Whose mind’s so marbled, and his heart so hard,
That would not, when this huge mishap was heard,
To th’ utmost note of sorrow set their song,
To see a gallant, with so great a grace,
So suddenly unthought on, so o’erthrown,
And so to perish, in so poor a place,
By too rash riding in a ground unknown!
Poem, in Nisbet’s Heraldry, vol. ii.
We have anticipated the course of time to mention Bucklaw’s recovery
and fate, that we might not interrupt the detail of events which
succeeded the funeral of the unfortunate Lucy Ashton. This melancholy
ceremony was performed in the misty dawn of an autumnal morning, with
such moderate attendance and ceremony as could not possibly be
dispensed with. A very few of the nearest relations attended her body
to the same churchyard to which she had so lately been led as a bride,
with as little free will, perhaps, as could be now testified by her
lifeless and passive remains. An aisle adjacent to the church had been
fitted up by Sir William Ashton as a family cemetery; and here, in a
coffin bearing neither name nor date, were consigned to dust the
remains of what was once lovely, beautiful, and innocent, though
exasperated to frenzy by a long tract of unremitting persecution.
While the mourners were busy in the vault, the three village hags, who,
notwithstanding the unwonted earliness of the hour, had snuffed the
carrion like vultures, were seated on the “through-stane,” and engaged
in their wonted unhallowed conference.
“Did not I say,” said Dame Gourlay, “that the braw bridal would be
followed by as braw a funeral?”
“I think,” answered Dame Winnie, “there’s little bravery at it: neither
meat nor drink, and just a wheen silver tippences to the poor folk; it
was little worth while to come sae far a road for sae sma’ profit, and
us sae frail.”
“Out, wretch!” replied Dame Gourlay, “can a’ the dainties they could
gie us be half sae sweet as this hour’s vengeance? There they are that
were capering on their prancing nags four days since, and they are now
ganging as dreigh and sober as oursells the day. They were a’
glistening wi’ gowd and silver; they’re now as black as the crook. And
Miss Lucy Ashton, that grudged when an honest woman came near her—a
taid may sit on her coffin that day, and she can never scunner when he
croaks. And Lady Ashton has hell-fire burning in her breast by this
time; and Sir William, wi’ his gibbets, and his faggots, and his
chains, how likes he the witcheries of his ain dwelling-house?”
“And is it true, then,” mumbled the paralytic wretch, “that the bride
was trailed out of her bed and up the chimly by evil spirits, and that
the bridegroom’s face was wrung round ahint him?”
“Ye needna care wha did it, or how it was done,” said Aislie Gourlay;
“but I’ll uphaud it for nae stickit job, and that the lairds and
leddies ken weel this day.”
“And was it true,” said Annie Winnie, “sin ye ken sae muckle about it,
that the picture of auld Sir Malise Ravenswood came down on the ha’
floor, and led out the brawl before them a’?”
“Na,” said Ailsie; “but into the ha’ came the picture—and I ken weel
how it came there—to gie them a warning that pride wad get a fa’. But
there’s as queer a ploy, cummers, as ony o’ thae, that’s gaun on even
now in the burial vault yonder: ye saw twall mourners, wi’ crape and
cloak, gang down the steps pair and pair!”
“What should ail us to see them?” said the one old woman.
“I counted them,” said the other, with the eagerness of a person to
whom the spectacle had afforded too much interest to be viewed with
indifference.
“But ye did not see,” said Ailsie, exulting in her superior
observation, “that there’s a thirteenth amang them that they ken
naething about; and, if auld freits say true, there’s ane o’ that
company that’ll no be lang for this warld. But come awa’ cummers; if we
bide here, I’se warrant we get the wyte o’ whatever ill comes of it,
and that gude will come of it nane o’ them need ever think to see.”
And thus, croaking like the ravens when they anticipate pestilence, the
ill-boding sibyls withdrew from the churchyard.
In fact, the mourners, when the service of interment was ended,
discovered that there was among them one more than the invited number,
and the remark was communicated in whispers to each other. The
suspicion fell upon a figure which, muffled in the same deep mourning
with the others, was reclined, almost in a state of insensibility,
against one of the pillars of the sepulchral vault. The relatives of
the Ashton family were expressing in whispers their surprise and
displeasure at the intrusion, when they were interrupted by Colonel
Ashton, who, in his father’s absence, acted as principal mourner. “I
know,” he said in a whisper, “who this person is, he has, or shall soon
have, as deep cause of mourning as ourselves; leave me to deal with
him, and do not disturb the ceremony by unnecessary exposure.” So
saying, he separated himself from the group of his relations, and
taking the unknown mourner by the cloak, he said to him, in a tone of
suppressed emotion, “Follow me.”
The stranger, as if starting from a trance at the sound of his voice,
mechanically obeyed, and they ascended the broken ruinous stair which
led from the sepulchre into the churchyard. The other mourners
followed, but remained grouped together at the door of the vault,
watching with anxiety the motions of Colonel Ashton and the stranger,
who now appeared to be in close conference beneath the shade of a
yew-tree, in the most remote part of the burial-ground.
To this sequestered spot Colonel Ashton had guided the stranger, and
then turning round, addressed him in a stern and composed tone.—“I
cannot doubt that I speak to the Master of Ravenswood?” No answer was
returned. “I cannot doubt,” resumed the Colonel, trembling with rising
passion, “that I speak to the murderer of my sister!”
“You have named me but too truly,” said Ravenswood, in a hollow and
tremulous voice.
“If you repent what you have done,” said the Colonel, “may your
penitence avail you before God; with me it shall serve you nothing.
Here,” he said, giving a paper, “is the measure of my sword, and a
memorandum of the time and place of meeting. Sunrise to-morrow morning,
on the links to the east of Wolf’s Hope.”
The Master of Ravenswood held the paper in his hand, and seemed
irresolute. At length he spoke—“Do not,” he said, “urge to farther
desperation a wretch who is already desperate. Enjoy your life while
you can, and let me seek my death from another.”
“That you never, never shall!” said Douglas Ashton. “You shall die by
my hand, or you shall complete the ruin of my family by taking my life.
If you refuse my open challenge, there is no advantage I will not take
of you, no indignity with which I will not load you, until the very
name of Ravenswood shall be the sign of everything that is
dishonourable, as it is already of all that is villainous.”
“That it shall never be,” said Ravenswood, fiercely; “if I am the last
who must bear it, I owe it to those who once owned it that the name
shall be extinguished without infamy. I accept your challenge, time,
and place of meeting. We meet, I presume, alone?”
“Alone we meet,” said Colonel Ashton, “and alone will the survivor of
us return from that place of rendezvous.”
“Then God have mercy on the soul of him who falls!” said Ravenswood.
“So be it!” said Colonel Ashton; “so far can my charity reach even for
the man I hate most deadly, and with the deepest reason. Now, break
off, for we shall be interrupted. The links by the sea-shore to the
east of Wolf’s Hope; the hour, sunrise; our swords our only weapons.”
“Enough,” said the Master, “I will not fail you.”
They separated; Colonel Ashton joining the rest of the mourners, and
the Master of Ravenswood taking his horse, which was tied to a tree
behind the church. Colonel Ashton returned to the castle with the
funeral guests, but found a pretext for detaching himself from them in
the evening, when, changing his dress to a riding-habit, he rode to
Wolf’s Hope, that night, and took up his abode in the little inn, in
order that he might be ready for his rendezvous in the morning.
It is not known how the Master of Ravenswood disposed of the rest of
that unhappy day. Late at night, however, he arrived at Wolf’s Crag,
and aroused his old domestic, Caleb Balderstone, who had ceased to
expect his return. Confused and flying rumours of the late tragical
death of Miss Ashton, and of its mysterious cause, had already reached
the old man, who was filled with the utmost anxiety, on account of the
probable effect these events might produce upon the mind of his master.
The conduct of Ravenswood did not alleviate his apprehensions. To the
butler’s trembling entreaties that he would take some refreshment, he
at first returned no answer, and then suddenly and fiercely demanding
wine, he drank, contrary to his habits, a very large draught. Seeing
that his master would eat nothing, the old man affectionately entreated
that he would permit him to light him to his chamber. It was not until
the request was three or four times repeated that Ravenswood made a
mute sign of compliance. But when Balderstone conducted him to an
apartment which had been comfortably fitted up, and which, since his
return, he had usually occupied, Ravenswood stopped short on the
threshold.
“Not here,” said he, sternly; “show me the room in which my father
died; the room in which SHE slept the night they were at the castle.”
“Who, sir?” said Caleb, too terrified to preserve his presence of mind.
“_She_, Lucy Ashton! Would you kill me, old man, by forcing me to
repeat her name?”
Caleb would have said something of the disrepair of the chamber, but
was silenced by the irritable impatience which was expressed in his
master’s countenance; he lighted the way trembling and in silence,
placed the lamp on the table of the deserted room, and was about to
attempt some arrangement of the bed, when his master bid him begone in
a tone that admitted of no delay. The old man retired, not to rest, but
to prayer; and from time to time crept to the door of the apartment, in
order to find out whether Ravenswood had gone to repose. His measured
heavy step upon the floor was only interrupted by deep groans; and the
repeated stamps of the heel of his heavy boot intimated too clearly
that the wretched inmate was abandoning himself at such moments to
paroxysms of uncontrolled agony. The old man thought that the morning,
for which he longed, would never have dawned; but time, whose course
rolls on with equal current, however it may seem more rapid or more
slow to mortal apprehension, brought the dawn at last, and spread a
ruddy light on the broad verge of the glistening ocean. It was early in
November, and the weather was serene for the season of the year. But an
easterly wind had prevailed during the night, and the advancing tide
rolled nearer than usual to the foot of the crags on which the castle
was founded.
With the first peep of light, Caleb Balderstone again resorted to the
door of Ravenswood’s sleeping apartment, through a chink of which he
observed him engaged in measuring the length of two or three swords
which lay in a closet adjoining to the apartment. He muttered to
himself, as he selected one of these weapons: “It is shorter: let him
have this advantage, as he has every other.”
Caleb Balderstone knew too well, from what he witnessed, upon what
enterprise his master was bound, and how vain all interference on his
part must necessarily prove. He had but time to retreat from the door,
so nearly was he surprised by his master suddenly coming out and
descending to the stables. The faithful domestic followed; and from the
dishevelled appearance of his master’s dress, and his ghastly looks,
was confirmed in his conjecture that he had passed the night without
sleep or repose. He found him busily engaged in saddling his horse, a
service from which Caleb, though with faltering voice and trembling
hands, offered to relieve him. Ravenswood rejected his assistance by a
mute sign, and having led the animal into the court, was just about to
mount him, when the old domestic’s fear giving way to the strong
attachment which was the principal passion of his mind, he flung
himself suddenly at Ravenswood’s feet, and clasped his knees, while he
exclaimed: “Oh, sir! oh, master! kill me if you will, but do not go out
on this dreadful errand! Oh! my dear master, wait but this day; the
Marquis of A—— comes to-morrow, and a’ will be remedied.”
“You have no longer a master, Caleb,” said Ravenswood, endeavouring to
extricate himself; “why, old man, would you cling to a falling tower?”
“But I _have_ a master,” cried Caleb, still holding him fast, “while
the heir of Ravenswood breathes. I am but a servant; but I was born
your father’s—your grandfather’s servant. I was born for the family—I
have lived for them—I would die for them! Stay but at home, and all
will be well!”
“Well, fool! well!” said Ravenswood. “Vain old man, nothing hereafter
in life will be well with me, and happiest is the hour that shall
soonest close it!”
So saying, he extricated himself from the old man’s hold, threw himself
on his horse, and rode out the gate; but instantly turning back, he
threw towards Caleb, who hastened to meet him, a heavy purse of gold.
“Caleb!” he said, with a ghastly smile, “I make you my executor”; and
again turning his bridle, he resumed his course down the hill.
The gold fell unheeded on the pavement, for the old man ran to observe
the course which was taken by his master, who turned to the left down a
small and broken path, which gained the sea-shore through a cleft in
the rock, and led to a sort of cove where, in former times, the boats
of the castle were wont to be moored. Observing him take this course,
Caleb hastened to the eastern battlement, which commanded the prospect
of the whole sands, very near as far as the village of Wolf’s Hope. He
could easily see his master riding in that direction, as fast as the
horse could carry him. The prophecy at once rushed on Balderstone’s
mind, that the Lord of Ravenswood should perish on the Kelpie’s flow,
which lay half-way betwixt the Tower and the links, or sand knolls, to
the northward of Wolf’s Hope. He saw him according reach the fatal
spot; but he never saw him pass further.
Colonel Ashton, frantic for revenge, was already in the field, pacing
the turf with eagerness, and looking with impatience towards the Tower
for the arrival of his antagonist. The sun had now risen, and showed
its broad disk above the eastern sea, so that he could easily discern
the horseman who rode towards him with speed which argued impatience
equal to his own. At once the figure became invisible, as if it had
melted into the air. He rubbed his eyes, as if he had witnessed an
apparition, and then hastened to the spot, near which he was met by
Balderstone, who came from the opposite direction. No trace whatever of
horse or rider could be discerned; it only appeared that the late winds
and high tides had greatly extended the usual bounds of the quicksand,
and that the unfortunate horseman, as appeared from the hoof-tracks, in
his precipitate haste, had not attended to keep on the firm sands on
the foot of the rock, but had taken the shortest and most dangerous
course. One only vestige of his fate appeared. A large sable feather
had been detached from his hat, and the rippling waves of the rising
tide wafted it to Caleb’s feet. The old man took it up, dried it, and
placed it in his bosom.
The inhabitants of Wolf’s Hope were now alarmed, and crowded to the
place, some on shore, and some in boats, but their search availed
nothing. The tenacious depths of the quicksand, as is usual in such
cases, retained its prey.
Our tale draws to a conclusion. The Marquis of A——, alarmed at the
frightful reports that were current, and anxious for his kinsman’s
safety, arrived on the subsequent day to mourn his loss; and, after
renewing in vain a search for the body, returned, to forget what had
happened amid the bustle of politics and state affairs.
Not so Caleb Balderstone. If worldly profit could have consoled the old
man, his age was better provided for than his earlier years had ever
been; but life had lost to him its salt and its savour. His whole
course of ideas, his feelings, whether of pride or of apprehension, of
pleasure or of pain, had all arisen from its close connexion with the
family which was now extinguished. He held up his head no longer,
forsook all his usual haunts and occupations, and seemed only to find
pleasure in moping about those apartments in the old castle which the
Master of Ravenswood had last inhabited. He ate without refreshment,
and slumbered without repose; and, with a fidelity sometimes displayed
by the canine race, but seldom by human beings, he pined and died
within a year after the catastrophe which we have narrated.
The family of Ashton did not long survive that of Ravenswood. Sir
William Ashton outlived his eldest son, the Colonel, who was slain in a
duel in Flanders; and Henry, by whom he was succeeded, died unmarried.
Lady Ashton lived to the verge of extreme old age, the only survivor of
the group of unhappy persons whose misfortunes were owing to her
implacability. That she might internally feel compunction, and
reconcile herself with Heaven, whom she had offended, we will not, and
we dare not, deny; but to those around her she did not evince the
slightest symptom either of repentance or remorse. In all external
appearance she bore the same bold, haughty, unbending character which
she had displayed before these unhappy events. A splendid marble
monument records her name, titles, and virtues, while her victims
remain undistinguished by tomb or epitaph.