Вальтер Скотт
The Black Dwarf
CHAPTER XI
Three ruffians seized me yester morn,
Alas! a maiden most forlorn;
They choked my cries with wicked might,
And bound me on a palfrey white:
As sure as Heaven shall pity me,
I cannot tell what men they be.
– CHRISTABELLE.
The course of our story must here revert a little, to detail the circumstances which had placed Miss Vere in the unpleasant situation from which she was unexpectedly, and indeed unintentionally liberated, by the appearance of Earnscliff and Elliot, with their friends and followers, before the Tower of Westburnflat.
On the morning preceding the night in which Hobbie’s house was plundered and burnt, Miss Vere was requested by her father to accompany him in a walk through a distant part of the romantic grounds which lay round his castle of Ellieslaw. “To hear was to obey,” in the true style of Oriental despotism; but Isabella trembled in silence while she followed her father through rough paths, now winding by the side of the river, now ascending the cliffs which serve for its banks. A single servant, selected perhaps for his stupidity, was the only person who attended them. From her father’s silence, Isabella little doubted that he had chosen this distant and sequestered scene to resume the argument which they had so frequently maintained upon the subject of Sir Frederick’s addresses, and that he was meditating in what manner he should most effectually impress upon her the necessity of receiving him as her suitor. But her fears seemed for some time to be unfounded. The only sentences which her father from time to time addressed to her, respected the beauties of the romantic landscape through which they strolled, and which varied its features at every step. To these observations, although they seemed to come from a heart occupied by more gloomy as well as more important cares, Isabella endeavoured to answer in a manner as free and unconstrained as it was possible for her to assume, amid the involuntary apprehensions which crowded upon her imagination.
Sustaining with mutual difficulty a desultory conversation, they at length gained the centre of a small wood, composed of large oaks, intermingled with birches, mountain-ashes, hazel, holly, and a variety of underwood. The boughs of the tall trees met closely above, and the underwood filled up each interval between their trunks below. The spot on which they stood was rather more open; still, however, embowered under the natural arcade of tall trees, and darkened on the sides for a space around by a great and lively growth of copse-wood and bushes.
“And here, Isabella,” said Mr. Vere, as he pursued the conversation, so often resumed, so often dropped, “here I would erect an altar to Friendship.”
“To Friendship, sir!” said Miss Vere; “and why on this gloomy and sequestered spot, rather than elsewhere?”
“O, the propriety of the LOCALE is easily vindicated,” replied her father, with a sneer. “You know, Miss Vere (for you, I am well aware, are a learned young lady), you know, that the Romans were not satisfied with embodying, for the purpose of worship, each useful quality and moral virtue to which they could give a name; but they, moreover, worshipped the same under each variety of titles and attributes which could give a distinct shade, or individual character, to the virtue in question. Now, for example, the Friendship to whom a temple should be here dedicated, is not Masculine Friendship, which abhors and despises duplicity, art, and disguise; but Female Friendship, which consists in little else than a mutual disposition on the part of the friends, as they call themselves, to abet each other in obscure fraud and petty intrigue.”
“You are severe, sir,” said Miss Vere.
“Only just,” said her father; “a humble copier I am from nature, with the advantage of contemplating two such excellent studies as Lucy Ilderton and yourself.”
“If I have been unfortunate enough to offend, sir, I can conscientiously excuse Miss Ilderton from being either my counsellor or confidante.”
“Indeed! how came you, then,” said Mr. Vere, “by the flippancy of speech, and pertness of argument, by which you have disgusted Sir Frederick, and given me of late such deep offence?”
“If my manner has been so unfortunate as to displease you, sir, it is impossible for me to apologize too deeply, or too sincerely; but I cannot confess the same contrition for having answered Sir Frederick flippantly when he pressed me rudely. Since he forgot I was a lady, it was time to show him that I am at least a woman.”
“Reserve, then, your pertness for those who press you on the topic, Isabella,” said her father coldly; “for my part, I am weary of the subject, and will never speak upon it again.”
“God bless you, my dear father,” said Isabella, seizing his reluctant hand “there is nothing you can impose on me, save the task of listening to this man’s persecution, that I will call, or think, a hardship.”
“You are very obliging, Miss Vere, when it happens to suit you to be dutiful,” said her unrelenting father, forcing himself at the same time from the affectionate grasp of her hand; “but henceforward, child, I shall save myself the trouble of offering you unpleasant advice on any topic. You must look to yourself.”
At this moment four ruffians rushed upon them. Mr. Vere and his servant drew their hangers, which it was the fashion of the time to wear, and attempted to defend themselves and protect Isabella. But while each of them was engaged by an antagonist, she was forced into the thicket by the two remaining villains, who placed her and themselves on horses which stood ready behind the copse-wood. They mounted at the same time, and, placing her between them, set of at a round gallop, holding the reins of her horse on each side. By many an obscure and winding path, over dale and down, through moss and moor, she was conveyed to the tower of Westburnflat, where she remained strictly watched, but not otherwise ill-treated, under the guardianship of the old woman, to whose son that retreat belonged. No entreaties could prevail upon the hag to give Miss Vere any information on the object of her being carried forcibly off, and confined in this secluded place. The arrival of Earnscliff, with a strong party of horsemen, before the tower, alarmed the robber. As he had already directed Grace Armstrong to be restored to her friends, it did not occur to him that this unwelcome visit was on her account; and seeing at the head of the party, Earnscliff, whose attachment to Miss Vere was whispered in the country, he doubted not that her liberation was the sole object of the attack upon his fastness. The dread of personal consequences compelled him to deliver up his prisoner in the manner we have already related.
At the moment the tramp of horses was heard which carried off the daughter of Ellieslaw, her father fell to the earth, and his servant, a stout young fellow, who was gaining ground on the ruffian with whom he had been engaged, left the combat to come to his master’s assistance, little doubting that he had received a mortal wound, Both the villains immediately desisted from farther combat, and, retreating into the thicket, mounted their horses, and went off at full speed after their companions. Meantime, Dixon had the satisfaction to find Mr. Vere not only alive, but unwounded. He had overreached himself, and stumbled, it seemed, over the root of a tree, in making too eager a blow at his antagonist. The despair he felt at his daughter’s disappearance, was, in Dixon’s phrase, such as would have melted the heart of a whin stane, and he was so much exhausted by his feelings, and the vain researches which he made to discover the track of the ravishers, that a considerable time elapsed ere he reached home, and communicated the alarm to his domestics.
All his conduct and gestures were those of a desperate man.
“Speak not to me, Sir Frederick,” he said impatiently; “You are no father – she was my child, an ungrateful one! I fear, but still my child – my only child. Where is Miss Ilderton? she must know something of this. It corresponds with what I was informed of her schemes. Go, Dixon, call Ratcliffe here Let him come without a minute’s delay.” The person he had named at this moment entered the room.
“I say, Dixon,” continued Mr. Vere, in an altered tone, “let Mr. Ratcliffe know, I beg the favour of his company on particular business. – Ah! my dear sir,” he proceeded, as if noticing him for the first time, “you are the very man whose advice can be of the utmost service to me in this cruel extremity.”
“What has happened, Mr. Vere, to discompose you?” said Mr, Ratcliffe, gravely; and while the Laird of Ellieslaw details to him, with the most animated gestures of grief and indignation, the singular adventure of the morning, we shall take the opportunity to inform our readers of the relative circumstances in which these gentlemen stood to each other.
In early youth, Mr. Vere of Ellieslaw had been remarkable for a career of dissipation, which, in advanced life, he had exchanged for the no less destructive career of dark and turbulent ambition. In both cases, he had gratified the predominant passion without respect to the diminution of his private fortune, although, where such inducements were wanting, he was deemed close, avaricious, and grasping. His affairs being much embarrassed by his earlier extravagance, he went to England, where he was understood to have formed a very advantageous matrimonial connexion. He was many years absent from his family estate. Suddenly and unexpectedly he returned a widower, bringing with him his daughter, then a girl of about ten years old. From this moment his expense seemed unbounded, in the eyes of the simple inhabitants of his native mountains. It was supposed he must necessarily have plunged himself deeply in debt. Yet he continued to live in the same lavish expense, until some months before the commencement of our narrative, when the public opinion of his embarrassed circumstances was confirmed, by the residence of Mr. Ratcliffe at Ellieslaw Castle, who, by the tacit consent, though obviously to the great displeasure, of the lord of the mansion, seemed, from the moment of his arrival, to assume and exercise a predominant and unaccountable influence in the management of his private affairs.
Mr. Ratcliffe was a grave, steady, reserved man, in an advanced period of life. To those with whom he had occasion to speak upon business, he appeared uncommonly well versed in all its forms. With others he held little communication; but in any casual intercourse, or conversation, displayed the powers of an active and well-informed mind. For some time before taking up his final residence at the castle, he had been an occasional visitor there, and was at such times treated by Mr. Vere (contrary to his general practice towards those who were inferior to him in rank) with marked attention, and even deference. Yet his arrival always appeared to be an embarrassment to his host, and his departure a relief; so that, when he became a constant inmate of the family, it was impossible not to observe indications of the displeasure with which Mr. Vere regarded his presence. Indeed, their intercourse formed a singular mixture of confidence and constraint. Mr. Vere’s most important affairs were regulated by Mr. Ratcliffe; and although he was none of those indulgent men of fortune, who, too indolent to manage their own business, are glad to devolve it upon another, yet, in many instances, he was observed to give up his own judgment, and submit to the contrary opinions which Mr. Ratcliffe did not hesitate distinctly to express.
Nothing seemed to vex Mr. Vere more than when strangers indicated any observation of the state of tutelage under which he appeared to labour. When it was noticed by Sir Frederick, or any of his intimates, he sometimes repelled their remarks haughtily and indignantly, and sometimes endeavoured to evade them, by saying, with a forced laugh, “That Ratcliffe knew his own importance, but that he was the most honest and skilful fellow in the world; and that it would be impossible for him to manage his English affairs without his advice and assistance.” Such was the person who entered the room at the moment Mr. Vere was summoning him to his presence, and who now heard with surprise, mingled with obvious incredulity, the hasty narrative of what had befallen Isabella.
Her father concluded, addressing Sir Frederick and the other gentlemen, who stood around in astonishment, “And now, my friends, you see the most unhappy father in Scotland. Lend me your assistance, gentlemen – give me your advice, Mr. Ratcliffe. I am incapable of acting, or thinking, under the unexpected violence of such a blow.”
“Let us take our horses, call our attendants, and scour the country in pursuit of the villains,” said Sir Frederick.
“Is there no one whom you can suspect,” said Ratcliffe, gravely, “of having some motive for this strange crime? These are not the days of romance, when ladies are carried off merely for their beauty.”
“I fear,” said Mr. Vere, “I can too well account for this strange incident. Read this letter, which Miss Lucy Ilderton thought fit to address from my house of Ellieslaw to young Mr. Earnscliff; whom, of all men, I have a hereditary right to call my enemy. You see she writes to him as the confidant of a passion which he has the assurance to entertain for my daughter; tells him she serves his cause with her friend very ardently, but that he has a friend in the garrison who serves him yet more effectually. Look particularly at the pencilled passages, Mr. Ratcliffe, where this meddling girl recommends bold measures, with an assurance that his suit would be successful anywhere beyond the bounds of the barony of Ellieslaw.”
“And you argue, from this romantic letter of a very romantic young lady, Mr. Vere,” said Ratcliffe, “that young Earnscliff has carried off your daughter, and committed a very great and criminal act of violence, on no better advice and assurance than that of Miss Lucy Ilderton?”
“What else can I think?” said Ellieslaw.
“What else CAN you think?” said Sir Frederick; “or who else could have any motive for committing such a crime?”
“Were that the best mode of fixing the guilt,” said Mr. Ratcliffe, calmly, “there might easily be pointed out persons to whom such actions are more congenial, and who have also sufficient motives of instigation. Supposing it were judged advisable to remove Miss Vere to some place in which constraint might be exercised upon her inclinations to a degree which cannot at present be attempted under the roof of Ellieslaw Castle – What says Sir Frederick Langley to that supposition?”
“I say,” returned Sir Frederick, “that although Mr. Vere may choose to endure in Mr. Ratcliffe freedoms totally inconsistent with his situation in life, I will not permit such license of innuendo, by word or look, to be extended to me, with impunity.”
“And I say,” said young Mareschal of Mareschal-Wells, who was also a guest at the castle, “that you are all stark mad to be standing wrangling here, instead of going in pursuit of the ruffians.”
“I have ordered off the domestics already in the track most likely to overtake them,” said Mr. Vere “if you will favour me with your company, we will follow them, and assist in the search.”
The efforts of the party were totally unsuccessful, probably because Ellieslaw directed the pursuit to proceed in the direction of Earnscliff Tower, under the supposition that the owner would prove to be the author of the violence, so that they followed a direction diametrically opposite to that in which the ruffians had actually proceeded. In the evening they returned, harassed and out of spirits. But other guests had, in the meanwhile, arrived at the castle; and, after the recent loss sustained by the owner had been related, wondered at, and lamented, the recollection of it was, for the present, drowned in the discussion of deep political intrigues, of which the crisis and explosion were momentarily looked for.
Several of the gentlemen who took part in this divan were Catholics, and all of them stanch Jacobites, whose hopes were at present at the highest pitch, as an invasion, in favour of the Pretender, was daily expected from France, which Scotland, between the defenceless state of its garrisons and fortified places, and the general disaffection of the inhabitants, was rather prepared to welcome than to resist. Ratcliffe, who neither sought to assist at their consultations on this subject, nor was invited to do so, had, in the meanwhile, retired to his own apartment. Miss Ilderton was sequestered from society in a sort of honourable confinement, “until,” said Mr. Vere, “she should be safely conveyed home to her father’s house,” an opportunity for which occurred on the following day.
The domestics could not help thinking it remarkable how soon the loss of Miss Vere, and the strange manner in which it had happened, seemed to be forgotten by the other guests at the castle. They knew not, that those the most interested in her fate were well acquainted with the cause of her being carried off, and the place of her retreat; and that the others, in the anxious and doubtful moments which preceded the breaking forth of a conspiracy, were little accessible to any feelings but what arose immediately out of their own machinations.
CHAPTER XII
Some one way, some another – Do you know
Where we may apprehend her?
The researches after Miss Vere were (for the sake of appearances, perhaps) resumed on the succeeding day, with similar bad success, and the party were returning towards Ellieslaw in the evening.
“It is singular,” said Mareschal to Ratcliffe, “that four horsemen and a female prisoner should have passed through the country without leaving the slightest trace of their passage. One would think they had traversed the air, or sunk through the ground.”
“Men may often,” answered Ratcliffe, “arrive at the knowledge of that which is, from discovering that which is not. We have now scoured every road, path, and track leading from the castle, in all the various points of the compass, saving only that intricate and difficult pass which leads southward down the Westburn, and through the morasses.”
“And why have we not examined that?” said Mareschal.
“O, Mr. Vere can best answer that question,” replied his companion, dryly.
“Then I will ask it instantly,” said Mareschal; and, addressing Mr. Vere, “I am informed, sir,” said he, “there is a path we have not examined, leading by Westburnflat.”
“O,” said Sir Frederick, laughing, “we know the owner of Westburnflat well – a wild lad, that knows little difference between his neighbour’s goods and his own; but, withal, very honest to his principles: he would disturb nothing belonging to Ellieslaw.”
“Besides,” said Mr. Vere, smiling mysteriously, “he had other tow on his distaff last night. Have you not heard young Elliot of the Heugh-foot has had his house burnt, and his cattle driven away, because he refused to give up his arms to some honest men that think of starting for the king?”
The company smiled upon each other, as at hearing of an exploit which favoured their own views.
“Yet, nevertheless,” resumed Mareschal, “I think we ought to ride in this direction also, otherwise we shall certainly be blamed for our negligence.”
No reasonable objection could be offered to this proposal, and the party turned their horses’ heads towards Westburnflat.
They had not proceeded very far in that direction when the trampling of horses was heard, and a small body of riders were perceived advancing to meet them.
“There comes Earnscliff,” said Mareschal; “I know his bright bay with the star in his front.”
“And there is my daughter along with him,” exclaimed Vere, furiously. “Who shall call my suspicions false or injurious now? Gentlemen – friends – lend me the assistance of your swords for the recovery of my child.”
He unsheathed his weapon, and was imitated by Sir Frederick and several of the party, who prepared to charge those that were advancing towards them. But the greater part hesitated.
“They come to us in all peace and security,” said Mareschal-Wells; “let us first hear what account they give us of this mysterious affair. If Miss Vere has sustained the slightest insult or injury from Earnscliff, I will be first to revenge her; but let us hear what they say.”
“You do me wrong by your suspicions, Mareschal,” continued Vere; “you are the last I would have expected to hear express them.”
“You injure yourself, Ellieslaw, by your violence, though the cause may excuse it.”
He then advanced a little before the rest, and called out, with a loud voice, – “Stand, Mr. Earnscliff; or do you and Miss Vere advance alone to meet us. You are charged with having carried that lady off from her father’s house; and we are here in arms to shed our best blood for her recovery, and for bringing to justice those who have injured her.”
“And who would do that more willingly than I, Mr. Mareschal?” said Earnscliff, haughtily, – “than I, who had the satisfaction this morning to liberate her from the dungeon in which I found her confined, and who am now escorting her back to the Castle of Ellieslaw?”
“Is this so, Miss Vere?” said Mareschal.
“It is,” answered Isabella, eagerly, – “it is so; for Heaven’s sake sheathe your swords. I will swear by all that is sacred, that I was carried off by ruffians, whose persons and object were alike unknown to me, and am now restored to freedom by means of this gentleman’s gallant interference.”
“By whom, and wherefore, could this have been done?” pursued Mareschal. – “Had you no knowledge of the place to which you were conveyed? – Earnscliff, where did you find this lady?”
But ere either question could be answered, Ellieslaw advanced, and, returning his sword to the scabbard, cut short the conference.
“When I know,” he said, “exactly how much I owe to Mr. Earnscliff, he may rely on suitable acknowledgments; meantime,” taking the bridle of Miss Vere’s horse, “thus far I thank him for replacing my daughter in the power of her natural guardian.”
A sullen bend of the head was returned by Earnscliff with equal haughtiness; and Ellieslaw, turning back with his daughter upon the road to his own house, appeared engaged with her in a conference so earnest, that the rest of the company judged it improper to intrude by approaching them too nearly. In the meantime, Earnscliff, as he took leave of the other gentlemen belonging to Ellieslaw’s party, said aloud, “Although I am unconscious of any circumstance in my conduct that can authorize such a suspicion, I cannot but observe, that Mr. Vere seems to believe that I have had some hand in the atrocious violence which has been offered to his daughter. I request you, gentlemen, to take notice of my explicit denial of a charge so dishonourable; and that, although I can pardon the bewildering feelings of a father in such a moment, yet, if any other gentleman,” (he looked hard at Sir Frederick Langley) “thinks my word and that of Miss Vere, with the evidence of my friends who accompany me, too slight for my exculpation, I will be happy – most happy – to repel the charge, as becomes a man who counts his honour dearer than his life.”
“And I’ll be his second,” said Simon of Hackburn, “and take up ony twa o’ ye, gentle or semple, laird or loon; it’s a’ ane to Simon.”
“Who is that rough-looking fellow?” said Sir Frederick Langley, “and what has he to do with the quarrels of gentlemen?”
“I’se be a lad frae the Hie Te’iot,” said Simon, “and I’se quarrel wi’ ony body I like, except the king, or the laird I live under.”
“Come,” said; Mareschal, “let us have no brawls. – Mr. Earnscliff; although we do not think alike in some things, I trust we may be opponents, even enemies, if fortune will have it so, without losing our respect for birth, fair-play, and each other. I believe you as innocent of this matter as I am myself; and I will pledge myself that my cousin Ellieslaw, as soon as the perplexity attending these sudden events has left his judgment to its free exercise, shall handsomely acknowledge the very important service you have this day rendered him.”
“To have served your cousin is a sufficient reward in itself – Good evening, gentlemen,” continued Earnscliff; “I see most of your party are already on their way to Ellieslaw.”
Then saluting Mareschal with courtesy, and the rest of the party with indifference, Earnscliff turned his horse and rode towards the Heugh-foot, to concert measures with Hobbie Elliot for farther researches after his bride, of whose restoration to her friends he was still ignorant.
“There he goes,” said Mareschal; “he is a fine, gallant young fellow, upon my soul; and yet I should like well to have a thrust with him on the green turf. I was reckoned at college nearly his equal with the foils, and I should like to try him at sharps.”
“In my opinion,” answered Sir Frederick Langley, “we have done very ill in having suffered him, and those men who are with him, to go off without taking away their arms; for the Whigs are very likely to draw to a head under such a sprightly young fellow as that.”
“For shame, Sir Frederick!” exclaimed Mareschal; “do you think that Ellieslaw could, in honour, consent to any violence being offered to Earnscliff; when he entered his bounds only to bring back his daughter? or, if he were to be of your opinion, do you think that I, and the rest of these gentlemen, would disgrace ourselves by assisting in such a transaction? No, no, fair play and auld Scotland for ever! When the sword is drawn, I will be as ready to use it as any man; but while it is in the sheath, let us behave like gentlemen and neighbours.”
Soon after this colloquy they reached the castle, when Ellieslaw, who had been arrived a few minutes before, met them in the court-yard.
“How is Miss Vere? and have you learned the cause of her being carried off?” asked Mareschal hastily.
“She is retired to her apartment greatly fatigued; and I cannot expect much light upon her adventure till her spirits are somewhat recruited,” replied her father. “She and I were not the less obliged to you, Mareschal, and to my other friends, for their kind enquiries. But I must suppress the father’s feelings for a while to give myself up to those of the patriot. You know this is the day fixed for our final decision – time presses – our friends are arriving, and I have opened house, not only for the gentry, but for the under spur-leathers whom we must necessarily employ. We have, therefore, little time to prepare to meet them. – Look over these lists, Marchie (an abbreviation by which Mareschal-Wells was known among his friends). Do you, Sir Frederick, read these letters from Lothian and the west – all is ripe for the sickle, and we have but to summon out the reapers.”
“With all my heart,” said Mareschal; “the more mischief the better sport.”
Sir Frederick looked grave and disconcerted.
“Walk aside with me, my good friend,” said Ellieslaw to the sombre baronet; “I have something for your private ear, with which I know you will be gratified.”
They walked into the house, leaving Ratcliffe and Mareschal standing together in the court.
“And so,” said Ratcliffe, “the gentlemen of your political persuasion think the downfall of this government so certain, that they disdain even to throw a decent disguise over the machinations of their party?”
“Faith, Mr. Ratcliffe,” answered Mareschal, “the actions and sentiments YOUR friends may require to be veiled, but I am better pleased that ours can go barefaced.”
“And is it possible,” continued Ratcliffe, “that you, who, notwithstanding pour thoughtlessness and heat of temper (I beg pardon, Mr. Mareschal, I am a plain man) – that you, who, notwithstanding these constitutional defects, possess natural good sense and acquired information, should be infatuated enough to embroil yourself in such desperate proceedings? How does your head feel when you are engaged in these dangerous conferences?”
“Not quite so secure on my shoulders,” answered Mareschal, “as if I were talking of hunting and hawking. I am not of so indifferent a mould as my cousin Ellieslaw, who speaks treason as if it were a child’s nursery rhymes, and loses and recovers that sweet girl, his daughter, with a good deal less emotion on both occasions, than would have affected me had I lost and recovered a greyhound puppy. My temper is not quite so inflexible, nor my hate against government so inveterate, as to blind me to the full danger of the attempt.”
“Then why involve yourself in it?” said Ratcliffe.
“Why, I love this poor exiled king with all my heart; and my father was an old Killiecrankie man, and I long to see some amends on the Unionist courtiers, that have bought and sold old Scotland, whose crown has been so long independent.”
“And for the sake of these shadows,” said his monitor, “you are going to involve your country in war and yourself in trouble?”
“I involve? No! – but, trouble for trouble, I had rather it came to-morrow than a month hence. COME, I know it will; and, as your country folks say, better soon than syne – it will never find me younger – and as for hanging, as Sir John Falstaff says, I can become a gallows as well as another. You know the end of the old ballad;
“Sae dauntonly, sae wantonly,
Sae rantingly gaed he,
He play’d a spring, and danced a round,
Beneath the gallows tree.”
“Mr. Mareschal, I am sorry for you,” said his grave adviser.
“I am obliged to you, Mr. Ratcliffe; but I would not have you judge of our enterprise by my way of vindicating it; there are wiser heads than mine at the work.”
“Wiser heads than yours may lie as low,” said Ratcliffe, in a warning tone.
“Perhaps so; but no lighter heart shall; and, to prevent it being made heavier by your remonstrances, I will bid you adieu, Mr. Ratcliffe, till dinner-time, when you shall see that my apprehensions have not spoiled my appetite.”
