alarm, for the district around was in arms, and the life of Monsieur de
Marville loudly threatened. They never slept but they dreaded the
approach of the murderers; food they had little, and the inclement
season visited them roughly. Fanny seemed to feel no inconvenience; her
voice was cheerful: to console, encourage, and assist her friends
appeared to occupy her whole heart. At length one night they were roused
by a violent knocking at the door of their hut: Monsieur de Marville and
Henry were on their feet in a moment, seizing their weapons as they
rose. It was a domestic of their own, come to communicate the
intelligence that the troubles were over, that the legal government had
reasserted its authority, and invited the governor to return to Berne.
They descended from their mountain refuge, and the name of Louis hovered
on Fanny’s lips, but she spoke it not. He seemed everywhere forgotten.
It was not until some time afterwards that she ascertained the fact that
he had never been seen or heard of since he had parted from her on the
morning of their escape. The villagers had waited for him in vain; they
suspended their designs, for they all depended upon him; but he came
not.
Monsieur and Madame de Marville returned to their chateau with their
son, but Fanny remained behind. She would not inhabit the same roof as
Henry; she recoiled even from receiving further benefits from his
parents. What could she do? Louis would doubtless discover the falsehood
of her marriage, but he dared not return; and even if he communicated
with her, even though yet she loved him, could she unite herself with
one accused too truly of the most frightful crimes? At first, these
doubts agitated her, but by degrees they faded as oblivion closed over
Chaumont’s name; and he came not, and she heard not of him, and he was
as dead to her. Then the memory of the past revived in her heart; her
love awoke with her despair; his mysterious flight became the sole
occupation of her thoughts; time rolled on and brought its changes.
Madame de Marville died—Henry was united to another—Fanny remained, to
her own thoughts, alone in the world. A relation, who lived at Subiaco,
sent for her, and there she went to take up her abode. In vain she
strove to wean herself from the memory of Louis—her love for him haunted
her soul.
There was war in Europe, and every man was converted into a soldier; the
country was thinned of its inhabitants, and each victory or defeat
brought a new conscription. At length peace came again, and its return
was celebrated with rejoicing. Many a soldier returned to his home—and
one came back who had no home. A man, evidently suffering from recent
wounds, wayworn and sick, asked for hospitality at Fanny’s cottage; it
was readily afforded, and he sat at her cottage fire, and removed his
cap from his brow. His person was bent, his cheeks fallen in; yet those
eyes of fire, that quick animated look, which almost brought the bright
expression of youth back into his face, could never be forgotten. Fanny
gazed almost in alarm, and then in joy, and at last, in her own sweet
voice, she said, “Et toi, Louis—tu aussi es de retour.”
Louis had endured many a sorrow and many a hardship, and, most of all,
he had been called on to wage battle with his own fierce spirit. The
rage and hate which he had sedulously nourished suddenly became his
tormentors and his tyrants—at the moment that love, before too closely
allied to them, emancipated itself from their control. Love, which is
the source of all that is most generous and noble in our nature, of
self-devotion and of high intent, separated from the alloy he had
blended with it, asserted its undivided power over him; strange that it
should be so at the moment that he believed that he had lost her he
loved for ever!
All his plans had been built for revenge. He would destroy the family
that oppressed him; unbuild, stone by stone, the proud abode of their
inheritance; he would be the sole refuge and support of his mistress in
exile and in poverty. He had entered upon his criminal career with this
design alone, and with the anticipation of ending all by heaping
benefits and the gifts of fortune upon Fanny. The very steps he had
taken, he now believed to be those that occasioned his defeat. He had
lost her—the lovely and the good—he had lost her by proving unworthy,
yet not so unworthy was he as to make her the victim of his crimes. The
family he had vowed to ruin was now hers, and every injury that befell
them visited her; to save her he must unweave his pernicious webs; to
keep her scatheless, his dearest designs must fall to the ground.
A veil seemed rent before his eyes; he had fled, for he would not assist
in the destruction of her fortunes; he had not returned, for it was
torture to him to know that she lived, the wife of another. He entered
the French army, but in every change his altered feelings pursued him,
and to prove himself worthy of her he had lost was the constant aim of
his ambition. His excellent conduct led to his promotion, and yet mishap
still waited on him. He was wounded, even dangerously, and became so
incapable of service as to be forced to solicit his dismission. This had
occurred at the end of a hard campaign in Germany, and his intention was
to pass into Italy, where a friend, with whom he had formed an intimacy
in the army, promised to procure him some employment under Government.
He passed through Subiaco in his way, and, ignorant of its occupiers,
had asked for hospitality in his mistress’s cottage.
If guilt can be expiated by repentance and reform, as is the best lesson
of religion, Louis had expiated his. If constancy in love deserve
reward, these lovers deserved that, which they reaped, in the happiness
consequent on their union. Her image, side by side with all that is good
in our nature, had dwelt in his heart, which thus became a shrine at
which he sacrificed every evil passion. It was a greater bliss than he
had ever dared to anticipate, to find, that in so doing, he had at the
same time been conducing to the welfare of her he loved, and that the
lost and idolized being whom he worshipped founded the happiness of her
life upon his return to virtue, and the constancy of his affection.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XI.
_THE INVISIBLE GIRL._
THIS slender narrative has no pretensions to the regularity of a story,
or the development of situations and feelings; it is but a slight
sketch, delivered nearly as it was narrated to me by one of the humblest
of the actors concerned: nor will I spin out a circumstance interesting
principally from its singularity and truth, but narrate, as concisely as
I can, how I was surprised on visiting what seemed a ruined tower,
crowning a bleak promontory overhanging the sea, that flows between
Wales and Ireland, to find that though the exterior preserved all the
savage rudeness that betokened many a war with the elements, the
interior was fitted up somewhat in the guise of a summer-house, for it
was too small to deserve any other name. It consisted but of the
ground-floor, which served as an entrance, and one room above, which was
reached by a staircase made out of the thickness of the wall. This
chamber was floored and carpeted, decorated with elegant furniture; and,
above all, to attract the attention and excite curiosity, there hung
over the chimney-piece—for to preserve the apartment from damp a
fireplace had been built evidently since it had assumed a guise so
dissimilar to the object of its construction—a picture simply painted in
water-colours, which deemed more than any part of the adornments of the
room to be at war with the rudeness of the building, the solitude in
which it was placed, and the desolation of the surrounding scenery. This
drawing represented a lovely girl in the very pride and bloom of youth;
her dress was simple, in the fashion of the beginning of the eighteenth
century; her countenance was embellished by a look of mingled innocence
and intelligence, to which was added the imprint of serenity of soul and
natural cheerfulness. She was reading one of those folio romances which
have so long been the delight of the enthusiastic and young; her
mandoline was at her feet—her parroquet perched on a huge mirror near
her; the arrangement of furniture and hangings gave token of a luxurious
dwelling, and her attire also evidently that of home and privacy, yet
bore with it an appearance of ease and girlish ornament, as if she
wished to please. Beneath this picture was inscribed in golden letters,
“The Invisible Girl.”
Rambling about a country nearly uninhabited, having lost my way, and
being overtaken by a shower, I had lighted on this dreary-looking
tenement, which seemed to rock in the blast, and to be hung up there as
the very symbol of desolation. I was gazing wistfully and cursing
inwardly my stars which led me to a ruin that could afford no shelter,
though the storm began to pelt more seriously than before, when I saw an
old woman’s head popped out from a kind of loophole, and as suddenly
withdrawn;—a minute after a feminine voice called to me from within, and
penetrating a little brambly maze that screened a door, which I had not
before observed, so skilfully had the planter succeeded in concealing
art with nature, I found the good dame standing on the threshold and
inviting me to take refuge within. “I had just come up from our cot hard
by,” she said, “to look after the things, as I do every day, when the
rain came on—will ye walk up till it is over?” I was about to observe
that the cot hard by, at the venture of a few rain drops, was better
than a ruined tower, and to ask my kind hostess whether “the things”
were pigeons or crows that she was come to look after, when the matting
of the floor and the carpeting of the staircase struck my eye. I was
still more surprised when I saw the room above; and beyond all, the
picture and its singular inscription, naming her invisible, whom the
painter had coloured forth into very agreeable visibility, awakened my
most lively curiosity; the result of this, of my exceeding politeness
towards the old woman, and her own natural garrulity, was a kind of
garbled narrative which my imagination eked out, and future inquiries
rectified, till it assumed the following form.
Some years before, in the afternoon of a September day, which, though
tolerably fair, gave many tokens of a tempestuous night, a gentleman
arrived at a little coast town about ten miles from this place; he
expressed his desire to hire a boat to carry him to the town of —— about
fifteen miles farther on the coast. The menaces which the sky held forth
made the fishermen loathe to venture, till at length two, one the father
of a numerous family, bribed by the bountiful reward the stranger
promised, the other, the son of my hostess, induced by youthful daring,
agreed to undertake the voyage. The wind was fair, and they hoped to
make good way before nightfall, and to get into port ere the rising of
the storm. They pushed off with good cheer, at least the fishermen did;
as for the stranger, the deep mourning which he wore was not half so
black as the melancholy that wrapt his mind. He looked as if he had
never smiled—as if some unutterable thought, dark as night and bitter as
death, had built its nest within his bosom, and brooded therein
eternally; he did not mention his name; but one of the villagers
recognised him as Henry Vernon, the son of a baronet who possessed a
mansion about three miles distant from the town for which he was bound.
This mansion was almost abandoned by the family; but Henry had, in a
romantic fit, visited it about three years before, and Sir Peter had
been down there during the previous spring for about a couple of months.
The boat did not make so much way as was expected; the breeze failed
them as they got out to sea, and they were fain with oar as well as sail
to try to weather the promontory that jutted out between them and the
spot they desired to reach. They were yet far distant when the shifting
wind began to exert its strength, and to blow with violent though
unequal blasts. Night came on pitchy dark, and the howling waves rose
and broke with frightful violence, menacing to overwhelm the tiny bark
that dared resist their fury. They were forced to lower every sail, and
take to their oars; one man was obliged to bale out the water, and
Vernon himself took an oar, and rowing with desperate energy, equalled
the force of the more practised boatmen. There had been much talk
between the sailors before the tempest came on; now, except a brief
command, all were silent. One thought of his wife and children, and
silently cursed the caprice of the stranger that endangered in its
effects, not only his life, but their welfare; the other feared less,
for he was a daring lad, but he worked hard, and had no time for speech;
while Vernon bitterly regretting the thoughtlessness which had made him
cause others to share a peril, unimportant as far as he himself was
concerned, now tried to cheer them with a voice full of animation and
courage, and now pulled yet more strongly at the oar he held. The only
person who did not seem wholly intent on the work he was about, was the
man who baled; every now and then he gazed intently round, as if the sea
held afar off, on its tumultuous waste, some object that he strained his
eyes to discern. But all was blank, except as the crests of the high
waves showed themselves, or far out on the verge of the horizon, a kind
of lifting of the clouds betokened greater violence for the blast. At
length he exclaimed, “Yes, I see it!—the larboard oar!—now! if we can
make yonder light, we are saved!” Both the rowers instinctively turned
their heads,—but cheerless darkness answered their gaze.
“You cannot see it,” cried their companion, “but we are nearing it; and,
please God, we shall outlive this night.” Soon he took the oar from
Vernon’s hand, who, quite exhausted, was failing in his strokes. He rose
and looked for the beacon which promised them safety;—it glimmered with
so faint a ray, that now he said, “I see it;” and again, “it is
nothing:” still, as they made way, it dawned upon his sight, growing
more steady and distinct as it beamed across the lurid waters, which
themselves became smoother, so that safety seemed to arise from the
bosom of the ocean under the influence of that flickering gleam.
“What beacon is it that helps us at our need?” asked Vernon, as the men,
now able to manage their oars with greater ease, found breath to answer
his question.
“A fairy one, I believe,” replied the elder sailor, “yet no less a true:
it burns in an old tumble-down tower, built on the top of a rock which
looks over the sea. We never saw it before this summer; and now each
night it is to be seen,—at least when it is looked for, for we cannot
see it from our village;—and it is such an out-of-the-way place that no
one has need to go near it, except through a chance like this. Some say
it is burnt by witches, some say by smugglers; but this I know, two
parties have been to search, and found nothing but the bare walls of the
tower. All is deserted by day, and dark by night; for no light was to be
seen while we were there, though it burned sprightly enough when we were
out at sea.”
“I have heard say,” observed the younger sailor, “it is burnt by the
ghost of a maiden who lost her sweetheart in these parts; he being
wrecked, and his body found at the foot of the tower: she goes by the
name among us of the ‘Invisible Girl.’”
The voyagers had now reached the landing-place at the foot of the tower.
Vernon cast a glance upward,—the light was still burning. With some
difficulty, struggling with the breakers, and blinded by night, they
contrived to get their little bark to shore, and to draw her up on the
beach. They then scrambled up the precipitous pathway, overgrown by
weeds and underwood, and, guided by the more experienced fisherman, they
found the entrance to the tower; door or gate there was none, and all
was dark as the tomb, and silent and almost as cold as death.
“This will never do,” said Vernon; “surely our hostess will show her
light, if not herself, and guide our darkling steps by some sign of life
and comfort.”
“We will get to the upper chamber,” said the sailor, “if I can but hit
upon the broken-down steps; but you will find no trace of the Invisible
Girl nor her light either, I warrant.”
“Truly a romantic adventure of the most disagreeable kind,” muttered
Vernon, as he stumbled over the unequal ground; “she of the beacon-light
must be both ugly and old, or she would not be so peevish and
inhospitable.”
With considerable difficulty, and after divers knocks and bruises, the
adventurers at length succeeded in reaching the upper storey; but all
was blank and bare, and they were fain to stretch themselves on the hard
floor, when weariness, both of mind and body, conduced to steep their
senses in sleep.
Long and sound were the slumbers of the mariners. Vernon but forgot
himself for an hour; then throwing off drowsiness, and finding his rough
couch uncongenial to repose, he got up and placed himself at the hole
that served for a window—for glass there was none, and there being not
even a rough bench, he leant his back against the embrasure, as the only
rest he could find. He had forgotten his danger, the mysterious beacon,
and its invisible guardian: his thoughts were occupied on the horrors of
his own fate, and the unspeakable wretchedness that sat like a nightmare
on his heart.
It would require a good-sized volume to relate the causes which had
changed the once happy Vernon into the most woful mourner that ever
clung to the outer trappings of grief, as slight though cherished
symbols of the wretchedness within. Henry was the only child of Sir
Peter Vernon, and as much spoiled by his father’s idolatry as the old
baronet’s violent and tyrannical temper would permit. A young orphan was
educated in his father’s house, who in the same way was treated with
generosity and kindness, and yet who lived in deep awe of Sir Peter’s
authority, who was a widower; and these two children were all he had to
exert his power over, or to whom to extend his affection. Rosina was a
cheerful-tempered girl, a little timid, and careful to avoid displeasing
her protector; but so docile, so kind-hearted, and so affectionate, that
she felt even less than Henry the discordant spirit of his parent. It is
a tale often told; they were playmates and companions in childhood, and
lovers in after days. Rosina was frightened to imagine that this secret
affection, and the vows they pledged, might be disapproved of by Sir
Peter. But sometimes she consoled herself by thinking that perhaps she
was in reality her Henry’s destined bride, brought up with him under the
design of their future union; and Henry, while he felt that this was not
the case, resolved to wait only until he was of age to declare and
accomplish his wishes in making the sweet Rosina his wife. Meanwhile he
was careful to avoid premature discovery of his intentions, so to secure
his beloved girl from persecution and insult. The old gentleman was very
conveniently blind; he lived always in the country, and the lovers spent
their lives together, unrebuked and uncontrolled. It was enough that
Rosina played on her mandoline, and sang Sir Peter to sleep every day
after dinner; she was the sole female in the house above the rank of a
servant, and had her own way in the disposal of her time. Even when Sir
Peter frowned, her innocent caresses and sweet voice were powerful to
smooth the rough current of his temper. If ever human spirit lived in an
earthly paradise, Rosina did at this time: her pure love was made happy
by Henry’s constant presence; and the confidence they felt in each
other, and the security with which they looked forward to the future,
rendered their path one of roses under a cloudless sky. Sir Peter was
the slight drawback that only rendered their _tête-à-tête_ more
delightful, and gave value to the sympathy they each bestowed on the
other. All at once an ominous personage made its appearance in Vernon
Place, in the shape of a widow sister of Sir Peter, who, having
succeeded in killing her husband and children with the effects of her
vile temper, came, like a harpy, greedy for new prey, under her
brother’s roof. She too soon detected the attachment of the unsuspicious
pair. She made all speed to impart her discovery to her brother, and at
once to restrain and inflame his rage. Through her contrivance Henry was
suddenly despatched on his travels abroad, that the coast might be clear
for the persecution of Rosina; and then the richest of the lovely girl’s
many admirers, whom, under Sir Peter’s single reign, she was allowed,
nay, almost commanded, to dismiss, so desirous was he of keeping her for
his own comfort, was selected, and she was ordered to marry him. The
scenes of violence to which she was now exposed, the bitter taunts of
the odious Mrs. Bainbridge, and the reckless fury of Sir Peter, were the
more frightful and overwhelming from their novelty. To all she could
only oppose a silent, tearful, but immutable steadiness of purpose: no
threats, no rage could extort from her more than a touching prayer that
they would not hate her, because she could not obey.
“There must be something we don’t see under all this,” said Mrs.
Bainbridge; “take my word for it, brother, she corresponds secretly with
Henry. Let us take her down to your seat in Wales, where she will have
no pensioned beggars to assist her; and we shall see if her spirit be
not bent to our purpose.”
Sir Peter consented, and they all three took up their abode in the
solitary and dreary-looking house before alluded to as belonging to the
family. Here poor Rosina’s sufferings grew intolerable. Before,
surrounded by well-known scenes, and in perpetual intercourse with kind
and familiar faces, she had not despaired in the end of conquering by
her patience the cruelty of her persecutors;—nor had she written to
Henry, for his name had not been mentioned by his relatives, nor their
attachment alluded to, and she felt an instinctive wish to escape the
dangers about her without his being annoyed, or the sacred secret of her
love being laid bare, and wronged by the vulgar abuse of his aunt or the
bitter curses of his father. But when she was taken to Wales, and made a
prisoner in her apartment, when the flinty mountains about her seemed
feebly to imitate the stony hearts she had to deal with, her courage
began to fail. The only attendant permitted to approach her was Mrs.
Bainbridge’s maid; and under the tutelage of her fiend-like mistress,
this woman was used as a decoy to entice the poor prisoner into
confidence, and then to be betrayed. The simple, kind-hearted Rosina was
a facile dupe, and at last, in the excess of her despair, wrote to
Henry, and gave the letter to this woman to be forwarded. The letter in
itself would have softened marble; it did not speak of their mutual
vows, it but asked him to intercede with his father, that he would
restore her to the place she had formerly held in his affections, and
cease from a cruelty that would destroy her. “For I may die,” wrote the
hapless girl, “but marry another—never!” That single word, indeed, had
sufficed to betray her secret, had it not been already discovered; as it
was, it gave increased fury to Sir Peter, as his sister triumphantly
pointed it out to him, for it need hardly be said that while the ink of
the address was yet wet, and the seal still warm, Rosina’s letter was
carried to this lady. The culprit was summoned before them. What ensued
none could tell; for their own sakes the cruel pair tried to palliate
their part. Voices were high, and the soft murmur of Rosina’s tone was
lost in the howling of Sir Peter and the snarling of his sister. “Out of
doors you shall go,” roared the old man; “under my roof you shall not
spend another night.” And the words infamous seductress, and worse, such
as had never met the poor girl’s ear before, were caught by listening
servants; and to each angry speech of the baronet, Mrs. Bainbridge added
an envenomed point worse than all.