Lovelier in her own retired abode
....than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook—or Lady of the Mere
Lone sitting by the shores of old romance.
WORDSWORTH.
The meditations of Ravenswood were of a very mixed complexion. He saw
himself at once in the very dilemma which he had for some time felt
apprehensive he might be placed in. The pleasure he felt in Lucy’s
company had indeed approached to fascination, yet it had never
altogether surmounted his internal reluctance to wed with the daughter
of his father’s foe; and even in forgiving Sir William Ashton the
injuries which his family had received, and giving him credit for the
kind intentions he professed to entertain, he could not bring himself
to contemplate as possible an alliance betwixt their houses. Still, he
felt that Alice spoke truth, and that his honour now required he should
take an instant leave of Ravenswood Castle, or become a suitor of Lucy
Ashton. The possibility of being rejected, too, should he make advances
to her wealthy and powerful father—to sue for the hand of an Ashton and
be refused—this were a consummation too disgraceful. “I wish her well,”
he said to himself, “and for her sake I forgive the injuries her father
has done to my house; but I will never—no, never see her more!”
With one bitter pang he adopted this resolution, just as he came to
where two paths parted: the one to the Mermaiden’s Fountain, where he
knew Lucy waited him, the other leading to the castle by another and
more circuitous road. He paused an instant when about to take the
latter path, thinking what apology he should make for conduct which
must needs seem extraordinary, and had just muttered to himself,
“Sudden news from Edinburgh—any pretext will serve; only let me dally
no longer here,” when young Henry came flying up to him, half out of
breath: “Master, Master you must give Lucy your arm back to the castle,
for I cannot give her mine; for Norman is waiting for me, and I am to
go with him to make his ring-walk, and I would not stay away for a gold
Jacobus; and Lucy is afraid to walk home alone, though all the wild
nowt have been shot, and so you must come away directly.”
Betwixt two scales equally loaded, a feather’s weight will turn the
scale. “It is impossible for me to leave the young lady in the wood
alone,” said Ravenswood; “to see her once more can be of little
consequence, after the frequent meetings we have had. I ought, too, in
courtesy, to apprise her of my intention to quit the castle.”
And having thus satisfied himself that he was taking not only a wise,
but an absolutely necessary, step, he took the path to the fatal
fountain. Henry no sooner saw him on the way to join his sister than he
was off like lightning in another direction, to enjoy the society of
the forester in their congenial pursuits. Ravenswood, not allowing
himself to give a second thought to the propriety of his own conduct,
walked with a quick step towards the stream, where he found Lucy seated
alone by the ruin.
She sate upon one of the disjointed stones of the ancient fountain, and
seemed to watch the progress of its current, as it bubbled forth to
daylight, in gay and sparkling profusion, from under the shadow of the
ribbed and darksome vault, with which veneration, or perhaps remorse,
had canopied its source. To a superstitious eye, Lucy Ashton, folded in
her plaided mantle, with her long hair, escaping partly from the snood
and falling upon her silver neck, might have suggested the idea of the
murdered Nymph of the fountain. But Ravenswood only saw a female
exquisitely beautiful, and rendered yet more so in his eyes—how could
it be otherwise?—by the consciousness that she had placed her
affections on him. As he gazed on her, he felt his fixed resolution
melting like wax in the sun, and hastened, therefore, from his
concealment in the neighbouring thicket. She saluted him, but did not
arise from the stone on which she was seated.
“My madcap brother,” she said, “has left me, but I expect him back in a
few minutes; for, fortunately, as anything pleases him for a minute,
nothing has charms for him much longer.”
Ravenswood did not feel the power of informing Lucy that her brother
meditated a distant excursion, and would not return in haste. He sate
himself down on the grass, at some little distance from Miss Ashton,
and both were silent for a short space.
“I like this spot,” said Lucy at length, as if she found the silence
embarrassing; “the bubbling murmur of the clear fountain, the waving of
the trees, the profusion of grass and wild-flowers that rise among the
ruins, make it like a scene in romance. I think, too, I have heard it
is a spot connected with the legendary lore which I love so well.”
“It has been thought,” answered Ravenswood, “a fatal spot to my family;
and I have some reason to term it so, for it was here I first saw Miss
Ashton; and it is here I must take my leave of her for ever.”
The blood, which the first part of this speech called into Lucy’s
cheeks, was speedily expelled by its conclusion.
“To take leave of us, Master!” she exclaimed; “what can have happened
to hurry you away? I know Alice hates—I mean dislikes my father; and I
hardly understood her humour to-day, it was so mysterious. But I am
certain my father is sincerely grateful for the high service you
rendered us. Let me hope that, having won your friendship hardly, we
shall not lose it lightly.”
“Lose it, Miss Ashton!” said the Master of Ravenswood. “No; wherever my
fortune calls me—whatever she inflicts upon me—it is your friend—your
sincere friend, who acts or suffers. But there is a fate on me, and I
must go, or I shall add the ruin of others to my own.”
“Yet do not go from us, Master,” said Lucy; and she laid her hand, in
all simplicity and kindness, upon the skirt of his cloak, as if to
detain him. “You shall not part from us. My father is powerful, he has
friends that are more so than himself; do not go till you see what his
gratitude will do for you. Believe me, he is already labouring in your
behalf with the council.”
“It may be so,” said the Master, proudly; “yet it is not to your
father, Miss Ashton, but to my own exertions, that I ought to owe
success in the career on which I am about to enter. My preparations are
already made—a sword and a cloak, and a bold heart and a determined
hand.”
Lucy covered her face her hands, and the tears, in spite of her, forced
their way between her fingers.
“Forgive me,” said Ravenswood, taking her right hand, which, after
slight resistance, she yielded to him, still continuing to shade her
face with the left—“I am too rude—too rough—too intractable to deal
with any being so soft and gentle as you are. Forget that so stern a
vision has crossed your path of life; and let me pursue mine, sure that
I can meet with no worse misfortune after the moment it divides me from
your side.”
Lucy wept on, but her tears were less bitter. Each attempt which the
Master made to explain his purpose of departure only proved a new
evidence of his desire to stay; until, at length, instead of bidding
her farewell, he gave his faith to her for ever, and received her troth
in return. The whole passed so suddenly, and arose so much out of the
immediate impulse of the moment, that ere the Master of Ravenswood
could reflect upon the consequences of the step which he had taken,
their lips, as well as their hands, had pledged the sincerity of their
affection.
“And now,” he said, after a moment’s consideration, “it is fit I should
speak to Sir William Ashton; he must know of our engagement. Ravenswood
must not seem to dwell under his roof to solicit clandestinely the
affections of his daughter.”
“You would not speak to my father on the subject?” said Lucy,
doubtingly; and then added more warmly: “Oh do not—do not! Let your lot
in life be determined—your station and purpose ascertained, before you
address my father. I am sure he loves you—I think he will consent; but
then my mother——!”
She paused, ashamed to express the doubt she felt how far her father
dared to form any positive resolution on this most important subject
without the consent of his lady.
“Your mother, my Lucy!” replied Ravenswood. “She is of the house of
Douglas, a house that has intermarried with mine even when its glory
and power were at the highest; what could your mother object to my
alliance?”
“I did not say object,” said Lucy; “but she is jealous of her rights,
and may claim a mother’s title to be consulted in the first instance.”
“Be it so,” replied Ravenswood. “London is distant, but a letter will
reach it and receive an answer within a fortnight; I will not press on
the Lord Keeper for an instant reply to my proposal.”
“But,” hesitated Lucy, “were it not better to wait—to wait a few weeks?
Were my mother to see you—to know you, I am sure she would approve; but
you are unacquainted personally, and the ancient feud between the
families——”
Ravenswood fixed upon her his keen dark eyes, as if he was desirous of
penetrating into her very soul.
“Lucy,” he said, “I have sacrificed to you projects of vengeance long
nursed, and sworn to with ceremonies little better than heathen—I
sacrificed them to your image, ere I knew the worth which it
represented. In the evening which succeeded my poor father’s funeral, I
cut a lock from my hair, and, as it consumed in the fire, I swore that
my rage and revenge should pursue his enemies, until they shrivelled
before me like that scorched-up symbol of annihilation.”
“It was a deadly sin,” said Lucy, turning pale, “to make a vow so
fatal.”
“I acknowledge it,” said Ravenswood, “and it had been a worse crime to
keep it. It was for your sake that I abjured these purposes of
vengeance, though I scarce knew that such was the argument by which I
was conquered, until I saw you once more, and became conscious of the
influence you possessed over me.”
“And why do you now,” said Lucy, “recall sentiments so
terrible—sentiments so inconsistent with those you profess for me—with
those your importunity has prevailed on me to acknowledge?”
“Because,” said her lover, “I would impress on you the price at which I
have bought your love—the right I have to expect your constancy. I say
not that I have bartered for it the honour of my house, its last
remaining possession; but though I say it not, and think it not, I
cannot conceal from myself that the world may do both.”
“If such are your sentiments,” said Lucy, “you have played a cruel game
with me. But it is not too late to give it over: take back the faith
and troth which you could not plight to me without suffering abatement
of honour—let what is passed be as if it had not been—forget me; I will
endeavour to forget myself.”
“You do me injustice,” said the Master of Ravenswood—“by all I hold
true and honourable, you do me the extremity of injustice; if I
mentioned the price at which I have bought your love, it is only to
show how much I prize it, to bind our engagement by a still firmer tie,
and to show, by what I have done to attain this station in your regard,
how much I must suffer should you ever break your faith.”
“And why, Ravenswood,” answered Lucy, “should you think that possible?
Why should you urge me with even the mention of infidelity? Is it
because I ask you to delay applying to my father for a little space of
time? Bind me by what vows you please; if vows are unnecessary to
secure constancy, they may yet prevent suspicion.” Ravenswood pleaded,
apologised, and even kneeled, to appease her displeasure; and Lucy, as
placable as she was single-hearted, readily forgave the offence which
his doubts had implied. The dispute thus agitated, however, ended by
the lovers going through an emblematic ceremony of their troth-plight,
of which the vulgar still preserve some traces. They broke betwixt them
the thin broad-piece of gold which Alice had refused to receive from
Ravenswood.
“And never shall this leave my bosom,” said Lucy, as she hung the piece
of gold round her neck, and concealed it with her handkerchief, “until
you, Edgar Ravenswood, ask me to resign it to you; and, while I wear
it, never shall that heart acknowledge another love than yours.”
With like protestations, Ravenswood placed his portion of the coin
opposite to his heart. And now, at length, it struck them that time had
hurried fast on during this interview, and their absence at the castle
would be subject of remark, if not of alarm. As they arose to leave the
fountain which had been witness of their mutual engagement, an arrow
whistled through the air, and struck a raven perched on the sere branch
of an old oak, near to where they had been seated. The bird fluttered a
few yards and dropped at the feet of Lucy, whose dress was stained with
some spots of its blood.
Miss Ashton was much alarmed, and Ravenswood, surprised and angry,
looked everywhere for the marksman, who had given them a proof of his
skill as little expected as desired. He was not long of discovering
himself, being no other than Henry Ashton, who came running up with a
crossbow in his hand.
“I knew I should startle you,” he said; “and do you know, you looked so
busy that I hoped it would have fallen souse on your heads before you
were aware of it. What was the Master saying to you, Lucy?”
“I was telling your sister what an idle lad you were, keeping us
waiting here for you so long,” said Ravenswood, to save Lucy’s
confusion.
“Waiting for me! Why, I told you to see Lucy home, and that I was to go
to make the ring-walk with old Norman in the Hayberry thicket, and you
may be sure that would take a good hour, and we have all the deer’s
marks and furnishes got, while you were sitting here with Lucy, like a
lazy loon.”
“Well, well, Mr. Henry,” said Ravenswood; “but let us see how you will
answer to me for killing the raven. Do you know, the ravens are all
under the protection of the Lords of Ravenswood, and to kill one in
their presence is such bad luck that it deserves the stab?”
“And that’s what Norman said,” replied the boy; “he came as far with me
as within a flight-shot of you, and he said he never saw a raven sit
still so near living folk, and he wished it might be for good luck, for
the raven is one of the wildest birds that flies, unless it be a tame
one; and so I crept on and on, till I was within threescore yards of
him, and then whiz went the bolt, and there he lies, faith! Was it not
well shot? and, I dare say, I have not shot in a crossbow!—not ten
times, maybe.”
“Admirably shot, indeed,” said Ravenswood; “and you will be a fine
marksman if you practise hard.”
“And that’s what Norman says,” answered the boy; “but I am sure it is
not my fault if I do not practise enough; for, of free will, I would do
little else, only my father and tutor are angry sometimes, and only
Miss Lucy there gives herself airs about my being busy, for all she can
sit idle by a well-side the whole day, when she has a handsome young
gentleman to prate with. I have known her do so twenty times, if you
will believe me.”
The boy looked at his sister as he spoke, and, in the midst of his
mischievous chatter, had the sense to see that he was really inflicting
pain upon her, though without being able to comprehend the cause or the
amount.
“Come now, Lucy,” he said, “don’t greet; and if I have said anything
beside the mark, I’ll deny it again; and what does the Master of
Ravenswood care if you had a hundred sweethearts? so ne’er put finger
in your eye about it.”
The Master of Ravenswood was, for the moment, scarce satisfied with
what he heard; yet his good sense naturally regarded it as the chatter
of a spoilt boy, who strove to mortify his sister in the point which
seemed most accessible for the time. But, although of a temper equally
slow in receiving impressions and obstinate in retaining them, the
prattle of Henry served to nourish in his mind some vague suspicion
that his present engagement might only end in his being exposed, like a
conquered enemy in a Roman triumph, a captive attendant on the car of a
victor who meditated only the satiating his pride at the expense of the
vanquished. There was, we repeat it, no real ground whatever for such
an apprehension, nor could he be said seriously to entertain such for a
moment. Indeed, it was impossible to look at the clear blue eye of Lucy
Ashton, and entertain the slightest permanent doubt concerning the
sincerity of her disposition. Still, however, conscious pride and
conscious poverty combined to render a mind suspicious which in more
fortunate circumstances would have been a stranger to that as well as
to every other meanness.
They reached the castle, where Sir William Ashton, who had been alarmed
by the length of their stay, met them in the hall.
“Had Lucy,” he said, “been in any other company than that of one who
had shown he had so complete power of protecting her, he confessed he
should have been very uneasy, and would have despatched persons in
quest of them. But, in the company of the Master of Ravenswood, he knew
his daughter had nothing to dread.” Lucy commenced some apology for
their long delay, but, conscience-struck, becames confused as she
proceeded; and when Ravenswood, coming to her assistance, endeavoured
to render the explanation complete and satisfactory, he only involved
himself in the same disorder, like one who, endeavouring to extricate
his companion from a slough, entangles himself in the same tenacious
swamp. It cannot be supposed that the confusion of the two youthful
lovers escaped the observation of the subtle lawyer, accustomed, by
habit and profession, to trace human nature through all her windings.
But it was not his present policy to take any notice of what he
observed. He desired to hold the Master of Ravenswood bound, but wished
that he himself should remain free; and it did not occur to him that
his plan might be defeated by Lucy’s returning the passion which he
hoped she might inspire. If she should adopt some romantic feelings
towards Ravenswood, in which circumstances, or the positive and
absolute opposition of Lady Ashton, might render it unadvisable to
indulge her, the Lord Keeper conceived they might be easily superseded
and annulled by a journey to Edinburgh, or even to London, a new set of
Brussels lace, and the soft whispers of half a dozen lovers, anxious to
replace him whom it was convenient she should renounce. This was his
provision for the worst view of the case. But, according to its more
probable issue, any passing favours she might entertain for the Master
of Ravenswood might require encouragement rather than repression.
This seemed the more likely, as he had that very morning, since their
departure from the castle, received a letter, the contents of which he
hastened to communicate to Ravenswood. A foot-post had arrived with a
packet to the Lord Keeper from that friend whom we have already
mentioned, who was labouring hard underhand to consolidate a band of
patriots, at the head of whom stood Sir William’s greatest terror, the
active and ambitious Marquis of A——. The success of this convenient
friend had been such, that he had obtained from Sir William, not indeed
a directly favourable answer, but certainly a most patient hearing.
This he had reported to his principal, who had replied by the ancient
French adage, “_Château qui parle, et femme qui écoute, l’un et l’autre
va se rendre_.” A statesman who hears you propose a change of measures
without reply was, according to the Marquis’s opinion, in the situation
of the fortress which parleys and the lady who listens, and he resolved
to press the siege of the Lord Keeper.
The packet, therefore, contained a letter from his friend and ally, and
another from himself, to the Lord Keeper, frankly offering an
unceremonious visit. They were crossing the country to go to the
southward; the roads were indifferent; the accommodation of the inns as
execrable as possible; the Lord Keeper had been long acquainted
intimately with one of his correspondents, and, though more slightly
known to the Marquis, had yet enough of his lordship’s acquaintance to
render the visit sufficiently natural, and to shut the mouths of those
who might be disposed to impute it to a political intrigue. He
instantly accepted the offered visit, determined, however, that he
would not pledge himself an inch farther for the furtherance of their
views than _reason_ (by which he meant his own self-interest) should
plainly point out to him as proper.
Two circumstances particularly delighted him—the presence of
Ravenswood, and the absence of his own lady. By having the former under
his roof, he conceived he might be able to quash all such hazardous and
hostile proceedings as he might otherwise have been engaged in, under
the patronage of the Marquis; and Lucy, he foresaw, would make, for his
immediate purpose of delay and procrastination, a much better mistress
of his family than her mother, who would, he was sure, in some shape or
other, contrive to disconcert his political schemes by her proud and
implacable temper.
His anxious solicitations that the Master would stay to receive his
kinsman, were, of course, readily complied with, since the
_éclaircissement_ which had taken place at the Mermaiden’s Fountain had
removed all wish for sudden departure. Lucy and Lockhard, had,
therefore, orders to provide all things necessary in their different
departments, for receiving the expected guests with a pomp and display
of luxury very uncommon in Scotland at that remote period.