Ella thus suddenly bereaved, mourned in wild and bitter grief, but woman's pride, at times her guardian angel, at others her destroyer, took up its stronghold in her heart. The tempter Conrad awoke its tones—with specious wile he recalled De Clairville's lofty ideas of name and birth—how proudly he spoke of his lady mother and the castled state of his father's hall. Was it not likely that, at the last, this pride had rallied its strength around him, and bade him seek a nobler bride than the lowly maiden of the "Refugees?" Too readily she heard him, for love the fondest is nearest allied to hate the deepest, and De Clairville's name became a thing for scorn and hate. 'Twas vain for me to speak—what could I say? A species of fascination seemed to be obtained by Conrad o'er her—a witching spell was in his words—'twas but the power, swayed by his strong and ill-formed mind, over her weak but gentle one—which, if rightly guided, would have echoed such sweet music—and, ere the summer passed, she had forgotten her lost lover, and was to wed him.
To others there was nothing strange in this, but to me it brought a wild and dreary feeling; not that my early dreams were unchanged, for I had learned to think a love like her's, so lightly lost and won, was not the thing to be prized. Alas! I knew not the blackness of the spirit that beguiled her, and wrought such woe. Still she had done wrong—the affections of man's heart may not be idly dealt with—the woman who feigns what she feels not, has her hand on the lion's mane. Ella at one time had done this, and she reaped a dark guerdon for her falsehood. Yet in her it might have been excused, for the very weakness of her nature led her to it. Let those who are more strongly gifted beware of her fate.
The earth was in the richest flush of her green beauty. On the morn, Ella was again to be a bride—the golden light streamed through the glad blue sky, and all looked bright and fair—the remains of the church, which had long looked black and dreary, were gay with the richness of vegetation—the bracken waved its green plumes, and the tall mullen plant, with its broad white leaves, raised its pale crest above the charred walls. While the dew was shining bright I had gone forth—surprise and consternation greeted my solitary approach when I returned. Again the holy book had been opened—the priest stood ready with the bride, and tarried for the lover—they thought he was with me, but I had not seen him—daylight passed away, night came, but brought him not—the moon arose, and her shadowy light gave to familiar things of day the spectral forms of mystery.
While we sat in silence, thinking of Conrad's absence, a dog's mournful whine sounded near—it grew louder, and attracted our attention. We followed the sound—it came from the ruins of the church, and there, among the weeds and flowers lay Conrad stiff and cold—he was dead, and, oh the horrible expression of that face, the demoniac look of despair was never written in such fearful lines on human face before. All felt relief when 'twas covered from the sight. One hand had 'twined in the death grasp round the reed-like stem of the mullen plant—we unclosed it, and it sprung back, tall and straight as before; something glittered in the other—'twas the half of De Clairville's golden locket—how it came to be in his possession was strange, but we thought not of it then.
Events like these have a saddening influence on the mind, and the gloom for Conrad's sudden death hung heavy o'er us—Ella's mourning was long and deep. I was not grieved to see it, for sorrow makes the spirit wiser.
Three years passed away—little change had been among us, save that some of our aged were gone, and the young had risen around us. Once more it was the first of May—the night was dark and still, but the silvery sounds of the waging earth came like balm o'er the soul—there was a murmur in the forest, as though one heard the song of the young leaves bursting into life, and the glad gushing of the springing streams rose with them. The memory of other days was floating o'er my mind, when a soft voice broke on my reverie. Her thoughts had been with mine—"Ethel," said she, "remember you, how on such a night as this, you once sought my love. Alas! how little knew I then of my own heart—your's it should then have been—you know the shades that have passed over it. Is Ella's love a worthless gift, or will you accept it now as freely as 'tis offered. How long and sternly must we be trained e'er love's young dream can be forgotten." The events that intervened all passed away, and Ella was again the same maiden that stood with me so long ago by the streamlet's side on Walburga's eve. My heart's long silenced music once more rung forth its melody at her sweet words, and life again was bright with the gems of hope and fond affection.
In places so lone as that in which we lived, the fancies of superstition have ample scope to range. It had long been whispered through the settlement that the spirit of Conrad appeared on the spot where he had died at certain times. When the moon beamed, a shadowy form was seen to wave its pale arms among the ruins of the church, which yet remained unchanged. So strongly was the story believed, that after night-fall none dared to pass the spot alone. Ella, too, had heard it, and trembled whilst she disbelieved its truth. Our marriage morning came, and Ella was for the third time arrayed in her bridal dress. A wreath of pearl gleamed through her hair, and lace and satin robed her peerless form—the tinge upon her cheek might not have been so bright as once it was, but to me she was lovely—more of mind was blended with the feelings of the heart, and gave a higher tone to her beauty. The holy words were said, and my fondest hopes made truth. Is it, that because in our most blissful hours the spirits are most ready fall, or was it the sense of coming ill that threw its dreary shade of sadness o'er me all that day? The glorious sun sunk brightly to his rest, but the rose cloud round his path seemed deepened to the hue of blood. A wailing sound came o'er the waters, and a whispering, as of woe, sighed through the leafy trees. This feeling of despondency I tried in vain to banish; as the evening came, it grew deeper, but Ella was more joyous than ever, for a long time, she had been. All the fairy wiles of her winning youth seemed bright as of old—glad faces were around us, and she was the gayest of them all; when, suddenly, something from the open door met her eyes—one loud shriek broke from her, and she rushed wildly from among us. I saw her speed madly up the hill, where stood the church. I was hastening after, when strong arms held me back, and fingers, trembling with awe and dread, pointed to the object of their terror—there among the ruins stood a tall and ghost-like form, whose spectral head seemed to move with a threatening motion—for an instant I was paralysed, but Ella's white robes flashed before me, and I broke from their grasp. Again I heard her shriek—she vanished from me, but the phantom form still stood. I reached it, and that thing of fear was but a gigantic weed—a tall mullen that had outgrown the others on the very spot where we had found the body of Conrad; the waving of its flexile head and long pale leaves, shining with moonlight, were the motions we had seen—but where was Ella? The decaying logs gave way beneath her, and she had fallen into a vault or cellar beneath the building. Meanwhile those at the house recovered their courage, and came towards us, bearing lights. We entered the vault, and, on her knees before a figure, was Ella—the form and dress were De Clairville's, such as we had seen him in last, but the face, oh! heaven, the face showed but the white bones of a skeleton. The rich brown curls still clung to the fleshless skull, and on the finger glittered the ring with which Ella was to have been wed. The half of the golden locket was clasped to his breast—the ribbon by which it hung seemed to have been torn rudely from its place, but the hand had kept its hold till the motion caused by our descent—it fell at Ella's feet, a sad memento of other days, and recalled her to sensation. Horror paled the brows of all, but to me was given a deeper woe, to think and know what Ella must have felt.
Every feeling was deepened to intensity of agony in the passing of that night—that dreary closing of my bridal day. How came the morning's light I know not, but when it did, the fresh breeze blew on my brow, and I saw the remains of De Clairville lying on the grass before me—they had borne him from below, and it showed more plainly the crime which had been among us. The deep blue of the dress was changed to a darker hue where the red life blood had flowed, and from the back was drawn the treacherous implement of death. The hearts of all readily whispered the murderer's name, and fuller proof was given in that ancient dagger that had long been an heir-loom in the family of Conrad—a relic of the old Teutonic race from whence they sprung—well was it known, and we had often wondered at its disappearance. He, Conrad, was the murderer—he had slain De Clairville, and fired the building to conceal his crime. God was the avenger of the dark deed—the mighty hand of conscience struck him in his proudest hour—the humblest things of earth, brought deathly terror to his soul. 'Twas evident the appearance of the mullen plant, which drew us to the spot, had been the cause of his death. The words of the old sailor seemed true. The lowly herb had brought the crime to light, and in the hand of heaven had punished the murderer.
We buried De Clairville beneath a mossy mound, where the lofty pine and spicy cedar waved above, and hallowed words were said o'er his rest. A blight seemed to hover o'er our lonely settlement by the deed which had been done within it. Nothing bound us to the spot; but hues of sadness rested with it, and ever would. 'Twas an unhallowed spot, and we prepared to leave it, and seek another resting place.
Our boats lay ready by the beach, and some were already embarked. I took a last look around—something white gleamed among the trees around De Clairville's grave—'twas Ella, who lay there dead. She always accused herself as the cause of De Clairville's death, and indirectly, too, she had been—but restitution now was made. We laid her by his side, and thus I lost my early, only love.