Devereux — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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assign to so distinguished a guest so unseemly a lodgment. But, as I looked from the narrow lattices of the chambers, over the wide expanse of ocean and of land which they commanded; as I noted, too, that the tower was utterly separated from the rest of the house, and that the convenience of its site enabled one on quitting it, to escape at once, and privately, either to the solitary beach, or to the glades and groves of the wide park which stretched behind,—I could not help indulging the belief that the unceremonious and not unromantic noble had himself selected his place of retirement, and that, in so doing, the gallant of a stately court was not perhaps undesirous of securing at well-chosen moments a brief relaxation from the heavy honours of country homage; or that the patron and poetic admirer of the dreaming Spenser might have preferred, to all more gorgeous accommodation, the quiet and unseen egress to that sea and shore, which, if we may believe the accomplished Roman,2 are so fertile in the powers of inspiration.
“O sea, O shore, true and secret sanctuary of the Muses, how many things ye dictate, how many things ye discover!”
However this be, I had cheated myself into the belief that my conjecture was true, and I had petitioned my uncle, when, on leaving school, he assigned to each of us our several apartments, to grant me the exclusive right to this dilapidated tower. I gained my boon easily enough; and—so strangely is our future fate compounded from past trifles—I verily believe that the strong desire which thenceforth seized me to visit courts and mix with statesmen—which afterwards hurried me into intrigue, war, the plots of London, the dissipations of Paris, the perilous schemes of Petersburg, nay, the very hardships of a Cossack tent—was first formed by the imaginary honour of inhabiting the same chamber as the glittering but ill-fated courtier of my own name. Thus youth imitates where it should avoid; and thus that which should have been to me a warning became an example.
In the oaken floor to the outer chamber of this tower was situated a trap-door, the entrance into a lower room or rather cell, fitted up as a bath; and here a wooden door opened into a long subterranean passage that led out into a cavern by the sea-shore. This cave, partly by nature, partly by art, was hollowed into a beautiful Gothic form; and here, on moonlight evenings, when the sea crept gently over the yellow and smooth sands and the summer tempered the air from too keen a freshness, my uncle had often in his younger days, ere gout and rheum had grown familiar images, assembled his guests. It was a place which the echoes peculiarly adapted for music; and the scene was certainly not calculated to diminish the effect of “sweet sounds.” Even now, though my uncle rarely joined us, we were often wont to hold our evening revels in this spot; and the high cliffs, circling either side in the form of a bay, tolerably well concealed our meetings from the gaze of the vulgar. It is true (for these cliffs were perforated with numerous excavations) that some roving peasant, mariner, or perchance smuggler, would now and then, at low water, intrude upon us. But our London Nereids and courtly Tritons were always well pleased with the interest of what they graciously termed “an adventure;” and our assemblies were too numerous to think an unbroken secrecy indispensable. Hence, therefore, the cavern was almost considered a part of the house itself; and though there was an iron door at the entrance which it gave to the passage leading to my apartments, yet so great was our confidence in our neighbours or ourselves that it was rarely secured, save as a defence against the high tides of winter.
The stars were shining quietly over the old gray castle (for castle it really was), as I now came within view of it. To the left, and in the rear of the house, the trees of the park, grouped by distance, seemed blent into one thick mass of wood; to the right, as I now (descending the cliff by a gradual path) entered on the level sands, and at about the distance of a league from the main shore, a small islet, notorious as the resort and shelter of contraband adventurers, scarcely relieved the wide and glassy azure of the waves. The tide was out; and passing through one of the arches worn in the bay, I came somewhat suddenly by the cavern. Seated there on a crag of stone I found Aubrey.
My acquaintance with Isora and her father had so immediately succeeded the friendly meeting with Aubrey which I last recorded, and had so utterly engrossed my time and thoughts, that I had not taken of that interview all the brotherly advantage which I might have done. My heart now smote me for my involuntary negligence. I dismounted, and fastening my horse to one of a long line of posts that ran into the sea, approached Aubrey and accosted him.
“Alone, Aubrey? and at an hour when my uncle always makes the old walls ring with revel? Hark! can you not hear the music even now? It comes from the ball-room, I think, does it not?”
“Yes,” said Aubrey, briefly, and looking down upon a devotional book, which (as was his wont) he had made his companion.
“And we are the only truants!—Well, Gerald will supply our places with a lighter step, and, perhaps, a merrier heart.”
Aubrey sighed. I bent over him affectionately (I loved that boy with something of a father’s as well as a brother’s love), and as I did bend over him, I saw that his eyelids were red with weeping.
“My brother—my own dear brother,” said I, “what grieves you?—are we not friends, and more than friends?—what can grieve you that grieves not me?”
Suddenly raising his head, Aubrey gazed at me with a long, searching intentness of eye; his lips moved, but he did not answer.
“Speak to me, Aubrey,” said I, passing my arm over his shoulder; “has any one, anything, hurt you? See, now, if I cannot remedy the evil.”
“Morton,” said Aubrey, speaking very slowly, “do you believe that Heaven pre-orders as well as foresees our destiny?”
“It is the schoolman’s question,” said I, smiling; “but I know how these idle subtleties vex the mind; and you, my brother, are ever too occupied with considerations of the future. If Heaven does pre-order our destiny, we know that Heaven is merciful, and we should be fearless, as we arm ourselves in that knowledge.”
“Morton Devereux,” said Aubrey, again repeating my name, and with an evident inward effort that left his lip colourless, and yet lit his dark dilating eye with a strange and unwonted fire,—“Morton Devereux, I feel that I am predestined to the power of the Evil One!”
I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. “Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “what can induce you to cherish so terrible a phantasy? what can induce you to wrong so fearfully the goodness and mercy of our Creator?”
Aubrey shrank from my arm, which had still been round him, and covered his face with his hands. I took up the book he had been reading; it was a Latin treatise on predestination, and seemed fraught with the most gloomy and bewildering subtleties. I sat down beside him, and pointed out the various incoherencies and contradictions of the work, and the doctrine it espoused: so long and so earnestly did I speak that at length Aubrey looked up, seemingly cheered and relieved.
“I wish,” said he, timidly, “I wish that you loved me, and that you loved me only: but you love pleasure, and power, and show, and wit, and revelry; and you know not what it is to feel for me as I feel at times for you,—nay, perhaps you really dislike or despise me.”
Aubrey’s voice grew bitter in its tone as he concluded these words, and I was instantly impressed with the belief that some one had insinuated distrust of my affection for him.
“Why should you think thus?” I said; “has any cause occurred of late to make you deem my affection for you weaker than it was? Has any one hinted a surmise that I do not repay your brotherly regard?”
Aubrey did not answer.
“Has Gerald,” I continued, “jealous of our mutual attachment, uttered aught tending to diminish it? Yes, I see that he has.”
Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing downward and still silent.
“Speak,” said I, “in justice to both of us,—speak! You know, Aubrey, how I have loved and love you: put your arms round me, and say that thing on earth which you wish me to do, and it shall be done!”
Aubrey
“O mare, O litus, verum secretumque Movoetov, quam multa dictatis, quam multa invenitis!”—PLINIUS.