The Black Dwarf

He led her to the door of the hut, which he opened for her departure. She remounted her horse, which had been feeding in the outer enclosure, and pressed him forward by the light of the moon, which was now rising, to the spot where she had left Ratcliffe.

“Have you succeeded?” was his first eager question.

“I have obtained promises from him to whom you sent me; but how can he possibly accomplish them?”

“Thank God!” said Ratcliffe; “doubt not his power to fulfil his promise.”

At this moment a shrill whistle was heard to resound along the heath.

“Hark!” said Ratcliffe, “he calls me – Miss Vere, return home, and leave unbolted the postern-door of the garden; to that which opens on the back-stairs I have a private key.”

A second whistle was heard, yet more shrill and prolonged than the first.

“I come, I come,” said Ratcliffe; and setting spurs to his horse, rode over the heath in the direction of the Recluse’s hut. Miss Vere returned to the castle, the mettle of the animal on which she rode, and her own anxiety of mind, combining to accelerate her journey.

She obeyed Ratcliffe’s directions, though without well apprehending their purpose, and leaving her horse at large in a paddock near the garden, hurried to her own apartment, which she reached without observation. She now unbolted her door, and rang her bell for lights. Her father appeared along with the servant who answered her summons.

“He had been twice,” he said, “listening at her door during the two hours that had elapsed since he left her, and, not hearing her speak, had become apprehensive that she was taken ill.”

“And now, my dear father,” she said, “permit me to claim the promise you so kindly gave; let the last moments of freedom which I am to enjoy be mine without interruption; and protract to the last moment the respite which is allowed me.”

“I will,” said her father; “nor shall you be again interrupted. But this disordered dress – this dishevelled hair – do not let me find you thus when I call on you again; the sacrifice, to be beneficial, must be voluntary.”

“Must it be so?” she replied; “then fear not, my father! the victim shall be adorned.”

CHAPTER XVII

This looks not like a nuptial. – MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

The chapel in the castle of Ellieslaw, destined to be the scene of this ill-omened union, was a building of much older date than the castle itself, though that claimed considerable antiquity. Before the wars between England and Scotland had become so common and of such long duration, that the buildings along both sides of the Border were chiefly dedicated to warlike purposes, there had been a small settlement of monks at Ellieslaw, a dependency, it is believed by antiquaries, on the rich Abbey of Jedburgh. Their possessions had long passed away under the changes introduced by war and mutual ravage. A feudal castle had arisen on the ruin of their cells, and their chapel was included in its precincts.

The edifice, in its round arches and massive pillars, the simplicity of which referred their date to what has been called the Saxon architecture, presented at all times a dark and sombre appearance, and had been frequently used as the cemetery of the family of the feudal lords, as well as formerly of the monastic brethren. But it looked doubly gloomy by the effect of the few and smoky torches which were used to enlighten it on the present occasion, and which, spreading a glare of yellow light in their immediate vicinity, were surrounded beyond by a red and purple halo reflected from their own smoke, and beyond that again by a zone of darkness which magnified the extent of the chapel, while it rendered it impossible for the eye to ascertain its limits. Some injudicious ornaments, adopted in haste for the occasion, rather added to the dreariness of the scene. Old fragments of tapestry, torn from the walls of other apartments, had been hastily and partially disposed around those of the chapel, and mingled inconsistently with scutcheons and funeral emblems of the dead, which they elsewhere exhibited. On each side of the stone altar was a monument, the appearance of which formed an equally strange contrast. On the one was the figure, in stone, of some grim hermit, or monk, who had died in the odour of sanctity; he was represented as recumbent, in his cowl and scapulaire, with his face turned upward as in the act of devotion, and his hands folded, from which his string of beads was dependent. On the other side was a tomb, in the Italian taste, composed of the most beautiful statuary marble, and accounted a model of modern art. It was erected to the memory of Isabella’s mother, the late Mrs. Vere of Ellieslaw, who was represented as in a dying posture, while a weeping cherub, with eyes averted, seemed in the act of extinguishing a dying lamp as emblematic of her speedy dissolution. It was, indeed, a masterpiece of art, but misplaced in the rude vault to which it had been consigned. Many were surprised, and even scandalized, that Ellieslaw, not remarkable for attention to his lady while alive, should erect after her death such a costly mausoleum in affected sorrow; others cleared him from the imputation of hypocrisy, and averred that the monument had been constructed under the direction and at the sole expense of Mr. Ratcliffe.

Before these monuments the wedding guests were assembled. They were few in number; for many had left the castle to prepare for the ensuing political explosion, and Ellieslaw was, in the circumstances of the case, far from being desirous to extend invitations farther than to those near relations whose presence the custom of the country rendered indispensable. Next to the altar stood Sir Frederick Langley, dark, moody, and thoughtful, even beyond his wont, and near him, Mareschal, who was to play the part of bridesman, as it was called. The thoughtless humour of this young gentleman, on which he never deigned to place the least restraint, added to the cloud which overhung the brow of the bridegroom.

“The bride is not yet come out of her chamber,” he whispered to Sir Frederick; “I trust that we must not have recourse to the violent expedients of the Romans which I read of at College. It would be hard upon my pretty cousin to be run away with twice in two days, though I know none better worth such a violent compliment.”

Sir Frederick attempted to turn a deaf ear to this discourse, humming a tune, and looking another may, but Mareschal proceeded in the same wild manner.

“This delay is hard upon Dr. Hobbler, who was disturbed to accelerate preparations for this joyful event when he had successfully extracted the cork of his third bottle. I hope you will keep him free of the censure of his superiors, for I take it this is beyond canonical hours. – But here come Ellieslaw and my pretty cousin – prettier than ever, I think, were it not she seems so faint and so deadly pale – Hark ye, Sir Knight, if she says not YES with right good-will, it shall be no wedding, for all that has come and gone yet.”

“No wedding, sir?” returned Sir Frederick, in a loud whisper, the tone of which indicated that his angry feelings were suppressed with difficulty.

“No – no marriage,” replied Mareschal, “there’s my hand and glove on’t.”

Sir Frederick Langley took his hand, and as he wrung it hard, said in a lower whisper, “Mareschal, you shall answer this,” and then flung his hand from him.

“That I will readily do,” said Mareschal, “for never word escaped my lips that my hand was not ready to guarantee. – So, speak up, my pretty cousin, and tell me if it be your free will and unbiassed resolution to accept of this gallant knight for your lord and husband; for if you have the tenth part of a scruple upon the subject, fall back, fall edge, he shall not have you.”

“Are you mad, Mr. Mareschal?” said Ellieslaw, who, having been this young man’s guardian during his minority, often employed a tone of authority to him. “Do you suppose I would drag my daughter to the foot of the altar, were it not her own choice?”

“Tut, Ellieslaw,” retorted the young gentleman, “never tell me of the contrary; her eyes are full of tears, and her cheeks are whiter than her white dress. I must insist, in the name of common humanity, that the ceremony be adjourned till to-morrow.”

“She shall tell you herself, thou incorrigible intermeddler in what concerns thee not, that it is her wish the ceremony should go on – Is it not, Isabella, my dear?”

“It is,” said Isabella, half fainting – “since there is no help, either in God or man.”

The first word alone was distinctly audible. Mareschal shrugged up his shoulders and stepped back. Ellieslaw led, or rather supported, his daughter to the altar. Sir Frederick moved forward and placed himself by her side. The clergyman opened his prayer-book, and looked to Mr. Vere for the signal to commence the service.

“Proceed,” said the latter.

But a voice, as if issuing from the tomb of his deceased wife, called, in such loud and harsh accents as awakened every echo in the vaulted chapel, “Forbear!”

All were mute and motionless, till a distant rustle, and the clash of swords, or something resembling it, was heard from the remote apartments. It ceased almost instantly.

“What new device is this?” said Sir Frederick, fiercely, eyeing Ellieslaw and Mareschal with a glance of malignant suspicion.

“It can be but the frolic of some intemperate guest,” said Ellieslaw, though greatly confounded; “we must make large allowances for the excess of this evening’s festivity. Proceed with the service.”

Before the clergyman could obey, the same prohibition which they had before heard, was repeated from the same spot. The female attendants screamed, and fled from the chapel; the gentlemen laid their hands on their swords. Ere the first moment of surprise had passed by, the Dwarf stepped from behind the monument, and placed himself full in front of Mr. Vere. The effect of so strange and hideous an apparition in such a place and in such circumstances, appalled all present, but seemed to annihilate the Laird of Ellieslaw, who, dropping his daughter’s arm, staggered against the nearest pillar, and, clasping it with his hands as if for support, laid his brow against the column.

“Who is this fellow?” said Sir Frederick; “and what does he mean by this intrusion?”

“It is one who comes to tell you,” said the Dwarf, with the peculiar acrimony which usually marked his manner, “that, in marrying that young lady, you wed neither the heiress of Ellieslaw, nor of Mauley Hall, nor of Polverton, nor of one furrow of land, unless she marries with MY consent; and to thee that consent shall never be given. Down – down on thy knees, and thank Heaven that thou art prevented from wedding qualities with which thou hast no concern – portionless truth, virtue, and innocence – thou, base ingrate,” he continued, addressing himself to Ellieslaw, “what is thy wretched subterfuge now? Thou, who wouldst sell thy daughter to relieve thee from danger, as in famine thou wouldst have slain and devoured her to preserve thy own vile life! – Ay, hide thy face with thy hands; well mayst thou blush to look on him whose body thou didst consign to chains, his hand to guilt, and his soul to misery. Saved once more by the virtue of her who calls thee father, go hence, and may the pardon and benefits I confer on thee prove literal coals of fire, till thy brain is seared and scorched like mine!”

Ellieslaw left the chapel with a gesture of mute despair.

“Follow him, Hubert Ratcliffe,” said the Dwarf, “and inform him of his destiny. He will rejoice – for to breathe air and to handle gold is to him happiness.”

“I understand nothing of all this,” said Sir Frederick Langley; “but we are here a body of gentlemen in arms and authority for King James; and whether you really, sir, be that Sir Edward Mauley, who has been so long supposed dead in confinement, or whether you be an impostor assuming his name and title, we will use the freedom of detaining you, till your appearance here, at this moment, is better accounted for; we will have no spies among us – Seize on him, my friends.”

But the domestics shrunk back in doubt and alarm. Sir Frederick himself stepped forward towards the Recluse, as if to lay hands on his person, when his progress was suddenly stopped by the glittering point of a partisan, which the sturdy hand of Hobbie Elliot presented against his bosom.

“I’ll gar daylight shine through ye, if ye offer to steer him!” said the stout Borderer; “stand back, or I’ll strike ye through! Naebody shall lay a finger on Elshie; he’s a canny neighbourly man, aye ready to make a friend help; and, though ye may think him a lamiter, yet, grippie for grippie, friend, I’ll wad a wether he’ll make the bluid spin frae under your nails. He’s a teugh carle Elshie! he grips like a smith’s vice.”

“What has brought you here, Elliot?” said Mareschal; “who called on you for interference?”

“Troth, Mareschal-Wells,” answered Hobbie, “I am just come here, wi’ twenty or thretty mair o’ us, in my ain name and the King’s – or Queen’s, ca’ they her? and Canny Elshie’s into the bargain, to keep the peace, and pay back some ill usage Ellieslaw has gien me. A bonny breakfast the loons gae me the ither morning, and him at the bottom on’t; and trow ye I wasna ready to supper him up? – Ye needna lay your hands on your swords, gentlemen, the house is ours wi’ little din; for the doors were open, and there had been ower muckle punch amang your folk; we took their swords and pistols as easily as ye wad shiel pea-cods.”

Mareschal rushed out, and immediately re-entered the chapel.

“By Heaven! it is true, Sir Frederick; the house is filled with armed men, and our drunken beasts are all disarmed. Draw, and let us fight our way.”

“Binna rash – binna rash,” exclaimed Hobbie; “hear me a bit, hear me a bit. We mean ye nae harm; but, as ye are in arms for King James, as ye ca’ him, and the prelates, we thought it right to keep up the auld neighbour war, and stand up for the t’other ane and the Kirk; but we’ll no hurt a hair o’ your heads, if ye like to gang hame quietly. And it will be your best way, for there’s sure news come frae Loudoun, that him they ca’ Bang, or Byng, or what is’t, has bang’d the French ships and the new king aff the coast however; sae ye had best bide content wi’ auld Nanse for want of a better Queen.”

Ratcliffe, who at this moment entered, confirmed these accounts so unfavourable to the Jacobite interest. Sir Frederick, almost instantly, and without taking leave of any one, left the castle, with such of his attendants as were able to follow him.

“And what will you do, Mr. Mareschal?” said Ratcliffe.