It blew a gale of wind right up the long valley between Ale harbour
and Aleton. The night was dark and cloudy. The sky, if not constantly
covered with black vapours, was so frequently shrouded by them as only
to allow the momentary gleam of a star. On, on, the clouds hurried
confusedly over the firmament, like the thoughts of the human mind in
a moment of sudden perplexity.
A stout man, well lined within and well cased without, battled
sturdily with the blast as he walked down the valley. Many impediments
did he meet with; his cravat was nearly torn from his neck; his long
black garments fluttered like streamers in the wind; and, more than
once, his three-cornered hat was blown off and sent hurrying away
along the road. At length, after having caught it for the third time,
with a some what ungodly oath, he tied it tightly upon his head with a
pocket-handkerchief, and pursued his way in greater security. He was
often half strangled, it is true; still he had not now, as before, to
double the distance by the constant pursuit of his hat. Puffing and
snorting, and venting many a malediction on those who had brought him
such a journey on such a night, he made his way forward, supported by
the thought of a hundred guineas as the reward of all his toils. About
a mile from Aleton, he passed a man upon the road, who seemed to know
him, for he said, "Good night, Master Parson," and walked on; but, at
the entrance of the hamlet, he was encountered by our good friend, Van
Noost, who whispered--
"Is not this an unlucky night?"
"Ay, by Jove!" answered Parson Thickett. "I wonder what people are
thinking of, to choose such nights for being married on."
"They must think less who go to sea on such a night," said Van Noost.
"I would not, for all the world. I would rather stay on shore and have
my head cut off."
The parson only laughed, and, walking on, they were soon at Grayling's
cottage-door, which readily opened to admit them. The doctor was
easily consoled for his long walk on that stormy night, for comforting
appliances were within Grayling's cottage, and Smeaton took care that
he should be well supplied. The old fisherman himself was in a
somewhat grumbling and surly mood, and more than once went out, stayed
a few minutes, and returned. Poor Van Noost sat by the fire-side, with
his eyes fixed upon the flame, unable to cheer himself, even by the
strong waters. From time to time he lifted his ear and listened, as
the leaden casements of the cottage rattled and shook in the blast
which came rushing up the stream, and though to the children he was
good-humoured and kindly as ever, it was evidently with a painful
effort that the little statuary forced himself to notice them.
Smeaton, too, was grave and thoughtful. The idea of exposing Emmeline,
in a night like that, to the fury of the stirred-up ocean in an open
boat, was one that he could not entertain. Had he been alone, with any
purpose to accomplish, he would not have hesitated for a moment; but
we often feel fears for others which we know not for ourselves; and,
even if he could have sheltered her from the cold blast and the
dashing spray, he would not have risked a life so precious to him upon
that tempestuous sea. Still, the thought of delaying their departure,
even for a few hours, was very grievous to him. He knew right well how
much may intervene between the cup and the lip. He had a sort of
anxious dread about the morrow, and he hoped, and half persuaded
himself, that the wind would go down as the night advanced.
Towards ten o'clock, however, old Graying returned after a short
absence, bringing his nephew and another man with him.
"It is no use, my lord," said the younger Grayling. "The Ale is
getting heavier every minute, and it is so dirty in the wind's eye,
that there is no chance of a lull before noon to-morrow. As to getting
off to-night, that you cannot do. We might get a boat out of the bay,
indeed; but she would not live five minutes off the head. I have
seldom seen such a sea running as there is now on the Cobstone; for
you see, my lord, the wind being south-western by south----"
But Smeaton interrupted him, saying--
"I will take your opinion, my good friend. There is no use in
explaining; I should not understand you if you did. For my own life I
should not care; but, where others are concerned, I must be more
cautious."
"We don't care much for our own lives either, my lord," said the
fisherman; "but I think you would find it a hard matter to get any one
to go off with you to-night, especially if there is to be a lady in
the boat."
"Then I suppose I shall have to come down to-morrow?" whispered Parson
Thickett to the young nobleman, near whom he was sitting.
"No, no, my reverend friend," replied Smeaton. "Your office can be
performed in a hurricane as well as in the calmest weather; and, in a
few minutes, we will go to the place where your assistance will be
necessary. We must, however, have the cottage clear first, and obtain
intelligence that all is safe."
"Ay, ay," added the parson. "Make sure of that."
After staying a few minutes, conversing with his uncle, the younger
Grayling went away with the other man who had accompanied him; and,
soon after, the children were sent to their beds. Smeaton looked
anxiously at his watch; and then, gazing out at the door, he said--
"I think my servant is coming now."
But he was disappointed. A man arrived who was a bearer of what, to
Smeaton, was bad news. The new comer was a stout peasant, of a
somewhat superior class, who looked round, shook hands with old
Grayling and his wife, whom he called uncle and aunt, and then,
doffing his hat, advanced to the young nobleman, and presented him a
letter.
"That, my lord, is from Farmer Thompson, my cousin," he said. "I
undertook to bring it over; for we find that some of our people are
not to be trusted."
Smeaton broke open the letter, and read the contents with an anxious
eye, and a look of considerable emotion.
"What is all this?" he said, at length. "I do not understand it."
"Why, it is all true, my lord," replied the young man, bending down
his head, and speaking in a whisper. "I saw it, and read it myself,
posted upon the very walls of Keanton, setting a price upon your
lordship's head, with the royal arms at the top, and 'God save the
King' at the bottom. It made all the good men amongst us quite mad."
"It is not _that_ I am speaking of at all, my good friend." returned
Smeaton. "The proclamation here mentioned, perhaps, might be expected;
though, I must say, such proceedings, after the assurances I have
received, are by no means right and justifiable. But what I allude to,
are these latter words." And, holding the paper to the light, he read:
"According to your lordship's orders, I have sounded the tenantry, and
find almost every man under forty ready to obey you in all things.
Some of them, however, have not arms. But about twenty are fully
prepared, and will be ready to mount at a moment's notice as soon as
your lordship arrives. The rest can follow you by one or two at a
time, in a day or so, as soon as the arms come from Exmouth."
He ceased reading, and looked in the young man's face, as if for
explanation.
"Well, my lord," said the other, "I don't understand you."
"Nor I this intelligence," added Smeaton. "I sent no orders to sound
the tenantry, or to levy men."
"Such orders certainly came, my lord," replied the young man; "not by
your own servant, but by another person, who seemed to know all about
you."
"This is some base fraud," said Smeaton, musing. "However, my good
friend, stop and refresh yourself for a little, while I write a letter
to your cousin. Tell him that I thank him for his zeal, but that
nothing could be farther from my thoughts than to authorise any
raising or arming of the tenantry. I hope, however, this has been done
so cautiously as not to call the attention of the magistrates upon
you."
"We all met on horseback," said the young man, with a laugh, and a
shrug of his shoulders, "upon the green before the great gates; but I
don't know that any one saw us."
Smeaton thought gravely, and then replied--
"If it be possible, I will ride over before daybreak to-morrow. Stay,
I will write."
Going hastily up to his room above, he wrote a few words in the same
sense as those he had just uttered; and, on descending, found the
young man quite ready to depart. Parson Thickett, too, was becoming
impatient to return to his own dwelling, for it was now past eleven
o'clock; and, with a long bleak walk before him, he did not at all
relish delay. Smeaton was evidently no less anxious; but still a
quarter of an hour elapsed before the man Higham appeared. At the end
of that time, however, he entered the cottage, with his gay saucy
look, expecting, probably, to find no one except the old fisherman in
the lower room; but, as soon as he saw his lord, he said,
respectfully--
"They are all gone to bed, my lord, and I dare say will soon be in a
comfortable doze; for Sir John and half the servants have ridden hard
to-day, and the rest have drunk hard, which comes to much the same
thing."
"Now then, my reverend friend," said Smeaton, rising, "we will go, if
you please. Van Noost, you must come with us. Higham, go on before to
within a yard or two of the place where the small path quits the
carriage road to the house. There stop, and make sure that no one
comes that way without our having notice by some means."
"I understand," replied the man. "Wrangle, quarrel, talk loud,
whistle, shout, or something! I understand. I'll manage it, my lord."
Thus saying, he walked out of the cottage, and Smeaton and the
reverend doctor followed.
The young nobleman led his companion round between the two next
cottages, desiring Van Noost to go a little in advance, and then said,
in a low tone--"There is one question I wish to ask you, Doctor
Thickett, which is this:--The marriage you are about to celebrate will
be a good and perfect marriage, notwithstanding some slight
informalities--is it not so?"
"Just, just," replied the parson. "They may suspend _me_; but they
cannot unmarry _you_. They may punish you by the statute for a
clandestine marriage; but they cannot make the marriage of no effect.
Marriage is like a good thrashing; when once inflicted, it cannot be
got rid of."
"And now, my good friend," pursued Smeaton, pausing, "you must suffer
me, I believe, to tie a handkerchief over your eyes."
"Pooh, pooh! what Is the use of that?" exclaimed the doctor, laughing.
"I know where you are taking me, just as well as you do. I would not
have gone so quietly if I had thought you were taking me into the
lion's den except by a back way. Why, the priest's chamber, and the
way in and out, has been a tradition at the rectory ever since those
puritanical times when many an honest parson was forced to take refuge
from skull-cap and Geneva, broadsword and bandolier. There used to be
a key up at the church; but, by Jove, my predecessor was fool enough
to give it to Sir John. How you got in, I cannot make out."
Smeaton did not think it necessary to explain, but led the parson on,
and found Van Noost at the well with the door open. Doctor Thickett
was, with some difficulty, got across the water; and then, when the
door was closed, a match was kindled and a lamp lighted.
"Now tread cautiously," said Smeaton, leading the way, with the light
in his hand.
When they entered the priest's room, however, it was still vacant;
and, trusting to the promises he had received, the young nobleman did
not venture to proceed any farther.
"This has been a chapel once, I think," observed Doctor Thickett,
looking round the room. "Some notice of it is in the books up at the
church. There," added he, pointing to one of the sides, "is where the
communion-table must have stood."
Smeaton held up his finger to enjoin silence; and, in a minute or two
after, a slight sound was heard at the extremity of the room adjoining
the next chamber. Cautiously, and as noiselessly as possible, the
state bed in the other room was drawn back, and the door which it
concealed was opened. All eyes were turned to that side, and there was
certainly some emotion, if not some anxiety, in the breast of each.
The light shone, however, upon the figure of the old housekeeper, who
advanced quietly, holding Emmeline by the hand. The poor girl trembled
a good deal, with agitation rather than fear, and her face was very
pale. But Smeaton advanced at once, and took her hand, whispering some
low tender words, which instantly called her eyes to his face, and the
warm glow into her cheek again.
Mrs. Culpepper had stopped the moment they were in the room; and now,
looking anxiously in her foster-son's face, she whispered--"What an
awful night it is, my lord! Everything is ready; but--"
"It is quite impossible," interrupted Smeaton, "to expose this dear
girl on the sea in such a tempest; still, as this worthy clergyman has
come here to perform the ceremony, the marriage had better take place
to-night; and, before to-morrow, I trust the wind will have gone down.
What say you, dearest Emmeline?"
"Oh, certainly," replied Emmeline. "I shall feel more
happy--more--more certain of what I am doing, and what is right to do,
when I am your wife, than I do now. Besides, new difficulties might
spring up."
"You are right, dear young lady, you are right," said Mrs. Culpepper.
"Once wedded to him, wherever he may find you, he has a right to claim
you; and, against whatever wrong is done you, he has a right to
protect you. Besides, he is bound to take care of himself for your
sake."
The young nobleman smiled, with a glad and happy look at his beautiful
bride, and then led her on towards the spot where Doctor Thickett and
Van Noost were standing.
The stout priest would fain have said something jocose; but Emmeline's
timid look, and Smeaton's dignified bearing, at the moment restrained
him, and he contented himself with asking--"This is all with your
consent and full consideration, Mistress Emmeline?"
"Entirely," she replied, without raising her eyes to the face of the
clergyman, which she knew right well, and did not much like.
"Well then, we have nothing to do but to begin," said Doctor Thickett;
and, opening the book, he read the service for the celebration of
marriage from beginning to end, without sparing them one word of it;
and, when he had finished, he added, "Well, that is done and tight.
They cannot untie that knot, let them tug as they will."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Smeaton, pressing, Emmeline's hand in his own.
"But we must each have some proof that this dear knot is tied, Doctor
Thickett."
"Wall, I will register it as soon as I get home," said the priest. "I
could not bring the great lumbering book with me."
"Doubtless," assented the young Earl; "but, if you please, we will
each have a certificate under your hand, and those of the witnesses
present, that the marriage has taken place. Van Noost, you have an
inkhorn with you, I think."
"Everything ready, everything ready," cried Van Noost. "Here is ink,
and pen, and paper, and a table. So now, Doctor, write away."
"Ah, well. I came to read, not to write; but I may as well do it,"
said the parson, sitting down to the table, and beginning to scrawl in
a large but crabbed hand. "There, my lord, that is for you. There, my
lady, that is for you. And now, this is my first fee and reward, by
immemorial privilege," he added, pressing his great lips upon
Emmeline's cheek.
She shrunk from him, unable to resist her sensation of dislike; but he
only laughed, and, turning to Smeaton, received from him the full
reward which had been promised. "And now," he said, aloud, "I had
better take myself home. My part of the affair is over."
"Show him the way, Van Noost," said Smeaton. "I will join you at
Grayling's cottage very shortly."
The statuary was prompt to obey, and led the fat parson forth, taking.
Mrs. Culpepper's candle to light them.
Emmeline had borne up well; she had replied clearly and distinctly
when taking upon her the irrevocable vows which bound her to the man
she loved; but it must not be supposed she had undergone no deep
emotions. Every thrilling sensation had been felt; every
wide-extending association had presented itself; all the hopes, all
the anxieties, all the bright dreams, all the shadowy forebodings, all
the realities, all the imaginings, which attend the pledging of a
young and innocent heart to the one loved and trusted, had hurried
through her bosom and her brain in those few brief minutes. Yet she
had borne up; she had seemed calm after her first entrance into the
room. Love, and strong resolution, had given her power to conquer all
agitation, till the words were spoken, the vow was uttered, and she
was his for ever. Then, however, the mingled emotions rushed back upon
her, together with the overpowering feeling that the great change was
accomplished; that she was not her own, but his; that her fate was no
longer lonely; that she was one with him she loved; and, had it not
been for the arm which glided round her, she would have sunk to the
ground where she stood.
The old housekeeper left them, to watch, in the passage, though she
had little fear of any interruption; and, to Emmeline and her young
husband, it seemed but a moment, though an hour had passed when she
again appeared, with a face of some anxiety and alarm.
"I hear horses' feet, my lord," she said. "Quick! You had better speed
away. I know not what it may be; but it is strange at this hour of
night. Some one will soon be up; for the sounds are on the road near
the house. Quick, my lord, quick! Away!"
"Hark, hark!" cried Emmeline. "There are people speaking loud and
angrily. Oh, Henry, go, go, for Heaven's sake!"
A brief moment given to thought--one more embrace--and Smeaton was
gone. Emmeline followed the old housekeeper out of the room; and the
secret entrance was closed as noiselessly as possible. The fair girl,
the bride, the wife, retired to her own solitary chamber, while the
lover and the husband took his way to his place of refuge.
When were they to meet again? Who can ever say who asks himself that
question when parting from another?