youth I became desperately enamoured of a lady named Isabella Morley.
She was most beautiful--but I need not enlarge upon her attractions,
since you have beheld her very image in Nizza. When I first met her she
was attached to another, but I soon rid myself of my rival. I quarrelled
with him, and slew him in a duel. After a long and urgent suit, for the
successful issue of which I was mainly indebted to my rank and wealth,
which gave great influence with her parents, Isabella became mine. But I
soon found out she did not love me. In consequence of this discovery, I
became madly jealous, and embittered her life and my own by constant,
and, now I know too well, groundless suspicions. She had borne me a son,
and in the excess of my jealous fury, fancying the child was not my own,
I threatened to put it to death. This violence led to the unhappy result
I am about to relate. Another child was born, a daughter--need I say
Nizza, or to give her her proper name, Isabella, for she was so
christened after her mother--and one night--one luckless
night,--maddened by some causeless doubt, I snatched the innocent babe
from her mother's arms, and if I had not been prevented by the
attendants, who rushed into the room on hearing their mistress's
shrieks, should have destroyed her. After awhile, I became pacified, and
on reviewing my conduct more calmly on the morrow, bitterly reproached
myself, and hastened to express my penitence to my wife. 'You will never
have an opportunity of repeating your violence,' she said; 'the object
of your cruel and unfounded suspicions is gone.'--'Gone!' I exclaimed;
'whither?' And as I spoke I looked around the chamber. But the babe was
nowhere to be seen. In answer to my inquiries, my wife admitted that she
had caused her to be removed to a place of safety, but refused, even on
my most urgent entreaties, accompanied by promises of amended conduct,
to tell me where. I next interrogated the servants, but they professed
entire ignorance of the matter. For three whole days I made ineffectual
search for the child, and offered large rewards to any one who would
bring her to me. But they failed to produce her; and repairing to my
wife's chamber, I threatened her with the most terrible consequences if
she persisted in her vindictive project. She defied me, and, transported
with rage, I passed my sword through her body, exclaiming as I dealt the
murderous blow, 'You have sent the brat to her father--to your lover,
madam.' Horror and remorse seized me the moment I had committed the
ruthless act, and I should have turned my sword against myself, if I had
not been stayed by the cry of my poor victim, who implored me to hold my
hand. 'Do not add crime to crime,' she cried; 'you have done me grievous
wrong. I have not, indeed, loved you, because my affections were not
under my control, but I have been ever true to you, and this I declare
with my latest breath. I freely forgive you, and pray God to turn your
heart.' And with these words she expired. I was roused from the
stupefaction into which I was thrown by the appearance of the servants.
Heaping execrations upon me, they strove to seize me; but I broke
through them, and gained a garden at the back of my mansion, which was
situated on the bank of the Thames, not far from Chelsea. This garden
ran down to the river side, and was defended by a low wall, which I
leapt, and plunged into the stream. A boat was instantly sent in pursuit
of me, and a number of persons ran along the banks, all eager for my
capture. But being an excellent swimmer, I tried to elude them, and as I
never appeared again, it was supposed I was drowned."
"And Nizza, or as I ought now to call her, Isabella, was confided, I
suppose, to the piper?" inquired Leonard.
"She was confided to his helpmate," replied Thirlby, "who had been nurse
to my wife. Mike Macascree was one of my father's servants, and was in
his younger days a merry, worthless fellow. The heavy calamity under
which he now labours had not then befallen him. On taking charge of my
daughter, his wife received certain papers substantiating the child's
origin, together with a miniature, and a small golden amulet. The papers
and miniature were delivered by her on her death-bed to the piper, who
showed them to me to-night."
"And the amulet I myself have seen," remarked Leonard.
"To resume my own history," said Thirlby--"after the dreadful
catastrophe I have related, I remained concealed in London for some
months, and was glad to find the report of my death generally believed.
I then passed over into Holland, where I resided for several years, in
the course of which time I married the widow of a rich merchant, who
died soon after our union, leaving me one child." And he covered his
face with his hands to hide his emotion. After awhile he proceeded:
"Having passed many years, as peacefully as one whose conscience was so
heavily burdened as mine could hope to pass them, in Amsterdam, I last
summer brought my daughter, around whom my affections were closely
twined, to London, and took up my abode in the eastern environs of the
city. There again I was happy--too happy!--until at last the plague
came. But why should I relate the rest of my sad story?" he added, in a
voice suffocated with emotion--"you know it as well as I do."
"You said you had a son," observed Leonard, after a pause--"Is he yet
living?"
"He is," replied Thirlby, a shade passing over his countenance. "On my
return to England I communicated to him through Judith Malmayns, who is
my foster-sister, that I was still alive, telling him the name I had
adopted, and adding, I should never disturb him in the possession of his
title and estates."
"Title!" exclaimed Leonard.
"Ay, title!" echoed Thirlby. "The title I once bore was that of Lord
Argentine."
"I am glad to hear it," said Leonard, "for I began to fear Sir Paul
Parravicin was your son."
"Sir Paul Parravicin, or, rather, the Lord Argentine, for such is his
rightful title, _is_ my son," returned Thirlby; "and I lament to own I
am his father. When among his worthless associates,--nay, even with the
king--he drops the higher title, and assumes that by which you have
known him; and it is well he does so, for his actions are sufficient to
tarnish a far nobler name than that he bears. Owing to this disguise I
knew not he was the person who carried off my daughter. But, thank
Heaven, another and fouler crime has been spared us. All these things
have been strangely explained to me to-night. And thus, you see, young
man, the poor piper's daughter turns out to be the Lady Isabella
Argentine." Before an answer could be returned, the door was opened by
Hodges, and both starting to their feet, hurried towards him.
IV. THE TRIALS OF AMABEL.
It will now be necessary to return to the period of Amabel's abduction
from Kingston Lisle. The shawl thrown over her head prevented her cries
from being heard; and, notwithstanding her struggles, she was placed on
horseback before a powerful man, who galloped off with her along the
Wantage-road. After proceeding at a rapid pace for about two miles, her
conductor came to a halt, and she could distinguish the sound of other
horsemen approaching. At first she hoped it might prove a rescue; but
she was quickly undeceived. The shawl was removed, and she beheld the
Earl of Rochester, accompanied by Pillichody, and some half-dozen
mounted attendants. The earl would have transferred her to his own
steed, but she offered such determined resistance to the arrangement,
that he was compelled to content himself with riding by her aide. All
his efforts to engage her in conversation were equally unsuccessful. She
made no reply to his remarks, but averted her gaze from him; and,
whenever he approached, shrank from him with abhorrence. The earl,
however, was not easily repulsed, but continued his attentions and
discourse, as if both had been favourably received.
In this way they proceeded for some miles, one of the earl's attendants,
who was well acquainted with the country, being in fact a native of it,
serving as their guide. They had quitted the Wantage-road, and leaving
that ancient town, renowned as the birthplace of the great Alfred, on
the right, had taken the direction of Abingdon and Oxford. It was a
lovely evening, and their course led them through many charming places.
But the dreariest waste would have been as agreeable as the richest
prospect to Amabel. She noted neither the broad meadows, yet white from
the scythe, nor the cornfields waving with their deep and abundant,
though yet immature crops; nor did she cast even a passing glance at any
one of those green spots which every lane offers, and upon which the eye
of the traveller ordinarily delights to linger. She rode beneath a
natural avenue of trees, whose branches met overhead like the arches of
a cathedral, and was scarcely conscious of their pleasant shade. She
heard neither the song of the wooing thrush, nor the cry of the startled
blackbird, nor the evening hymn of the soaring lark. Alike to her was
the gorse-covered common, along which they swiftly speeded, and the
steep hill-side up which they more swiftly mounted. She breathed not the
delicious fragrance of the new-mown hay, nor listened to the distant
lowing herds, the bleating sheep, or the cawing rooks. She thought of
nothing but her perilous situation,--heard nothing but the voice of
Rochester,--felt nothing but the terror inspired by his presence.
As the earl did not desire to pass through any village, if he could help
it, his guide led him along the most unfrequented roads; but in spite of
his caution, an interruption occurred which had nearly resulted in
Amabel's deliverance. While threading a narrow lane, they came suddenly
upon a troop of haymakers, in a field on the right, who, up to that
moment, had been hidden from view by the high hedges. On seeing them,
Amabel screamed loudly for assistance, and was instantly answered by
their shouts. Rochester ordered his men to gallop forward, but the road
winding round the meadow, the haymakers were enabled to take a shorter
cut and intercept them. Leaping the hedge, a stout fellow rushed towards
Amabel's conductor, and seized the bridle of his steed. He was followed
by two others, who would have instantly liberated the captive girl, if
the earl had not, with great presence of mind, cried out, "Touch her
not, as you value your lives! She is ill of the plague!"
At this formidable announcement, which operated like magic upon Amabel's
defenders, and made them fall back more quickly than the weapons of the
earl's attendants could have done, they retreated, and communicating
their fears to their comrades, who were breaking through the hedge in
all directions, and hurrying to their aid, the whole band took to their
heels, and, regardless of Amabel's continued shrieks, never stopped till
they supposed themselves out of the reach of infection. The earl was
thus at liberty to pursue his way unmolested, and laughing heartily at
the success of his stratagem, and at the consternation he had created
among the haymakers, pressed forward.
Nothing further occurred till, in crossing the little river Ock, near
Lyford, the horse ridden by Amabel's conductor missed its footing, and
precipitated them both into the water. No ill consequences followed the
accident. Throwing himself into the shallow stream, Rochester seized
Amabel, and placed her beside him on his own steed. A deathly paleness
overspread her countenance, and a convulsion shook her frame as she was
thus brought into contact with the earl, who, fearing the immersion
might prove dangerous in her present delicate state of health, quickened
his pace to procure assistance. Before he had proceeded a hundred yards,
Amabel fainted. Gazing at her with admiration, and pressing her
inanimate frame to his breast, Rochester imprinted a passionate kiss on
her cheek.
"By my soul!" he mentally ejaculated, "I never thought I could be so
desperately enamoured. I would not part with her for the crown of these
realms."
While considering whither he should take her, and much alarmed at her
situation, the man who acted as guide came to his relief. Halting till
the earl came up, he said, "If you want assistance for the young lady,
my lord, I can take you to a good country inn, not far from this, where
she will be well attended to, and where, as it is kept by my father, I
can answer that no questions will be asked."
"Precisely what I wish, Sherborne," replied Rochester. "We will halt
there for the night. Ride on as fast as you can."
Sherborne struck spurs into his steed, and passing Kingston Bagpuze,
reached the high road between Abingdon and Faringdon, at the corner of
which stood the inn in question,--a good-sized habitation, with large
stables and a barn attached to it. Here he halted, and calling out in a
loud and authoritative voice, the landlord instantly answered the
summons; and, on being informed by his son of the rank of his guest,
doffed his cap, and hastened to assist the earl to dismount. But
Rochester declined his services, and bidding him summon his wife, she
shortly afterwards made her appearance in the shape of a stout
middle-aged dame. Committing Amabel to her care, the earl then alighted,
and followed them into the house.
The Plough, for so the inn was denominated, was thrown into the utmost
confusion by the arrival of the earl and his suite. All the ordinary
frequenters of the inn were ejected, while the best parlour was
instantly prepared for the accommodation of his lordship and Pillichody.
But Rochester was far more anxious for Amabel than himself, and could
not rest for a moment till assured by Dame Sherborne that she was
restored to sensibility, and about to retire to rest. He then became
easy, and sat down to supper with Pillichody. So elated was he by his
success, that, yielding to his natural inclination for hard drinking, he
continued to revel so freely and so long with his follower, that
daybreak found them over their wine, the one toasting the grocer's
daughter, and the other Patience, when they both staggered off to bed.
A couple of hours sufficed Rochester to sleep off the effects of his
carouse. At six o'clock he arose, and ordered his attendants to prepare
to set out without delay. When all was ready, he sent for Amabel, but
she refused to come downstairs, and finding his repeated messages of no
avail, he rushed into her room, and bore her, shrieking to his steed.
In an hour after this, they arrived at an old hall, belonging to the
earl, in the neighbourhood of Oxford. Amabel was entrusted to the care
of a female attendant, named Prudence, and towards evening, Rochester,
who was burning with impatience for an interview, learnt, to his
infinite disappointment, that she was so seriously unwell, that if he
forced himself into her presence, her life might be placed in jeopardy.
She continued in the same state for several days, at the end of which
time, the chirurgeon who attended her, and who was a creature of the
earl's, pronounced her out of danger. Rochester then sent her word by
Prudence that he must see her in the course of that day, and a few hours
after the delivery of the message, he sought her room. She was much
enfeebled by illness, but received him with great self-possession.
"I cannot believe, my lord," she said, "that you desire to destroy me,
and when I assure you--solemnly assure you, that if you continue to
persecute me thus, my death, will be the consequence, I am persuaded you
will desist, and suffer me to depart."
"Amabel," rejoined the earl, passionately, "is it possible you can be so
changed towards me? Nothing now interferes to prevent our union."
"Except my own determination to the contrary, my lord," she replied. "I
can never be yours."
"Wherefore not?" asked the earl, half angrily, half reproachfully.
"Because I know and feel that I should condemn myself to wretchedness,"
she replied. "Because--for since your lordship will force the truth from
me, I must speak out--I have learnt to regard your character in its true
light,--and because my heart is wedded to heaven."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed the earl, contemptuously; "you have been listening so
long to your saintly father's discourses, that you fancy them applicable
to yourself. But you are mistaken in me," he added, altering his tone;
"I see where the main difficulty lies. You think I am about to delude
you, as before, into a mock marriage. But I swear to you you are
mistaken. I love you so well that I would risk my temporal and eternal
happiness for you. It will rejoice me to raise you to my own rank--to
place you among the radiant beauties of our sovereign's court, the
brightest of whom you will outshine, and to devote my whole life to your
happiness."
"It is too late," sighed Amabel.
"Why too late?" cried the earl, imploringly. "We have gone through
severe trials, it is true. I have been constantly baffled in my pursuit
of you, but disappointment has only made me love you more devotedly. Why
too late? What is to prevent our nuptials from taking place
to-day--to-morrow--when you will? The king himself shall be present at
the ceremony, and shall give you away. Will this satisfy your scruples?
I know I have offended you. I know I deserve your anger. But the love
that prompted me to act thus, must also plead my pardon."
"Strengthen me!" she murmured, looking supplicatingly upwards.
"Strengthen me, for my trial is very severe."
"Be not deceived, Amabel," continued Rochester, yet more ardently; "that
you love me I am well assured, however strongly you may at this moment
persuade yourself to the contrary. Be not governed by your father's
strait-laced and puritanical opinions. Men, such as he is, cannot judge
of fiery natures like mine. I myself have had to conquer a stubborn and
rebellious spirit,--the demon pride. But I have conquered. Love has
achieved the victory,--love for you. I offer you my heart, my hand, my
title. A haughty noble makes this offer to a grocer's daughter. Can
you--will you refuse me?"
"I can and do, my lord," she replied. "I have achieved a yet harder
victory. With me, principle has conquered love. I no longer respect you,
no longer love you--and, therefore, cannot wed you."
"Rash and obstinate girl," cried the earl, unable to conceal his
mortification; "you will bitterly repent your inconsiderate conduct. I
offer you devotion such as no other person could offer you, and rank
such as no other is likely to offer you. You are now in my power, and
you _shall_ be mine,--in what way rests with yourself. You shall have a
week to consider the matter. At the end of that time, I will again renew
my proposal. If you accept it, well and good. If not, you know the
alternative." And without waiting for a reply, he quitted the room.
He was as good as his word. During the whole of the week allowed Amabel
for consideration, he never intruded upon her, nor was his name at any
time mentioned by her attendants. If she had been, indeed, Countess of
Rochester, she could not have been treated with greater respect than was
shown her. The apartment allotted her opened upon a large garden,
surrounded by high walls, and she walked within it daily. Her serenity
of mind remained undisturbed; her health visibly improved; and, what was
yet more surprising, she entirely recovered her beauty. The whole of her
time not devoted to exercise, was spent in reading, or in prayer. On the
appointed day, Rochester presented himself. She received him with the
most perfect composure, and with a bland look, from which he augured
favourably. He waved his hand to the attendants, and they were alone.
"I came for your answer, Amabel," he said; "but I scarcely require it,
being convinced from your looks that I have nothing to fear. Oh! why did
you not abridge this tedious interval? Why not inform me you had altered
your mind? But I will not reproach you. I am too happy to complain of
the delay."
"I must undeceive you, my lord," returned Amabel, gravely. "No change
has taken place in my feelings. I still adhere to the resolution I had
come to when we last parted."
"How!" exclaimed the earl, his countenance darkening, and the evil look
which Amabel had before noticed taking possession of it. "One moment
lured on, and next rebuffed. But no--no!" he added, constraining
himself, "you cannot mean it. It is not in woman's nature to act thus.
You have loved me--you love me still. Make me happy--make yourself
happy."
"My lord," she replied, "strange and unnatural as my conduct may appear,
you will find it consistent. You have lost the sway you had once over
me, and, for the reasons I have already given you, I can never be
yours."
"Oh, recall your words, Amabel," he cried, in the most moving tones he
could command; "if you have no regard for me--at least have compassion.
I will quit the court if you desire it; will abandon title, rank,
wealth; and live in the humblest station with you. You know not what I
am capable of when under the dominion of passion. I am capable of the
darkest crimes, or of the brightest virtues. The woman who has a man's
heart in her power may mould it to her own purposes, be they good or
ill. Reject me, and you drive me to despair, and plunge me into guilt.
Accept me, and you may lead me into any course, you please."
"Were I assured of this--" cried Amabel.
"Rest assured of it," returned the earl, passionately. "Oh, yield to
impulses of natural affection, and do not suffer a cold and calculating
creed to chill your better feelings. How many a warm and loving heart
has been so frozen! Do not let yours be one of them. Be mine! be mine!"
Amabel looked at him earnestly for a moment; while he, assured that he
had gained his point, could not conceal a slightly triumphant smile.
"Now, your answer!" he cried. "My life hangs upon it."
"I am still unmoved," she replied, coldly, and firmly.
"Ah!" exclaimed the earl with a terrible imprecation, and starting to
his feet. "You refuse me. Be it so. But think not that you shall escape
me. No, you are in my power, and I will use it. You shall be mine and
without the priest's interference. I will not degrade myself by an
alliance with one so lowly born. The strongest love is nearest allied to
hatred, and mine has become hatred--bitter hatred. You shall be mine, I
tell you, and when I am indifferent to you, I will cast you off. Then,
when you are neglected, despised, shunned, you will regret--deeply but
unavailingly--your rejection of my proposals."
"No, my lord, I shall never regret it," replied Amabel, "and I cannot
sufficiently rejoice that I did not yield to the momentary weakness that
inclined me to accept them. I thank you for the insight you have
afforded me into your character."
"You have formed an erroneous opinion of me, Amabel," cried the earl,
seeing his error, and trying to correct it. "I am well nigh distracted
by conflicting emotions. Oh, forgive my violence--forget it."
"Readily," she replied; "but think not I attach the least credit to your
professions."
"Away, then, with further disguise," returned the earl, relapsing into
his furious mood, "and recognise in me the person I am--or, rather the
person you would have me be. You say you are immovable. So am I; nor
will I further delay my purpose."
Amabel, who had watched him uneasily during this speech, retreated a
step, and taking a small dagger from a handkerchief in which she kept it
concealed, placed its point against her breast.
"I well know whom I have to deal with, my lord," she said, "and am,
therefore, provided against the last extremity. Attempt to touch me, and I
plunge this dagger into my heart."
"Your sense of religion will not allow you to commit so desperate a
deed," replied the earl, derisively.
"My blood be upon your head, my lord," she rejoined; "for it is your
hand that strikes the blow, and not my own. My honour is dearer to me
than life, and I will unhesitatingly sacrifice the one to preserve the
other. I have no fear but that the action, wrongful though it be, will
be forgiven me."
"Hold!" exclaimed the earl, seeing from her determined look and manner
that she would unquestionably execute her purpose. "I have no desire to
drive you to destruction. Think over what I have said to you, and we
will renew the subject tomorrow."
"Renew it when you please, my lord, my answer will still be the same,"
she replied. "I have but one refuge from you--the grave--and thither, if
need be, I will fly." And as she spoke, she moved slowly towards the
adjoining chamber, the door of which she fastened after her.
"I thought I had some experience of her sex," said Rochester to himself,
"but I find I was mistaken. To-morrow's mood, however, may be unlike
to-day's. At all events, I must take my measures differently."
* * * * *
V. THE MARRIAGE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.