Duty and Inclination/Chapter 66
CHAPTER XXIII.
"This first false passion of his breast
Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest.
He sue for mercy! He dismay'd
By wild words of a timid maid!"
Byron.
Exulting in the hazard which had enabled him thus desperately, and skilfully so far, to execute the dark plan he had formed for securing to himself Rosilia, a sort of dizzy and maddening sensation of hope filled the brain of Melliphant on quitting the tomb in which he had concealed the unhappy girl,
"Still dark in a damp vault, and still alone,"
life and a sense of her misery returning together.
Impatient and breathless, his first object was to confer with his abettor, to whom he owed this favourable commencement of his plot. His next was to fly himself with all dispatch to the castle of Sir Arthur, where he had held his sojourn under fear of detection from his creditors, there to make arrangements for further secreting his prize, and there to await until the shades of night favoured her removal from the tomb.
Darkly ruminating over his fiend-like intention, he found it would be totally impossible to put into immediate execution his first project, of conveying Rosilia to the coast, and thence in a smuggling vessel embark with her for a foreign shore. In the present instant, the only expedient he could devise, and that which seemed to promise in its issue the most prosperous fulfilment of his desires, was, to detain Rosilia closely shut up beyond the power of human search to discover, in an isolated part of Sir Arthur's dwelling,—the chamber that had proved to himself of late so effectual a refuge in evading the pursuit of which he was in dread. In still availing himself of its security it would also afford him the power of keeping Rosilia a captive during a certain interval of time—the means assuredly the best towards putting her into his complete possession; for, notwithstanding any deference he might pay her, how could she with any propriety reappear amidst her family and friends, after having lived privately with him in the same habitation, under the name and character of his wife!
The dwelling, an old baronial castle, was in itself retired and remote, rarely frequented by its owners, and, with the exception of that side which, for the accommodation of the family, had undergone some handsome improvements, was wholly neglected and deserted; the servants in charge of the place were also few, and mostly in his service, so that no detection was likely, and the release of his beauteous prisoner was hardly to be apprehended. Giving himself to the dominion of these evil machinations, the most rapid and blissful train of images floated over his fancy, engendering hopes of a sure and speedy recompense at hand, equivalent to the unwearied exertions he had made towards the accomplishment of his purpose.
Such being his well-concerted plot, as soon as the hour of ten arrived, and the night became dark and gloomy, typical of the iniquitous deed he meditated, (like the nocturnal bird, drawn by the instinct that impels it from the covert of the light of day,) Melliphant mounted the chaise brought to him by his trusty hireling, and ordered it to be driven as near the tomb as was possible. Borne slowly, on account of the caution necessary to be observed, how long seemed the interval ere he alighted, and on foot proceeded in the direction leading to the spot which ingulfed his victim!
The fever of intemperate joy revelled through every vein whilst he searched for the stone that shut from his sight her who had ever dazzled it by the brilliancy of her beauty! The indefatigable industry he had through so long a period made use of to sully the vestal purity of his victim—every defeat served only to aggravate the desire for the possession of such a gem; its every additional lustre, as it shone upon him, caused him the more to aim at its destruction; the hitherto insuperable difficulties which had opposed him, worked him into a species of frenzy,—and influenced him at last to the measure he had adopted. Existence since her absence from London had been but one continual torment. To make her his own, or die in the attempt, had now become the object of his being.
Having placed his accomplice at the mouth of the sepulchre, impatient as he was to view his captive, no sooner had he raised the stone that hid her from his gaze, than Rosilia, grown desperate, in the hope that one courageous effort might save her from further tyranny, with a strength almost supernatural sprang forward to endeavour to escape.
Although unconscious of her design, and but little prepared to encounter such resistance, armed by the infernal ragings within him, he caught her in his strong grasp, deaf to her cries and heart-imploring accents for release.
"Shall I regard the pleadings of her," said he, in tones of irony, "to whom I have so often pleaded in vain? Did I not confide to you the insurmountable passion with which you had inspired me, and did I ever meet your clemency? Never! no, never! Rosilia, spare your cries, my heart is steeled against their influence; having obtained my prize, think you I shall relinquish it? Suppress your fears: tremble not, but place an implicit confidence in my honour; I come not as a ruffian to destroy, but as a friend to protect. You are perfectly safe in my hands; for however, barbarous girl, you may have injured me, trust me, it is not my intention here to hurt one hair of your head. You might rather rejoice to see me, since I come to give you liberation from this dreary and sombre dwelling,—from the company of the dead,—where, if report speaks true, the midnight ghost is seen to stalk near the spot where its remains lie interred. But be of better courage; my arm is strong to defend you from every danger, be it ghostly or otherwise."
He spoke thus, with the malignant view of exciting those superstitious fears within her sometimes even prevailing with the brave and wise; hoping that in shrinking from his description it might induce her to cling to him with the greater confidence and security.
Having, however, no other dread than of himself, and but too well aware of the object of such language, Rosilia, though with but a faint hope of being heard, uttered loud and repeated cries for assistance. Sensible himself of fear, arising from the possibility of surprise by some one unexpectedly passing by, the stillness of the night favouring the audibleness of her screams, he brutally threatened to bind a handkerchief about her mouth, or to leave her entombed, perhaps for ever. Her white garments floating in the wind, and her hair wildly and loosely dishevelled, the determined Melliphant, with the assistance of his accomplice, began bearing her away, Rosilia still screaming for help.
They had nearly reached the chaise, which stood close by the opening of a by-path, and which had not without difficulty made its way thither. Tottering under his fair burden, Melliphant was proceeding as rapidly as he could to place her within it, and to seat himself beside her. Whose arm was it which suddenly checked him in his purpose? Whose voice was it that, with undaunted accent, sounded in his ear, bidding him stop, and, in warrior-like tones, commanding him to give an account of himself, and the ignoble action he was performing? Whose but the Lord Deloraine's, the noble champion of injured innocence and virtue!
"Let go your hold, villain!" cried the peer, who was accompanied by a friend of not less spirit or bravery than himself, "and stand on your defence. The situation in which we find the lady, the lateness of the hour, the force you use, sufficiently betray you, and proclaim the deed you are about to be an evil one!"
Wrath, fury, vengeance, at being thus arrested, alternately possessed Melliphant; having nothing left but to enter upon the combat demanded of him so imperiously, secretly armed, he resolved to resist to the last drop of his blood his unexpected antagonist. Having withdrawn his hold from Rosilia, she sank fainting on the turf. He drew from his pocket a pistol, which, devoid of principle or honour, with an assassin-like assault, he instantly aimed at the breast of Lord Deloraine, but which, in the struggle that ensued, as if by retributive justice, went off unexpectedly and lodged its contents in the body of Melliphant,—thus doomed to receive his punishment by his own hand, and by the very weapon he had carried for his own defence in the perpetration of his villanies. His accomplice, although pursued by Lord Deloraine's friend, succeeded in effecting his escape.
The report of the pistol recalled Rosilia to a painful sense of existence; she attempted to rise, but her strength failing, she could only with sighs and moans pronounce that name so dear to her,—the name of Douglas! for it was his voice she had recognised in its address to Melliphant. In drawing near to lend her his assistance, what was Lord Deloraine's astonishment, dismay, and anguish, in finding in the female he had rescued his beloved Rosilia!
"Powers of mercy|" exclaimed he, "it is Rosilia! it is my Rosilia!"
The strong and secret sympathies that had so long united them, bound and concealed as by a web, seemed at that moment to become completely unravelled. Supporting her in his outstretched arms, one knee bent upon the earth, the heart of Rosilia, so long oppressed, could only reply by tears, flowing so pathetically, and melting Douglas into an excess of tenderness not to be described.
Thrown together by such an unexpected incident, it was not surprising that their feelings, long suppressed, should then at last confide, unite, and blend together into the most perfect concord and association. Unable to sustain herself, still supported in his encircling arms, her beauteous head reclining upon his manly form, unconscious of what he uttered, Douglas breathed into her ear the most tender and impassioned language of love. The peril in which his life had been placed on her account, a grateful sense of his being her deliverer, and a secret joy combined, pouring their overwhelming influence into her bosom,—each mutually awaking to the certainty and bliss of being beloved,—it was no wonder that the heart of Rosilia, with all its most susceptible feelings, beat in response to that of Douglas.
A stranger stood before them, his eye intently gazing upon the heart-dissolving scene! Mute he remained, amaze and wonder having astounded his every faculty! The lamp Melliphant had borne, cast upon the earth, but not yet extinguished, shed forth its beams, broad and full, over the form, countenance, and lineaments of her so indelibly imprinted upon his memory!
An exclamation bursting from his lips sounded upon the ear of Douglas, who, rising from his recumbent posture, as he led Rosilia from the spot, ejaculated, "Harcourt, we have been friends, but we have been also rivals; suspend your curiosity till a more convenient occasion, and you shall know all. For the present, let us consider how we can best act. Our chaise," added he, turning to Rosilia, "will convey you to the friendly asylum of Mrs. Boville."
Having conducted her to the place where it remained in waiting, and having placed her within it, he said, "We will now detain you but one moment, as it will be proper, ere we go hence, to afford some help to that unfortunate man."
So saying, he ordered the postillion to the horses' heads, there to await his return.
The chaise that Melliphant had brought with him was still at its post. The driver, who had concealed himself during the bustle which had taken place, then made himself visible, and undertook to help Douglas and Harcourt in raising the almost expiring Melliphant, whose wounds, although deep, as he still breathed, gave hope that they were not mortal. Contriving to place him within the vehicle, in a manner the most commodious to his situation, Douglas commended him to the driver's care, ordering him to convey him back to the spot whence he had brought him.
Returning to Rosilia, Douglas spoke a few consolatory and tender words at the carriage window, telling her that, as Grove Place was so near, his friend and himself preferred walking, and would act as a guard until he had the happiness of placing her under the charge of its kind hostess.
"Ah!" returned Rosiiia, "my mother is at this moment at Grove Place, and I fear her sufferings have been great since my absence."
"Her joy will be proportionate upon her again seeing you," answered he; "turn therefore all anxieties aside, to indulge more freely in the bliss of meeting."
It was approaching the hour of twelve, yet none of the family, with the exception of a few dependents, had retired to rest. Collected in one apartment, nothing but sighs or groans from the sorrowing parents interrupted the mournful stillness which reigned. Suddenly the noise of carriage wheels is heard; all is bustle; in a moment lights stir in every direction; all are agitated by hopes and fears. "It is Rosilia!" resounded from below, and in the next moment Mrs. Boville entered to confirm the news.
What words can paint the touching scene, when Douglas, now Lord Deloraine, tenderly supporting his lovely charge, delivered her in safety to her parents! Totally overcome by the various and rapid changes in her feelings, the peculiar nature of her recent sufferings, the joy and gratitude for her delivery, and the unexpected appearance of her father and sister, alternately clasped in the warm embrace of each, tears instead of words became the eloquent demonstration of her feelings—tears which, as they bedewed her cheeks, still brought further relief to mitigate the past tumult and oppression of her heart.
Still overwhelmed, and unable to make reply to any question made her, each looked for explanation with fearful curiosity and impatience to Douglas.
"We had just ascended the last hill," said he, "approaching the domain, when indistinct sounds of a female in distress burst upon our ears. I leaped instantly from the carriage, followed by Harcourt, and as we advanced whence the sounds issued, we indistinctly perceived figures bearing off a lady with violence. Springing forward, my friend pursued one, who escaped his vigilance, while the other was wounded by his own pistol."
Looking to Rosilia, with an expression at once agitated, inquisitive, and penetrating, he added, addressing the General, "Your daughter can better explain who it was that dared to offer her such violence."
Rosilia gaining strength to speak, and finding it necessary to do so from the appeal just made to her, replied,
"It was he whom I told you I had seen, my dear mother," said she.
"Melliphant!" exclaimed Mrs. De Brooke; "I felt assured it was he; but how came you in his power?"
"Scoundrel! villain!" burst forth the General; "how came it that he succeeded in making this insolent assault upon you?"
"Compose yourself, my dear father," replied Rosilia, with emotion; "my story is short, and can be told in a few words. In the first place, you must know that I have not been off these grounds, however remote you may have supposed me from you; I was concealed where it might well be beyond your possibility to conjecture—within the vault of which Mrs. Boville spoke.
'They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,
And in a dark and dankish vault
There left me.'"
Expressions of the utmost consternation and dismay ran through the party. Rosilia again recovering the use of speech, in faint and plaintive accents continued:
"'T is true" said she, "I was there confined a close prisoner, but as a peculiar blessing of Providence, my companions were only those long-withered forms inclosed in their coffins."
She then related that while making a sketch of the monument erected by Doctor Lovesworth to the memory of his father, how instantaneously she had been surprised, caught up, and hurried along into what seemed to her a pit beneath her feet; the faintness which had overcome her; the pale rays of the lamp illumining the vault and discovering to her that she was its only living inhabitant; her efforts to escape; and, finally, what she had the most dreaded, the appearance of Melliphant, and his language, which though brutal, might yet be termed respectful attention upon the words she had uttered: her voice then assuming a soft and tender pathos, a sweet blush dyeing her cheeks, she related what had succeeded when her long and well-tried admirer, in the person of Douglas, came as her deliverer.
"To have rescued you from the grasp of the perfidious Melliphant," exclaimed the General, when she had finished, "is an eternal obligation conferred upon myself and my family, never to be repaid, never to be cancelled." The presence of Harcourt, who still continued a stranger to him, and his heart overflowing as he spoke, so choked his utterance as to prevent his saying more; when after an interval, addressing himself to Rosilia, he added, "Let us thank God, my dear child, that you have so escaped the power of that audacious man. Happily removed from superstition and its fallacious influence upon the senses, you were assured you had nothing to dread in the gloomy abode in which he shut you but from his persecutions."
Anxious to give Rosilia the repose essential after the alarms she had sustained, the ladies retired from the apartment, when Lord Deloraine, not having had a previous opportunity of introducing his friend Colonel Harcourt, embraced this occasion of so doing. The gentlemen in separating were conducted to their respective chambers.
Harcourt in closing the door of his apartment, at last free from the painful observations of others, gave vent to the conflicts which overpowered him. In beholding a second time the object of his admiration, to behold her encompassed by such extraordinary circumstances, sinking upon the bosom of a preserver—of a rival—and one who was no other than his friend, the much-esteemed, noble, and magnanimous Douglas! his preserver also, and but for whom he would have perished by the sword,—not a fictitious rival as he had met with in Herbert, but truly such in reality, as acknowledged by his own words: had he not been afforded such a testimony, every after circumstance would have revealed and confirmed the fact.
Becoming acquainted with General De Brooke's retreat from the world, and meeting Douglas by chance in London, upon his return from Scotland, who intimating his intention of immediately quitting it for Glamorganshire, Harcourt availed himself of apparently so propitious an occasion, and declared himself ready to become the companion of his journey; his intention being to form a better acquaintance with Rosilia, in the hope of making himself agreeable to her, and offering himself as the future partner of her life. Having while in India, as we have seen, confided to Douglas his partiality, and having never received from him any discouragement to his pretensions, supposing rather that he might calculate upon ensuring his services on the occasion, he was but little prepared to find in him so formidable a rival. Amidst the general happiness prevailing upon the recovery of Rosilia, he had, as a spectator merely, deeply participated in the same sentiment. But when, in turning his ideas inward upon himself, the unfortunate fate attending his destiny, the sport as it were of fortune, clouds of heaviness oppressed him.
While thus meditating, and pacing to and fro in his private chamber, some one tapped gently at the door, and he heard the voice of his friend soliciting entrance. "Harcourt," said he, on being admitted, "I have not, I trust, suffered in your estimation by what has passed this night; you are too honourable and generous not to do me justice, and to be assured I could never wilfully have played and tampered with your nicest feelings." A profound silence succeeded, after which Douglas added, "Hearken to me with moderation, and I will relate to you some of the circumstances of my past eventful life; and those more particularly connected with what I have this night declared,—'we have been friends, but we have been also rivals.'"
Touched by such an ingenuous appeal, Harcourt advanced, and seating himself near Douglas, replied:
"Your story," said he, "cannot but be gratifying to me, and will, no doubt, confirm me in the high sentiments of esteem I have ever borne you: proceed, but first let me tell you that to-morrow morning I go from hence."
Acutely feeling for the delicate position of his friend, Douglas communicated his narrative; at the conclusion of which Harcourt expressed his high sense of gratitude, mingled with admiration of a conduct towards himself so noble and generous.
"How feeble seem my claims," said he, "when compared with yours! It is you alone who merit the fair object your arm has this night redeemed from persecution and misery. No one can deserve her if you do not. She is also doubly yours from possessing her entire confidence, declared by her every look, word, and gesture. Providence seems to have designed you for each other, and may approving Heaven shower blessings upon you both!