Devereux — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best interesting books to read txt) 📕

I arrived at the well: the Hermit was already at the place of rendezvous, seated in the same posture in which I had before seen him. I made my reverence and accosted him.

“I have not failed you, Father.”

“That is rarely a true boast with men,” said the Hermit, smiling mournfully, but without sarcasm; “and were the promise of greater avail, it might not have been so rigidly kept.”

“The promise, Father, seemed to me of greater weight than you would intimate,” answered I.

“How mean you?” said the Hermit, hastily.

“Why, that we may perhaps serve each other by our meeting: you, Father, may comfort me by your counsels; I you by my readiness to obey your request.”

The Hermit looked at me for some moments, and, as well as I could, I turned away my face from his gaze. I might have spared myself the effort. He seemed to recognize nothing familiar in my countenance; perhaps his mental malady assisted my own alteration.

“I have inquired respecting you,” he said, after a pause, “and I hear that you are a learned and wise man, who has seen much of the world, and played the part both of soldier and of scholar in its various theatres: is my information true?”

“Not true with the respect to the learning, Father, but true with regard to the experience. I have been a pilgrim in many countries of Europe.”

“Indeed!” said the Hermit, eagerly. “Come with me to my home, and tell me of the wonders you have seen.”

I assisted the Hermit to rise, and he walked slowly towards the cavern, leaning upon my arm. Ob, how that light touch thrilled through my frame! How I longed to cry, “Are you not the one whom I have loved, and mourned, and believed buried in the tomb?” But I checked myself. We moved on in silence. The Hermit’s hand was on the door of the cavern, when he said, in a calm tone, but with evident effort, and turning his face from me while he spoke:—

“And did your wanderings ever carry you into the farther regions of the north? Did the fame of the great Czar ever lead you to the city he has founded?”

“I am right! I am right!” thought I, as I answered, “In truth, holy Father, I spent not a long time at Petersburg; but I am not a stranger either to its wonders or its inhabitants.”

“Possibly, then, you may have met with the English favourite of the Czar of whom I hear in my retreat that men have lately spoken somewhat largely?” The Hermit paused again. We were now in a long, low passage, almost in darkness. I scarcely saw him, yet I heard a convulsed movement in his throat before he uttered the remainder of the sentence. “He is called the Count Devereux.”

“Father,” said I, calmly, “I have both seen and known the man.”

“Ha!” said the Hermit, and he leaned for a moment against the wall; “known him—and—how—how—I mean, where is he at this present time?”

“That, Father, is a difficult question respecting one who has led so active a life. He was ambassador at the court of———just before I left it.”

We had now passed the passage and gained a room of tolerable size; an iron lamp burned within, and afforded a sufficient but somewhat dim light. The Hermit, as I concluded my reply, sank down on a long stone bench, beside a table of the same substance, and leaning his face on his hand, so that the long, large sleeve he wore perfectly concealed his features, said, “Pardon me; my breath is short, and my frame weak; I am quite exhausted, but will speak to you more anon.”

I uttered a short answer, and drew a small wooden stool within a few feet of the Hermit’s seat. After a brief silence he rose, placed wine, bread, and preserved fruits before me and bade me eat. I seemed to comply with his request, and the apparent diversion of my attention from himself somewhat relieved the embarrassment under which he evidently laboured.

“May I hope,” he said, “that were my commission to this—to the Count Devereux—you would execute it faithfully and with speed? Yet stay: you have a high mien, as of one above fortune, but your garb is rude and poor; and if aught of gold could compensate your trouble, the Hermit has other treasuries besides this cell.”

“I will do your bidding, Father, without robbing the poor. You wish, then, that I should seek Morton Devereux; you wish that I should summon him hither; you wish to see and to confer with him?”

“God of mercy forbid!” cried the Hermit, and with such a vehemence that I was startled from the design of revealing myself, which I was on the point of executing. “I would rather that these walls would crush me into dust, or that this solid stone would crumble beneath my feet,—ay, even into a bottomless pit, than meet the glance of Morton Devereux!”

“Is it even so?” said I, stooping over the wine-cup; “ye have been foes then, I suspect. Well, it matters not: tell me your errand, and it shall be done.”

“Done!” cried the Hermit, and a new and certainly a most natural suspicion darted within him, “done! and—fool that I am!—who or what are you that I should believe you take so keen an interest in the wishes of a man utterly unknown to you? I tell you that my wish is that you should cross seas and traverse lands until you find the man I have named to you. Will a stranger do this, and without hire? No—no—I was a fool, and will trust the monks, and give gold, and then my errand will be sped.”

“Father, or rather brother,” said I, with a slow and firm voice, “for you are of mine own age, and you have the passion and the infirmity which make brethren of all mankind, I am one to whom all places are alike: it matters not whether I visit a northern or a southern clime; I have wealth, which is sufficient to smooth toil; I have leisure, which makes occupation an enjoyment. More than this, I am one who in his gayest and wildest moments has ever loved mankind, and would have renounced at any time his own pleasure for the advantage of another. But at this time, above all others, I am most disposed to forget myself, and there is a passion in your words which leads me to hope that it may be a great benefit which I can confer upon you.”

“You speak well,” said the Hermit, musingly, “and I may trust you; I will consider yet a little longer, and to-morrow at this hour you shall have my final answer. If you execute the charge I entrust to you, may the blessing of a dying and most wretched man cleave to you forever! But hush; the clock strikes: it is my hour of prayer.”

And, pointing to a huge black clock that hung opposite the door, and indicated the hour of nine (according to our English mode of numbering the hours), the Hermit fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands tightly, bent his