"No green star trembles
On its top, no moonbeam on its side."
"The blast of the desert comes,
It howls in thy empty courts."
There happened to be a young man at this time expected in the village,
who had received his early education at S-- B-- school, and who had
been, for many years, the mate in mischief of Henry St. Aubin.
The young man, of whom we are speaking, was the only child of a lone
woman who kept the bakehouse of the village. His father, whom he had
never seen, had been, in the youthful days of his mother, a scholar
lad. The mother was determined that her son should be, as his father
had been, a gentleman! She devoted, therefore, the fruits of a life's
industry to educate him for the church. After such an exertion,
however, she had no pocket-money left to give her darling, who,
consequently, often wanted cash. He was selfish, and had no principles.
His habits were low, yet, in their own petty way, expensive. His
present return to the village was after a considerable absence. Henry
hastened to the bakehouse at the moment of his arrival, and, taking him
aside, asked him if he was yet ordained, "because," continued Henry,
without waiting for a reply, "if you are not, tell David you are, and
pretend to marry me to Betsy. We'll have rare fun and carousing at the
wedding: and the next time my aunt fills my purse, I'll go halves with
you."
Now, the young man was in orders already; but so good an offer as
a carouse and even half a purse, was not to be cast away without
consideration. Besides which, it might be 'very convenient' to have
St. Aubin in his power; for though it was perfectly well known that
Henry did not inherit any thing from his father, his future prospects
from his aunt were equally well known not to be despicable; and, at
any rate, she behaved so handsomely to him at present, that as a
scholar-lad his purse was always tolerably well lined; it was not
likely, therefore, that she would ever let him be without money, when
he went into the world as a man. The conscientious young divine,
accordingly, without more time for his calculations than whilst Henry
spoke, told his friend that he was not yet ordained, and, at the same
time, undertook that his mother should tell David (as well she might)
that her son was in orders. "Indeed, for that matter," he added, "it
will be the safest way to make her think so herself."
After this, it was easily arranged, with all parties, that Greyson
(such was our hopeful churchman's name) should perform the ceremony. It
was to take place among the roofless ruins of S-- B-- Abbey, poor David
having a prejudice in favour of his child being married in church, and
the repaired part of the building, which is the present church, being
of course locked. The little party, in contempt of canonical hours,
left David's house after midnight. They passed down the street, and all
was silent. As they approached the little bridge, situated half-way
between the village and the abbey, Betsy saw a man leaning over the
battlements, seemingly looking on the water as it glided from beneath
the one low arch. She was sure, doubtful as was the light, for the moon
was much obscured, that the figure was that of the young farmer. When
they came to the gate which divides the road and school-house from the
wide-spread ruins, they found it fastened, and were obliged to get over
the stile. When elevated on the upper step of this, Betsy gave one look
towards the bridge. The figure had left its position there. She passed
her eye along the road, and could still discern it following at some
distance.
"Make haste!" whispered Henry, hurrying her down the steps rather
roughly. "You're not going to change your mind again, are you?" he
added, sneeringly.
Betsy's heart misgave her, and she answered, with a heavy sigh, "If I
have changed it ance, Henry, it's no you 'at sould reproach me!"
"Hoot! if it is such a sighing matter," he replied, "don't break your
heart to oblige me."
"Tack care yee dinna brack it, Henry, nor my honest fayther's nowther,"
was Betsy's answer. Then, mentally she added, "There's ane 'at must be
bracken, and that's enew."
At this moment a shadow passed along a moonlit wall beside them, and
sunk in a dark archway before them. They soon entered the same archway;
proceeded along the flags in front of the great western entrance;
mounted some steps; walked on the northern high gravelled terrace,
some way; then, leaving it, climbed over graves, and stumbled over
tombstones, till, descending a rugged path, among nettles and long
grass, they entered a part of the ruin which was without any roof. The
walls, however, still rose to their full original height, till the
starry sky seemed a canopy that closed them in; while, through a row
of long, narrow, well-preserved arches, the moonlight streamed with an
adventitious brightness, borrowed from contrast with the dark shadows
in every other part. The entrance of our party, however, seemed the
signal for all that had been bright to disappear. The moon, which had
struggled for some time with the vapours of a hazy night, almost at the
instant dropped behind a range of thick clouds near the horizon. She
set a few moments after, and the haze thickening to a mizzling rain,
the very stars became extinguished. It was slowly, therefore, and with
difficulty, that the feet of our wanderers now advanced to the further
or eastern end, where the altar is said to have once stood.
Our reverend divine here took a small dark lantern from his breast,
unfastened its door, and opened before it a pocket prayer-book. By
this time the darkness of all around was total, and added much to the
strange effect of the partial gleam that lit up the book, the one
hand that held it, and a part only of the one arm, the back of the
lantern itself throwing a powerful shadow on the rest of the figure;
so that the waving hand seemed a floating vision unconnected with any
form, and the voice that arose out of the darkness behind it, almost
supernatural! At the moment of its first sound, which, after the
silence that had preceded it, seemed to startle every thing, an owl
on the top of the ruins screamed. Betsy shuddered: the owl fluttered
downwards, fell, as it happened, actually on the lantern, and, striking
it out of the hand that held it, extinguished its light; then, having
panted a moment at the feet of the astounded group, rose, and screaming
again, brushed by their faces. A minute after, its cry was heard
repeated, but fainter from the distance, for it now came from the
highest point of the steeple.
"It's no to be, fayther!" said Betsy, in a low voice, "it's no to be!"
"Hoot!" said Henry, gruffly.
Betsy felt her hand, on the other side, taken in one that seemed to
tremble. She thought, at first, it was her father's; but just then she
heard his voice on the far side of Henry, saying to the clergyman,
"What's to be done noo?"
"He kens it off book," said Henry.
Greyson, who had engaged to swear whatever Henry said, alleged that,
while he held the book in his hand, and repeated the words, it was the
same thing as if he read them. Accordingly, with particular solemnity
of tone, as if to compensate for the want of other requisites, he
recommenced the ceremony.
Betsy felt the hand suddenly dropped, which had been all this time held
against the throbbing heart of some one, whose laboured breathing she
had distinguished close to her; not by sounds, those were apparently
suppressed, but she had felt each warm sigh steal over that side of her
neck and cheek. A moment after her hand had been dropped, she heard
a slight movement among some loose stones at a little distance. The
darkness was such, that she could not see any of the figures present.
David gave away his daughter: the ceremony was concluded, and they all
began to make the best of their rugged way homeward. With much ado they
got from among tombstones, and fragments of ruins. They passed the
stile at the gate, even the bridge, and Betsy could see no traces of
any one; but it was still very dark. At length they arrived at David
Park's door; it was opened, and a strong stream of light, pouring from
it, crossed the street. David, the clergyman, and a friend of David's,
who had been taken as a witness, went in.
The bride and bridegroom, happening to be a little behind the rest,
were following, when, just as Betsy put her foot on the threshold, she
heard in the direction of the bridge a plunge, which, though distant,
was distinct, from the perfect stillness of the night. She staggered
back a few paces, drawing Henry with her.
"Oh, run! run!" she cried, pointing to the bridge, which was in a
straight line from where they stood, so that any one who had been upon
it might have seen the light of David's open door, and the figures
entering.
"Run where?" asked Henry.
"Yonder! yonder! Didna ye hear yon? I's amaist sure its John, gane o'ur
the brig for love o' me!"
"And if it be," replied Henry, "he may go. He shall have no help of
mine!"
At this tender and considerate speech from the bridegroom, his young
bride fainted away. She was carried into the house, without any one but
Henry knowing the cause of her illness.
"My peur bairn's doon-hearted wid yon darkling wedding, and that ne'er
do weel o'a Jenny Owlet," said David.
When Betsy recovered, which was not for a considerable time, she told
her father her fears, and entreated him to go to the bridge.
"It was aw nonsense," he said, "and no but fancy! The lad had na mickle
to say for his sel, to be sure, bit he was no sic a feul as aw that;
and if there had been ony body faud i' the water, of a mischance, it
wad be owr late tle help them noo."
However, to satisfy his daughter, he walked down the road; but
returned, saying, he could see nout. "It was no but yon Jenny Owlet
again, or may be a wild duck; there plenty o' them i' the Senbee vale.
And, what's mare," he added, "I wadend care an' we had twa on them noo,
twirling afoor this rouser."
So saying, he placed himself in his own large chair before the said
rouser, which he roused still more, with a gigantic poker, as was his
invariable custom; while his wife laid on the board smoking dishes, one
of which was graced, if not by two wild ducks, by two good tame geese.
Henry, mean time, was preparing, scientifically, a large bowl of punch;
to which was added, on the present occasion, several bottles of choice
wine, purloined from the cellars of Lodore House.
In the morning, the miller who lives near to where the river ----,
after wandering through the vale of S-- B--, and passing under the
bridge of which we have spoken, empties itself into the sea, found,
stopped in its course, as it floated towards the ocean, by his
mill-dam, the body of poor John Dixon. And Betsy was long before she
could get it out of her mind, how his heart had beat against her hand
so short a time before it lay still, and cold, in the mill-stream.