foolish part had he not been driven by a kind of madness. In truth, Sir
Richard had, to quench his hopes for ever, with that carelessness of
truth—his fatal propensity—affirmed that Clinton and I were acknowledged
lovers; and he came goaded by worse than jealousy—by a spirit of hatred
and revenge. Seeing us together, obviously engaged by the most
engrossing feelings, his temper, which had been worked into fury during
his journey, burst forth beyond the bounds he had prescribed for
himself. I have called him a serpent, and such he was in every respect;
he could crawl and coil, and hide his wily advance; but he could erect
his crest, dart out his forked tongue, and infix the deadly venom, when
roused as he now was. Clinton turned alternately pale and red.
“Be it as you will,” he said; “my fortunes and yours are of slight
moment in comparison to Ellen’s safety. If there is any truth in this
tale of yours, there will be time enough to discover it and to act upon
it. Meanwhile, dear cousin, I see they have brought my chariot to the
lodge. You cannot walk home—get into it; it will drive you to the house,
and come back for me.”
I looked at him inquiringly.
“Do not fear to be deserted by me,” he said, “or that I shall do
anything rashly. Vernon must accompany me to town—to our father’s
presence, there to expiate this foul calumny, or to prove it. Be assured
he shall not approach you without your leave. I will watch over him, and
guard you.”
Clinton spoke aloud, and Vernon became aware that he must yield to this
arrangement, and satisfied that he had divided us. Clinton led me to his
carriage.
“You will hear soon from some one of us, Ellen,” he said; “and let me
implore you to be patient—to take care of yourself—to fear nothing. I
can make no remark—affirm, deny nothing now; but you shall not be kept
in suspense. Promise me to be patient and calm.”
“And do you,” I said at last, commanding my trembling voice, “promise
not to be rash; and promise not to leave England without seeing me
again.”
“I promise not to leave England for any time without your leave. Oh,
trust me, my dear cousin; it is not in such storms as these that you
shall be ashamed of me; one sentiment may subdue me, but poverty,
disgrace, and every angry passion I can master.”
Vernon did not dare interrupt us. He felt that he had destroyed his
carefully woven web through his own rashness, and gnawed his lips in
silent rage. I looked at him once, and turned away my eyes in contempt.
I got into the chariot; it drove me to the house, and went back to take
Clinton up to town. Thus we were separated, as we intended; and yet, how
differently! Hope was reborn in my heart, out of the very ashes of its
despair.
Two mortal days passed, and I was still in my solitude, receiving no
intelligence, except, indeed, such as was contained in a letter from
Vernon. In this he demanded me as a right, and fiercely insisted that I
should keep my faith with him; but he did not allude to the scene in the
park, nor to his strange assertions there. I threw the letter from me as
unworthy of notice or thought. The third morning brought me one from my
uncle. I tore it open with uncontrollable impatience: these were the
contents:—
“Clinton, my dear Ellen, insists that I should join you at Beech
Grove; but I cannot persuade myself to do so till I have your
leave—till I have confessed my villainy, and besought your
forgiveness, in addition to that of my noble-hearted boy, whom I
devoted to ruin before his birth, and who has pardoned me. It is a
hateful subject—unfit for your ears, my gentle, virtuous girl, and I
must hurry it over. When I first knew Miss Towers, I had no idea of
marrying her; for she was poor and of humble birth. We loved each
other, and she was willing to become mine on my own terms. Our
intercourse was betrayed to her parents; and to appease them, and
please Matilda, I declared that we were married. My assertion was
credited; Matilda assumed my name, and all the world, all her little
world, was deceived; while at the same time I declared to my father
that she was merely my mistress. He did not believe me. Thus I
became entangled. A little before the birth of our second boy my
father died, and my grandfather offered me two thousand a year on
condition that I would secure the whole estate to my eldest son. I
loved Matilda; my fears were dissipated by my father’s death, and by
this acknowledgment of my union by my grandfather. I married her;
and, three days after Vernon’s birth, signed the settlement of
entail. Such is my story. Lady Gray’s character necessitated the
concealment from every human being of the period when the marriage
was celebrated. My noble, beloved Clinton assumed the elder son’s
place. I dared not reveal the truth; nay, I fancied that I benefited
him by allowing him to fill this false position till my death. He
has undeceived me; but he has not cursed me. From the moment I saw
you, I designed that you should repair my faults towards him, as you
alone could. I believed that you were formed for each other; I was
not mistaken there. I meant to acknowledge all before your marriage,
but I believed that if once your affections were engaged, you would
not reject my son from base and worldly-minded considerations. Am I
not right also in this? Meanwhile, Clinton was abroad, and I became
uneasy at observing the pains which Vernon took to ingratiate
himself with you, and the intimacy which you encouraged. I forbade
him to remain with you at Beech Grove—he defied me. Then I tried to
entice him away from you; and, as a last bribe, disclosed the secret
of his birth: he, in return, promised to leave the field open to
Clinton. You know the rest. He never meant to give you up; he was my
heir, and he grasped at your fortune besides—shall he succeed?
Clinton is all kindness, and soothing angelic goodness—but he
insists on no longer filling a situation to which he has no claim,
and—is gone abroad. He fears to leave you exposed to Vernon’s
violence, and has made me promise to go down to Beech Grove, and to
prevent his brother from seeing you without your free and entire
consent. As I have said, I cannot prevail on myself to visit you
till you are in full possession of all the facts. Now they are in
your hands. You may expect me to-morrow. Do not fear Vernon; I will
take care that he shall not commit further outrage on you, nor
injure the interest which I fondly trust that you preserve for my
godlike, my beloved Clinton.”
I read and reread this letter a thousand times; my soul was in tumults.
At first I could only think of the facts that it contained, and proudly
and joyfully determined to compensate to Clinton, as I believed I could,
for every evil; and then again I read the letter, and many parts of it
filled me with wonder and dismay. Clinton was gone abroad—against his
promise—without a word; and there was something so indelicate in the way
in which my uncle espoused his cause. It was strange—unlike any conduct
I had expected on my dear cousin’s part. Of course he would write—and
yet he was gone, and no letter came! And then I dreaded to see Sir
Richard, the wrongful, penitent father: the total indifference which he
displayed to moral principle—not founded, like Vernon’s, on selfishness,
but on weakness of character and natural callousness to truth—revolted
me. Where was my own dear father? He had thrown me from the sacred
shelter of his virtue into a system of dissimulation and guilt, which
even Clinton, I thought, deserting me as he did, did not redeem. I
struggled with these feelings, but their justice confounded and overcame
me. Yet, even in the midst of these disquieting reflections, a deep
sense of happiness pervaded my soul. The mystery, the tyranny which had
enveloped me, was brushed away like a spider’s web. I was free—I might
follow the dictates of my feelings, and it was no longer sin to love him
to whom my heart was irrevocably given. The hours of the day flew on,
while I lived as in a dream, absorbed by wonder, hope, doubt, and joy.
At length, at six in the evening, a carriage drove up the avenue; a kind
of terror at the expectation of seeing my uncle seized me, and I
retreated hastily to my own room, gasping for breath. In a few minutes
my servant tapped at my door; she told me that it was Lady Hythe who had
arrived, and delivered me a letter. The letter was from Clinton; it was
dated the same day, in London. I pressed it passionately to my lips and
heart, and devoured its contents with eagerness. “At length, dear
Ellen,” he wrote, “I am satisfied; I was long uneasy on your account. I
besought my father to go down to you, yet even that did not content
me—for you did not so much need protection as sympathy and true
disinterested friendship. My thoughts turned towards my earliest and
dearest friend, my sister Caroline. She was on the Continent—I set out
immediately to meet her, to tell everything, and to ask her advice and
assistance. Fortune befriended me—I found her at Calais—she is now with
you. She is my better self. Her delicacy of character, her accurate
judgment and warm heart, joined to her position as a woman, married to
the best and most generous fellow breathing, render her the very person
to whom I can intrust your happiness. I do not speak of myself—fortune
cannot overcome my spirits, and my way is clear before me. I pity my
father and family; but Caroline will explain to you better than I can my
views and hopes. Adieu, dear cousin! Heaven bless you as you deserve!
Your fortitude, I am sure, has not deserted you; yet I am very anxious
to hear that your health has not suffered by my brother’s violence.
Caroline will write to me, and rejoice me by telling me of your
well-being.”
I hurried down immediately to welcome Clinton’s sister; and from that
moment my perplexities and sorrows vanished. Lady Hythe was a feminine
likeness of Clinton; the same active kindness of heart, gentleness of
temper, and adorable frankness. We were friends and sisters on the
instant, and her true affection repaid me for every suffering; none of
which I should have experienced had she been in England on my arrival.
Clinton had told her of his love, but left me to reveal my own
sentiments, detailing only the artifices and jealousy of Vernon. I was
without disguise, for we were all one family, with the same objects,
hopes, and pleasures. We went up to town immediately, and there I saw
Clinton, and we exchanged our reserved, sad intercourse for a full
acknowledgment of every thought and feeling.
The only piece of prudence that Sir Richard had practised was placing
Clinton in the army, and purchasing promotion for him. He was so beloved
by his fellow-officers that, on the discovery of his unfortunate birth,
they all united in giving him the support of their friendship and good
opinion. Clinton resolved, therefore, to enter at once on active
service, and to follow up his profession with energy. Two years were to
elapse before I could marry, and he expressed a wish that we should
neither of us consider ourselves under any engagement. How vain are such
words! Heaven designed us for each other, and the mere phrase of
engagement or freedom could not affect a tie founded on affection,
esteem, or, beyond this, the passion that caused us to find happiness in
each other only. He went with his regiment to Ireland, and we were a
good deal divided during the two years that elapsed before I was
twenty-one. I continued to reside with Lady Hythe, and enjoyed with her
that peace of mind which true friendship affords.
At length the day came when I completed my twenty-first year. Sir
Richard had wished to be present at our nuptials, but was unable from
ill-health. I went to him, and saw him for the first time since the
fatal discovery; for, on finding that I was happily placed with his
daughter, he had carefully avoided seeing me. His character, indeed, was
wholly changed. While carrying on a system of dissimulation, he had
appeared gay; he was extravagant; given up to pleasure, and spending
even beyond his large income, despite the ruin in which he knew that his
son would be involved on his death. He made him indeed a princely
allowance, as if that was to compensate to him; while, in fact, Clinton
was only thus habituated to expense. As soon as the discovery was made,
Sir Richard, by one of those inconceivable changes which sometimes occur
in the history of human nature, set his heart on saving a fortune for
his beloved boy. He thought that I might be fickle; he feared his own
death and the loss of power to benefit him. He gave up his establishment
in town—he let Beech Grove—he saved every farthing that he could, and
was enabled to settle twenty thousand pounds on Clinton on the day of
our marriage.
I went to see him in a little lodging at Camberwell, whither he had
retreated. He was emaciated and ill; his eyes brightened a little on
seeing Clinton and me together.
“I would fain live a little longer,” he said, “to increase my son’s
fortune; but God’s will be done—you will make him happy, Ellen.”
We were inexpressibly shocked. He had concealed his penurious style of
life and declining health all this time; and nothing but his illness,
and our insisting upon seeing him, caused him to betray it now. Our
first care after our marriage was to oblige him to take up his abode
with us; and we devoted ourselves to calming his remorse and smoothing
his path to the grave. He survived only four months; but he had the
comfort of knowing that Clinton was satisfied and happy; and that we
both from our hearts forgave the errors which he at last expiated so
dearly.
We never saw Vernon again; nor can I tell what has happened to him,
except that he lives the life of the rich in England, apparently
attended by prosperity. Lady Hythe stood between me and him, and
screened me from his violence and reproaches. He has never married. I
have never seen him since the day when, in the park at Beech Grove, he
unawares conferred on me every blessing of life, by releasing me from
the ties that bound me to him.
The happiness of Clinton and myself has been unclouded. I at last
persuaded him to give up his profession, and we live principally abroad.
Lord and Lady Hythe frequently visit us; and every event of our
lives—the unimportant events of domestic life—tends to increase our
prosperity, and the entire affection we cherish for each other.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVII.
_THE PILGRIMS._
THE twilight of one of those burning days of summer whose unclouded sky
seems to speak to man of happier realms, had already flung broad shadows
over the valley of Unspunnen; whilst the departing rays of a gorgeous
sunset continued to glitter on the summits of the surrounding hills.
Gradually, however, the glowing tints deepened; then grew darker and
darker; until they finally yielded to the still more sober hues of
night.
Beneath an avenue of lime-trees, which, from their size and luxuriance,
appeared almost coeval with the soil in which they grew, Burkhardt of
Unspunnen wandered to and fro with uneasy step, as if some recent sorrow
occupied his troubled mind. At times he stood with his eyes stedfastly
fixed on the earth, as if he expected to see the object of his
contemplation start forth from its bosom; at other times he would raise
his eyes to the summits of the trees, whose branches, now gently
agitated by the night breeze, seemed to breathe sighs of compassion in
remembrance of those happy hours which had once been passed beneath
their welcome shade. When, however, advancing from beneath them, he
beheld the deep blue heavens with the bright host of stars, hope sprang
up within him at the thoughts of that glory to which those heavens and
those stars, all lovely and beauteous as they seem, are but the faint
heralds, and for a time dissipated the grief which had so long weighed
heavily upon his heart.
From these reflections he was suddenly aroused by the tones of a manly
voice addressing him. Burkhardt advancing, beheld, standing in the light
of the moon, two pilgrims, clothed in the usual coarse and sombre garb,
with their broad hats drawn over their brows.
“Praise be to God!” said the pilgrim who had just before awakened
Burkhardt’s attention, and who, from his height and manner, appeared to
be the elder of the two. His words were echoed by a voice whose gentle
and faultering accents showed the speaker to be still but of tender
years.
“Whither are you going, friends? what seek you here, at this late hour?”
said Burkhardt. “If you wish to rest you after your journey enter, and
with God’s blessing, and my hearty welcome, recruit yourselves.”
“Noble sir, you have more than anticipated our petition,” replied the
elder pilgrim; “our duty has led us far from our native land, being
bound on a pilgrimage to fulfil the vow of a beloved parent. We have
been forced during the heat of the day to climb the steep mountain
paths; and the strength of my brother, whose youth but ill befits him
for such fatigues, began to fail, when the sight of your castle’s
towers, which the moon’s clear beams discovered to us, revived our
hopes. We resolved to beg a night’s lodging under your hospitable roof,
that we might be enabled, on to-morrow’s dawn, to pursue our weary way.”
“Follow me, my friends,” said Burkhardt, as he, with quickened step,
preceded them, that he might give some orders for their entertainment
The pilgrims rejoicing in so kind a reception, followed the knight in
silence into a high-vaulted saloon, over which the tapers that were
placed in branches against the walls cast a solemn but pleasing light,
well in accordance with the present feelings of the parties.
The knight then discerned two countenances, the pleasing impression of
which was considerably heightened by the modest yet easy manner with
which the youthful pair received their host’s kind attentions. Much
struck with their appearance and demeanour, Burkhardt was involuntarily
led back into the train of thoughts from which their approach had
aroused him; and the scenes of former days flitted before him as he
recollected that in this hall his beloved child was ever wont to greet
him with her welcome smile on his return from the battle or the chase;
brief scenes of happiness, which had been followed by events that had
cankered his heart, and rendered memory but an instrument of bitterness
and chastisement.
Supper was soon after served, and the pilgrims were supplied with the
greatest attention, yet conversation wholly languished; for his
melancholy reflections occupied Burkhardt, and respect, or perhaps a
more kindly feeling, towards their host and benefactor, seemed to have
sealed the lips of his youthful guests. After supper, however, a flask
of the baron’s old wine cheered his flagging spirits, and emboldened the
elder pilgrim to break through the spell which had chained them.
“Pardon me, noble sir,” said he, “for I feel it must seem intrusive in
me to seek the cause of that sorrow which renders you so sad a spectator
of the bounty and happiness which you liberally bestow upon others.
Believe me, it is not the impulse of a mere idle curiosity that makes me
express my wonder that you can thus dwell alone in this spacious and
noble mansion, the prey to a deeply-rooted sorrow. Would that it were in
our power to alleviate the cares of one who with such bounteous hand
relieves the wants of his poorer brethren!”
“I thank you for your sympathy, good pilgrim,” said the old noble, “but
what can it avail you to know the story of those griefs which have made
this earth a desert? and which are, with rapid pace, conducting me where
alone I can expect to find rest. Spare me, then, the pain of recalling
scenes which I would fain bury in oblivion. As yet, you are in the
spring of life, when no sad remembrance gives a discordant echo of past
follies, or of joys irrecoverably lost. Seek not to darken the sunshine
of your youth with a knowledge of those fierce, guilty beings who, in
listening to the fiend-like suggestions of their passions, are led
astray from the paths of rectitude, and tear asunder the ties of
nature.”
Burkhardt thus sought to avoid the entreaty of the pilgrim. But the
request was still urged with such earnest though delicate persuasion,
and the rich tones of the stranger’s voice awoke within him so many
thoughts of days long, long past, that the knight felt himself almost
irresistibly impelled to unburden his long-closed heart to one who
seemed to enter into its feelings with a sincere cordiality.
“Your artless sympathy has won my confidence, my young friends,” said
he, “and you shall learn the cause of my sorrow.
“You see me here, lonely and forsaken. But fortune once looked upon me
with her blandest smiles; and I felt myself rich in the consciousness of
my prosperity, and the gifts which bounteous Heaven had bestowed. My
powerful vassals made me a terror to those enemies which the protection
that I was ever ready to afford to the oppressed and helpless brought
against me. My broad and fertile possessions enabled me, with liberal
hand, to relieve the wants of the poor, and to exercise the rights of
hospitality in a manner becoming my state and my name. But of all the
gifts which Heaven had showered upon me, that which I most prized was a
wife, whose virtues had made her the idol of both the rich and the poor.
But she who was already an angel, and unfitted for this grosser world,
was too soon, alas! claimed by her kindred spirits. One brief year alone
had beheld our happiness.
“My grief and anguish were most bitter, and would soon have laid me in
the same grave with her, but that she had left me a daughter, for whose
dear sake I struggled earnestly against my affliction. In her were now
centred all my cares, all my hopes, all my happiness. As she grew in
years, so did her likeness to her sainted mother increase; and every
look and gesture reminded me of my Agnes. With her mother’s beauty I
had, with fond presumption, dared to cherish the hope that Ida would
inherit her mother’s virtues.
“Greatly did I feel the void that my irreparable loss had made; but the
very thought of marrying again seemed to me a profanation. If, however,
even for a single instant I had entertained this disposition, one look
at our child would have crushed it, and made me cling with still fonder
hope to her, in the fond confidence that she would reward me for every
sacrifice that I could make. Alas! my friends, this hope was built on an
unsure foundation! and my heart is even now tortured when I think on
those delusive dreams.
“Ida, with the fondest caresses, would dispel each care from my brow; in
sickness and in health she watched me with the tenderest solicitude; her
whole endeavour seemed to be to anticipate my wishes. But, alas! like
the serpent, which only fascinates to destroy, she lavished these
caresses and attentions to blind me, and wrap me in fatal security.
“Many and deep were the affronts, revenged indeed, but not forgotten,
which had long since caused (with shame I avow it) a deadly hatred
between myself and Rupert, Lord of Wädischwyl, which the slightest
occasion seemed to increase to a degree of madness. As he dared no
longer throw down the gauntlet, he found means, much harder than steel
or iron, to glut his revenge upon me.
“Duke Berchtold of Zähringen, one of those wealthy and powerful tyrants
who are the very pests of that society of whose rights they ought to be
the ready guardians, had made a sudden irruption on the peaceful
inhabitants of the mountains, seizing their herds and flocks, and
insulting their wives and daughters. Though possessed of great courage,
yet being not much used to warfare, these unhappy men found it
impossible to resist the tyrant, and hastened to entreat my instant
succour. Without a moment’s delay, I assembled my brave vassals, and
marched against the spoiler. After a long and severe struggle, God
blessed our cause, and our victory was complete.