passing swiftly, with gestures of vengeance, from the room, when
the sorceress laid her hand upon him.
"Beware, I bid thee! Me thou canst not injure! her thou shalt not!"
"Who shall hinder me, woman? I will have thee, ere to-morrow's sun,
burned at the stake!"
"And I will have thee hung higher than ever Haman was, if thou move a
step towards it. I know thee, and thy life is in my hands!"
"Ha! you speak mysteriously!"
"Do I? But there is no mystery about thee that Elpsy cannot unravel."
"Speak, woman!"
"Thou darest not harm me, nor do injury to any one I would protect; for
I have the key to thy secret, and, therefore, to thy life."
"Thou! Who am I, then? What secret?" he hoarsely demanded.
She approached him, and whispered low in his ear.
He started back as if he had been struck with a dagger, and, staring
upon her with wild surprise, in which intense alarm was mingled, cried,
"Who art thou, in Heaven's name?"
"Elpsy the sorceress!"
"But beside?"
"No matter."
"Wonderful woman! Thy unholy arts could alone have given thee this
secret. Thou art indeed to be feared."
"Obey me, then, and secret it shall ever be."
"Speak; what would you?"
"Swear never to harbour revenge against this maiden, or any one of the
house of Bellamont; of myself I speak not, for I do not fear thee! Dost
thou swear?"
"By the sacred cross, I do."
"Thou art safe, then, so long as thou shalt keep thine oath. Go!"
The priest slowly left the chamber, and, as he closed the door behind
him, the sorceress darted from the window upon the balcony, and
disappeared in the darkness as suddenly as she had appeared, leaving the
maiden overwhelmed with shame, anger, and wonder at the scenes and
events in which she had borne so singular a part.