BRIDE was awakened from sleep by the sound of a voice.
“Bride! Bride! Oh, my love, farewell! God grant we meet again in the eternal haven of rest! Farewell, my love, farewell!”
The voice sounded so loud in her ears that the girl started wide awake in bed, and found herself sitting up, gazing across the dimly-lighted room, in the expectation of seeing some one beside her.
But there was nothing. The room was empty, save for her own presence. The fire was not yet out, and the night-lamp on the table in the corner burned with a steady ray. Outside, the voice of the storm wailed round the corners of the house; but Bride was too well used to the voice of wind and water to think she had been deceived by that. There was nothing in the voice of the gale to-night different from what she was used to hear wherever the winter days had come. Often and often the tempest raged with double and treble power about the exposed castle, and yet she was not disturbed. What, then, had happened to-night?
She passed her hands across her eyes, as if to clear away the mists of sleep.
“It was Eustace’s voice!” she said in her heart, and a light shiver ran through her.
Perhaps she had been thinking of Eustace at sea before she slept, for her dreams had been of a ship ploughing through the waves. She could not recall all that she had dreamed; but she was vaguely conscious that her visions had been uneasy ones of terror and peril. She could not be sure whether she had dreamed of Eustace: everything was confused in her mind. But that voice calling her name through the darkness had been utterly different from anything that had gone before, and had effectually aroused her from sleep.
“Is he in peril? Is he thinking of me?” she asked herself; and even as she put the question she rose from her bed and began mechanically to dress herself; for there was only one thing now possible for Bride, and that was to pour out her soul in prayer for the man she loved—the man she believed to be in danger at this very moment. Why that conviction of his peril came so strongly upon her she could hardly have explained. She had had no vivid dream; she had gone to rest with no presentiment of evil. That dream-cry was the only cause of her uneasiness; but the conviction was so strong that there could be no more sleep for her that night. She was absolutely certain of that, and she quickly dressed herself, as though to be ready for a call when it came; and when she had stirred the fire into a glow, and had trimmed and lighted her larger lamp, she knelt down beside the little table whereon lay her books of devotion, and the Bible which had been her mother’s, and laid bare her soul in supplication and prayer for the man she now knew that she loved, and whom she fully believed to be in peril to-night, though whether this peril were physical or spiritual she could not tell.
And yet it mattered not, for God knew, and He would hear her supplication, and answer it in His own way. Bride did not know whether Eustace had yet learned to pray for himself; but she had been praying so long that there was nothing strange in this long and impassioned prayer for him to-night. How the time passed the girl did not know; nor did she know what it was that prompted her at last to go to the window and draw aside the curtain to look out into the night.
When she did this, however, she became aware that the darkness without was something unwonted, and for a moment she could not understand the cause of this. There was no moon, and the sky was obscured by a wrack of drifting cloud; why should there be anything but black darkness? and yet it was not always so, even on the pitchiest nights. And then a sudden cry broke from her pale lips—
“The lantern-tower is not lighted to-night!”
That was it. That was what she missed—the faint refulgence she was accustomed to see shining from the turret where the great lamp always burned. What had happened? Had the old fisherman neglected to come? or had he been negligent of his charge and suffered the lamp to go out? She felt sure the light must have been burning as usual earlier in the night. It was lighted at five now, and numbers of persons would have noticed had it not been lighted, and news would certainly have quickly reached the castle. No, it must be that the old fisherman had gone to sleep, and had omitted to fill up the lamp, which had burned down and gone out. And ah! suppose some vessel even now was beating down Channel, and anxiously looking out for the beacon! Oh, suppose some vessel was already in peril for want of the guiding light! Suppose that vessel were the one in which Eustace was journeying to them! Ah!—was that the meaning of that cry? Had it indeed been sent as a sign—as a warning?
With a sense of sudden comprehension Bride turned back into the room and hastily took up her lamp. Without waiting to summon any other person—without a moment of needless delay—she made her way along the dark still corridors, where the heavy shadows lay sleeping, but woke and fled away like spectres at her approach; through the blank silence of the great house she stepped, followed silently by the faithful hound, who always slept at her door, till she reached a heavy oaken door, studded with brass nails, and fastened on the inside with heavy bolts and clamps, that led from the castle into that corner turret which had for so many years been given up to the beacon light and its custodian.
Bride used as a child to go frequently into the tower with her mother. Latterly she had been much less often, but she was familiar with the fastenings of the door, and knew her way to the upper chamber where the great lamp burned.
The place was perfectly dark as she entered, and as silent as the grave; but as she ascended the spiral staircase which led to the chamber where the great lamp burned, she was aware of a peculiar moaning sound, she hardly knew whether human or not, and a thrill of horror ran through her, though she did not pause in her rapid ascent.
The hound heard it too, and sped past her with a low whimper of curiosity, bounding upwards and into the room overhead, where he broke into a loud bay.
Bride was keenly excited, too much excited to feel any personal fear; moreover, she knew that if the dog had found any unknown occupant in that upper chamber, he would have flown at him at once and pinned him, and she should be warned by the sounds as to what was going on. Hastily mounting the last flight, she entered the room, which, as she fully expected, was in utter darkness. The sound of inarticulate moaning grew louder as she approached, and the moment her lamp threw its beams within the chamber, she saw the old custodian lying on the floor, gagged, and bound with cruel cords, his head bleeding a little from some cuts upon it, and his face drawn and white.
In a moment she had sprung to his aid. The hound was sniffing round the room with lashing tail and a red light in his eyes, uttering from time to time a deep bay, as though asking to be let out to follow on the track of the evil-doers who had forced a way into the tower to do this deed of darkness.
But Bride could not attend to him then. She got a strong knife out of the old fisherman’s pocket, and in another minute he was free. He rose, looking dazed and shaken; but his first thought was for the extinguished light.
“They put her out zo zoon’s they’d gotten me down,” he explained in trembling tones, as he set about to kindle the beacon, not able even to drink the contents of the cup Bride had mixed for him (there was always refreshment kept in the room for the watcher on these cold nights) till he had set the lamp burning again. “They bwoys ban’t a’ter no gude. Lord help any ship that’s passed to-night. A take it they will ’ave abin an’ gone vur tu light a valse light zumwheeres ’long t’ coast. Yu can’t remember they days, my laady, when ’t wuz common ’nuff for the bwoys tu du that. But his Grace and your mawther, they zet theerselves agin it: and a’ter vour or vive o’ the worst o’ the lot ’ad abin clapped intu clink, and t’ light zet burnin’ heer, theer wuzzn’t near zo much, and a thought it wuz pretty night stopped vur good. A reckon Zaul Tresithny’s abin at the bottom o’ this night’s work, that a du. A zeed he t’other daay. ’E wuz just zo zavage’s a bear, he wuz. With the faace aw’m like a death’s ’ead ’pon a mop-stick. A zed then theer’d be mischief wi’ ’e, afore we heerd t’ last o’t.”
“Oh, I trust not!” breathed Bride, with clasped hands, as she stood watching the old man kindling the lamp, slowly drawling out his words as he did so. “It would be too terrible. Saul of all people! Oh, I trust it is not so! It is awful for any of them to do such things; but some are too ignorant to understand the full meaning of such a fiendish act. But Saul is not ignorant; he would know. I pray he has had no hand in this thing!”
“A dawn’t knaw, but a zuzpecs ’e’s abin at the bottom o’t,” was the deliberate reply. “Ef yu wuz tu luke out o’ yon winder, my laady, mappen yu may zee a false light a burning zomewheeres ’long the shore. They’ll a’ve tu putten out now we got this ’un alight: but I reckon they will ’ave abin burnin’ one all this time. God help any poor ships as may ’ave bin goin’ by tu-night!”
Bride, shivering with a nameless horror, went to the window indicated, and there, sure enough, about a mile away, she saw the twinkling of a false light, the dread purpose of which she but too well divined. Heaven send that no vessel had been lured by its false shining to a terrible fate!
“David,” she said to the old man, “I must go and rouse the men, and send down to the shore to see what has been passing there. It is too fearful. Are you afraid to be left? Do you think there is any chance of those wicked men coming back? I will send somebody to you very quickly, and the dog shall stay to protect you meantime: he will not let anybody touch you or the light so long as he is here.”
“Lorblessee! Dawntee by afeared to leev me. A dawn’t think as they’ll dare come agin. They’d be vules ef they were tu. A’ll be zafe’s a want in ’is burrow. Duee go and tell his Grace what they bwoys ’ave abin at. A reckon they’d not ’a dued it unless they’d ’a knawed as zome ship were like tu pass by. They bwoys mostly knaws what tu be at. Yu let me be, and go tu his Grace. Mappen theer’s help wanted tu the shore by now.”
Bride hastened away with a beating heart, leaving the angry hound, who had never ceased sniffing round the doorway which led downwards to the outer door of the tower, to act as protector to the old man, in case the miscreants should again invade him with intent to put out the light. She rapidly retraced her steps to the inhabited part of the castle, and knocking at her father’s door, told him enough to cause him to ring the bell in his room which communicated with the men’s quarters, and quickly brought quite a number of them hurrying up to the master’s room, ready dressed against some emergency.
The Duke had hastily attired himself, and was in earnest confabulation with his daughter by the time the household assembled. A few words to them sent them flying after lanterns and ropes, and Bride asked her father—
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going down to the shore, with all the men I can muster, to try and seize the wreckers if possible at their fiendish work, or to render help if it be possible to any hapless vessel they may have lured to destruction. I pray Heaven we may defeat their villainous intentions; but I fear old David is right, and that they know very well what they are about, and do not light false fires without warrant that they light them not in vain. Bride, remain you here; call up the women, and let one or two rooms be prepared. It may be we shall have some half-drowned guest with us when we return. It can do no harm to be prepared. That is your office. See that all is in readiness if wanted.”
The excitement and alarm had by this time spread to the stables, and the men from there came hurrying round, eager to take a share in the night’s expedition. Two stout young fellows were sent to the foot of the lantern-tower to keep guard there, and see that no hurt came to the old man; and the rest were formed into a regular marching squad by the Duke, who always had his servants drilled into some sort of military precision, ready for an emergency of this kind, and led by him straight down to the beach, carrying such things as were thought needful, both in the event of a struggle with the wreckers, or the necessity of organising a rescue party to some vessel in distress.
Bride was left in the castle, surrounded by the women of the household, who had by this time been aroused, and had come out of their rooms, some in terror, some in excitement, and were all eager to know both what had happened and what was to be done.
Bride took a little on one side the housekeeper and her old nurse, two old servants in whom she had the utmost confidence, and quietly gave her orders. One or two of the spare bed-chambers were to be quickly prepared for the accommodation of possible guests. The fire in the hall was to be lighted, and some refreshment spread there. Visitors at the castle had been rare of late, and some of the chambers were likely to be damp, and the fires might very likely smoke on being lighted.
“You had better make use of the rooms Mr. Marchmont uses when he is here,” said Bride. “They have been used a good deal this year. I think there has never been any trouble with them.”
“They are all ready, my lady,” answered the housekeeper. “His Grace gave orders that they were to be put in readiness to receive him at any time. They only want the fires lighting.”
“Ah! true—I remember,” answered Bride. “Then let fires be lighted there instantly. Set the girls to work at something. They are only growing frightened and upset by talking and wondering. Let everything be ready in case there are persons brought in drowned, or almost drowned. Let everything be at hand that can be wanted. Nurse, you understand that sort of thing. You know what is needed in every kind of emergency. See that all is ready. We do not know what may be coming to-night.”
Bride spoke calmly, but her heart was throbbing wildly the whole time. In her head was beating the ceaseless repetition of the one name—“Eustace! Eustace! Eustace!”
She seemed all at once to understand the meaning of her troubled dream, and the cry which had awakened her. Eustace was truly in some deadly peril, and her name had been upon his lips, as it was in his heart, at the supreme moment when he believed himself passing from life to death. Bride had too full a belief in the independent life of the spirit to feel any great surprise at such a thing as this. The power and the deep mystery of love were a part of her creed. She held that a true and God-given love was as immortal as the soul—was the very essence of the soul; and now that she fully recognised the depth of her own love for Eustace, she could well believe (knowing his love for her) that his spirit would seek to meet hers in the supreme moment when he thought death was coming upon him. But, surely—ah! surely, her prayer for him, which had immediately followed upon that cry, would have been heard in heaven, and God would give him back to her! Ah! how she had prayed for this man—body, soul, and spirit! How she had poured out herself in supplication for him again and yet again, that his heart might be changed and softened, that the Spirit of grace might work therein, that he might learn to know his Saviour, and that his body might be preserved from all perils.
Bride had that faith which believes all things; and even through the anxious terrors of that night she believed that Eustace would be given back to her. She believed absolutely that he had been in deadly peril, that the cry she had heard in her dreams was no dream, but that it portended some crisis in the life of her lover. She knew that he was likely to be at sea to-night, and coming down Channel along these very coasts. It might indeed have been his vessel that these desperate men had striven to wreck. She never tried to fight against the conviction that something terrible had befallen Eustace that night; but so convinced was she that God had heard her prayers, and had made of her an instrument for the deliverance and saving of her lover, that she was able to retain her calmness and tranquillity, even through that terrible hour of suspense, saying always to herself—
“Perhaps it is the Father’s way of leading home the erring son. Perhaps it was in the darkness and the storm that He went out to meet him. I think he will be given back to me; but even if not, and he is in the safe-keeping of the Father, I can bear it. But I believe I shall receive him back as from the dead.”
She went to and fro through the house, seeing that her own and her father’s orders were carried out, her face wearing a strange expression of intense expectancy, but her bearing and manner retaining their customary calmness. When everything that could be done in advance had been done, she went down into the hall again. The fire was blazing there and the lights were burning. Upon a table stood refreshments, and all was as she desired to see it. The old butler, who had not gone with the rest of the men, stood in a dim recess, looking out of the window, and half concealed by the curtain. Suddenly he moved quickly towards the door.
“Do you see anything?” asked Bride breathlessly.
“I hear steps,” he answered, and went to the door. The next minute he opened it wide and the Duke entered.
Bride made a quick step forward. Her father’s face was pale and stern. His clothes were wet as from contact with salt water, but his manner was composed, though indicative of mental disturbance. His first words were to the servant.
“Go or send instantly to Abner Tresithny’s cottage, and tell him to come here at once.”
The butler disappeared without waiting to hear more. Abner’s cottage was on the premises, a little distance from the stable-yard. He could be there in a very short time after the summons reached him; but why was he summoned?
Bride’s eyes asked the question her lips could not frame. Her father came forward, and put his hands upon her shoulders.
“Can you be brave to bear bad news, Bride?” he asked; and she saw that his face looked very grave, and that his lips quivered a little involuntarily.
“I think so,” she answered steadily. “Is it Eustace?”
She felt him give a slight start.
“How did you know? Who has told you?”
“I hardly know—Eustace himself, I think. I have felt sure the whole time that he has been in peril to-night. Do not be afraid to tell me the worst. Is he dead?”
“I fear so! I fear so! God grant I may be mistaken, but I have no hope—it is the face of the dead!”
There was something in the tone of the voice that bespoke a keener distress than Bride would have looked for her father to show in any matter connected with Eustace. She gave him a quick glance of grateful sympathy, and, moving from his side, went to the table and poured him out a glass of wine. He drank it, and then she said softly—
“Tell me about it.”
“I will tell you all I know; it is a hideous tale, but the details will only be known when the wretched miscreants whom we have apprehended are brought before the proper authorities. We know that our light was extinguished and a false one kindled, in order that some vessel might be deluded to dash itself upon the Bull’s Horns, where nothing can save it. This diabolic deed has been done only too well. The men, taken red-handed bringing their boat back full of spoil, could deny nothing. Evidence was too clear against them. We apprehended every man of them, and they are lying bound under a strong guard of our fellows to await the arrival of the officers of the law. But one man said that Saul Tresithny was still upon the wreck, that it was he who had planned all this, and that he was waiting there till they went for another load and fetched him off.”
“And you sent a boat for him?” questioned Bride breathlessly.
“The men were for leaving him to his fate, but of course that could not be allowed, and I wished to see for myself the position of the wreck, and to learn all that was possible about her; for we all know that before another tide has risen and fallen she may be dashed off the ledge on which she rests now, and sucked into the treacherous shoals of quicksand.”
“Papa,” said Bride quickly, interrupting the tale for a moment; “tell me one thing—are any lives saved?”
“None—unless Eustace be living, and I fear he is not and as Bride for a moment pressed her hand to her eyes, the Duke took up the thread of his narrative, though always with his face towards the open door, listening and watching intently.
“The sea was falling, and we in the bay were sheltered from its power. We soon reached the wreck, and there found a light burning, but for a moment there was no sign of Tresithny. Then one of our men called out that he saw something in the water—that it was attached to the wreck by a rope. We got hold of the rope and pulled upon it, and drew the floating mass towards us.”
The words were scarcely a whisper. Bride’s pale lips moved, but scarce a breath came through them.
“Found Eustace and Saul Tresithny, locked in an embrace so tenacious that it has been impossible to unloose it. How they came to be so locked together no man yet knows. The wreckers declare that there was no living soul on board when they left Saul alone on the wreck. What passed whilst he was there alone none can say. Eustace had a great life-belt passed under his arms, holding him well out of the water. Saul Tresithny’s arms were locked in a bear-like embrace around his neck, and his hands were so clenched upon the rope which was attached to the broken mast of the vessel that it was impossible to loosen it. We had to cut the rope when the two men were lifted into the boat. Had Saul been alone, one would have said that he was hauling himself in towards the vessel, from which he had been washed off when unconsciousness had come over him. But how those two came to be locked thus together none can say. I can form no guess. That will be one of the riddles we shall never solve.”
“Is Saul dead too?” asked Bride, in an awed voice.
“So far as we can tell, both are dead,” answered the Duke; “but until they can be separated it is not possible to be absolutely certain on the point. Saul cannot have been so very long in the water, and the belt supported both well; but there appears no sign of life about either. I think they have both passed away together in the darkness and the storm—master and pupil together—master and pupil! Ah! Eustace, Eustace! what do you think of your teaching now?”
The last words were only just breathed in a tone of gentle sorrow. Bride said nothing, for the sound of measured tramping was borne to her ears, and she looked quickly at her father.
“They are bringing them here, of course?”
“Of course,” he answered, with a slight motion of his head. “Whether living or dead, Eustace must lie here; and till Tresithny’s grasp can be unloosened we cannot separate them.”
“Let Saul lie here too, papa,” said Bride suddenly. “Whether living or dead, let us shelter him. If he has greatly sinned, he has suffered terribly. We do not carry enmity beyond the grave, nor punishment after a man has been so struck down.”
“I have sent for his grandfather. I will settle with him about that unhappy young man. Bride, my dear, I think you had better go. This will be no sight for you.”
But Bride slipped her hand within her father’s arm, and looked beseechingly into his face.
“Do not send me away till I have seen him. You know that I love Eustace, papa, and he loves me. I believe that this is God’s way of giving him back to me. I can bear it whichever way it turns.”
The Duke said no more. He recognised in Bride that inherent strength of character, born of a perfect faith, which had characterised her mother. He let her stay beside him as the heavy steps drew nearer and nearer, and the hand upon his arm did not quiver as the bearers appeared with their strange load at the great door.
In they came, panting with the effort, for the ascent to the castle was steep, and the load a heavy one. And when once within the shelter of the hall, they were forced, without waiting for leave, to lay it down and gasp for breath.
Bride stepped forward and looked. There was nothing ghastly in the sight to her—only something unspeakably solemn and mysterious.
The faces of both men were white and rigid, but in nowise distorted. There was a calm nobility of aspect about Eustace, which suggested the hope that the soul was at peace in the midst of the terrors of that fearful night. Saul’s brow was knitted, and his lips were set in lines of vehement resolution, as though not even death could obliterate from his face the intensity of his great resolve.
As Bride looked, she said within herself, “He died trying to save Eustace;” and though she could not tell how such a thing could be, she felt the sense of certainty rise up glad and strong within her. If his life had been a wild and wicked one, might not his death have witnessed to the dawn of the eternal love in his darkened heart? Might not this sudden act of self-sacrifice have been the Divine spark kindling in his soul, and lighting his way to God?
And then from two different doors entered on the one hand Abner, and the other the doctor, who had been summoned in hot haste by a mounted messenger some time before; and Bride, with one last lingering look upon her lover’s face, silently withdrew, to return to her vigil and her prayers, till she could learn what was the verdict about these two men so strangely locked together.