"How I should have liked to have seen Lady Augusta; but do tell me about your brother, I am so interested."

"You may see a feeble attempt to stamp Augusta's beauty when we go home--her portrait hangs in the hall. Arthur's history is a long and sad one, but I will tell it to you if you are not weary."

"Oh, no, no; I am breathless with interest."

"Arthur, Viscount de Vere, was my eldest brother then," commenced the Earl. "When a child of two, or thereabouts, and just able to walk, he was taken out a turn one Sunday in the neighbourhood of the Towers by his nurse, a young girl of twenty. I was then unborn, and Augusta about three years old. When near the bosky dell, at the foot of the park, the girl left her charge for an instant to speak to a young man, a forester on my father's estates; after a few minutes she returned and found the child missing. In great alarm she searched the woods round, and fearing the little boy had strayed into the dell recalled the young forester, and the two commenced a long but fruitless search. It was not till some hours were consumed in vain attempts to find the young heir, that the girl and her lover summoned resolution enough to tell the news at the Towers. The poor young woman, in an agony of grief and terror, fell at the Earl's feet and told him all. My father, in wild grief at the loss of his then only son, and heir to the t.i.tle, gathered all the servants and hurried to the spot. They searched every nook, and shouted the lost child's name--but no answer save the echoes from the wild wood was heard. Throughout the whole night, a night of storm and rain, the search was carried on by means of lanterns, and early next day, as a last resource, bloodhounds were put on the trail; they tracked the lost child to the torrent, but there lost the scent, and it was then concluded the poor boy had wandered to the water's side, fallen into the stream, then swollen by autumn rains, and been carried down to the sea. However, his little remains were never found, and may lie deep in the lone sea."

"How melancholy! poor boy! and what became of the unhappy young woman who so neglected her charge?"

"She was examined, and cross-examined, but kept to her story, and the young man fully corroborated her statement; they were soon after married and went out to America. I must tell you another story connected with this same torrent, at least unless you are tired."

"Oh no--do go on--I am so fond of family legends, yours seems full of them."

"It is indeed; the _weird_ of the Wentworths I will tell you some other day. Now for this one, more romantic and less melancholy than the last."

"When my father was a young man of three and twenty, he was one day in August strolling with his gun through this wood. When he had surmounted the ascent, and come out in this dell, a thunderstorm that had long threatened burst with great fury and violence on his head, and the rain descended in floods. He at once bethought him of this cave, and in far shorter time than we took, Ellen, made across the dell, climbed the rocks, and took advantage of its welcome shelter. Seated on the ground with his gun near him he listened to the grand storm. The vivid lightning lit up the cavern every moment, and played around it; the bellowing thunder crashes shook the very ground, echoing from rock to hill; and the rain descended in sheets. For two hours the storm rolled on, and kept him prisoner; at last the peals waxed fainter--the lightnings less bright--and the storm wore gradually away, now and then only a faint after-clap grumbled in the distance--the rain still fell heavily, and the torrent came down in high flood, carrying trees and rocks with it. The deafening roar of the cascade drowned the distant thunder--the last dying voice of the subsiding storm, the rain lessened--then ceased altogether, and the sun shone out, and stained a rainbow on the dark cloud. My father took up his gun, and, advancing to the mouth of the cave, looked out; what was his surprise to see a young lady, handsomely dressed, but drenched by the rain, vainly attempting to find a pa.s.sage across the roaring torrent! At last she stood on one of those two rocks which narrow the flood, and for a moment hesitated whether to risk the leap or not. 'Lady, try it not,' cried my father; but he spoke too late, she sprung, but miscalculating the breadth, her foot slipped from the rock she barely reached, and flinging up her arms, uttering at the same time a wild scream, she fell back into the turbid waters. To leap down from the cave, and plunge in after the sinking maiden was a work of an instant; and, fortunate in rescuing her from the wild current, a task which taxed my father's whole strength, he bore the fainting girl, with her fair hair streaming with water, to this cave, where he soon had the joy of seeing her return to consciousness, and he did not leave his charge till he saw her able to walk home. He found out that the lady he had saved from a watery grave was Edith Carr, an orphan and only daughter, and heiress to Hugh Carr of Cessford; she was the ward of her uncle William, being a minor. Unhappily a deadly feud existed between the Carrs and De Veres, ever since one of my ancestors carried off the lady of an old warrior of the Carrs' line, and secreted her in the tower, or Peel of Cessford. Her husband finding her out, brutally murdered his faithless spouse, and was in turn a.s.sa.s.sinated by my ancestor. Proceeding as near the mansion as he dared, my father left his charge, after having first planned a meeting in this cave. Edith Carr was considered the most beautiful girl in all the south of Scotland; her portrait has feebly caught the light of loveliness; but when I tell you that neither of my sisters are said to be able to compare with her when she was young, you can form some slight idea of her charms. Often and often did the lovers meet in secret, and at length my father boldly solicited her hand from William, her uncle. He was refused with scorn, the old man declaring if he ever showed his face again in their halls he should pay forfeit with his life. My father was not to be thus baulked; he still kept up correspondence with his flame by means of a servant, who proved a traitor at last. It was mutually agreed that the lovers should meet in this dell, horses were to be in waiting--then they were to ride to the Towers, where a priest was ready to join their hands. They met--they rode to the Towers, and had just entered the hall when William Carr, her uncle, pale with ire, appeared sword in hand, and demanded in a fierce voice his ward's release. The Earl as fiercely denied his power--the lady averred she was of age that day, and free to bestow her hand on whom she would, and refused to return. The uncle rushed on my father, and laid hold of him. The Earl shook him off--the old man attacked him with his blade, but my father seized a weapon from the walls and defended himself manfully. Then a deadly struggle commenced, short but furious. My father was the better swordsman, and soon ended the conflict by piercing the old man through the heart: his life blood still stains the oaken floors. The pale priest then united the two, and they drove off for the Continent. My father was acquitted of all blame, and they lived happily together till his death.

Thus was the feud ended, and thus the possessions of Cessford added to the Wentworth patrimony."

"How romantic!" said Ellen; "this burn seems connected in a wonderful way with your family."

"It is," said the Earl; "and now, Ellen, dearest! can you not guess my motive in guiding you to this spot--the spot where my father won his lady's hand? I have been happy, Ellen, blessed with t.i.tle, wealth, and broad lands, and health and strength to enjoy them; one thing only is lacking--one to share my happiness, one to bless my fireside; you, dearest, are the only woman I ever loved. I know you love me--I know this is only a form. Ellen, you will be my own Ellen--my dearest wife."

Instead of the ready response the Earl expected he was not a little surprised and chagrined by the silence, and agitated expression of Ellen's face.

"Then am I mistaken; you love me not--this is indeed a blow! But it cannot, cannot be so; it is only maiden coyness."

"You say you love me," said Ellen, in a fearful, nervous tone; "think, Lord Wentworth, is there not another to whom you told the same; you say you love me _only_, is there not one you loved, may still love?"

"Oh, Ellen, hear me, it is false I vow by----"

"Perjure not yourself, my lord, is there not one--Juana?"

"Heavens! and how came this scandal to your ears? Indeed, indeed I have transgressed--but I have repented--it was done in an hour of weakness--it is pa.s.sed--I have no more to do with her."

"And may I not fear, my lord, you may thus treat me when tired of the charms you now flatter?"

"You are not surely going to compare a light, pa.s.sing pa.s.sion to the full, deep, pure love with which I adore you! I vow by yonder blue sky, and Him who dwells above it, I will love, cherish, doat on you eternally!"

"Think not, my dear lord, I do not love you as deeply," said Ellen, relentingly; "but when I love I will brook no rival--no idol on the shrine where I lay my affections. He who would gain Ellen Ravensworth's love must give her his undivided heart--and burn no incense to--nor worship--a false G.o.d! If you will give me your word you will not speak to Juana again, and vow to love me alone, I will be yours! If I hold only a second place in your heart--bitter as the pang will be to my own bosom--I will renounce love, and will not be your wife."

"I will give my word--the inviolate word of a British peer, far more sacred than his oath--that I will never speak to her again on love, nor love another save her to whom I plight my troth now! You will then be my own--my dearest Ellen."

"I will; but oh! my dear Lord Wentworth, remember your sainted sister's last words; flee worldly vanities, and live so as to meet again your dear absent one! I too give you my whole undivided heart--I reserve not one corner--and you shall see how I can love," said Ellen, blushing with joy; "nothing but death shall part us twain--not even death! When you die I will die too; I could not breathe without you! One only--He who made me--shall dispute with you my love!"

"Ellen," said the happy Earl, "you are a dear, good girl! I love you all the more because you showed me my error. I know I have thought too little of Augusta's wish--I know I have let the world take too strong a hold of my heart; but you shall be my good angel--my guide to better, purer springs; you have made me happy here, and you may be the instrument of making me happy hereafter. But we are overheard!" he cried, hastily rising. Ellen too sprung to her feet. The cause of this sudden interruption to their converse was a dark shadow that glided across the sunshine that streamed in at the mouth of the cave. A moment after a figure appeared--it was the light, youthful form of an Italian-looking boy. When he saw the two lovers he started back, and his dark countenance crimsoned as he saw his error. Crossing his arms over his breast, and bending his eye on the ground, he remained mute as a statue.

"Who, and what are you?" said the Earl, in a stern voice, being little pleased by his inopportune appearance.

"Pardon me, n.o.ble Inglese, pardon my intrusion. I did not know any one was here," replied the Italian, in the soft Ausonian tongue.

"It needs not--you did so unwittingly," said the Earl, in the same language, which he spoke fluently,--and then in English to Ellen, "He is a foreigner, and knows not the meaning if he heard any of our conversation."

The boy was slight in figure and apparently very youthful; his face was exceedingly handsome--his hair black and falling over his neck in glossy bands--his complexion was olive--his eyes large, full and l.u.s.trous with the Italian fire; but his expression of countenance was poetic, and very melancholy. His dress argued he had known better days, although the velvet mantle and cap were worn and faded in appearance; in his hand he carried a lute.

"And why have you left sunny Italy," asked the Earl, "and come to the cold North?"

"Alas! signore, Italia is now no home to me! My father and mother were both cruelly executed, and I driven an outcast from the land of my birth. Ah! signore, I have known happier times. I am an exile now from the land I love, and forced to roam a foreign sh.o.r.e, and gain a pittance from my lute. I cannot return to Italia's olive groves--I am very sad."

"Poor boy!--but what brought you hither?" asked the Earl, still speaking in Italian.

"I was travelling to Edinburgh--the sun was hot, and I was weary with walking; your roads are very hard. I wandered up the cool water's side, and I found this cavern, and thought I would rest a while in the cool grotto till the evening came. But I intrude, signore; I have disturbed you, fair lady; I will leave you, and proceed on my pilgrimage."

"Not so," said the Earl, "you can touch the lute deftly. We have a pleasure party below--you shall play, and they will dance. I had forgotten a minstrel--I am glad you found us. Afterwards I will take you to the Towers, my house; its gates were never shut on outcast yet, nor was the houseless wanderer ever turned from its door. I will see what can be done for you, my poor boy; follow us."

"Grazzia tanta, you are too good--I will gladly play. I know several English airs--but I will not trespa.s.s on your generosity, n.o.ble signore; let me then journey on."

"We shall arrange all that," said the Earl, helping Ellen down the steps; "follow us."

The three then crossed the dell, and descended the declivity far quicker than they climbed it; Ellen and her lover first, and following timidly behind the young musician, who was ill able to keep pace with Scotch mountaineers in their own rough woods.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"But one, a lone one, midst the throng Seemed reckless all of dance or song; He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been, Of crested brow, and long black hair, A stranger like the palm-tree there!"--_Hemans._

"Why, where have you two been?" said Lady Florence, who, with her sister, the Marchioness, met the defaulters coming down the wood. "We have been looking for you everywhere, and every one is so impatient for dancing."

"I have been showing Ellen the cave and waterfall in b.u.t.terfly Dell; the cool cavern was so pleasant, we should have stayed still longer had we not been interrupted; I was telling her all the legends in our family."

"And nothing else?" said Lady Florence, laughing; "are you sure that was all? and who interrupted your pleasant converse?"

"See him--there he is," said the Earl, pointing to the Italian, who then emerged from the woods; "he is a minstrel, Floss, and will play dance music for you, and sing; is he not handsome?"

"Oh! yes; quite a young Ta.s.so; does he know English?"

"Not a word."

"Oh! I wish I knew Italian like you, Wentworth: a minstrel! how charming--you must be my interpreter. Come, Ellen, tell me all Wentworth said," continued the fair girl, laughing. "Keep no secrets," and, taking Ellen's hand, the two walked on a few paces in front, leaving the Earl and his sister together.

"It is all settled," said the former. "Ellen will be future mistress of Dun Eden Towers; do you not think I have made a good choice?"

"Oh! I am so delighted you have at last made her happy, and I am sure she will make you so. I am so glad. Ellen, darling," said the lady, hastening forward. "Ellen, I congratulate you--let me be the first to do so dearest," and, so saying, she kissed her fondly.

"On what do you congratulate her?" said Lady Florence; "you do not mean--?"

"I do," said her sister; "and are you not glad Ellen will be our own sister, Florence? I am as happy--"