"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 passage 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 assassinated 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 title, 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?"