Who comes from the bridal chamber?
It is Azrael, the angel of death.
Thalaba.
After the dreadful scene that had taken place at the castle, Lucy was
transported to her own chamber, where she remained for some time in a
state of absolute stupor. Yet afterwards, in the course of the ensuing
day, she seemed to have recovered, not merely her spirits and
resolution, but a sort of flighty levity, that was foreign to her
character and situation, and which was at times chequered by fits of
deep silence and melancholy and of capricious pettishness. Lady Ashton
became much alarmed and consulted the family physicians. But as her
pulse indicated no change, they could only say that the disease was on
the spirits, and recommended gentle exercise and amusement. Miss Ashton
never alluded to what had passed in the state-room. It seemed doubtful
even if she was conscious of it, for she was often observed to raise
her hands to her neck, as if in search of the ribbon that had been
taken from it, and mutter, in surprise and discontent, when she could
not find it, “It was the link that bound me to life.”
Notwithstanding all these remarkable symptoms, Lady Ashton was too
deeply pledged to delay her daughter’s marriage even in her present
state of health. It cost her much trouble to keep up the fair side of
appearances towards Bucklaw. She was well aware, that if he once saw
any reluctance on her daughter’s part, he would break off the treaty,
to her great personal shame and dishonour. She therefore resolved that,
if Lucy continued passive, the marriage should take place upon the day
that had been previously fixed, trusting that a change of place, of
situation, and of character would operate a more speedy and effectual
cure upon the unsettled spirits of her daughter than could be attained
by the slow measures which the medical men recommended. Sir William
Ashton’s views of family aggrandisement, and his desire to strengthen
himself against the measures of the Marquis of A——, readily induced him
to acquiesce in what he could not have perhaps resisted if willing to
do so. As for the young men, Bucklaw and Colonel Ashton, they protested
that, after what had happened, it would be most dishonourable to
postpone for a single hour the time appointed for the marriage, as it
would be generally ascribed to their being intimidated by the intrusive
visit and threats of Ravenswood.
Bucklaw would indeed have been incapable of such precipitation, had he
been aware of the state of Miss Ashton’s health, or rather of her mind.
But custom, upon these occasions, permitted only brief and sparing
intercourse between the bridegroom and the betrothed; a circumstance so
well improved by Lady Ashton, that Bucklaw neither saw nor suspected
the real state of the health and feelings of his unhappy bride.
On the eve of the bridal day, Lucy appeared to have one of her fits of
levity, and surveyed with a degree of girlish interest the various
preparations of dress, etc., etc., which the different members of the
family had prepared for the occasion.
The morning dawned bright and cheerily. The bridal guests assembled in
gallant troops from distant quarters. Not only the relations of Sir
William Ashton, and the still more dignified connexions of his lady,
together with the numerous kinsmen and allies of the bridegroom, were
present upon this joyful ceremony, gallantly mounted, arrayed, and
caparisoned, but almost every Presbyterian family of distinction within
fifty miles made a point of attendance upon an occasion which was
considered as giving a sort of triumph over the Marquis of A——, in the
person of his kinsman. Splendid refreshments awaited the guests on
their arrival, and after these were finished, the cry was “To horse.”
The bride was led forth betwixt her brother Henry and her mother. Her
gaiety of the preceding day had given rise [place] to a deep shade of
melancholy, which, however, did not misbecome an occasion so momentous.
There was a light in her eyes and a colour in her cheek which had not
been kindled for many a day, and which, joined to her great beauty, and
the splendour of her dress, occasioned her entrance to be greeted with
an universal murmur of applause, in which even the ladies could not
refrain from joining. While the cavalcade were getting to horse, Sir
William Ashton, a man of peace and of form, censured his son Henry for
having begirt himself with a military sword of preposterous length,
belonging to his brother, Colonel Ashton.
“If you must have a weapon,” he said, “upon such a peaceful occasion,
why did you not use the short poniard sent from Edinburgh on purpose?”
The boy vindicated himself by saying it was lost.
“You put it out of the way yourself, I suppose,” said his father, “out
of ambition to wear that preposterous thing, which might have served
Sir William Wallace. But never mind, get to horse now, and take care of
your sister.”
The boy did so, and was placed in the centre of the gallant train. At
the time, he was too full of his own appearance, his sword, his laced
cloak, his feathered hat, and his managed horse, to pay much regard to
anything else; but he afterwards remembered to the hour of his death,
that when the hand of his sister, by which she supported herself on the
pillion behind him, touched his own, it felt as wet and cold as
sepulchral marble.
Glancing wide over hill and dale, the fair bridal procession at last
reached the parish church, which they nearly filled; for, besides
domestics, above a hundred gentlemen and ladies were present upon the
occasion. The marriage ceremony was performed according to the rites of
the Presbyterian persuasion, to which Bucklaw of late had judged it
proper to conform.
On the outside of the church, a liberal dole was distributed to the
poor of the neighbouring parishes, under the direction of Johnie
Mortheuch [Mortsheugh], who had lately been promoted from his desolate
quarters at the Hermitage to fill the more eligible situation of sexton
at the parish church of Ravenswood. Dame Gourlay, with two of her
contemporaries, the same who assisted at Alice’s late-wake, seated
apart upon a flat monument, or _through-stane_, sate enviously
comparing the shares which had been allotted to them in dividing the
dole.
“Johnie Mortheuch,” said Annie Winnie, “might hae minded auld lang
syne, and thought of his auld kimmers, for as braw as he is with his
new black coat. I hae gotten but five herring instead o’ sax, and this
disna look like a gude saxpennys, and I dare say this bit morsel o’
beef is an unce lighter than ony that’s been dealt round; and it’s a
bit o’ the tenony hough, mair by token that yours, Maggie, is out o’
the back-sey.”
“Mine, quo’ she!” mumbled the paralytic hag—“mine is half banes, I
trow. If grit folk gie poor bodies ony thing for coming to their
weddings and burials, it suld be something that wad do them gude, I
think.”
“Their gifts,” said Ailsie Gourlay, “are dealt for nae love of us, nor
out of respect for whether we feed or starve. They wad gie us
whinstanes for loaves, if it would serve their ain vanity, and yet they
expect us to be as gratefu’, as they ca’ it, as if they served us for
true love and liking.”
“And that’s truly said,” answered her companion.
“But, Aislie Gourlay, ye’re the auldest o’ us three—did ye ever see a
mair grand bridal?”
“I winna say that I have,” answered the hag; “but I think soon to see
as braw a burial.”
“And that wad please me as weel,” said Annie Winnie; “for there’s as
large a dole, and folk are no obliged to girn and laugh, and mak
murgeons, and wish joy to these hellicat quality, that lord it ower us
like brute beasts. I like to pack the dead-dole in my lap and rin ower
my auld rhyme—
My loaf in my lap, my penny in my purse,
Thou art ne’er the better, and
I’m ne’er the worse.”
“That’s right, Annie,” said the paralytic woman; “God send us a green
Yule and a fat kirkyard!”
“But I wad like to ken, Luckie Gourlay, for ye’re the auldest and
wisest amang us, whilk o’ these revellers’ turn it will be to be
streikit first?”
“D’ye see yon dandilly maiden,” said Dame Gourlay, “a’ glistenin’ wi’
gowd and jewels, that they are lifting up on the white horse behind
that hare-brained callant in scarlet, wi’ the lang sword at his side?”
“But that’s the bride!” said her companion, her cold heart touched with
some sort of compassion—“that’s the very bride hersell! Eh, whow! sae
young, sae braw, and sae bonny—and is her time sae short?”
“I tell ye,” said the sibyl, “her winding sheet is up as high as her
throat already, believe it wha list. Her sand has but few grains to rin
out; and nae wonder—they’ve been weel shaken. The leaves are withering
fast on the trees, but she’ll never see the Martinmas wind gar them
dance in swirls like the fairy rings.”
“Ye waited on her for a quarter,” said the paralytic woman, “and got
twa red pieces, or I am far beguiled?”
“Ay, ay,” answered Ailsie, with a bitter grin; “and Sir William Ashton
promised me a bonny red gown to the boot o’ that—a stake, and a chain,
and a tar-barrel, lass! what think ye o’ that for a propine?—for being
up early and doun late for fourscore nights and mair wi’ his dwining
daughter. But he may keep it for his ain leddy, cummers.”
“I hae heard a sough,” said Annie Winnie, “as if Leddy Ashton was nae
canny body.”
“D’ye see her yonder,” said Dame Gourlay, “as she prances on her grey
gelding out at the kirkyard? There’s mair o’ utter deevilry in that
woman, as brave and fair-fashioned as she rides yonder, than in a’ the
Scotch withces that ever flew by moonlight ower North Berwick Law.”
“What’s that ye say about witches, ye damned hags?” said Johnie
Mortheuch [Mortsheugh]; “are ye casting yer cantrips in the very
kirkyard, to mischieve the bride and bridegroom? Get awa’ hame, for if
I tak my souple t’ye, I’ll gar ye find the road faster than ye wad
like.”
“Hegh, sirs!” answered Ailsie Gourlay; “how bra’ are we wi’ our new
black coat and our weel-pouthered head, as if we had never kenn’d
hunger nor thirst oursells! and we’ll be screwing up our bit fiddle,
doubtless, in the ha’ the night, amang a’ the other elbo’-jiggers for
miles round. Let’s see if the pins haud, Johnie—that’s a’, lad.”
“I take ye a’ to witness, gude people,” said Morheuch, “that she
threatens me wi’ mischief, and forespeaks me. If ony thing but gude
happens to me or my fiddle this night, I’ll make it the blackest
night’s job she ever stirred in. I’ll hae her before presbytery and
synod: I’m half a minister mysell, now that I’m a bedral in an
inhabited parish.”
Although the mutual hatred betwixt these hags and the rest of mankind
had steeled their hearts against all impressions of festivity, this was
by no means the case with the multitude at large. The splendour of the
bridal retinue, the gay dresses, the spirited horses, the blythesome
appearance of the handsome women and gallant gentlemen assembled upon
the occasion, had the usual effect upon the minds of the populace. The
repeated shouts of “Ashton and Bucklaw for ever!” the discharge of
pistols, guns, and musketoons, to give what was called the bridal shot,
evinced the interest the people took in the occasion of the cavalcade,
as they accompanied it upon their return to the castle. If there was
here and there an elder peasant or his wife who sneered at the pomp of
the upstart family, and remembered the days of the long-descended
Ravenswoods, even they, attracted by the plentiful cheer which the
castle that day afforded to rich and poor, held their way thither, and
acknowledged, notwithstanding their prejudices, the influence of
_l’Amphitrion où l’on dîne_.
Thus accompanied with the attendance both of rich and poor, Lucy
returned to her father’s house. Bucklaw used his privilege of riding
next to the bride, but, new to such a situation, rather endeavoured to
attract attention by the display of his person and horsemanship, than
by any attempt to address her in private. They reached the castle in
safety, amid a thousand joyous acclamations.
It is well known that the weddings of ancient days were celebrated with
a festive publicity rejected by the delicacy of modern times. The
marriage guests, on the present occasion, were regaled with a banquet
of unbounded profusion, the relics of which, after the domestics had
feasted in their turn, were distributed among the shouting crowd, with
as many barrels of ale as made the hilarity without correspond to that
within the castle. The gentlemen, according to the fashion of the
times, indulged, for the most part, in deep draughts of the richest
wines, while the ladies, prepared for the ball which always closed a
bridal entertainment, impatiently expected their arrival in the state
gallery. At length the social party broke up at a late hour, and the
gentlemen crowded into the saloon, where, enlivened by wine and the
joyful occasion, they laid aside their swords and handed their
impatient partners to the floor. The music already rung from the
gallery, along the fretted roof of the ancient state apartment.
According to strict etiquette, the bride ought to have opened the ball;
but Lady Ashton, making an apology on account of her daughter’s health,
offered her own hand to Bucklaw as substitute for her daughter’s. But
as Lady Ashton raised her head gracefully, expecting the strain at
which she was to begin the dance, she was so much struck by an
unexpected alteration in the ornaments of the apartment that she was
surprised into an exclamation, “Who has dared to change the pictures?”
All looked up, and those who knew the usual state of the apartment
observed, with surprise, that the picture of Sir William Ashton’s
father was removed from its place, and in its stead that of old Sir
Malise Ravenswood seemed to frown wrath and vengeance upon the party
assembled below. The exchange must have been made while the apartments
were empty, but had not been observed until the torches and lights in
the sconces were kindled for the ball. The haughty and heated spirits
of the gentlemen led them to demand an immediate inquiry into the cause
of what they deemed an affront to their host and to themselves; but
Lady Ashton, recovering herself, passed it over as the freak of a crazy
wench who was maintained about the castle, and whose susceptible
imagination had been observed to be much affected by the stories which
Dame Gourlay delighted to tell concerning “the former family,” so Lady
Ashton named the Ravenswoods. The obnoxious picture was immediately
removed, and the ball was opened by Lady Ashton, with a grace and
dignity which supplied the charms of youth, and almost verified the
extravagant encomiums of the elder part of the company, who extolled
her performance as far exceeding the dancing of the rising generation.
When Lady Ashton sat down, she was not surprised to find that her
daughter had left the apartment, and she herself followed, eager to
obviate any impression which might have been made upon her nerves by an
incident so likely to affect them as the mysterious transposition of
the portraits. Apparently she found her apprehensions groundless, for
she returned in about an hour, and whispered the bridegroom, who
extricated himself from the dancers, and vanished from the apartment.
The instruments now played their loudest strains; the dancers pursued
their exercise with all the enthusiasm inspired by youth, mirth, and
high spirits, when a cry was heard so shrill and piercing as at once to
arrest the dance and the music. All stood motionless; but when the yell
was again repeated, Colonel Ashton snatched a torch from the sconce,
and demanding the key of the bridal-chamber from Henry, to whom, as
bride’s-man, it had been entrusted, rushed thither, followed by Sir
William Ashton and Lady Ashton, and one or two others, near relations
of the family. The bridal guests waited their return in stupefied
amazement.
Arrived at the door of the apartment, Colonel Ashton knocked and
called, but received no answer except stifled groans. He hesitated no
longer to open the door of the apartment, in which he found opposition
from something which lay against it. When he had succeeded in opening
it, the body of the bridegroom was found lying on the threshold of the
bridal chamber, and all around was flooded with blood. A cry of
surprise and horror was raised by all present; and the company, excited
by this new alarm, began to rush tumultuously towards the sleeping
apartment. Colonel Ashton, first whispering to his mother, “Search for
her; she has murdered him!” drew his sword, planted himself in the
passage, and declared he would suffer no man to pass excepting the
clergyman and a medical person present. By their assistance, Bucklaw,
who still breathed, was raised from the ground, and transported to
another apartment, where his friends, full of suspicion and murmuring,
assembled round him to learn the opinion of the surgeon.
In the mean while, Lady Ashton, her husband, and their assistants in
vain sought Lucy in the bridal bed and in the chamber. There was no
private passage from the room, and they began to think that she must
have thrown herself from the window, when one of the company, holding
his torch lower than the rest, discovered something white in the corner
of the great old-fashioned chimney of the apartment. Here they found
the unfortunate girl seated, or rather couched like a hare upon its
form—her head-gear dishevelled, her night-clothes torn and dabbled with
blood, her eyes glazed, and her features convulsed into a wild paroxysm
of insanity. When she saw herself discovered, she gibbered, made
mouths, and pointed at them with her bloody fingers, with the frantic
gestures of an exulting demoniac.
Female assistance was now hastily summoned; the unhappy bride was
overpowered, not without the use of some force. As they carried her
over the threshold, she looked down, and uttered the only articulate
words that she had yet spoken, saying, with a sort of grinning
exultation, “So, you have ta’en up your bonny bridegroom?” She was, by
the shuddering assistants, conveyed to another and more retired
apartment, where she was secured as her situation required, and closely
watched. The unutterable agony of the parents, the horror and confusion
of all who were in the castle, the fury of contending passions between
the friends of the different parties—passions augmented by previous
intemperance—surpass description.
The surgeon was the first who obtained something like a patient
hearing; he pronounced that the wound of Bucklaw, though severe and
dangerous, was by no means fatal, but might readily be rendered so by
disturbance and hasty removal. This silenced the numerous party of
Bucklaw’s friends, who had previously insisted that he should, at all
rates, be transported from the castle to the nearest of their houses.
They still demanded, however, that, in consideration of what had
happened, four of their number should remain to watch over the sick-bed
of their friend, and that a suitable number of their domestics, well
armed, should also remain in the castle. This condition being acceded
to on the part of Colonel Ashton and his father, the rest of the
bridegroom’s friends left the castle, notwithstanding the hour and the
darkness of the night. The cares of the medical man were next employed
in behalf of Miss Ashton, whom he pronounced to be in a very dangerous
state. Farther medical assistance was immediately summoned. All night
she remained delirious. On the morning, she fell into a state of
absolute insensibility. The next evening, the physicians said, would be
the crisis of her malady. It proved so; for although she awoke from her
trance with some appearance of calmness, and suffered her night-clothes
to be changed, or put in order, yet so soon as she put her hand to her
neck, as if to search for the for the fatal blue ribbon, a tide of
recollections seemed to rush upon her, which her mind and body were
alike incapable of bearing. Convulsion followed convulsion, till they
closed in death, without her being able to utter a word explanatory of
the fatal scene.
The provincial judge of the district arrived the day after the young
lady had expired, and executed, though with all possible delicacy to
the afflicted family, the painful duty of inquiring into this fatal
transaction. But there occurred nothing to explain the general
hypothesis that the bride, in a sudden fit of insanity, had stabbed the
bridegroom at the threshold of the apartment. The fatal weapon was
found in the chamber smeared with blood. It was the same poniard which
Henry should have worn on the wedding-day, and the unhappy sister had
probably contrived to secrete on the preceding evening, when it had
been shown to her among other articles of preparation for the wedding.
The friends of Bucklaw expected that on his recovery he would throw
some light upon this dark story, and eagerly pressed him with
inquiries, which for some time he evaded under pretext of weakness.
When, however, he had been transported to his own house, and was
considered in a state of convalescence, he assembled those persons,
both male and female, who had considered themselves as entitled to
press him on this subject, and returned them thanks for the interest
they had exhibited in his behalf, and their offers of adherence and
support. “I wish you all,” he said, “my friends, to understand,
however, that I have neither story to tell nor injuries to avenge. If a
lady shall question me henceforward upon the incident of that unhappy
night, I shall remain silent, and in future consider her as one who has
shown herself desirous to break off her friendship with me; in a word,
I will never speak to her again. But if a gentleman shall ask me the
same question, I shall regard the incivility as equivalent to an
invitation to meet him in the Duke’s Walk, and I expect that he will
rule himself accordingly.”
A declaration so decisive admitted no commentary; and it was soon after
seen that Bucklaw had arisen from the bed of sickness a sadder and a
wiser man than he had hitherto shown himself. He dismissed Craigengelt
from his society, but not without such a provision as, if well
employed, might secure him against indigence and against temptation.
Bucklaw afterwards went abroad, and never returned to Scotland; nor was
he known ever to hint at the circumstances attending his fatal
marriage. By many readers this may be deemed overstrained, romantic,
and composed by the wild imagination of an author desirous of
gratifying the popular appetite for the horrible; but those who are
read in the private family history of Scotland during the period in
which the scene is laid, will readily discover, through the disguise of
borrowed names and added incidents, the leading particulars of AN OWER
TRUE TALE.