This by his tongue should be a Montague!
Fetch me my rapier, boy;
Now, by the faith and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Romeo and Juliet.
Hardly had Miss Ashton dropped the pen, when the door of the apartment
flew open, and the Master of Ravenswood entered the apartment.
Lockhard and another domestic, who had in vain attempted to oppose his
passage through the gallery or antechamber, were seen standing on the
threshold transfixed with surprise, which was instantly communicated to
the whole party in the state-room. That of Colonel Douglas Ashton was
mingled with resentment; that of Bucklaw with haughty and affected
indifference; the rest, even Lady Ashton herself, showed signs of fear;
and Lucy seemed stiffened to stone by this unexpected apparition.
Apparition it might well be termed, for Ravenswood had more the
appearance of one returned from the dead than of a living visitor.
He planted himself full in the middle of the apartment, opposite to the
table at which Lucy was seated, on whom, as if she had been alone in
the chamber, he bent his eyes with a mingled expression of deep grief
and deliberate indignation. His dark-coloured riding cloak, displaced
from one shoulder, hung around one side of his person in the ample
folds of the Spanish mantle. The rest of his rich dress was
travel-soiled, and deranged by hard riding. He had a sword by his side,
and pistols in his belt. His slouched hat, which he had not removed at
entrance, gave an additional gloom to his dark features, which, wasted
by sorrow and marked by the ghastly look communicated by long illness,
added to a countenance naturally somewhat stern and wild a fierce and
even savage expression. The matted and dishevelled locks of hair which
escaped from under his hat, together with his fixed and unmoved
posture, made his head more resemble that of a marble bust than that of
a living man. He said not a single word, and there was a deep silence
in the company for more than two minutes.
It was broken by Lady Ashton, who in that space partly recovered her
natural audacity. She demanded to know the cause of this unauthorised
intrusion.
“That is a question, madam,” said her son, “which I have the best right
to ask; and I must request of the Master of Ravenswood to follow me
where he can answer it at leisure.”
Bucklaw interposed, saying, “No man on earth should usurp his previous
right in demanding an explanation from the Master. Craigengelt,” he
added, in an undertone, “d—n ye, why do you stand staring as if you saw
a ghost? fetch me my sword from the gallery.”
“I will relinquish to none,” said Colonel Ashton, “my right of calling
to account the man who has offered this unparalleled affront to my
family.”
“Be patient, gentlemen,” said Ravenswood, turning sternly towards them,
and waving his hand as if to impose silence on their altercation. “If
you are as weary of your lives as I am, I will find time and place to
pledge mine against one or both; at present, I have no leisure for the
disputes of triflers.”
“Triflers!” echoed Colonel Ashton, half unsheathing his sword, while
Bucklaw laid his hand on the hilt of that which Craigengelt had just
reached him.
Sir William Ashton, alarmed for his son’s safety, rushed between the
young men and Ravenswood, exclaiming: “My son, I command you—Bucklaw, I
entreat you—keep the peace, in the name of the Queen and of the law!”
“In the name of the law of God,” said Bide-the-Bent, advancing also
with uplifted hands between Bucklaw, the Colonel, and the object of
their resentment—“in the name of Him who brought peace on earth and
good-will to mankind, I implore—I beseech—I command you to forbear
violence towards each other! God hateth the bloodthirsty man; he who
striketh with the sword shall perish with the sword.”
“Do you take me for a dog, sir” said Colonel Ashton, turning fiercely
upon him, “or something more brutally stupid, to endure this insult in
my father’s house? Let me go, Bucklaw! He shall account to me, or, by
Heavens, I will stab him where he stands!”
“You shall not touch him here,” said Bucklaw; “he once gave me my life,
and were he the devil come to fly away with the whole house and
generation, he shall have nothing but fair play.”
The passions of the two young men thus counteracting each other gave
Ravenswood leisure to exclaim, in a stern and steady voice:
“Silence!—let him who really seeks danger take the fitting time when it
is to be found; my mission here will be shortly accomplished. Is _that_
your handwriting, madam?” he added in a softer tone, extending towards
Miss Ashton her last letter.
A faltering “Yes” seemed rather to escape from her lips than to be
uttered as a voluntary answer.
“And is _this_ also your handwriting?” extending towards her the mutual
engagement.
Lucy remained silent. Terror, and a yet stronger and more confused
feeling, so utterly disturbed her understanding that she probably
scarcely comprehended the question that was put to her.
“If you design,” said Sir William Ashton, “to found any legal claim on
that paper, sir, do not expect to receive any answer to an
extrajudicial question.”
“Sir William Ashton,” said Ravenswood, “I pray you, and all who hear
me, that you will not mistake my purpose. If this young lady, of her
own free will, desires the restoration of this contract, as her letter
would seem to imply, there is not a withered leaf which this autumn
wind strews on the heath that is more valueless in my eyes. But I must
and will hear the truth from her own mouth; without this satisfaction I
will not leave this spot. Murder me by numbers you possibly may; but I
am an armed man—I am a desperate man, and I will not die without ample
vengeance. This is my resolution, take it as you may. I WILL hear her
determination from her own mouth; from her own mouth, alone, and
without witnesses, will I hear it. Now, choose,” he said, drawing his
sword with the right hand, and, with the left, by the same motion
taking a pistol from his belt and cocking it, but turning the point of
one weapon and the muzzle of the other to the ground—“choose if you
will have this hall floated with blood, or if you will grant me the
decisive interview with my affianced bride which the laws of God and
the country alike entitle me to demand.”
[Illustration]
All recoiled at the sound of his voice and the determined action by
which it was accompanied; for the ecstasy of real desperation seldom
fails to overpower the less energetic passions by which it may be
opposed. The clergyman was the first to speak. “In the name of God,” he
said, “receive an overture of peace from the meanest of His servants.
What this honourable person demands, albeit it is urged with over
violence, hath yet in it something of reason. Let him hear from Miss
Lucy’s own lips that she hath dutifully acceded to the will of her
parents, and repenteth her of her covenant with him; and when he is
assured of this he will depart in peace unto his own dwelling, and
cumber us no more. Alas! the workings of the ancient Adam are strong
even in the regenerate; surely we should have long-suffering with those
who, being yet in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity, are
swept forward by the uncontrollable current of worldly passion. Let
then, the Master of Ravenswood have the interview on which he
insisteth; it can but be as a passing pang to this honourable maiden,
since her faith is now irrevocably pledged to the choice of her
parents. Let it, I say, be this: it belongeth to my functions to
entreat your honours’ compliance with this headling overture.”
“Never!” answered Lady Ashton, whose rage had now overcome her first
surprise and terror—“never shall this man speak in private with my
daughter, the affianced bride of another! pass from this room who will,
I remain here. I fear neither his violence nor his weapons, though
some,” she said, glancing a look towards Colonel Ashton, “who bear my
name appear more moved by them.”
“For God’s sake, madam,” answered the worthy divine, “add not fuel to
firebrands. The Master of Ravenswood cannot, I am sure, object to your
presence, the young lady’s state of health being considered, and your
maternal duty. I myself will also tarry; peradventure my grey hairs may
turn away wrath.”
“You are welcome to do so, sir,” said Ravenswood; “and Lady Ashton is
also welcome to remain, if she shall think proper; but let all others
depart.”
“Ravenswood,” said Colonel Ashton, crossing him as he went out, “you
shall account for this ere long.”
“When you please,” replied Ravenswood.
“But I,” said Bucklaw, with a half smile, “have a prior demand on your
leisure, a claim of some standing.”
“Arrange it as you will,” said Ravenswood; “leave me but this day in
peace, and I will have no dearer employment on earth to-morrow than to
give you all the satisfaction you can desire.”
The other gentlemen left the apartment; but Sir William Ashton
lingered.
“Master of Ravenswood,” he said, in a conciliating tone, “I think I
have not deserved that you should make this scandal and outrage in my
family. If you will sheathe your sword, and retire with me into my
study, I will prove to you, by the most satisfactory arguments, the
inutility of your present irregular procedure——”
“To-morrow, sir—to-morrow—to-morrow, I will hear you at length,”
reiterated Ravenswood, interrupting him; “this day hath its own sacred
and indispensable business.”
He pointed to the door, and Sir William left the apartment.
Ravenswood sheathed his sword, uncocked and returned his pistol to his
belt; walked deliberately to the door of the apartment, which he
bolted; returned, raised his hat from his forehead, and gazing upon
Lucy with eyes in which an expression of sorrow overcame their late
fierceness, spread his dishevelled locks back from his face, and said,
“Do you know me, Miss Ashton? I am still Edgar Ravenswood.” She was
silent, and he went on with increasing vehemence: “I am still that
Edgar Ravenswood who, for your affection, renounced the dear ties by
which injured honour bound him to seek vengeance. I am that Ravenswood
who, for your sake, forgave, nay, clasped hands in friendship with, the
oppressor and pillager of his house, the traducer and murderer of his
father.”
“My daughter,” answered Lady Ashton, interrupting him, “has no occasion
to dispute the identity of your person; the venom of your present
language is sufficient to remind her that she speaks with the mortal
enemy of her father.”
“I pray you to be patient, madam,” answered Ravenswood; “my answer must
come from her own lips. Once more, Miss Lucy Ashton, I am that
Ravenswood to whom you granted the solemn engagement which you now
desire to retract and cancel.”
Lucy’s bloodless lips could only falter out the words, “It was my
mother.”
“She speaks truly,” said Lady Ashton, “it _was_ I who, authorised alike
by the laws of God and man, advised her, and concurred with her, to set
aside an unhappy and precipitate engagement, and to annul it by the
authority of Scripture itself.”
“Scripture!” said Ravenswood, scornfully.
“Let him hear the text,” said Lady Ashton, appealing to the divine, “on
which you yourself, with cautious reluctance, declared the nullity of
the pretended engagement insisted upon by this violent man.”
The clergyman took his clasped Bible from his pocket, and read the
following words: “If a woman vow a vow unto the Lord, and bind herself
by a bond, being in her father’s house in her youth, and her father
hear her vow, and her bond wherewith she hath bound her soul, and her
father shall hold his peace at her; then all her vows shall stand, and
every vow wherewith she hath bound her soul shall stand.”
“And was it not even so with us?” interrrupted Ravenswood.
“Control thy impatience, young man,” answered the divine, “and hear
what follows in the sacred text: ‘But if her father disallow her in the
day that he heareth, not any of her vows, or of her bonds wherewith she
hath bound her soul, shall stand; and the Lord shall forgive her,
because her father disallowed her.”
“And was not,” said Lady Ashton, fiercely and triumphantly breaking
in—“was not ours the case stated in the Holy Writ? Will this person
deny, that the instant her parents heard of the vow, or bond, by which
our daughter had bound her soul, we disallowed the same in the most
express terms, and informed him by writing of our determination?”
“And is this all?” said Ravenswood, looking at Lucy. “Are you willing
to barter sworn faith, the exercise of free will, and the feelings of
mutual affection to this wretched hypocritical sophistry?”
“Hear him!” said Lady Ashton, looking to the clergyman—“hear the
blasphemer!”
“May God forgive him,” said Bide-the-Bent, “and enlighten his
ignorance!”
“Hear what I have sacrificed for you,” said Ravenswood, still
addressing Lucy, “ere you sanction what has been done in your name. The
honour of an ancient family, the urgent advice of my best friends, have
been in vain used to sway my resolution; neither the arguments of
reason nor the portents of superstition have shaken my fidelity. The
very dead have arisen to warn me, and their warning has been despised.
Are you prepared to pierce my heart for its fidelity with the very
weapon which my rash confidence entrusted to your grasp?”
“Master of Ravenswood,” said Lady Ashton, “you have asked what
questions you thought fit. You see the total incapacity of my daughter
to answer you. But I will reply for her, and in a manner which you
cannot dispute. You desire to know whether Lucy Ashton, of her own free
will, desires to annul the engagement into which she has been
trepanned. You have her letter under her own hand, demanding the
surrender of it; and, in yet more full evidence of her purpose, here is
the contract which she has this morning subscribed, in presence of this
reverend gentleman, with Mr. Hayston of Bucklaw.”
Ravenswood gazed upon the deed as if petrified. “And it was without
fraud or compulsion,” said he, looking towards the clergyman, “that
Miss Ashton subscribed this parchment?”
“I couch it upon my sacred character.”
“This is indeed, madam, an undeniable piece of evidence,” said
Ravenswood, sternly; “and it will be equally unnecessary and
dishonourable to waste another word in useless remonstrance or
reproach. There, madam,” he said, laying down before Lucy the signed
paper and the broken piece of gold—“there are the evidences of your
first engagement; may you be more faithful to that which you have just
formed. I will trouble you to return the corresponding tokens of my
ill-placed confidence; I ought rather to say, of my egregious folly.”
Lucy returned the scornful glance of her lover with a gaze from which
perception seemed to have been banished; yet she seemed partly to have
understood his meaning, for she raised her hands as if to undo a blue
ribbon which she wore around her neck. She was unable to accomplish her
purpose, but Lady Ashton cut the ribbon asunder, and detached the
broken piece of gold, which Miss Ashton had till then worn concealed in
her bosom; the written counterpart of the lovers’ engagement she for
some time had had in her own possession. With a haughty courtesy, she
delivered both to Ravenswood, who was much softened when he took the
piece of gold.
“And she could wear it thus,” he said, speaking to himself—“could wear
it in her very bosom—could wear it next to her heart—even when—But
complaint avails not,” he said, dashing from his eye the tear which had
gathered in it, and resuming the stern composure of his manner. He
strode to the chimney, and threw into the fire the paper and piece of
gold, stamping upon the coals with the heel of his boot, as if to
ensure their destruction. “I will be no longer,” he then said, “an
intruder here. Your evil wishes, and your worse offices, Lady Ashton, I
will only return by hoping these will be your last machinations against
your daughter’s honour and happiness. And to you, madam,” he said,
addressing Lucy, “I have nothing farther to say, except to pray to God
that you may not become a world’s wonder for this act of wilful and
deliberate perjury.” Having uttered these words, he turned on his heel
and left the apartment.
Sir William Ashton, by entreaty and authority, had detained his son and
Bucklaw in a distant part of the castle, in order to prevent their
again meeting with Ravenswood; but as the Master descended the great
staircase, Lockhard delivered him a billet, signed “Sholto Douglas
Ashton,” requesting to know where the Master of Ravenswood would be
heard of four or five days from hence, as the writer had business of
weight to settle with him, so soon as an important family event had
taken place.
“Tell Colonel Ashton,” said Ravenswood, composedly, “I shall be found
at Wolf’s Crag when his leisure serves him.”
As he descended the outward stair which led from the terrace, he was a
second time interrupted by Craigengelt, who, on the part of his
principal, the Laird of Bucklaw, expressed a hope that Ravenswood would
not leave Scotland within ten days at least, as he had both former and
recent civilities for which to express his gratitude.
“Tell your master,” said Ravenswood, fiercely, “to choose his own time.
He will find me at Wolf’s Crag, if his purpose is not forestalled.”
“_My_ master!” replied Craigengelt, encouraged by seeing Colonel Ashton
and Bucklaw at the bottom of the terrace. “Give me leave to say I know
of no such person upon earth, nor will I permit such language to be
used to me!”
“Seek your master, then, in hell!” exclaimed Ravenswood, giving way to
the passion he had hitherto restrained, and throwing Craigengelt from
him with such violence that he rolled down the steps and lay senseless
at the foot of them. “I am a fool,” he instantly added, “to vent my
passion upon a caitiff so worthless.”
He then mounted his horse, which at his arrival he had secured to a
balustrade in front of the castle, rode very slowly past Bucklaw and
Colonel Ashton, raising his hat as he passed each, and looking in their
faces steadily while he offered this mute salutation, which was
returned by both with the same stern gravity. Ravenswood walked on with
equal deliberation until he reached the head of the avenue, as if to
show that he rather courted than avoided interruption. When he had
passed the upper gate, he turned his horse, and looked at the castle
with a fixed eye; then set spurs to his good steed, and departed with
the speed of a demon dismissed by the exorcist.