I. THE MEETING IN THE STORM.
There was a wild storm out at sea—a storm by night—the winds and the waves had begun to lift up their voices just when the tumult of the world was hushed in the silent darkness, so that on the earth all was tranquillity, while the ocean raged in fury: it was as though that spirit of unrest which haunts the hearts of men, having been driven out of them by the charm of sleep, had taken refuge here among the boiling waters, and prepared to hold a frantic revel. The mad sea was a fitting field for such a guest, and the fierce sport they made together seemed designed for a mocking imitation of the stormy human passions, which convulsed the land by day.
There was a mimic war in heaven—the thunder, for artillery, and the shock of the electric clouds, like the meeting armies when fellow-mortals do battle for destruction; then the beautiful lightning was as the flashing hopes that gleam in at times on the darkness of the soul, and often blast it in the passing of their fatal brightness. The waves leapt, and rose, and sunk to rise no more, like men wrestling for happiness and finding a grave, and over as the tempest swept by the rain went with it, wildly weeping, as though its big, bursting drops were the frantic tears of an earthly despair.
In the midst of all this senseless strife, a ship went struggling helplessly. It was a piteous thing to see it, for it was so like a human being, straining every nerve to keep above whelming waves; strong as fate the billows bore it up towards the very heaven, then dashed it down, and trampled on it like a fallen enemy; but the stout old oak stood the shock, and as yet the good planks held together, though the danger was imminent, and not one on board expected to see the light of another day.
The scene on deck was very striking, for human nature was there stripped of all disguise and all self-deceit before the presence of death. Pride and ambition, ostentation and avarice—the fallacies of the world, the complacent lies of society, the hopes and griefs that were of earth alone—all unrealities, in short, had passed for these shivering, helpless beings, with the life that seemed receding from them—that hour of horror revealed them to themselves and to others: there would be no more smiling lips over blackest hearts; no more bold looks over craven spirits; those murderous waters, as they dashed them to and fro, wrung from them the very secrets of their souls.
There were some there who carried a fair name through the world, and won honor and praise for their virtuous living, that now shrieked out to the pitiless winds, the detail of crimes which had deformed their soul unseen. There were others who had seemed full of love to the beings who cherished them, and now stole the rope or the spar from their straining hands, that they might save themselves therewith whilst they left these to perish; but still, whatever shape the frenzy of that perishing crew might take, whether their cries were of remorse, or prayer, or impotent rage, but one desire and instinct seemed to animate them all—the desire into which every energy of their soul was gathered up and concentrated—for the mortal life that was being rent from their passionate grasp.
Life! life! it had been to many of them a torturer, full of anguish and disappointments—a hard taskmaster, driving them on from day to day with weary feet and heavy heart, as over arid deserts where no sweet waters were springing from the wells of human love, or friendship, to slake their thirst for sympathy; they had prayed for death, they had writhed in the power of this life, and sought to be rid of it, as a prisoner of his bonds,—and now, when the bubbling waves came sweeping over the deck to their very throat, there uprose in each heart such an intensity of love for it, that all other thoughts were swallowed up in this one burning wish. They cared not who perished round them, the dearest and the best; they cared not what torments it might bring them in the future, only let them not feel its warm breath departing from their lips, its throbbing from their heart.
Now, in the midst of all these beings hanging between life and death—maddened by their terror for the one, and their passion for the other—there were two who maintained a perfect serenity, and looked with quiet eye and smiling face, upon the boiling surge which threatened to ingulf them. The first of these was a young girl, who had been lashed to a mast, against which she leant quite motionless; she was one of those sweet spring flowers, whose bright and joyous aspect shows, that they have known only the sunshine of life's early day; no sorrow as yet had checked those bounding feet, that loved to spring so lightly over woodland paths, nor hushed the carol of that gladsome voice, which rivalled the summer bird in melody; cloudless and pure were her eyes as the sky at dawn—fresh the soul within her as the morning dew; the beauty of guilelessness, and of a heart at rest, shed a light around her which had an indescribable charm. It was a strange thing to see her there, looking out so serenely on the war of the elements; whilst others wept and raved, no sound was heard from her, and though strong men lay writhing at her feet in a paroxysm of terror, no thrill of fear shook her tender frame; calmly she stood, her white garments shining in the night, like the pure robes of some angel of peace; her sweet face shaded by the golden glory of her long flowing hair, her fair hands folded over her tranquil bosom, and a faint smile lingering on her parted lips, like the soft light of a reflected moonbeam, on the still waters of a lucid lake.
There was one there who, even in that hour of tumult and distress, could not choose but look on her in her marvellous tranquillity; he, like herself, was calm—the only other in all that trembling crew who faced death with indifference. But it was sufficient to look upon his countenance to read the secret of his silent courage; strange it was, indeed, that she—so young, so fair, so like a snow-white lily—should be ready to fall without a sigh into the embrace of the deadly corruption; but it was no marvel that this man should be well content to feel on his strong, passionate heart, the iron grasp which alone would still its beating. A noble face was his, bearing the marked evidence of a powerful mind, a resolute spirit, and a generous heart; but it was so sorrowfully stern, so deeply shadowed with the gloom of some great darkness which lay upon his soul, that it was plain the bitterness of life alone had engendered this recklessness of death.
They had never met before, these two. She was so young, and he already well-nigh past his prime, for he had numbered some forty years; yet now the attraction of a common sentiment drew them towards one another as though they had been kindred spirits. He was gazing intently upon her, when she turned her bright, candid eyes towards him, and smiled. She seemed willing to answer the question his looks were asking, concerning the reason of her fearlessness in this great peril. There was a momentary lull in the storm, and he suddenly walked towards her. It was no time for the courtesies of the world, and he did not hesitate to address her. "How is it that you alone can meet this appalling danger in such perfect calm?" She answered him at once, as frankly as he spoke, with a confiding, childlike smile upon her lips. "Because life, so far as I have known it, has been so happy and so beautiful, that I believe death must be more beautiful and happy still."
"What a marvellous doctrine; where can you have learned such untenable philosophy?"
"I do not know what philosophy means. I have but said what I have been taught by one who was my master. Life, which is a mystery, came to me unasked, and I found it a most joyful thing; if death, a deeper mystery, come alike unsought, why should I doubt it will be a yet more precious gift? But look!" she continued eagerly, "is it not true that the storm is abating?—the sailors are working cheerfully. Surely there is hope. Oh! say that it is so; for, though I do not dread death, because I believe that its gloom conceals some glorious joy, I do fear such passage to it as this—the actual pain, the horror of drowning, the sinking, choked and struggling, into that dark sea. Tell me, shall we live?"
"Yes," he answered slowly, as he looked around the scene, where all gave token that the tempest's wrath was spent. "I think, indeed, that the danger is over; I think that we are saved. You may hear it in the exulting of these trembling wretches who, but a few minutes since, were crawling on the deck in abject supplication. Well, they have what they asked, and soon they will curse the hour when their request was granted."
She looked at him with an innocent surprise in her large, clear eyes. She seemed to think him a being of a different nature from herself. At last she spoke. "And now, since we two alone seemed well content to die, when all others raved and shrieked for life, will you tell me why it was that you were thus willing to be done of earth; for I can see it was not because you believe, as I do, beauty, and goodness, and love in all things, however dark and strange they seem as yet?"
"And did your master teach you," he said, with a bitter smile, "that there is beauty in suffering?"
"Yes! in suffering, in pain, and death; for he said that beneath their stern aspect there lay hidden treasures that were immortal, blessings crowning us with stingless joy; but if you fear suffering, why do you not fear to die: they say there is a pang in dying?"
"You answered my question, and I must answer yours; but it were better for you not to know that such things can be in this world. I did not fear, or rather I courted, the last struggle, because I have found the agony of life sharper than the agony of death can be." He turned away abruptly, as he spoke, and seemed desirous to close the interview; and truly it was a strange conversation which had taken place between those two, in the midst of that fierce, stormy night, with the waters gaping open-mouthed for both their lives. It could not have occurred at all under other circumstances. Two strangers could not thus have told out their secret thoughts, had they not been driven by uncontrollable impulse to a close companionship, because of the communion of feeling which seemed to inspire both in that tremendous hour; but now that it was past, that they must re-enter on the ordinary routine of life, the words they had not scrupled to say to one another appeared to them both as some strange, wild dream. When they met again, it was as though they never had departed from the ordinary customs of society. Yet this brief conversation was destined to have a weighty influence on the lives of both of them.
Their next meeting was in the morning, when all traces of the midnight storm had passed away—when, brighter and more beautiful than ever before, the earth, and the sky, and the daylight seemed to the eyes that had looked on death so near. The passengers were all collected on deck once more, as they had been when the tempest was raging; but now it was that they might weep fears of delight as they felt the glow of the sunshine—that they might revel in the very throbbing of their pulses, which told how the warm life-blood was careering, unchecked, through their hearts.
Soon, however, the memory of their danger passed away, like a hateful dream, and they began, according to the nature of men, to occupy themselves, with a sort of unconscious interest, in the actual circumstances passing before them.
The ship in which they were embarked was bound, from the coast of Ireland to that of England. Her ultimate destination was a seaport town in Devon; but at present she had suddenly swerved from her course, and was making for the land just where a tract of richly-wooded country attracted the eye by the luxuriance of its vegetation, and the evident traces of that care and cultivation which are usually bestowed on the estate of a wealthy proprietor. The vessel hove-to within a short distance of the shore, and a boat was lowered. The captain informed any curious inquirers that it was for the accommodation of some of the passengers who were to disembark at the little fishing village now visible on the coast. He was still speaking, when the noble-looking man already mentioned came to take leave of him, and to thank him for his efforts in the storm of the previous night. He then passed with a quiet, stately step through the crowd of passengers, and went down into the boat which was to convey him to the shore. He did not fail, however, to look round anxiously for her, with whom he had become so strangely acquainted; and it was with evident regret that he quitted the ship without having seen her again. He had observed, during their short voyage, that she was under the protection of an elderly lady, who seemed, from a certain stiffness in her manners and appearance, to have occupied, at some time, the post of governess; but during the storm she had been so utterly prostrated by fear and bodily ailment, that she had abandoned all care of her charge. Even in the morning, when all danger was over, she appeared still too much stupefied to be of much service to the young girl; and both ladies were evidently fortunate in having a most efficient attendant in the old gray-haired man, whose primitive appearance and manner seemed to indicate that he was a country servant. The stranger was scarcely placed in the boat when, somewhat to his surprise and pleasure, he saw this old man carefully depositing the duenna of his young friend in a seat near him; and in another moment there was a light footfall on the ladder, a waving of white garments, and she was herself placed beside him, whilst the sailors, pushing off from the side of the vessel, made all speed towards the shore. Both turned round hastily, and their eyes met in a glance of recognition. "It would seem our destination is the same," said he, with a smile; "at least so far as the fishing village. After that, I cannot, indeed, hope it, for the path which leads to my abode is not one that many would seek to travel."
"Is your home near this?" she said eagerly. "I am so glad to hear it; for perhaps you can tell me something of this country, which is quite new to me."
"Most certainly I can," he answered. "I think I know every tree in the wood, and every flower in the valleys; my whole life, so to speak, has been passed in these localities."
"Then tell me, do you know Randolph Abbey?"
He started with a movement of the most uncontrollable agitation, and looked at her almost fiercely, as though he suspected the intention of her words; but her candid gaze disarmed him; he compressed his lips firmly, which had grown deadly white, and answered composedly: "I do know it well, most intimately; not only the Abbey, but its inhabitants; they have been my friends these many years."
"Then you must be mine also," she said gayly; "for I am myself a Randolph."
"I might have guessed it;" and he looked thoughtfully upon her.
"And you know them all—all the party I am going to meet?—for I was told I should find so many relations there."
"I think I am acquainted with every one who ever crossed the threshold of Randolph Abbey," he said with a faint smile; "from old Sir Michael himself down to the great wolfdog Philax, who guards the outer gate; and you are his niece, no doubt—the only child of his brother Edward."
"Yes, I am Lilias Randolph; did you know, then, that I was expected?"
"I have not been at the Abbey for some time," he answered, while an expression of deep pain passed across his face; "but I know that Sir Michael is collecting round him all his nearest heirs, that he may choose amongst them one to whom he shall leave the Abbey and estate, which he has the power of willing away to whom he pleases. I knew that he sent for you to complete the number."
"Very true, and that alone damps my pleasure in going to see my new relations, that this visit to my uncle is for such a purpose; however," she continued, laughing merrily, "with so many charming cousins as I believe I have to dispute the prize with me, I think I need not fear that it will fall to my share."
"Nevertheless, it were a fair possession," he said, turning round, and pointing to the beautiful shore they were rapidly approaching. "All those magnificent woods and green luxuriant fields, as far as your eye can reach, belong to Randolph Abbey."
She looked with some interest on the lands which had been the heritage of her ancestors; but soon withdrawing her eyes to gaze fixedly at him, she said with some earnestness: "You seem to know so much more of my family than I do myself, I should be thankful if you would give me some information respecting those I am about to meet. I do not even know how many cousins I have there. I have heard that I had several uncles, all of whom died, except Sir Michael, but I have never seen any of their children."
"Sir Michael had four brothers, of whom your father was the youngest, and his favorite. They all died, each leaving a child. The heirs of the three eldest have already been summoned to the Abbey, and now you will complete the party."
"But will you not describe them to me, and my uncle and aunt?—they are quite strangers to me."
"Describe them! I! impossible;" and his features, which had relaxed from their habitual sternness while he spoke to her, suddenly assumed an expression of severity which almost terrified her; the color mounted to her fair face, as she felt that, perhaps, her request had been unwarrantable to a perfect stranger. He saw her embarrassment, and instantly the smile of singular sweetness, which at times rendered his countenance almost beautiful, dispersed the passing shadow.
"You must excuse my abruptness," he said; "I have been so little accustomed of late to the society of such as you are; but, indeed, it were better you should go unbiased to receive your first impression of your relations. Did you say you had never seen any of them?"
"None. I have lived all my life with my old dear grandfather in Ireland, far from any town in the old house, among the wild green hills, which was my poor mother's home. I never saw either of my parents, but I have heard so much of her I seem quite to know her; my heart and spirit know her; whereas of my father, and his family, I know literally nothing."
"The time is at hand, then," he said, pointing to the beach; "there stands Sir Michael's carriage to convey you to the Abbey." She turned her sweet countenance with a timid, anxious look to the shore, and he gazed at her evidently with deep interest; suddenly he addressed her: "You wished me to describe your cousins to you, and I could not; but now, when I think that you are going quite alone amongst them all, I feel strangely tempted to give you one caution: think what you will of the others, and be as friendly with them as your heart prompts you, but beware of——." A name seemed trembling on his lips; he plainly struggled to utter it, and then some thought checked him. "No," he said, speaking more to himself than to her, "it were an act of blind, human policy to seek to shield her by any earthly scheming from the approach of evil; let her go, powerful in her own innocence and purity of heart; what better safeguard can she have than that deep guilelessness?" He saw that she gazed at him in astonishment as he spoke—"You will scarce regret," he continued, smiling, "that our acquaintance is drawing to a close; I must seem to have dealt very strangely by you; and I have yet a request to make before we part, which will, I fear, yet astonish you still more. Will you promise me not to mention to any individual whatever at Randolph Abbey that you have met me? you do not know my name, but they would recognize me by your description, and I earnestly desire I should not be spoken of amongst them." The fair, candid eyes assumed an expression of gravity.
"Pray do not ask me this, for I cannot endure concealments."
"That I can well believe," he answered. "I would fancy your young mind clear and limpid as the purest waters; but trust me, that I do not make the request without a reason you would yourself approve of; you would not wish to give pain to any one I know."
"Indeed I would not."
"Then you will not speak of me at Randolph Abbey, for by so doing you would cause acute suffering—not to me, but to another."
"That is quite enough; I will promise you to be silent, unless some unforeseen circumstance should compel me to speak of what has passed between us."
"I thank you much," he said; "and now here we part. You will excuse my not accompanying you to the carriage, as you have your servants, and I do not wish to be seen by Sir Michael's people." The boat had reached the shore; he leaped out and assisted her to disembark; then, still holding her hand for a moment, he looked at her with the strange, sweet smile which so beautified his face, and said—"I need scarcely say, all good be with you, for I feel it must be so. There are many stern natures in this world, but none cruel enough, I am sure, to betray so trusting a heart, or cause such cloudless eyes to grow dim in tears; you never will deceive or injure any, and, therefore, will deceits and wrong fall harmless round you. Your own frank and unsuspecting goodness will be as invincible armor upon you, and fear not, therefore, when you find yourself in the midst of the toils which crafty human nature spreads over life; walk on in truth and guilelessness, according as your own generous impulse dictates, and I do not doubt that the pure and gentle spirit of the woman will come forth unscathed, where many a stronger has been scorched and withered; for you will soon learn that the dangerous paths of this world are over hidden fires and by treacherous pitfalls."
With these strange words he left her before she had time to answer him; it seemed to her that what he had said was not intended as a mere general remark, but that it applied directly to herself, from some secret knowledge he possessed of her future prospects. She remained looking after him in astonishment, not unmixed with interest in one who seemed so strangely to have assumed the position of friend and counsellor towards her; the echo of his voice still ringing in her ears, so full of mournful sweetness, and the haunting melancholy of the eyes which had read her inmost soul, oppressed her with a feeling of sadness very new to her light heart. She saw him mount a horse which his servant held in readiness for him, and, in another instant, he had disappeared in the woods. With him, however, passed the cloud he had raised; a thousand new objects of interest were before her, and her eyes seemed to catch the very sunbeams as they passed, while her light feet bounded eagerly to the spot where Sir Michael's servants awaited her.