"'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again;
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
"And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one."--_Byron._
On a dark night in December--stormy as that eve on which Leander swam
for the last time across the broad Hellespont--a small lugger manfully
breasting the billows ran ashore near Musselburgh. There was a high
north-easter, driving sleet and snow before it, and raising a heavy
surf, through which old Bill skilfully ran his craft ashore on the
sandy, seaweedy, mussel-beds, whence the burgh takes its name.
"Have a care, you scurvy old devil," cried the Captain, as a huge sea
broke over the side of the boat, and christened him with its salt
spray--"Easy there--where is your seamanship gone? Egad, I'm drenched
like a water rat."
"When you've sailed as far as me--you won't swear at a bit dusting like
that--you are but a land-lubber after all!"
"Stow your venom, you old dogfish, and give us a dram. Ah! here comes
another sea over these accursed sands! Ho! well done, Bill; she wore off
like a gull: jump out, Ned, never mind wetting your boots. Easy, ho!
down with the sail, here we go--ashore at last."
So saying he leaped into the water up to his knees after L'Estrange, and
these two on one side, with old Bill and a German boy on the other,
shoved up the smack high and dry.
"Well, let those like the sea who do--terra firma for me," cried the
Captain, shaking the sea-water off his waterproof cloak. "'The white
waves heaving high' be d--d! such a pitching and lurching as we've
had--I am right glad to stand on something solid, arn't you, old
fellow?"
"I am indeed--and glad to stretch my limbs--so miserably cooped up this
last five hours! what an age it is since I last trod these sands! Oh!
could I see how this will turn out!"
"Where do you steer for now, and where am I to moor myself? Leastways,
not here, if I knows it! for it is rascally cold--we'd best run down
after a boosing ken."
"You are for swilling, no doubt, Bill--you drunken old satyr--always up
to filling your barrel-shaped body with liquor! but look you, Bill, we
haven't come all this way to lush. I must be off to the Towers. Blow
this climate, it's always sleeting and raining in this rotten hole! You
and I, L'Estrange, will go and meet Archy, he will have the nags ready;
and you, old sot, you may go and be d--d, or swig, or what you like,
only be here by the time tide is full, and leave Hans (the boy) to watch
over the boat. Give him some grog--for it is infernally cold! Come,
Ned."
The Captain and L'Estrange walked off and left old Bill to find a pump,
whilst the unfortunate foreigner was left to watch in the sleet and wind
which blew most chillily over the Links.
"This is a regular wild goose chase," said the Captain, as he and his
friend struck out for a small village called Fisherrow, a bleak hamlet
between Musselburgh and Portobello, where Archy was to be in waiting
with horses; "and I only do it as a last hope--you must make up your
mind for a failure--and then remember you are never to speak of the
wench again--that was the promise."
"It was--oh! how my heart seems to sink--in a few hours more I shall
know my fate!"
"You will--and I am thankful for it. Your whining and teasing after that
woman are enough to drive a saint mad! On my soul I wonder at you--I
dare swear she has never thought of you once! Then there's her child,
whatever are we to do with that, supposing our plan succeeds? To be sure
it's easy giving it a heave into the sea! But yet it is an awful risk!
Carrying off Ellen Ravensworth was one thing, but carrying off the
Countess of Wentworth is another! Never mind--nothing like aiming high,
as Lucifer once did."
"And got a grievous fall for his pains too," put in L'Estrange.
"As we perhaps, nay doubtless, shall!" said the Captain.
"Had we not better think again? it is not too late yet," said
L'Estrange.
"It is too late; I haven't come all this way, nor been tossed on that
rough sea for nothing! I tell you, however, I shall go and see only; if
what we heard is true and she is alone, it is but a whistle and you come
up, toss her over a nag, brain any flunkeys who interfere, and away over
heath and moor to the boatie good! The sea is a road where it is hard to
track a cunning fox like Bill."
"I almost repent I ever came--after all if she did nothing but cry and
lament, I could do nothing. Remember what I said, I will try by words,
and if she doesn't come round again, I will take her back scathless."
"A fool's errand that--you may do what you like after you have got her.
I will be shot if I burn my fingers again for her, or any other woman
under the sun! But here we are at last--I will whistle."
The Captain--for though he no longer had a right to the name, we still
know him best by it--then blew a shrill whistle. It was answered, and
presently Archy Forbes appeared.
"Glad to see ye baith looking sae weel--it's ay a saft night when we are
about."
"It is, Archy my boy! it's easy to see Heaven doesn't smile on us--but
devil's weather for me! Have you the nags?"
"Surely, surely--they are in yon byre--follow me."
"Who are at the Towers, Archy?" said L'Estrange.
"Dinna speer on me, sir! I have na been there this mony a day. Sin my
father was dead and gane--Heaven rest him! the gear a' went wrang, and
my mither and the bairns left. The laird wasna pleased, and folk say he
kent mair than was right anent your honour's business, and thae----"
"Peace, fool, who wants to hear about your concerns? If you had found
out who were at the Towers you might have been somewhat worth listening
to. Where is this byre, or what d'you call it?"
"It's near by noo, yon dark house, wi' the reek frae the chimla."
"All right--there's your hire--and now decamp and find out old Bill, and
tell him to put the cabin in order for fair freight."
By this time they had reached a wretched stable, or rather cow-house,
from which two tolerable horses were produced. The Captain, selecting
the best, was soon mounted, and together they trotted off for the
Towers. During the long ride scarcely a word was spoken, except now and
then a hoarse curse on the snow, which now began falling thick and fast,
and balled in their horses hoofs, forcing them to dismount several times
on their way. When within a quarter of a mile of the Towers they stopped
at a summer-house or arbour, where L'Estrange was to await the result of
the Captain's reconnaissance, and if summoned by the whistle ride up at
once to the Towers. This bold and diabolic attempt had been undertaken,
owing to a statement which had reached the Captain to the effect that
the Countess and her infant baby, a fine little girl of nearly three
months of age, were then staying in perfect seclusion at the Towers, and
the Earl in London on business. Judging themselves able to overcome old
Andrew, and any other footmen, they fancied they could get clear off
with the lady and her child before any of the out-door servants took the
alarm, and then their determination was to set sail for the north of
Scotland, where L'Estrange madly dreamed he could excite the old love by
his eloquence of woe. He vowed he would restore her safely to her home
again should he fail, and then fly to America and bury himself from the
world. The Captain took part in the plot, and promised his assistance if
the little girl was also carried off--Bill was to take care and keep her
out of sight, living or dead--and we are authorized in stating that
though he verbally approved of L'Estrange's plan of returning the
Countess, unless she chose to stay with him,--an idea that could only
take its birth in a mind maddened by a strange delusion,--yet he inly
determined, if he once got hold of both he would keep them out of sight
until he could gain a heavy ransom from his brother; for his violent
deeds seemed to have excluded all hopes of his ever succeeding to the
title even if he got rid of the heirs.
Leaving L'Estrange at the arbour, the Captain wrapped himself up in a
costly cloak of sable fur, and rode for the Towers, which he reached a
little past ten in the evening. The brilliant lights first excited his
fears that the rumour was a false one; however, he rang the bell and
waited to see the result. Whilst he is waiting we will take a view of
the dining-room and its inmates. About a dozen gentlemen are sitting
over their wine after dinner. The Earl at the head of the table--next
him the Marquis--all the rest are strangers but two, young Scroop and
Mr. Lennox.
"I wonder what has become of the Captain?" said the Earl; "except these
scandals, which I hope are worthless, we never hear a word of him, or
his friend."
"Their names," said the Marquis, "are, I fear, famous for infamy; while
John kept to a few harmless revels, and only now and then an affair
_d'honneur_, I didn't care; but shooting fellows at every town, is too
wild by half!"
At the same moment the door opened, and a tall figure, so muffled in fur
as to be almost irrecognizable, entered. Old Andrew appeared giggling
behind.
"Hallo! old fellows," said the figure, throwing off his cloak; "here I
am again. By Jove! this snug room, and these merry fellows make me feel
jolly. Andrew, you knave, get some hot punch, blest if I am not half
frozen--I will thaw anon and welcome old friends, wait till I have got
some life in me," approaching the fire.
Old Andrew, grinning with joy, hastened to get the punch as he knew the
Captain liked it, whilst all his old allies gathered round him, and
beset him with questions on all sides.
"Preserve me from my friends; why, you will be driving me into the fire,
and one in a family is enough for it. Egad, I am thawing now: how are
you, Wentworth, hearty, and you Arranmore, old boy? I was very sorry for
poor dear Edith; how the devil did she go and manage to get burned? ah,
I see you are still tender about it; never mind, time will cure you of
the burn. And you, Scroop: ha! bless my soul, I am gladder to see you
well than any; shake hands, old fellow, no malice. And you, Lennox; by
Jove, this reminds me of old times. Where's Johnny Ravensworth?"
"He is at Sandhurst, preparing for the line. My father-in-law has
succeeded to a nice little property in the Highlands, and Ellen--you
havn't asked me about my wife."
"Egad, I quite forgot her. I'll warrant her flourishing from your
face;--and your little boy--"
"No, no, little girl; it was rather a disappointment, but she is a
darling child."
"Never mind, better luck next time; do you not think so, Wentworth?
Come, let us sit down and hear about all my friends. Ha, Scott, I
thought I knew you; and Trevors too,--keen after the hounds as ever,
squire?"
"As ever, but this weather is bad for us, it's like snow, I fear."
"Like it; it is snowing like fury now. Egad it was balling in avalanches
on my nag's hoofs."
"Oh, you rode then?" said the Earl.
"I didn't exactly walk, as my boots and spurs might have told you, but
where I came from I won't say; the fox doesn't show where it earths, and
I mustn't show my face by aught than lamplight."
"Then I fear your evil reports are true,--you have been making the
Continent too hot for you."
"My evil reports,--if you mean by that my duels,--are certainly not few
and far between; but it isn't my fault, if those rascally foreigners
will quarrel so. Egad, they will find one Englishman a match for twenty
of their cowardly selves. I'll whip them into order. But it is sheriff's
officers that I fear here, and when I've had my grog, and seen the
girls, I must put a dozen miles between us."
"I am sorry for that; but remember the Towers are safe, no sheriff's
officer puts his head in here."
"I know that, but then I have a friend waiting--Czinsky." Scroop looked
uneasy.
"Why didn't you bring him here?" said the Earl.
"He wouldn't come; he's waiting a dozen miles from this, and I must soon
be off."
"Stay, we can send. Do rest a day or two," said the Earl.
"No use pressing, I can't. I don't mean to be rude, only God knows I
can't stop. Ring the bell, Lennox, please; what is that stupid villain
Andrew about?"
"Here, Captain, here; het, strang, and sweet, isna that your song? an'
how are ye? weel to dae?" said the old servant, bringing in a large bowl
of smoking punch.
"Egad, this is the stuff on a snowy night. It's always snowing here it
seems. Do you remember the night I hooked it, after nailing Musgrave,
poor devil--I hope he was decently interred. By Jove, I was very sorry I
hit him where I did; he was a good fellow, and here's to his health, and
yours, Scroop; and as you love me don't quarrel."
"If little quarrels make great friends, sharp cuts make blunt ones. Why
you drive your rapier through and through a fellow, like a spit through
a partridge, and then talk of being good friends again! however, I will
drink your health, and the further we fly the tighter we'll tie! I've
had enough of close friendship with you."
"Come, I believe you are angry after all. Never mind, _chacun a son
gout_, nothing like being on good terms with the man that eats you. Ha!
ha! ha!"
After emptying another bowl with the Marquis and one or two others who
remained behind to hear the Captain's adventures, whilst the Earl, who
didn't exactly like to ally himself again with such a scapegrace, and
the remaining guests joined the ladies, the Captain rose, exclaiming
with an oath he must be on his travels. He however went up stairs to see
Lady Florence and the Countess; the first received him with sisterly
warmth of welcome, whilst the reception he met with from the latter was
cold, and politely frigid in the extreme. He asked to see the little
girl, and was shown by the Countess and his sister to the next room,
where in a handsome cot the infant slept. Lady Wentworth bent over it
with a mother's love, whilst the Captain looked gloomily on the little
features of her, who at any rate would cut him out of his prospects. To
the question if he did not think her a lovely child he answered, "Every
baby, he supposed, was thought lovely by its mother; however, she did
seem much above the usual run of children." He then came back to the
drawing-room, shook hands with those he knew, and departed as
mysteriously as he came. Mr. Lennox and the Marquis saw him off, and
each returned disgusted by his parting sally. As he shook hands with
Lord Arranmore he observed:
"I say, Arranmore, that flare up you were to give after the Earl's
wedding was one with a vengeance. Egad it made me laugh in my sorrow for
poor Edith."
The Marquis, totally unprepared for such a heartless jest, drew himself
up to his full height, saying:
"De Vere, I never knew you before; henceforth let all intercourse cease
between us. Inhuman vampire, thus jesting on the death of your sister. I
discard your friendship for ever."
"Nay, but--"
"I hear you not," said the Marquis, striding away.
"Well I'm d--d, that scurvy joke makes every one so infernally wrath!
After all, Lennox, it wasn't a bad one, was it?"
"Mr. de Vere," said Mr. Lennox.
"Stay, give me my rank, you saucy fool, or by G--d I'll lay this whip
about you."
"Captain de Vere then, if you like, a word in your ear; stay, I must
speak low," he said, going up to him close. "It surprises me, sir, you
dared to show your face. I have long suspected you, and lately found out
your share in the abduction; you are here on no good to-night, and
unless you will give me your word you will again leave these shores
before twenty-four hours, I will tell the Earl my suspicions."
"Hark you, my pert coxcomb, if I did not think it beneath me to touch
such a reptile as you, I would give you what would shut your mouth up;
you may live to repent this, Mr. Lennox. As for your threats, I heed
them no more than yourself, and you have my full leave to proclaim your
suspicions, but egad you'll suffer, though I am safe in ten minutes.
Who'll track me with the snow falling like this? Now you may go and be
hanged, and hold your secrets if you are wise."
So saying he rode off in the blinding snow, leaving Mr. Lennox
petrified. He did tell his suspicions to the Earl, however, and a watch
was kept up all that night, as several others felt perplexed at this
singular appearance, and sudden departure of such a bird of prey. When
the Captain reached the arbour he found L'Estrange buried in such a
reverie his heavy arm only awoke him from it.
"It is useless then. Oh! my God! I am truly most ill-starred."
"If you don't want to be manacled and prisoned you will be up and away;
there are a dozen stout fellows at the Towers, and havn't I just stirred
up a wasp's nest,--we shall feel their stings if you are not sharp.
Confound the snow-storm, and yet it is a friend in need to-night."
Without another word the two remounted, and rode off for the beach,
where they found the tide had already floated the craft.
"No fair freight to-night, Bill," said the Captain, "and now let us be
aboard and away; it is well, Bill, you know the steerage of these seas;
in such a storm of snow as this it is pretty dangerous."
"Never a fear; I can take her through as if the sun was blazing," said
old Bill. "The auld country be cussed, and hoora for Italy!"
"Yes, hurra for Naples! No such nights as these, Bill. Come, Ned, what
the devil are you dreaming of? Remember you have done with her. Hurra
for sunny lands, fleet steeds, and bonny black eyes!"
L'Estrange silently took his place in the small lugger. Hans and old
Bill spread the sail, the Captain took the rudder. After one or two
sousers, they got under weigh, and steered for the schooner, which lay
in the Leith roads, and was ready to carry them to Italy.
Despite the snow, Bill and the Captain sang sea songs, and drank grog,
but vainly attempted to rouse their sombre companion. He was miserable;
he was leaving Albion for the last time as far as he knew,--leaving his
country--leaving his hopes, his fears, his everything. It was a severe
wrench. Bad as he was, he was not like the Captain, without one
redeeming quality; amid all the vice, guilt, and blackness of his heart,
one star shone--the brighter in contrast to the darkness around it. The
snow drifted heavily on him, he shook it not off, he felt it not; a
sense of utter sickness and despair was at his heart: he knew all was
his own doing--he sighed now only for her _friendship_, only to see
her--she could not be his wife now, and he was, by a life of guilt and
vice, closing even that door of hope. How could a creature so pure, so
beautiful, so refined, look on a wretch like him, so impure, so unholy,
so lost to all sense of even shame! Every hour of his present life was
adding another league to the distance that severed her from him in this
life, as every bound his vessel made was adding another wave to the many
that rolled between them. He wished the next billow would gulph their
frail boat; alas! it rode them like a seagull, and seemed as if it
mocked his misery and laughed at his woe. He was lost--not even the
prospect of meeting her above. A gulph--a great gulph was fixed between
them; she couldn't love him; he loved her still, though he felt he dared
not look up to her, so vile had he become. He was roused from this dream
by the clanging of the coupling chains, which showed they had reached
the schooner. More dead than alive he was hoisted up, and soon sails
were spread,
"And, shrouded as they go,
In a hurricane of snow,"
they soon made for the open main. When poor L'Estrange next woke,
nothing but waters were around him, and old England, and all good, all
delightful, all virtuous, left on the lee. He then tried to nerve
himself up; he drank, he swore like the rest, and even joined in the
song--
"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?"
with its ending lines,--
"If of herself she will not love
Nothing can make her."
"Ha! grown wise at last," said the Captain; "'let the devil take her,'
and wine and laughter for us!"
L'Estrange's heart still beat true, and though he laughed, sang, and
seemed after this the gayest of the gay, all was false. Often, when on
his lone couch, on the lonely billow, his eyes would fill with bitter
tears as he thought on what he was now, and what he had been; as he
thought how sad a contrast his present loveless wicked life was to that
of former years, he would cry with Byron--
"I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile, or welcome face;
And even in crowds am still alone
Because I cannot love but one."