Lucy? Your plays and romances have positively turned your brain. You know, that, independent of my father’s consent, without which I never will marry any one, and which, in the case you point at, would never be granted; independent, too, of our knowing nothing of young Earnscliff’s inclinations, but by your own vivid conjectures and fancies — besides all this, there is the fatal brawl!”
“When his father was killed?” said Lucy. “But that was very long ago; and I hope we have outlived the time of bloody feud, when a quarrel was carried down between two families from father to son, like a Spanish game at chess, and a murder or two committed in every generation, just to keep the matter from going to sleep. We do with our quarrels nowadays as with our clothes; cut them out for ourselves, and wear them out in our own day, and should no more think of resenting our fathers’ feuds, than of wearing their slashed doublets and trunk-hose.”
“You treat this far too lightly, Lucy,” answered Miss Vere.
“Not a bit, my dear Isabella,” said Lucy. “Consider, your father, though present in the unhappy affray, is never supposed to have struck the fatal blow; besides, in former times, in case of mutual slaughter between clans, subsequent alliances were so far from being excluded, that the hand of a daughter or a sister was the most frequent gage of reconciliation. You laugh at my skill in romance; but, I assure you, should your history be written, like that of many a less distressed and less deserving heroine, the well-judging reader would set you down for the lady and the love of Earnscliff; from the very obstacle which you suppose so insurmountable.”
“But these are not the days of romance, but of sad reality, for there stands the castle of Ellieslaw.”
“And there stands Sir Frederick Langley at the gate, waiting to assist the ladies from their palfreys. I would as lief touch a toad; I will disappoint him, and take old Horsington the groom for my master of the horse.”
So saying, the lively young lady switched her palfrey forward, and passing Sir Frederick with a familiar nod as he stood ready to take her horse’s rein, she cantered on, and jumped into the arms of the old groom. Fain would Isabella have done the same had she dared; but her father stood near, displeasure already darkening on a countenance peculiarly qualified to express the harsher passions, and she was compelled to receive the unwelcome assiduities of her detested suitor.
Chapter VI
Let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called
thieves of the day’s booty; let us be Diana’s foresters,
gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon.
HENRY THE FOURTH, PART I.
The Solitary had consumed the remainder of that day in which he had the interview with the young ladies, within the precincts of his garden. Evening again found him seated on his favourite stone. The sun setting red, and among seas of rolling clouds, threw a gloomy lustre over the moor, and gave a deeper purple to the broad outline of heathy mountains which surrounded this desolate spot. The Dwarf sate watching the clouds as they lowered above each other in masses of conglomerated vapours, and, as a strong lurid beam of the sinking luminary darted full on his solitary and uncouth figure, he might well have seemed the demon of the storm which was gathering, or some gnome summoned forth from the recesses of the earth by the subterranean signals of its approach. As he sate thus, with his dark eye turned towards the scowling and blackening heaven, a horseman rode rapidly up to him, and stopping, as if to let his horse breathe for an instant, made a sort of obeisance to the anchoret, with an air betwixt effrontery and embarrassment.
The figure of the rider was thin, tall, and slender, but remarkably athletic, bony, and sinewy; like one who had all his life followed those violent exercises which prevent the human form from increasing in bulk, while they harden and confirm by habit its muscular powers. His face, sharp-featured, sunburnt, and freckled, had a sinister expression of violence, impudence, and cunning, each of which seemed alternately to predominate over the others. Sandy-coloured hair, and reddish eyebrows, from under which looked forth his sharp grey eyes, completed the inauspicious outline of the horseman’s physiognomy. He had pistols in his holsters, and another pair peeped from his belt, though he had taken some pains to conceal them by buttoning his doublet. He wore a rusted steel head piece; a buff jacket of rather an antique cast; gloves, of which that for the right hand was covered with small scales of iron, like an ancient gauntlet; and a long broadsword completed his equipage.
“So,” said the Dwarf, “rapine and murder once more on horseback.”
“On horseback?” said the bandit; “ay, ay, Elshie, your leechcraft has set me on the bonny bay again.”
“And all those promises of amendment which you made during your illness forgotten?” continued Elshender.
“All clear away, with the water-saps and panada,” returned the unabashed convalescent. “Ye ken, Elshie, for they say ye are weel acquent wi’ the gentleman,
“When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,
When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he.”
“Thou say’st true,” said the Solitary; “as well divide a wolf from his appetite for carnage, or a raven from her scent of slaughter, as thee from thy accursed propensities.”
“Why, what would you have me to do? It’s born with me — lies in my very blude and bane. Why, man, the lads of Westburnflat, for ten lang descents, have been reivers and lifters. They have all drunk hard, lived high, taking deep revenge for light offence, and never wanted gear for the winning.”
“Right; and thou art as thoroughbred a wolf,” said the Dwarf, “as ever leapt a lamb-fold at night. On what hell’s errand art thou bound now?”
“Can your skill not guess?”
“Thus far I know,” said the Dwarf, “that thy purpose is bad, thy deed will be worse, and the issue worst of all.”
“And you like me the better for it, Father Elshie, eh?” said Westburnflat; “you always said you did.”
“I have cause to like all,” answered the Solitary, “that are scourges to their fellow-creatures, and thou art a bloody one.”
“No — I say not guilty to that — lever bluidy unless there’s resistance, and that sets a man’s bristles up, ye ken. And this is nae great matter, after a’; just to cut the comb of a young cock that has been crawing a little ower crousely.”
“Not young Earnscliff?” said the Solitary, with some emotion.
“No; not young Earnscliff — not young Earnscliff YET; but his time may come, if he will not take warning, and get him back to the burrow-town that he’s fit for, and no keep skelping about here, destroying the few deer that are left in the country, and pretending to act as a magistrate, and writing letters to the great folk at Auld Reekie, about the disturbed state of the land. Let him take care o’ himsell.”
“Then it must be Hobbie of the Heughfoot,” said Elshie. “What harm has the lad done you?”
“Harm! nae great harm; but I hear he says I staid away from the Ba’spiel on Fastern’s E’en, for fear of him; and it was only for fear
