Chapter 3

At last I got out of bed, and rummaged for some stray volume to disenchant me out of the imaginary world of these Bernards. I drew out one or two drawers, which had been so long shut that they had lost their allegiance to the hand. I peered into an escritoire, and another old cabinet, which creaked and groaned at being disturbed by a hand not a Bernard's. All was empty. There was one drawer which refused to come out to the full extent. Something seemed to be jammed between it and the back of the escritoire. Man is an enterprising animal; a little resistance sets his energies a-spring. I would not be baulked. I would know what the impediment was and work out the solution of the difficulty. By pulling hard the obstacle gave way. The drawer followed my hand, while my body fell back on the floor. Psha! some stray leaves of an old pamphlet fluttered about. I had dismembered the obstacle, and would now collect the fragments. I had got for my pains an old brochure, embellished by dreadful woodcuts, of the old Newgate calender style, and entitled, "The true and genuine history of the murderer, Jane Grierson, who poisoned her mistress, and thereby became the wife of her master, Josiah Temple;" the date 1742. I was no fancier of awful histories of murderers, yet I would read myself asleep amidst horrors rather than lie with my imagination in wakeful subjugation to the images of these eternal Bernards. Bernard still! on the top of the title page was written "Amelia Bernard." The charm was here too. Which of these fair creatures on the wall was the proprietor of this brochure? She had read it surely with care. She must have cherished it, or why identify it as her own? Perhaps she was a lover of old books; it could not be that she was a lover of cruel stories. Those eyes were made for throwing forth the lambent light of affection and love; how unlike to the staring blood-shot orbs of that Jane Grierson on that terrific woodcut! Yet, true to the nature of my species, at least my sex, I found in the grim pamphlet that inexpressible something which recommends coarse recitals of human depravity even to cultivated minds, and which consists probably in the conformity between the thing itself and the description of it; the rugged words, semblances of the rugged implements, and the savage actions of cruelty, address themselves to the latent barbarism which lies as the lowest stratum of our many piled nature, and receive the savage response at the moment we blush for humanity. These dire images of the murderer's story were stronger than those of the Bernards--even of those lovely faces on the wall--and as the candle burned down, and the red wick grew up, I read and read on, how the cruel fiend did destroy while she fawned upon her victim; how that victim, overcome by the kindness of her enemy, praised her to her husband, who loved his wife to distraction; and how she, even in her devoted gratitude, recommended her murderer as her successor to the bed she lay on, and to those arms where she so often had enjoyed the pressure of his love. Nor was the recommendation ineffectual, for the said wicked Jane did become the wife of her victim's husband. The old horrid savagery of our criminal literature!--not yet abated--never to be abated--only glossed with tropes and figures more hideous than the plain narrative of blood.

It was a vain thought that I should read myself asleep among the terrible images suggested by my brochure. I was even more vigilant than before. Then, that Francis seemed never at rest; I heard him clambering up stairs, tramping along passages, shutting doors, speaking to himself, just as if all the actions of his prior life were being gone over again. I would have another visit, and another long narrative of some Bernard, whose picture was somewhere in a red or blue room, and who had been, as usual, with all those bearded individuals who hung on walls, either at the crusades under Peter the hermit, or at Flodden under James, or at Culloden under Charles. The clock struck, with a sound of grating rust, two; and--tramp, tramp--he trudged along the passage. The door opened, and in came my chronicler.

"Doctor, I saw your light," said he, "and you know it was always my duty, when the family were in their old home here, to see that all the lights were out o' nights; aye ever after the east wing was burned down, through aunt Marjory's love of reading old romances. I hope I did not disturb you."

"No," replied I; "pray, Francis, I need not ask which of these two pictured beauties is Amelia, my patient? The likeness is good."

"Yes, there she is," said he, with a return of his old enthusiasm. "See her light locks and her blue eyes. She was the mother of that fair child. Don't you see the daughter in the mother and the mother in the daughter? But I cannot look long on these pictures. My heart fails and my head runs round. Look at the dark one. It was a terrible night that when she came to Redcleugh. My wife, who now lies in Deathscroft, down among the elms yonder, could not sleep for the screeching of the owls, as if every horned devil of them shouted woe! woe!--to the house of Redcleugh."

"Nonsense, Francis, omens--all nonsense," I said, interrupting him.

"So said I to Christy, just as you say, doctor. So say we all, every one of us, here and everywhere, always, just until we are pulled up at a jerk by some one of God's acts, when we see His finger pointed to the sign. You are not so old as I am, and have something to learn. Signs are made only when there are to be judgments, and judgments are not according to the common ways of heaven."

"What did Mr. Bernard do," asked I, "to bring upon him this judgment which appears to you to have been so fearful?"

"I am not in the secrets of God's ways with erring man," replied he. "But who can tell how my master got Lillah--that's her there with these dark eyes--his first wife? He had been away for years in the eastern countries, and he never wrote to any one that he was to bring a wife with him. He brought her, amidst the storm of that fearful night, as if she had been a bird which he had rescued from the blast, so cowering and timid did she appear, always clinging to the laird, and looking at him with such beseeching eyes, and so unlike the women of our land--aye, for it was no northern sun lighted up these eyes; and as for a heathen faith imparting such gentleness, we could understand it no way. 'Twas all a hurry in Redcleugh as well as a sort of fright among us in the hall, every one whispering and wondering and questioning all to no end; for from that night we never knew more of her home or kindred, save that it was suspected she was a Circassian, and had left a noble home for the love she bore to master. Nor was she ever inquired after by her friends, except once, when a great eastern lord, as they said, came in a strange equipage to see her; but her change to a Christian shocked and angered him, so that high words rose and even reached our ears. He spoke of the faith she had forsworn, of Allah, and Mahomet, and the Koran, and she with tears responded Christ, the Saviour of all mankind, and his holy mother, and the cross of Calvary, so that he was made more angry; and then he spoke of Euphrosyne, her mother, as we thought, and again the tears rolled down these cheeks, as she clung to master and lay upon his neck, sobbing as if her heart would burst in the battle between the daughter and the wife. The stranger departed in anger, nor did he break his fast at Redcleugh, and many a day afterwards my young lady was in tears. 'Twas not long till she had that boy, whom she bore after many days of labour, with such pain that there was not a servant in the household did not look as if her own salvation depended upon the issue of that protracted struggle, so beloved was she, sir; so respected, so adored, so pitied; and as for Mr. Bernard, he was not himself--scarcely a man--and little wonder either, for his face was ever the attraction of her eyes, and every look seemed to be watched by her as if all her happiness hung upon one of his smiles. Such doings were the wonder of us all in these parts; for you know we are rougher lovers in our cold land, and neither Christy, nor I, nor any of us, could understand how, on the face of this earth, there could be such affection--not a single drop of bitterness, not a ruffle on the smooth surface. Why, sir! did we not all, to satisfy our self-love, and our country's custom, call it very idolatry; but it was only a little envy which we, as it were, stole to ourselves, as a sweet unction to our sores, and when these were mended we loved her the more--nay, we could do nothing less; for even the devil's spleen couldn't detect an unevenness to hang upon it a suspicion against her."

"You are even more partial, Francis, than the painter," said I, "whom I have been charging with the fault of drawing upon his fancy to enable him to draw upon our credulity. She looks scarcely earthly."

"It's no use my description, sir. There are certain perfections we cannot attribute to God's creatures, because we suffer by the comparison. They say if there's not now and then a little anger there's a want. Oh! they will say God's image is not perfect if it have not a dash of our own evil in it. But experience is the mother of wonders as well as wisdom. Aye, sir, years of intercourse, even at a servant's distance, are worth more than your theories in these days."

"I suspect you have been in the library, Francis," said I; "you have opened books as well as bottles."

"Aye, sir, and _the book_ of all books," replied he seriously; "but I hope I am not irreverend when I say that God may lead us to understand the first image in Eden by showing us sometimes something better here than what we can feel within our own hearts."

"Oh, I am not sceptical," said I; for I thought he was pained by my remark, as if I doubted the qualities of his idol. "I believe all you have said of poor Lillah; and I love for the sake of my own matrimonial hopes to believe it, and more. But this idol died!"

"And died young, sir; perhaps because she was an idol," replied he. "They don't live long, sir, these creatures. They're like some of those bright winged things of the East, of which I have read, that exist only so long as the rose blooms on which they hang and live. But my lady Lillah never dwined--only there came a sadness over her, and master noticed that she began to cherish more than usual a miniature which she carried about with her in her bosom--the figure of a lady--I have seen it often--so like herself you'd have said they were of the same family--'twas her mother, whom she called Euphrosyne. Even now I think I see her sitting in the rose arbour in the garden, with little Caleb by her side, gazing at that picture, so long, so thoughtfully, so pitifully that she seemed ready to weep; then she would, as if recalled by remorse, hug the child, and bid him run for his father; then Mr. Bernard would no sooner come than she would be so much more loving than was even her wont, that he seemed oppressed by the very fervour of her affection. Master was a quiet man, sir, and full of thought; and he soon saw that it would be good for my lady that she should have a companion. So the next thing we heard was that Amelia Temple, who had been governess over the muir at Abbey Field, and had been several times at Redcleugh with Mr. Orchardstoun's daughters, was engaged to come to us at the term. And she came. The wind did not whistle that night, nor the owl sound his horn; there was no omen, sir, and this will please you, though it does not shake me in my faith in heaven's warnings. You see Amelia there (holding up the candle, now nearly in the socket), I need not describe what the painter has copied so faithfully. But master did not look kindly on that face, beautiful as it is, with that flashing eye and joyful expression. No, 'twas not till my lady grew distractedly fond of her that he looked sweetly on her (in the right way) for the love she gave to and got from her he loved the best of all the world. Oh! 'twas a beautiful sight, sir, those women. The rose of the west was a match for the lily of the east; then the pensive sweetness of the one, and the innocent light-heartedness of the other, met and mingled in a friendship without guile--a love without envy."

"Your last visit, Francis," I said, with a smile which I could not conceal, "must have been to the poets of the library."

"'Tis only truth, sir," resumed he. "When one sees a beautiful thing and feels the beauty--a privilege which is probably never denied at all times to any of God's creatures, and does not belong exclusively to the high born or the learned--he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye, sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the mouth of a bottle of burgundy, vintage '81."

"And not very poetical when he reflects that there is not a bottle left in the house," said I.

"He has still 'the pleasures of hope,'" rejoined Francis, with a little newborn moisture on his dry lips.

"Well," rejoined I, as I began to yawn from pure want of sleep, "there is at least little of either poetry or pleasure in 'hope deferred.' We will moisten these dry legends of the Bernards by a little of that burgundy of theirs now."

And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of something better than small beer, soon handed me a large glassful of this prince of wines.

"You will require all the benefit of that, sir," said he, "if I am to go on with my story."

"I'm not afraid," said I, listlessly, "after what I have read of the Grierson horrors."

The old man turned upon me a strange, wild look, rendered grotesque, if not ludicrous, by the effect of the glassful he had at that moment taken at my request. "Ah! you have heard--yet surely it is impossible. Was it not all between me and master? Who other could know of it? And the book! Oh, it was never found."

"I know nothing of these mysteries," replied I, not really understanding him, yet amazed at his appearance, as with long grey locks, shaking by his excitement, he kept staring at me in the dim light--for the candle was now out, and the fire burned red and dull. A little more conjuring would have brought all these pictures out into the room, and even as it was, I was beginning to transform my companion's shadow, as it lay on the arm chair behind him, into the very person itself of Lillah Bernard.

"Doctor," he said, gravely, "you must know the dark secret of this apartment."

"Nothing," replied I. "Go on; you have roused my curiosity. I know nothing of the Bernard's but what you have told me, and I request to know more. Go on, Francis."

He was not satisfied; continued to search, so far as he could, my face; but I wore him out.

"It's no use denying it, sir," he at length said, "but take your own way now;" then heaving a deep sigh, which might have been heard at the farthest end of the large room, so silent was all, he went on: "'Twas not to last, sir, all that happiness among those three, and little Caleb was the centre by which they were all joined. There's an enemy abroad to such heart-unions--unseen by all but God, who views him with the eye of anger, but lets him have his way for a season, and why we know it. Such little Edens grow up here and there among roses, as if to remind us of the one paradise which has gone, and to make us hope for the other which is to come; the old tragedy is wrought within a circuit of a few feet and the reach of a few hearts. Oh! the old fiend triumphs with the old laugh on his dark cheek. Yes, sir, it is even so; there is nothing new with the devil, nor nothing old, nor will there be till his neck is fastened; but in this meanwhile of days and years of time, oh! how the soul pants as it looks through the clouds of sorrow which rise under his dark wing, and can see no light, save through the deep grave where lie those once beautiful things in corruption. 'Twas the beauty did it all, sir; the enemy cannot stand that loveliness; it makes him wild; he raves to get between the hearts and tear them so that the sanctified temples shall have no incense in them--nothing save the heavy odours of carrion. My lady Lillah one day felt a drowsiness come over her; it seemed, as Christy said, she felt only as if she had been inclined to sleep at an unusual time; she made no complaint, but Mr. Bernard observed something in her eye, and his watchfulness took alarm at every turn of her quiet manner. The drowsiness increased, and then it was observed that her pulse was slow and languid; it seemed to beat with fewer pulses every hour, and then master became more alarmed, and Amelia could not be away from her an instant. 'Twas strange the change which all of a sudden took place in Miss Temple; the gay laugh which Mr. Bernard used to encourage as a welcome light thrown on the soul of his wife was no more heard; a pitiful sympathy took its place, and, as Christy described it, looked like the light which we see so beautiful in the thin haze when the sun seems to melt all through it; it was the spirit of love, sir, dissolved in the shadows of grief. She hung over our dear lady as if she would have poured her own spirit into her to raise the still ebbing pulses. Nothing would stop that ebbing; the pulse would beat a little stronger after something given to her, but never quicker. Then these long silken eyelashes fell farther and farther down, and the voice which had ever been all meekness, fell and fell into half whispers. At length she said something into master's ear; and he motioned to Miss Temple to go out for a little, but Christy remained. It was an awful moment, sir, when she made a sign that she would speak. 'Dear Edward,' she said, as she seemed to try to lift higher the drooping lids, 'I will never more see the beautiful valley of the Kabarda, where stands my father's castle, with its gardens and roses of Shiraz. Oh, strange it seems to me, as all the things about me grow dim, the vision of those beloved scenes of my childhood wax brighter and brighter. I hear my father's voice crying Euphrosyne, and my mother's Lillah; my brothers and sisters take up the cry, and the mountaineers salute the favourite daughter of their chief. But she is here in this far land, and you, my best beloved, are there before her. Edward, I am going to die--soon--soon. I wished the dear Amelia away for a little--only a little--to be here again, and never to go more. She is faithful and loving and true. Edward; listen, my love: when I am gone, and you can forget me, take that dear girl into that place where you treasured me--into your affections, as your wife, Edward. The thought pleases me, for I think you will in her marry happiness, and my life seems to ebb away in the hope that you may be with her as you have been with me. Farewell; bring Caleb to kiss me before I go. There is a voice in my ears; it is Allah! Allah! but it is not listened to by the heart which whispers Jesus! the Mediator! the Saviour!'

"And with these words in her lips she died. O, sir, had you seen master--it was pitiful; and as for Amelia, who knew nothing of Lillah's words, she kept weeping till her eyes were inflamed. But the grief was everywhere throughout Redcleugh. It seemed as if some dreadful fate had befallen the whole household; gloom--gloom and sadness all about--in every face--in every heart; for never was a daughter of Scotland beloved as was this dear lady of the far east; and I think somehow it was her having died so far away from the land of her kindred that softened the hearts of the people, and made them take on as I never saw servants take on for a mistress. 'Twould be a sharp eye, sir, that could distinguish now, in the vault of death's croft, the grey ashes of the beautiful Circassian from the dust of the Bernards--ay, or that of my poor Christian Dempster! It was now a long dark night to the house of Redcleugh, but the longest night is at last awakened by a sun in the morning. Mr. Bernard--always a moody man--scarcely opened his mouth for months and months. He was like a tree, that stands erect after being blasted--it may move by the winds, but the sun has no warmth for it, and there is nothing inside or at the root to give it life. They say that when a beloved wife dies, it is to the husband like the sun going away out of the firmament, and that by-and-by she appears as a pale moon. Ay, sir; everything here is full of change. Mr. Bernard's moon had no waning in it, till he began to catch the echoes of Miss Amelia's voice as he wandered among the woods. It was the grey dawn of another sun, and the sun rose and rose, promising to gild the east again with its glory. The long burden was taken off Amelia. Her laugh began again to enliven Redcleugh, when she saw that Mr. Bernard was able to bear it. Then, sir, to bear it was to begin to love it, for it was the most infectious joyfulness that ever gladdened man's ears. The change, once begun, went on; he hung upon her voice as if it had been music. Every laugh shook him out of his long misery--it appeared to be to him like new life running along the nerves of the old dead tabernacle. So might one think of a man in the desert, as he looks down into the well, with the reflection of the sun in it; the water is drunk in living light; he shakes off all the horrors of his long-borne thirst, and rises renewed and glad. It was pitiful--yea, it was pleasant too--to see how he followed her, gazed at her, listened to her, just as if he were always praying her, for mercy's sake, to give him some more of that medicine of his spirit. But, perhaps, he never would have thought of marrying Amelia, but for the parting words of Lillah. Christy, in her curious way, said that it was Lillah's moon that lighted him on to the rising of the new sun of Amelia; and as Christy wanted this new match, for the sake of saving, as she thought, the life of our master--it was strange enough that she saw no omens now save good ones; for was it not a good one, that every living thing about Redcleugh looked as joyful as Amelia herself? A wonderful work this world, sir! No magician could have worked a greater wonder than the scene of that marriage after the scene of that deathbed; yet it delighted me to see old Redcleugh all in a blaze again, and to go down into the old catacombs for the old-crusted vintages. Bless your heart!--it was just like the beginning of a new term of life to me. Then the memory of Lillah threw no shade over the scene of enjoyment, for we all knew that if her spirit were not hovering over her beloved Circassia, it would be here looking down on the fulfilment of her dying wish."

Here Francis drew breath, as if to prepare himself for something much more wonderful. It may easily be conceived that he had enlisted my sympathy, as well by the facts of his story, as his manner of telling it; and as one turns to the woodcut of a tale to get his impressions enlivened or verified, I felt a desire to see again, by the light of a candle, the face of the second wife. Francis gratified me by getting another candle, lighting it, and holding it up full in the face of Amelia.