Doctor Vandyke :: :: University of Virginia Library

On the night succeeding these events,
Lord Ruthven sat up until nearly daylight,
writing. He was plainly not engaged
upon an ordinary letter; the thin
and nervous hand moved with painful
deliberation over the paper; and the expression
of Ruthven's face was that of
a man who has bid farewell to his last
hope on earth.

This man was evidently the victim
of some secret misery which blotted out
all sunshine from his existence; his face
was as pale as death, his lips like ashes;

and from time to time he glanced over
his shoulder with wild and startled eyes,
as though he feared the presence of some
terrible intruder.

At last he threw down the pen. He
had not written rapidly; rather slowly,
painfully, with obvious effort and repugnance;
and the sheets which he had covered
with writing were not numerous.
He reflected for an instant; raised and
read over the sheets one by one; then
folded them securely, sealed them, impressing
his signet-ring deeply into the
wax, and deposited the package in his
breast.

Ruthven then uttered a deep sigh,
and, rising, looked around him. Fergus
was seated in a corner of the great fireplace,
nodding over the dying embers;
for nothing could induce the old clansman,
with his rigid views of respect and
propriety, to retire to his own pallet until
he had assisted his master in his toilet.
Ruthven had quite forgotten his
presence now; but, as he rose, Fergus
stood up, and, in respectful silence, prepared
to wait upon his lord.

Ruthven motioned him to resume his
seat, and said in a low voice:

“I have written it down, Fergus.”

“Written what, my lord?” was the
calm reply.

“The whole truth—”

Fergus gazed intently at his master.

“The truth?” he said.

“Yes!”

“The whole?”

“Yes!”

Fergus inclined his head, but said
nothing.

“Things may take the course that
the devil would have them take,” said
Ruthven, gloomily, “I know not—Fate
drags us. But I do not wish to be regarded
as a monster of blood. Hence all
is here written—that all may be known.”

“It is well, my lord.”

“I had it again last night, as you
know,” said Ruthven, in a low tone.

“I supposed as much.”

“You had the right.”

“Naturally, my lord; inasmuch as
your lordship sprang from your bed at
midnight, caught up your sword, and
when I grappled with you, and took
steps that you should not harm yourself,
your lordship made an attempt to
put an end to me.”

Ruthven groaned.

“O Fergus! Fergus! how and when
will this end?” he exclaimed. “Pardon
your poor, miserable master, my
old friend! Better, far better that I were
insane, a diseased lunatic, than the
wretched being that I am, sane as I may
be!”

Fergus did not reply.

“Some day I shall kill you, Fergus—
you, the most faithful of my blood, for
you are of the very blood of Ruthven,
Fergus!”

The old man's face was lit up with
pride and happiness, as he listened to
these words, and, when he spoke, his
voice showed that he was greatly moved.

“Your lordship is very good, and
makes your old clansman happy! They
do say that my great-great-grandfather
was fifth cousin on the mother's side, to
your lordship's ancestor. But, doubtless
'tis folly for the clansman to compare
himself with his lord—let us think of
other matters.”

“I can scarce think, to-night, my
head is in a whirl, Fergus. I go on a
dark and bloody path, whose end I know
not.”

“Why not stop, then?”

“I cannot—I cannot!”

Fergus replied with the eternal movement
of his head, that said: “I am the
clansman, you my chief—I obey.”

“You say to me `Stop,' but to stop is
impossible now, even had I the power
over my own will! The betrothal has
taken place in regular form; the word
of Ruthven is pledged, and cannot be
recalled—and more, more—if more binding

reason could exist—you know what
I would say; I love this girl! love her
with all the power of my being, and—
will dare the worst!”

“So be it, my lord,” said Fergus,
coolly raking the brands together; “it
is unfortunate but fatal, you say.”

“Yes, fatal, awful!”

A long silence followed these words.
Ruthven broke it by a groan.

“Oh, no, no!” he exclaimed. “I
cannot, I will not believe it! I will not
be ensnared so horribly, even though the
devil set the trap!”

“He is a good hand at snares and
traps, this same devil, my lord.”

“Speak not of it—!”

“I obey your lordship—'tis well your
order came in time.”

“You were about to say—”

“Your lordship bids me be silent.”

“Speak!”

“I would say that you have been
duly warned.”

“Yes, yes!”

“You have seen both the man and
the woman; things are advancing as they
were doomed to advance; your lordship
has told me all—”

“No, not all! I have not told you
what I saw last night!” said Ruthven, in
a horror-struck whisper, which thrilled
through the old clansman.

“Last night?” he said, fixing his
eyes upon his master. “What was
that?”

“I saw the actual spot—the whole—
nothing was left out!”

Fergus became slightly pale, but said,
in a cool voice:

“And yet, after this, you do not give
up the affair?”

Fergus nodded only, and this indifference
seemed almost to enrage his master.

“Your coldness drives me mad nearly!”
he cried through his set teeth;
“you do not understand, then, that I am
on the brink of an awful precipice!”

And, as though he had not intended
to utter these particular words — as
though they had forced themselves from
his lips without an act of the will, Lord
Ruthven started, shuddered convulsively,
and turned so pale that he seemed
about to faint.

“My lord,” said Fergus, “I have but
one reply to make to all this; but, as I
have already frequently made that reply,
I shall not trouble you with it again.”

“Speak! speak!”

“Well, I say again, my lord, `Give up
this affair, and let us go back to Scotland.”'

“I cannot!”

“An answer which your lordship has
before made; so be it. I see no advantage
in further discussion at this hour of
the night.”

“A last word, Fergus—listen.”

“I listen, my lord.”

Lord Ruthven's feverish excitement
all at once disappeared, and he now said,
with a strange pathos and earnestness:

“Fergus, my faithful friend, and foster-brother,
you at least must not misapprehend
me, and execrate my memory.
Listen, then. Despite the Evil One and
all his spirits, I will steel myself against
temptation, and rather plunge that poniard
yonder into my heart than become
the tool of Satan! I cannot draw back
now and return to Europe; my honor
and my love both draw me on; but I
would here, upon the threshold, without
a tremor of the nerve, put an end to my
own existence, if I thought I should
yield in this frightful drama. Death—a
thousand deaths first! I swear I will
crush this fate!—I have resolved, Fergus,
even to resort to self-destruction first!
Living or dying thus, my faithful Fergus
must love, not curse, my memory!”

Ruthven held out his hand to Fergus,
who bent over it and pressed it to his
trembling lips. As the lips touched it,
the young nobleman felt a hot tear fall
upon his hand.

“In life and death I am your clansman—it
is you who are the chief!”

And, as he uttered these low words,
the old man's heart melted, and he
sobbed aloud.