Part 44 (1/2)
Her hand was in his; her head sank upon his breast. Suddenly she clung to him with a strong grasp. ”Violet! my own, my dearest; you are overcome. I have been rash, I have been imprudent. Speak, speak, my beloved! say, you are not ill!”
She spoke not, but clung to him with a fearful strength, her head still upon his breast, her full eyes closed. Alarmed, he raised her off the ground, and bore her to the river-side. Water might revive her. But when he tried to lay her a moment on the bank, she clung to him gasping, as a sinking person clings to a stout swimmer. He leant over her; he did not attempt to disengage her arms; and, by degrees, by very slow degrees, her grasp loosened. At last her arms gave way and fell by his side, and her eyes partly opened.
”Thank G.o.d! Violet, my own, my beloved, say you are better!”
She answered not, evidently she did not know him, evidently she did not see him. A film was on her sight, and her eye was gla.s.sy. He rushed to the water-side, and in a moment he had sprinkled her temples, now covered with a cold dew. Her pulse beat not, her circulation seemed suspended. He rubbed the palms of her hands, he covered her delicate feet with his coat; and then rus.h.i.+ng up the bank into the road, he shouted with frantic cries on all sides. No one came, no one was near.
Again, with a cry of fearful anguish, he shouted as if an hyaena were feeding on his vitals. No sound; no answer. The nearest cottage was above a mile off. He dared not leave her. Again he rushed down to the water-side. Her eyes were still open, still fixed. Her mouth also was no longer closed. Her hand was stiff, her heart had ceased to beat. He tried with the warmth of his own body to revive her. He shouted, he wept, he prayed. All, all in vain. Again he was in the road, again shouting like an insane being. There was a sound. Hark! It was but the screech of an owl!
Once more at the river-side, once more bending over her with starting eyes, once more the attentive ear listening for the soundless breath. No sound! not even a sigh! Oh! what would he have given for her shriek of anguis.h.!.+ No change had occurred in her position, but the lower part of her face had fallen; and there was a general appearance which struck him with awe. Her body was quite cold, her limbs stiffened. He gazed, and gazed, and gazed. He bent over her with stupor rather than grief stamped on his features. It was very slowly that the dark thought came over his mind, very slowly that the horrible truth seized upon his soul. He gave a loud shriek, and fell on the lifeless body of VIOLET FANE!
[Ill.u.s.tration: dark thought]
BOOK VI
CHAPTER I
The green and bowery summer had pa.s.sed away. It was midnight when two hors.e.m.e.n pulled up their steeds beneath a wide oak; which, with other lofty trees, skirted the side of a winding road in an extensive forest in the south of Germany.
”By heavens!” said one, who apparently was the master, ”we must even lay our cloaks, I think, under this oak; for the road winds again, and a.s.suredly cannot lead now to our village.”
”A starlit sky in autumn can scarcely be the fittest curtain for one so weak as you, sir; I should recommend travelling on, if we keep on our horses' backs till dawn.”
”But if we are travelling in a directly contrary way to our voiturier, honest as we may suppose him to be, if he find in the morning no paymaster for his job, he may with justice make free with our baggage.
And I shall be unusually mistaken if the road we are now pursuing does not lead back to the city.”
”City, town, or village, you must sleep under no forest tree, sir. Let us ride on. It will be hard if we do not find some huntsman's or ranger's cottage; and for aught we know a neat snug village, or some comfortable old manor-house, which has been in the family for two centuries; and where, with G.o.d's blessing, they may chance to have wine as old as the bricks. I know not how you may feel, sir, but a ten hours'
ride when I was only prepared for half the time, and that, too, in an autumn night, makes me somewhat desirous of renewing my acquaintance with the kitchen-fire.”
”I could join you in a gla.s.s of hock and a slice of venison, I confess, my good fellow; but in a nocturnal ride I am no longer your match.
However, if you think it best, we will p.r.i.c.k on our steeds for another hour. If it be only for them, I am sure we must soon stop.”
”Ay! do, sir; and put your cloak well round you; all is for the best.
You are not, I guess, a Sabbath-born child?”
”That am I not, but how would that make our plight worse than it is?
Should we be farther off supper?”
”Nearer, perhaps, than you imagine; for we should then have a chance of sharing the spoils of the Spirit Hunter.”
”Ah! Essper, is it so?”
”Truly yes, sir; and were either of us a Sabbath-born child, by holy cross! I would not give much for our chance of a down bed this night.”
Here a great horned owl flew across the road.
”Were I in the north,” said Essper, ”I would sing an Ave Mary against the STUT OZEL.”
”What call you that?” asked Vivian.