"You, too, who hurry me away
So cruelly, one moment stay--."
_Lalla Rookh._
"And thou my lover's sister? then thou'rt mine,
And as a sister I will fight for thee,
Albeit the sword my own breast deeply pierces!"
_Old Play._
We must retrograde in our story, and once more return and pick up the
dropped stitch at Seaview, from the doors of which the carriage bearing
Ellen and her abductors had just driven off. We need no longer hide from
our readers the true state of affairs, nor lead them to believe, as
Ellen did, her companions were officers of the law. The police officer
with the long beard was none other than Sir Richard Musgrave; his
assistants Bill Stacy, Farmer Forbes, and his son Archy, who acted as
Jehu on the occasion; and they were driving, not to Edinburgh but to
Cessford's Peel, in which castle the final scenes of this awful play
were to be enacted. The night had been wisely chosen, first from its
being Saturday, and the approaching Sunday would come aptly
between--secondly from its being a peculiarly dark and rainy evening,
and less liability of pursuit being crowned with any success. Contrary
to Sir Richard's expectations, now that succour seemed impossible, Ellen
Ravensworth nerved herself up for the worst, and did not give way and in
a flood of tears supplicate his mercy; on the contrary, she sat beside
him apparently little concerned at her fate; her eye was clear, her
countenance calm, and without speaking a word she silently seemed
offering petitions to the Great Protector for his protection under these
trying circumstances. She was innocent, there was nothing to make her
terrified, her innocence was at once buckler and sword; she felt sure it
would shine forth; she was not living in an uncivilized state; she would
be tried by lawful judges; she would have her own father to plead her
cause; she would have the powerful assistance of the Earl, her plighted
lord--she could feel sure but of one result, she had still higher
protection--His aid who has promised to protect frail innocence! and she
was certain God would defend the right, and not suffer her to ask his
aid in vain. Whilst such high thoughts filled her mind the carriage
swept on. "I must be now close to Edinburgh," she thought, and then
another thought struck her, by this time her father would be
returned--what would be his agony to find his daughter even suspected of
such a crime, and he, her own beloved lord, what would he think? how
would he receive the news that his promised bride was an inmate of the
prison cell? The wife of Caesar must be free even of suspicion,--Lord
Wentworth's bride should not even be suspected,--had she given any cause
for this? she could not think so, but this second train of thoughts was
terrible! Still the carriage rolled on, the horses still dragged it
forward at a furious pace--why were not the lights of Edina seen? A
horrible thought struck her: she was not going to Edinburgh. She glanced
out of the window. It was no thought but reality; on each side rose dark
woods, she could dimly see them by the reflection of the carriage lamps.
She started up; the officer, thinking she meditated an escape, seized
her by the wrist, saying--
"Not so fast, my gentle lady, you escape not thus."
Was it only fancy, or had she heard that voice before?
"Believe me, sir," she said, throwing herself at his feet, "believe me,
I tried not to escape, but tell me,--tell me for His sake who made
us,--where are you taking me to?"
Sir Richard answered not; perhaps he saw she was suspicious; and, afraid
his voice might betray him forebore; for whatever part he took in the
matter, he had no wish she should find out his disguise.
"Oh, sir, I beseech you, tell me! As you are a man--a man of
honour--tell me!--it is not prison to which you are taking me, you are
no police officer; whoever you may be, tell me."
There was still no answer.
"Have you no pity? have you no heart?" cried the unfortunate beauty, her
firmness now giving way, and the large tear standing in her blue eye.
"Oh, if you have a sister, by her love I adjure you, tell me! by your
mother's love, oh, tell me! Can you see a distressed maiden, can you see
her tears, and yet feel no pity? I will forgive you all, I will pardon
all your treachery, if you will only release me--take me to my father!"
"Lady, I am not the soft changeling to be turned from my purpose by a
woman's tears. I do not ask your pardon, nor do I wish it; you will find
ere long where you are bound to; you are witty, you have found out
shrewdly the arrest is a sham, now see if you can guess the arresters?"
Ellen seeing entreaty prevailed not, now tried threats.
"Then if you are beneath your sex, if you have not even the heart of a
soulless lion, for even he is said to respect a maiden, hear me and fear
the vengeance both of God and man--see what the Earl of Wentworth will
do!"
"I fear neither, most sage damsel; this evening I shall sup with his
lordship; is there any message from his distressed lady love?"
"Who, and what are you? I should know the voice--I thought not mortal
man could be so devoid of all human feelings--are you a fiend
incarnate?"
"You may think me so if you please--you have then no message for my
Lord. Shall I tell him Ellen Ravensworth spends the evening with her
feere?"
Ellen could bear it no longer, but burst into tears.
"Ha, my proud damosel dissolves at last; like most storms, hers too ends
in rain! but here we are at last, my fair lady, and I must begone. Ho!
for the Towers!"
The carriage which had been descending a steep road here stopped, and
Sir Richard leaped forth, and with mock politeness handed Ellen out.
Again she thought of flight into the dark woods, but once more her
retreat was cut off by Stacy and Forbes.
"Show our maiden fair to her dormitory," said Sir Richard, "and I must
be off."
"Unhappy man, bad as you are leave me not to these ruffians; you will at
least not hurt your victim!"
"Nor will they; Bill, do you hear, see the young lady up stairs; as you
value your life touch her not, nay speak not to her,--I must away."
Mounting a horse that stood ready at the door, Sir Richard galloped off,
and left Ellen to Bill's and Forbes' tender mercies, whilst he himself
rode to the Towers with Archy Forbes; he reached it a few minutes after
Mr. Ravensworth's arrival, and divesting himself of his disguise at the
stables entered with the coolness of a thorough paced villain, joined in
the conversation, and professed himself as surprised as any one.
It was too dark for Ellen to see much beyond an old tower to which she
was hurried, and dark woods around. Following the two gaolers, she
passed through a low, strong door, clamped with brass, and entered the
hall of the tower, and commenced ascending a winding stone staircase;
there were now only these two men with her, and half way up the taller
departed by a side door, leaving her alone with Stacy.
"Kind hearts are sometimes hidden beneath a rough exterior, old man,"
said Ellen; "pity the distress of a wronged, helpless woman!"
"You have mistook Bill's colours, my pretty little craft; Bill Stacy's
not a kind heart, his heart is as rough as his phisog," answered the old
man.
"But many a rough heart has opened to a golden key--give me my liberty,
send me to the Towers, and you shall have gold enough to gratify your
highest wish; it shall be given with no grudging hand, take this ring as
a pledge."
"Bribe not, gal! and think not Bill will strike colours to gold--he has
more than he wants, keep your ring--and here we are--go in there, and
try not to corrupt my dochter--or gorramighty yer shall swing for it."
With these words he pushed Ellen into a large room, and shut the door.
Baffled a third time, Ellen gave herself up for lost--she staggered into
the room, and threw herself on the first chair, and again gave way to
hopeless grief.
"Madam," said a soft voice, "do not distress yourself; bear up, things
are not so bad as they appear."
Ellen looked up to see the speaker! By her side stood a fair Spanish
beauty, with braided hair, and large lustrous eyes. Ellen was not
totally untinctured with some of the superstitions of her country, and
for a moment she fancied she was an angel sent from heaven; her
beauty--the strange situation she was in--the horrid remembrances of her
arrest and drive--all worked on her mind, and she fancied it must be a
vision, and not reality; but angels do not weep--and a tear stood in
the young beauty's eye; she thought she knew the voice too--had heard it
before--she was in a trance, surely--she would wake, and find it all a
creation of her brain?
The room was hung with tapestry, which bent in and out with each gust of
the wind--it was handsomely, but anciently furnished--everything was of
the olden date. The room had two narrow windows--a huge old fashioned
fireplace--one door only; opposite the windows was a large wardrobe, of
which part formed a bookcase. In the far corner of the room were two
beds with curtains of murrey-coloured silks, on which were trimmings,
once bright, but now tarnished; several old pictures, hung on the walls,
seemed lifelike in the half-gloom, half-glimmer of a solitary lamp on
the large inlaid table in the centre of the room. These thoughts,
suggested by the appearance of this fair lady in the ancient looking
room, took Ellen's mind far shorter time to think of, than it has the
writer to write them. She was awaked from her reverie by the soft voice
again, "Madam--weep not--distress not yourself so."
"Have pity on me--oh! you have a tender, kind heart--you must have; a
face so fair is the mirror of a good heart."
"Hush, lady--my father is at the door--these walls have ears--speak not
so loud--and, moreover, do not ask for what I cannot grant. I will try
and make you happy in your confinement,--I can do no more; and, lady,
listen, your harsh or kind captivity depends entirely on yourself; if
you submit without trying to escape, everything that can make you happy
will be done for you; if you try either by bribe or subtlety to escape,
you will only find harsher gaolers than I am."
"I will trust you then--happy I cannot be, but nothing will harm me
whilst you are here. But, oh! at least tell me why I am confined here;
this is a free country, and without law the meanest subject of his
Majesty cannot be imprisoned."
"Alas, lady! I do not even know your name--far less do I know why you
are here--I am your guardian only."
"Then God's will be done--you will at least stand by me in my distress."
"And now, madam, will you not retire to rest?--you need fear nothing."
"No, I will not; I trust you--I do not those who are here besides. I
will not--I could not sleep, and yet I do not fear; I have secreted a
dagger--see it," she cried, holding a small Indian blade which she had
contrived to possess herself of unseen by Sir Richard, and which had
belonged to her eldest brother; "before Ellen Ravensworth submits to
wrong she will bury this in her heart--death before dishonour."[G]
"Keep it, lady; you may require it yet," said Juana, in a low tone.
"Oh, my God, shield me; but what said you--you do then know why I am
here?"
"I guess, but cannot be certain; keep your weapon, I will not deprive
you of your last resource; but let no one else know of it--there are
those here who would."
The young Spaniard then arose, saying, "You need fear no harm
to-night--rest, for you are weary with crying, and terror; I pledge my
sacred word no one enters this room to-night."
"Then I will trust you, you could not play me false; but I part not with
thee," she said, addressing the dagger; "thou wilt be a sure friend."
The two young girls then retired to rest; Juana slept, not so Ellen, who
lay awake the livelong night, conjecturing in vain why she was there.
Three things consoled her: first her trust in a higher Power; secondly
her faith in the Earl, who she knew was even then searching for her, and
as she could not be very far she had hopes he might soon find her out;
her third and last consolation, was the knowledge that in her extremity
death was in her own power.
Slowly the hours of darkness rolled away--oh! how long they seemed, as
she tossed on her restless pillow, and listened to the heavy fall of the
sentinel's step that guarded her room's entrance,--it was probably the
fierce-looking old man who she had found out was her companion's father;
she was surely a mild offspring from so rough a sire! The more Ellen
thought the more inextricable seemed the web she strove to unravel--why
was she there--who had he been who brought her--who were those rough
men, and this fair girl who guarded her? She tried to recall voices she
felt sure she had heard, first her arrestor's, secondly the lady's who
guarded her--she felt sure she had heard both, but where she could not
recollect.
The night passed away slowly, the dawning lightened the room, by-and-by
the sun shone--at last it was a fine day; she slipped from her couch,
and hurried to the window. Oh! mystery of mysteries! it was then in
Cessford's Peel she was confined. Beneath her, forty feet below at the
least, was the green meadow, and the round stone, and the trees and
hills beyond; she heard the roar of the burn, now swollen, and strange
thoughts flitted through her mind. The scene where she had been so happy
was before her, the burn up whose banks she had wandered rushed by; but
how different was her present lot! how inscrutable it seemed! She
returned, and falling on her knees by her bedside besought God to end
this misery. Doubtless He heard her prayer, but prayers are not always
so soon answered as the petitioner expects. Juana awoke too; she was a
Roman Catholic, and repeated her devotions after the prescribed form of
her creed; they then dressed, and before long a waiting girl of
surpassing beauty, but quite of a different order, brought in a simple
breakfast. More and more puzzled was Ellen when she saw this girl's
face--she had surely seen _her_ before! When she had left the room Ellen
recalled the face, it was that of Jeanie Forbes, the country belle to
whom she had seen the Marquis talking.
"It is indeed a mystery," she thought; "what if it be a trick of the
Earl's to try my fidelity--but no, he couldn't do so--and yet all is so
strange--there must be more than I guess in it--I will wait and see, at
the last I have still the worst, maybe; but at the worst, I have still
the last friend to end my woe."
Through that day nothing particularly occurred; and again darkness came,
again Ellen refused to retire unless she had Juana's word for her
safety; it was given, and that night she actually slept. Another, and
another, and still another day wore by--still she had seen no living
soul but Juana and Jeanie Forbes, and she began half to lose her
fears--half to despair. The first, because long acquaintance with misery
naturally takes off the keenness of its sting, and she was so fully
prepared for the worst, the present seemed quite bright; the last,
because several days had now passed, and yet no succour came. Could Lord
Wentworth have waxed cold? Could her father forget, or had some fearful
deception been practised on them? Left together night and day, the two
girls naturally drew to each other; in everything they were entire
opposites, not only in their remote styles of beauty, but in character;
and, perhaps, for this reason, like the different electric currents,
they attracted each other the more. Juana admired the fair Saxon
beauty, not so much because of her dazzling complexion, so pure and
sunny, though now shaded by grief,--not so much from her fair tresses,
and melting blue eyes,--as for the high toned principle--the lofty
mind--firm resolve, and patient endurance she displayed under her trying
ordeal; and Ellen admired not so much the ebon hair--large dazzling
eyes--and brilliant colouring of the fair Spaniard, as she did the full
fervour of her character, and the warm affections of one who was--
"Warm as her clime and sunny as her skies."
They used to talk together for hours--generally Ellen was the listener,
and much was she absorbed by the wild tales of other zones Juana could
tell. One thing Ellen had ceased to ask, and that was why she was there.
Juana seemed above all entreaty, and kept her secret as the rock does
its hidden spring: it required a prophet's stroke to make it unlock its
waters! Days went on, and still no explanation either by word or deed
came. Saturday night wore through, and Sunday morning dawned; Ellen had
now been a week and more in captivity, and still it was unexplained. She
had never once been outside the castle, but late on Sunday afternoon
Juana told her, if she liked to breathe the fresh air she might come out
for an hour or so with her, on condition she promised she would make no
attempt to regain her freedom.
"Alas! to what purpose, Antonia?" replied Ellen, for by this name she
only knew her; "how could I fly with such strict watchers?"
The two friends--for so they had become--now descended the tower, and
walked on the green grass. It was a delightful evening--the sun was
setting among clouds of every gorgeous hue--his orb was then hidden
behind a dark mass, whose edges were crimsoned by his rays; above the
cloud the sky was of the darkest black-blue, and beyond this his beams
shot out in iridescent lines, like the rays that emblazon the heraldic
scroll--higher still mackerel clouds floated in the blue ether, dyed
gold, and crimson, and between their vistas the unfathomable depths of
air were clear and transparent, so that the eye could pierce their far
deeps, and discern how near the loftiest clouds in comparison floated
above earth! In the east the full moon was rising, and the cold blue
light of the latter, compared with the warm colouring of the sunset, was
striking. The friends sat down on the mossy stone, and each for a time
seemed too much occupied with her own thoughts to speak. Ellen was
thinking on the picnic, and how not long ago on a night like this she
had danced on that grass with him she loved. Oh! had any one told her
then that one short month after she would again sit on that stone, a
prisoner, and parted from him, she would not have believed it. Juana was
thinking how on that stone she had sat, when she personated the Italian,
how he she also loved, but who loved not her, had given her the ring she
now treasured in her bosom.
"Antonia," said Ellen, "a month ago I sat here so happy--alas! I fear I
shall never be so again."
"Miss Ravensworth, a month ago I sat on this stone; I was then
miserable, I may yet be happy."
"Ah! our circumstances are then altered, but when did you sit here
before?"
"Often--but this day last month as far as I remember--I sat here very
unhappy!"
"Impossible! a month ago there was a gay picnic here, how could you have
been here? you were not there."
"Easily; you remember the Italian boy, who played and sung--that boy was
I--is it not now explained?"
"Oh! merciful Heavens--that boy you--yes, I know the voice now. Oh!
there is a deep, deep plot! Antonia, if you love me, tell me all. How
strange! I seem to see things differently. Oh! who are you, mysterious
maiden?"
"I cannot, remember your promise not to ask me, but the explanation will
not now be distant--to-night it will come. Have you the dagger still?"
"Oh! Antonia, you alarm me; it is true, I was beginning to grow
forgetful; then, the trial is at hand; you shall see I can be firm to
death!"
"Poor girl, I pity you from my heart!"
"Then, why not let deeds show your pity--let me fly."
"I dare not, lady! I dare not. I was sworn by the blessed Virgin--you
would not I should break my oath!"
"Then, let it come; you will see how Ellen can die, if that death only
saves her from dishonour!"
"Let me see your blade; is it sharp?"
"Behold it," said Ellen, drawing it forth. The blade was very
elaborately engraved with Indian devices; along the centre was carved
the owner's name--George Elliot Ravensworth. The steel was very
bright--the handle formed of silver finely chased.
"Let me have it in my hands?"
"You won't betray your trust, you won't deprive me of my only, sad
comfort."
"Trust me."
"I will," said Ellen, "falsehood never shaded that fair brow."
Juana took the weapon, and then read the name.
"What! did you say this was your brother's?"
"Yes, my poor George's; he is now dead!"
"Oh, my God!" cried Juana, "and have I lived to see his sister?"
"Antonia, what is this?--surely my life is charmed--what now?"
"Ellen, my own sister--my dearest--noblest--best--beloved sister," and
with her native warmth of character she threw herself on Ellen, and
kissed her again and again.
"Antonia, dearest Antonia, what is it all?"
"Enough, moments are priceless; they are near--but there is yet ample
time. Ellen, I will save you, I may compromise my life, but I will save
you; nay, thank me not now, hear me."
"Noble girl, you shall not; if you save me, you shall be safe too, you
will go with me--nothing shall sever us."
"Listen, Ellen; some of my life I have told you, never this part. When I
was in America I was once nearly drowned by the upsetting of a boat; I
was rescued by a noble young officer,--he was your brother George. I
will not delay by narrating details, suffice to say we became deeply in
love--we were to be married! Lady, I am not what I seem, my blood is as
high as thine, nay doubtless far higher! but death separated us. George
died, I closed his eyes, I followed him to the dark tomb, and there I
left my heart. I came to England; I was introduced to Lord Wentworth--I
will not hide any thing--I accepted his love. Oh, I loved him well, and
he loved me too once,--till, lady, he met you again,--he then left me,
not as many another would have done, he left me with house and fortune.
Nothing could make up for lost love; I became miserable, I then came to
Scotland. There are those who strive to get us married, for under that
promise I stooped to become the unhappy woman I did; it was untrue, he
never gave me that promise, I was duped, I will not say by whom. For
this reason, Ellen, you are here; for this reason I became the mock
Italian, and secreted near the cave, heard Lord Wentworth propose, and
you accept him, only on condition he never spoke to myself again. Lady,
I honour you for it. This is my tale. I am Juana Ferraras! I will save
you yet; you shall be the happy wife of him you love so well, I will
sink to be the deserted, hopeless wreck I was before,--your marriage
destroys my last chance. When you are happy, Ellen, sometimes at such an
hour as this, when eve falls drear, you will think of her who parted
with her last hope, who gave up all to make you happy!"
"I will, noble, dear girl, I will; but it shall not so be; you shall
live near us, you shall be like a sister. You Juana Ferraras!--now I see
all."
"It is vain, lady, I could not dwell on the same shore with him--we are
severed for ever. I will not speak to him except once more to procure
your freedom: let us hasten in--time presses--I may be too late--there
is danger near you--be not too sanguine, I will do my best."
The two friends hurried up the stairs: they reached the room, and then
Juana said, "Promise me on your honour you will not leave this chamber;
all depends on your staying."
"I will give my word of honour."
"I believe you; now, Ellen, I hasten to perform a deed which will, I am
sure, cover a multitude of my errors."
"Adieu! God speed you my noble, dear friend."
"Adieu! I will do what I can--I will do my best--but remember I may be
too late--the way is far, and the hour near. Is your dagger free in its
sheath?"
With these ominous words Juana left, after first embracing Ellen like a
sister, as she might indeed have proved but for George Ravensworth's
early death. When she was gone Ellen bolted the door, and then loosened
her dagger.
"Danger near, and of what kind?" she asked herself. "I am prepared. Oh!
my God grant she may arrive in time. Oh, let me not have to die with
rescue and hope so near." She then sat down, and thought of all these
strange events. How wonderful all seemed! How passing strange! Juana her
brother's love--her lover's mistress--the Italian minstrel! How would
she rescue her from her coming danger, and what was that danger? Then
she thought of Juana's noble self-denial, and all for her, because she
loved her departed brother--this was love! With these and a thousand
other thoughts her mind was busy, and two hours glided imperceptibly
away.
The daylight had now quite faded, and in its place the cold beam of the
moon shone through the barred lattice, and softly travelled across the
floor. The room was quite light, for the full orb was directly in front,
but it was a chilly, ghastly light. Ellen, wrapped in her own thoughts,
did not allow her mind to dwell on this, when all at once she thought
she heard footsteps on the stairs. It must be fancy; but no! distinct
and clear she heard them again. Oh! mercy above; the danger was come,
and Juana not returned. It might be the Earl though, and she flew across
the room to the door. She heard rude voices! it was not him, and she
double barred the door.
"At least," she thought, "it will guard me for a time."
She felt if her blade was secure--it was beneath the folds of her dress.
She stood in awful suspense, as near the door as she could--the
footsteps drew nearer and several oaths struck her ears. She knew the
voice, but in her dismay could not think whose it was--there seemed to
be several men, as far as she could judge, ascending the steps. They
landed on the passage--another moment of awful agony, of breathless
apprehension, and the handle of the lock was tried.
"Thousand devils, it's bolted. Tony, open wench!" said a harsh voice she
knew to be Antonia's or Juana's father.
No answer, of course.
"Stove it in, you blundering old sea-cook!" said another voice, she
recognized as Captain de Vere's.
"Easy saying so, but hard doing it, by G--," was the reply.
"You bungler! let me try."
An awful crash followed, which made Ellen almost sicken with fear, but
the strong door manfully withstood the charge. Again it was rocked as if
by a battering-ram, again it stood the shock; a confused sound of
laughter and oaths followed.
"I telled you so; the devil himself could scarce stove yon oaken beams
in."
"Fire and furies! what is to be done?--here's a d--d sell--sold by a
wench."
"Deil a fear; this way, Captain."
The steps faded away, they were gone. Ellen felt sure she was now safe,
at least for a time; though she feared they were gone for sledgehammers
to force the door. She threw herself on her knees, and thanked God for
it. It is not wise to be in too great a hurry to return thanks; this
Ellen found, for hardly had she thanked Providence for mercies not yet
received, than she heard the same footsteps in another part of the room.
In dismay at this return, she glanced to see where the sounds came from.
There was only one door, the windows and fireplace were barred; but
Ellen did not know the secrets of her prison-house; behind the arras was
a secret door, to which a winding back stair led, and she only sprung
from her knees in time to see the tapestry move aside, and from the
concealed door three figures enter her sanctuary. It was with a sickness
of heart indescribable, but not the less acutely felt by those who
cannot tell its horror, that she saw in the three intruders the persons
of Captain de Vere, Captain L'Estrange, and old Bill Stacy!