It was long ere Emily Hastings slept. There was a bright moonlight;
but she sat not up by the window, looking out at the moon in love-lorn
guise. No, she laid her down in bed, as soon as the toilet of the
night was concluded, and having left the window-shutters open, the
light of the sweet, calm brightener of the night poured in a long,
tranquil ray across the floor. She watched it, with her head resting
on her hand for a long time. Her fancy was very busy with it, as by
slow degrees it moved its place, now lying like a silver carpet by her
bedside, now crossing the floor far away, and painting the opposite
wall. Her thoughts then returned to other things, and whether she
would or not, Marlow took a share in them. She remembered things that
he had said, his looks came back to her mind, she seemed to converse
with him again, running over in thought all that had passed in the
morning.
She was no castle-builder; there were no schemes, plans, designs, in
her mind; no airy structures of future happiness employed fancy as
their architect. She was happy in her own heart; and imagination, like
a bee, extracted sweetness from the flowers of the present.
Sweet Emily, how beautiful she looked, as she lay there, and made a
night-life for herself in the world of her own thoughts!
She could not sleep, she knew not why. Indeed, she did not wish or try
to sleep. She never did when sleep did not come naturally; but always
remained calmly waiting for the soother, till slumber dropped uncalled
and stilly upon her eyelids.
One hour--two hours--the moonbeam had retired far into a corner of the
room, the household was all still; there was no sound but the barking
of a distant farm-dog, such a long way off; that it reached the ear
more like an echo than a sound, and the crowing of a cock, not much
more near.
Suddenly, her door opened, and a figure entered, bearing a small
night-lamp. Emily started, and gazed. She was pot much given to fear,
and she uttered not a sound; for which command over herself she was
very thankful, when, in the tall, graceful form before her, she
recognized Mrs. Hazleton. She was dressed merely as she had risen from
her bed: her rich black hair bound up under her snowy cap, her long
night-gown trailing on the ground, and her feet bare. Yet she looked
perhaps more beautiful than in jewels and ermine. Her eyes were not
fixed and motionless, though there was a certain sort of deadness in
them. Neither were her movements stiff and mechanical, as we often see
in the representations of somnambulism on the stage. On the contrary,
they were free and graceful. She looked neither like Mrs. Siddons nor
any other who ever acted what she really was. Those who have seen the
state know better. She was walking in her sleep, however: that strange
act of a life apart from waking life--that mystery of mysteries, when
the soul seems severed from all things on earth but the body which it
inhabits--when the mind sleeps, but the spirit wakes--when the animal
and the spiritual live together, yet the intellectual lies dead for
the time.
Emily comprehended her condition at once, and waited and watched,
having heard that it is dangerous to wake suddenly a person in such a
state. Mrs. Hazleton walked on past her bed towards a door at the
other side of the room, but stopped opposite the toilet-table, took up
a ribbon that was lying on it, and held it in her hand for a moment.
"I hate him!" she said aloud; "but strangle him--oh, no! That would
not do. It would leave a blue mark. I hate him, and her too! They
can't help it--they must fall into the trap."
Emily rose quietly from her bed, and advancing with a soft step, took
Mrs. Hazleton's hand gently. She made no resistance, only gazing at
her with a look not utterly devoid of meaning. "A strange world!" she
said, "where people must live with those they hate!" and suffered
Emily to lead her towards the door. She showed some reluctance to pass
it, however, and turned slowly towards the other door. Her beautiful
young guide led her thither, and opened it; then went on through the
neighboring room, which was vacant, Mrs. Hazleton saying, as they
passed the large bed canopied with velvet, "My mother died there--ah,
me!" The next door opened into the corridor; but Emily knew not where
her hostess slept, till perceiving a light streaming out upon the
floor from a room near the end, she guided Mrs. Hazleton's steps
thither, rightly judging that it must be the chamber she had just
left. There she quietly induced her to go to bed again, taking the
lamp from her hand, and bending down her sweet, innocent face, gave
her a gentle kiss.
"Asp!" said Mrs. Hazleton, turning away; but Emily remained with her
for several minutes, till the eyes closed, the breathing became calm
and regular, and natural sleep succeeded to the strange state into
which she had fallen.
Then returning to her own room, Emily once more sought her bed; but
though the moonlight had now departed, she was farther from sleep than
ever.
Mrs. Hazleton's words still rang in her ears. She thought them very
strange; but yet she had heard--it was indeed a common superstition in
those days--that people talking in their sleep expressed feelings
exactly the reverse of those which they really entertained; and her
good, bright heart was glad to believe. She would not for the world
have thought that the fair form, and gentle, dignified manners of her
friend could shroud feelings so fierce and vindictive as those which
had breathed forth in the utterance of that one word, "hate." It
seemed to her impossible that Mrs. Hazleton could hate any thing, and
she resolved to believe so still. But yet the words rang in her ears,
as I have said. She had been somewhat agitated and alarmed, too,
though less than many might have been, and more than an hour passed
before her sweet eyes closed.
On the morning of the following day, Emily was somewhat late at
breakfast; and she found Mrs. Hazleton down, and looking bright and
beautiful as the morning. It was evident that she had not even the
faintest recollection of what had occurred in the night--that it was a
portion of her life apart, between which and waking existence there
was no communication open. Emily determined to take no notice of her
sleep-walking; and she was wise, for I have always found, that to be
informed of their strange peculiarity leaves an awful and painful
impression on the real somnambulists--a feeling of being unlike the
rest of human beings, of having a sort of preternatural existence,
over which their human reason can hold no control. They fear
themselves--they fear their own acts--perhaps their own words, when
the power is gone from that familiar mind, which is more or less the
servant, if not the slave, of will, and when the whole mixed being,
flesh, and mind, and spirit, is under the sole government of that
darkest, least known, most mysterious personage of the three--the
soul.
Mrs. Hazleton scolded her jestingly for late rising, and asked if she
was always such a lie-abed. Emily replied that she was not, but
usually very matutinal in her habits. "But the truth is, dear Mrs.
Hazleton," she added, "I did not sleep well last night."
"Indeed," said her fair hostess, with a gay smile; "who were you
thinking of to keep your young eyes open?"
"Of you," answered Emily, simply; and Mrs. Hazleton asked no more
questions; for, perhaps, she did not wish Emily to think of her too
much. Immediately after breakfast the carriage was ordered for a long
drive.
"I will give you so large a dose of mountain air," said Mrs. Hazleton,
"that it shall insure you a better night's rest than any narcotic
could procure, Emily. We will go and visit Ellendon Castle, far in the
wilds, some sixteen miles hence."
Emily was well pleased with the prospect, and they set out together,
both apparently equally prepared to enjoy every thing they met with.
The drive was a long one in point of time, for not only were the
carriages more cumbrous and heavy in those days, but the road
continued ascending nearly the whole way. Sometimes, indeed, a short
run down into a gentle valley released the horses from the continual
tug on the collar, but it was very brief, and the ascent commenced
almost immediately. Beautiful views over the scenery round presented
themselves at every turn; and Emily, who had all the spirit of a
painter in her heart, looked forth from the window enchanted.
Mrs. Hazleton marked her enjoyment with great satisfaction; for either
by study or intuition she had a deep knowledge of the springs and
sources of human emotions, and she knew well that one enthusiasm
always disposes to another. Nay, more, she knew that whatever is
associated in the mind with pleasant scenes is usually pleasing, and
she had plotted the meeting between Emily and him she intended to be
her lover with considerable pains to produce that effect. Nature
seemed to have been a sharer in her schemes. The day could not have
been better chosen. There was the light fresh air, the few floating
clouds, the merry dancing gleams upon hill and dale, a light,
momentary shower of large, jewel-like drops, the fragment of a broken
rainbow painting the distant verge of heaven.
At length the summit of the hills was reached; and Mrs. Hazleton told
her sweet companion to look out there, ordering the carriage at the
same time to stop. It was indeed a scene well worthy of the gaze. Far
spreading out beneath the eye lay a wide basin in the hills, walled
in, as it were, by those tall summits, here and there broken by a
crag. The ground sloped gently down from the spot at which the
carriage paused, so that the whole expanse was open to the eye, and
over the short brown herbage, through which a purple gleam from the
yet unblossomed heath shone out, the lights and shades seemed sporting
in mad glee. All was indeed solitary, uncultivated, and even barren,
except where, in the very centre of the wide hollow, appeared a number
of trees, not grouped together in a wood, but scattered over a
considerable space of ground, as if the remnants of some old
deer-park, and over their tall tops rose up the ruined keep of some
ancient stronghold of races passed away, with here and there another
tower or pinnacle appearing, and long lines of grassy mounds, greener
than the rest of the landscape, glancing between the stems of the
older trees, or bearing up in picturesque confusion their own growth
of wild, fantastic, seedling ashes.
By the name of the spot, Ellendon, which means strong-hill, I believe
it is more than probable that the Anglo-Saxons had here some forts
before the conquest; but the ruin which now presented itself to the
eyes of Emily and Mrs. Hazleton was evidently of a later date and of
Norman construction.
Here, probably, some proud baron of the times of Henry, Stephen, or
Matilda, had built his nest on high, perchance to overawe the Saxon
churls around him, perhaps to set at defiance the royal power itself.
Here the merry chase had swept the hills; here revelry and pageantry
had checkered a life of fierce strife and haughty oppression. Such
scenes, at least such thoughts, presented themselves to the
imaginative mind of Emily, like the dreamy gleams that skimmed in gold
and purple before her eyes; but the effect of any strong feeling,
whether of enjoyment or of grief, was always to make her silent; and
she gazed without uttering a word.
Mrs. Hazleton, however, understood some points in her character, and
by the long fixed look from beneath the dark sweeping lashes of her
eye, by the faint sweet smile that gently curled her young, beautiful
lip, and by the sort of gasping sigh after she had gazed breathless
for some moments, she knew how intense was that gentle creature's
delight in a scene, which to many an eye would have offered no
peculiar charm.
She would not suffer it to lose any of its first effect, and after a
brief pause ordered the carriage to drive on. Still Emily continued to
look onwards out of carriage-window, and as the road turned in the
descent, the castle and the ancient trees grouped themselves
differently every minute. At length, as they came nearer, she said,
turning to Mrs. Hazleton, "There seems to be a man standing at the
very highest point of the old keep."
"He must be bold indeed," replied her companion, looking out also.
"When you come close to it, dear Emily, you will see that it requires
the foot of a goat and the heart of a lion to climb up there over the
rough, disjointed, tottering stones. Good Heaven, I hope he will not
fall!"
Emily closed her eyes. "It is very foolish," she said.
"Oh, men have pleasure in such feats of daring," answered Mrs.
Hazleton, "which we women cannot understand. He is coming down again
as steadily as if he were treading a ball-room. I wish that tree were
out of the way."
In two or three minutes the carriage passed between two rows of old
and somewhat decayed oaks, and stopped between the fine gate of the
castle, covered with ivy, and rugged with the work of Time's too
artistic hand, and a building which, if it did not detract from the
picturesque beauty of the scene, certainly deprived it of all romance.
There, just opposite the entrance, stood a small house, built
apparently of stones stolen from the ruins, and bearing on a pole
projecting from the front a large blue sign-board, on which was rudely
painted in yellow, the figure of what we now call a French horn, while
underneath appeared a long inscription to the following effect:
"John Buttercross, at the sign of the Bugle Horn, sells wine and aqua
vitæ, and good lodgings to man and horse. N. B. Donkeys to be found
within."
Emily laughed, and in an instant came down to common earth.
Mrs. Hazleton wished both John Buttercross and his sign in one fire or
another; though she could not help owning that such a house in so
remote a place might be a great convenience to visitors like herself.
She took the matter quietly, however, returning Emily's gay look with
one somewhat rueful, and saying, "Ah, dear girl, all very mundane and
unromantic, but depend upon it the house has proved a blessing often
to poor wanderers in bleak weather over these wild hills; and we
ourselves may find it not so unpleasant by and by when Paul has spread
our luncheon in the parlor, and we look out of its little casement at
the old ruin there."
Thus saying, she alighted from the carriage, gave some orders to her
servants, and to an hostler who was walking up and down a remarkably
beautiful horse, which seemed to have been ridden hard, and then
leaning on Emily's arm, walked up the slope towards the gate.
Barbican and outer walls were gone--fallen long ago into the ditch,
and covered with the all-receiving earth and a green coat of turf. You
could but tell were they lay, by the undulations of the ground, and
the grassy hillock here and there. The great gate still stood firm,
however, with its two tall towers, standing like giant wardens to
guard the entrance. There were the machicolated parapets, the long
loopholes mantled with ivy, the outsloping basement, against which the
battering ram might have long played in vain, the family escutcheon
with the arms crumbled from it, the portcullis itself showing its iron
teeth above the traveller's head. It was the most perfect part of the
building; and when the two ladies entered the great court the scene of
ruin was more complete. Many a tower had fallen, leaving large gaps in
the inner wall; the chapel with only one beautiful window left, and
the fragments of two others, showing where the fine line had run, lay
mouldering on the right, and at some distance in front appeared the
tall majestic keep, the lower rooms of which were in tolerable
preservation, though the roof had fallen in to the second story, and
the airy summit had lost its symmetry by the destruction of two entire
sides. Short green turf covered the whole court, except where some
mass of stone, more recently fallen than others, still stood out bare
and gray; but a crop of brambles and nettles bristled up near the
chapel, and here and there a tree had planted itself on the tottering
ruins of the walls.
Mrs. Hazleton walked straight towards the entrance of the keep along a
little path sufficiently well worn to show that the castle had
frequent visitors, and was within a few steps of the doorway, when a
figure issued forth which to say sooth did not at all surprise her to
behold. She gave a little start, however, saying in a low tone to
Emily, "That must be our climbing friend whose neck we thought in such
peril a short time since."
The gentleman--for such estate was indicated by his dress, which was
dark and sober, but well made and costly--took a step or two slowly
forward, verging a little to the side as if to let two ladies pass
whom he did not know; but then suddenly he stopped, gazed for an
instant with a well assumed look of surprise and inquiry, and then
hurried rapidly towards them, raising hie hat not ungracefully, while
Mrs. Hazleton exclaimed, "Ah, how fortunate! Here is a friend who
doubtless can tell us all about the ruins."
At the same moment Emily recognized the young man whom she had found
accidentally wounded in her father's park.