"And plead in beauty's ear, nor plead in vain."
_Pleasures of Hope._
"Thy heart is sad--thy home is far away."--_Ibid._
"Years have flown by," said the Earl, "since I saw this dell. When my
feet last roamed here I was a careless boy, rambling the woods gun in
hand, or, with my brothers and sisters around chasing the butterfly over
hill and dale. It was with my eldest sister, now in heaven, that I last
tracked the stream; it was with her by my side I last sat on this very
seat. All seems unchanged,--all is as bright and fair as it was that
day, except the two roamers: one is gone, and the spot brings bitter as
well as blissful associations to the other."
"I knew not you ever had another sister," said Ellen; "is it long since
she died?"
"More than ten years ago; but still I remember her words as if she had
said them yesterday. Oh, what a fine, handsome creature she was! and
good as well as fair; she was older than me by three years. This was her
favourite haunt; it was she who gave it the name of 'Butterfly Dell;'
all her thoughts were bright! It was on such another day as this we last
sat together: she was unusually grave that day,--almost melancholy. 'I
have a strange presentiment, Clarence,' she said, 'that I have not long
to live:--you know all De Veres die young. I often think heaven will be
like this,--only there the flowers will be brighter, and will not fade;
the leaf will not turn sere, and there will be no sorrow, no pain.
Clarence, I shall soon be there!' 'Say not so,' I answered, 'you are too
young to die yet; stay with us,--do not leave us; why should you think
you will die?' 'Clarence, the thought troubles me not; I am happy here,
but I shall be still happier there!
"I hear a voice you cannot hear, which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see, which beckons me away."
I shall soon be there!'--pointing to the blue sky, 'and roaming in
fairer scenes than this, with the holy angels for companions. Clarence,
you must come there too!' 'Augusta, do not, I entreat you do not; you
are made to shine in this world yet,--to be a star of fashion and
beauty,' I exclaimed. 'No, I shall be a star there,--I do not wish to
shine here. This world, darling, is fleeting and vain, and its pleasures
unsatisfying. I have learned to love a better world, which is fixed,
eternal, unchangeable,--whose pleasures are real and substantial.
Clarence, you must be good, and meet me there! There I shall meet little
Arthur, and see his pretty face again: and we will watch for you!' She
said more, much more than I can remember, and which I wish I thought of
oftener. Oh! Ellen, I seem to hear her yet! When we reached home, a
sad--sad scene awaited us; my father, the Earl, had been borne home
lifeless. Riding across country, and being a bold, fearless equestrian,
he had put his horse to a fence too high for it; the animal refused the
leap; my father reined it back, and then, riding forward, showed it, by
spur and whip, that it must take it. The horse rose, but not high
enough,--my father helped it by lifting its head: it was vain!--horse
and horseman fell heavily; the horse soon rose,--not so its rider, who
still detained the steed by the bridle, clenched in the hand of the
dead. There he was found by Wilton, and borne home by four foresters. I
shall never forget Augusta's grief,--it was long, bitter, unavailing. My
mother was then in England; and I, now an Earl, strove to conceal my own
sorrow, and soothe Augusta's; but she refused to be comforted, and took
to her bed with a fever, brought on by excessive sorrow. Her
presentiment was too sadly true; and within a week she was laid side by
side with her father in the old family vault, in the west tower. Since
then I have grown a man, and mingled in the world; but, if deadened by
time, my sorrow is still quick in my breast, and the dying words of my
sister ring distinct and clear in my ears!"
"How sad! No wonder your feelings are melancholy," said Ellen. "But you
spoke of another of your family: was Arthur your brother,--and is he,
too, dead?"
"He was my brother," said the Earl, "but his fate is wrapt in mystery."
"How I should have liked to have seen Lady Augusta; but do tell me about
your brother, I am so interested."
"You may see a feeble attempt to stamp Augusta's beauty when we go
home--her portrait hangs in the hall. Arthur's history is a long and sad
one, but I will tell it to you if you are not weary."
"Oh, no, no; I am breathless with interest."
"Arthur, Viscount de Vere, was my eldest brother then," commenced the
Earl. "When a child of two, or thereabouts, and just able to walk, he
was taken out a turn one Sunday in the neighbourhood of the Towers by
his nurse, a young girl of twenty. I was then unborn, and Augusta about
three years old. When near the bosky dell, at the foot of the park, the
girl left her charge for an instant to speak to a young man, a forester
on my father's estates; after a few minutes she returned and found the
child missing. In great alarm she searched the woods round, and fearing
the little boy had strayed into the dell recalled the young forester,
and the two commenced a long but fruitless search. It was not till some
hours were consumed in vain attempts to find the young heir, that the
girl and her lover summoned resolution enough to tell the news at the
Towers. The poor young woman, in an agony of grief and terror, fell at
the Earl's feet and told him all. My father, in wild grief at the loss
of his then only son, and heir to the title, gathered all the servants
and hurried to the spot. They searched every nook, and shouted the lost
child's name--but no answer save the echoes from the wild wood was
heard. Throughout the whole night, a night of storm and rain, the search
was carried on by means of lanterns, and early next day, as a last
resource, bloodhounds were put on the trail; they tracked the lost child
to the torrent, but there lost the scent, and it was then concluded the
poor boy had wandered to the water's side, fallen into the stream, then
swollen by autumn rains, and been carried down to the sea. However, his
little remains were never found, and may lie deep in the lone sea."
"How melancholy! poor boy! and what became of the unhappy young woman
who so neglected her charge?"
"She was examined, and cross-examined, but kept to her story, and the
young man fully corroborated her statement; they were soon after married
and went out to America. I must tell you another story connected with
this same torrent, at least unless you are tired."
"Oh no--do go on--I am so fond of family legends, yours seems full of
them."
"It is indeed; the _weird_ of the Wentworths I will tell you some other
day. Now for this one, more romantic and less melancholy than the
last."
"When my father was a young man of three and twenty, he was one day in
August strolling with his gun through this wood. When he had surmounted
the ascent, and come out in this dell, a thunderstorm that had long
threatened burst with great fury and violence on his head, and the rain
descended in floods. He at once bethought him of this cave, and in far
shorter time than we took, Ellen, made across the dell, climbed the
rocks, and took advantage of its welcome shelter. Seated on the ground
with his gun near him he listened to the grand storm. The vivid
lightning lit up the cavern every moment, and played around it; the
bellowing thunder crashes shook the very ground, echoing from rock to
hill; and the rain descended in sheets. For two hours the storm rolled
on, and kept him prisoner; at last the peals waxed fainter--the
lightnings less bright--and the storm wore gradually away, now and then
only a faint after-clap grumbled in the distance--the rain still fell
heavily, and the torrent came down in high flood, carrying trees and
rocks with it. The deafening roar of the cascade drowned the distant
thunder--the last dying voice of the subsiding storm, the rain
lessened--then ceased altogether, and the sun shone out, and stained a
rainbow on the dark cloud. My father took up his gun, and, advancing to
the mouth of the cave, looked out; what was his surprise to see a young
lady, handsomely dressed, but drenched by the rain, vainly attempting to
find a passage across the roaring torrent! At last she stood on one of
those two rocks which narrow the flood, and for a moment hesitated
whether to risk the leap or not. 'Lady, try it not,' cried my father;
but he spoke too late, she sprung, but miscalculating the breadth, her
foot slipped from the rock she barely reached, and flinging up her arms,
uttering at the same time a wild scream, she fell back into the turbid
waters. To leap down from the cave, and plunge in after the sinking
maiden was a work of an instant; and, fortunate in rescuing her from the
wild current, a task which taxed my father's whole strength, he bore the
fainting girl, with her fair hair streaming with water, to this cave,
where he soon had the joy of seeing her return to consciousness, and he
did not leave his charge till he saw her able to walk home. He found out
that the lady he had saved from a watery grave was Edith Carr, an orphan
and only daughter, and heiress to Hugh Carr of Cessford; she was the
ward of her uncle William, being a minor. Unhappily a deadly feud
existed between the Carrs and De Veres, ever since one of my ancestors
carried off the lady of an old warrior of the Carrs' line, and secreted
her in the tower, or Peel of Cessford. Her husband finding her out,
brutally murdered his faithless spouse, and was in turn assassinated by
my ancestor. Proceeding as near the mansion as he dared, my father left
his charge, after having first planned a meeting in this cave. Edith
Carr was considered the most beautiful girl in all the south of
Scotland; her portrait has feebly caught the light of loveliness; but
when I tell you that neither of my sisters are said to be able to
compare with her when she was young, you can form some slight idea of
her charms. Often and often did the lovers meet in secret, and at length
my father boldly solicited her hand from William, her uncle. He was
refused with scorn, the old man declaring if he ever showed his face
again in their halls he should pay forfeit with his life. My father was
not to be thus baulked; he still kept up correspondence with his flame
by means of a servant, who proved a traitor at last. It was mutually
agreed that the lovers should meet in this dell, horses were to be in
waiting--then they were to ride to the Towers, where a priest was ready
to join their hands. They met--they rode to the Towers, and had just
entered the hall when William Carr, her uncle, pale with ire, appeared
sword in hand, and demanded in a fierce voice his ward's release. The
Earl as fiercely denied his power--the lady averred she was of age that
day, and free to bestow her hand on whom she would, and refused to
return. The uncle rushed on my father, and laid hold of him. The Earl
shook him off--the old man attacked him with his blade, but my father
seized a weapon from the walls and defended himself manfully. Then a
deadly struggle commenced, short but furious. My father was the better
swordsman, and soon ended the conflict by piercing the old man through
the heart: his life blood still stains the oaken floors. The pale priest
then united the two, and they drove off for the Continent. My father was
acquitted of all blame, and they lived happily together till his death.
Thus was the feud ended, and thus the possessions of Cessford added to
the Wentworth patrimony."
"How romantic!" said Ellen; "this burn seems connected in a wonderful
way with your family."
"It is," said the Earl; "and now, Ellen, dearest! can you not guess my
motive in guiding you to this spot--the spot where my father won his
lady's hand? I have been happy, Ellen, blessed with title, wealth, and
broad lands, and health and strength to enjoy them; one thing only is
lacking--one to share my happiness, one to bless my fireside; you,
dearest, are the only woman I ever loved. I know you love me--I know
this is only a form. Ellen, you will be my own Ellen--my dearest wife."
Instead of the ready response the Earl expected he was not a little
surprised and chagrined by the silence, and agitated expression of
Ellen's face.
"Then am I mistaken; you love me not--this is indeed a blow! But it
cannot, cannot be so; it is only maiden coyness."
"You say you love me," said Ellen, in a fearful, nervous tone; "think,
Lord Wentworth, is there not another to whom you told the same; you say
you love me _only_, is there not one you loved, may still love?"
"Oh, Ellen, hear me, it is false I vow by----"
"Perjure not yourself, my lord, is there not one--Juana?"
"Heavens! and how came this scandal to your ears? Indeed, indeed I have
transgressed--but I have repented--it was done in an hour of
weakness--it is passed--I have no more to do with her."
"And may I not fear, my lord, you may thus treat me when tired of the
charms you now flatter?"
"You are not surely going to compare a light, passing passion to the
full, deep, pure love with which I adore you! I vow by yonder blue sky,
and Him who dwells above it, I will love, cherish, doat on you
eternally!"
"Think not, my dear lord, I do not love you as deeply," said Ellen,
relentingly; "but when I love I will brook no rival--no idol on the
shrine where I lay my affections. He who would gain Ellen Ravensworth's
love must give her his undivided heart--and burn no incense to--nor
worship--a false god! If you will give me your word you will not speak
to Juana again, and vow to love me alone, I will be yours! If I hold
only a second place in your heart--bitter as the pang will be to my own
bosom--I will renounce love, and will not be your wife."
"I will give my word--the inviolate word of a British peer, far more
sacred than his oath--that I will never speak to her again on love, nor
love another save her to whom I plight my troth now! You will then be
my own--my dearest Ellen."
"I will; but oh! my dear Lord Wentworth, remember your sainted sister's
last words; flee worldly vanities, and live so as to meet again your
dear absent one! I too give you my whole undivided heart--I reserve not
one corner--and you shall see how I can love," said Ellen, blushing with
joy; "nothing but death shall part us twain--not even death! When you
die I will die too; I could not breathe without you! One only--He who
made me--shall dispute with you my love!"
"Ellen," said the happy Earl, "you are a dear, good girl! I love you all
the more because you showed me my error. I know I have thought too
little of Augusta's wish--I know I have let the world take too strong a
hold of my heart; but you shall be my good angel--my guide to better,
purer springs; you have made me happy here, and you may be the
instrument of making me happy hereafter. But we are overheard!" he
cried, hastily rising. Ellen too sprung to her feet. The cause of this
sudden interruption to their converse was a dark shadow that glided
across the sunshine that streamed in at the mouth of the cave. A moment
after a figure appeared--it was the light, youthful form of an
Italian-looking boy. When he saw the two lovers he started back, and his
dark countenance crimsoned as he saw his error. Crossing his arms over
his breast, and bending his eye on the ground, he remained mute as a
statue.
"Who, and what are you?" said the Earl, in a stern voice, being little
pleased by his inopportune appearance.
"Pardon me, noble Inglese, pardon my intrusion. I did not know any one
was here," replied the Italian, in the soft Ausonian tongue.
"It needs not--you did so unwittingly," said the Earl, in the same
language, which he spoke fluently,--and then in English to Ellen, "He is
a foreigner, and knows not the meaning if he heard any of our
conversation."
The boy was slight in figure and apparently very youthful; his face was
exceedingly handsome--his hair black and falling over his neck in glossy
bands--his complexion was olive--his eyes large, full and lustrous with
the Italian fire; but his expression of countenance was poetic, and very
melancholy. His dress argued he had known better days, although the
velvet mantle and cap were worn and faded in appearance; in his hand he
carried a lute.
"And why have you left sunny Italy," asked the Earl, "and come to the
cold North?"
"Alas! signore, Italia is now no home to me! My father and mother were
both cruelly executed, and I driven an outcast from the land of my
birth. Ah! signore, I have known happier times. I am an exile now from
the land I love, and forced to roam a foreign shore, and gain a pittance
from my lute. I cannot return to Italia's olive groves--I am very sad."
"Poor boy!--but what brought you hither?" asked the Earl, still speaking
in Italian.
"I was travelling to Edinburgh--the sun was hot, and I was weary with
walking; your roads are very hard. I wandered up the cool water's side,
and I found this cavern, and thought I would rest a while in the cool
grotto till the evening came. But I intrude, signore; I have disturbed
you, fair lady; I will leave you, and proceed on my pilgrimage."
"Not so," said the Earl, "you can touch the lute deftly. We have a
pleasure party below--you shall play, and they will dance. I had
forgotten a minstrel--I am glad you found us. Afterwards I will take you
to the Towers, my house; its gates were never shut on outcast yet, nor
was the houseless wanderer ever turned from its door. I will see what
can be done for you, my poor boy; follow us."
"Grazzia tanta, you are too good--I will gladly play. I know several
English airs--but I will not trespass on your generosity, noble signore;
let me then journey on."
"We shall arrange all that," said the Earl, helping Ellen down the
steps; "follow us."
The three then crossed the dell, and descended the declivity far quicker
than they climbed it; Ellen and her lover first, and following timidly
behind the young musician, who was ill able to keep pace with Scotch
mountaineers in their own rough woods.