There were horses and carriages at the door of Ormebar Castle. The
court-yard was crowded with servants in all kinds of livery. Lady
Coldenham had resolved that the marriage should not want witnesses;
and every one of noble blood in the county had been invited. One or
two, who had been there the preceding week, asked, as they arrived,
whether Lord Coldenham had returned; and though the answer was no,
they did not much marvel, for Lady Coldenham was so completely monarch
in her own family, that no one could expect she would make any
alteration in her arrangements for the pleasure or convenience of a
son.
The great hall was thrown open on that inauspicious morning, and
richly decorated with evergreens and the few flowers which still
lingered after the year's brighter part had passed away. Not less than
forty or fifty people were assembled in that hall; but none of the
family yet appeared among them, with the exception of Robert Woodhall,
who had entered the room, remained for a few minutes, and retired
again, explaining that some deeds and other writings had to be signed
in the small room hard by, where Lady Coldenham usually received her
guests. It is to that room which we must, in the first place, turn our
eyes, before we relate what occurred afterward in the hall when the
party was setting out for the wedding.
It was a handsome and beautifully decorated chamber, nearly square,
with a highly-ornamented ceiling of black oak. It was called in those
days the little withdrawing-room, but was at least thirty feet in
length, and seven or eight-and-twenty in width. A large table was
placed in the middle of the room, and at it was seated old Lady
Coldenham, in a large armchair. She was richly attired, and looked in
her stern dignity like a queen upon her throne. She had become awfully
pale, however, during the last few weeks. The delicate blending of
color in her cheek was gone, and the flesh looked not like marble, but
wax.
Old Lord Woodhall was seated near, with a nervous, anxious,
apprehensive expression of countenance. Two or three lawyers were
further down the table, with a number of parchments before them.
Robert Woodhall and two of his gay friends, somewhat older than
himself--loose, debauched men, with that weak, supercilious expression
of countenance which almost always gathers upon the face after a life
of promiscuous licentiousness--stood at a little distance from the
table on Lord Woodhall's right, while Margaret appeared behind, near a
window, leaning heavily on the arm of Hortensia Danvers--the only
bridemaid she had chosen, and whom she had persisted in choosing,
notwithstanding a cold sneer from Lady Coldenham, and some opposition
on the part of the poor girl's father. Hortensia was in a blaze of
beauty, and magnificently attired. Her bright eyes were flashing with
light, her brow slightly contracted, her beautifully chiseled nostrils
expanding like those of a proud horse, and her fine arching lip
quivering with feelings of indignation that hardly could be repressed.
Her arm passed across her waist, and her hand rested upon poor
Margaret's, as she leaned upon her, with a fond and comforting
pressure; but her eyes were turned forward toward Lord Woodhall and
Lady Coldenham, and seemed to express wonder as well as disgust.
Behind her and Margaret stood their two maids, and the faithful old
attendant of the unhappy bride often put her handkerchief to her eyes,
which bore marks of many tears.
Some conversation took place between the persons seated at the table
regarding the contents of the documents before them. There were some
points which Lord Woodhall seemed not to comprehend easily, and which
the lawyers did not explain clearly.
At length, however, after some minutes had passed in question and
answer, the old lord seemed to grow impatient. "Well, give me the
pen," he cried; "it does not much matter. I dare say it is all right;"
and in a bold, dashing manner, which hardly covered the trembling of
his hand, he wrote the word "Woodhall."
"Now, my lady," said one of the lawyers, addressing Lady Coldenham,
"you will have the goodness to sign this paper, and your son will sign
below."
A slight shade of hesitation seemed to pass across Lady Coldenham's
face; and though she took the pen and dipped it in the ink, she held
it suspended for a moment ere she wrote her name. The noise, perhaps,
of the opening door, which was a little behind her on the left,
hurried the act, and the paper was signed.
Robert Woodhall had already advanced to write his name after his
mother's, and had received the pen from Lady Coldenham's hand. But at
that moment Lord Coldenham himself came forward, and put his brother
aside, saying, "Stop a moment, sir."
His tone was so stern and decided that Robert drew back, and Lady
Coldenham fixed her eyes upon her eldest son with an expression of
fierce but yet apprehensive inquiry, as one may see a chained eagle,
when menaced by a child's cane, gaze at him, ready to strike, yet
watchful for the blow.
"Nonsense, Coldenham, no trash just now!" cried Robert Woodhall, with
an affected laugh.
"Trash, sir!" said Lord Coldenham, in a stern and bitter tone, which
he had never assumed in his life before; "do you suppose that I would
jest even at a moment like this? I ask you, madam," he continued,
turning to his mother, "is this to go on? There stands a poor girl,
driven by hard usage to marry a man whom she detests. This marriage
has been hurried rapidly forward for fear of the appearance of certain
unpleasant impediments. Though I wrote from a distant part of the
country, it would seem either that it was not understood how much I
knew--or that it was believed I could not get here in time--or that I
was supposed to be so base and mean as to conceal facts detrimental to
myself which could be beneficial to others. I am here, madam. Those
who have so judged me are mistaken. I ask you again, is this to go
on?"
"Yes!" said Lady Coldenham, between her closed teeth, grasping tightly
the arm of her chair. "Yes, serpent!"
"It shall go on, so help me Heaven!" cried Lord Woodhall; "I have
pledged my honor and my word, and no power on earth can shake me. She
shall be his, if I live three hours longer. I will not live perjured
and forsworn."
"Yes, generous brother," said Robert Woodhall, "it shall go on. That I
will maintain with my voice and with my sword."
"Your sword!" said Lord Coldenham, with a bitter sneer. "Those who
rest upon that had better ask Sedgemoor of its glory--But tell me,
sir, what name are you going to sign to that paper?"
"My own, of course," replied the young man.
"And what is your own?" asked his brother.
"Forbear! forbear!" shrieked Lady Coldenham.
"Forbear!--Have you forborne?" said her son, sternly; and then,
turning to Margaret, he took her hand kindly, saying, "Margaret, my
dear cousin, I ask you, shall this go on? I tell you, you are in no
degree bound to that young man; that he is not what he seems; that he
stands before you there, a lie. Speak one word, and I will end it all.
I tell you, you are not bound to him."
"I am bound by my promise to my father," replied Margaret, in a low,
still, solemn voice.
Lord Woodhall's face had been becoming redder and more red; and as his
daughter answered, he exclaimed, "And I say she shall marry him, be he
who or what he may;" and he added a fearful oath.
"Well, then, without there!" cried Lord Coldenham, raising his voice
high, and the door was immediately partly opened.
"You can not go in there, sir," said a voice, in quick accents,
without; "we are ordered to keep every one out but the family."
"Out of my way, knaves!" said a loud, rich, powerful voice, which
echoed round and round the room. "Learn that I am master here!" and,
at the same moment, the door flew wide open, and two of Lady
Coldenham's servants were cast headlong into the room.
Following them, with a firm, calm step, and a brow stern and gloomy,
came a man of some sixty years of age, above the ordinary height,
powerful in frame, and dignified in carriage. He was richly though
somewhat darkly attired, and in his hand he carried a large roll of
paper.
All eyes turned in that direction, and Lady Coldenham's with the rest.
She uttered no word--no scream; but a low groan escaped her, and her
eyes closed.
A multitude of questions were asked, and sudden exclamations uttered.
"Why, that is the old man we saw in Lincolnshire," cried Robert
Woodhall.
"God bless my life! why, I recollect you quite well, Sir Robert," said
one of the old lawyers sitting at the table.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded old Lord Woodhall, almost fiercely.
"That woman's husband!" replied Moraber, pointing to Lady Coldenham,
"otherwise Sir Robert Hardwicke, of Ormebar Castle. Take her away. She
has fainted, as well she may, at the sight of one who has forborne too
long."
"But you were supposed dead," said the lawyer who had before spoken;
"she married under a false impression. She thought you had been killed
by the Moors on the coast of Africa."
"She knew that I was a slave of the Moors," replied Sir Robert
Hardwicke, "and she amused me with hopes of ransom for three long
years after she had married Lord Coldenham, as these loving letters
will testify. Then, indeed, she thought me dead; for I discovered the
fraud, and suffered the tale of my death in captivity to go forth."
"Then I am Lord Coldenham," exclaimed Robert, with a disgusting laugh
of exultation; "for I was born more than four years after my mother's
marriage."
"Not so," replied Sir Robert Hardwicke, seating himself in the chair
from which Lady Coldenham had just been removed; "your mother's
marriage was a fraud, and, as such, invalid altogether."
"We will have proof of that," said Robert Woodhall.
"Were these letters not proof," answered the other, gravely, "the fact
of her having a monument erected to a man whom she knew to be living,
and having buried therein a wooden figure, pretending it to be a
corpse brought from beyond sea, would, methinks, be sufficient. I tell
you, sir, and I tell all, that you are simply Robert Ratcliffe--the
natural son of Catharine Ratcliffe, Lady Hardwicke, by the Earl of
Coldenham. Now let us see whether Lord Woodhall will marry his only
child to you or not."
"He promised her to me without reservation," cried Robert, vehemently.
"He did it for services I performed to him, unconnected with my birth.
He took God to witness--he pledged his honor and his faith--"
"And I will keep them sacredly!" cried Lord Woodhall, after an
instant's hesitation. "Margaret, there stands your husband: let us end
this scene. The clergyman is waiting. The guests are all prepared.
Shuffle those parchments to the dogs. My heiress can build up a new
family. It was not his fault if his mother played the fool!"
Margaret pressed her hand upon her brow, for a momentary hope had
risen up in her breast but to be extinguished. Lord Woodhall, however,
grasped her arm, saying, "Come on."
"Leave her with me, my lord," said Hortensia, sadly; "you go on with
him; we will follow."
"Come on, then, Robert," said the old lord, taking the young man's
arm. "Sir Robert Hardwicke, we leave you and your wife's eldest son to
finish as you please the fine scene you have arranged this day. This
one, at least, I will take care of."
"So be it!" said Moraber. "But methinks, in courtesy, I must grace the
wedding, seeing it is so joyful a one. Lead on, my lord; and, if the
bride comes living from the altar, we will still feast the gay company
here, in this place, where one happy marriage was celebrated some
thirty years ago. Lead on, my lord, I say."
"I will so," replied Lord Woodhall, sharply. "Come, Margaret: follow
close behind."
Thus saying, he walked on with Robert Woodhall, throwing wide the door
which led into the great hall beyond.
Margaret followed with a faint step, and a hand which Hortensia felt
trembling on her arm.
Lady Danvers whispered to her eagerly, and her last words were, "At
the altar--at the very altar! He has no claim; your promise is not to
him; you promised to wed Robert Woodhall, not this man."
But still Margaret moved on.
The gay company in the hall separated, making a sort of lane as the
bridal party passed, and several voices said, "Health and happiness to
the bride and bridegroom!"
But the cheek of Robert Woodhall, which had been flushed with
excitement, turned deadly pale a moment or two after he had entered
the hall. What was it produced the change? and why did his eyes stare
so fixedly forward? There was nothing in the way to the hall door but
an old man and a young one. But that young man was taking a step
forward, and the old one tried to hold him back in vain.
"Robert Ratcliffe, you are a knave, a liar, a villain, a cheat, a
traitor!" said Gaunt Stilling, approaching close to him and striking
him a blow.
The ladies scattered back in terror; the gentlemen gazed in surprise
without interfering; and Robert, after an instant's hesitation, laid
his hand upon his sword and drew it. The moment it was done, Gaunt
Stilling's sword was crossed with his blade.
Lord Woodhall and Robert's brother beat up the weapons ere two passes
had been exchanged; but as they did so, Robert Woodhall fell back upon
the pavement; and then Gaunt Stilling thrust his sword into the
sheath, and dropped his hands by his side, for any one to take him who
would.
The confusion that succeeded was indescribable. Some rushed round the
fallen man and raised him up, gazing on his face, or striving to
stanch the bleeding of a small wound on the right side, which would
have seemed of no great importance, had not the torrent of gore which
poured from it told how deep the avenging blade had gone. Those who
gazed upon his face soon saw that the attempt to keep in the flood of
life was vain. The unhappy young man's eyes rolled in his head; but
they were meaningless--lifeless. Their motion was merely convulsive,
as probably were also the gasping efforts he made as if to speak.
Others rushed upon his slayer and seized him roughly, while Stilling's
father approached slowly and exclaimed, "Oh, my son, what have you
done?"
To the latter he answered sternly, "Avenged my sister, old
man--avenged her whom he deceived, and wronged, and killed by
falsehood. The serpent, whom your weak compliance with his mother's
fraud warmed into venomous power, stung your own child to the death,
and your other child has crushed him."
Then turning sharply upon those who had laid hands upon him, he
shook them off, saying, "What need to seize a man who seeks not to
escape--who is neither ashamed of the deed he has done, nor afraid of
its consequences? Stand back, and let me look upon the villain!" and,
striding forward, he gazed upon the face of Robert Woodhall, while the
dead man's brother supported the flaccid form partly on his knee, and
Sir Robert Hardwicke held his hand upon the pulse.
"Ay, young rebel," said Gaunt Stilling, looking sternly in his face,
"I warned thee; but thou wouldst not be warned: thou hadst timely
notice to forbear--thou hadst timely notice to keep thy word with my
poor Kate. But thou must wed a great lady, must thou? Thou must have
the broad lands of Woodhall. Thou must leave Kate Stilling to die of
grief and shame, after having poisoned her mind against father and
brother. But I warned thee--I warned thee long ago; and thou didst
contrive, too, to make me take the life of thy noble cousin--believing
that one who bore the name of Woodhall was bold enough to fight his
rival manfully, and not to put the peril upon another. That is the
only thing I regret in life. You stare," he continued sharply, turning
to one of the guests; "do you suppose that, standing here, and seeing
him be there--a piece of carrion--with his soul fresh flown to another
world, whither I must soon follow to stand before the same judgment
seat, that I feel the least regret, remorse, or shame for having sent
him thither? No, man, no. I am proud of the deed--Society is my
debtor--God has taken vengeance by my hand; and only timely did it
come. Look at that lady there," and he pointed to Margaret, who
stood trembling like an aspen leaf hard by, "trapped to his snares
by the most deceitful artifices--loathing him, yet bound to him by
lie-obtained promises--on the point of sacrificing happiness, and life
itself, rather than break her plighted word. Look at that old man,"
and he pointed to Lord Woodhall, "whose heart would have been one
everlasting curse--a core of fire in his bosom, if he had been
suffered to drag his daughter to the altar to unite her fate to that
reprobate. These have I saved by that one blow; but not only these.
All you around me owe me much. From such a pitiful villain as
this--from such a dark and secret plotter, who did his blackest deeds
by other men's hands, no heart is safe, no home is sacred. Hark you,
Robert Ratcliffe! I come after you very speedily. Prepare to meet me
before the throne of the great Judge--the God who judges the heart,
and knows whether mine has been upright and honest, even in this last
deed. To Him I appeal my cause; let Him judge between me and thee."
He spoke so vehemently, with such a rapid flow of words and sternness
of aspect, that no one even dreamed of interrupting him. All seemed
horror-struck--paralyzed, as it is called, by the terrible event which
had just taken place and the strong passion of the young man's
demeanor.
At length, however, Sir Robert Hardwicke spoke, letting drop Robert
Ratcliffe's hand lifeless from his own. "Thou speakest to the dead,
unhappy young man," he said. "For many years thou didst my bidding
well in every thing. Alas! why didst thou not obey unto the end? But
it was thy fate: in vain I sent thee to a foreign land--the doom was
to be fulfilled."
"It was my fate," answered Gaunt Stilling, "and I thank God for it!
Now take me hence. Put me where you will. I know what I have to
undergo, and I will meet it as a man. This heart may throb as if it
would burst, but it shall never quail."
They laid hands upon him gently, and led him away unresisting. The
corpse of Robert Ratcliffe was taken up by the servants, and removed
quietly to another chamber. The guests gazed strangely upon each
other; and those the least familiar with the family began to drop away
one by one, begging to be excused to Lady Coldenham. These words of
ceremony had been repeated once or twice to her eldest son, who had
merely bowed coldly, till one flippant woman added, with an inquiring
air, "though we have not had the honor of seeing her ladyship."
"There is no such person as Lady Coldenham," said the young man,
impatiently; and the news was whispered round that Lady Coldenham was
dead, but that this strange family had been going to celebrate the
marriage even while she lay a corpse in the house.
There was more truth in the rumor than rumors usually have; for Lady
Coldenham never woke completely from the terrible fit of fainting into
which she had fallen. She once made an effort, as if to get up from
the bed on which they had laid her; and one of the servants raised her
suddenly; but she instantly fell back, and expired without a word.
This event had already taken place when her son spoke, but he knew it
not; and, turning his eyes from the departing guests, he looked round
for one who had greatly moved his interest that day.
Margaret was seated by this time in a distant corner of the room, with
her head leaning on Hortensia's shoulder, and her handkerchief pressed
upon her eyes. The young man approached her kindly (while another and
another of the guests took their departure in silence), and said, "Be
comforted, Margaret--be comforted, my dear cousin--for you are still
my cousin Margaret. These are sad and terrible scenes for a young and
gentle thing like you; but you have borne yourself nobly and well; and
I trust a better Lord Coldenham will console and repay you for all you
have suffered on his account."
Margaret started, and gazed in his face.
"Ay, Margaret!" he said. "In the common course of events, Ralph
Woodhall will soon be Lord Coldenham, as his father now is. For
myself, I am so no longer; and what will become of me I know not. My
mother's small property will but be sufficient for herself; but I have
my sword unstained, and my heart unburdened, and I too can carve a way
for myself in the world."
"Young man," said a voice close to him, while a hand was laid upon his
arm, "I have not put you to these bitter trials without motive. You
are my son, if you will be so, and heir of all that I possess. Your
mother I once loved well, till her imperious temper drove me forth to
wander over the world. In her ambition she soon forgot and hated me. I
became a captive, a slave, a favorite, a rich merchant, as is often
the case in Eastern lands. The liberty which she would not seek for
me, I repurchased by my own industry and skill. This estate of
Ormebar, good as it is in these lands, is but small to what I possess.
If you have lost rank and station, with me you may find affluence and
peace; and I promise you, after all I have seen of your noble conduct
in such trying circumstances, that you shall ever find the affection
of a parent also."
The young man grasped his hand, but bent his head, and something like
a tear stained his cheek.
Old Lord Woodhall had remained nearly alone in the middle of the room.
Some of the guests had come up and spoken to him ere they departed;
but he seemed hardly to notice or to hear them, remaining with his
eyes bent upon the ground and his arms crossed upon his chest.
Suddenly something seemed to move him. He strode across the hall with
a rapid step, and took Margaret's hands in his.
"Forgive me, my child, forgive me!" he said. "Henceforth your fate is
at your own disposal. Your father will never seek to mar it again."