T Fiction, Englih
2013














COLLECTION
- OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1218.
MORALS AND MYSTERIES BY HAMILTON AÏDÉ.
IS ONE VOLUME.


TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
RITA .......... 1 vol.
CARR OF CARRLYON .... 2 vols.
THE MARSTONS . . . . . . 2 vols.
IN THAT STATE OF LIFE . . 1 vol.


MORALS
AND
MYSTERIE S.
BY
HAMILTON ẠÏDÉ,
AUTHOR OF “RITA,” “IN THAT STATE OF LIFE," ETC.
COPYRIGHT EDITION..
PRO!!!?
OF THE
NEW YORK
UT LIBRARY
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1872.
The Right of Translation is reserved,


THE SET FOR
PUBLIC Liin
1733343
ASTUK IMAX ASD
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS
R 1910 L


CONTENTS.
Page
7
.
.
.
GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE . .
THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS
125
THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE .
.
.
.
.
.
159
A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY . .
.
.
195
THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL
263
VALERIAN'S HONEYMOON ...
.
.
.
.
.
.
283
THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE
293





GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.





GF THE
NE-TURK
CIETY
CTY !!!
i GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
UL
place it were but, who buntes lose
the kanepherd's builty
CHAPTER I.
- A FEW weeks since we followed to his last resting- .
place in Kensal-green our old friend Geoffrey Luttrell.
There were but four of us: but four persons in the
world, I believe, who knew his real worth, and heartily
felt the dear old fellow's loss. Of these, three were
brother artists, the fourth was the landlady of the
lodging between Notting-hill and Shepherd's-bush,
which Luttrell had inhabited for upwards of thirty
years. It had stood on the edge of green fields when
he went to live there; it is now almost choked up with
pert little streets, and very small pretentious villas. But
he would not abandon it, perhaps for old habit's sake,
perhaps for the yet worthier sake of Mrs. Brace. She
was a good, warm-hearted woman, and an observant.
She had waited on him all these years, and knew more
of the recluse's ways than any of us. His shyness with
his fellow-men, and his passionate love of nature--a
love which bore him fruits in the tender, faithful work,
which, with the faltering hand of upwards of three-
score years, he yet produced-his pure-mindedness,
his unfailing charity and sympathy with all suffering,
these features in our friend's character were well known
to us, who saw him as often as the busy wheel of
London life would allow. But who could tell the daily


1Ο
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
round of his silent, solitary hours like Mrs. Brace? In
a long talk we had together, that dreary November
afternoon in the sad little parlour, where we all sat
after I had read our friend's brief will, the good woman
said:
“It's my belief, sir, as he'd had some heavy sorrow
in his early life. Other people's troubles seemed to
come so nat’ral to him. When my Betty went away,
Lord! how good he was to me! He was just like a
child, you see; his books and his watering-colours,
them was all his life. Everything was a pictur' to him
-the little childer in the gutters, the sunset over the
chimneys yonder, that layloc tree when it was a-comin'
into bloom, it was all a pictur' to him. He'd no visitors
but you three gents: it was drawrin' or readin' from
morning to night. Bless you, there's enough of the
dear man's sketches to paper the house from top to
bottom. Talk of eatin'!” (no one had talked of eat-
ing, I am sure) “it was as much as I could do some-
times to get him to take a snack of anythink. If I
didn't look sharp, he'd be a-givin' it to one of them
orgin-grinders, for it was nothin' but givin', givin',
with some excuse or other, to every blessed soul as
come to the house. He'd a' give the coat off his back
if I hadn't stopped him. Ah, I shall never see his
like againnever!”
The deceased left no relations. What little money
he had, had been made by himself; and this he de-
sired might be divided among us four. The only
legacies were fifty pounds to the Foundling Hospital;
certain specified sketches to G. and W. (the friends
now present with me), and the bequest of the re-
mainder, together with all books and papers, to my-


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
self, as residuary legatee. The books which were not
numerous, comprised most of the old poets; some of
them in scarce editions, picked up, I doubt not, at
bookstalls in the course of nearly forty years' wander-
ings through London streets; a fine black-letter copy
of Chaucer, another of the Morte d'Arthur, and a
great collection of ancient ballads. The sketches were
all of the most ordinary scenes, bits of wind-blown
common, with a rusty donkey, and a drove of orange-
billed geese, fluttering along open-mouthed: ends of
summer evening in some green lane near Hampstead,
with a golden twilight melting into purple vapour,
through which the dim shadow of two lovers was just
discernible. No great Alpine glories, or marvel of
southern glow; simple English nature, but touched by
a poet's hand, albeit that hand lacked perhaps the
boldness of positive genius. Tenderness and refine-
ment were its characteristics; it touched, too tremu-
lously it may be, these common things, but it elevated
them at once, nevertheless, into the region of the un-
common. As to the papers, besides a bundle of let-
ters from persons long since dead, which my old friend
had carefully docketed, “To be burned when I am no
more," the only packet of any bulk was sealed and
addressed to me. Within was a manuscript of some
length, the portrait of a lady, and a slip of note-
paper, on which were these lines:
“MY FRIEND,
"August 4th, 1869.
“If it shall seem good to you to make known the
facts herein told, in whatsoever form you please, do
so. The actors in this drama have long since played
out their parts. I, who was little more than chorus,


I 2
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
am the last to quit the scene. The reading of this
sad play, then, can wound no soul alive: since all
whom it concerns are beyond the reach of such hurts.
But, it may be, some poor heart, in the sore strait of
like temptation, may herein find warning or comfort.
Therefore, not without some pain, my friend, have I
writ it all down; and to you do I confide these pas-
sages of my youth: to give, or to withhold, as you
deem wise, when I am gone.
“Your friend,
“G. L.,
"P.S.--No eye but mine has seen this portrait for
more than forty years. Why I have valued it more
than anything I possess (poor daub as it is!) you will
understand on reading these pages. Keep it, or burn
it, my friend. Its sweet eyes can grieve no one any
more on earth now.”
The portrait was that of a dark young woman in a
mediæval dress, and resembled in its general character
a head by Masaccio. Much of positive beauty in the
brow and finely cut nostril, and yet more of an elevated,
thoughtful power in the deep-set eyes, overruling the
passionate persuasion of the mouth. Whatever might
be the history of the person to whom it belonged, the
head could not fail to interest any one for whom a
strong individual human type has any attraction. I
have had that little drawing framed, and it will hence-
forward hang in my bedroom.
And now, without further preamble, I give Geoffrey
Luttrell's narrative, having come to the conclusion that
no disasters can arise from the publication thereof.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
13
CHAPTER II.
I WAS a Westminster boy, my father living in the
precincts, so that I boarded at home, and my school-
ing cost him little. He was a poor man, and worked
hard to give me that best of privileges--a good educa-
tion. I was here from the age of seven until seventeen,
and all the learning I ever had was then acquired.
Four years before I left Westminster, a sturdy little lad
named Harry Walbrooke arrived, and became my fag.
I never was a bully, and from a fag he grew to be my
friend. Why, it would be hard to say. What he can
have found to attract him in me I cannot tell. No two
boys could be more dissimilar, but he attached himself
to me, and from that time forward our friendship never
suffered a decline. He was all for athletics---a first-rate
runner and jumper, and, though three years my junior,
could knock me down like a ninepin. He had good
abilities, but he was incorrigibly idle. On the other
hand, I, who never had brilliant parts, worked steadily,
and to this plodding capacity I attribute my having
carried off so many prizes. But then I had not Harry's
temptations. I was weakly, and averse from games.
The only amusement I pursued with ardour was draw-
ing. While Harry was at football I was scrawling
likenesses on the backs of my old copybooks; and
proud enough was I if they were recognized. Our
social positions were as wide apart as our characters
and inclinations. The Walbrookes are a very old
Lincolnshire family; and Harry's uncle, Mr. Walbrooke
of the Grange, was possessed of very large estates.


14
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
He had been married twenty years, and was child-
less. Harry's father, a dissipated younger brother of
Mr. Walbrooke's, had died abroad utterly penniless,
leaving two children, Harry and Lena; and these
children Mr. Walbrooke had, apparently, adopted.
The Grange had been their home ever since their
father's death; and though Mr. Walbrooke had other
nephews and nieces, there seemed to be no doubt that
he meant to make Harry his heir. He was fond and
proud of the lad; proud of his riding so well to hounds;
proud of the bag he brought home to his own gun
when he went out rabbit-shooting; and very proud of
his manly address and handsome face. Nothing was
too good for Master Harry; he brought back to school
more pocket-money, and received more hampers every
“half,” than any other boy at Westminster. But no
one ever grudged him these; for a more generous fel-
low never lived. He was for sharing everything with
those he liked. As to me, knowing I had nothing to
give in return, I used to feel ashamed to take all the
good things he thrust upon me. The utmost I could
do was to help him in his Latin verses, and to tender
such wholesome counsel at times as saved him, I be-
lieve, from more than one flogging.
I have said the contrast between our social positions
was great; but it is not my intention to say more about
myself than is absolutely necessary. In undertaking to
write this narrative I had other objects in view than to
record my own career. This much must be told,
however: my father was very poor, I was his only
child, and his hope was to have seen me in one of
the learned professions. But my taste for art was so
pronounced, that, with his usual kindness, he allowed


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
15
:
me to follow the bent of my own inclinations. I be-
came a student of the Royal Academy on leaving
Westminster; my friendship with Harry Walbrooke,
however, was not snapped asunder, as such intimacies
generally are in like cases. On Saturday afternoons I
often paid him a visit; and once or twice my father
obtained leave to take him to the pit of Drury Lane,
where he witnessed Miss O'Neill's acting in Venice Pre-
served, as I well remember. Harry wept plentifully,
while I appeared to be unmoved. My father could not
understand what seemed to him a contradiction in our
characters. But it was not so. Harry's feelings were
always demonstrative and uncontrolled; mine, by a
tacit understanding with myself, had been used to re-
straint from a very early age.
The year after I left Westminster, I went for the
first time, on Mr. Walbrooke's invitation, to stay at
the Grange. It was a fine stately place; and the
manner of life there realized all that I had pictured of
the grand old English style. There was hospitality
without stint and without ostentation; a sense of abund-
ance without extravagance, which, I have since ob-
served, is not as common in the dwellings of the rich
as one might expect. This was Mr. Walbrooke's chief
virtue. He had no vices; but his excellence--and the
world considered him excellent—was of a negative
kind. He went to church; he was a Tory; he never
quarrelled openly with any of his neighbours, nor exer-
cised any harsh tyranny at home. But then everybody
gave way to him, and had given way all his life. He
was the most obstinate man I ever knew. When he
took up an idea—and one often failed to see what
possible object he proposed to himself-he would sa-


16
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
.
crifice everything to carrying it out. He never lost his
temper, but he had a persistent way which bore down
all opposition. Mrs. Walbrooke was her husband's
chief slave. There is little further to be said of her.
In person she resembled one of Sir Thomas Lawrence's
most affected portraits, but, like them, she represented
a gentlewoman. She played on the harp indifferently,
and worked in floss silks. She sat at the head of her
table gracefully; and had a very pleasant cordial manner,
which attracted, until one came to perceive that it meant
nothing. She had taken to Harry and Lena, as if they had
been her own children, and the girl was fond of her aunt.
But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Walbrooke had qualities which
obtain a lasting influence over children. Harry's way
and his uncle's had not hitherto clashed. In all or-
dinary matters, the boy had a great ascendancy over
his uncle, but the time would come when that obe-
dience which is begotten of admiration and respect
for character would not be forthcoming: and I foresaw
that the strain upon affection and gratitude would be
more than it could stand. For Harry knew his uncle's
foibles, and talked of them more openly than I liked,
though he loved him, and was fully sensible that all
he had he owed to Mr. Walbrooke.
Shortly before my first visit to the Grange a new
inmate had come there. She was but a very young
girl, yet she had a history. It was this. A curate
named Fleming, living near London, had found at his
gate one September evening, sixteen years before this,
a bundle, which, upon examination, proved to contain
a female infant, some few weeks old. Upon her was
pinned a paper, with the name “Assunta," written in
what was apparently a foreign hand. The child's eyes


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
17
lihich shemption of had been the infandeld be obtaine
and complexion seemed to indicate that she came of
Italian parents; but no clue to them could be obtained.
The presumption was (taking the infant's age into con-
sideration) that she had been born on the Festival of
the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, in honour of
which she had been named; and that, driven by some
dire necessity, the parents now sought a home for their
The poor baby at the door of a benevolent man, whose
character was well known. It may be well to state
here, lest the lovers of sensation should expect a
romance upon this head, that nothing was ever known
of Assunta's parentage. She may have been the off-
spring of an organ-grinder. But she had that noble
inheritance which is not of this earth, which nothing
can give, or take away. Mr. Fleming had been married
some few years, but had no children at this time. He
was a young man of ästhetic tastes, who indulged far
more than his means justified in rare editions, old
engravings, and the like. He made an imprudent
marriage in every sense of the word, having taken
unto himself, at the age of twenty, a girl possessed of
nothing but a pretty face. She had grieved and fretted
at having no children of her own, and jumped at the
idea of adopting this little Italian baby. Her kind
husband weakly yielded to her importunity. She told
him it was “Christian-like,” which it might be, but it
was not politic, Christianity and policy not being
identical; and the young couple took upon themselves
a burden which, as time went on, weighed heavily
upon them. In course of years it came to pass that
four children were born, and then what to do with
Assunta became a serious question. She was remark-
ably clever; Mr. Fleming taught her himself, and, being
Morals and Mysteries.


18
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
a good modern linguist, as well as a classical scholar,
her education was far more thorough than most
women's. How Mr. Walbrooke heard of Mr. Fleming,
and of Assunta, I forget now; but the idea occurred
to him that Lena might learn more with a teacher
who was at the same time a companion, than she had
done with two governesses of mature experience, who
had found the task of instructing her beyond them.
It was an experiment, taking such a mere child as
Assunta was, in years, to control a somewhat unruly
little lady like Lena; but Miss Fleming came ostensibly
on a visit to the Grange, and, once there, it became
soon apparent that her “visit” would be a permanent
one. All hearts, more or less, were laid at the feet of
the slight, dark-eyed girl, whose voice and whose
smile had a subtle charm, which no other voice and
smile I have ever known possessed. What was it
about her which was so unlike any other woman? I
ask myself now. She always reminded me of one of
Francia's or Gian Bellini's Madonnas, in her sweet
gravity and girlish dignity; but the mystery of those
deep eyes was, at moments, lighted up by passionate
flashes, which belonged not to that type of divine
calm, the “peace which passeth understanding.” With
her passionate nature, she had a tendency to melan-
choly, which, reading her character by the light of
subsequent events, I have no doubt was entirely beyond
her control, and sprang from causes dating from her
birth itself. She could be joyous enough at times,
however, and her intense power of sympathy made her
a delightful companion for Lena, who soon grew as
docile as a lamb in her hands.
I had not been two days at the Grange before I


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
19
saw how it would be. She and Harry were nearly of
an age (I believe she was a few months older); how
could they do otherwise than fall in love with each
other? God knows, I suffered enough after that first
visit, for many a long year, on her account; yet I was
thankful to have had my eyes open to the truth at
once. I never had any delusion, never was buoyed
up by false hope. I knew she was beyond my reach,
and I was loyal to my friend. He possessed every-
thing in the world to make a girl love him; I possessed
nothing. It would have been useless to try and enter
into rivalry with him, had I been so minded. Though
Assunta was more reserved in her manner with Harry
than with me, numberless little indications told me
that already the girl thought of him with a deep and
particular interest; and being given to observe closely,
even at that age, I felt certain that if she really gave
her heart, it would be until death.
It was summer time, and while Harry was fishing,
I used to wander into a beech wood, at the back of
the house, ostensibly to sketch. The stream wound its
way through the wood, now brawling over pebbles, with
the loud voice of shallowness, now stealing over pools
in the quiet strength of depth. Gravelly banks, hol-
lowed out by the action of the stream when swollen,
and crowned with feathery grasses, overhung the water,
leaving scarce soil enough in places to sustain the roots
of some slanting beech, whose silvery arms stretched
far across the stream. It was of such a spot as this
that I was making a study which required much care
and more skill than I could then master. I returned
to my work several days, and was generally alone; but
on one occasion, about midday, Harry joined me. He


20
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
was wading slowly up the stream, his trousers tucked
above his knees, his bare brown legs gleaming like a
Triton's through the 'silvery water, which he flogged
with a pertinacity which had been but ill-repaid, judy-
ing by the empty basket slung. upon his back. While
he stood grumbling at his ill-luck, inveighing against
the sun that would shine, and the fish that wouldn't
bite, a merry shout, which we both recognized as
Lena's, broke from a pathway in the wood hard by.
A moment later she came in sight, dragging Miss
Fleming along by a scarf she had wound round her
waist.
“Oh! here's Harry and Mr. Luttrell,” cried the
child. “That is capital. I want to get to the other
side of the river, to where the foxgloves are, and the
bridge is such a long, long way round. You can carry
us both over, can't you, Harry? Assunta is not at all
heavy."
“I shall be delighted,” said the young fisherman,
laying his rod on the bank, and slipping off his basket
with agility.
“No,” said Miss Fleming, quietly, “We can go no
further, Lena. We must turn back, now.”
“Come, that's very hard,” cried Harry. “Sit down,
at all events, for a minute, won't you? I've had no
luck. I've not caught a thing to-day.”
. “And so you want to catch us?” laughed his little
sister, who was too sharp not to be dangerous com-
pany sometimes; “but you won't catch us—you won't
-you won't!” she cried, dancing in and out among
the thickets, in provocation of pursuit. “We are not to
be caught any more than the fish, are we, Assunta?"
“It is time to be going home,” said Miss Fleming.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
21
posed. I am thi Harry
“Come, Lena.” But the child was by no means dis-
posed to leave us.
“I am thirsty. I want to drink some of that clear
cold water, Harry. I wish I was a fish, I'd come up
and look at you, and say, 'Don't you wish you may
catch me?' and then dart away, and lie in the shadow
of that bank there all day long. Oh, Harry! do give
me some water in your hands.”
“That's just the way with all impudent little fishes,"
said her brother, as he stooped and made a cup of his
two hands. “They are as cheeky as anything one
minute, whisk their tails in one's very face, and the
next, they come up and ask to be hooked quite de-
murely.”
But, whether in retaliation for this speech or not,
Lena, after a noisy effort to imbibe something from the
impromptu goblet, declared it to be a miserable failure
-she could not get a drop. Then she stood at the
edge of the stream, and tried herself, and the water
ran through her fingers, and all down the front of her
frock. After which nothing would serve her but that
Assunta should make the experiment. The girl's small
brown hands hollowed themselves like two close-fitting
shells, and reaching down she filled and lifted them to
the child's mouth, who clapped her hands with delight,
shouting:
“Assunta's done it! Assunta's done it! She didn't
spill a drop. And oh! you don't know how good it is!
You can't do it, you great clumsy Harry-ask Assunta
to give you some.”
Then Harry, after sundry efforts, in which I believe
he purposely failed, humbly begged Miss Fleming to
give him some water in her hands. I think, for one


• 22
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
moment, she hesitated; but to decline was to attach
too much importance to an act of child's play. With a
faint blush she stooped, and once more filled the cup
made by her fingers in the stream. As they stood there,
she on the strip of shore, her arms lifted towards him,
he in the water a little below her, his fine profile buried
in the girl's hands, it was a group ready made for any
sculptor. And I seemed to foreread the history of those
two lives in the momentary action. She will always be
a little above him; but he may drink, an' he list, the
pure water of a noble life at her hands.
She dropped them ere he had quite done, and some
of the water was spilt. The blood flushed up to her
very brow as she turned away. And I knew that he
had kissed her hands.
CHAPTER III.
Two years passed. I was often at the Grange in
Harry's holidays, and watched, with a keen interest,
in which sorrow and bitterness were blent—sorrow
which was prophetic for them, bitterness which was the
selfish cry of my heart for joy that could never be mine
---the progress of the old story. Harry, as he ap-
proached manhood, became more and more devoted
to Assunta, and she, after her first struggle, gave up
her whole heart and soul to him. Of me she made a
friend. She little guessed all I suffered; and spoke to
me, more unreservedly than she did to any one else,
as Harry's Mentor, as one whom she implicitly trusted.
She saw that her idol was but human: with brilliant
gifts that might lead to his undoing, and set in the


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
23
midst of many and great temptations. It is possible
that had he been more godlike, she might have loved
him less — such are the strange inconsistencies of the
human heart. For of all the positions in which a high-
souled girl can stand towards a man, that of his good
angel is the one which attracts her most.
I have often wondered since that this growing love
upon both sides, to which it seemed to me impossible
that any one could be blind, should have created no
alarm in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Walbrooke. I can
only account for it by supposing that natures, sunk in
the slough of a cold conventionality, never dream of
the force of a first real passion. It is called “a flirta-
tion among the young people,” and is regarded as the
measles or any other evil incident to youth, to be “got
over” far better when young, than if the epidemic
should be taken late in life. Moreover, Harry was at
home but for a few weeks, twice a year, and as his
comeliness, his prowess in all field sports, and his
joviality, made him friends wherever he went, he had
plenty of counter-attraction-or what might be supposed
to be counter-attraction—in the county, to neutralise
the effect of a pair of dark eyes at the Grange. It was
thus, I doubt not, that Mr. Walbrooke thought upon
the matter, if he troubled his mind at all about it.
When Harry was about eighteen, however—he had then
left Westminster a year, and was with a private tutor
in Sussex --something must have aroused Mr. Wal-
brooke's long-slumbering prudence. He resolved that
Harry, before going to Oxford, should travel for a year,
and during that time I did not go to the Grange.
- When I next visited it, some few months after the


24
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
heir's return, and also after his first term at Oxford, I
found Harry much changed, and not for the better, in
all ways. He was, indeed, as affectionate towards me
as ever, and Assunta's influence, far from having di-
minished by the year's absence, seemed to have in-
creased. He had also grown into a very handsome
man. But he was now impatient of his uncle's control
-indeed, of any control but hers; and there was a
recklessness, a dare-devilry about him, at times, which
made me apprehensive for the future. Still, whenever
she was present, he rarely said or did anything which
I regretted; but over our wine after dinner-and he
sometimes took more than was wise—he frequently
conducted himself in a way which annoyed Mr. Wal-
brooke extremely. Harry had imbibed abroad, or at
Oxford, liberal opinions, which he more than once
took this occasion to announce. It was in vain that
his uncle coughed a stern Tory cough, and that I
kicked him under the table; nothing would stop him.
Then the presence of certain guests always disturbed
his equanimity; notably that of one Mr. Ridgway, who
was a constant visitor at the Grange during this period.
I had seen this person before, but had never noticed
him much. It is necessary, now, that I should de-
scribe him.
Theophilus Ridgway, of Hapsbury, was a man of
mark in the county, I might almost say in England.
He was pre-eminently “the man of taste” of his day;
and Hapsbury was the culminating proof of it, which
people who care for such things came long journeys
to see. It was more like an Italian palace than an
English country house, and was open to the charge of
incongruity, with its statues, and fountains, and marble


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
25
balustrades, in the midst of a bleak Lincolnshire park,
where the sun seemed never to shine, if it could pos-
sibly avoid it. But the interior possessed miracles of
art, collected by Mr. Ridgway in his travels, and the
furniture and decorations were all faultless, each room
in its particular style, no hopeless jumble of epochs,
such as the dwellings of most bric-à-brac hunters ex-
hibit: all that you saw here was genuine, and all (you
were told) was in perfect harmony and “keeping:”
only, somehow or other, the general effect left upon
the mind was disastrously cold and comfortless. Haps-
bury was more than twenty miles from the Grange, but
we made an expedition there once, in a coach and
four, when a party was staying with Mr. Walbrooke.
There were Latin inscriptions, I remember, over door-
ways, upon marble slabs on the terrace, on summer-
houses, and sundials—in every possible spot where
they could entrap and confound the unlettered, and
testify to the elegant classicality of the master of the
place. He was, himself, not unlike one of those in-
scriptions: a marble man, highly polished, gilt-lettered,
difficult to read. He had spent a great part of his
life in Italy, as some averred, “under a cloud;" clouds,
however, being but intangible vapours drawn upwards
from the earth, these were regarded by his partisans
as the exhalations of a noxious calumny condensed in
order to obscure an effulgent reputation. And among
his partisans none was stronger than Mr. Walbrooke.
That gentleman would never tolerate a word against
his friend, and ceased to invite two neighbours who
had let fall hints that there were passages in Ridgway's
Jife which would not bear close examination.
All this I learnt upon the visit I am now describing.


26
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
He was then a man of fifty, small, well-preserved, with
a fine white skin, scarcely creased by age, delicate
hands, and a mellifluous voice. His manner was as
faultless as his dress, and everything else about him.
It was the perfection of good-breeding. If I spoke, he
paid as much attention to what the young artist said
as to the words that fell from the greatest man at table.
He listened with his eyes, he sympathised with his
smile, he had always some apposite and graceful re-
joinder. No doubt this flattered, and, in a measure,
blinded me. Certain it is, that though there was some-
thing about the man which baffled me, something which
made me doubt, I scarce know why, whether he had
any heart, or any principle, I sided with those who
thought him very agreeable. His conversation sparkled
with anecdote, and occasionally with sarcasm, so sugared
that the dull swallowed it unperceived. He indulged
sometimes, it is true, in rather too many quotations
and allusions to recondite matters which nine out of
ten people could not understand; but, after all, it
afforded an agreeable contrast to the eternal talk about
hounds and horses which prevailed in that fox-hunting
district. Mr. Ridgway, I fancy, had never been across
a horse in his life. It will be understood that the sort
of man I have described would be uncongenial to Harry.
In point of fact, he never could tolerate what he termed
“that d-d effeminate old prig,” and his antipathy was.
now redoubled by a cause to which I shall come pre-
sently. Mr. Walbrooke, however, invited Mr. Ridgway
none the less often to his house; indeed, it was re-
marked that “the man of taste” never had been so
constantly at the Grange as during the last six months.
And his extreme urbanity towards his friend's nephew


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
27
made yet more apparent the younger man's rudeness
to his uncle's guest.
Time had wrought only good upon Assunta Flem-
ing. In the world's eyes she was handsomer: a tall,
grand-looking creature. In mine, the development of
her rare character was what I chiefly saw. Her in-
fluence in the household was great, and the love which
all bore her was measured chiefly by their capacity for
loving. Mr. Walbrooke's was circumscribed within
certain reasonable limits; but, as far as his stiff nature
would allow, he had a sincere regard for, and an
earnest desire to befriend, the penniless foundling.
Mrs. Walbrooke's was sentimental and shallow. Lena's
was enthusiastic and thorough: she would have gone
through fire and water for her friend; and yet Assunta,
as I have reason to know, had the delicacy and true
wisdom never to make a confidante of Harry's sister.
She was fully conscious of her own position, and of
his: she knew how unlikely it was that they could ever
marry; but every hope of her life was bound up in him,
and she could not cast it all from her. She was capable
of any sacrifice; but she was scarcely twenty, and with
an impassioned, devoted nature, it was asking much
to expect in her the prudence to shun a peril which
she was too clever not to foresee.
But the difficulties of her position were now com-
plicated by what, to many young women, would have
been a subject of triumph and unalloyed satisfaction.
It had been confidently asserted that Mr. Ridgway, of
Hapsbury, would never marry: that those great estates
would pass away to some distant branch of the family:
and that Mr. Ridgway himself had expressed perfect
indifference as to who should succeed him. He had


28
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.'
never been subjugated by the tender passion, and the
requirements of the fastidious “man of taste" were
such that no woman, it was supposed, could fulfil
them. But it now became tolerably apparent to all of
us that Miss Fleming had reached that hitherto unat-
tainable eminence, whence it was just possible that she
might be invited to step upon the throne of Hapsbury.
Not that Mr. Ridgway could be said to be in love, or
anything the least like it; but he admired the girl, as
he would have admired any noble work of art, watched
her, and listened to her, with all his critical faculties
on the qui-vive, and smiled complacently, as though
saying to himself: “There is no fault to be found. The
picture is in keeping throughout. It is the only thing,
the finishing touch, which Hapsbury wants to make it
complete.”
It was no less evident to me, when I heard our
host pressing Mr. Ridgway to return to the Grange,
and saw, by what contrivances Assunta was constantly
thrown in his way, that Mr. Walbrooke was bent upon
bringing this marriage about, if it were possible,
Hitherto the girls had dined early; now, Lena being
sixteen, it was decreed that, henceforward, she and Miss
Fleming should appear at the late dinner; and it was
generally contrived that Assunta's place should be next
to Mr. Ridgway. On one occasion I remember Mrs.
Walbrooke's asking Assunta to drive for her into the
neighbouring town upon some errand, and then, after
having disposed of Lena in another way, suggesting,
at the last moment, as though the thought had just
struck her, that Mr. Ridgway should accompany Miss
Fleming in her drive, and then they "might go and
see the old church together.” Such little plots were


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
29
of daily occurrence during his several visits. Was
Assunta a dupe of them? or was she so entirely ab-
sorbed by Harry, that the thought of Mr. Ridgway, as
a suitor, never crossed her mind? I could not tell.
One thing, however, was certain; she gave her middle-
aged admirer no encouragement. She did not dislike
him; she heard his conversation with a certain acknow-
? ledgment of its merit; she was willing to be instructed
about art, and she smiled at his polished witticisms;
but it seemed to be very like reading a book, which,
while one admits it to be replete with information,
and in point of style admirable, lacks all strong power
of interest.
It maddened Harry to look on at this. His
animosity against Mr. Ridgway reached its culminating
point one evening, when Harry lost his temper in an
unwarrantable manner. There were several guests in
the house; and when we men entered the drawing-
room after dinner, Assunta was sitting alone, at a
distant table, looking over a portfolio of drawings
which had arrived that day. Harry at once drew a
chair before her and sat down, so as completely to
block the passage to and from the corner where she
was. Mr. Ridgway, who had been separated from her
during dinner, would have approached, I saw, but could
not. I was standing, sipping my coffee, and, as he
retired, I chanced to be in his way: he stopped.
“Your artist's eye must be struck by the effect of
Miss Fleming's coiffure to-night. That coronet of hair
is wonderfully becoming. I never saw her look so hand-
some.”
"I have seen her dressed so very often,” said I,


30
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
rather curtly; for I was unreasonable enough to dislike
hearing him praise her.
“Well, I have not become blasé on it yet,” he re-
plied, with a smile; “and I confess I could hardly take
my eyes off her at dinner, as she sat opposite me.
Like Dante,
gli occhi su levai,
E vidi lei che si facea corona.”
Here Mr. Walbrooke, who had been fidgeting about
for some minutes, and glancing continually in Harry's
direction, called out:
“Let us have a rubber. Harry, come and take a
hand, sir. Here are Lord George and Mr. Wilmot
ready, and Mrs. Wilmot or your aunt will make the
fourth.”
“They must excuse me, sir. I never play at whist
now," said Harry, without rising.
“Never play at whist? Nonsense! Why, I was
afraid you did very little else of an evening at Oxford.”
“You said you disapproved of it, so I've given it
up; at all events, during the long vacation.”
“Nonsense! Come, get up at once. You know
very well my advice did not apply to a quiet game at
home.”
“Mr. Henry Walbrooke's charming deference to
his uncle's wishes is really touching,” murmured Mr.
Ridgway to me. “But even virtue may be carried to
extreme-eh? You remember what Horace says?
Dum vitant stulti vitium, in contraria currunt.
“You don't think Harry a fool, Mr. Ridgway?” I
asked.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
31
He shrugged his shoulders with a bland smile.
“Not more than other florid young Nimrods. They
all become brutalized. They all get, more or less, like
their horses and hounds. I dare say Nature gave this
§ young gentleman some brains, but, you see, as Sir
Guyon says in the Fairy Queen,
-- now he chooseth, with vile difference,
To be a beast, and lacke intelligence."
In the mean time, uncle and nephew were still
jangling.
“I'm not fit to play, sir. I'm not, indeed. I got
a bad cropper to-day, and am horribly stiff.”
“There is no more exertion in sitting before a
whist-table than before a work-table,” said Mr. Wal-
brooke, with some little asperity.
“My head feels bothered. I'm too dull to play
to-night,” rejoined Harry.
“Then you had better not inflict your dulness on
Miss Fleming.”
“That he will not do, Mr. Walbrooke," said As-
sunta, with a smile, which I saw covered some uneasi-
ness. “If Harry is too tired to play, I will take a
hand—that is, if any one will accept so bad a
partner.”
This, of course, had its desired effect. Harry rose,
with a bad grace, and limped across the room to where
the whist-table stood. While they cut in for partners,
Mr. Ridgway, with that perfect breeding which veneered
all his actions, waited a minute or two, and then,
without indecorous hurry, glided towards the seat left
vacant by Harry, and slid into it. The latter looked
- as if he would have liked to kick the performer of


32
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
this very simple act; and I am sure no amount of
stiffness would have prevented him, had he had a fair
excuse.
“You will certainly break your neck some day, if
you ride in this desperate way,” said his uncle, whose
serenity being now restored, had leisure to think of
his nephew's limbs. “I wish you would be more
careful.”
“Perhaps you would like me to walk round the
garden in goloshes and a fur coat?” retorted Harry.
The allusion was too pointed to be missed by any one
who heard the words, and I felt confident that Mr.
Ridgway's sharp ears caught them. But Harry was in
that state of irritation which made him perfectly callous
to the effect his intemperate speech might produce,
and he continued: “Every fellow who rides runs some
risks. I'd rather live the life of a man, and die like
one, than be dried up into a whitened fungus—some-
thing that is not a man, nor a woman either.”
Mr. Walbrooke frowned, and his lips twitched
angrily: he turned away. Assunta coloured up to the
roots of her hair. Mr. Ridgway, without betraying
that he had heard a word, leaned across the table and
said, with a bland smile:
“So you are a card-player, Miss Fleming? Do
you know that I possess the first pack of cards, said
to have been invented to amuse poor Charles the Sixth ?
If it is true, the world is under a heavy debt of grati-
tude to that despised monarch for having contributed
to relieve its ennui for upwards of four hundred years.”
“Have they not always done more to destroy hap-
piness than to increase it?" suggested Assunta, who,
from her uneasy glances towards the whist-table, I saw


· GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
33
vjpursued his from that mon the tab
was lending but a divided attention to the “man of
taste's” remarks.
“A fool who is bent on self-destruction will not
: require cards, Miss Fleming,” was his reply. “He
will do so by his tongue, by his palate, no matter how
-tous les chemins mènent à Rome.”
The covert sarcasm, contrasting with Harry's violent
breach of good manners, told with double effect. I
saw Assunta wince. Like a clever tactician as he was,
Mr. Ridgway pursued his advantage no further. He
> ignored his youthful rival from that moment, and be-
gan discussing the drawings that lay on the table be-
fore him. There was not a place of which he had
not some anecdote, some apt quotation in connection
with the scene, or some little-known piece of informa-
tion, gathered in the by-paths of literature, which he
had scoured, and the herbarium of which was care-
fully dried in his memory. Assunta felt much im-
pressed by his cleverness, though she did not hear
above one-half of what he said.
The evening at last came to an end. She had no
opportunity of speaking privately to Harry (the whist
only broke up after the ladies had left the room); but,
as I handed her a candle, she whispered:-
> “Will you talk to him, Mr. Luttrell? He is so in-
temperate, I dread what he may say or do next. Tell
him how miserable he has made me this evening, will
you?”
The Squire, it was evident, had not got over Harry's
last speech. I was not surprised to hear him tell his
ļ nephew that he wished to speak to him in Mr. Wal-
brooke's dressing-room.
> “Come to me afterwards, Harry,” I said.
Morals and Mysteries.


34
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
And three-quarters of an hour later he entered my
room. I saw that something was seriously amiss. He
was very pale; and his mouth had a hard-clenched
look, which I had rarely seen it wear. He said no-
thing, but took out his pipe and lit it. I waited for
him to begin, but in vain. At last I broke the ground
with, “Well, Harry, what passed between you and
your uncle? He has been blowing you up, for behav-
ing as you did to-night, I suppose? And really, I
must say, your conduct--".
“Now, dear old boy, don't you begin, for I can't
stand it. I'm down enough in the mouth as it is. Con-
found my tongue! I believe it would have been all
square if I hadn't spoken.”
“Why, what did you say? What has happened?”.
“I've had a row—and the long and short of it is,
I'm off to-morrow morning.”
“Off to-morrow! Where to? I thought the Oxford
term didn't begin for another ten days?”
“It does not; but I'm to go to my aunt, Lady
Horton's. My uncle says that as I choose to insult
old Ridgway, who is to be here a week more, I must
go."
I was amazed. I knew that Mr. Walbrooke's ob-
stinacy was capable of making him sacrifice much to
the furtherance of any scheme he had taken up; but I
had never conceived it possible that it would carry
him the length of turning Harry out of doors. I had
not taken into account that two ends were to be gained
by so doing. After a pause, Harry went on, as he
drew a long puff at his pipe, and stared gloomily at
the fire.
“But that isn't all—that isn't the worst, Geoff.”


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
35
“What do you mean? I wish you would tell me
distinctly what passed from the beginning, instead of
* letting it out in driblets.”
“Well, then, this is how it was. He began by
saying that my manner had been most offensive to
Ridgway ever since he came into the house—that he
was a friend of his, and a most distinguished man;
and as he hoped to see him very often here, I was to
understand that he insisted on his guest being treated
with proper respect. I replied that I couldn't respect
a fellow like that; but owned I had been wrong in
saying what I had, and I promised not to repeat the
offence. Then my uncle went on to say that the way
s in which I tried to monopolise Assunta's society had
given rise to remarks, and he could tolerate it no
longer. It was all very well when I was a boy- this
hanging about her—but now, if continued, it would
occasion all sorts of slanderous surmises, and would
do her a great injury. Fancy that, Geoff! I think I
I could have restrained my tongue, if he hadn't said
; that. I had vowed to myself that her name shouldn't
pass my lips; but when I heard those words the blood
rushed to my brain and I didn't know what I was
doing—I was mad for the minute, or I shouldn't have
said what I did. I told him the world would soon
know the truth; I loved her better than anything on
earth, and only waited to be of age to ask her to
share whatever I had. “And that is simply nothing,'
said my uncle. “Of course,' I replied, 'I am aware
that if you refuse to let us marry, we must wait—and
ị we will wait. He grew very red, and walked up and
down the room. You will wait?' he repeated. What
for, pray? For my death, to inherit this property?


u
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
with heatest rento marry
Theron ra, sou kno
Don't make so sure of that; I have hitherto treated
you as my heir, but I need not leave you one farthing,
if I do not choose; and I certainly should not do so, if
I thought it was likely you would marry in direct op-
position to my wishes.' I asked him what fault he
could find in Assunta? 'Haven't I heard you say
constantly you didn't know another girl to compare
with her?' “That's very true,' he said, "and I have
the greatest regard for Miss Fleming, but I don't
choose my heir to marry a foundling; and I should
cut you off if you did so.' “Then you may keep your
confounded money,' I cried; ‘for I'd sooner never
touch a farthing of it than give her up!' I know what
she and you will say Geoff. I was a fool, and I knew
it, as soon as the words were out of my mouth; but I
couldn't help it. My uncle turned coldly away, and
for a few minutes he remained silent. At last he said,
•You are a very foolish boy, and ungrateful, too, after
all I have done for you. However, I am not going to
quarrel with you for a few hasty words; only, I think,
after the way in which you have chosen to conduct
yourself towards my guest, and now towards me, your
remaining here just at present is undesirable. Lady
Horton has often asked you to go there when you like.
You had better go to-morrow, for the few days before
you have to be at Oxford. I felt stunned, Geoff.
Turned out of the house! having to leave Assunta in
this way! I couldn't speak for a bit. My blood was
cool by this time, and I saw what I had done. There
was nothing for it but to beg my uncle to forgive me,
and not to send me away. I told him, what was very
true, that I was ashamed of having spoken to him as
I had done; that I was not ungrateful that I loved


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
37
him for all his kindness to me ever since I was a child,
and not for the sake of his money; but that, unfortu-
nately, I hadn't always command over my tongue, and
said things, when irritated, which I deeply regretted
after. But I promised faithfully that this should not
occur again, either as regarded Ridgway or himself, if
he would not send me away. But he was inexorable.
He kept repeating, with that quiet obstinacy of his,
that he thought it much better I should go-and in
short, go I must, Geoff!”
“I am very sorry, dear old fellow, buť, after all, it-
might be worse. Though your uncle is obstinate, he
has behaved with great forbearance, in treating your
speech as an ebullition of boyish folly. But do take
the lesson to heart. You grieved Assunta beyond
measure to-night. You are proud of your physical
prowess, Harry, but what is a man worth who has no
self-control?”
“Nothing! I know it,” he sighed. “But somehow
or other that fellow Ridgway acts upon me as a red
rag does on a bull--his white hands, and his quota-
tions, and his confounded civility! And now, you see,
Geoff, the brute is making up to Assunta! Suppose"
-he stopped and knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
and looked at me straight in the face—“suppose, when
I'm gone, that the fellow's cleverness gets round her?
Suppose she draws comparisons between us?”
“You need fear no comparison,” said I, and the
pang that shot through me was audible in a sigh.
“Nothing can ever displace you in Assunta's heart.
Your only anxiety now, Harry, should be to cause her
no pain, to make yourself more worthy of her. Patience
and courage, and all will come right. Only remember,
9


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
39
by Assue next mornire for me
lio
“I will; but when you are gone, perhaps Mr. Wal-
brooke may not care for me to remain."
The next morning, at breakfast, I knew at once,
by Assunta's marble stillness, that she and Harry had
met, and that she knew all. There was no uneasiness,
no anxiety, such as she had evinced the night before;
it was the calmness of misery, that has little or no
hope. Mr. Walbrooke announced, in a little set formula,
that his nephew had received a letter which called him
suddenly to his aunt, Lady Horton's. Harry himself
said little. Mrs. Walbrooke sent a message to Lady
Horton about a particular shop where to get floss silks.
Whereupon Mr. Ridgway, who was in unusually bril-
liant spirits, entered into a dissertation upon embroidery
from the earliest ages, described what the “vesture of
gold wrought about with divers colours” was probably
like, which the king's daughter of Scripture wore, and
thence, by a natural progression, got to that royal
piece of work, the Bayeux tapestry. Harry bore it all
with exemplary fortitude; perhaps because he was too
down-hearted, poor fellow, to be irritable. Then, after
breakfast, the dog-cart, with his portmanteau in it,
came round to the door, and he bade us good-bye.
To take leave of what one loves best, when it is
necessary to repress any exhibition of feeling, must
always be trying; doubly so at Harry's age, and to
one of his temperament. But both he and Assunta
went through it bravely. I saw it cost him an effort
to shake Ridgway's hand, but he did it; and then,
embracing Lena and his aunt, he jumped into the
cart, and drove off to meet the "stage,” which passed
some six miles from the Grange.


40
MORALS AND MYSTERIES,
CHAPTER IV.
“LUTTRELL," said the squire, turning to me as
soon as the dog-cart was out of sight, “I hope that
Harry's sudden departure will make no difference in
the length of your visit to us. Remember that the
longer you can remain with us the better pleased we
shall be.”
I thanked him, and said it would give me great
pleasure to stay on a little longer at the Grange.
In the course of the morning I saw Assunta walk-
ing alone in the garden. I joined her. “This is an
unfortunate affair," I began. “Harry's imprudence last
night did more mischief than we were aware of.”
“My poor Harry! my poor boy!” she sighed. “Ah!
Mr. Luttrell, but that was not the real cause of his
being sent away. If it had not been for me he would
have been scolded for his impertinence to Mr. Ridg-
way, and there would have been an end of it. It is
I who have driven him away.”.
“No, it is his speaking as he did to his uncle.
The most ordinary caution and a sense of what was
due to Mr. Walbrooke would have obviated it. But
there is no use in crying over spilt milk. You must
not be too cast down by what has occurred. If Harry
can only be got to restrain himself for the future, all
will be well in time, I have no doubt. That he will
remain faithful to you I am very sure; and I believe in
the accomplishment of almost anything on earth with
time and perseverance.”
“Time? Ah! but youth so soon flies, and liſe it-


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
41
self is very short. Will he care for me when I am old
and withered? Then perhaps he may be free to marry -
me."
“But fond of you as all are here,” I said, “and
with the influence you have in the family, Mr. Wal-
brooke will certainly yield, sooner or later, when he
finds that Harry's whole happiness depends on it.”'
She shook her head. “You do not know him, nor
does Harry, as I do. Look at Beauty there in the
park, Mr. Luttrell. She is Mr. Walbrooke's favourite
mare. He goes to her stall every morning and feeds
her with carrots. She may run where she likes, pro-
vided she does not jump this fence, and get into the
garden. Oh! then she would be very quickly driven
out. Harry's heart is their garden. I may do what I
like except enter there. But they can't keep me out-
they can't!” she repeated with a triumphant energy, at
variance with the despondency with which she had
hitherto spoken.
- "Then you ought to be happy," I said, with an
involuntary sigh. “All the rest is, comparatively, of
no importance.”
She looked up with her dark earnest face into
mine. “But I must not be his ruin. He must not
sacrifice everything to me. Oh! Mr. Luttrell, no one
will ever know how I fought against this love at first,
seeing what it must come to! And now, what am I
to do? I ask myself, what am I to do?”
“Nothing. Just wait, and trust to time. To you,
dear Miss Fleming, and to Harry also, this is my first
word and my last.”
Two days went by. Mr. Ridgway's assiduities, un-
interrupted now by the jealousy of Harry, seemed to


* GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
insisted upon my remaining over the ball, Ridgway
good-naturedly bethought him of a muleteer's dress
which he had brought from Spain, and which he
begged me to wear. Of infinite resource, helpful, ever
courteous, why was it I could not like this man?
Shortly after this he went home; but he was to re-
turn for the ball, Hevoir Castle being only four miles
from the Grange. He had, I think, by this time, al-
most, if not definitely, made up his mind to propose
to Assunta; but a little delay could do no harm. And
at this moment the important subject of his costume
demanded a good deal of attention. The night be-
fore his departure a slight incident occurred which I
remember made an impression on me, and which may
have influenced the destinies of those about whom I
am writing more than was apparent.
In addition to the guests in the house, Mr. Wal-
brooke had invited some distant neighbours to dinner.
There was a large party; in all, five-and-twenty.
Among them was a Sir Robert Something and his
daughters, who had lately returned from Italy, where
he had lived many years for the education of his chil-
dren. He was a poor but very proud man, whose
character stood high in the county, but whose manners
were not pleasing. Mr. Walbrooke was not intimate
with him. He lived too near the Grange to be invited
to stay there, and yet a long hill and bleak moor in-
terfered with constant intercourse. Indeed, this was
the first time he had ever dined at the Grange, I be-
lieve, having, when his daughters were children, de-
clined all such doubtful pleasures as an eight-mile
drive to a country dinner-party. I should add that his


44
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
house lay in precisely the opposite direction to Haps-
bury.
I was standing behind the outer circle of chairs
and ottomans, as awkward young Englishmen do be-
fore dinner, near to no one I knew, and consequently
at liberty to watch my neighbours' movements. Not
far off sat Mr. Ridgway, next to Assunta, but less
talkative than usual, it appeared to me. I should al-
most have said that he was not perfectly at his ease, if
that had been possible of a man whom, it was pro-
verbial, nothing ever put out. At all events, I knew,
by the rapid movement of his cold blue eye, from time
to time, that he was on the alert to listen to everything
that went on around him. The guests were now all
arrived; several introductions took place. Presently
Mr. Walbrooke, taking Sir Robert's arm, drew him out
of the circle, and, as he believed, no doubt, out of
ear-shot.
“I don't think you know Ridgway, of Hapsbury,
do you?" I heard him ask. “The other side of the
county, you know.”
“Who?” said Sir Robert, with a surprise which, if
assumed, did credit to his acting.
“Ridgway, the great man of taste, one of the
cleverest fellows you ever met, who—-'
“So I have heard. No, I don't know him, and I
had rather not."
The emphasis is not mine, but his. He spoke
those words so distinctly that I have not a doubt but
that the subject of this colloquy heard them. Sir Robert
throughout the evening avoided even the side of the
room where Mr. Ridgway was. And Mr. Walbrooke's
obstinacy was wounded even more than his friendship.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
45
ag
I doubt if the baronet was ever asked to the Grange
again. But those words left their mark.
I wrote to Harry very fully of all that happened.
He was now at Oxford, and having passed a dreary
time of it with his old aunt, was in a condition to ap-
preciate his return to college and to the society of his
friends. Certainly his spirits rose. When I wrote to
him touching the ball at Hevoir, instead of replying
in the despondent strain he had assumed of late, he
answered, with gay impudence, that he hoped Assunta
would look her very best, and take as much pains with
her appearance as if he were to be present.
“What a coxcomb he is getting,” said I, laughing.
She smiled rather sadly. “Is it coxcombry to speak
the truth? He knows it is as he says. I should only
care to look well to be seen by him.”
His letters to her, of course, I never saw. He wrote
constantly, and she fed upon his words in secret, quot-
ing a passage to me now and then, but that she was
not at ease concerning him I well knew. The Love
that enters into the heart of a woman like Assunta is
not blind; it is a mistake to paint him so.
CHAPTER V.
The night of the ball arrived at last. When As-
sunta appeared in the drawing-room before our depar-
ture, there was a universal exclamation. She had never
looked so handsome before. She certainly never
looked so handsome again. She wore the dress in
which I made the sketch of her, my friend, which you
possess. Some persons gain by rare clothes, carrying


46
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
any unusual garments with a natural grace, as if ac-
customed to them. Assunta was of this number, and
so was Mr. Ridgway. In its way his was, perhaps, the
greatest triumph of the evening. As Louis the Fifteenth,
in a dress of lemon-coloured satin and silver, with the
legitimate aids of powder, rouge, and patches, he might
have passed for a man of thirty. His light figure and
well-turned leg showed to great advantage in the courtly
costume of that epoch of frippery, and he carried his
three-cornered hat, his snuff-box, and his jewelled cane
with an ease which contrasted pleasantly with the
crowd of awkward cavaliers, disconsolate, and ap-
parently much ashamed of themselves, under curly wigs,
broad hats and plumes, and whose swords were always
coming into disastrous propinquity with their legs.
As we entered the ball-room I heard one old lady
say to another:
“That is the girl, that handsome one in the odd
dress."
“You don't say so!” exclaimed the other. “How
can her friends sacrifice her thus? She is very hand-
some.”
“Yes; but her birth, you see. And she is quite
dependent upon the Walbrookes. It is a very great
marriage for a girl in her position to make. I know
more than one who tried for it. After all, he is a
charming man; there's no denying it; so much taste.
And I dare say all those horrid stories are false. De-
pend upon it, when he is once married they will be
forgotten.”
I heard no more. The crowd closed between us,
and I passed on. It was a brilliant pageant, the first
and last sight of the kind I have ever seen. It is all


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
47
7
before me very distinctly now. Of what use to de-
scribe it? such scenes are familiar to you; and if I had
the magic power to make it rise up before your eyes
it would not impress you as it did the raw youth to
whom it seemed the embodiment of a hundred bril-
liant pictures, the figures standing out upon a rich sub-
dued background of tapestry, carved oak, and stone.
Assunta did not dance much. She attracted a good
deal of attention, as much by the rumours that were
afloat as by her beauty, I doubt not. And Mr. Ridg-
way justified these rumours by scarcely leaving her side.
If he had hesitated hitherto he did so no longer. She
had been submitted to the test of public opinion, and
that many-tongued voice was almost unanimous in de-
ciding her to be not only very handsome, but unusu-
ally distinguished in carriage and manner. The fasti-
dious “man of taste" was satisfied. I thought I read
all this in the open proclamation of his devotion which
he made; there could be no doubt, for there was no
disguise, about the fact. Others were to be warned
off these premises. Assunta was, I am sure, uncon-
scious that her name was coupled with Mr. Ridgway's
and listened, as she always did to him, with attention,
replying sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a word,
sometimes a little wearily perhaps. By-and-bye a fat,
gossiping woman came up, and whispered a word or
two in her ear, accompanied by shrewd nods and becks.
Assunta coloured crimson, and from that moment I
saw that she was ill at ease, and made an effort to get
away from her admirer. She changed her seat, she
consented to dance, she asked me to take her into the
refreshment-room; but whenever she returned to the
neighbourhood of Mrs. Walbrooke, there was Ridgway.


48
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
I stood exactly opposite, where I could watch every
movement of her countenance, and between us was the
entrance door of the ball-room.
It was past twelve o'clock, and the revel was at its
height, when, looking at Assunta, I saw her eyes
fastened upon this door, through which a great crowd
was streaming, with an expression of wonderment, joy,
and terror, such as I could not account for. At that
moment the crowd gave way a little, and I beheld
Harry! Harry, whom we all believed to be a hundred
miles away, and hoped was imbibing wisdom from the
breast of Alma Mater. It took away my breath; but I
pushed my way to him as fast as I could. Before I
could reach him, however, he had joined the little
group, where Assunta sat near Mrs. Walbrooke, and
Mr. Walbrooke and Lena were standing. As to Mr.
Ridgway, he had sauntered down the room with the
cautious carelessness of a man who knows how to ex-
tricate himself from an awkward position. The recep-
tion Harry met with was characteristic of the various
members of his uncle's family.
“Dear me!” cried Mrs. Walbrooke, “How very
odd! Where did you spring from, Harry? And such
a beautiful dress. Very becoming, too. What is it?
Oh a hunting dress of George the First. Charming!
So very nice. You didn't come in it all the way from
Oxford, did you?”
“Oh, you darling duck!” exclaimed the Dresden
shepherdess, jumping up, and standing on tip-toe, in
an ineffectual effort to reach his cheek with her pretty
lips. “How glad I am. It seems an age since we
saw you. You look just like an angel in powder,
going out hunting; doesn't he, Assunta? How good


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
of you to come. What fun! This is the one thing
that was wanting to make the ball perfect.”
Assunta said nothing. I thought he looked dis-
appointed; yet her eyes were more eloquent than any
words.
“What mad freak has brought you here, Harry?”
asked his uncle, with knit brows. “Have you got
leave? If not, you will be rusticated, or get into a
terrible scrape, at all events.”
"No," replied Harry; "certain little circumstances
prevented my getting leave, so I came off without it.
I shall be able to say with truth that I did not sleep
out of Oxford. You see I only miss to-morrow's
prayers. I was present this morning, and set off in
my tandem as soon as they were over, took the stage
after five-and-twenty miles, which brought me a good
part of the way. The remainder of the journey I
performed in any rattletrap I could pick up from one
village to another, until I found myself at the King's
Head, close to this, an hour ago. I return in the
same way, as soon as the ball is over. I calculated
all the costs,” added Harry, laughing, “and I thought
it was worth it.”
“H’m!” grunted Mr. Walbrooke; “I don't know
what your calculations are like. It will cost you, or
rather me, fifty pounds, if it costs a penny.”
"Well, Uncle Jack, we'll set that down in the place
of my whist, which you complained of. At all events,
this is a harmless amusement, and will entail no worse
consequences than a wigging." -
“I don't know that. I am not so sure of its being
harmless," muttered the squire, but in so low a tone,
,that Harry, who had turned to Assunta, did not hear
Morals and Mysteries.
Co 4


50
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
.
him. Harry bent a little over her, so that his words were
inaudible; then presently he stood erect, and I heard
him ask her to give him the dance which was just begin-
ning. Mr. Walbrooke fidgeted, and looked round the
room, and at the same moment Mr. Ridgway came up.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Fleming; I think this is
our quadrille.”
She had risen, and had actually taken Harry's arm.
Mr. Ridgway smiled at Harry with a polite bow. Harry
repaid it with a freezing nod. She coloured, and was
sorely perplexed.
"You will excuse Miss Fleming. She has just pro-
mised me this dance,” said Harry.
"She forgot that she was engaged,” interrupted
Mr. Walbrooke, quickly. “She cannot, of course, give
up a prior engagement.”
Harry, glaring and fuming on one side, Mr. Ridg-
way, bland but inexorable on the other, resolved not
to relinquish his right, nor yield an inch of his ground;
between them Assunta looked sadly distressed. Jus-
tice was so manifestly on the one side, that she felt
she must yield, or mortally offend Mr. Walbrooke,
and harm both Harry and herself perhaps irreparably.
With a look of supplication up at him, she at last dis-
engaged her arm, and placed it in Mr. Ridgway's.
They walked away, and Harry's face, so beaming five
minutes before, was now black as thunder. He said
nothing, but his eyes followed them as they took their
places in the quadrille, and his nostrils dilated as he
watched the very ostentatious devotion of Assunta's
partner. Now Mr. Ridgway bent down, and whispered
something witty--about their vis-à-vis, perhaps-for
Assunta, in spite of her annoyance, could not help


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
51
smiling; now he was examining her bouquet, and
telling some very long story, in that confidential man-
ner which in itself looks like an avowal to the spec-
tators.
Just then ill-luck brought one of Harry's numerous
friends, a coarse, tactless fellow, past where we were
standing. Seeing the direction in which Harry's gloomy
face was turned, the man stopped, and catching hold
of Harry's arm, with a laugh, cried in a hoarse whisper,
which pierced through violins and clarionets, “So your
nose is put out of joint in that quarter, eh, Walbrooke?
I hear it's all settled. I don't envy the girl. However,
that's her look out. Ha! ha!”
- Harry made no reply; one would have said that he
had not heard the words, but for the way in which he
changed colour, and turned away sharply. The man
passed on, and Harry's bitterness at last found vent in
words.
“So it's a settled thing is it, Geoff? Well, it was
worth coming from Oxford to know this. What a fool
a man is ever to trust a woman!”
“What a fool you are, Harry, to let your jealousy
blind you in this way, and to listen to the gossip of an
idiot like that. There is not a word of truth in what
he or any one else says about this.”
“How do you know? She is not likely to tell you.
Look at them there. No one can say there isn't some
ground for the report! Why did she dance with him
if she doesn't encourage him?”
“How could she help it when she was engaged?
And if she had refused him at first, of course she could
have danced with no one all the night."


52
:
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“She should have thrown him over. If she had
cared for me she would.”
“And have made your uncle furious, and have
done you both incalculable mischief! How foolish
you are, Harry, not to see that all your endeavour now
should be to conciliate him.”
"I can't say I feel much inclined to try," said
Harry, between his teeth, “when I see him doing all
he can to ruin my happiness. But there's no use
standing here. Let us come into the supper-room,
Geoff. I've had nothing to drink, and I'm as thirsty
as the devil.”
There was a knot of young fellows there drinking
champagne, who greeted Harry very warmly (as, in-
deed, did every one we met). Those were the days
when men did drink at country balls; I know not what
they may do now; and soon, to my vexation, he was
trying to drown his troubles in the bottle, and assum-
ing a gaiety which I knew was far from real. I dreaded,
and with good reason, the effect of much wine on
him in his present excited state; and as I watched the
wild recklessness with which he tossed off tumbler after
tumbler, I hesitated whether it would not be well to
fetch Mr. Walbrooke, whose remonstrances might have
more weight than mine. The fear of doing more harm
than good—if Harry should forget himself in speaking
as he had once done, to his uncle-deterred me; but
I would not leave him, and urged him, whenever I
could make myself heard, to return with me to the
ball-room. A long half-hour passed thus, and it be-
came evident to me that the wine was beginning to
take effect; the dull glitter of the eye told its tale, the
hand that raised the glass was less steady.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
53
“Why were you not out with us, yesterday, Wal-
brooke?” said a man who had just come in. “A glori-
ous run of five-and-forty minutes without a check.”
“He wasn't here. He was having an inglorious
run-away from Oxford,” laughed another.
“Oh! Ah! by-the-bye, I heard Ridgway say just
now "
“What did you hear him say?" asked Harry,
fiercely.
“Oh! he was only chaffing, in that sarcastic way of
his, about your being packed off to school, a month
ago, for getting screwed—and that, now you had run
away, your uncle was going to send the naughty little
boy back to get a whipping."
“He said that, did he?” Harry ground his teeth.
“Some one else will get a d-d good whipping, I can
tell him, if he doesn't look out.”
“Oh! he was only joking, my dear fellow.”
“I will teach Mr. Ridgway not to joke about me,”
cried Harry, filling his glass again.
“Take care, Walbrooke. Though he's such an
effeminate-looking fellow, I'm told he is not to be
trifled with. They say that he really killed a man in
Italy.”
"If he did, it was behind his back!” and Harry
gave a contemptuous laugh. “He has not pluck to
stand up in a fair fight, or I'd have a round with him
in the court-yard. A sneaking scoundrel, who palavers
one to one's face, and stabs one with his tongue when
one isn't present to give him the lie!”
It was at this moment that Assunta entered the
room upon Ridgway's arm. The quadrille had been
long since over, and Assunta, who, during the dance,


54
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
.
had caught sight of Harry's lowering face from time
to time in the crowd, and had then suddenly missed
it, had sat down, as I afterwards learnt from her, a
prey to serious anxiety about him. Where was he?
Why did he not come to her? Surely he was not so
unreasonable as not to forgive her for leaving him?
And where was Mr. Walbrooke? She prayed to Heaven
that he and Harry might be having no altercation !
This nervous terror at last got the better of every other
consideration. She would sooner have asked any one
in the room to give her an arm than Mr. Ridgway;
but no one else was near, and she could bear this
suspense no longer. Under the pretext that she
wanted a glass of water, she asked him to take her
through the rooms. No doubt Mr. Ridgway divined
the cause of this sudden thirst; and perhaps a shrewd
suspicion of where and how they would find Harry
made him nothing loth to assist in the search.
“Ah! here is our young friend,” he whispered, as
they entered the supper-room. “Very jovial, I see,
wine-cup in hand. He should have come as Bacchus;
only wants the thyrsus and ivy-wreath. And such an
abundant flow of words, too! He might have played
the part of his own magpie. The magpie, you know,
Miss Fleming, was dedicated to the god of wine.”
“Mr. Ridgway,” said Harry, advancing with no
very steady gait, and with a flaming face, “will you
be good enough to repeat before me what you have
been saying of me behind my back?”.
“Harry, Harry! for Heaven's sake!” murmured
Assunta.
“Perhaps you will reconduct Miss Fleming to the


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
55
ball-room, and then meet me in the court-yard to give
me this explanation,” continued Harry.
Mr. Ridgway shrugged his shoulders, with a smile.
“I have none to give, my dear young gentleman.
I paid you a pretty compliment just now, in saying
you were god-like, with that wine-cup in your hand.
Bacchus was a gentleman-it was only his satyrs who
were boisterous and vulgar,” added Mr. Ridgway, with
a little drawl.
“You have been turning me into ridicule, then, for
Miss Fleming's amusement, also, have you?” roared
Harry, who was now fairly beside himself.
“Harry, dear Harry! pray-2” supplicated As-
sunta, taking his arm; but it seemed as if her voice,
on this occasion, only maddened him the more.
“I am like Bacchus-am I? There shall be one
point of resemblance the less very quickly. The wine
shall no longer be in my hand. I'll make you a pre-
sent of it."
And so saying, he raised his arm, and would have
dashed the champagne full in Mr. Ridgway's face, but
that the glass was struck from his hand at the same
moment, and shivered on the floor. A few drops only
did in their transit reach the sleeve of Mr. Ridgway's
yellow satin coat. It was Mr. Walbrooke, who, in the
very nick of time, had arrived on the scene to avert
what must have led to a terrible catastrophe. Alas!
would it not have been better to have let Fate work
her will then, instead of holding her hand for a time?
We, in our short-sightedness, regarded it then as a
mercy: I cannot do so now.
That scene is before me still; Harry, like some
wild animal held at bay, between Assunta and Mr.


MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Walbrooke; Ridgway, with admirable coolness, wiping
the splashes from his sleeve with a laced handkerchief;
the circle of silent spectators“I see it all. The mad
boy was at length dragged away by his uncle and
Assunta; vociferating loudly, and calling upon Mr.
Ridgway to fight him, when and where he liked. I
thought it better to stay, and plead what extenuation
I could for Harry.
“Our young friend,” said Mr. Ridgway, with a
light laugh, in reply to my excuse that a little wine
quite turned Harry's head, and rendered him unac-
countable for his actions, “our young friend has not
studied drinking as a fine art. Do you remember what
Rabelais says? 'Boyre simplement et absolument. ...
aussy bien boyvent les bestes.' This young gentleman
may be said to drink "absolument,' eh? much as the
carps do. 'Twere vain to expect much more self-
control in him than in them.”
“I hope you will forgive him, Mr. Ridgway,” I
said.
“Oh, dear, yes;” but though he smiled, there was
an expression in his eye which struck me unpleasantly,
and which I thought of long after. “Not that he will
apologise, Mr. Luttrell. A man needs to be a gentle-
man to own himself in the wrong. But I am glad he
did not throw the wine in my face, because I suppose
the conventional laws of society would have obliged
me to call him out, which I had rather not do. As it
is-suppose we have some of this aspic de volaille? I
declare I am quite hungry."
In the course of time Mr. Walbrooke rejoined us.
“Ridgway,” he began, “I am more grieved and
ashamed of my nephew's conduct than I can express


58
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
carriage; but I had not proceeded far on my search
before Harry's uncle overtook me.
“Mr. Luttrell, I cannot trust myself to speak to
that boy again to-night. His conduct has exasperated
me beyond endurance. Over and above his insolence
to Mr. Ridgway, he has thought fit to question my
conduct in a way I will not stand. He chooses to
fancy himself in love with Miss Fleming, and to resent
the fact of any one else's paying her any attention.
Now I wish you to convey this message to him from
me. Until he promises me that this absurd folly shall
cease, I do not mean him to return to the Grange. I
will not be subject to a recurrence of such scenes as
to-night's—or such insolence as obliged me to send
him from the Grange. When he can behave himself
properly, and will express some contrition for his con-
duct, I will receive him, and not before. He has his
allowance, and can spend the vacation where he pleases.
Be good enough to tell him that from me.”
I found them together in a deserted room at the
end of the suite, standing by an open window. It was
a clear frosty night, which, under ordinary circum-
stances, would not have invited the admission of more
air than necessary. But Assunta, regardless of herself,
had opened the window; for Harry's head was burn-
ing, and she believed that the keen sharpness of the
night would restore him sooner than anything. What
had passed between them I knew not, but that he had
forgotten all his jealous suspicions of her, was clear.
Their hands were linked together, and they stood there
like two sorrowful children, silent with the traces of
tears upon their cheeks, looking out into the deep
peaceful sky, lit by its myriad stars.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
59
“You are summoned, Miss Fleming," I said, “and
you and Harry had better say good-bye here, for the
Squire does not wish to see him again to-night. If
you remain here Harry, I will return to you, and find
my way back to the Grange somehow.”
Poor young hearts! Had either of them a fore-
boding of the future when they bade each other that
farewell? I only know that Assunta's face was white
and rigid as the face of death when she joined me in
the next room-for I had sauntered away from them.
She said not a word. We found Mrs. Walbrooke in
the bustle of cloaking. Ten minutes afterwards they
drove off, and I returned to Harry. We had a long
conversation, which it is needless to repeat here. I
told him, as gently as I could, the substance of his
uncle's words, and implored him to exercise a little
discretion in his communications with Mr. Walbrooke.
The Squire was greatly incensed, I said, and infinite
tact would be required to adjust matters; one false
step, one hasty letter, might prove irreparable.
He was sober enough now, and seemed heartily
ashamed, less of his behaviour to Ridgway than of
having unjustly suspected Assunta, and of having al-
lowed himself to be drunk in her presence. “I sup-
pose,” he said sadly, “the doors of the old house will
be shut against me now for a time. I will write
nothing, if I can help it, to offend my uncle; I promise
you, Geoff, to be discreet, and on paper I think I can
be, better than in talking. But if he expects,” he
added, with a rekindling of the old fiery pride, “if he
expects that I am going to truckle to him for his
money, if he expects to get any promise out of me
about Assunta, he is mistaken. I will never say or do


60
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
anything to lead him to suppose that I give her up.
It's as much as I shall be able to do to keep silent,
knowing that that scoundrel is constantly near her,
and that it is my uncle's doing."
I walked with him, under the star-lit sky, to the
King's Head; I helped him to stuff his fine clothes
into a valise, and don something more suitable to a
journey through England in this nineteenth century.
Then a dog-cart came round to the inn-door: Harry
wrung my hand, jumped on the seat, and drove away
in the frosty night; the lamps sending weird lights
upon the hedge, on either side, which were visible for
half a mile along the straight and level road.
CHAPTER VI,
What I had long foreseen came to pass the next
day. Mr. Ridgway formally proposed to Assunta; and
was rejected. That a man of his acute perceptions
should not have been prepared for this result to his
wooing seemed difficult to believe. Had Miss Fleming
been a different sort of person, it might have been looked
for that the disgrace and banishment of Mr. Wal-
brooke's heir should have inclined her to view with
favour a marriage which presented so many solid ad-
vantages as the one now offered to her. But Mr.
Ridgway was too keen-sighted to misjudge, though he
was incapable of valuing at its true worth, the char-
acter of the woman whom he now desired to raise to
the throne of Hapsbury. She had had a girlish fancy
for the “good-looking young calf,” who had so signally
disgraced himself last night, and she must feel heartily


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
61
ashamed of him. On the other hand, she had often
shown a certain amount of pleasure in his, Mr. Ridg-
way's society; it required no uncommon vanity in a
man, who had cultivated the arts of pleasing for nearly
fifty years, to believe that the contrast between coarse-
ness and refinement must make itself felt by Assunta
at this moment, very much to the advantage of the
latter. As to love, he would probably have smiled
sarcastically at the question of its existence, on one
side or the other. She was a charming young woman;
agreeable and distinguished in person, and sufficiently
intelligent to be receptive of his instruction, at such
times as he might feel disposed to converse—for your
brilliant men of society are apt to be taciturn in strict
domesticity. And as to himself, why, he was—what
he was; he had never indulged in illusions as to girls
falling in love with him, or he might have been cap-
tured, ere this, by one of the numerous young ladies
who, at various periods of his career, had desired to
reign at Hapsbury. Fortunately he did not believe in
“les grandes passions;” in his own case, at least. No;
in love was an entirely unnecessary ingredient in the
marriage-mixture: liking was a solvent of sufficient
strength to melt the harsher quantities of that mixture
into a cool and not unpalatable beverage.
Thus, only, could I account for the blunder Mr.
Ridgway committed, in believing that he had but to
propose to be accepted. He regarded Assunta as too
sensible to waste her life on a vain shadow; her eyes
had been open to the futility of any expectations she
might have formed with regard to Harry: and now
that the substantial reality of independence, coupled
; with an agreeable companion, was offered her, how
bussions;” innecessary in the of
er ble beveor the bhad but


62
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
could she refuse? But she did refuse; much to his
surprise, something to his annoyance, and more to his
contempt. She had not a philosophic soul; she was
no better than other women, then, in this respect; that
she allowed an idiotic fancy to usurp the place of
some more rational feeling, which was all that philo-
sophy needed to enable two human beings to live
placidly together.
He returned to Hapsbury that afternoon, and
Assunta was left to the mercy of Mr. Walbrooke. What
that mercy was may be gathered from the fact that he
was closeted with her for upwards of an hour; after
which I was unable to get speech of her, for she
pleaded fatigue to retire to her bed. The next morn-
ing I received news of my father's serious illness,
· which called me suddenly to London; but I managed
to have a few minutes' conversation alone with Assunta
in the library before my departure. She looked sallow
and worn, poor child, that morning—the world and
Mr. Ridgway would have said almost plain. To me
she never seemed more lovable and interesting. She
sat down wearily on one of the great leather chairs,
and leaned her head on her hand. Then she told me
something of what had passed between the master of
the house and herself, and of what she felt to be the
peculiar and terrible difficulty of her present position.
“He is so kind in his own way he has been more
like a relation to me than a master-that when he
tells me how fatal it would be to all his views for
Harry that we should marry, I feel as if I were a
monster of ingratitude to oppose him. If I could be
persuaded that it was really for Harry's benefit to give
me up, I would show him the example--cost me what


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
63
it might, Mr. Luttrell. It is this breaks my heart. I
have not slept all night, thinking what I ought to do.
Mr. Walbrooke says I am mistaken in fancying I have
much influence over Harry; and, alas! I almost feel as
if he were right. I am afraid it cannot be very great,
since he can be swept hither and thither by every im-
pulse of the moment. I ask myself, “Shall I not be
as a millstone round his neck? Will the day not come
when he will regret having married the penniless
foundling?'”
“Never; unless he do so precipitately," I replied
at once. “And this I am sure you will not consent
to. You have but one course, both of you: to try and
wear out the squire's patience. It is a case of two to
one; for all this family are so attached to you that I
am sure they will not hear of your leaving them.”
She coloured, and with a sad little smile said,
“Unless it is, as the maids say, “to better myself,' or
what Mr. Walbrooke considers is to better me. For
that he is urgent—nay, positively angry at my rejec-
tion of wealth and social position. What are they all
to me without Harry?”
“Is it final," I asked, “this rejection?”
“Final,” she replied; and no more passed between
us on the subject. We returned again to Harry. She
bitterly deplored his having by this fresh outrage yet
further incensed his uncle. “Mr. Walbrooke says that
1 until I marry, or that Harry consents to give me up,
he must not return here. That is hard, is it not, Mr.
Luttrell?—to separate Harry and his uncle, who has
been like a father to him? My darling boy will never
give me up, I know that, but I cannot be his ruin-1,
who hoped to save him; for it will be ruin if this


64
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
quarrel between him and his uncle continues. Mr.
Walbrooke candidly told me that he would never for-,
give Harry's marrying against his consent. He said,
'My nephew must marry a woman of some social
weight, to lift him up, instead of dragging him down.'
It sounds worldly and heartless to me, Mr. Luttrell,
but perhaps it is true, for all that. If I only knew
what was right. If I only knew what was best for my
darling!”
The sad eyes were full of tears, but they did not fall.
“Will you write to me, dear Miss Fleming?” I
asked, with as steady a voice as I could command.
“I think you know that I am your true friend, as I
am Harry's, and that I shall always give you such ad-
vice as I should to a dear sister. My last word is, Do
nothing rashly.'”
She promised to write, and thanked me warmly;
then we parted. Nothing could be kinder than Mr.
Walbrooke's farewell. “You must come to us again
in June, Luttrell, whether Harry is here or not--
whether he is here or not,” he repeated, doggedly.
“The young man's obstinacy is such that unless cir-
cumstances occur—which I am hopeful they may-to
force him into submission, it is very probable he may
continue to put himself into opposition to me. And as
long as he does so, he will not come to the Grange.
But, remember, we shall be very glad to see you. There
is that Sir Joshua, you know, which you have begun to
copy—you must return to finish it.”
But the copy of Sir Joshua remains unfinished to
this day; and, possibly, still adorns some attic at the
Grange. I have never seen it or the Grange since that
January morning in 1827.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
CHAPTER VII.
My poor father's was a long illness, and I was
constantly in attendance on him for many weeks. He
died in March, and about the same time I learnt, in-
directly, that Mr. Fleming was dead, leaving a widow
and four children in very poor circumstances. I had
received one or two letters from Assunta, giving a sad
account of her tormented state of mind, Harry's name
being now tabooed in the family circle, all' communica-
tions between him and the Squire being of the briefest
and driest character, and Mr. Ridgway being now a
more constant guest than ever. Then came an interval
when I heard nothing from the Grange, being myself
too busily and painfully occupied to write more than
the brief announcement of my father's death. I had
only one letter from Harry, and that was not very
satisfactory. It was, indeed, fuller than ever of his
passionate attachment to Assunta; but of this I needed
no assurance. I should have been better pleased to
learn that it was producing some permanent effect on
his life and character; but as to the one he was silent,
and that the reckless impetuosity of the other was un-
controlled as ever was clear from the violent terms in
which he wrote of his uncle. I had, moreover, the
opportunity of learning through a friend, whose brother
was at Oxford, that young Walbrooke's efforts at steadi-
ness were spasmodic at best. He belonged to a fast
set, and though he sometimes absented himself from
their "wines” for a few days, the least vexation, or, it
might be, the devil within him, unaided by any cir-
cumstances from without, drove him to those festive
Morals and Mysteries.


66
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
boards, from which he was too often seen reeling
home in the early morning light.
All this was painful enough to me, and doubly so,
as I did not see any hopeful termination to the exist-
ing state of things. In April I wrote to Assunta, but
of course abstained from any allusion to what I had
heard of Harry. I wrote but a few lines, asking for
news of her; and some days later I received the fol-
lowing reply:-
“April 20th, 1827.
“DEAR MR. LUTTRELL,—
“THANK you for your kind letter. We have both
had a heavy sorrow since I last wrote to you; added
to which I have suffered much in other ways. You
ask me to tell you everything about myself, or I should
not think of intruding my own troubles upon you so
soon. Dear Mr. Luttrell, there are griefs far worse
than the death of those we love. Henry's conduct is
driving me to despair. He has been sent away from
Oxford—'rusticated' I think they call it—for a time,
in consequence of some wild outbreaks. What will
become of him? The doors of this house, his natural
home, are shut against him; he will not go to Lady
Horton's, who, it seems, spoke disparagingly of me
when he was there in the winter. Alas! you see, on
every side, I am the barrier between him and his
relations; and Mr. Walbrooke's great kindness to me
makes it all the worse. He has given me fifty pounds
to send to poor dear Mrs. Fleming, and has promised
to pay for little Charlie's schooling. Why cannot he
rest satisfied with these acts of true benevolence, without
trying to force me into a marriage with one man, while
my heart is another's? Dear Mr. Luttrell, I have been


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
so torn asunder by conflicting feelings during the past
week, that I scarcely know how I have arrived at the
resolution I have formed to leave the Grange, which
has been my home for the last five years; to bid it
good-bye, probably for ever! A simple stratagem will
enable me to do this without proclaiming my real
motive. Mrs. Fleming is left in so forlorn and piteous
a condition, with her four little children, that it appears
natural I should go to her, though I fear that, in point
of fact, I shall be more of a burden than a help, and
must soon seek another situation. But I shall be no
longer in the way here; I know they would never send
me from them; but when I am gone, dear Harry can
return, and all will then be well, I hope, between him
and the squire. I will not tell you what it has cost me
to come to this resolve. I know it is right, and that is
my only consolation. The alternative was one I could
not bring myself to accept. I have said nothing as yet
about my plan; I dread all discussion so much, I must
speak and act almost simultaneously, for I feel that
Mr. Walbrooke will strenuously oppose my going. I
cannot bring myself yet to think that all must be at
an end between Harry and me; but oh! Mr. Luttrell,
if my love should be doing him harm, instead of good!
That thought haunts me. I was arrogant enough to
hope that I stood between him and much evil. Alas!
it is not so; I can deceive myself no longer; God
knows what I ought to do; and yet, when I pray for
guidance, I seem to get no answer to my prayers.
| Forgive this,
"From yours,
“Ever sincerely and gratefully,
“ASSUNTA FLEMING."
5*


.68 .
MORALS AND MYSTERIES,
:
As I pondered over this letter, I could not but feel
that she was right. That her presence at the Grange
should prevent Harry's return there, was clearly not
defensible, not even politic. When she was really gone,
when they had lost the charm of her gracious presence,
they would, perhaps, understand her true worth better,
and feel how inexpressibly lucky Harry was to have
gained the heart of such a woman. They, or rather
the squire, for Mrs. Walbrooke was of no account in
the calculation, might gradually be brought to see that
Harry's real welfare was dependent on this marriage.
It was of importance that he should be at the Grange
now, out of the reach of temptations to which he was
constantly falling a prey, in his present condition of
passionate, irritable, unsatisfied love. I believed that,
on the whole, Assunta's resolution was wise, with a
view to the ultimate happiness of both.
That same afternoon, as I was painting, and wonder-
ing what had become of Harry, he walked in, looking,
to my surprise, in better spirits than I could have ex-
pected; but such was the quicksilver of his nature; to
rise—and fall as rapidly—with the varying temperature
of his hopes. I saw at once that he did not know of
Assunta's leaving the Grange.
“I have been too down in the mouth, lately, to
write to you, Geoff; but you'll forgive me, eh? I am
sent from Oxford for the remainder of this term, for
being in a row; but we won't talk about disagreeable
things. Don't look so grave—I couldn't help it-I
couldn't, indeed. And good comes out of evil some-
times. I have got a stroke of luck which will make
me independent of the Squire, I hope, and then I can
marry Assunta to-morrow.”


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
69
He rubbed his hands with a boyish glee, and his
whole face beamed.
“Independent of your uncle!” I repeated. “What
do you mean? How on earth can good come of the
sevil of disgracing yourself at Oxford?”
“Well, in this way, Geoff. The fellow with whom
I got into this row-indeed, I might say, who got me
into this row, and who was leaving Oxford this term,
so he didn't care for himself—is the son of a Scotch
wine merchant in the City. He is a thundering good.
fellow, and when he heard me say that I couldn't go
to the Grange, he insisted on my coming to stay at
his father's here in London. On our way up I told
him something of my position, and said I would do
anything in the world that would give me a small,
certain independence. He came to me last night, and
said he had been talking to his father, who offered to
take me into the house, and give me three hundred a
year. My work would be chiefly to tout—to go among
my friends, and try to get orders. I was a little stag-
gered at first. It isn't the kind of thing I've been used
i to, but-4".
“I should think not! And for a wine merchant,
too! the last trade of all others, Harry, you should
have anything to do with. You are ill-fitted in every
way for this kind of life. I hope you will not think
of it."
"Indeed, but I do, though. I have made up my
mind to accept Mr. Strahan's offer. There's no dis-
grace in 'touting' Geoff?”
“I don't say that there is any disgrace, but I know
that your uncle would never forgive you. It would be
the most suicidal step you could take; and when I say


70
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
that, Harry, I mean something more than as regards
your worldly prospects. You know your own fatal
tendency: you will be constantly exposed to the tempta-
tion of 'tasting' wines, and not even Assunta's in-
fluence, I fear, will counterbalance this."
“I know myself better than you do, Geoff," he
said, colouring. “I don't drink when I am happy. I
drink when I am dispirited—I drink from a craving
for excitement—to drown thought. When I have my
darling for my own, when no one can separate us, I
shall want nothing else, neither drink nor any other
excitement."
I brought forward every argument I could, to move
him from his purpose; and a great many bad ones
among the number: to wit, that Mr. Strahan only
wanted Harry's name to widen, and, it might be, to
raise the Strahan connexion: that this was not honest
work, which I always respected, but the base letting
out on hire of a social influence to advance the interests
of a trade. To which, of course, the rejoinder was,
that Mr. Strahan's motives were nothing to Harry; and
that as long as he could honestly recommend the wine,
he saw no reason why he should not do so as generally
as possible. Then I pointed out that it was impossible
he could support a wife upon three hundred a year.
“I have a hundred and fifty of my own,” he replied,
"if my uncle were to take from me every farthing;
which, for Assunta's sake, I hardly think he would
do."
In short, he was so full of the scheme that nothing
I could say made the smallest impression. Poor boy!
His exhilaration lasted but a few hours. The day but
one after this he rushed into my room, early in the


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
71
morning, with a letter in his hand. He was pale with
excitement, his passionate nostrils dilated, his lips
quivering. He neither shook my hand nor spoke a
word of greeting; he only held out the letter, and said
in a hoarse voice:
"Read that!”
I saw at once that it was from Assunta; but I was
far from guessing its contents. Here is the letter itself,
which fell into my hands years after. The paper is
yellow; the ink is faded, but the pure and noble spirit
breathes through it fresh as when those words were
written;-
“April 22nd, 1829.
“MY OWN DEAREST HARRY,
“I SIT down with a sorrowful heart, knowing
that what I have to write will give you great pain.
Ever since we parted, Harry, nearly four months ago,
there has been a conflict in me, between my own sel-
fish love, and a growing fear-a growing belief, that
it was best for you that all between us should be at an
end. If I could think, as I once did, that by ever
being your wife I should do you more good than I
could bring you harm, nothing should have shaken me.
But, alas! dearest Harry, I have been shaken. I do
not reproach you; I would not willingly add one pang
to your sorrow, dear. I know that women cannot
judge of men's temptations. All I mean is, that the
existing state of things seems to be doing you injury
in all ways, as regards your family, as regards your
career, as regards your own self, which is far worse
than all. I have not the power to guard you from
this last evil, which would be my only justification for


72
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
severing you from your home, and for allowing you to
sacrifice all your worldly prospects. Your uncle, whose
character you scarcely understand as well as I do, in
spite of all his great kindness to me, will never be re-
conciled to our marriage. Your youth would be
wasted in pursuit of a dream, if you waited for his
consent; if we married without it, Mr. Walbrooke
would disinherit you at once. He has told me this
himself. It would be mere sentimentality to pretend
that such would not be a great misfortune to one bred
up as you have been. But, as regards myself, there
might be a yet worse misfortune. If you should not
have strength to support poverty, Harry; if it should
happen that, in order to drown your cares, you lowered
morally, under my eyes, day by day; if the time ever
came when I felt that you reproached me, in your
heart, with being the cause of your degradation I
think I should kill myself. I could never survive the
agony of such a thought as that. And therefore,
dearest, I have been brought, with many bitter tears,
to believe that everything between us had best be-I
will not say forgotten, perhaps that is impossible, but,
at an end. I am leaving this house, which has been
my home for five years, to-morrow morning. You
must not think I am driven away. Mr. Walbrooke has
opposed my departure by every means in his power;
but my eyes have been opened to see what is right.
When I am gone, you will return to your natural
home; for you must let no foolish resentment now pre-
vent a reconciliation with your uncle. Oh! my darling,
do not think too harshly of me for breaking my word;
you would not, if you knew all I had suffered. This
is the last time I shall ever write to you, and there is


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.:
73
something still at my heart which I would add. It is
this. Although we are parted for ever in this world,
I shall be comparatively happy in my obscurity if I hear
of you as beloved and respected. I shall glory in your
honour, dearest Harry. I shall die in your shame.
“ASSUNTA. .
“P.S.—I am going to poor Mrs. Fleming. She
has moved into the country.”
I had walked to the window to read this letter,
and I remained there, with my back to Harry, unable
to speak for some minutes after I had finished and re-
folded it. Noble heart! What would I not have given
for such love! Was it all to be wasted? I felt more
bitter towards Harry at that moment than I had ever
done before.
It was he who broke silence at last.
“They have driven her to it, Geoff, and, by Heaven,
I'll never forgive them.”
“And you, Harry? Have you only reproaches for
others, and none for yourself?”
“Can't you see, man,” he rejoined fiercely, “that
? I'm half mad with remorse without my saying so? But
, it isn't that. Though she thinks me such a reprobate,
she would never have given me up (she hasn't now, in
her heart) if they hadn't persuaded her it was for my
good. But they will find themselves mistaken. She
may write what she likes; I shall never give her up.
And I'll be hanged if I go back to the Grange.”
“What do you mean to do, then?”
“Go in for the wine business. I'm more determined


74
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
than ever now. I shall cut Oxford, and am going to
write to the Squire to tell him so.”
“You will only grieve Assunta by doing all this,
Harry.”
“I can't help it, Geoff; it is his doing. I'll be in-
dependent somehow, I'm resolved; and so my darling
girl shall know. What do I care for his money com-
pared with her? I shall tell her that nothing she can
say makes any difference. She is mine, and I am
hers, until she marries another man—and the Squire
may leave his property to whom he likes.”
All argument was useless; I went over the old
ground again and again, but to no purpose; he was
resolutely set against “cringing” to the Squire, as he
called it, and declared that he couldn't sit at meat
with him, feeling as he did at present. Had he known
where to find Assunta, I believe he would have set off
that night. As it was, he wrote to her, directing his
letter to the Grange, to be forwarded; and he wrote
likewise to his uncle.
CHAPTER VIII.
A WEEK and then a fortnight passed, without any
other letter from Assunta. Mr. Walbrooke had written
twice, in a calm and forbearing manner considering
the provocations he received, and had invited Harry
to the Grange; but this had only elicited a flat refusal.
The poor fellow was now under the impression that
his letter to Assunta had never been forwarded, but
destroyed by his uncle, and he tried in vain, 'through
various channels, to learn her address. It was clear to


MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
him whom it chiefly concerned. The only effect it
produced was to inflame him yet further against his
uncle. The poor boy alternated now between fits of
profound depression and storms of passion, which,
while they lasted, rendered him absolutely ungovernable.
And yet, to my surprise, I found that he made efforts
of which I believe no one who has not that thirst in
the blood can estimate the cost, to subdue the wild
craving for drink which seized him whenever he felt
especially wretched. So far as I know, for more than
two months, he never once exceeded, and this first
led me to hope, with a certain amount of confidence,
that, under favourable circumstances, my poor friend
might yet overcome his fatal tendencies. He was now,
nominally, in Mr. Strahan's house; and had he been
required to do desk work, he might perhaps have ap-
plied himself; but for the particular duty required of
him—that of going up and down the world preaching
the faith in Strahan's sherry—he was at present wholly
unfit; and his employer must have found him an un-
profitable servant. His thoughts were never absent
from one subject; he wandered through the streets,
looking gloomy or ferocious, as he was in the humour,
and if he met a friend, and tried to blow Strahan's
trumpet in a few minor chords, the effect was only to
make the man hurry away, muttering, “Good Heavens!
How changed that fellow is! He was the jolliest chap
I ever knew at Trinity.” The advocacy of gay, jovial
Harry Walbrooke would have met with eminent suc-
cess, as I doubt not the astute wine-merchant had cal-
culated; but this same youth, transformed into a sad,
stern man, proved but an indifferent huckster of the
wares he was paid to dispose of. The only satisfac-


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
77
-
-
tion which Harry got out of the business was, I am
afraid, the knowledge that he was doing something
eminently annoying to his uncle. No communication
had passed between them for some weeks. Lena wrote,
much to our surprise, that Mr. Walbrooke was absent
from home; he had not been away half a dozen times
in the last ten years. I had a latent apprehension that
he had gone to resuscitate his interest, to Harry's
detriment, in some long-neglected nephews in the
north. But it was not so.
One evening in June—I remember it as if it were
yesterday-I sat alone at my open window. In the
distance there was the roar of the mighty city, lessen-
ing hour by hour. Above me the broad arms of night
raised themselves to embrace the few gold-haired chil-
dren of the sky who yet lingered there. And evoked
by that image of the end which comes to hush and
darken all, in my heart arose the oft-recurring question,
How shall it be after this life is ended? Will there
be a dawn where the love, the fidelity, which remain
unknown till darkness comes to swallow the loving
and unloved alike, shall blossom and bear fruit? Such
questions trouble me no more, thank God, for the time
is now near at hand when I shall know all.
I was interrupted by the entrance of the maid-
servant, who announced a gentleman, and I recognised
in the twilight Mr. Walbrooke.
“I am in London for only a few hours," he began,
"and as all communication between my hopeful nephew
and myself is at an end for the present, I wish you to
give him a piece of intelligence, Luttrell. Miss Fleming
is to be married to Mr. Ridgway, of Hapsbury, next
week. This, I hope, will bring him to his senses."


78
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“God help him!” I groaned. “Oh, Mr. Walbrooke,
may you never have reason to repent this bitterly!”
The Squire gave me a look of offended surprise.
“Why so, pray? Not on Harry's account, I conclude?
Nothing but this would cure him of his folly. He
himself wrote to me as much. And as to Miss
Fleming--"
“She will be miserable!” I interrupted, with a
vehemence which must have contrasted strangely in the
Squire's ears with my usually mild utterances. “She
has consented to this self-sacrifice from a mistaken
sense of her duty to Harry—and to you, Mr. Wal-
brooke, and perhaps also, to Mrs. Fleming, who is in
great poverty."
“Mrs. Fleming did, I am glad to say, second me
very strongly, and therein showed her good sense,”
said the Squire, with a dogged sententiousness. “It
would have been flying in the face of Providence for
a girl in Miss Fleming's position to persist in rejecting
an offer of such exceptional brilliancy. She might wait
long enough before she got such another.”
“Better wait all her life—better wear her fingers to
the bone! No blessing ever yet came upon a marriage
where there was no love, and there is no love here
upon either side.”
“You have no right whatever to assume that,” and
a red spot rose upon the Squire's cheek. “Mr. Ridgway
has, I am sure, a very sincere a-affection for the girl.
In fact, he has proved it by his pertinacity. He has
renewed his proposal three times.”
“Yes," I cried, “because he thinks the world will
condone his past offences when he is married, especially
when married to so charming a creature.”


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
791)
“I am surprised that you should lend an ear to
such miserable scandal," he rejoined; but there was
more of annoyance than conviction in his tone.
“I don't lend an ear, in the sense of believing it,
Mr. Walbrooke; but you cannot deny that it exists, nor
can you, I suspect, deny that this is one of the chief
causes of Mr. Ridgway's pertinacity; this, and the fact
that his vanity would suffer at being rejected by a poor
governess, after proclaiming his admiration so openly
as he did.”
“I don't say that that may not have something to
do with it,” said the Squire, with the air of a man who
magnanimously concedes more than he need: “but I
do say that Ridgway, with all his cleverness, and with
such a fortune and place, might have married any one.
Few dukes' daughters would have refused him; and I
think it shows that he has a real—a-affection for
Miss Fleming to have selected her.”
“It only shows that he has that for which he has
always been renowned, good taste. But I am not
thinking of him, but of her, Mr. Walbrooke. Were he
ever so much in love that would make no difference
in the fact that her heart is entirely Harry's.”
“Pshaw! All boys and girls who live in the same
house fancy themselves in love. Harry happens to be
more obstinate than most boys, that is all.”
“So I am afraid you will find.”
“He has chosen to become bagman to a wine
merchant, with the intention of frightening me into con-
cession, I suppose; but he will find himself mistaken.
As long as he continues to disgrace my name I can
have nothing to say to him; so you may tell him,


80
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Luttrell. But this marriage will, I hope, open his eyes,
and make him see the utter folly of his conduct."
I shook my head. “Is Miss Fleming's present
residence still a secret, Mr. Walbrooke?”
“No; indeed, she asked me to beg you to go down
and see her, if you were able, any day this week.
They are living in a cottage near Waltham, where Mrs.
Fleming's mother resides. You understand, of course,
that this information is for you, not for Harry. I asked
her whether she would wish to see him, and she said
'on no account.'”
The Squire shortly after this left me. I resolved
not to tell Harry the fatal news until I had had an
interview with Assunta; and, accordingly, the next
morning saw me on the top of the coach, which
started on its short journey at an early hour. I had
no difficulty in finding Mrs. Fleming's humble dwelling,
which was less a cottage than the dejected offshoot of
a street, with a pretence at gentility, and a reality of
hideous gloom. It stood at the end of a small wilder-
ness of unfinished buildings of scarlet brick. The
house itself was of the same material, with a bright
green door, and brass knocker; it had no garden, no
pleasant out-look, only the white dust of the road, and
the hot glare of the surrounding houses. The door
was opened to me by a little maid-of-all-work, of
about fifteen, and she showed me into a room some
twelve feet square, where sat Mrs. Fleming, Assunta,
and three very red-faced children, at their early dinner.
They were all in deep mourning, of course, and looked
oppressed by the heat. The window was open, yet
the room was, indeed, suffocating, partly owing to the
fumes of an Irish stew, which hung about the dingy


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
81
curtains, and mud-coloured paper, and the six horse-
hair chairs. It is puerile to dwell on these details, but
I know they heightened the sense of discomfort, by
the contrast with all I had hitherto seen Assunta sur-
rounded by. She rose, held out her hand, and in-
troduced me to Mrs. Fleming, a silly-looking woman,
who had once been pretty, no doubt, but whose face
now, with its little pointed red nose, was very unat-
tractive. Sad it was, certainly; and sorrow generally
interests me; but there was nothing sacred in the
expression of this grief. It had taken sharp and
querulous lines that played round the corners of the
mouth; and she indulged in frequent “suspirations of
the breath” in her flatulent discourse, which aggravated
me. Assunta herself looked pale and worn. The chil-
dren, two of whom were very young, were fed by her,
and seemed to look to her, rather than to their mother,
for everything, except constant scolding, wherein the
poor lady evidently thought her maternal duty chiefly
lay. When Assunta had given the children their rice
pudding:
“I will now take Mr. Luttrell into the next room,
dear mother,” she said.
“As you please, my dear. Tommy, take your fingers
1 out of your plate directly, and look what a mess you've
made of your pinafore!”
I closed the door upon Mrs. Fleming's maternal
strictures, and followed Assunta into the sitting-room
on the opposite side of the passage, which was the
counterpart of the parlour, except for the addition of
a horse-hair sofa, and the substitution of a coloured
· for a white cloth upon the table, on which were a
Morals and Mysteries.


82
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Bible, a prayer-book, a work-basket, and some half-
made frocks.
She sat down, and looked intently into my face.
“How is Harry? How did he take the news?”
"He doesn't yet know it. I wanted to see you
first. I wanted to know from your own lips that
that you had definitely made up your mind to this be-
fore I told him."
“I have definitely made up my mind,” she said,
in a low voice.
“And you have no misgiving? Forgive me for
saying this, but if I may plead the privilege of an old
friend--"
“You may, and I shall thank you; but I have
weighed everything, dear Mr. Luttrell, and the result
is—I have given my word to Mr. Ridgway. When I
had once brought my mind to see that I must give up
Harry, nothing that could happen to me signified much,
and it seems to me the best thing for every one, ex-
cept myself. If you knew all-4” Here she sighed,
and hesitated for a moment.
“I don't require to know all to be very sure that
it cannot be right to sacrifice yourself thus."
“Oh, I had already done that,” she said, shaking
her head. “This is hardly to be called a sacrifice.
I had certainly rather have worked for my daily bread
if I had only had myself to think of; but I never dis-
liked Mr. Ridgway, and he has behaved so nobly about
poor Mrs. Fleming, that I feel deeply grateful to him.
If my marrying him can make him happy----"
An impatient exclamation, I am afraid, burst from
me, but I checked what I was about to say, and
changed it to:


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
83
“Mr. Walbrooke, of course, it is who has brought
this about? He was bent upon it from the very first.”
“He would not have succeeded but for two things.
First, Harry's insane letters to his uncle. I saw from
them very plainly that he would continue to pursue
this fatal scheme of his, and remain at open war with
the Squire as long as I remained unmarried. He said
so; and, on some points, he has all the Walbrooke
tenacity of purpose. Ah, if he only had it in all!”
“He has been battling manfully with temptation
..) during the past three months,” I said.
“Has he?” she rejoined, eagerly. “How thankful
| I am.”
“And the other thing?” I asked. “What was
that?"
She was silent for a moment.
“Not even Mr. Walbrooke knows; but I will tell
you. Poor Mr. Fleming died terribly in debt, far more
so than we had any idea of at first. After everything
was sold there was still a large deficit. Mr. Walbrooke
was very kind, as you know, but what he gave me only
went to relieve Mrs. Fleming's immediate necessities,
and I could not have applied to him again. Of course
you are aware that Mr. Fleming and his wife brought
me up out of charity, that I am indebted to them for
everything I have ever had? When Mr. Ridgway of-
fered to settle four hundred a year upon my adopted
mother, and she, poor soul! went down on her knees
to implore me not to reject this maintenance for her,
urging, very justly, that thus only could I repay all that
her husband and she had done for me, how could I
refuse? What possible means had I of extricating her
from her troubles but this? I might get eighty or a
6*


84
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
hundred a year as a governess, if I had great luck, and
send her sixty or seventy out of it--that was the ut-
most I could look forward to doing for her and these
penniless children. As I have already said, my sacrifice
was made-to ratify it thus was not so hard, and it
seemed to be my duty.”
“I can't think so, and I can't forgive Mrs. Flem-
ing-_-" I began, warmly, when the door opened,
and the widow entered, followed by her children. As-
sunta took up one of the frocks from the table, and
Mrs. Fleming another, and both began stitching assidu-
ously.
“I suppose Assunta has told yon all about her pro-
spects?” said the widow. “It is the most wonderful
piece of luck, as Mr. Walbrooke says. If poor Mr.
Fleming could only have lived to see it! Ah, dear!
(Sammy, leave that thimble alone.) Yes, when I think
of the day we found her, nearly twenty-one years ago
now (Jane, will you sit still, once for all?), I little
thought she would live to be a great lady—the sick-
liest-looking baby I ever saw—a great contrast to all
mine, even the three I lost; ah, dear! they weren't so
puny. I have had plenty of trouble, Mr. Luttrell.
Some people are born to trouble, just as others are
born to luck, like Assunta. To be left with four children,
as I am! Ah, dear!”
I felt that I could not talk to this woman, and
turned to ask Assunta where she was to be married.
Mrs. Fleming answered for her.
“Here, I am sorry to say. Mr. Walbrooke asked
us to go to the Grange for it, which would have been
much nicer, but Assunta wouldn't. She didn't consult
my feelings, nor how poor Mr. Fleming would have


86
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
-
Grange. Poor Mrs. Fleming thinks it is my pride,
and I cannot undeceive her. There are two things I
have not strength and courage for--to revisit the place
where I was so exquisitely happy, and to see Harry
again.”
"Have you any message to him?” I asked, after a
pause.
“Tell him not to think too hardly of me, that is
all. What I have done has been because I believed it
to be for his good.”
“I hope it may prove so, but I doubt it. I should
not be a friend to you both if I withheld from you my
belief that you are utterly wrong. I see the force of
all your arguments for this marriage, but you cannot
make black white. And Harry will not see it as white:
don't deceive yourself.”
We were crossing one of the streams that intersect
the town. She stopped for a minute, as if transfixed
by some agonizing thought, and leaned on the little
wooden parapet of the bridge, looking over into the
water, so that I could not see her face. Presently she
raised it and said:
“He is young, he will get over his grief; and by-
and-by, in the course of time, he will find some woman
who loves him nearly as well, perhaps, as I do, and
whom he can love, and whose influence over him is
greater than mine has been. In the meantime, Mr.
Luttrell, there will be this immediate good. He and
his uncle will be reconciled.”
I thought differently; but it would have been cruel
to harass her mind further by raising doubts on this
point. She had resolved to immolate herself. I felt
myself powerless to prevent the consummation of this


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE. 1
87
mistaken self-sacrifice, and having once spoken, what
right had I to add to her misery, poor child! by pain-
ful and fruitless discussion?
I heard the guard wind his horn: and taking her
hand within mine, I murmured:
“May it all turn out as you expect. God bless
you! Mr. Ridgway has bought a pearl of great price,
if he knows how to value it. May you at least find
peace in your new home!”
And so we parted on that little bridge; and I
left behind me the brightest, the best, the dearest
vision of my youth. When we next met, that vision
had become a sad reality among the stern, hard truths
of middle life.
CHAPTER IX.
THE course of events during the next four years
may be briefly told. As regards my life, and those
with which it had hitherto been so closely bound, cir-
cumstances had separated us completely. Harry Wal-
brooke and I scarcely ever met now; and yet he was
master of the Grange. The Squire was dead; Mrs.
Walbrooke and Lena were abroad; and as I never
heard from Mrs. Ridgway of Hapsbury, I did not ven-
ture to write to her. Thus the links were all severed,
and the little I knew of those who had been and were
still so dear to me, was by rumour, some faint echo
of which penetrated even to my solitude.
The fact is, my poor friend's course was a down-
ward one from the time Assunta married. He became
utterly reckless, and led a life of dissipation during the


88
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
few months he remained with Mr. Strahan, after the
morning when I broke the fatal news to him, which
divided us further every day. His associates were very
distasteful to me; but I would not have shrunk from
them, if my joining the parties to which he constantly
invited me would have done him any good; but it
would not; and as I had to work very hard for my
bread at that time, the interruption of labour would
have been serious. Then followed that gradual slacken-
ing of intimacy which is inevitable when the tenour of
one man's life is a silent protest against his friend's.
Between him and his uncle the feud remained un-
healed, and he never saw the Squire again alive. Mr.
Walbrooke, who might be said to be still in the prime
of life, and whose obstinacy—not to speak of his affec-
tion--would have suffered keenly in disinheriting Harry,
and so owning himself worsted in the long-sustained
contest with his favourite nephew, delayed altering his
will from week to week, in the hope that speedy ruin
might bring the wretched boy to seek forgiveness.
The strong man, in his pride, had no thought of being
dispossessed; but one stronger than he came suddenly
into his house by night, and in the morning Squire
Walbrooke of the Grange lay dead. By a will, dated
five years before, all his landed estates passed to
Harry, charged with a large jointure to Mrs. Wal-
brooke, and a certain sum to Lena. And so it came
to pass, that, in her bitter irony, Fortune cast this ill-
deserved gift at Harry's feet-just nine months too
late to save him from life-long ruin and misery. Ah,
had Assunta but waited! How cruel it seemed!
The young Squire went down and took possession
of the Grange, and his connection with Strahan's of
The strong d; but one iht, and


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
course ceased. But a number of so-called “friends,"
whom he had made in his short London career, fol-
lowed him ere long, and every fast man from Oxford,
and every needy sportsman in the country who wanted
a good mount and cared for a good bottle of claret,
found his way to the Grange. In such company I
should have been very much out of place; these men
and I had no one idea in common, and to witness
their orgies, and to see foolish, generous-hearted Harry
allowing his substance to be devoured by these vultures
would have only made me angry. I refused all his
pressing invitations. “If you ever are alone, and want
me, I will come to you,” I said, “but not when your
army of swashbucklers is with you-don't ask me."
And he did not, after a while. I heard of him, alas!
from time to time, and what I heard was as bad as it
could well be. The life at the Grange was a scandal
to the whole county; it was said that there was scarcely
a night that the young Squire went to bed sober, and
even once in the hunting-field he had been in a con-
dition which necessitated his being taken home. His
uncle's old friends (particularly those who had mar-
riageable daughters) bore with this state of things as
long as it was possible; but when every effort to lure
him into the decent, if dull, society of the neighbour-
hood proved abortive, they gave him up; it was felt to
be impossible for steady old fathers of families to con-
tinue going to the Grange.
Harry and Assunta had never met, nor were they
likely to do so, though living only twenty-five miles
apart; inasmuch as Mrs. Ridgway, of Hapsbury, it was
said, never went outside the park-gates, and within
i them the young Squire had, of course, never set foot.


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
91
ward, and for the sake of the young wife were disposed
to forget any sinister rumours regarding the husband.
But it was as though he said, “Now that I have con-
quered these people, they shall see that I care nothing
for their society. They receive me; they come to my
house; it is enough.” He declined all invitations. A
few savants, dilettanti, and stray foreigners of various
kinds, stayed at Hapsbury from time to time; and
sometimes the magnates of those parts were bidden to
meet them. This, as far as I could gather, was the
only intercourse between Mr. and Mrs. Ridgway and
their neighbours.
It chanced in the February of 1831 that I had
occasion to make a journey to Peterborough on pro-
fessional business. During my stay there, I learnt that
the day coach from that city to York passed within a
few miles of Hapsbury, which was not more than forty
miles from Peterborough. My business concluded, I
was in no special hurry to return home, and a tempta-
tion, which will sound strange to many, urged me, now
I was so near, to go on to Hapsbury, or at least into
its immediate vicinity, and learn what I could of my
poor Assunta, even if I was unable to see her, for I
had been given to understand that Mrs. Ridgway was
generally denied to morning visitors. Acting upon
this impulse, which I found irresistible, I took my
place in the coach one morning, and was at the small
town of L. early in the afternoon. From there, with
a knapsack on my back, I walked over to the village
of Hapsbury, some six miles distant. There had been
a long drought, and the road was as deep in limestone
dust as though it had been summer, the result of which
was that my old painting-blouse and cap, my hair,


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
93
“What do that mean?” asked the boosy labourer,
taking the pipe from his mouth, his leaden eye lighted
up with a gleam of curiosity.
“Why, every cross is a tizzy, to be sure, and a
tizzy's a sixpence, if you don't know,” said the first
speaker, with an air of profound contempt for bucolic
ignorance.
“And what's dots?”
“Dots is brownies, as we call 'em sometimes, that's
pence. We don't make much account hov a road as
'as got nothin' but dots along the palin's. Now this
’ere lady's one o' the right sort, poor thing. I s'pose
she's kep’ in a kind o’ prison, for scores and scores
o' times as I come this way, she's al’ays at that same
winder, and she's always good for 'alf-a-crown. In-
deed, for any chap as 'as a squaller“-”
• “What's a squaller?” said the rustic, resolved to
satisfy his legitimate thirst for information, regardless
of the traveller's scorn.
“Why, bless your 'eart, a squaller's a brat as
squalls, to be sure. I might ha’ bought Mary Hanne's
squaller for ten bob, and wery good interest it'd ha'
paid me for my money. This 'ere good lady al’ays
gives five bob to a squaller, they tells me. I s'pose
she's never a child of 'er own, eh?”
“Noa.” Here the fellow scratched his head, and
added, after a pause, “she's be a loanesome life, folks
say; but the Squoire be foine and rich, any ways. Eh,
but money be a foine thing.”
“And be 'im as charitable as 'er?” asked the second
tramp; and turning to his fellow labourer, he murmured
something in a low voice, of which I only caught the


94
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
words, “distressed hoperatives.” But the spark of
cupidity, if kindled, was quickly extinguished.
“Noa, noa. You'll not be gettin' the blind side o'
the Squoire. It be th' missis as be for the givin'. He
be all for argyfy'ng; and when he lost his tri’le 'gain
the village, 'bout th' path, he were that riled, he never
give us nothin' no moure. They tells me as th' parson's
tried to stan' up again him for targyfy, but it warn't
no good; he wouldn't give a ha’porth to th' school
along o' that 'ere path.”
This was a dark saying to me, and as the con-
versation changed soon after, I took advantage of the
landlord's entry to ask for a bedroom, and to order
some dinner. But as I saw from his face that my ap-
pearance did not inspire him with much confidence
(which was what I wanted, at that moment, more even
than the bed or dinner), I followed him into the pas-
sage, and taking some money from my pocket, I showed
it him, and said:
“Though I wear a shabby coat, I will pay my way
--don't be afraid.”
And upon mine host protesting that nothing was
further from his thoughts, we drifted into an amicable
discourse, which I led gradually to the subject of Squire
Ridgway and “his lady." I learnt that the state of
feeling between the Squire and his village was anything
but pleasant, owing to a right of way across his park,
which he had vainly endeavoured to stop up. This
path led directly under the window of Mrs. Ridgway's
boudoir, and was a poisoned thorn in the side of the
exclusive “man of taste." Mine host was of opinion
that to the pale, lonely lady, sitting for ever at her
window, and debarred, by the existing feud, from even


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
95
visiting the poor, the sight of the labourer, plodding
homewards after his day's work, of the rosy milkmaid,
laden with the spoil of the heavy-uddered kine, of even
the foot-sore tramp, trailing his weary steps through
the cool grass, with a sense of thankfulness after the
hot flinty road, were pleasant breaks in the monotony
of her day, which she would have been sorry to lose. ·
But however this might be, Mr. Ridgway, with that
smooth implacability (which I knew so well), had never
forgiven the obstinate resistance which the village had
made to the infringement of their right. From that
day Mr. Ridgway declined to do anything further for
the poor, for the school, or for the church; he forbade
his wife's going into the village; he cut off his establish-
ment, as far as practicable, from all communication
with his humbler neighbours, as he discouraged it with
the richer ones, and all this he did deliberately, without
heat, or visible expression of anger. The parish had
tried conclusions with him, he said to the good vicar
militant, who returned to the charge repeatedly; he,
Mr. Ridgway, was a man of peace, and they had de-
sired war; they had made their election—it was well;
he had nothing more to say to them. And from this
ultimatum nothing would move him.
What I had heard, both in the tap-room and from
the landlord, gave me plenty to think of that night. I
made up my mind that I would not leave the neigh-
bourhood till I had seen and spoken to Assunta; but
how was this to be managed? Mine host had given
me to understand that, unless Mr. Ridgway was in the
humour to receive company, the doors were shut against
every visitor to his wife. I resolved to reconnoitre the
ground before making any attempt, and early in the


96
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
forenoon of the following day I started to walk across
the park by the public path in question. On approach-
ing the stately Italian palace, with its sky-line of marble
balustrade, broken by busts and urns, I pulled my cap
further over my face, and, disguising my gait with a
stoop and a limp, I crept slowly past the angle of the
house, in which was the window which had been
described to me. On the other side of the path was
a broad sheet of water, upon which this window con-
sequently looked, and just beyond it came the great
portico and flight of steps. The gardens, terraces, and
fountains were all on the other side of the house. I
looked up at the window, there was no one to be
seen; I lingered, I looked back, and then I turned and
walked past it again. At last I bethought me of my
sketch-book, and, taking it out, I turned my back to
the house, and facing the water, with the chestnut-
wood behind it, and the soft line of hills in the dis-
tance, I made a few random strokes, hoping that she
I sought might be attracted presently to the window.
I had not stood thus five ininutes when I heard a step
upon the gravel behind me, and, turning, I saw a
powdered footman approaching. “It is all up now,”
I thought; “I am going to be warned that, though
there is a right of way, there is no right of standing
to sketch in front of the house." And I shut my
book. Imagine my surprise when the servant thus ad-
dressed me:
“Mr. Ridgway has sent me to ask, sir, if your name
is not Luttrell? If so, he hopes you will walk in.”
I never felt more confused. Of course I acceded;
but when I reflected upon my appearance, and re-
membered how I had limped and slouched, and that


MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“Not that I often eat anything myself at this hour, but
their existence is thus notified to me.”
· I said I had breakfasted three hours since; and
then I asked for Mrs. Ridgway. She was well, he re-
plied, and reverted at once to the subject which was
evidently uppermost in his mind. He had purchased
a ceiling, by Giulio Romano, out of a palace at Genoa,
and it had lately arrived at Hapsbury. It had received
some damage in the transit. Whether to have it re-
touched and varnished before it was put up, or wait
to see the effect when it was up, and how much resto-
ration would be needed, were points on which he
wished for professional advice. My careful studies for
years in our National Gallery, and the attention I had
bestowed upon such subjects rendered me competent
to give an opinion; and I followed Mr. Ridgway into
the crimson saloon, where the canvas representing the
Fall of Phaeton was stretched upon the floor. The
result of the examination and discussion that ensued
was all that I need here repeat. In my judgment, the
less the picture was touched the better, and the very
small amount of reparation requisite, I believed I could
do myself, as well as, and without the risk of, its being
subject to another journey to London. Mr. Ridgway
was delighted; it was just what he wished, and I, of
course, very gladly acceded to his invitation to remain
at Hapsbury until the work was completed. A dog-
cart was sent over to L-- for my things, and in the
course of a couple of hours I found myself, to my
astonishment, regularly installed in the house, to effect
an entry into which, that morning, had seemed to me
a matter of some difficulty. Still, I did not see its
mistress. Mr. Ridgway remained with me, and con-


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
99
versed brilliantly, but he never alluded to his wife, and
when at last I asked point blank if I might be allowed
to pay my respects to Mrs. Ridgway, he only replied,
"Oh, you will see her by-and-by.” In the course of
conversation I ventured to say that I heard he led a
very secluded life, rarely admitting visitors. .
“Are you surprised that I do not choose to be bored
by all the idiots of a neighbourhood like this, where
there is not a man who cares for anything but riding
after a wretched little animal with a pack of hounds?”
was his rejoinder. “I am glad to see any man of
cultivation, otherwise I prefer my own society, and that
of my books. In them I daily make acquaintances far
pleasanter than any I find about here.”
Not a word about his wife. I could not keep
silence. “And Mrs. Ridgway. Does not she find it
lonely without any society?”
“I do not understand any one but a fool feeling
lonely,” he said, in rather a freezing tone. “Mrs. Ridg-
way is a person of cultivation. She has her books and
her music. The visits of a set of gossipping women
could not-ought not—to be any pleasure to her. Silence
is better for her than to listen to evil speaking, lying,
and slandering, which is what the ladies of England
indulge in during their morning visits.”
After this it was clear to me that the gossip of the
county was in some measure the cause (but in what
way I could not then perceive) of the existing state of
things at Hapsbury. Mr. Ridgway had gained all he
had wanted; the county had flocked to his house; how
could its idle tongues affect him now?
“Does Mrs. Ridgway take any interest in your poorer
573G3AB


100
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
neighbours?” I asked, presently, anxious to elicit
something from my host on this head.
“I have been obliged to interdict all that sentimental
visiting of cottages which has lately come into fashion
among fine ladies," was his reply. “The poor here
are an ignorant, obstinate race. I have washed my
hands of them some time ago. Any pettifogging
lawyer, or low radical parson, who will talk to them of
their rights, can twist them round his finger. As Butler
says:
And what they're confidently told,
By no sense else can be controll’d.
They were advised to resist me, and I hope they value
the advice now,” he added, with a smile. I said no
more.
The day closed in, and the dressing-gong for dinner
sounded. I hurried down to the Spanish drawing-
room, that famed apartment hung with Cordova leather,
and adorned with some of the master-pieces of Velasquez
and Murillo, and there, as I had hoped, I found
Assunta, and alone. But oh, how changed! Nothing
remained of the Assunta whom I remembered but the
eyes, and they were larger, more intense, than ever.
Those burning orbs in their deep blue hollows, the
shrunken cheek, the bloodless lips all gave me the im-
pression of some inward fire consuming the frail lamp
that held it. Her fingers seemed almost transparent,
as I took the hand she extended, and pressed it respect-
fully to my lips. She was magnificently dressed in a
velvet robe, trimmed with fur, after the fashion of that
day, against which the yellow white of her face and
hands came out in yet more ghastly contrast. She
evidently knew of my being in the house, for she


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
101
manifested no surprise at seeing me; she was very
calm, very silent; but a faint smile flickered on her
face as I took her hand, and then it died out to reappear
no more. As to myself, I could not speak. Though
I had looked forward to this meeting so long, though
I knew I should find her sadly changed, the sight of
her affected me so painfully that I dared not trust my
own voice. It was she who broke the silence.
“I am glad to see you again. I never expected
to do so. It seems a long, long time since we met-
much longer than it really is.”
“I have so often wished to hear from you," I at
last found voice to say.
“Ah, I never write to any one now!”
“Not even to Lena?”
“Not even to Lena."
“And why not? Why cut yourself off from all com-
munication with friends who love you so truly?”.
She paused a moment or two, deliberating, as it
seemed to me, whether she should give the real reason.
Then she said quietly:
“Because I have nothing to tell.”
There was a chilling silence.
“And Mrs. Fleming and the children-do you never
hear from them?”.
“They write when they want anything, and Mr.
Ridgway sends it.”
She said this impassively, without a touch of bitter-
ness, or even of regret. It was as though the springs
of feeling were all frozen; and I saw that it would take
long to thaw them. Mr. Ridgway entered, his well-
turned legs displayed in small-clothes and silk stock-
ings, which were then still worn by a few men; fra-


102
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
grant, and polished as ivory and ebony from head to
foot. I fancied that he gave a quick, penetrating glance
at Assunta; but he came forward without any embar-
rassment of manner, and from that moment to the
hour of our retiring to rest, he kept up a constant fire
of anecdote and quotation, happily needing but little
assistance from me. He never addressed his wife, ex-
çept to ask what she would take (those were the good
old days of carving at table), and unless I spoke to
her she remained absolutely silent. I appealed to her
for an opinion whenever it was possible, in the hope
of drawing her gradually into the conversation, but it
was in vain; she sat there like a figure carved in stone,
that by some mechanism is made to utter a monosyl-
lable from time to time, and that is all. Nothing that
was said awoke a smile, or any sign of interest on her
face; and as soon as the dessert was set upon the table,
she rose slowly and left the room. We sat late over
our wine, for my host showed no inclination to leave
his claret till the bottle was finished, and I, who was
impatient to return to Assunta, could not of course
suggest a move. We found her sitting by the fire. I
can see her now, the ruddy light upon her velvet dress,
a fan of peacock's feathers in her hand, and the golden
gloom of the Spanish leather background and richly
carved frames. She did not turn her head, she did
not move. There was something very terrible in this
apathy. When the clock struck half-past ten she got
up and took a small Roman lamp from the table. Then
she held out her hand and turned towards the door.
Mr. Ridgway gracefully sauntered up, and held it open
for his wife.
“Good-night, Assunta.”


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
ÍOŽ
“Good-night."
There was no kiss, no touch of any kind. She
looked neither to the right nor to the left, but passed
out, and the door closed behind her.
As soon as we were alone I observed a change in
Mr. Ridgway. He was silent for certainly two or three
minutes, passing his white hand to and fro across his
chin, as he stared into the fire. Suddenly he looked
up into my face, and with an expression upon his own
so complicated that I found it impossible to read it,
he said:
“You have not seen Mrs. Ridgway for some time.
How do you think her looking?”
“Very ill. Sadly changed, if you ask me, Mr.
Ridgway.”
“Did she say anything to you before dinner?
before I came into the room?"
I returned his gaze steadily. “Very little.”
“You observe that she is generally taciturn. But
at times this is not the case. You are right, she is ill,
Mr. Luttrell, and her malady is one which I fear is in-
curable. You are an old friend of hers, and you are
now my guest for the next week at least. It is possible
that in the course of that time Mrs. Ridgway may speak
to you in a manner which renders it advisable that you
should be prepared to receive what she says by a know-
ledge of her condition. Her mind has lost its balance,
and at moments she may be said to be absolutely
insane."
I was speechless with horror and indignation. I
did not believe what he said, though it at once flashed
through my mind how plausible the tale might be made
to look. I felt, however, the absolute necessity of


104
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
mastering my emotion and concealing my real senti-
ments, if I wished to be of service to my unhappy
friend; and, fortunately I had sufficient self-command
to let my face betray nothing. After a moment's pause,
he continued:
“She has happily never needed restraint. She is
free to do what she likes, subject to certain restrictions,
especially in the matter of receiving visitors alone. Her
hallucinations have been such, and her speech so wild
at times, that some precaution of this kind was neces-
sary. But the servants have no idea of the truth. It
is looked upon as my eccentricity.”
“What medical advice have you had?” I asked.
“Doctor L. came from London expressly, when my
suspicions were first aroused. He said the case was
not an uncommon one of monomania. He held out
very little hope of recovery, but said that her state
might continue like this for years."
Here was chapter and verse. I was a little staggered;
but I knew a brother of Doctor L.'s, and I resolved to
test, at all events, the truth of his alleged visit. I said
presently: “Did Doctor L. think a life of such absolute
seclusion good for a person in this sad condition?”
“She must, above all, be subjected to no excite-
ment. I have occasionally a friend or two to stay with
me, when she is generally much as you saw her to-night.
The last large party I had was about a year ago. I
found it did her more harm than good. She talked
very wildly to one of the ladies, who happened to name
that wretched sot, young Walbrooke. After that, I de-
termined to have no more parties.”
“Have you ever communicated with her-- her
friends?”


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
105
“She has no family, as you know. Mrs. Walbrooke
has been abroad for the last three years. I wrote to
that poor creature Mrs. Fleming, to say that Assunta
was in a highly nervous state, and unable to see her,
and that, I thought, was sufficient. A woman like
Mrs. Fleming would do her infinitely more harm than
good.”
“I fear, from your report,” I said, dryly, “that
nothing can do Mrs. Ridgway any good. On what
subject, may I ask, do you consider that she is a
monomaniac?”
“Chiefly on the subject of myself; but everything
relating to the past, to the time when she lived at the
Grange, is sure to excite her. As your acquaintance
with Mrs. - Ridgway belongs to that date, Mr. Luttrell,
I hope you will be cautious, in any intercourse you
may have with her, not to refer to that time. I may
rely on you?”
“Mr. Ridgway, you may rely on my doing nothing
to injure my poor friend, in whose sad case I feel the
deepest interest.”
He talked for some time longer on the same topic,
and in the same strain. There was no affectation of
deep feeling; it was the dispassionate tone of a philo-
sopher, who does his best, under existing circum-
stances, and has made up his mind to every even-
tuality. And then we parted for the night. To
me, I need hardly say, it was a sleepless one. So
wretched an evening as that I had never passed. I
lay awake, revolving in my mind how I might arrive
at the truth in this affair, and, if it were possible, help
this dear, unhappy lady. And in the morning I wrote
(and posted with my own hand) the following note:


106
MORALS AND MYSTERIÈS.
“Hapsbury, Lincolnshire, March 5th.
“DEAR L.,-Do me a great favour. Ask your
brother whether he came down to the above address,
eighteen months ago, to give an opinion on Mrs.
Ridgway's case, and (if it be no breach of professional
etiquette) what did he consider her ailment to be at
that time? You will confer a lasting obligation on me
if you can send me answers to these questions by
return of post.
“Yours, ever most faithfully,
“GEOFFREY LUTTRELL.”
CHAPTER X.
As the morning wore on, I resolved to obtain an
interview with Assunta; but how was this to be ac-
complished? Was it true that she was free? that this
seclusion in her boudoir was voluntary? She did not
appear at breakfast; I saw no sign of her about the
house. If the maids in attendance upon her were
spies,. I must guard against arousing their suspicions.
Mr. Ridgway was busy in his study with his transla-
tion of Horace's Odes, which he had talked of to me
all breakfast-time, pointing out the difficulties of the
task, and by what happy turns he had paraphrased
the poet's verse in places. I was at my work in the
crimson saloon, the windows of which overlooked the
terraces and fountains at the back of the house. I
listened to every footfall on the gravel, but only a
gardener or two passed that way. Towards noon, I
took up my hat, and strolled out. I passed her
boudoir window; she was not there. I sauntered down


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
107
to the water's edge, and watched the wild fowl string-
ing pearls along the surface of the lake; and then I
turned, and made my way through a wire wicket into
the great gardens at the other side of the house. I had
traversed all the broad alleys, and was speculating on
the small amount of pleasure this stately place could
afford to its owner or his unhappy wife, when, on
crossing a walk narrower than the rest, and screened
by a thick yew-hedge from the house, I saw her whom
I had despaired of finding, seated at the further end,
as motionless as the Greek nymph with her urn on its
pedestal above her. She raised her eyes as I ap-
proached, that was all. The hands lay listless on the
long, stone-coloured cloak, which covered her to the
very ground; the very outline of the broad-leafed hat
was unchanged, against the background of dark yews;
her eyes were just lifted to mine, no more.
“I am so glad to find you,” I began. “I feared
you were going to remain in your room, as you did
all yesterday, and that I should not have a moment's
conversation alone with you.”
"I come here twice every day,” she replied,
quietly.
“I think this is not so pretty as some other parts
of the garden,” I observed, by way of saying some-
thing. My great object was to get her to talk, and
this, I feared, would be difficult. She was silent for
some minutes. Then, as if she felt she must say some-
thing, she said:
“I come here to watch a blackbirds' nest in that
.. laurel-bush. I saw them begin and finish it, and now
· I watch the mother-bird sitting.”


108
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“Ah! I see her. Have you many birds about
here?”
“I don't know-yes, I suppose so.”
“And any pets of your own?”.
“No. . The less one loves, - the less there is to
lose.”
“Yet you take an interest in these birds?”
“It is the mother's loving care of her little ones I :
come here to watch. Oh! if I had but a little one of
my own!” she exclaimed, with a sudden passion, “I
could bear anything-anything. But the sins of the
fathers are visited on the children. My own mother
abandoned me. I clung to nothing, and nothing will
ever cling to me. I shall go out of the world, a waif,
as I came, leaving nothing behind me!”
“You are too young to talk thus. While there is
life there is-2"
“Not hope! No, there is no hope for me but when
this life is ended. Would to God it might end to-
night!” She had worked herself up into a state of
excitement, and spoke rapidly. “Mr. Ridgway thinks
I am mad, perhaps I am. I know I have said things
I should not; if I talked I might be tempted to say
them again. That is why I am dumb, as you see me.
If I should ever talk to you about-about him, don't
believe what I say. I have been the ruin of one
already, in my short life; I will not be his ruin, too,
God help me!” Then suddenly dropping her voice
to a low tremulous tone, “Mr. Luttrell,” she added,
“have you seen Harry lately?”.
I dreaded to touch upon that theme. “No; I see
none of them now. My links with the Grange are all
snapped. But in memory of that good time that is


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
109
past,” I went on rapidly, “will you treat me as a true
friend, and tell me if there is any way in which I can
serve you? The opportunities of my seeing you alone,
while I am here, may be few, therefore I seize this
moment to say what is on my mind. I am doing what
nothing can scarcely ever justify, but the circumstances
of your case are peculiar, and you have just alluded to
them in terms which I cannot misunderstand. You are
unhappy. Is there anything in your position which
you would have altered—which the intervention of
friends might improve in any way?”
She looked at me with her stony eyes. “There is
no improvement possible—no change, for better or for
worse, until the great change comes, when I shall lay
my burden down, and be at rest.”
There was a light step upon the gravel. I looked
up; Mr. Ridgway was at the further end of the walk
swinging his cane as he approached us, with a placid
aspect. But he glanced keenly at both faces as he
said:
“March winds are treacherous, my dear. It is too
cold for you to be sitting here."
“I am not like the wind,” she returned, calmly,
“and it does me no harm.". Their eyes met.
I thought Assunta was about to speak again, but
she checked herself, and, rising, walked silently towards
the house.
“Well, Mr. Luttrell, and how fares your work?”
Mr. Ridgway laid a light hand upon my arm; and I
took the double hint-first, that the master expected
his labourer to be earning his wage at this hour;
secondly, that I was by no means to follow the lady,
but to remain with him. I answered that I had done


IIO
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
my morning's work; it was necessary that some pre-
paration I had applied should be left to dry for several
hours, before I again touched the canvas.
“Has Mrs. Ridgway been more communicative to
you this morning? Has she thawed under the rays of
old acquaintanceship?” he asked, with a careless air,
which veiled but indifferently the sharpened curiosity
with which he looked at me.
“On the contrary; she seems to shrink from con-
versation. I fear she is very far from well, Mr. Ridg-
way. Do you not think it would be advisable to have
further medical advice?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You cannot ‘minister
to a mind diseased. There is nothing but time-
time and a little philosophy. That enables one to
bear most things in life, if she would only think
so. What is the use of brooding over the past, and
imaginary ills of every kind, instead of seizing the
pleasures of the hour, eh? There is something in the
Persæ of Æschylus to that effect, if I remember right.”
On the morning of the fourth day I received the
following letter:
“London, March 7th.
“DEAR LUTTRELL,—My brother says he was sent
for eighteen months ago by Mr. Ridgway, and made
the journey to Hapsbury expressly for the purpose of
seeing that gentleman's wife. He remained there one
night. She was suffering from hysteria and great
mental irritability, tending to produce delusions of a
painful character. His advice was that she should be
watched, and that care should be taken to avoid any
excitement for her. He did not consider, at that time,


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL’S NARRATIVE.
III
that restraint was necessary. This is all the informa-
tion upon the case my brother says he is justified in
giving.* As to the subject of the unhappy lady's de-
lusions, that is a point upon which he will always con-
sider himself in honour bound to be silent.
“I am, dear Luttrell, very truly yours,
"F. L.”
1
So far, then, this evidence was in Mr. Ridgway's
favour, and it confirmed a painful impression which
had been daily strengthening in me, that the balance
of Assunta's mind was, in some measure shaken. Every
evening, and on the rare occasions when we met
during the day, she observed her immovable demeanour,
never again relaxing even to the extent she had done
in the garden on the first morning after my arrival.
It was not the aspect of mere dejection; there was
something unnatural about it, as though the exercise
of self-restraint taxed the power of the sufferer almost
beyond endurance. She never seemed to do anything;
she sat for hours at her window, and would give me a
the little nod as I passed; sometimes I heard a few wild
chords on the piano; but the sweet soul of the music
I had known in bygone days was not there. I tried
to arouse her interest about books; but she, whose in-
telligence had formerly been so keenly alive to such
topics, now résponded apathetically to every appeal of
the kind. Her thoughts, it was clear, were fixed im-
movably on one subject; it remained but to ascertain
whether, upon that subject, her ideas were lucid and
coherent. How was this to be done in the face of a
stony reserve, which it seemed hopeless to penetrate?
I had been at Hapsbury nine days; it wanted but


116
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“It all depends on whether he is at home when the
message reaches his house," replied Mr. Ridgway.
“Jane, there is a spot of blood on the carpet. You
had better have Mr. Walbrooke carried to a bedroom.
It is impossible that he can be removed from the
house to-night. Mr. Mandeville, will you not have a
glass of sherry before your long ride home?”
The gentleman thus appealed to, and violently roused
to a consciousness that he was not expected to remain
much longer in attendance upon his friend, boldly said
that, with Mr. Ridgway's permission, he would stay till
the doctor's arrival. The others who, I take it, were
but slightly acquainted with their host, meeting with no
encouragement to do likewise, left the room one after
another.
“You will find refreshment in the dining-room,"
said Mr. Ridgway, with infinite urbanity. “Thomas,
show these gentlemen the way, and admit no one else
but the doctor when he comes."
We carried poor Harry between us to an upper
chamber, and laid him on the bed. About half-an-
hour after the doctor arrived. He pronounced that
there was a slight concussion of the brain, from the
effects of which the sufferer was even now slowly re-
viving. The collar-bone and two of the ribs were
broken. What the internal injuries might be it was
impossible, at present, to ascertain.
“Cut off his clothes as soon as you can, and get
him into bed before he becomes conscious of pain,”
said the doctor. And Mr. Mandeville and I performed
this operation, aided by one of the servants. It was
lucky we did so. Scarcely was the poor fellow free
from his saturated, mud-stained garments, when his


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
117
whole body became convulsed by the most violent
twitchings, followed by groans, rising gradually into
shrieks. The eyes glared wide, utterly unconscious of
all around; a cold sweat started out upon his forehead,
and then suddenly a tremor seized him from head to
foot. For some time he seemed incapable of articula-
tion; his lips moved, and he uttered wild yells, like
those of some tortured animal, but he said nothing,
until at last, leaping up in the bed, he shouted:
“Take them away! For God's sake, man, take
them! They're crawling all up me. There! there!
my arm. They've got hold of my arm—ugh! They're
getting inside me! They're choking me! Kill them,
for God's sake! Can't you see them? black, slimy
things—ugh! They're fastening on me; they're suck-
ing my blood out. Help! Will no one take them off?
There, man, there! They are plain enough. Dam-
nation!”
And the shriek that followed must have resounded
to the furthest corner of the house. It is enough to
give a sample of his ravings. Over the painful scene
that followed I draw a veil. It took four of us to hold
him down, and his injuries, poor fellow, made it
doubly difficult and cruel work. The doctor poured
a little brandy down his throat from time to time, then
as the violence of the attack subsided he sank back,
cowering among the pillows, and sobbing like a child.
I was thankful that he knew no one, that he had no
recollection of what had befallen him, or knowledge
of where he was. Mr. Mandeville had now departed;
the doctor and I and a servant were left with Harry;
Mr. Ridgway, much to my annoyance, kept looking
in from time to time, studying the scene in a philo-
des


118
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
sophic spirit from the doorway, and then sauntering
out. I took advantage of the momentary lull in the
frenzied man's condition to go into the passage and
beg Mr. Ridgway to keep away from the room.
“Send up another man if you will; the coachman
is strong, and if another violent attack comes on we
shall want him, but keep away yourself. You can do
no good, and if he were suddenly to remember you,
I can't say what the consequences might be. We
must keep him in ignorance of where he is, when he
recovers his consciousness, as long as possible, Mr.
Ridgway.”
“By all means,” said my host, with a smile. “Were
I vindictive, I could wish the poor wretch no worse
punishment for his brutal insolence to me-(do you
remember that night, just five years ago?)—than to be
reduced to such a state as this. It might cure Mrs.
Ridgway of some of her sentimentality to see him now,
with that blotched and bloated face.”
“For heaven's sake,” said I, “see that Mrs. Ridg-
way remains in her own wing of the house, out of
hearing of the poor fellow's ravings, if possible.”
Mr. Ridgway looked at his watch.
“It is very near the dressing-bell. Shall we put
off dinner for half-an-hour?”.
“I can't leave him. You must excuse me. I could
eat nothing if I came down.”
Mr. Ridgway shrugged his shoulders, with a little
pitying smile for my weakness, and turned upon his
heel.
The hour wore on. The sufferer's restlessness in-
creased again. It was impossible to set the broken
bones in his present condition. From the unshuttered


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
119
window the last gleam of twilight died out, and night
closed over the tops of the elm-trees in the park. Some
one brought in a candle, and set it on à distant table.
There was a strong light from the fire, which fell on
the pillow, on poor Harry's wild eyes and fevered
cheek, as he tossed from side to side, muttering and
moaning. By this time they must be at dinner in the
room immediately below. I thought of poor Assunta,
sitting opposite her lord, and I wondered whether, by
any evil chance, she had learnt who was the sufferer
up-stairs. The doctor asked if it was possible to get
some ice. I opened the door, which was directly op-
posite the bed, softly, to waylay a servant in the hall,
without ringing the bell. As I did so, I thought I
heard a rustle in the passage, but all was instantly still
again, and I could see nothing. I called to the butler
over the stair:
“We want some ice. Are Mr. and Mrs. Ridgway
at dinner?”
“Only Mr. Ridgway, sir. Mrs. Ridgway is not
quite well, and is keeping her room. I'll send to the
ice-house at once, sir.”
It was a relief to find that Assunta was not so near
at hand. Her own room was far away from the main
body of the house. I shut the door, as I believed,
and returned to the sufferer's bedside. He cried aloud
that the faces of devils were gibbering at him from
the corners of the room, that they were waiting to
spring upon him, and then, before we could stop him,
with a sound which was something between a howl
and a scream, he bounded from the bed, and made
one rush towards the door. It was open, and there
stood Assunta, with clasped hands, clinging to the


I 20
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
lintel, her white lips parted, her eyes wild with horror,
trembling from head to foot. The others had seized
and dragged back Harry to the bed. I ran to the
door, and tried to lead Mrs. Ridgway away, but she
clung to the woodwork.
“This is no place for you, you must come away,”
I said, and I forcibly shut the door from the outside.
“Let me implore you to go back to your room, and
remain quiet. I will come, by-and-bye, and let you
know how he is.”
“Remain quiet, ay, remain quiet,” she repeated, as
if mechanically. Then, her voice rising into a wail,
the like of which I have never heard, “Oh! my God!
my God! forgive me,” she moaned. “It is I who have
brought him to this!” And with a cry as that of some
wounded bird, she turned and fled down the passage,
feeling blindly at the wall for support. My heart
yearned to go after her, but what could I do? I
watched her white garments futtering along the dim
corridor, until it made a sudden bend, and I lost sight
of her. Poor soul! Poor soul!
This second attack of delirium tremens was even
more violent than the first, and of longer duration.
For nearly an hour it taxed all our strength to keep
the poor fellow under subjection, listening, in the
meantime, to his cries of abject terror, alternating with
the most frightful imprecations. I would that any
man with a tendency to drink had passed that hour
with us. That awful lesson would have cured him if
anything could do so.
The reaction came at last, and he lay there, ex-
hausted, with closed eyes, the ice on his head. The
doctor believed he could now set the broken bones,


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
121
A woman-servant entered with some bandages. I
whispered to her, “Go to Mrs. Ridgway, and say that
the gentleman is much better.” The clock struck nine.
I fancied I heard a commotion in the house, a
hurrying of feet to and fro, the shutting of doors, the
calling of many voices, and then, after a little interval,
Mr. Ridgway opened the bedroom door, and beckoned
me to come out. He was quite calm, but a look in his
eyes alarmed me.
“Do you know where Mrs. Ridgway is?” he asked.
“Good God, no! what has happened?”
“She is not to be found. She is nowhere in the
house."
For one instant I felt stunned; then a horrible
presentiment curdled the blood in my veins, and I
grasped his arm with a hand of iron. “The water!
man, the water! Not a moment to be lost.”
I ran down the staircase, and shouting to some of
the men who were gaping there to bring lanterns, I
seized a lamp in the hall, and dashed out into the
black night, making my way straight for the lake.
One dreadful hour of suspense, the death agonies
of hope, followed. That scene is before me now with
terrible distinctness, the lights gleaming round the
swampy edges of the water, the affrighted wild fowl
fluttering in all directions, the shouts of men with
torches throughout the park, the gathering crowd of
villagers, and then and then-at last something white
is seen among the sedges, a man reaches it with a
boat-hook, a great cry goes up from twenty voices at
once—it is a body—they turn it over--and the moon
shines down upon the upturned face of Assunta.
Life had been long extinct. When she left me


1 22
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
and ran down the corridor, the poor soul, crazed with
horror, must have opened a side door, and fled straight
to the water. The men, returning from the ice-house,
had seen something white Alit past. She had cast her-
self in, face foremost, and had drifted to a place
where the reeds and rushes caught the body, and held
it wedged in among them.
I knelt beside her on the sward; I supported that
dear head, and tried vainly to chafe back the departed
life, and I have an indistinct vision of Mr. Ridgway,
muffled in furs, standing before me.
In the long night of misery that followed I had but
one comfort, one consoling thought-God had merci-
fully bereft her of reason to take her to Himself. It
was as much His will, as much His doing, as though
she had been stricken by a lingering illness. Think
of what her life, already unutterably wretched, would
have been, after witnessing Harry's condition! the tor-
tures of self-reproach that poor solitary soul would
have suffered! I remembered the last word of her
letter to him, “I shall die in your shame.” It was
true; the overladen brain had given way, and so, in
pity, the All-Wise suffered her to lay her burden down.
I have but little more to add. I must have spoken
some bitter words to Mr. Ridgway, I suppose, in the
course of that night, but what they were I have for-
gotten. The following morning I received a cheque
for my professional services, with a few lines regretting
that, in consequence of what had occurred, Mr. Ridgway
was unable "to take leave of me personally.” After
this dismissal, it was impossible to remain longer at
Hapsbury. It distressed me to leave Harry in his pre-


GEOFFREY LUTTRELL'S NARRATIVE.
123
carious state; but the doctor gave good hopes of his
being able to be moved to the Grange in the course
of a few days; he was conscious and perfectly calm
now, and if there was no return of fever, he would do
well. I impressed on the doctor the necessity of
keeping his patient in ignorance of where he was, and
of all that had happened, and I wrote by that post to
Mrs. Walbrooke and to Lena, at Paris, urging their
immediate return to the Grange to meet Harry, and
offering to join them there, if they should require my
services in nursing him.
But that summons never came. My injunctions to
the doctor, though adhered to in the letter, were un-
fortunately, as I afterwards learned, violated in spirit.
Mr. Ridgway behaved admirably, obtruding himself
neither personally nor by any message upon the un-
fortunate rival thus forced to be his guest, while he
gave directions that the sick man should want for no-
thing. But, by some strange oversight, or the cruel
will of fate, Harry's departure from Hapsbury took
place on the morning of Assunta's funeral, though an
hour after the long pompous train had left the house.
As he was being carried down the great stairs, the
poor fellow looked around him, and recognised with a
shudder of dismay the famous hall of Hapsbury, with
its Roman emperors, and marble columns, unlike any-
thing else in the county. Sad-faced servants in deep
mourning stood there, and, while he was lifted into his
carriage, some workmen were hoisting a hatchment
over the great portico. He shut his eyes, and turned
deadly white: a minute or two later, the travelling-
carriage passed in the park some of the mourning
coaches on their return. The sick man looked out as


124
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
the first coach went slowly by; a face was at the win
dow, it was Mr. Ridgway's.
Harry never recovered that shock. He insisted upon
learning every particular of the frightful catastrophe
that had happened, and, in their ignorance of the effect
which a knowledge of the truth must have upon him,
to appease him, as they believed, they told him all.
He divined, no doubt, but too clearly what causes had
brought this tragedy to pass, and the blow, falling as
it did upon a constitution already undermined, hastened
the end which, I believe, could not have been long
delayed. Peace be with thee, poor erring Harry! With
all thy faults I loved thee dearly, and I often think
that, tried as thou wert, many of us might have fallen
like thee.
Mr. Ridgway survived his wife twenty years. We
never met again. I read his name occasionally in the
papers, as present at one of the dilettante societies'
meetings, or as having purchased some famous work
of art for an enormous sum. And that is all I ever
heard of him. He is long since gone to his last ac-
count, whither I, too, shall soon be called. What am
I, that I should pronounce sentence on him, standing
as he now does in the presence of that Judge before
whom the secrets of all hearts are laid bare? He was
a mystery to me from the beginning: he remained so
unto the end; but it was a mystery, alas! that brought
ruin and desolation into the lives of those I loved best
on earth.


THE
MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.


-
-


THE
MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
CHAPTER I.
COUNT ALBRECHT VON RABENSBERG was the object
of some attention in the winter of ’44, when he ap-
peared, for the first time, in the salons of Vienna. He
was the head of an old Bohemian family; rich, not
much past thirty, and handsome. He was, moreover,
unmarried. Little was known about him, except that
he had large estates, and more than one schloss, where
he never resided; that his father had died when he
was very young, and his only sister had been drowned,
by accident, many years before; and that, left without
kith or kin, since the age of eighteen, he had led a
wandering life on the face of the globe, never remain-
ing for many months in the same place. He con-
sorted but little with men of his own age, he neither
gambled nor drank, and he was said to be proof
against all the attentions of women. Whether this was
really so or not, such a reputation was, in itself,
enough to pique curiosity and excite interest in Vienna,
where feminine intrigue spreads its endless network
among the roots of an aristocratic society. Add to
this, the stern, sad expression of the young man's


128
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
handsome face, and his reluctance ever to talk about
himself, and the mystery with which it pleased the
Viennese world to invest him, could no longer be a
matter of surprise.
The world selected a very suitable wife for him-
a lovely daughter of the house of L. He scandalously
disappointed the world, and chose a wife for himself.
He married a simple burgher's daughter; and the in-
dignation which this outrage upon common decency
aroused can only be conceived by those who know
what the pride of “caste" in Vienna is. How could
his infatuation be accounted for? The girl he fixed
on was by no means beautiful. A sweet, pale face, a
slender, graceful figure, were all young Magda had to
boast of. He saw her first in one of the Lust-Gartens
of the town, and from that moment his infatuation be-
gan. He followed her home; he never rested until he
had made the good citizen's acquaintance; he called
at the house daily during holy week, and on Easter
Monday he asked Magda to become his wife. The
girl was almost frightened. It was scarce a fortnight
since she had first met the count's intense and search-
ing gaze bent upon her; since she had been conscious
of his following her and her mother home; scarce ten
days since he first called, that cold March morning,
when Magda's hands were red from the household
washing, and she felt ashamed of them, as she knitted
with downcast eyes, and replied in monosyllables to
the questions of the deep-eyed, melancholy Graf. It
had all passed like a dream, so fantastic and unreal it
seemed. She was still a little afraid of him. He was
very handsome and charming, no doubt; and no young
maiden could be insensible to the devotion of such a


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
129
knight; but his gravity and the difference of their rank
a little oppressed her. She had scarcely accustomed
herself to his daily visit, scarcely felt at ease in his
presence, when he startled her by laying all he pos-
sessed at her feet. And with some trembling, some
unaccountable misgiving at heart, she faltered “Yes.”
The cackling this event caused throughout all
classes (for high and low were equally interested
therein) was increased by the haste with which the
marriage was hurried on. Of course, it was said the
poor young man had been entrapped into it; there
were hints that he had been made drunk; there were
even darker hints thrown out, without one shadow of
foundation, but these lies had scarcely time to per-
meate society, when the news burst like a bomb into
the midst of it, that the ceremony had actually taken
place in private, and that Count von Rabensberg and
his bride had left Vienna.
The count's conduct was no less strange after mar-
riage than it had been before. He worshipped his
young wife with a passionate curiosity, so to speak,
which seemed allied to some other mysterious feeling,
deep-seated and unexplained. Now and again he would
lie at her feet for hours, gazing into her eyes, as
Hamlet may have done into Ophelia's, with a silent,
half-sorrowful ecstasy; rising on a sudden, with a wild
rapture, to cast his arms about her and cover her with
kisses. By degrees she became used to his ways, more
at ease under his long silences, less startled by his
sudden passionate outbursts. There were times, too,
| when he would talk with an eloquence, the like of
which she had never heard, of all that he had seen or
read, and tell strange tales of adventure with a charm
i Morals and Mysteries,
.com


i 30
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
which would have won the heart of a less willing
listener. The sweet German nature, looking out of
those calm blue eyes, grew by degrees closer to his;
her happiness expanded daily, sending forth stronger
shoots and tendrils, which clasped themselves around
whatsoever belonged unto her “mann”-her Albrecht.
His word would have been her law under any circum-
stances; it became a law of devotion, and not of dis-
cipline alone.
They spent three weeks on the Danube: they visited
a large estate of the count's, near Pesth. Then, to-
wards the end of the second month after their mar-
riage, they moved to the old mansion of the Rabens-
bergs at Prague; worm-eaten, gloomy, uninhabited for
years, with rust on its hinges, and grass-grown courts,
and the sorrow of many generations hanging over it
like a pall. The count was more pre-occupied, more
strange in his demeanour than usual that night. After
supper, when the servants had left the room, he said
suddenly:
“We shall only be here two nights, Magda. ....
To-morrow I must leave thee alone for the day. I go
to Schloss Rabensberg, which is but a few hours'
journey .... to prepare it for thy reception, my dar-
ling .... and then--".
He abruptly broke off: pressed her to his bosom,
and struggled to cast aside the care which had weighed
upon his spirits all the evening. The young wife was
not very keen sighted; she soon forgot the shadow,
in the sunshine, artificial though it was; and slept that
night the calm sleep of a child, unconscious that her
husband never closed his eyes, but lay and watched


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
131
with a look of intense anxiety, the sweet untroubled
face beside him.
He was off by daybreak; and Magda wandered
about the house feeling a little lonely, and dreaming
i old-world dreams in the great desolate rooms, half the
i day. She drew a spinning-wheel from a dusty corner
in one of the rooms, and set it near a window; bravely
resolving to employ herself. It proved a failure; the
thread broke every minute, and she pushed the wheel
aside, in despair. She could not sit down to her
knitting to-day; she wanted something to employ her
thoughts, and not her fingers only. She turned to
the pictures; she examined them all in detail; they
were mostly portraits, and among them was one which
struck her young imagination forcibly; she came back
to it again and again—why she could not tell. There
were splendid looking warriors, but it was not one of
these; gay courtiers, and fair ladies in farthingale and
ruff, but none of them possessed for her the attraction
of a portrait representing a plain woman in the hideous
dress in fashion fifty years since. The face was wholly
unlike Albrecht's, unlike any one Magda remembered;
unless indeed—but the fancy was absurd! Her own
eyes, as the glass told her, were soft, light blue; these
were grey, and anything but soft; passionate intensity
was their characteristic, and the secret of their rivetting
the spectator. Those eyes would not let themselves
be forgotten; the only beautiful spot in the picture, it
was natural she should think and speculate about them;
but why should they seem to her like the broken, con-
fused reflection of her own eyes, given back by the
troubled waters of a steel-cold lake? There was neither
name nor date affixed to the portrait, and no servant


132
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
in the house knew who the original was. She re-
turned to the room twice to look at it; and the
memory of it haunted her long after the shades of
twilight had gathered round; until the clatter of a
horse's hoofs in the court-yard roused her to Albrecht's
return.
He came in looking excited, but worn and anxious,
and after embracing her tenderly, he almost imme-
diately began thus:
“We leave this to-morrow morning, my dearest
Magda. Art thou prepared to start?”
“Surely. .. .. We go to Schloss Rabensberg? ....
I shall be glad to get out of this gloomy house, Al-
brecht."
“Schloss Rabensberg is still gloomier, Magda. It
is surrounded by a moat, and stands in the midst of
a wild forest. The walls are thick and the windows
small. . . . It is not a cheerful residence, my poor
child.” .
“Never mind. I shall get accustomed to it, Al-
brecht. It is the country—and we can walk about the
woods all day long in the sweet summer time; and at
night I shall not mind the gloom, with thee.”
“Ah! ... that is it.” .... He paused; and then
continued with an effort, “Magda, I have to put thy
love to a strange test. . . . Art thou ready to undergo
a separation from me, for awhile-for my sake?”
“What dost thou mean, Albrecht?”
“That for reasons I cannot explain, I earnestly
wish thee to go to Schloss Rabensberg—but alone.
Thy stay there ... unless, indeed, I am able to join
thee, which I pray to Heaven I may eventually do ...


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
133
will not be one of many days, probably, but while it
lasts, we shall not meet.”
"Oh, Albrecht!" .... she began; but she saw that
in his face which stopped her; a look of such intense,
suffering anxiety for her reply, that the words of
entreaty died on her lips. He went on.
"Perhaps I have no right to ask this of thee, my
treasure. It is early days to demand such a sacrifice
—but if thou knewest—if ...." .
She laid her little pale face on his shoulder. “Only
I tell me what good my going can do?”
“I cannot .... I can only say this. There is a
fatal spell over my poor old house, which I believe
thou—and thou alone in the world, Magda, canst
remove."
She opened her blue eyes wide. What could he
mean? Did he take her for a child? But no; his
tone was too serious for jesting. Some of Hoffman's
wild tales recurred to her. Was the place haunted?
To her German imagination, brought up to regard the
relations of the positive with the spiritual world as close
and constant, nothing seemed impossible. But what
could he mean by saying that she alone could remove
the fatal spell?
He felt the little heart palpitate against his; and he
contiņued at length in a sorrowful voice,
“No, my Magda, I see the ordeal is too severe. ...
We will turn our faces the other way, and go far
from hence, and begin a new life with another people
... and try to forget Schloss Rabensberg!” he added
bitterly.
She raised her head.


134
MORALS AND MYSTERIES,
i
“No, I will do it, Albrecht. ... Forgive me, and
try and forget my folly ... it is past now. I will do
whatever thou biddest me, du allerliebster Albrecht!”
She flung her arms about him; and he, in return,
expressed his gratitude in the most impassioned
language. All that need be recorded here were these
words:
"I shall be near thee, mein schatz, very near, and
thou shalt know daily tidings of me in some sort,
though we may not meet. ... Neither may Lottchen
accompany thee; but thou wilt find four old and faith-
ful servants in the schloss, one of whom will undertake
Lottchen's duties. .... For the rest, my Magda, all the
counsel I will give thee is never to let the pure and
holy thoughts which are thy constant companions give
place to superstitious terrors, at Schloss Rabensberg.
Such thoughts are mighty angels to drive out all idle fear.
Be simple, unsuspicious of evil; trustful of the good
God; be thyself in short-and all will be well with
thee!”
The night passed; and soon after breakfast the
next morning, they set off on their strange and melan-
choly journey, unaccompanied by any servant. As
Magda descended the steps of the gloomy old mansion
which had seemed to her’as little better than a prison
the day before, she felt almost a pang of regret; for
here, at least, she and Albrecht had been together,
and here no mystery had reigned. Those lonely
hours—the picture which had so fascinated her, all
was now forgotten; her mind was absorbed by one
subject alone.
At the end of half a day's journey they came to
rugged upland country. Here were ravines down


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
135
which the thread of some now shrivelled mountain
stream forced its way through grey slags, and the
prone stems of blasted firs. Here, too, were swampy
hollows, rank with overgrowth of poisonous vegetation,
and rising out of them, anon, great strips of slaty
rock, tumbled about, as by a giant's hand, and crowned
with the dislocated trunks of trees. It was clear that
the storms here every winter were very violent, and the
hand of man did nothing to repair the injuries of
nature. A more desolate district it was impossible to
find in the kingdom of Bohemia. And, it formed an
appropriate prelude to the black, silent forest, in the
centre of which stood Schloss Rabensberg. Here was
no song of bird, nor sound of water; nothing but the
utter stillness of moveless boughs, in the hot summer
evening. The road shot like an arrow through the
pines, whose tall red stems, in a serried mass, rose to
an intolerable height, before they stretched forth their
sinuous arms, clasping their hard dark fingers so closely
as almost to shut out the blue face of heaven. Now
and again there was a cross-road, or narrow path
losing itself speedily in the red blackness of the pine-
trunks; and still the main road swerved not, but bore
on for upwards of an hour without break or point of
light on the horizon.
They had sat silent for a long time, their hands in
each other's; their faces, the one anxious and excited,
the other, repressing by a heroic effort any symptom
of nervousness; when Albrecht jumped up, and called
to the postillion to stop. Magda, leaning forward,
saw that the wood was at last breaking; what seemed
to be an open space lay some few hundred yards be-
fore them. Albrecht stooped, and drew out a box


136
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
from under the seat of the carriage. He then unlocked
and took from it, to Magda's infinite surprise, a queer
little hat, and still queerer little garment, the like of
which Magda had never seen, but which she subse-
quently learnt had been called in former days, “a
spencer.” Moreover, there was a short and narrow
skirt of silk, having an absurd little flounce round the
bottom, such as Magda believed her mother had worn
years ago. She asked, with a smile of wonder, what
all this meant.
“Thou dear heart!” cried Albrecht, embracing her,
“it means that here we must part, and that I beg, as
a further favour to me, that thou wilt exchange thy
pretty hat and mantle for these faded old-fashioned
ones: nay, if it be possible, thy skirt also. Do not ask
any questions. It is a fancy of mineman absurd fancy,
that in the old house where, all belongs to another
date, another generation, thou shouldst not seem to
flout the poor old servants and the pictures on the
wall, with thy new-fangled clothes. ... And now
farewell, my beloved one! ... God keep thee! Be of
good courage, and Heaven will reward thy going!”
With that he kissed her with an energy akin to
desperation, and leaped from the carriage. The tears
forced themselves into her blue eyes, though she tried
to smile as she tied on the little old hat, and slipped
on the spencer. The carriage was then rolling on, and
she blew him kisses, and sent him April smiles through
her tears, as long as he was in sight. Then when the
carriage turned sharply to the left, and she could no
longer see him, the sun went in, and the shower was
heavy. The poor child felt that she was now, indeed,
alone. A moment afterwards the carriage drew up on


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
137
the edge of a small square lake, in the centre of which,
without an inch of earth to spare on any side, rose an
equally square grey stone building with a high red-tiled
roof, and innumerable towers, turrets, and pinnacles,
breaking the sky line. Through the moat–for such
the lake was termed—a stream flowed constantly, born
among the hills, and growing in its passage through
the forest, till it had been widened and deepened by
the hand of man into this broad basin, and was then
suffered to escape, a dwindled rivulet, and hide itself
in the forest once again. Looking down from the
windows of the schloss, one saw to the very bottom of
the dark green water, where long weeds and grasses,
like dusky plumes, swayed to and fro with the current,
and the great brown shadow of a fish darted, ever and
anon, athwart the mystery of tangled rushes; and
carrying the eye on towards the bank, one caught
moreover a confused outline of crawling animal life,
wherewith the black ooze teemed. It was like looking
down into a human heart (if such a thing could be),
and watching its network of multifarious miseries and
desires, drifted by the secret currents of passion-the
swift thought darting across it—the crawling meanness
lurking in the impurity of its muddy places.
A long-disused portcullis showed that there had
once been a drawbridge: but a narrow one, for foot-
passengers only, had supplanted it, some time in the
preceding century, and had already acquired a respect-
able air of antiquity.
Two old men, in liveries of a strangely old-
fashioned make, were standing on the bridge. They
were evidently waiting for Magda, and as the calèche
drew up, they let down the steps, and handed her out.


138
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
The postillion had received his orders, no doubt, be-
forehand. The grey-headed men had no sooner light-
ened the carriage of its human freight, and cut the
cord of the valises that hung behind, than, without a
word, he turned his horses' heads, and drove off into
the forest by the way he had come. To poor Magda,
it seemed as if the last link that held her to the dear
outer world—that held her to her Albrecht, was now
severed. She looked up at the stern unfriendly build-
ing and down at its black shadow in the moat, and
she shuddered as she passed under the iron teeth of
its portcullis, and heard the gate locked behind her.
She found herself in a low stone hall, the groined
roof of which rested on arches. At the further end
was a winding stair, which led to the dwelling-rooms.
A woman, past middle-age,estood expectant in the
middle of the hall, and came forward to kiss Magda's
hand, after the old German custom, as her new mis-
tress entered. But though there was no want of alacrity
shown in rendering this conventional act of respect-
as there was no want of alacrity, indeed, in anything
the woman did nothing of pleasure was evinced.
One might have thought that the greeting a pretty
young creature to that grim old place, tenanted hitherto
only by grim old servants, might have brought some
spark of cordiality into their eyes—which foreign
servants are not afraid to let light up their faces. But
it was not so here. The old men looked grave-grave
and rather sad, it seemed to Magda. The woman
looked stern, keen, and resolute. In spite of her years,
she was evidently still strong, and unusually active.
Her eye was quick and bright; her walk, and all her
movements, betokened decision and promptitude. She


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
139
was dressed in black stuff, and her grey hair was put
back under a black cap; no speck of white relieved the
general mournfulness of her aspect.
Magda tried to smile, and say something gracious
to the old woman. She was perfectly respectful in her
reply, but as hard as nails; the swift eye was raised,
and the tight-shut lips unclosed, just so much as was
absolutely necessary, no more; then she pounced upon
shawls and cloaks as an eagle might swoop upon his
prey, and led Magda up-stairs, without further ado,
the two old men following with the valises. The geo-
graphy of the schloss was less intricate than that of
most old buildings. At the top of the stairs ran a long
passage, which turned and twisted, it is true, and from
which sundry other flights of stairs debouched, to the
bewilderment of a stranger who was not closely ob-
servant. But at the end of this passage was a door,
which the woman unlocked from a bunch of keys
hanging at her side; and after this all was simple
enough. A short flight of steps led into one of the
many towers which Magda had seen from the bridge.
This tower--that portion of it, at least, into which
Magda was now taken-contained two good-sized
rooms, one over the other, a winding stair com-
municating. The lower room was oak-panelled, and
in it were an old piano, a harp, a few direfully bad
prints of the House of Hapsburg, in the beginning of
this century, and one of the retreat from Moscow.
Klopstock's Messiah and an odd volume or two of
Lessing were upon one table, together with a very
faded work-basket, and an old Spa-box, with the Allée
des Soupirs (in which the trees looked like tufts of
blue-green feathers upon hairpins), much defaced by


140
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
time, upon its lid. Upon the other table a cloth, with
preparations for supper, was laid. It was the only
thing in that strange room, where all seemed to have
remained forgotten and untouched for the last twenty
years, that spoke a living language—the same, un-
changed by fashion, wherein our fathers made ready
to eat. A substantial pie, some slices of raw ham,
and a carp from the moat stewed in red wine, would,
from all time, have seemed an excellent German sup-
per, but Magda felt in no wise disposed to do it jus-
tice. She asked to see her bedroom, and the old wo-
man led her up-stairs to the corresponding chamber
above, the only difference in the shape of the two being
that this latter had a wide oriel window overhanging
the moat an excrescence supported by a corbel, like
the “Parson's Window” at Nuremberg.
The room was hung with old Flemish tapestry; a
quaint stove of green delf towered up in one corner, a
dressing table and tarnished mirror in another. The
bed, which was like a black box with the lid turned
back, disclosing a yellow eider-down quilt, discouraged,
rather than invited, the weary to lie down and take
their rest. It was raised on a single step, a daïs, and
stood at right-angles between the door and window.
The back, which I have compared to the lid of the
box, was of solid black oak, carved with grotesque
figures; there were curtains at the head and none at
the feet; but a board rose up, like the stone at the
foot of a grave, with the date “1600" carved thereon.
Upon a nail at the head of the bed hung a crown of
immortelles, and the name “Louise,” fashioned out of
the same flowers, after the German manner. The
flowers were brown with age, and many of them had


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
141
-
.
.
.
dropped; similar chaplets, blown and beaten with the
rain and wind, Magda had seen on every headstone
in the graveyard where her mother lay.
“Whose name is that? Who was Louise?" she
asked of a second old woman, less active than the
first, who now appeared, proffering her services as
“kammerjungfer," while the other left the room.
“It was the gracious young lady,” replied the old
servant, dropping her voice till it ended in a low sigh.
Magda felt more drawn towards her by that touch of
feminine softness, less afraid to question her than her
falcon-eyed predecessor.
“And when did she die?” continued Magda.
“Twenty-one years ago," whispered the old woman,
glancing round. “But, may it please the gracious lady,
it is forbidden to speak on the subject."
“Why?” said Magda, grown almost bold by her
curiosity, and by her confidence in the kindly wrinkled
face before her. “Who forbids you?”
“It is forbidden,” she repeated. “The gracious
lady does not know ..." She glanced round once
more, and shook her head-a more effective close to
her sentence than any spoken words.
“What is your name?” asked Magda, after a pause,
during which her heart seemed to stand still. “And
whereabouts do you sleep? Is it anywhere near me?”
“My name is Bettine. . . . I sleep a long way off,
in another tower. But Hanne sleeps close at hand to
the gracious lady. She is the head. All the gracious
lady's orders must be given to her. I am but the
second. ... I was kammermädchen to the Fräulein
Louise, and so I have remained here."
Magda went to the window and looked out. Twi-


142
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
light was slowly creeping up over the black wood in
front of her; the frogs were croaking on the edges of
the moat below; there was no song of birds, no brisk
barking of dogs, nor lowing of cattle; no cheerful
sound of other living thing. The stillness, broken
only by that horrible hoarse music, was almost unbear-
able. She said to her attendant:
"Is it always like this? Is there never any noise?
Does no one ever come here?”.
Bettine shook her head for all reply.
Then Magda descended the turret again slowly,
and returned to the parlour. One of the white-
haired men was waiting to serve her at supper, and
so she sat down, and made a semblance of eating.
When this ceremony had been gone through, the night
was fast closing in; the shadows deepened in the
corners of the old room; a purple bar widened and
spread over the gold floor of heaven. Perhaps it
was then that the young Gräfin felt her loneliness to
the full for the first time. She opened the old piano;
she passed her fingers over the loose, yellow notes of
the hand-board. What dreamy old waltzes it had
known in times when that dance was not the mad
whirl it has now become, but a slow, swimming mea-
sure! What Ländlers and wild Bohemian tunes, which
had now passed away into the realm of things for-
gotten! No doubt the hands that once loved to wander
over those notes were long since still. Had it the gift
of speech, how much that old piano could tell her!
She turned to the table, and opened one of the
books.
LOUISE VON RABENSBERG,
Andenken ihrer geliebten Mutter,
1822,


144
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Ludwig's Kirche! Alas! if it depended on an im-
maculate conscience! .....
A clock in one of the towers struck nine. The
servants brought in, with much pomp and ceremony,
two massive silver candlesticks, which they lighted, and
then departed. The gloom was only more oppressive
than before; an island of pale yellow light was diffused
just round the candles, and an impenetrable darkness
swallowed up the rest of the room. Magda shivered
and went to the window. The moon had risen, and
was pouring a flood of silver upon the little bridge,
and the trembling reeds and sedges on the bank, and
driving back reflections, like knives, into the heart of
the steel-blue moat, and waking into a mystery of
splendour the crests and shafts of the fir forest yonder.
It was a pleasanter scene than that ghostly parlour,
and Magda felt an irrepressible longing to go forth
into the moonlight; to stand, but for five minutes, on
that bridge under the clear vault of heaven, to be so
much nearer to Albrecht for a little space, before go-
ing to her bed—for in this room she felt it would
make her too nervous to sit up any longer. She touched
a hand-bell, and Hanne entered.
“Can I” ... faltered the young Gräfin, annoyed
to find her summons thus answered. ... “Can I step
out upon the bridge for a few minutes? Can the castle-
gate be unlocked?”
For a second it seemed as if Hanne hesitated.
“The gracious lady's commands shall be obeyed."
She left the room, and a minute or two after-
wards Bettine brought in the queer old hat and spencer.
“I want nothing,” she said; but she threw the
spencer over her arm; “it is so warm. Come with me,


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
145
= Bettine;" and, passing through the unlocked door of
the tower, they traversed the long passage, and de-
scended to the hall. The gate had been unbarred by
the old servants, who stood one on each side of it,
rigidly erect, as their young mistress passed out.
It was as though a great weight were lifted from
- her head when she felt the warm night wind blow upon
her face, and the myriad stars of heaven above her,
instead of the low-beamed roof and worm-eaten panels
of that oppressive room. She stood, flooded in moon-
light, upon the bridge, and, leaning over the parapet,
looked down at the stars in the water, and up at the
.. schloss, on which the moon fell slantways. She-could
examine its exterior now more leisurely. There was
her tower, with its low parlour window below, and the
wide-mouthed oriel above, casting a sharp projection of
black shade upon the building. Her eye wandered
over the many other windows of the schloss, no two
of the same size, or at the same level, but set irre-
- gularly over the face of the building at uncertain in-
tervals.
One of them, and one alone, stood open; and
even now, as Magda looked, a strange thing came to
pass.
The fancy seized her that she caught sight of a
white face at this window, staring down at her with
eyes that glittered in the moonlight.
It was a delusion, no doubt. There was a thin
white curtain at this window, which the night breeze
fluttered now and again. And, more than this, Han-
ne's hard grey-haired head appeared, unmistakeable in
the clear moonlight, a moment later. To either of
- these causes it was possible to refer the strange im-
; Morals and Mysteries.
10


146
T
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
pression produced on Magda; and then the excited
state of her nerves rendered her singularly susceptible
to such a fancy as this.
While she argued thus with herself, the spencer,
which had been gradually slipping from her arm, fell
on the parapet, its black arms flying in the breeze,
and dropped into the water with a heavy splash. Bet-
tine gave a little cry, but it was echoed by one louder
and shriller, and this certainly came from the open
window.
“What was that?” said Magda, startled.
Bettine made as though she heard not, but began
calling lustily to one of the men to bring a boat-hook,
and fish up the gracious lady's mantle.
“Did you not hear a very peculiar sharp cry?”
asked Magda, again. “Who could it be?-not
Hanne?”
“Yes, begging the Frau Gräfin's pardon—that is
the Hanne's room ... no doubt it was the Hanne's a
voice ... it is somewhat shrill, by times.”
The face was turned away, and it seemed to Magda
that she spoke with a certain hesitation; but these
were her words, and she added nothing to them,
busying herself thenceforward with the recovery of the
garment, which had been carried by the current half-
way round the moat. Magda felt by no means satis-
fied or reassured. There, at the window, was the stern
grey face of Hanne, watching her, she knew; it seemed
difficult to believe that so self-contained a woman
should have yielded to the weakness of screaming!
The young gräfin turned away with a shudder, she
scarce knew why, and walked slowly to the further
end of the bridge. And here her eye was attracted
were her spoke with ed away


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
147.
by something white on the furthest stone of the parapet,
upon which the moonlight fell. She stooped; it was a
piece of paper, upon which some pebbles had been
placed, to prevent the wind's carrying it away. She
took it up, and read easily, in the clear moonlight,
these words:
“Be of good courage, for my sake. Remember, I
am near you.
“A.”
There came a rush of blood to the poor chilled
heart; it was as though new life were infused into
her veins. She pressed the paper to her lips, and
murmured:
} “Du lieber Himmel! ... 'For his sake,' whate'er
betide, I will not flinch from it.”
CHAPTER II.
ould not cted her oded withen, dis-
With a firmer and more rapid step, Magda re-
crossed the bridge, and passed under the portcullis
once more. She would not return to the parlour. By
her desire, Bettine conducted her straight to the
tapestried room, which was now flooded with moon-
light. She threw the window wide, and then, dis-
-, missing Bettine, she knelt down beside the great old-
fashioned bed, and prayed-prayed for forgiveness of
her many sins, poor little soul!—for courage to meet
present trial, whatsoever it might be--for faith that
should resist any devil's machination, and strength to
overcome temptation. And to this was joined a fervent
prayer that “unser Vater" would shield her. Albrecht
10+


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
149
vancing to meet her; now Haman's dead limbs seemed
to become animated, and the miscreant was descend-
ing from the gallows. But, one by one, these fancies
wore themselves out. The woven figures came not to
life; no sound, not even that of a mouse behind the
wainscot, broke the perfect stillness of the night. The
imagination, without aliment, cannot keep up for ever
at high-pressure pitch; and when youth and health
are in the other scale, nature will sooner or later have
its way, and claim its right of rest. She fell asleep.
How long she remained so, she never knew; but
she started from her sleep with the horrible conscious-
ness that something was near her—something between
her and the window-something bending over her,
with its face close, close to hers. She lay there breath-
less, motionless. She tried to scream, to spring from
the bed; she could not stir a muscle, and the thing
stood there, immovable, with its glittering eyes looking
down into hers. She knew she had been dreaming;
she asked herself, in those few doubtful moments,
whether this was a continuation of her nightmare?
For, paralysed with terror as she was, strange to say,
the deadly face of this shadow brought vividly to her
mind the picture which had made so deep an impres-
sion on her at Prague. Though this was the face of a
shadow, white and hollow, there were the same extra-
ordinary eyes, unlike any Magda had ever seen. The
rest was shrouded in black, and the moon from behind
touched the edges of one white lock of hair with silver.
“Louise!” murmured the shadow; and Magda felt a
death-cold hand laid upon hers, outside the coverlet.
She trembled so that the very bed shook under her,
į but she gave no other sign of life,


150
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Lower and lower, closer and closer, bent the shadow.
And now, indeed, Magda shut her eyes, and felt that
life was ebbing fast from her heart; for the corpse-like
face touched hers, and those dead lips rained kisses
on her cheek. Then, with a great cry, as though some-
thing within her had snapped, Magda felt a sudden
momentary power given her to spring from the bed,
and run shrieking towards the window. It was but
momentary; there was another shriek, the piercing echo
of her own; she was conscious of the spectre's rushing
towards her, white hair flowing, wild arms tossed into
the sky; and then Magda sank in a swoon upon the
floor.
Bettine was bending over her with sal-volatile, when
she opened her eyes. Hanne stood by the bed, whereon
something black lay stretched.
“Mein Gott! sie ist todt!” were the first words
Magda heard. They came from the lips of the grim
Hanne. The door opened quickly at the same moment,
and Magda found herself in Albrecht's arms.
But the next minute he turned towards the bed.
Hanne and he interchanged looks; it was enough; and
then, leaving Magda to Bettine's care, he ran towards
the bed, and threw himself on his knees beside it. ...
Too late! too late! All his hope, then-his heart's first
wish for years past—was now frustrated, at the very
moment of fulfilment! He buried his head in the
coverlid, and Magda heard a low sob. There was no
other sound in the room. Then, after a while, she
caught these disjointed sentences, wrung from the
agony of the young man's soul:
“Du barmherziger Himmel! . . . Is it all over then?


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
151
... After so many years, so many!—without one kind
look—without a word! It is hard. To go thus from
me before the cloud was lifted. .... Ach! mutter-
thou knowest now the truth-open thy lips, but once
more-only once, to bless me, even me, thy only son,
now that I kiss thy dear hand after so many, many
years!” And it was with a tender and sorrowful
earnestness that Albrecht performed that simple act of
German reverence.
But from the black bed, now more truly like a
grave than ever, came no response, no sound, no sign
that a living soul lay there; that the ear heard, or the
heart felt the passionate adjuration addressed to it.
Magda, as she looked and listened, felt still so
utterly bewildered that she could only keep asking
herself whether it was not all a dream-whether, in
truth, it was her Albrecht whom she saw and heard.
Yet, at the window where she lay, the night, with its
myriad stars, was gone; the pale opal light of morning
was breaking in the east; she could even hear the soft
dewy twitter of awakening birds. It was no dream;
she could recall it all, the lonely, dreary evening, the
terrible night-no, she was not dreaming, and that
was her Albrecht, in the flesh, before her. But she
felt an aching giddiness in her head; she raised her
hand, and withdrew it covered with blood. In falling
she had struck herself, and, concealed by the masses
of unrolled hair, the wound had escaped Bettine's at-
tention. The old woman now ran to fetch the necesa
sary means of staunching it, but the loss of blood had
been considerable. Magda attempted to raise her head,
but the room swam round with her; a film gathered
across her eyes, and before Bettine's return, her


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
153
favourite, who doted on this daughter with an intensity
which blinded her to every other object, and made her
regard even me-strange as it may seem—in the light
of an interloper, whose coming to divide the inheritance
with her first-born was an injury and a wrong. My
father, on the other hand, was very fond of me; but
he died when I was nine; and for many years there
was only Louise's sweet nature and her love for me
to counteract the coldness and neglect of my poor
partial mother. ... God knows I never resented this.
... I never ceased to love her; a kind word from her
at any time made me as happy as a king ... and I
know now that even at that time, poor soul, her brain
was in a measure diseased, and she was suffering under
the chronic monomania which afterwards assumed an
acute form.
“My sister occupied the tower where you slept last
night; her sitting-room below, her bedroom above. A
panel behind the arras, and a winding stair cut in the
thickness of wall, lead from these rooms to those my
mother inhabited. Thus she could visit her favourite
child at all hours of the day and night without travers-
ing the long corridor and public stair; and of this pri-
vilege she availed herself so constantly that I never
knew her come to Louise's room by any other way.
“One evening, when I was about fifteen, I was in
this room, plaguing my sister while she was dressing,
by performing all manner of gymnastic feats, of which
I was very proud, but which only alarmed her. At
last, I bethought me of a water-pipe outside the win-
dow, which ran into the moat, and down which I
thought it would be good sport to slide. Before Louise
saw what I was about, I sprang on to the window-sill,
-


154
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
sterror, ben it was last, Iya
and, clinging hold of the mullion with one hand, sought
the pipe with the other, and tried to fasten my feet
around it. The operation was not an easy or rapid
one, and before it was accomplished Louise, with a
shriek of terror, had flown to the window, and was
endeavouring to hold me back. But it was in vain
her fragile fingers clutched me; I was resolved to suc-
ceed in my attempt; and now, indeed, I felt my feet
were fastened round the pipe securely. Closer and
closer I drew myself towards it, and further from the
window, until, at last, I let go the mullion.
“Then it was that my poor sister, in her nervous
terror, bent her whole body out of the window, and,
stretching forth both her hands, she lost her balance,
and fell, with one wild scream, headlong into the moat
below!
“Never, if I were to live a thousand years, can I
forget that moment! How it was I managed to slide
down the pipe, I scarcely know, now. I can just re-
member catching sight of my mother's awful face, and
hearing her shrieks at the window; the next minute I
was in the water, and striking out in the direction of
something that floated near me.
“Half-a-dozen men were in the moat as soon as I
was, and between them she was quickly brought to
shore, and laid upon the bank; but, alas! the truth
was evident at a glance; there could not be a doubt
about it; she was dead. She had struck her head in
falling, and death had mercifully been instantaneous.
Would to God it had come to my poor, afflicted
mother!... She had entered that room by the panelled
door, at the very moment that Louise lost her balance
and fell; and she lost her reason from that hour. It


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
155
was Hanne who held her back when she would have
thrown herself out after her idolised child. It was
Hanne who again held her back when she rushed at
me with an open knife. The dislike in which she had
always held me was now fomented to positive hatred.
She regarded me as the wilful murderer of Louise, and
the mere mention of my name was enough to bring
on a paroxysm of mania. The doctor decided at once
that she must never be permitted to see me. I was
sent away to college, and when, at rare intervals, I
returned here, my presence never failed to rouse her
out of her habitual condition of quiet harmless melan-
choly into one of ungovernable fury. Thus, for years
past I have never been able to set my foot within these
walls. The world has long believed my mother to be
dead; the poor faithful servants here alone have tended
and guarded their old mistress, seeing that she came
to no harm, and keeping me regularly informed of the
state of her health. She never left the schloss, but
wandered to and from Louise's room, by day and
night, folding and unfolding her child's clothes, look-
ing at her books in a vacant way, and careful that
every little article that had belonged to her should be
kept in the very place where Louise left it. The ser-
vants told me that she never spoke of Louise as dead;
she was always looking for her return. ....
. “When I came to man's estate, my first object was
to consult, either personally or by letter, all the most
eminent surgeons in Europe who have devoted them-
selves to the study of insanity, as to my hapless mother's
condition. There were several consultations, but little
comfort came of them. All agreed, indeed, that such
a condition was not absolutely hopeless. Cases had


156
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
how, in mequilibriumused madness, heart
been known when, by powerfully affecting the heart
upon the one subject which had caused madness, the
brain had regained its equilibrium. But such cases
were rare, and how, in my mother's case, was this end
to be compassed? At last, Dr. --, a man full of
original expedients, said to me: 'Find, if you can,
some girl who closely resembles what your sister was....
Introduce her into the schloss, as nearly as possible
under the same circumstances as your sister ... see
what that will do. . . . It may open the sluices of all
the poor lady's tender maternal feelings, and thus work
a cure. Any way, it can do no harm. I will answer
for it, she will not dislike, or try to harm the girl.'. ..
“To comprehend my intense anxiety on this sub-
ject, Magda, and the earnest longing wherewith I set
about my search, thou must try and enter into my
feelings during all these years. Not alone had I been
the cause of my poor Louise's death, but also of this
enduring and yet more frightful calamity, whereby my
mother and I were living on in the world as strangers
to each other. . . . It is hardly too much to say that
my whole life was embittered by remorse. . . . To feel
her hand laid upon my head, to hear her say that she
forgave me—this was the dearest hope I then had....
“For many years my search was fruitless. I found
fair-haired and gentle girls in abundance, but when-
ever I tried to trace the desired resemblance, it failed;
either voice, or face, or manner, or the soul within,
was utterly unlike Louise's. It is rare, after all, to
find any two human beings cast in moulds that are at
all similar.... But at length, my Magda, I found thee;
and in thee, to my great joy, a living image of our
lost Louise. . . . Shall I tell thee the truth? I had


THE MYSTERY OF THE MOATED-SCHLOSS.
157
little thought of love or marriage, at first. Thy father
was poor; I was willing to sacrifice two-thirds of my
fortune to the accomplishment of my scheme; with
that intention I sought thee. ... But when I came to
know thee, my treasure-ah! then it was different.
When I came to see thee in thy quiet home, to note
thy tender modest graces, Love found me out and
conquered me. I thought, if thou wouldst consent to
be my wife, here was the true solution of the difficulty
. . .. and whether that scheme succeeded or failed,
in thee I should, at all events, find a joy and peace
that had long been absent from my soul. It has been
so—it is so, my darling! The good God has seen fit
to take my mother-has not seen fit to bless my original
scheme. But he will bless what has grown out of it,
that I know.
"I thought it best to conceal the truth from thee.
When I brought thee and left thee here alone, it could
but have added to thy alarms at first to know of an
insane woman's presence in this dreary place, and of
the part thou wert called upon to play. Thou wouldst
learn it all, naturally, in the course of a day or two;
but by that time some change might have been wrought
in her condition. Of course I felt dreadfully anxious,
yet I knew there was no danger to be apprehended.
. . . Hanne has told me everything. From her window,
my poor mother saw thee alight, and her eye kindled
as she watched thee. All the evening she was strangely
agitated, as they had not known her for years. By-
and-by, on the bridge, she again watched thee stealth-
ily; but could not repress a scream when the mantle
fell over the parapet-it looked (Hanne says) from the
window like a body falling into the water! Her ex-


158
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
citement increased as the night advanced; yet it
seemed as though she doubted, and would test thy
identity before approaching thee openly. Instead of
going to Louise's room, as usual, every evening, she
waited till night was fully come, when she stole up
(followed by Hanne), and stood behind the arras,
watching thee until thou wert asleep. Then she came
forth, and touched thy clothes--the clothes that had
been Louise's—and approached the bed softly, and
stood looking tenderly upon thee. It was strange,
Hanne says, to see the working of her face, and hear
her muttered words, until, bending lower and lower,
she touched thee with her lips, and whispered
Louise!'
“This was the crisis. ... How it might have
ended, God knows! but for thy natural terror, my poor
child, which made thee spring from the bed and rush
screaming towards the window.
“No doubt, in the horror of the moment, it seemed
to her, poor soul! that the old tragedy was being re-
enacted—the scene whereon her mind had dwelt for
twenty years rose up before her, and the mainspring
of life, long worn, suddenly snapped. With a great
cry, she fell back upon the bed, and died, almost in-
stantaneously, I believe. ...
“Peace be with her! God's decrees are wise, and
in denying our prayers, He sometimes grants to us a
yet better thing for our consolation,” said the young
graf in conclusion, as he pressed his wife to his heart.


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.


ཁས་
–
–བྱཡ=
ཟ


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
rank, became; an equal at that
“It was in the year 1793,” said my uncle, “that
I made acquaintance of William Dunblane, afterwards
Lord Dunblane, at the University of St. Andrews. His
bachelor uncle, the then lord, was not a very rich man,
and he was a stingy one. William's father, too, was
still alive, so that the young man was rather straitened
as to money. We were just of an age, and my father
was very liberal to me. Our relative positions, there-
fore, were more equal at that time than they after-
wards became; and, in spite of the great difference of
rank, Dunblane singled me out to be his favourite
companion. I cannot say why this was, unless it may
have been that I was a more patient listener than
many other young fellows, to his long stories about
his ancestry, and that while I always endeavoured to
tell him the truth, I was more indulgent to this weak-
ness of family pride than the rest were. They used
to laugh at him at first; but that, he soon showed
them, he would never stand. He was very strong,
and very passionate; and his face at such moments
became as that of one possessed with a devil.”
It was in these words that my uncle, Mr. Carthews,
senior partner in the firm of Carthews and Bontor, of
Aberdeen and Calcutta, used generally to begin the
Morals and Mysteries,
1


- 162
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
following strange narrative. Like many Scotchmen of
his day, he had a somewhat inordinate reverence for
rank; but it was balanced, in his case, by a business-
like appreciation of the value of money. What is of
more import, however, to the matter in hand, was his
strict and fearless adherence to truth, joined to an ex-
tremely kind nature. These characteristics were con-
spicuous in every transaction of a long life. He was
a shrewd, upright man, universally respected in the
city where he passed the best part of his life: “stiff in
opinions,” occasionally prolix, but of a sound, clear
judgment, and unimpeached honesty. In the narrative,
therefore, which I shall try to give, as far as possible,
in my uncle's own words, there is, I am confident,
no wilful misrepresentation, no jot nor tittle added to
the facts, as he believed them to be. And his opinion
of those facts, I take it, was formed very deliberately.
I heard him tell the story repeatedly, yet it never
varied in the smallest particular; and I know it in-
variably impressed his hearers with a sense of horrible
reality. Imagine that the ladies have left the room;
three or four men are seated round the polished ma-
hogany; my uncle, a white-haired, keen-eyed man of
seventy, bids us draw our chairs nearer the fire, and,
passing round a magnum of his fine old port, he thus
continues the story, of which I have given the opening
words, with that incisive Scotch accent, and in that
measured phrase, which seems to weigh each word in
the balance, and reject it if found wanting.
Dunblane was an unpopular man. Men could not
make him out. His manner was often disagreeable,
and he was subject to moody fits, when he would


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
163
acto fresh branca hot Roption was to
man, ubversive sports of luist, and usba at its het
speak to no one. He was capable of kind and
generous acts, but implacable in his dislikes; and he
never forgot an injury. I could manage him better
than any one, and he would generally stand the truth
from me; but his rage was a terrible thing to witness.
I have never seen anything like it. Men used to say,
“Keep clear of Dunblane when the fit is on him; he
will stick at nothing.”
The French Revolution was then at its height.
Dunblane was a hot Royalist, and used to be thrown
into fresh transports of fury with the news of every
act subversive of the king's authority. One night a
man, in my room, who professed Republican senti-
ments, defended the conduct of the Assembly in im-
prisoning the royal family. Dunblane got up and
flung a bottle at his head. There was a fine row, and
it was arranged that the two men must fight the next
morning. I secretly gave notice to the authorities,
however, who interfered, and some sort of peace was
patched up; but Dunblane never spoke to his an-
tagonist again as long as he was in the university. I
mention this, as I happen to recal the circumstance,
just to give you an idea of the man's violence, and of
the depth of his resentment.
I can remember, too, a conversation we had one
day about marriage. He had been complaining of his
poverty, but said that, nevertheless, he meant to marry
early.
“You see, it is necessary that I should have an
heir, lest the direct line become extinct. There is no
one, after me.”
“Do nothing in a hurry," I replied. “It would be
a great misfortune, no doubt, that the title and estates


164
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
should pass away to another branch of the family, but
it would be a still greater one to have your whole life
embittered by an unhappy marriage. You are young;
you have life before you. Be quite sure it is for your
happiness, ere you take such a step as this.”
His reply was very characteristic.
“Oh," he said, “it is all very well for you to talk,
who have plenty of money, and have no great name
as an inheritance. We trace back our descent for six
hundred years; it is a duty we owe to the country, to
keep up the family. If I was fortunate enough to be
in your position, I should please myself. But, as it is,
everything else is of secondary importance. My lord
is always telling me so, and I suppose he is right. I
must marry a woman with money, and I must have an
heir. You don't know," he added, with the black
look gathering on his brow, “how essential this is.”
I assured him that I fully recognised the obligations
which a great name and title entail, but that I could
not think that to contract a hasty, ill-considered mar-
riage could ever answer in the long run.
“Ah!” he said. “Then you have never heard the
old prophecy in the family:
When five Dunblanes have had no son,
Then shall the line direct be run.
My uncle is the fourth lord who has had no son. If
he should survive my father, and that I should succeed
him, I shall be the fifth. You see how necessary it is
I should marry early.”
“On account of a foolish distich!” I replied. His
superstition almost amounted to an insanity; and I
never would give in to it, though I confess that I have


166
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
uncle, whom he disliked and feared, would not die.
The uncle, I am told, proposed this marriage to him,
and though Dunblane was indifferent-or more than
indifferent—to the lady, he consented to marry her.
This was the fatal error which nothing could retrieve.
It was the first step down-hill, after which the descent
became more and more rapid every year.
In 1803 Lord Dunblane did, at last, die, and a
few months later, my own father's death recalled me
to Aberdeen, where I took his place as head of the
house. One day, about a year after my return, George
Pilson (you remember Pilson and Pilson, the attorneys?
very respectable firm,) was in my office, and chanced
to speak of Dunblane Castle, where he had lately been.
His father, I found out, was Lord Dunblane's man of
business; and I questioned George as to his lordship's
present condition and mode of life. His answer was
far from satisfactory.
“His lordship’s strangeness, and his violent ebul-
litions of temper have increased very much upon him
of late,” he said. “It is supposed that this is greatly
owing to the fact that after nearly eight years of mar-
riage there is no heir to the title. Then his wife is a
person singularly unsuited to him in all ways. Her
ladyship is handsome, but wanting in common-sense,
garrulous in the extreme, laughing immoderately in
and out of season, and if I may be allowed to express
an opinion on such a point, deficient in the dignity
befitting her station. These things are perpetual blisters,
I fancy, to his lordship. Her ladyship, in a word, is
what may be called a 'provoking woman,' and as his
lordship is not the most patient of men you may
guess the consequences.”


168
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“Why," I exclaimed, “this is the second prophecy
that has been made about the Dunblanes! One pays
dearly for belonging to these great families if one is
to be subject to all these superstitions. Do you know
if the room is ever opened?”.
“Yes, I believe so, once a year; when, if possible,
the three who are in possession of the secret meet
here. My father never speaks on the subject, of course,
nor does Lord Dunblane."
I asked who the heir-at-law was. He told me they
had had difficulty in finding him out. He was in
some office in London, and in very poor circumstances,
being descended from a younger branch of the Dun-
blanes, who had gone to settle in England in the be-
ginning of the last century.
After some further conversation, Pilson took his.
leave, and I thought very little more about Lord Dun-
blane and his affairs, having concerns of my own
which fully occupied my thoughts at that time.
Some weeks later I received, to my surprise, a let-
ter from Lord Dunblane, saying that he had just heard
from his man of business, Mr. Pilson, that I was re-
turned from India, and living in Aberdeen; and that
it would give him great pleasure to see me again, if I
would pay him a visit to Dunblane Castle. He named
a day when he was expecting a party; but added that
if this time was not convenient to me, I could write
myself, and propose some later date. It would have
been ungracious to have refused such an invitation.
Indeed, I was fully sensible of the honour, though I
anticipated but little pleasure from this visit, under the
present circumstances. A press of business retained


170
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
but there was no smile, as he shook my hand. The
light had died out of the face, never to be re-kindled.
He told me I should have but a dull visit, he feared.
“Had you come six weeks ago when I wanted you,
you would have met a country gathering: not that I
like that sort of thing: I hate it; but you and I were
always very different, Carthews. Now you will find no
one; and I have a good deal of business with Mr.
Pilson, so that I must leave Lady Dunblane to enter-
tain you.” I assured him that I should be perfectly
happy, exploring the beauties of the park and adjoining
forest, and begged him not to consider me for a
moment. After that he led me up-stairs to the drawing-
room, where Lady Dunblane was seated alone.
The first impression produced on every one by her
ladyship's beauty could not but be favourable. She
was a brunette; tall, with lively eyes and brilliant teeth,
which she showed a great deal when she laughed, and
dark brown hair, cut short and dishevelled in loose
waves over her head. Upon this occasion, however, I
saw nothing but a curl or two; for she wore a species
of helmet, much affected, as I afterwards learnt, by
women of condition, in that day, whose husbands
commanded regiments of yeomanry, as did Lord Dun-
blane. Being the first head-gear of the kind which I :
had seen, its singularity struck me; but her ladyship
carried this curious erection of buckram, fur,' and
tinsel, with a grace which forbade a thought of ridicule.
Her beautiful figure was set off by a spencer of scarlet
cloth, and a tight-fitting skirt of some white material
which appeared to have been damped, it clung so close
to her person. It was evident that her ladyship was
not neglectful of her appearance, nor unmindful of


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
171
the impression she made upon even a humble individual
like myself. She came forward and greeted me with
infinite suavity, saying:
“It is amiable of you, Mr. Carthews, to come and
take pity on our solitude. We see no one from one
week's end to another in this castle of Otranto (you
have read Mr. Walpole's romance?), where all is so
gloomy and mysterious that, as I tell my lord, I am
really alarmed sometimes at the sound of my own
voice!”
“I wish that occurred rather oftener," muttered his
lordship. She continued, laughing, “Our only society
are the ghosts. You don't mind them, I hope? They
are all of the oldest families, for we are mighty select
here, you must know. If they visit you, you must
esteem it a great honour, Mr. Carthews.”
I replied in the same strain, that I felt myself to
be wholly unworthy of that honour; but that, if they
came, I would try and receive them with becoming
courtesy.
"Like my parrot,” cried her ladyship, laughing.
“He and my spaniel sleep in my room; and sometimes,
in the dead of night, he calls out, “Pray, come in, and
take a chair!' which startles me from my sleep, and
frightens me out of my senses!”.
His lordship said something about her having no
senses to be frightened out of, I believe, and some-
thing about “brutes.” She caught up the word, with
a laugh.
“Brutes? Oh, yes; one gets accustomed to the
society of brutes of any sort, when one has nothing
else all day.”
a taus


172
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Such amenities passed between the two were of
constant occurrence, I suppose, for they produced little
effect beyond deepening the scowl on his lordship's
face. As to me, I felt very uncomfortable, and the
charm of Lady Dunblane's beauty had already melted
away. Though not a stupid woman, I saw that she
was a very foolish one. How she dared to aggravate
a man of such a temperament as her husband's amazed
me. It was just like a child handling fire. She rattled
away and laughed all that evening with little inter-
mission. Lord Dunblane scarcely opened his lips.
Over the wine Pilson and I talked; but his lordship
stared moodily at the fire, and said nothing. I began
to think I had made a mistake in coming all the way
from Aberdeen for this. To play the part of chorus
to a matrimonial duet of the most discordant character
was not pleasant; and if my former friend was so self-
absorbed as to be unable to speak to me, the sooner
I left him the better. I suppose something of this
sort struck him, for he said, as he wished me good
night, “You must not mind my silence and absence
of mind, Carthews. I am very glad to see you here;
but my present position gives me many anxieties. I
am irritated and worried until, by heaven! I feel at
times as if I should go mad."
Well, I went to bed, and slept soundly. I never
was an imaginative man, you see, or the room I was
in might have conjured up some of those spiritual
visitants her ladyship had joked about, evidently to her
lord's annoyance. Not that it was any worse than the
other rooms in the castle. I take it they were all oak-
panelled, with hideous family portraits grinning from
the wall upon the occupants of the vast draperied beds,


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
173
in one of which I slept without waking, until the
servant brought in my hot water for shaving. It was
a bright morning, and at breakfast I found my host in
better spirits than he had seemed the previous evening.
I could not help speculating whether this could be in
consequence of Lady Dunblane's absence. She never
came down to breakfast, I found. Her maid, a most
formidable-looking female, with red hair, and the
muscles of a gillie, came in, I remember, with a tray,
and took her ladyship's chocolate up to her. This
person, I was afterwards told, had been born on the
estate, and was devoted to Dunblane. She had been
ill spoken of as a girl; but Dunblane's mother had
befriended and made this Elspie her body servant,
and Dunblane had insisted, when he married, on her
filling the same office to his wife, much to that lady's
annoyance, who wished for a modish waiting-woman
from Edinburgh or London. So much for this ill-
favoured specimen of her sex, to whom I never spoke
in my life, but who impressed me very unfavourably
whenever I saw her. After breakfast his lordship took
me over the castle, and gave me all the historical associa-
tions connected with it, showing me, with great pride,
the bed in which Queen Mary had slept; a yew tree,
said to have been planted by Robert Bruce; and the
suit of armour borne by Dunblane of Dunblane at the
battle of Bannockburn. He dilated on the glories of
his house with more animation than I had yet observed:
then suddenly the cloud came over him. “And to
think,” he said, “that all this must pass into another
line-into hands that have been debased by trade"
(which was not polite to me; but he entirely forgot my
presence for the moment, I am sure); "to think that


174
- MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
people who have hardly a drop of old blood in their
veins, who have intermarried for generations with Smiths
and Browns, and plebeian names of that kind, should
come to inherit this, which they have no feeling for,
no pride in—by G-d, it is enough to wring one's
heart!”
And this was the way he went on, from time to
time, bursting out in imprecations on his fate in having
no heir, and upon the evil star which had risen over
his house. It was in vain that I pointed out that he
was young still, and in good health, and must not
abandon hope. He shook his head gloomily. “The
prophecy is against me: it is no use.
When five Dunblanes have had no son,
Then shall the line direct be run.'
It is clear enough, is it not? I am doomed. I should
have known it. When did such a prophecy ever come
wrong? What a cursed fool I was to marry!”
So I thought; to marry, that is to say, as he had
done; but I abstained from saying so. By-and-by his
lordship took Mr. Pilson to his study, where they were
engaged for some hours over business; and I was left
alone to ramble about the castle, inside and out, as I
would.
Remembering the story I had heard of a secret
room, I counted all the windows outside, and then,
returning to the castle, traversed every passage, mounted
every turret, and opened every door I could, to see if
the number of windows corresponded. With the help
of the serving man whom I met on the stairs, and who
knew all the rooms in the castle, he said, I accounted
for each window satisfactorily. And after two hours'


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
175
diligent endeavour to solve this mystery, I arrived at
the conclusion that there could be no room-it was all
humbug. I was at a time of life, you see, when over-
confidence in one's own powers is apt to lead one to
very false conclusions.
At luncheon Lady Dunblane appeared, and an in-
cident, which left a painful impression on my mind,
took place on that occasion. Dunblane had a peculiar
aversion to her ladyship's spaniel. Strict orders were
given that he was to be confined to her ladyship's own
suite of rooms, and on no account to be allowed beyond
them. But some door had inadvertently been left open,
and, while we were at luncheon, the spaniel ran bark-
ing into the room, round and round the table, and
finally straight between his lordship's legs, who was at
that moment smarting under one of his wife's sallies.
He roared out in a voice of thunder:
“How often have I told you, ma'am, to keep that
infernal little beast in your own room?” and he kicked
out so viciously, that he sent the poor animal spinning
along the oak floor to the further end of the room,
where he lay howling. His mistress ran up, and seized
him in her arms; the creature's leg was broken. Her
ladyship shrieked, and stamped, and my lord swore;
and, thoroughly sickened with the whole scene, I rose
and left the room. Pilson joined me in the hall.
“What is to be the end of all this?” I said to
him.
His answer was, “I am afraid to think.”
“Lord Dunblane," I said, “seems to me to be
losing all self-restraint. If he goes on thus, what will
become of him?”


176
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Pilson looked round him, then leaned forward and
whispered, “He will end his days in a madhouse.”
Dunblane shut himself into his room for the rest of
the afternoon. By-and-by her ladyship drove out in
her coach and four, and carried her dog in her arms
to a veterinary surgeon some miles off. At dinner
she appeared in as brilliant spirits as ever. How much
of this was real I cannot say; nor, supposing her hila-
rity to be assumed, whether it was done for the pur-
pose of aggravating her lord. It certainly succeeded,
if so. His moroseness was enlivened by several fero-
cious sallies. The conversation turned upon France,
I remember, and on the probabilities of the First Con-
sul's being made emperor, a subject that engrossed all
minds just then.
“How I admire that little man!” exclaimed her
ladyship. “How much greater to found a dynasty, as
he is doing, than to inherit all the crowns in Europe!
I begin to wish I was a Frenchwoman!”
“I begin to wish you were!” cried my lord. “There
is not another British peeress who would disgrace her-
self by uttering such a sentiment.”
She laughed aloud, and replied, “Oh! because they
are less frank than I am. All women admire Le Petit
Caporal in their hearts. What fun it will be if he
comes over here, and conquers us! It will be much
nicer being the subjects of a great hero, instead of the
subjects of a mad old king, who—–”.
“Hold your tongue, ma'am!” shouted Dunblane,
bringing his fist down upon the table with a force
which made the glasses clatter: "or, if you will talk your
low treasonous rubbish, go and talk it in the kitchen.
You shall not talk it here!”


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
177
She only laughed in reply. She certainly seemed
to take a delight in provoking him; and, as she knew
his sensitive points, this was not difficult. I found an
opportunity, over a game of cribbage, later in the
evening, of asking her why she acted thus. No doubt
this was somewhat of a liberty, considering our short
acquaintance; but I felt I could not remain longer in
the house without trying to amend matters.
“Oh!” she said, “anything for a little excitement
in this horribly monotonous life. I should die of ennui
in if it wasn't for the tiffs with my lord.”
I told her she did not know what harm she was
doing; and I asked if she never felt afraid of irritating
a man so passionate as his lordship.
“Bless you, no," was her reply. “It is he who is
afraid, really, of me-of my tongue, you see. Ha,"
ha! No one ever answered him before; his mother,
his servants, his friends,—why,—you yourself, I dare-
say, you never contradict him? Now, I always do,
and I always say just what I like. He hates me, of
course, but he is afraid of me, Mr. Carthews. Ha,
ha, ha!”
“Good heavens! I thought to myself, and these
two people are tied to each other for life. Both have
a fair chance of living for the next forty years. What
a prospect!” Even before we separated for the night
she had stung him with another of her irritating
speeches. There had been some talk of the steward's
boy, who had tumbled from a tree, and had broken
his leg. ... “Children are a horrid bore,” said Lady
Dunblane. “Thank Heaven, I have no brat to be
tumbling from trees, and worrying one's life out.” .
I dare say she did not mean it. It is hardly pos-
Morals and Mysteries.
12


· THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
179
the secret of this famous room, are you? Why, it is
as bad as being made a freemason! ..... Can you
keep a secret, Mr. Dunblane? because, if not, un-
told misfortunes are to befal us.” And the laugh with
which she concluded sounded to me like the screech of
an owl foreboding evil. Lord Dunblane looked as if.
he could have stabbed her, but he only muttered an
oath under his breath, and clenched his fist-a move-
ment which no one saw but myself. Every incident
of that evening is fresh in my recollection. I remem-
ber how she returned again and again to that subject,
as though it had a fatal fascination for her, but more
likely, I fear, because she saw that her husband writhed
under it. She ridiculed the prophecy, and laughed at
all those superstitions, which his lordship cherished as
his religion. It was distressing to watch him the while.
He was far quieter than usual, scarcely spoke, but sat,
his arms crossed, staring at the fire, with eyes which
burnt, themselves, like coals, and when he swore, which
he did once or twice, it was in a suppressed voice,
contrasting strangely with his usual violence. But there
was a vibration in the tone which showed how strongly
he was stirred. At last, it was late in the evening,
and we were sitting round her ladyship's tea-table,
when she committed her crowning act of folly by
offering to lay a wager with any one that she would
find out the secret room herself. I need hardly say
no one accepted the challenge. But she was not to
be discouraged. She had seen her husband's face go
white, and the look which he had shot at her gave a
zest to her audacious scheme. She repeated her de-
claration that she would penetrate this wonderful mys-
tery. Such things were well enough to frighten old
12*


180
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
women with in the middle ages, but how any one
could believe in predictions and other rubbish of this
kind in the present day passed her comprehension.
For her part she had no faith in anything of the kind,
and to prove what folly it was, she should leave no
stone unturned to discover this room about which such
a fuss was made: after which the secret, she declared,
should remain one no longer. I tried to stop her;
Pilson tried to stop her: it was all no use. She had
got the bit between her teeth, so to speak, and away
she went, partly to show off, and partly out of spite,
regardless what she said, provided it produced an
effect and inflamed my lord yet more. She pictured,
laughingly, the cob-webbed condition of the room, and
how she would turn in the housemaid with broom and
duster; after which she would give an evening party
there, and invite all the ghosts to come, if they choose
-"indeed the black gentleman himself!” .... Poor
woman, she little knew what she was invoking. No
one laughed. Even the heir, who, being shy, always
smiled when required, looked too stupefied to comply
with the demand on this occasion. To glance at Lord
Dunblane's face was enough to check any inclination
to hilarity. I have never forgotten its expression. I
had witnessed his ungovernable passion scores of times,
prompting him to sudden acts of violence. But now,
there was a certain admixture of fear (she had divined
rightly, I saw, when she said he was afraid of her)
with the rage which trembled through his whole frame,
the like of which I have never beheld but once since
in my life. I saw a beast-tamer enter the hyenas' den
at the show last year. The aspect of their malignant
fury cowed by terror, but watching for its opportunity


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
181
to burst forth, the savage hissing wherewith they re-
ceived the lash and showed their fangs, recalled to me
Dunblane's demeanour as he listened to his wife.....
At last, I could stand it no longer, and made up my
mind to tell a lie.
“Lady Dunblane,” I said, “like most Scotchmen,
I am a trifle superstitious. This is my last night under
your hospitable roof, and I am sure you would not
willingly disturb its rest. You are so happily con-
stituted as to be above fear of any kind. Others are
weaker. Let me earnestly advise you to leave all the
superstitions connected with Dunblane Castle alone.
Believe me, 'there are more things in heaven and earth
than are dreamt of in your ladyship's philosophy.'”.
She burst out a-laughing, as usual. “Oh, Mr.
Carthews, I am ashamed of you. But I see what it is.
You are afraid, not of the ghosts and the predictions,
but of my lord. Well, I shall see you in May, when
I pass through Aberdeen on my way south, and I shall
tell you all about it then; for, depend upon it, I shall
have found out the secret by that time.” .
And so, in the insolence of youth and high spirits
and an indomitable will, she bade me good-night, poor
woman, and I never saw her again.
Dunblane had left the room. Whether it was pre-
arranged that Pilson and the young heir were to join
him in his study, and that later in the night the door
of the secret room should be unclosed, I know not. I
am inclined, from one or two circumstances, to think
that it was so; but, again, there are other things
which have made me doubt it. At all events, when
we three bade each other good-night, neither Pilson
nor young Dunblane dropped anything which should


182
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
lead me to suppose they were not going straight to
their own rooms. They were not to leave the castle
till the day after me. It was quite possible, there-
fore, that the chamber was to be unlocked after my
departure.
I slept soundly during the first part of the night.
But about three o'clock I woke suddenly--I might
almost say, I started from my sleep. I had not been
dreaming; I was not conscious of having heard any
noise; but my sleep, somehow or other, was broken
suddenly, and I sat up in my bed with a sense of un-
defined alarm. I listened: all was still; the soughing
of the wind among the Scotch firs below the rampart
wall was the only thing I heard. But, feeling restless,
I jumped out of bed, went to the window and opened
it. There was no moon, but it was a light night. I
could distinguish the ivy on the wall beneath; the
little door in the angle of the turret opposite, and the
dusky forms of the owls that flew past the window.
Almost immediately beneath it was a curious old well
said to be of wonderful depth, but long since unused.
If one dropped a stone in there an interval which
seemed like half a minute elapsed before a faint splash
told that it had reached the bottom.
I had been at the window a few minutes when the
door in the turret opposite opened, with a slight grat-
ing sound which attracted my attention. A figure
glided forth, and ran swiftly towards the well. I dis-
tinguished that it was a woman by the long drapery,
and as she came under the window I could just make
out that she carried some sort of vessel in her hand.
Whatever it was she threw it in, and waited, leaning
over the side, until she caught the distant thud of the


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
183
object as it met the water. Then she returned rather
more leisurely than she had come, the door was shut,
and, though I waited at the window a full hour, I saw
and heard no more.
I do not know that at any other place, at any
other time, this circumstance would have aroused my
curiosity. As it was, I could not get to sleep again
for thinking of it, and speculating what could have
been the motive that induced any female of the establish-
ment to rise in the dead of night in order to cast
something into the well.
I had to be stirring very early, and I was at my
solitary breakfast when Lord Dunblane entered. He
looked ghastly, so much so, that I could not help ask-
ing if he was ill. He turned fiercely round upon me,
demanding why I asked.
“Because you look as if you had not slept,” I
said.
“And you? pray how did you sleep?” he inquired,
knitting his brows. “You were not disturbed? You
had no nightmare after Lady Dunblane's conversation
last night?”
I had resolved to say nothing of what I had seen,
and replied that I had rested pretty well. I was then
proceeding to express my thanks to him for his hospi-
tality, when he interrupted me. “If you wish to show
yourself a friend, say as little as possible about your
visit here to any one. I am going abroad at once. I
have made up my mind that Lady Dunblane can live
here no longer. You have heard enough to know how
she hates the place--and it disagrees with her, more-
over. She has had several epileptic attacks—a severe


184
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
one this very night; it is evident that the climate does
not suit her, and I am recommended to take her to
Italy. My lady and I can never agree here. She
does all she can to goad me to madness—and per-
haps she has succeeded: who can say? People will
gossip, Carthews, when we are gone. Prove yourself
a friend, and say nothing about our quarrels while you
have been here."
I was a good deal surprised at the tenor of this
speech, but thought it reasonable upon the whole.
There was something in his eye, nevertheless, which
disquieted me. Coupling it with Pilson's words, two
days previously, and with my own observations, I could
not avoid the conviction that the fate to which he
himself had just now alluded was imminent. It might
be warded off, perhaps, by change of scene, and the
removal of the causes of irritation; but it was impos-
sible to look at him steadily and to doubt that in-
cipient insanity was there. I begged him to act upon
his determination of going abroad without loss of time;
and then, shaking his hand, I stepped into the chaise,
and drove off.
Well, I returned to Aberdeen; and some days after
this Pilson called on me. I asked what news he had
of Lord and Lady Dunblane.
“They are gone abroad. I suppose it is the best
thing he could do. Her Ladyship had a succession of
such severe fits that she was unable to leave her room,
or to see any one but her maid after you left. I did
see her once at the window, and her look quite alarmed
me. His lordship was much calmer, but he scarcely
spoke. His wife's sudden prostration, after all their
'


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
185
violent bickerings, affected him a good deal. He is in
a bad way, I think, Carthews. I mean that I am
very much afraid”—and he pointed significantly to
his head.
I told him that I fully shared his apprehensions,
and then asked him more particularly to describe the
change in Lady Dunblane's appearance.
“The morning I left I was walking round the
rampart when I heard one of the windows rattle. I
looked up, and there was Lady Dunblane, her head
pressed against the panes, and with such a terrible ex-
pression of agony in her face as I shall never forget.
She kept opening her mouth and making the most
hideous grimaces at me, so that it was clear that she
was not quite in her right senses at the moment. She
disappeared suddenly.”
“Did you ever see any indication of a tendency
to such a malady in her ladyship?” I asked.
“No. I cannot say I ever did,” he replied.
“Was no doctor sent for?”.
“Yes, the country apothecary came once.”
“And what did he say? Did you speak to him?"
“Yes. I saw him in the hall as he was stepping
into his buggy. I asked how he found her ladyship.
He said she was much prostrated by the violence of
the attack, but he seemed a puzzle-headed fellow. No
doubt he was awed by the honour of being sent for to
the castle; for I could not get much out of him. He
seemed dazed; but muttered something about change
being good for her ladyship.”
“And who attended her during these attacks?” I
inquired.
18 godazed; bucould


186
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“No one but his lordship and the maid Elspie.
My lord told me that his wife was very violent; but
he would not suffer any of the men to be sent for, to
hold her. He and Elspie, who is a very powerful
woman, managed her between them. He said that he
had found it necessary to tie her hands. I do not
envy him his journey. They left in the family coach
an hour after our departure, and were to travel night
and day to Leith, - where they took ship for Holland."
He then went on to say that the young heir-at-law
had returned to London much depressed with his visit,
and that the necessary formalities having now been
gone through (which I understand to mean that the
secret of the haunted room had been duly communi-
cated to him), Mr. Dunblane would in all probability
never see the castle again during my lord's lifetime.
I seldom saw Pilson for some time after this con-
versation; when I did, he told me what little he knew
of the Dunblanes; but months often elapsed without
his having any direct communication with my lord,
and even then the letters he received were mere bald
statements and inquiries, exclusively upon matters of
business. These, however, were sufficient to show that
his mind had not given way; they were lucid and per-
spicuous in every detail. There was never any men-
tion of her ladyship, for the obvious reason, as it
transpired after a while, that she and my lord were
separated. He was travelling now in Italy, now in
Hungary, now in the East, while she remained—no
one knew exactly where—in Switzerland. At the end
of the third year he returned to Dunblane, and shut
himself up there, refusing to see any of the neighbours
who called. In reply to every inquiry for her ladyship


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
187
(more especially those which a distant cousin, her only
relation, made about this time), he stated that her lady-
ship's health obliged her to remain on the Continent;
her mind had been much weakened by continued
epileptic attacks, and she was unequal to correspond-
ence. He stated, further, that she was under excellent
medical care, and that though, by reason of the ex-
citement under which she sometimes laboured, it was
not deemed advisable that he should visit her often,
he made a point of doing so once a year. This state-
ment seems to have been considered satisfactory. Lady
Dunblane's friends—and she had very few—were not
suspicious, and the world at large troubled itself but
little with the domestic concerns of a couple who had
lived in isolated grandeur, with rare exceptions, since
his lordship's accession to the title. Pilson went twice
to the castle, during that year, and, as far as I know,
he was the only guest. He gave a gloomy picture of
the solitary man shut up in that big place. We both
avoided all mention of her ladyship's name; but I
now know that he was no easier than I was on that
head.
It was towards the close of 1808 that he called on
me one morning, at an unusually early hour. His
face, his whole manner, betokened that my grave, quiet
friend, was unusually perturbed. He looked round the
room—this very room were we are sitting-drew his
chair close to mine, and said in a whisper:
“Carthews, I have come to you in a very distressing
emergency. I hardly know whether I am justified in
taking this step, but I do know that I can depend on
you, and you may materially help me in a most pain-
ful and difficult situation,"


188
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Without much ado, he then proceeded to say that a
young Frenchman, who gave his name as Jean Marcel,
had called upon him the previous night, stating that
he had lately come from Geneva, where he was in a
wine merchant's office, and had been sent on business
to Aberdeen. He was the bearer of a small crumpled
note, addressed in nearly illegible characters, to M.
Pilson, Attorney, Aberdeen. He stated that he had
come by it thus. Shortly before leaving Geneva, it had
been his duty to inspect the "recolte” of various vine-
yards: among them one belonging to the Château
d'Osman some miles distant. The house itself was
tenanted by an English lady, who was said to be mad
or imbecile. At all events she was never heard to
speak, and was closely watched by her attendants night
and day. She walked on a terrace overlooking the
vineyard, but it was never out of sight of a gaunt
woman, who was, no doubt, her keeper. The intendant
of the estate, who told Jean Marcel these particulars,
walked through the vineyard with him, when they saw
the unhappy lady on the terrace above. Her appearance
had much interested Marcel. He described her as a
handsome woman, but with a fixed, woe-begone ex-
pression of face, and wearing a black cloak, which
entirely concealed her person. In the course of Marcel's
inspection, they stood for some time just under the
terrace wall, and he spoke to the intendant of his ap-
proaching voyage to Aberdeen. There was no doubt
but that he was overheard by the lady on the terrace.
She disappeared, but a quarter of an hour later, while
they were still near the wall, the two men heard the
sound of a running footstep upon the terrace, followed
by a plaintive moaning, like that of a wounded bird,


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
189
They looked up, and there she stood, glancing round
with an expression of terror to see if she was followed,
and of earnest supplication towards the two men
beneath. She opened her mouth wide-a clear proof,
the intendant seemed to think, of the poor creature's
imbecility—then raised both arms up high, when, to
his horror, he perceived that she had lost her right
"hand. With her left, she then suddenly dropped over
the wall a paper with a stone inside, and had scarcely
done this, when her gaunt attendant appeared upon
the terrace. The poor lady's whole demeanour changed;
the old fixed look returned, and she began once more,
with slow uncertain steps, to pace the terrace. To
gratify her, Marcel picked up the paper, and pocketed
it, as he walked away. As soon as he was out of sight
he examined it.
Outside was scrawled, “Pour l'amour de Dieu re-
mettez cette lettre à son addresse.” Within was the
note addressed to Pilson. The intendant laughed at
the affair, and tried to persuade Marcel to tear up the
note. “All mad people imagine themselves to be sane,
and this one no doubt wants to persuade her friends
that she is unjustly confined; but you need only look
at her to see that she is a lunatic."
Marcel admitted the probability of this, but he could
not bring himself to destroy the paper. Whether she
was mad or not, the condition of this maimed unhappy
creature had aroused his compassion so deeply, that he
declared the first thing he would do on arriving at
Aberdeen would be to find out the person to whom
this note was addressed. And he had done so.
When he had finished this strange narrative, Pilson
laid before me a scrap of paper-evidently the blank


igo
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
page torn out of the end of a book-on which was
scrawled:
“Help! for God's sake, help! before they kill me.
Oh, save me, Mr. Pilson, save me, as you hope to be
saved hereafter. E. DUNBLANE."
speak. If I co simply ndition, cannot
We looked at each other for some minutes without
speaking. At last Pilson said:
“If I consulted my own interest, I should remain
silent, or simply enclose these lines to his lordship.
Her ladyship’s condition, no doubt, justifies any steps
that have been taken. I cannot suspect my lord; and
if he discovers that I have interfered in his domestic
concerns, he will certainly take the management of his
affairs out of my hands. But, on the other hand, does
not humanity call for some investigation into this? I
could not die at peace, remembering that I had turned
a deaf ear to such a cry; but I am puzzled what to do,
Mr. Carthews. It has occurred to me that you may
have business connexions with Geneva, and might,
perhaps, make inquiries which would not compromise
you as they would me.”
In other words, Pilson was anxious to ease his con-
science at as little risk to himself as might be. I did
not blame him; my interest was too deeply stirred for
me not to follow up the inquiry with the keenest avidity.
But then, as Pilson had hinted, it is true that I had
nothing to lose. I promised him that I would write
that very day to a correspondent at Geneva, and desire
him to leave no stone unturned towards discovering
the truth.


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
IGI
I had to wait some weeks for the answer. The
commission was one the execution of which was beset
with difficulties. The village pasteur, the doctor, the
intendant of the vineyards, and all the neighbours were
applied to, but little additional information could be
gathered. At last the maire of the district was induced
to investigate the case, upon representations being
made to him that there existed suspicions as to the
treatment which the incarcerated lady—whether insane
or only imbecile—met with. After a vigorous resistance
they forced an entry into the château. The sight that
met them was heart-rending. The poor creature lay
dying upon her bed, and but for this intervention would
have been denied the last consolations of religion.
When the pasteur knelt down, however, and questioned
her, she only shook her head and moaned. Then,
with an effort, she opened her mouth wide, and, to
their horror, they perceived that she had no tongue.
They implored her to write down the name of the
perpetrator of this barbarous crime. But either she had
no strength, or else she was praying, poor soul, for
grace to forgive her persecutors, rather than for retri-
bution. She listened devoutly to the good pasteur's
prayers, and a glorious smile lighted up her tear-worn
eyes as the death-film gathered over them. So the un-
happy lady passed away. The woman Elspie was, of
course, seized, and subjected to a rigorous cross-ex-
amination. She declared that the lady who was just
dead had been thus mutilated by her husband one
night when goaded into a state of insane rage by his
wife's discovery of a secret, to which he attached a
superstitious importance, and which she threatened to
proclaim to all the world. In the struggle to defend


192
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
herself, her right wrist was also severed. The woman
maintained that her mistress had ever since been sub-
ject to violent fits of delirium, necessitating restraint.
This I do not believe; there is no proof of it whatever.
How far the rest of her story was true, it was impos-
sible to say, and will never now be known. There
were probabilities in favour of it; but, on the other
hand, might not this wretch herself have been the in-
strument? I did not forget that I had seen her (as I
have now no sort of doubt) on that fatal night stealing
out to throw something into the well. Of her compli-
city, at all events, there was ample proof, since, from
the first, she was the attendant upon her ill-fated mis-
tress. But the hand of justice, for all that, was
stayed.
The very same day that I received the letter con-
taining the foregoing particulars, and while Pilson and
I were deliberating what steps must now be taken, the
news of an appalling catastrophe, which had happened
thirty-six hours previously, reached us. Lord Dunblane
had been burnt in his bed, and the greater part of the
castle destroyed. How the fire originated was never
known, but it broke out from his lordship's room in
the dead of night, and three sides of the quadrangle
were burnt to the ground before the flames could be
got under. The lovers of coincidences tried afterwards
to make out that Lord Dunblane and his wife died the
same night; the superstitious even fabricated a theory
that, struck with remorse, upon learning, by second
sight, of his wife's death, he had himself fired the
castle, and resolutely perished in the flames. But all
this is purely imaginary. It is sufficiently remarkable
that these deaths should have been so near one an-


THE LEGEND OF DUNBLANE.
193
other; but Lady Dunblane died at least five days be-
fore her husband; and as to the supposition of his
lordship's self-destruction, the only ground for it was
his strange mental condition, which was no worse than
it had been for the last four years.
The woman Elspie was set at large by the authori-
ties at Geneva, no one coming forward as her accuser.
Mr. Pilson thought, and I believe he was right, that
now both Lord and Lady Dunblane were dead it was
better this terrible story should not be made public.
It oozed out, in the course of time, as almost all such
scandals do, but not through me. It was only when
I found that all sorts of false or garbled versions of the
circumstances were current in society that I ever men-
tioned what I knew, and that was years afterwards,
when, in default of heirs, the title of Dunblane had
become extinct.
Morals and Mysteries.
13


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
CHAPTER I.
“FAITES Vos jeux, Messieurs." The invitation,
familiar to most of us, in the dry, metallic voice of
the croupier, was uttered for the hundredth time that
night in the crowded gambling-room at Homburg.
A pretty woman of forty, dressed in the height
and depth of the last Paris fashion, an excellent
counterfeit of a Parisian altogether, even to her very
accent,- leant forward from the second rank of spec-
tators in which she stood, and threw, with her tightly-
gloved little hand, a napoleon on the table. The num-
ber on to which it rolled was as yet uncovered. The
next minute, however, a young man with long flaxen
moustaches, on the opposite side of the table, stretched
an arm over the heads of an old Russian Countess and
a distinguished ornament of the demi-monde, who
were seated before him, and placed a napoleon on this
same number. This occurred three times: each time
the luck was in favour of these two, and against nearly
every other player at the table. Had they been pro-
fessed gamblers they would not have insulted the
goddess who smiled on them by removing the gold
each time, and continuing to stake their pitiful twenty


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
199
I have been asking who they were. Friends of yours?
Have a care, Waldstein! The gracious lady-mother will
not hear of your casting an eye on any one but Clara,
and if she learns--
“Nonsense! Why, I don't even know who the girl
is! Never saw her till to-night; but I've scarcely taken
my eyes off her since I came into the room. She is
positively divine. Why are none of our German girls
ever like that? What countrywoman is she, I wonder?
You see the devil tempted me to come to the table,
just by way of having an excuse for standing opposite
her. I had one napoleon in my pocket, and now,-
look here! I'll hand it all over to you if you'll find out
for me who they are, General.”
“And how about my poor Clara?" said the General,
with a mock sigh, and a real chuckle. “It is too bad.
What would the gracious—" But here some one
came between them. The General moved on, and the
rest of his sentence was lost. The lady opposite,
meantime, emboldened by success, had left her win-
nings on the table several times running, and still her
luck did not desert her. Waldstein, with whom it was
now a point of honour to stake as much as his un-
known companion in good fortune, found himself, at
the end of ten minutes, with a large pile of gold be-
fore him. The demi-monde looked up with a bland
smile, and moved her chair a little to make room for
him and his money. Indeed, the attention of most
people round the table was directed to the extraordi-
nary run of luck which, with scarcely a check, had
been attending these two persons now for nearly half-
an-hour., People began to pile their money on what-
ever numbers the lady backed, for she always took the


200
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
initiative. And then, on a sudden, the goddess turned
away her face, and smiled on them no more. The
lady bore her reverses lightly; her embroidered porte-
monnaie seemed inexhaustible; but when she saw the
young man throw down his last napoleon, and put his
hands into his pockets with an air which said plainly,
“I have no more, and must e'en be content now to
watch you,” she drew back, and the great wave
of beards and bonnets round the table closed over
her.
A servant with cloaks stood at the garden-entrance
of the Kur-Saal.
“It's quite an adventure," laughed the elder lady,
as they walked home. “Such persistence on the young
man's part! I wonder who he is?”.
“I wish you wouldn't play again, mamma. I don't
like it, with all those people staring at one. I felt
ashamed to see that man opposite putting down his
money just wherever you did, and looking at you with
a smile whenever you won. It was very impertinent,
I think. I hate this place. I wish we were going
away. Why do you stay here?”
“Because--never mind why, my precious child.
We are only just come, and having taken our apart-
ment for a month, here we must stay.”
They entered one of the large, white, green-veran-
dahed houses on the Untere Promenade. And they
did not observe a figure which had followed them at a.
cautious distance, on the opposite side of the road,
and which now stopped under the shadow of a tree.
A few minutes later Rudolph von Waldstein was ex-
amining the strangers' list in the reading room:-


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
201
Bei Herrn Strauss. Untere Promenade.
Frau Fürstin Galitzin m. Gesellschafterin u. Gefolge,
a. Russland.
Herr Fuchs u. Gattin, a. Berlin.
Herr Graf von Furstenberg.m. Gemahlin u. Fam.,
a. Siegen.
Zwei Fräulein Le Gros, a. Brüssel.
Mrs. Willington, nebst Frl. Tochter u. Drscht., a.
New York, America.
Herr General Poplaws-Culloche, a. Schottland.
Frau Generalin Poplaws-Culloche, Fam. u. Beg.
The young man was puzzled. Which of these
names was most likely to fit the individuals who en-
grossed his thoughts at this moment? Could it be the
Russian princess and her companion? The two Misses
Le Gros from Brussels? The wife and daughter of
that Scotch general with a wonderful name, which he
owed to the compositor? They were not Germans, he
felt very sure; so that he put Fuchs and Furstenberg
aside. Of the other lodgers there remained the lady
and her daughter from New York. Which of all these
was it? General von Hanecke, who had been looking
through all the rooms for the young man, entered
opportunely.
“Good; here you are. And, now where is your
pile of napoleons? The ladies lodge ‘bei Strauss'--"
“I know it.”
“They are mother and daughter. They arrived the
day before yesterday from Paris. Their name is—~”
“Willington, aus New York, America,” struck in
Waldstein, promptly. “Just so. You see I have been
beforehand with you."


202
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
“All guess-work,” said the General, shaking his
head contemptuously, and pointing to the Fremden-
List. “At all events, you have not effected an intro-
duction, and I am promised one on the promenade
to-morrow morning. What is more, I could present
you, only I feel it would be treachery to that niece of
mine,—the good Clara, whom you are to marry.”
"Don't talk like that, General, even in joke. You
know very well what I told my mother. I have the
highest regard for Fräulein Clara, but—- In short, I
suppose I'm not a marrying man. As to this, you are
quite safe, as I leave Homburg to-morrow.”
“The gracious lady-mother calls you back? My
dear young friend, it is time you loosened the apron-
strings a little.”
“Loosened the apron-strings? What do you mean?
You know I do just as I please. I hate this sort of life
for long. I like nothing but the country; and so, for-
tunately, does my mother.”
“You may say that,- hasn't left the Schloss for the
last twenty years, I suppose, eh? Well, you will end
by marrying Clara, -see if you don't. A good girl, -
pity she's so plain,—with a good dowry. She's the
very thing for you; and the gracious—_."
“I tell you I'm not going to marry at all. But
about this introduction. I should just like to speak to
the girl if you really will introduce me. I needn't go
till the afternoon train.”
Of course he didn't go; and it was thus that
Margaret Willington and he became acquainted. In-
stead of going that day, he stayed on some weeks,-
as long as Mrs. Willington did,--at Homburg; and


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
203
Margaret now saw the place in quite different colours.
When the end of the month drew near, she was no-
thing loth to linger on by the week, as her mother
decided on doing. For Mrs. Willington felt more than
hopeful now; she felt very certain that her primary
object in coming to Homburg,-in coming to Europe
at all, indeed, -was near its accomplishment. She had
spared no pains in learning all that was to be learnt
about Rudolph von Waldstein, and all her information
had been satisfactory. Counts were as thick as black-
berries; but this one was of very old family, possessing
large estates on the borders of Switzerland and Ger-
many,—a fine château, a princely fortune. He was
young, good-looking, had been most strictly brought
up by the mother whose only son he was, and was a
model of every virtue under the sun. The combination
might have seemed an impossible one to a cynic; but
Mrs. Willington was not cynical. It is possible she
would have submitted to have a few of the virtues
docked off, provided the more substantial advantages
which the young Graf possessed, had remained. Rank,
wealth, fashion; these were the gods Mrs. Willington
adored. She had a tolerable fortune, but she had
been recklessly extravagant ever since her arrival, the
preceding autumn, in Europe. A season in Paris
had procured for her and her daughter many social
triumphs: invitations from royalty, the homage paid to
Miss Willington's beauty from a crowd of foreigners;
princes and dukes, not to speak of lesser fry. But of
solid, practical gain, there was none. It was very
essential to Mrs. Willington's purse and purpose that
her daughter should marry, - marry, that is to say,
according to her views; and Margaret had not had a
adore recklessly man, in Fed her dauthe homa oreignersi
Marinephas invite for their retroper since hepatishe had


204
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
single “good” proposal. She had, indeed, refused an
old French banker, whom her mother had given her
the option of marrying or not, as she felt inclined;
but this was before Mrs. Willington had seen much of
great Parisian society: her ideas expanded after that,
and she felt that the banker was not to be regretted.
No; a title, and an old title,—not a Brummagem one,
—this was now essential to her happiness. And, like
a ripe peach from the wall, without a single flaw to
disqualify him for the honour of being devoured, so
to speak, lo! Rudolph von Waldstein dropped into her
ready grasp.
I feel that the description of such a mother, such
antecedents, does not prepare one to sympathise much
with the daughter; and, unfortunately, the attachment
between mother and daughter was very strong. Mrs.
Willington's influence over Margaret was unbounded.
Had the latter been a less blindly-devoted and obedient
daughter, she would have been a better and a happier
woman. Her tender heart, her warm, clinging, pliable
nature were very different from her mother's; but a
number of the same foolish ideas, whose wide-spread
branches, so to speak, overshadowed the mother's
mind, had naturally shed their seed and taken root in
the mind of the daughter too. The belief that the
pursuit of pleasure is the main end of life had been
religiously instilled into her, and vanity had been so
sedulously ministered to, that it was impossible but
that these should produce some fruits. That life of
“unrest, which men miscall delight,” afforded her little
pleasure; yet she could hardly conceive of any other.
Margaret had a capacity for loving strongly, and her
mother was as yet the only thing she had had to love.


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
205
If she now fell into wise hands, and were removed
from that mother's influence, it was not too late for
the evils of her early training to be counteracted. But
like a delicate creeper, clasped with the growth of
years around a trellis, if she was now to be trans-
planted, and ever to grow firmly against another wall,
it was above all things necessary to unwind her tendrils
from their original support.
Six weeks after Waldstein's introduction to Margaret,
this is what he wrote to his mother:-
... “You wonder at my long silence, best of
mothers? You reproach me tacitly with my short let-
ters, I know. I have taken up my pen daily to write
to you; but the truth is, I could not write upon in-
different matters, and it was impossible to me to enter
fully upon the one subject which has been occupying
all my thoughts. I can do so now, however, for my
mind is definitively at rest. I have taken the most im-
portant step man can take in life; and as I am con-
fident that this step is for my own happiness, I hope
very earnestly that it may meet with your approval. I
am well aware that you would have wished to see and
to sanction the choice of any one whom I entertained
the thought of making my wife; but as this was im-
possible, and as I felt very certain of your cordial
approbation, when you see and know my darling
Margaret, I thought it better to spare you any anxiety
on the subject until my fate was happily fixed. I am,
indeed, a lucky man to have secured a pearl of so
great price, my mother. She is the sweetest, the most
angelic of creatures; and, believe me, her beauty is the


206
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
least of her attractions. She is American, and with
her mother, Mrs. Willington, has only been in Europe
a few months. Mr. Willington was a gentleman in
business in New York, I understand, and left his widow
a competence. My Margaret has no fortune; and if
that be a drawback in your eyes, my dear mother, I
am sure it is the only one you will be able to find.
For myself, I consider my fortune enough for all my
wants, and I have never desired that my wife should
have money. A far more essential particular is, that
she is a Protestant, — that faith in which you have
brought me up, and which you hold so dear.
“Mrs. Willington leaves this for Paris in the course
of a few days. I shall then come home for a short
time, to see you and talk matters over, and make
some necessary preparations for my Margaret's recep-
tion. The marriage will, I hope, take place in Paris
in November. I am afraid it will be in vain to try and
persuade you to leave home to attend it; but we shall
at once come to you after the marriage, and settle
down at Waldstein for the winter.
“Let me be assured at once, my dear and honoured
mother, as to your sentiments on the point wherein all
my happiness is vitally concerned. Believe me, it will
be the object of my Margaret's life, as it has ever been
of mine, to study your wishes in all things; and her
earnest desire is that you should continue to exercise
that authority in the household for which your virtues
and your experience so eminently befit you.
“Dearest mother, I embrace you with dutiful and
loving veneration.
“RUDOLPH VON WALDSTEIN.”


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
207
The weakness of the man was, I think, very apparent
in the above letter,—the weakness that shrinks from
discussion or remonstrance beforehand, and takes refuge
in a bold assertion of independence, when a decision is
beyond recall. His word was now pledged; his rigidly-
faithful, Calvinistic mother, however displeased she
might be, would never ask him to go back from it.
She would have worked, and might have worked success-
fully, to prevent his committing this deed; but, once
done, the honour of a Waldstein,-nay, more than this,
the truth and loyalty of a God-fearing man,—were at
stake. She would fold her hands in grim silence, and
pray inwardly for her son and this Moabitish woman
who had enthralled him; she would utter no complaint,
he well knew. Her reply was characteristic, and con-
tained in these few words:
i
“Marriage is a solemn thing, not lightly to be
entered upon. I trust thou art not so entering upon
it, my son. May the Lord prosper this, and whatever
else thy hands find to do! Without His blessing, what
is the beauty of the flesh?—the lust of the eyes? The
excellent Clara von Hanecke, whom I desired for thee,
is not comely; but she is a godly young woman, and
her dowry would have been serviceable to thee. So
that thy wife be spiritually minded, however, it is but
of small account that she be poor in this world's goods.
Yet will I not conceal that, for the sake of that vast
marsh which needs reclaiming, it would be well if she
had brought thee something, as Clara would have done.
But the Lord has so willed it; and is not His word
more than corn and oil? Therefore I say nought ....


208
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Since it is thy desire that I should pass the brief |
remainder of my days under thy roof, here will I :
remain. I have never been on a railroad; to under-
take the journey to Paris were an impossibility. But
I will wrestle with the Lord in prayer for thee, and
prepare the green chamber, which has not been used
since thy father's death. It is more commodious than
the one thou hast hitherto slept in. The curtains,
though faded, are serviceable yet .... I would that
thy Margaret's father had not been in trade. One chief
reason why thy father and I were so suitably and hap-
pily mated was that each of our families could trace a
clear descent for four hundred years. Yet are we not
all dust alike in the Lord's eyes? Therefore I say
nought.
“My son, I press thee to my bosom,
“ELIZABETH VON WALDSTEIN (née de Germat).
“Post scriptum.--Pastor Goldfuss has been with me.
He sends thee his blessing. He fears the Americans
are but a lax people in spiritual things. The Lord hath
seen fit to prosper the farm; our cheeses have fetched
rare prices in the markets this month. Also of the
vineyard the prospects are good.”
It could hardly be called a cordial letter,—not so
much as a kind message to Margaret; but it was all
that Rudolph could hope for, and he breathed a great
sigh of relief when he got it. The worst, at least, was
over. He did not read the old Gräfin's letter to Mrs.
Willington; but he told her and Margaret that his
mother was ready to open her arms to his bride, and
was already preparing a room for her reception,


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
209
. Two days afterwards Mrs. Willington left Homburg
for Paris, to prepare the corbeille de mariage, which
now occupied all her thoughts; and the happy lover
parted from her and her daughter at Strasburg, whence
his road lay across the Black Forest to a certain soli-
tary district, where the castle of Waldstein dominates
the country round.
CHAPTER II.
“I HAVE had the green hangings turned, and the
chamber is fit for a princess," said Madame Mère,
thus her son styled her sometimes,—severely.
“But, mother ,” said the young Graf with some
hesitation, “Margaret will require another room,-a
sitting-room, you see. All women in the present day
have a boudoir, and_-"
“Is not the saloon good enough for her, pray? It
has been good enough for me these five-and-thirty
years. She will always find me there, when I am not
at my devotions. What can she want of a private sit-
ting-room?”
“Why, you see-to begin with, there—there will
be her mother— Yes,” he continued more rapidly,
but taking care not to look the Gräfin in the face,
“yes, Mrs. Willington is coming, you know,---for a
time, at least, and I wish every attention to be paid
to her comfort. 1-I desire-I think it best that she
should have the tapestried room that looks south, and
then the one between it and ours Margaret can have
as a boudoir, when she and her mother want to be
together.”
Morals and Mysteries.
14


210
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
This was doing the thing firmly, and he gave him-
self great credit for his pluck. The Gräfin Waldstein
folded her hands meekly; had her son boxed her on
the ear she could not have looked more long-suffering,
more mildly-reproachful.
“So, then—Madame Willington—is coming—to
live here?”
“I didn't say to live,—not exactly to live, mother.
I don't know how long she'll stay. But, of course,
being alone in the world, it is natural Margaret should
wish her mother to be with her a good deal,-just at
first, at all events.”
The Gräfin said no more, for she was not a lady
who was accustomed to waste her words, and she saw
that this thing was to be. It was a great aggravation
to her trials, the prospect of this intrusion of the stranger-
woman's mother, who would of course try and dispute
the Gräfin's authority over her daughter. She had
hated the thought of this marriage from the first, but
at least she had looked to have a chance of moulding
her young daughter-in-law according to her own pat-
tern. And, lo! already a formidable obstacle arose.
She said no more, but heaved a sigh, which was almost
a groan in its intensity. Then she drew out her
spectacles, and opened a volume of “Méditations” at
the place indicated by a marker, and appeared to for-
get her son's presence, and all other mundane matters,
in the book before her.
The Gräfin von Waldstein was of a very old German
Swiss family, nurtured in the severest school of Calvi-
nism, which is not the religion of those parts. She
was looked upon with great reverence by all right-


212
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
haired, and rather infirm now; but had none of those
ineffable charms of voice and expression which make
old age sometimes the rival of childhood in attractive-
ness. She was generally dressed in a coarse black
stuff, with a thick white cap, not very much unlike a
night-cap,-if I might be permitted to say so,-tied
under her chin; a book under her arm, and a large
heavy bunch of keys hanging at her side. Let it not
be supposed that because she was a Gräfin she was
not a most vigilant housewife, devoting what time she
had to spare from the study of eternal punishments in
store for the unregenerate, to the mending of linen,
the auditing of farm-accounts, the preserving of fruits,
and the careful entry of market returns. The little
town of Waldstadt, over against the Schloss, at the
foot of the hill,---which was one great vineyard,-had
its weekly market, and so had two other towns a few
miles distant, one of these being on Swiss territory;
so for the products of the Waldstein estate there was
always a plentiful demand.
It had been a great disappointment to Madame
Mère, -as may have been already gathered,--that her
son, for the first and only time in his life, had stub-
bornly resisted her in the matter of that marriage upon
which she had set her heart. The Fräulein von Hanecke
was one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen of Wür-
temberg. She was an orphan, and possessed a pretty
little fortune. She was of curiously old descent, and
her rigid education in the Calvinistic faith pointed her
out in a special manner as a fitting person to be the
daughter-in-law of the Gräfin Waldstein, if not the
wife of that lady's only son. Unfortunately, the "hoch-
wohlgeborne Fräulein” was not personally attractive in


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
213
Sha
the young Graf's eyes. He told his mother he was
> willing to do anything she wished, even to the selling
of half his estate,—the value of which, by-the-bye,
had been greatly over-estimated by Mrs. Willington,-
and devoting it to pious and charitable objects; but
this thing he could not do. He knew all Clara's good
qualities, and he recognised all the advantages of an
alliance which the General, her uncle, did not hesitate
to say his niece was quite ready to contract. The
young lady had made up her mind it would be a suit-
able marriage. She liked Rudolph; she esteemed him.
She was one of those sensible, amiable women, who
can take a dispassionate, bird's-eye view of such mat-
ters; and who, in the event of what is called a “dis-
appointment,” have far too well-regulated minds to
become ill or give up the world. It was well for her
that it was so. It was now two years since this scheme
had first been bruited by Madame Mère, and as no-
thing had come of it, Clara von Hanecke still con-
tinued “Hofdame” to her royal mistress, and went
cheerfully through the monotonous routine of a petty
court life. Nevertheless, the Gräfin had not yet aban-
doned her hopes when the news of her son's engage-
ment shivered them to the dust.
I must say a word about Schloss Waldstein. The
country about it is not beautiful, but it would be ac-
counted pretty, I think, by a stranger, unless, perhaps,
he comes to it from the Swiss side. If so, he has
done with rocky peak and snowy fastness, with roaring
avalanches and mighty river-falls, before he gets here;
and must attune himself to a lower key. Soft undulat-
ing hills, clad sometimes with the vine, sometimes with
thick pine-woods; valleys where flocks and herds feed


214
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
in rich pastures to the continuous tinkling of little bells;
quaint, timbered churches, with many-beamed cottages
about them,—no longer the Swiss toys that are so sug-
gestive of the Opéra Comique; here and there a ruined
tower; here and there a narrow wooden bridge, that
looks, with all its lateral supports thrust wide into the
stream, like a monster stretching his many legs very far
apart;—this, and the sudden inestimable relief from all
tourists, is what he will find who wanders up to the little-
known region I write of. It has nothing remarkable to
attract the traveller, and near at hand is scenery with a
world-wide repute; no wonder, then, that those who turn
their steps this way are few indeed. A “duller” dis-
trict, in the estimation of mundanely-disposed persons,
it would be hard to find.
And to this district Mrs. Willington, with the vaguest
views of country life in general and of a Swiss or
German château in particular, was now coming. I be-
lieve she had visions of a continuous round of guests;
a sort of Decameron; a throng of finely-dressed folk
wandering about stately gardens, with the addition of
much fiddling and feasting; and I know she ordered
a great variety of clothes, which, when added to
Margaret's trousseau, she was quite unable at the
moment to pay for.
“I've spent an awful quantity of money,” she said
to her daughter just before the marriage; "and if it
wasn't that I'm going to live at Rudolph's expense for
some months to come, I don't know what I should do.
Dear delightful Paris is such a seductive place! There's
no other place worth living in,-only one ought to be
made of money. What a bracelet that was we saw in
the Rue de la Paix! I told Rudolph it was the very


216
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
-
The day they reached Schloss Waldstein had been
one of constant rain, and perhaps it was as well that
they arrived long after dark; though the laurel arch,
with “Wilkommen” in gilt letters thereon, was con-
sequently invisible to those for whose honour and
benefit it was meant, and the peasants who had con-
structed it were much disappointed in consequence.
But the little town looked inexpressibly dreary, with
rain pouring out at the water-pipes in all directions,
and uniting in one black torrent over the steep, ill-
paved street; and the brown, bare vineyards beyond,
seen through the soaking November gloom, were
hardly more reassuring. Therefore, as far as Margaret,
who was unfortunately impressionable in such things,
was concerned, -not to speak of her mother,-it was
as well that Waldstadt and the surrounding country
were not revealed under their least favourable aspect,
but that the veil of darkness covered them. The pea-
sants and town's folk might do what they liked, of course,
but Madame Mère was not going to erect triumphal
arches, dispense good cheer, or otherwise expend in
wasteful folly to do honour to her son's marriage the
money that could more profitably be employed in pious
and charitable works. So the courtyard of the Schloss
was as dark as pitch, -dark and wet; and Madame
Mère sat in the old yellow drawing-room, where, after
some demur, she lit a couple of candles, in addition
to her ordinary lamp with its green shade. That was
the only outward and visible sign of welcome that
awaited the bridegroom and his bride.
Margaret had been lying asleep on her husband's
arm for the last half-hour. She only woke as the steps
of the carriage were let down, and came in, a little


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
217
nervous, but her beautiful face all a-glow with pleasure,
and threw herself into Madame Mère's arms. The
latter kissed her kindly, and improved the occasion
with a murmured prayer and exhortation; then she
turned to Mrs. Willington, who was warming her hands
at the stove, and examining with amazement the
cap, the garments, the general aspect of Rudolph's
mother.
“This is Mrs. Willington, liebe Mutter," said Wald-
stein.
“You are welcome to our home, madame," said
the old lady, and held out a homely, unringed hand.
Mrs. Willington put the tips of her Jouvin's glove,
with its four buttons and the cascade of lockets falling
over it, into the horny receptacle the Gräfin proffered,
and smiled a galvanised smile. Then the latter, in
her turn, passed her eyes with curious scrutiny over
this new-comer, and sighed.
They were shown to their bed-room, while supper
was being prepared.
“Good heavens! no fire in one's room in such a
night as this !” cried Mrs. Willington. Then she looked
for a bell; but there was none,-none throughout the
Schloss, as she soon learnt. Her remarkably pene-
trating voice soon brought some one to her assistance,
however,-her maid superintending the right allotment
of sundry huge trunks to the several rooms,and then
Madame Mère was informed that Mrs. Willington de-
manded fire. Margaret did not demand it, though,
to say the truth, she was shivering in her room; but,
then, she had a Rudolph, and her mother had not;
and this Rudolph, without screaming for servants, and


213
HORALS AND ITS.IZES.
without a wzd froza his wife, went and lit the stove
"It is a wesied room," ezclaimed Mrs. Whington,
boking round. “Weat a bed! Ii's ike a chest of
drawers! And such a washing-stand! And as to the
wilct-glass, good heavens! half the quicksilver is
gone. No carpet, too,-ugb! How I hate those horrid
survey! And I don't see any place to hang up my
gowns; and-Cécile, go and ask for some candles. I
can't dress with that one horrid light,-it's really too
bad!"
Then Madame Mère was informed that Mrs. Wil-
lington demnanded candles,—wax candles; and, raising
her eyes to heaven, she unlocked the store-closet, and
took out a pair with her own hands.
There was plenty of food for supper, and, of its
kind, it was not bad; but to appetites accustomed to
a French cuisine, heavy German dishes are a trial; and
Mrs. Willington, especially, did not bear the trial well.
Margaret ate what was brought to her, and tried to
think it nice; for Rudolph, she knew, would be vexed
if she appeared to think otherwise; but she felt as
though she were almost guilty of a disloyalty to her
mother all the time, who was entering a silent, but ex-
pressive pantomimic protest against one dish after
another. Madame Mère made as though she saw it
not; but she did see it. No movement or look of
either mother or daughter escaped her. She had be-
gun the meal with a thanksgiving, and by invoking a
blessing, at considerable length, upon what they were
about to eat; if Mrs. Willington was impious enough
to disregard this, she, Madame Mère, was doubly
bound to show that the invocation had been answered,


220
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
,"I have seen poor mamma,” said Margaret, plain-
tively, “and she is very unhappy at having no garde-
robe. She says all her beautiful gowns cannot pos-
sibly remain packed up always. Mine, too, will be
quite spoilt, I'm afraid. What is to be done? Do see
about it, dear."
He remembered two fine roomy old oak cupboards.
It was true that some shelves had been put into them,
and they had been devoted to apples; but these might
be taken out, and it would be better than nothing in
the present exigency. Only, what would his mother
say? Perhaps it were wise to have the thing done, if
possible, without her knowing it? It was not to be.
She came, and caught him with an old servant baling
out the apples on the floor.
“What dost thou with the apples, Rudolph?”.
He tried to put a bold face on it, but stammered
a little when he came to the purpose for which the
cupboards were wanted. The vain adornments of
women! If there was one subject upon which his
mother could be more severe than any other it was
this. Did he not know how she would quote Saint
Paul, and visit the Corinthians upon his unhappy wife?
However, he had to get it out, and he did so with
some attempt at pleasantry. The old lady stood aghast.
“And, pray, what are we to do with the apples?”
she said at last.
“Eat them, liebe Mutter; there is nothing else for
it,” he replied, with a shocking effort to laugh.
The worst of it was, that his well-meant crusade
to rescue these sacred places of his mother's, and
hand them over to the strangers, was not rewarded
with the gratitude it deserved. Mrs. Willington de-


222
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
HerzcThis is Tween Mare, with Mis mothern under ome
with his strong arm around her, and his handsome
face bent over hers, in this quaint garden under the
clear autumn sky. Away from her mother, she could
forget all minor troubles; with Mrs. Willington present,
they stood between Margaret and contentment.
“This is better than the noise of Paris, after all,
Herzchen, is it not?” he said.
“ 'Tis with you, Rudolph; not alone.”
“It seems as if, in great cities, in great crowds,
two hearts can never hear each other beat in perfect
unison, for the din and turmoil round them.”
It was a little bit of German sentimentality, and
Margaret was not sentimental; but she liked it in
Rudolph's mouth, and could understand it on this oc-
casion. She looked up with a lovely smile.
“Nothing can prevent our hearing each other here,
can it? But you're going to do everything I ask, ain't
you, Rudolph? Not for me, dear,-for indeed, I feel
as if I want nothing now with you,—but for poor
mamma, who is making such sacrifices on my account
in coming here. I couldn't be happy, you know, if
she were miserable.”
“I hope she will not be miserable. Why should
she? My mother, I am sure, wishes—will try to do
everything to make her happy. Our manner of life is
very different to what Mrs. Willington is used to. We
are very quiet, simple folk here, and she will have to
accustom herself to the absence of society; but with
you and me, Herzchen, she oughtn't to be dull, and
won't be, I hope.”
: Margaret probably knew better; but she said no-
thing, and tried to dismiss the subject from her


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
223
thoughts. This was not difficult át the moment, for
she felt perfectly happy while alone with her husband.
But some half-hour later they were joined by Mrs.
Willington.
“My dear Rudolph, when are you going to begin
refurnishing the château? The state it is in is per-
fectly disgraceful. Margaret cannot possibly receive
her friends in such a salon, with tarnished mirrors and
threadbare sofas. And as to our bed-rooms, I do
hope you will write off to-day, and get a tapissier from
Strasburg, or somewhere, to come and make them
decent. I have been thinking about it, and I have
decided on having rose-colour and white for my room.
What do you say for yours, my darling?”
Margaret murmured that perhaps blue would be
pretty. Rudolph walked along in silence, his eyes
upon the ground, his wife's hand, which he held in
his, still resting on his arm.
“Of course you mean to alter this garden,” con-
tinued Mrs. Willington, presently. “This arrangement
is so dreadfully old-fashioned. A jardin Anglais is
the thing here. Whose is that big white house on the
distant hill? That looks like a rich neighbour,—and
the only one, I suppose?”
“It belongs to a rich manufacturer, whose mills
you see in the valley below. He is a very worthy
man, but we don't associate. The distinction of classes
is still kept up in this country. It is very absurd, I
think, but so it is.”
Mrs. Willington, whose husband had been in the
wholesale oil-cloth line in New-York, which did not
prevent her having aristocratic proclivities, now that


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
is your luncheon, and our eight o'clock supper your
dinner. Moreover, we have the tea and coffee of
civilised life at half-past five. But my mother is old-
fashioned, and does not like change, so we always -
keep to the old names and hours of our meals."
, “Ah; people at that time of life are peculiar. Still,
-how old is she? Wonderfully active.”
“Yes; I am thankful to say she is, for her years.
She is sixty-eight, and has a capital head for business
still, --indeed, she has the enjoyment of all her facul-
ties.”
The expression on Mrs. Willington's face spoke
volumes, if Rudolph could have seen it; but she said
nothing, and they all entered the dining-room.
After dinner, a high and very spidery-looking ve-
hicle, of the mail-phaeton xibe, was brought to the
door by a stalwart groompearded like the pard,”
and dressed in what was meant to be the true Eng-
lish style. Of course, Rudolph wished to drive his
wife out; but it was a fine afternoon, and what was
Mrs. Willington to do? Was she to be left to a tête-
à-tête with the Gräfin? Rudolph thought that this
was not likely to tend to the softening of either lady's
sentiments; and he wished to avoid it, if possible.
But what was to be done? Of course Margaret must
sit beside him, and the only other place was at the
back, alongside of the bearded groom. He put it to
Mrs. Willington, and she hesitated. It was derogatory,
no doubt; but was not anything better than being left
alone in that horrid dull old house, with that dreadful
puritanical old woman? She had a chance of seeing
some one, at all events; and she could address an ob-
servation occasionally over the hood to the young
Morals and Mysteries.
15


226
* MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
people in front. She elected, and wisely, no doubt,
to endure the indignity; and though they saw no one
in their drive but a few peasants and one “commis-
voyageur,” standing at the inn-door, as they rattled
down the little street of Waldstadt, ---Rudolph, like
most foreigners, being a perfect Jehu in the fury of
his driving ,- yet “it was a change,'' as she said,
“and anything is better than being alone.” They
passed a Roman Catholic Church, and met a couple
of priests, --I had forgotten them,-a little farther on;
when Rudolph explained to Margaret that the district
here was not entirely Protestant, and that all religions
were tolerated. She was glad to hear this; she began
to have a fear that if the Gräfin's will were omnipotent
there would not be such liberality on this point.
In the evening the Pasteur called to pay his re-
spects to the young Graf's bride. He was a spare,
mild-eyed man of fifty, simple-minded, ignorant of the
world's ways, and “thinking no evil” of any one;
shambling, tedious, voluble. He was bidden to stay
supper, and sat next to Mrs. Willington, to whom he
addressed himself several times, but in vain. When
he asked some questions about the American Church,
it was Margaret, across the table, who replied. When
he expressed a hope that the elder lady had not suf-
fered from the journey, — in the eyes of the good
Pasteur, who had not been twenty miles from Wald-
stadt in as many years, Paris was at the world's end,
-Mrs. Willington only shook her head, and yawned;
it was Rudolph who came to the rescue, with some
statistical account of the French railroads, and the in-
creased traffic to Strasburg, with a good deal about
“kilos,” which seemed to interest both gentlemen, and


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
227
was incomprehensible to the ladies. The Pasteur's
own talk was chiefly small and local, and directed
principally to Madame Mère. She knitted her grey
worsted stocking, even at the supper table, and dis-
cussed the temporal and spiritual needs of those
amongst the Waldstadt poor who belonged to the
small number of the “elect,” with forcible sense and
rigorous justice. But to Mrs. Willington, and indeed,
it must be confessed, to Margaret, too, all this was in-
expressibly wearisome. The evening ended with a
lengthy exhortation from the Pasteur, and prayers in
which blessings were invoked in many long-winded
phrases upon the bridegroom and his bride. At the
time, Margaret got such a pain in her knees that she
fervently wished the blessings shortened; she remem-
bered them years afterwards in penitence and tears.
“That old woman will be the death of me!” said
Mrs. Willington to her daughter as she went to bed.
“This sort of thing never can go on. You must very
soon put a stop to it, my darling, if you don't wish to
have my death at your door. I feel already ten years
older than I did when I came here."
CHAPTER III.
As the first day at Waldstadt was, so were those
that followed. The only change was that wrought by
time in the relations between the two mothers-in-law,
whose mutual animosity increased daily. It was a
struggle for mastery, in which sometimes one, some-
times the other, had the best of it. His reverence for
his mother, his own tastes and early habits, disposed
15*


228
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
Waldstein to few changes. On the other hand, there
was his passion for his wife, and, because of her, his
desire to satisfy Mrs. Willington. He was a man who
hated strife--indeed, turmoil of any kind; and peace,
he began to see, was the one thing he could not ob-
tain. Paris and Baden had been all very well in their
way, occasionally in his bachelor days; now, to live in
his Schloss from one year's end to the other seemed
to him the obvious scheme of existence for married
folk, to whom “the world” could offer few allure-
ments. No doubt there would be a visit to Kreuznach
now and then,-most Germans regard mineral waters
as an article of physical faith,-or some such deadly-
lively bath, where gambling is not, and pleasure-seekers
never resort. Other years, too, there might possibly
be a little tour in Switzerland or Tyrol, when he and
his Margaret would see the sun rise from mountain-
tops, and talk sentiment on moonlit lakes, and live the
old brief love-making days over again. Such had been
the prospect to which he had looked forward; and
now that he drew near to where the reality should be,
lo! like the Fata Morgana, the vision melted hourly
away. In Mrs. Willington's presence, at least, nothing
like it would ever be; and if, under any circumstances,
Margaret could have been brought to accept cheerfully
the conditions of life he proposed at Schloss Wald-
stein, she certainly never would do so as long as her
mother was at her side. It was all very easy to say,
as the Gräfin did not hesitate to do most decidedly,
“Send her away, my son. She is an irreligious world-
loving woman, who corrupts the heart of thy wife.
Send her away.” But loving her mother as Margaret
did, accustomed, as she had been, to regard everything


.
229
AD
A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
with her mother's eyes, such a step would have re-
quired more force of character than Rudolph von
Waldstein possessed. Mrs. Willington's complaints
wearied, and her frivolity disgusted him; he generally
took refuge in an obstinate silence from her dolorous
or angry remonstrances. At the end of the second
month he disliked her almost more than his mother
did; he longed, with an unutterable longing, to get rid
of her, and he did not know how to do it.
One day General von Hanecke came over. It was
a blessed break in the day's monotony; he was greeted
by Mrs. Willington as he never had been greeted be-
fore. She monopolised him; poured forth her lamen-
tations in his ear; informed him, in confidence, that
her daughter would certainly never submit to this life
for very long; accused Rudolph of indifference to her
. comfort, and declared that Schloss Waldstein was little
better than a prison. As to herself, she said the life
was killing her by inches. Had she but known what
it was, with that dreadful old woman, in whose hands
Rudolph was as dough, nothing should have induced
her to consent to the marriage. Why did not General
von Hanecke warn her? She had been deceived, too,
in fancying her son-in-law to be a much richer man
than he was. The stinginess of all the arrangements
at the Schloss,—the meanness of that old woman,-
were beyond description. In her country, why the
pooresť lady would be above doing the things this
countess did. It was abominable!
Under his well-fed jollity, and apparent indifference
to all serious matters, the old General had a reserved
stock of good sense, which, like his powder, he was
always careful to keep dry. He did not waste it on


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
231
by past extravagance, she must eat the Waldstein bread
for the present, and wish, as best she might, for a
good time coming. As to altering the state of things
at the Schloss, she began almost to despair of it; but
she saw a hope of deliverance, -of deliverance for her-
self and her daughter. Though she wisely said nothing
of it, it was this hope which sustained her through the
greater part of that dreary winter, passed in the read-
ing of French novels, in correspondence with Paris
and New York, in sharp verbal encounters with Ma-
dame. Mère, and in stirring up her daughter to fearful
discontent.
In May Mrs. Willington thought it time that her
project should ooze out; for in August Margaret hoped
to become a mother. One morning, therefore, finding
Rudolph alone, Mrs. Willington opened the campaign,
by saying,
“Dear Margaret is looking very ill. The change in
her cannot have escaped you."
Now his wife's pallor and dejection Waldstein had
attributed, and so had Madame Mère, quite as much
to that constant blister, her mother's tongue, as to her
condition.
..“I understand that she should be kept as quiet
and free from irritating discussion as possible,” he
said.
“Ah! you may say that! I am sure it is not I
who ever wish to have discussions. But if you were
only as observant of her as you once were, Rudolph,
you would see what it is that is preying on her
mind.”
He was used to this sort of language now; he was


238
MOR ALS AND MYSTERIES.
it will be long-very long, before she sets foot in it
again. Count Waldstein has a good fortune, and he
ought to live in Paris,-the only place in Europe to
live in,-instead of mewing Margaret up in that dull,
dreadful place, which was nearly the death of us both
during the seven months we were there. If it wasn't
for that dreadful old woman, his mother, he would be
very easy to manage. As it is, now that we have got
away from her, I mean that Margaret shall keep away.
We shall see which is stronger, the old Gräfin or I.”
CHAPTER IV.
In the beginning of August a boy was born to the
young Graf and Gräfin von Waldstein. Rudolph found
himself very miserable in Paris in those days. When
his natural rejoicing over the birth of a son, and the
safety of Margaret, had a little subsided, he began to
pine for the vineyards and farms, the pine-woods and
fish-streams of his country, and to find the broiling,
deserted capital,-his few acquaintances were “aux
eaux,” —insupportable. He was told that Margaret
must be kept quiet. One or two peeps of her during
the day was all that his mother-in-law allowed him.
He had nothing to do. He wandered to and fro upon
the burning asphalt, and ate ices at every second café
he came to, and went into stifling theatres to rush out
gasping, and drive to the Bois for a mouthful of fresh
night-air. He anathematised the fair city, and vowed
that once quit of it, nothing should bring him here
again for a very long time. A summons requiring his
instant presence at Schloss Waldstein came opportunely,


240
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
What if he should, indeed, be too late; and it should
be all over with her? What if she should have passed
away without laying her hand upon his head, and
giving him her last blessing? Such autocrats as Ma-
dame Mère are loved very faithfully, we see sometimes,
by natures like her son's. He had passed a sleepless
night, during which he had often remembered bitterly
that but for Mrs. Willington he would now be at his
mother's bedside. As he drove into the courtyard
two of the old servants came to the door to meet him.
He stretched his head out of the window: he could
not speak. “The gracious lady” was better within
the last few hours. He jumped from the carriage, and
ran into the house. He found Strumpf, who cor-
roborated the assurance that the gracious lady's illness
had taken a favourable turn. He did not apprehend
now any immediate danger, and Rudolph was ushered
into his mother's room. She received him calmly, and
in a voice very little weakened by illness.
“It has pleased the Lord to spare me yet a little.
I was prepared to go; but His will be done. Thou
did'st well to return, Rudolph; but why not thy wife?
When do she and the child follow thee? The beds
are aired, and there is a roe fresh killed in the larder,
for I looked that they should come with thee.”
He was rather startled by this sudden return to the
practical concerns of life from the lips of one whom
he had regarded so lately as a dying woman; and he
replied, with some hesitation, “Margaret is too weak
to travel at present; indeed, I was too anxious about
you, mother, to make any definite arrangements for
her return home.”
Madame Mère justified her doctor's and her own
---
.


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
241
confident assertion that she was out of immediate
danger; but her illness assumed a very grave com-
plexion, for all that. It became apparent, after a few
days, that there was organic disease, which threatened
to transform the active, energetic old woman into a
confirmed invalid. The powers of her mind were
unimpaired, and she showed herself of wonderful
courage, treating the matter with indifference when the
doctor spoke openly to her of her condition. It was
no doubt a sore trial to be told that she would be
unable, henceforward, to go about as she had hitherto
done; but she bore it with Spartan fortitude. Her son
was with her; it was more to her than she would own;
she had him for the present all to herself, and it was
very sweet. It could not last long, she knew; but it
was a bit of the old times, when her sway was para-
mount and undisputed; and she was determined to
make the most of it while it lasted.
At the end of a fortnight he wrote to Margaret
thus:-
“My mother is in too precarious a state for me to
think of leaving her. Though Strumpf does not think
there is any longer any immediate danger, her condi-
tion is very critical. A sudden attack, in her enfeebled
state, must prove fatal; and I fear she will never regain
the use of her limbs. Under these circumstances,
dearest Margaret, I hope to hear that the doctors now
think you strong enough to bear the journey,—as you
have been out driving, you tell me,-and that you will
lose no time, but set off at once, under Carl's care,
who will see to everything on the journey, so that you
will have no trouble. I should, of course, return for
you myself; but I see that the idea of my leaving her
Morals and Mysteries.
16


242
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
just now annoys my mother, and might aggravate her
malady so seriously, that I have no choice but to give
it up. You and baby, with your maids, will have a
carriage to yourselves, and sleep at Strasburg; and I
can meet you the next day half-way between that and
this, returning here the same evening. I will give Carl
full instructions.”
Margaret did not reply to this letter for two or
three days; and then she took no notice of the main
point in it. The omission, which was enforced by
Mrs. Willington, was, however, fully, perhaps too fully,
supplied by that lady herself. She wrote,-
“It is not to be thought of that our dear Margaret
should travel for some time to come yet. She requires
the tenderest care and nursing, which she cannot have
at Schloss Waldstein,-especially now that the Gräfin
herself is ill. She pines to be with you, or rather, for
you to be with her, since the bare idea of your Schloss
just now, in her delicate state is depressing; and it is
absolutely essential that, for the present, she should be
surrounded by everything that is cheerful. I am sure,
therefore, that you will make a point of returning to
her here as soon as possible. Baby grows very fast,
and every one declares he is the very image of you.
"Always, my dear Rudolph, your affectionate
“CAROLINE WILLINGTON.”
When the husband read this cool note he was very
angry. Madame Mère happened to be much better
that day, and Rudolph was for setting off instantly to
Paris and bringing back his wife, in spite of doctors,
mother-in-laws, and all. But the Gräfin was too wise


246
YORALS AND VYSTERIES.
grew up; a settled hostility became the habitual attitude
of his mind in thinking of Margaret. He loved her
very deeply and faithfully still; no other woman could
ever take Margaret's place in his heart; but she had
hurt him,-hurt the better as well as the worse parts
of his nature, and he felt that she should be made to
suffer.
A year, a whole year, passed thus: the erring wife
ill at ease in heart and conscience, though now taking
part in all the gay society of Paris, with which her
mother surrounded her. She found no real pleasure
in it; but she met with a great deal of admiration, and
it was better than being alone: she was so miserable
when forced back upon her own thoughts. If Rudolph
suffered no less, at least he had the satisfaction of be-
lieving that he was acting on the highest moral prin-
ciples, and that any other line of conduct would be
miserably weak, undignified, and futile. He had now,
for some four or five months past, declined to send
Margaret any more money for herself or the child,
which, during all the earlier period of their separation,
he had regularly done; but this attempt to starve the
fortress into submission did not seem likely to be suc-
cessful. From what source Mrs. Willington derived
the funds to live as she was doing, Waldstein could
not guess, knowing as he did of her money difficulties
not long before.
“And so you saw her several times? Tell me all
about her, General. How did she look? What did
she say about me?"
He had ridden over thirty miles to see General von
Hanecke, who was just returned from Paris.
“One thing at a time, lieber Freund. How did


250
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
was necessary in America; and she assured her daughter
that her only course was to accompany her.
“As to giving in to that obstinate husband of yours
now, my darling, it would be folly-worse than folly.
When he hears that we have sailed-actually sailed-
and are across the Atlantic, he will be in a fine way,
depend on it! We shall very soon bring him to his
senses. He will follow us to New York at once; mark
my words if he doesn't. And, at all events, we shall
be back here early in the spring. Your remaining
here alone by yourself isn't to be thought of. It would
never do. No, you have no choice but to accompany
me, or to return to Schloss Waldstein, and lick the
dust off that old witch's feet. And a fine time you
will have of it, my poor child, for the remainder of
your life, treated like a galley-slave, as you will be. I
say nothing of myself.”
"I think,” sobbed Margaret, “I shouldn't mind
any-any-anything now so much, -I think I could
even stand the old Gräfin, if only Rudolph would
apologise about you, mamma.”
“That he will never do at Schloss Waldstein; my
darling. He may, when we can get him to listen to
reason between us; but with his mother at his side, he
will never give in about me,-always look at me with
a jaundiced eye, depend on it.”
The weak, misguided Margaret, with a heavy heart,
took her boy up in her arms, and followed her mother
across the sea. And when news of this last act of
defiance to her husband reached the Schloss, the waves
of wrath and indignation, which had been long gather-
ing, reared themselves into one mighty wall, and broke
over her fair, foolish head. But before this, a last and


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
251
solemn appeal was still made by the irritated husband,
who was now almost beside himself; and this letter
was put into Margaret's hands soon after her landing
at New York. She was miserable; she sobbed for days
over - it; she wrote a dozen letters, and tore them all
up; and then the mother said, “Leave it unanswered.
In a month he will be at your feet.” But two months,
and then three, and then four crept by, without a word,
without a sign of life. The most vehement anger, the
most stinging reproach would have been preferable to
this silence. She grew thin and pale; she fell ill, and
her mother became alarmed,—for her daughter's beauty,
which she prized so dearly, was impaired. And then,
one morning, came a letter, directed to Margaret, in
a strong, lawyer-like hand; the reading of which letter
to the end she did not accomplish until long after-
wards, for, after the first few lines, she fell like a stone
upon the floor; and this was followed by a brain fever,
in which she hung, during many days, between life
and death, and was for weeks incapable of the smallest
mental exertion. The letter ran thus:-
“MADAM,—
“I AM instructed by my client, the Count von
Waldstein, to inform you that, having abandoned all
hope of bringing you to see your duty as a wife, and
feeling that the unhappy difference between you will
only increase with time, he has felt it to be his duty,
as much for your happiness as his own, to release you
from a tie which has proved so irksome to you, and
to sue for a divorce, which the laws of this country
accord without difficulty, as you are doubtless aware, in
such cases. Of course it is possible for you to appeal


252
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
against this; but the Count has little doubt that your
inclinations,-as shown by your conduct,—will not
dispose you to do so; and were it otherwise, any pro-
fessional adviser whom you may consult will instruct
you that, after your repeated and resolute refusal to
return to the Count's roof, such appeal would be
unavailing. The Count desires, further, to inform you
that should you consent to your infant son being given
up into his care now, he is ready to take him. You
are doubtless aware that after his fourth year the child
can be legally claimed by his father. Should you put
any difficulties in the way of this, by concealing him
in America, the Count will relinquish all interest or
moral responsibility in his son's future. No attempt
will be made to interfere with his legal inheritance to
the title and estates; but that portion of his property
which is in the Count's own power to dispose of he
will devise away from his son, should you offer any
obstruction to the child's being given up to his father
on the completion of his fourth year.”
When Margaret was able, after many months, to be
brought to Europe, a friend met her at Liverpool. He
came to break the fact to her that, according to German
law, she was no longer the wife of the Count von
Waldstein. She was once more Margaret Willington.


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
255
face, crept downstairs, and through the archway out
into the quiet, star-lit street. One or two women with
their children at open doors, one or two husbandmen
returning from their labour afar off in the hills, turned
round to look at the tall, slight figure in black as it
glided by. Then she came upon the white hill-side
road, with the dusty vines to right and left, and she
was alone. A single light twinkled from one of the
windows of the Schloss; the outlines of its towers
showed dim against the clear, dark summer night. A
little more than half-way up the hill the wanderer
turned her feeble steps in among the vines to the left,
where, some three hundred yards distant, the garden-
wall came down in terraces, and was washed, so to
speak, by the great sea of green at its feet. As she
tottered on, faint and thirsting, between the grapes,
some half ripened, some already purple, she plucked a
bunch, and put it to her lips. “It would not have
been theft once,” she murmured.
As she drew near to the foot of the garden-wall
the sound of voices fell upon her ear. She had thought
that at this hour, under cover of the darkness, she was
safe; and might yield to the weakness, the longing
which was at her heart, once more to behold that old
terrace-walk, associated as it was with the few happy
hours in her short life. She shrank back; then sud-
denly, as the voice of one of the speakers fell upon
her ear, she pressed her two hands against her heart,
and half crouched, half sank upon the ground. She
could not have gone a step farther had her life de-
pended on it. She did not faint, but her heart seemed
to stop beating, and she could neither see nor hear for
some minutes. At last, she was conscious of another


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
257
know, as she died so soon after our marriage; but
when I remember that your Margaret had, besides, a
foolish mother--"
“By-the-bye, your uncle mentions her death in his
letter to-day. She died at Paris, it seems, some weeks
1 ago. I have never been able until now, Clara, to hear
her name without impatience; but she is gone, and so
let her memory rest. I forgive her all the wrong she
did me. I think she must have repented of it herself
before she died.”
They walked to the further end of the terrace in
silence. As they came back the wife stopped, and ex-
claimed,
“See the moon just appearing over the edge of the
hill yonder, Rudolph! What a night it is! Are we
not better here than in Stutgardt, where the good
Queen would have us? For my part, I regret nothing
at Court. You say you think it right that I should go
there occasionally; but I should be quite content my-
self never to leave our old home.”
“Ah, it is well for us to go away sometimes, my
wife, if it be only to enjoy the pleasure of our return,
----of our solitude. In great crowds two hearts can
never hear each other beat in perfect unison, I think.”
Did he recall the morning, nearly ten years ago,
when he uttered these same words, standing on that
very spot? No; but one who heard him remembered
them only too well. In spite of herself, a moan, like
the faint cry of a wounded bird, broke from her lips
as she lay there.
“What was that? Did you hear nothing down
there among the vines? It sounded to me like the
feeble wail of an infant."
Morals and Mysteries.
as she what washe vinesti


258
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
reast, heling womaist we showno doubt" said the
huo her eyes.eard the kiss while head was bo happy."
“Would that it were an omen, my Clara,” said the
husband, gently. “But Heaven, no doubt, sees fit to
deny us that blessing, lest we should be too happy."
The trembling woman, whose head was bowed upon
her breast, heard the kiss which followed, and lifted
up her eyes. The moon, which had now fully risen
from behind the shoulder of the hill, shone bright
upon Clara's face. It was a broad, sweet, kindly face;
but, there was no beauty that a man should desire.
The goodness of soul that shone out through that plain
mask was its sole attraction. And,-alas! for poor
human nature!—even in that hour, when all was at an
end for her, when she knew that all earthly things
were fading fast away, a gleam of consolation shot
across the desolate woman's heart: “At least, I had
something once which she has not.” But the next mo-
ment the miserable triumph gave place to a purer and
nobler satisfaction. “She is a good woman. I read
it in her face,-her words confirm it. O God! I thank
thee for that."
The husband and wife turned slowly towards the
house; and for an hour or more the unhappy creature
lay there in the vineyard, utterly prostrate and motion-
less, save for the low sob which ever and anon broke
from her: “O Lord! give me strength,—give me strength!
Make me ready for the sacrifice,-even of my son, O
Lord!” And He who spared Abraham's sacrifice
spared hers.
It was very late when she reached the inn,-she
could hardly drag her feeble steps so far. The maid
was alarmed when she saw her face, which was like
that of the dead; and ran down-stairs, shrieking, for a
doctor. The long-ago-despised Strumpf came; so doth


A STRUGGLE FOR MASTERY.
261
“She has always spoken compassionately of you,
Margaret, and as I promise you solemnly for myself,
so I can undertake for her, that the child shall be
henceforward as our own.”
She stopped for breath, and then gasped out,
“I came here, meaning to ask you to take my
darling; and then to go away, in my solitude, heart-
broken. He was the only thing I had on earth, and
I resolved, for his sake, to make the sacrifice. Why
should I any longer stand between him and you,
between him and his future? But God was merciful,
Rudolph,—it has pleased Him to spare me this. I am
happy to go,—very happy. My life, though short, has
been sad enough. I have nothing to regret in leaving
it, since I was to be parted from my darling. And
now,—while I can still see you, still hear your voice,
— will you say that you forgive me, Rudolph?”
He was on his knees beside her. She felt the hot
tears on her hand as he pressed it to his lips.
“My poor Margaret, we have both much need of
forgiveness. I was much to blame,-perhaps more than
you. I know it now. I will not speak of others. We
will not try to cast the burden of our faults upon other
shoulders in this solemn moment. Rather, let us ask
God to forgive us our sins to Him, as we forgive our
sins to one another.”
Then his strong, tremulous voice rose in humble
prayer to the Father of Mercies, echoed by the faint
whispers of the dying woman.
Before night there fell a great peace and stillness
upon that little room; and the child was sleeping,
wearied out with sobs, in the Countess's dressing-room
in Schloss Waldstein.
God toers in this sole burden of op





266
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
people on the estate and in the neighbourhood un-
known, the very park itself unexplored. It was a sweet
old place, much neglected by reason of the impoverished
fortunes of its owner, overgrown with mosses, and its
garden choked with weeds, but affording ample accom-
modation for twice our party, in its endless bedrooms,
furnished in faded chintz, and peopled with many
generations on its walls. On the strength of certain
festivities in the neighbourhood, Lady Ashleigh had
bidden us down here, though she was, of course, any-
thing but settled in her new home; but Rosalind, her
lovely little daughter, was of an age and of a tempera-
ment to enjoy everything, and for her sake this im-
promptu party was got up. Rosalind it was who, this
afternoon, after luncheon, proposed that we should go
down to the Mere, which lay at the further end of the
park, and navigate its unknown waters in a certain punt
we had remarked among the reeds as we rode by the
previous day. There were, besides those I have already
named, young Apsley and his sister; Georgey Fynchden,
of the Fusiliers, a good-looking, impudent, engaging
youngster; and Sir Reynald Vavasour, the oldest and
soberest of the party, next to myself. All the heads
of families had been expressly invited to stay away; it
was a party of boys and girls brimming over with good
spirits, among whom I felt that I must seem a very
slow coach, for I could neither swallow sixpences and
bring them out of my boots, as St. Leger De Maine
did, nor walk round my own head twenty times without
falling flat on the ground, like Georgey Fynchden, nor
catch goose-berries in my mouth when they were thrown
at me ten yards off, like that expert young Apsley. I
could only sketch; and unless I caricatured them all,


THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL.
269
inside, we all gathered armfulls of grass and leaves,
and strewed them in the stern of the boat for the ladies
to sit on. Then the three skipped in, and squeezed
themselves and their gay striped petticoats into the
narrowest possible space; and the four young fellows
jumped in after them, Fynchden seizing the long punt-
ing pole, and Apsley the one dilapidated oar. From
no selfish pusillanimity was it that I hesitated to fol-
low; but really the crazy old tub looked already
dangerously full: another human being would, I
thought, make “the cup o'erflow.” I therefore resisted
· Miss Ashleigh's kind supplications that I would not
desert them, and seating myself on the water's edge,
I drew out my sketch-book. “No; I must draw you
all. You make such a pretty picture, with all those
bright colours; quite a bouquet of flowers foating on
the water.”
“It is distance lends enchantment, I'm afraid,”
laughed Rosalind. “You never said anything half so
civil until some yards of water divided us.”
Then they floated away, and the voices and the
laughter grew more and more indistinct. As to draw-
ing them, it was impossible; the punt, propelled by
Fynchden's long arms, performed such wonderful evolu-
tions, that I never got it for two seconds together from
the same point of view. I had just shut my book in
disgust, when I heard a step behind me. The boat
was, by this time, nearing a long narrow promontory
of rough stones, on the opposite side of the lake. I
turned, and found the stranger we had passed a
quarter of an hour before, standing close to me. His
face, which I now saw for the first time, was deadly
pale, and the effect of ghastliness was increased by a


270
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
recent cuc upon the cheek, where the blood was
scarcely yet cry. The sweat stood out in great drops
upon his forehtzad, and I observed that his hand
trembled nervously, as he spoke. .
“Call to them to crime back, sir. Tell them not
to—not to go out there, will you?”
“Why? Isn't the boat safe?” I exclaimed, starting
up. “Does it leak?"
“No-yes-yes, it isn't safe. For God's sake call to
them to come back, from that—from that point. Shout
to them, sir, won't you?”.
And I shouted; for the man's agitation was so great
that it conveyed to me some vague sense of imminent
danger, though the obvious question rose to my lilps
immediately I saw the boat's head, in answer to my
signals, swing round.
“But if the boat isn't seaworthy, they had better
land on that side, instead of recrossing the lake?”.
“Anywhere but there--let them land anywhere bugt
there! Let them recross the lake; let them land any
where but there!”
“Have you been in the boat yourself, to-day?”
He gave me a terrified stare, like a wild beast
brought to bay. “No, I have not been in it. No one
can say I was in it. I defy them to prove it. I mean,"
here he pressed his hand to his head, and moaned,
“if there is any—any anything amiss with the boat, I
didn't do it."
I now made up my mind that the man was mad,
and this conclusion, though not altogether a pleasant
one, as we stood together on the water's edge, (and
the man was a head and shoulders taller than I) re-


THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL.
271
lieved my anxiety somewhat as to my friends' peril;
they being still some distance from the shore. But
any personal apprehension, if I entertained it, was
quickly dispelled; for the stranger, almost instantly
after this, turned upon his heel, sprang up the bank,
and was quickly lost among the trees. I could now
hear Fynchden's voice, shouting, “What's the row?
Do you want to get in?”.
“Boat isn't safe,” I bellowed. “Man says, shore
there dangerous. Come back here.”
“Tell him he's an idiot,” was the reply.
“The punt hasn't let in a drop of water,” cried
De Maine.
Then rose the chorus of girls, “We won't come
back, unless you promise to get in.”
It was the only way to secure their return, so I
promised; and three or four minutes later, the old
punt, with its cargo, of blithe, boisterous, young spirits,
ran up on the beach close to where I stood. I told
my story very impressively, as I thought.
“Depend on it,” said Fynchden, “the lout was
drunk. Did you ask him what business he had in the
boat at all?”
They pulled up some boards from the boat's bot-
tom, to verify their assertion that it had not made a
drop of water, when Apsley called out, “Hallo! look
what I've found. A pocket-book! It must be that mad
duffer's.” He was not scrupulous as to examining it;
but there was no name on the first page to indicate
its owner. A number of entries-chiefly farm accounts,
apparently-were scrawled here and there throughout
the book, and the words, “Reuben owes me,” occurred


THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL.
273
my sapient voice, on we went. The water, though
still translucent, was much deeper, as we neared the
stony tongue of land which advanced into the lake
some thirty yards beyond the bank on either side. I
called out lustily to Fynchden not to propel us any
more with his long pole, lest haply he should drive in
the boat's bottom upon some sharp point of rock. We
were now not more than five or six yards from the
promontory.
Suddenly, there was a piercing cry. It came from
Miss Galway, who had been hanging on the boat's
side, and now threw herself back, covering her face
į with her hands. I stooped forward and looked down
into the water. Good God! What was it?—Could it
be ...?... a face, livid, distorted, staring up, with
horrible wide-open eyes at me, through the clear-water
from the stony bottom of the lake.
Most of the men, and two of the ladies, had had
the same horrible vision. There could be no doubt,
no question about it. “Come away! For heaven's
sake, let us come away!” shrieked Miss Galway: and
I saw that, in truth, the first thing to be done was to
land the ladies as speedily as possible. They were all
pale and trembling: I thought Miss Galway would have
fainted, as I handed her out of the boat; and the
scene of terror and dismay natural on such an occasion
I need not here detail. “You had better go home at
once,” I said. “We must—some of us--remain here,
and see after this.” They turned away in among the
trees, clinging to each other like a herd of frightened
deer, while we pushed the boat off once again to the
spot where we had seen that ghastly sight. There it
was: we felt it with the oar; and, though there could
Morals and Mysteries,
18
***


THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL.
275
flakes upon the Mere: the purple twilight was stealing
up from the sombre masses of the park-woods: it was
an impressive scene, in the unbroken calm of the sum-
mer's evening, contrasting forcibly with our thoughts
and feelings as we sat there, beside a murdered man,
whose life was unknown to us, whose death was a
mystery. My speculations thereon were interrupted
by Fynchden's touching me on the arm. He pointed,
without speaking, to the opposite side of the Mere.
Under the shadow of the trees I could just dimly per-
ceive a figure running stealthily along: it was too far
to identify it with certainty, but I had little doubt that
it was that of the man on whom the thoughts of us
all were turned at that moment. He disappeared
among the trees, and we saw him no more. A quarter
of an hour later we were joined by the keeper and
several of the labourers on the estate. They at once
recognised the dead man as Richard Boyce, the tenant
of the Mere Hall farm. He was the elder of two
brothers, whose father had rented the farm for many
years, and had left the remainder of the lease to this
Richard, subject to certain charges in favour of the
younger son, Reuben. The latter, who lived with his
brother, and nominally helped him, was but a poor
creature in his way, who exasperated his brother by
his idleness, and did nothing towards their common
welfare. Fishing was almost his only occupation, and
though better educated than Richard, an indomitable
indolence prevented his turning his acquirements to
any account. He was generally good-tempered, and
bore his brother's brutal jokes and attacks with won-
derful patience; but he had been known occasionally
to break out, and his violence then was stated to have
18*


THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL,
277
had been accusation and recrimination: bitter and in-
sulting taunts from Richard had been replied to with
more warmth than usual by Reuben. He had been
called a beggar, a dependent on his brother's charity:
he demanded now to be repaid the money he had
given to Richard; then he would go. The quarrel
. waxed yet more violent, but the servants could not
give a very clear account of what passed after this: as
indeed, in a loud and angry altercation, it is difficult
to do. Richard suddenly rose, and went out in the
direction of the lake: his brother shortly followed him
with his rod: he had not been seen since. A magis-
trate, resident in the neighbourhood, who was riding
by, and heard what had occurred, now appeared, and
on the arrival of the head of the police, the coroner
was at once communicated with, while a summons was
issued for the apprehension of Reuben Boyce, on sus-
picion of being concerned in the death of his brother.
During all this night, and the next morning, the
search for him proved fruitless. In the mean time,
the coroner's inquest sat on the body, and returned
an open verdict of Found Drowned. And yet, I be-
lieve, the fact of Reuben's having absconded left no
reasonable doubt on any one's mind of his guilt. In
the afternoon, I learnt that he had, at last, been caught
hiding in a wood some miles distant. He was faint
from want of food, and from evident distress of mind;
but he offered no resistance, manifested no surprise,
proffered no explanation. He appeared, indeed, to be
mentally, as well as physically, thoroughly worn out;
the state of cerebral excitement under which he had
shown himself to me, having been succeeded by a
prostration so complete as to deaden the memory, if


THE TRAGEDY AT MERE HALL.
279
wer' a-gone, an' we hearn en swear a bit, an' he begun
to fish from th' bank, till Maister Boyce 'e come wi' th'
punt, an' begun a-callin' en niames, an' villed his
pawkets wi' big stuones, an' begun a-peltin' Maister
Reuben. Aone het en on's fiace, an' miade en bleed;
an', hot-like, he picked en up an'a-drowed en back;
but Maister Boyce 'e a-ducked his head, an' zomehow
'e a-vell roight for'ard i'th' water, an' 'cause o' th'
stuones in's pawket, I z'pause, 'e never riz no muore.
Maister Reuben giv' a girt cry, an' zeemed ztruck all
o' a heap. 'E coodden reach en, 'cause in thik pliace
th' pon's sa deep, tho' awnly a few yards fro' the
bank. We wer' that a-feared, we dussn't stir; an'
Maister Reuben', 'e run away like's if 'e wer' foolish,
after a while, wi' his hand to's head.”
“And why did you give no alarm? Why did you
keep all this to yourself until now, pray?”.
The magistrate asked this question somewhat se-
verely, and the elder boy—the spokesman-hung his
head. The younger one, with a burning cheek, at last
took courage and murmured what was unintelligible to
me, until it was translated:
“Coz we was anutten what we didn't ought."
The magistrate himself looked puzzled for a mo-
ment, until the sergeant of police, with promptitude,
explained that the witnesses had been stealing nuts in
the Mere Hall woods, and had, therefore, been afraid,
at first, to come forward and state what they had seen;
until, their young consciences smiting them, when they
learnt how Reuben was suspected of murder, they re-
vealed all to their father.
As to the accused, he had been listening to this
evidence, meantime, with an expression of face which
And why wil his hand way like's iflyssn't stir; the


VALERIAN'S HONEYMOON.


286
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
?
Cicala, weeds, Fell on th the te more
inost boys here fell the hulside
upon the road, during all the hours we had been here.
And now the night had come, and even such infre-
quent traffic would cease.
But, contrary to our expectation, as we two stood
there hand-in-hand upon the balcony, listening to a
cicala in the dusty roadside grass and a frog in the
water-weeds, and the hum of the smokers’ voices be-
low us, there fell on our ears the distant cracking of a
post-boy's whip, with the familiar accompaniment of
jingling harness. A minute more, and in the white
moonlight we saw an open travelling-carriage coming
rapidly towards us. There was a rush among the
smokers to the front; the postillion worked up his whip
into a state of frenzy as he neared his goal, and
finally swung himself lightly to the ground, as he
pulled up exactly under our window. The carriage
was occupied by two persons—a gentleman and lady.
The head of the calèche being thrown back, I could
see the man's face very distinctly in the moonlight,
which was as clear as day. I thought I recognised it:
so, perhaps, did my companion, for she drew yet
closer to me, and I felt her little hot hand tremble in
mine. The doubt, if it was one, lasted but a minute:
the lady threw back her veil; the small black-lace
bonnet framed-it did not shroud—that carved ivory
face on which the moonlight flooded. God forgive
me! I had reason to know it too well; and so had
she who stood beside me. My poor little darling
nestled close to me like a frightened dove, and she
pulled me quickly back under the shadow of the vine-
leaves, as she murmured: “O, Valerian! that woman
again! That woman here!”.
“My darling, what are you afraid of? She can do


VALERIAN'S HONEYMOON.
- 287
us no harm. Depend on it, she is not troubling her
head about me.”
“Why does she come here? O, Valerian, we were
so happy!”
"Hush! Let us hear what they say."
“Bring out the livre des étrangers. We will see
who has been passing this way.” It was the gentle-
man who spoke.
“Just the romantic spot for a love-sick couple,”
laughed the lady; and her fine musical laugh fell on
my ear like a discordant peal of bells. “I should not
wonder if there was some one staying here."
We saw the greasy strangers' book handed to them
by their courier, and the lady, by the light of the
moon alone, turned over the pages and read the names
written there. A dear little curly head was hidden on
my breast, and a small voice whispered plaintively:
“You won't go down to her? You won't see her?
Promise me. She'll try and take you from me, as she
did before. I shall die if you go, Valerian!”
“Never fear, my darling. She bewitched me once;
-I was mad then, I believe. But have I not some-
thing better now? While I hold my treasure here in
my arms, what to me are all the fairest women in the
world.”
“Ah! you didn't think so once,” she sobbed; "and
I know nothing can resist her—nothing! Even now,
you cannot take your eyes off her. Ah, Valerian, if
she drags you away from me this time--"
I put my hand across her mouth, and listened with
hungry eyes and ears.
“Mon Dieu!” cried the lady, clasping her hands
and laughing. “Look here!-what a rencontre!--read


VALERIAN'S HONEYMOON.
289
burning drop of shameful memory may embitter a
whole cupful of present happiness. Else were there
no justice under heaven; while faithful men, whose
love has never swerved, are for ever severed, this side
the grave, from all they have best loved on earth. Was
it my darling's avenging angel who had brought this .
couple here to-night, that my ears might testify to the
baseness of her who had seduced me from my heart's
first allegiance?
This is what I heard the husband reply:
“Ma chère, it would be dull work for me watching
you try to re-hook your fish. No doubt you would
succeed—you always do. But I put it to you fairly-
est-ce que cela vaut la peine? You, who have had em-
perors at your feet, you may leave your poor artist
in peace at last, eh, to the miserable enjoyment of his
model wife. She punishes him enough for his infi-
delity before marriage, depend on it.”
“No doubt; and I should like to have seen my
friend henpecked,” replied the lady with a smile. “It
was just because he was so different from all the men
of one's own set that I amused myself with him, mon
cher, during your absence. I knew you would never
have tolerated him in the house-as he never plays
écarté; but as you were in Russia, it was rather an
amusing change, after all the blasés men of the Jockey
Club, to listen to this passionate sentimental painter,
with his talk about Christian art, and his enthusiasm
about the colour of one's hair and the turn of one's
neck, and his utter absence of all conventionality. He
was quite refreshing, I assure you, until he came to be
a bore. By-the-bye, you never saw the picture he did
Morals and Mysteries.
19


290
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
of me, in the dress I wore at the Princesse Mathilde's
bal costume. If we stayed here the night--"
Here the fresh horses were brought out; and in the
imprecations which accompanied the tugging at the
rope harness and the shoving of the beasts into
· their places at the pole, I lost the remainder of this
sentence.
“If I have any luck, before we return to Paris I'll
send to the fellow and buy his picture," said the hus-
band; “but to-night, remember that Schwartzenheim is
to meet us at Como.”
“And he plays at écarté! I will get the miniature
from Valerian, however, without your buying it, mon
ami.”
“You shall not have long to wait," I murmured;
and disengaging myself from the arms of my darling,
who followed me, pale and bathed in tears, I entered
our little room, and ran to a case which stood near
the bed. Among a number of other miniatures was
one half-finished, which I had not looked at for months.
I seized a sponge full of water, and passed it several
times across the hard, beautiful, white face, that looked
out at me less and less distinctly, until nothing but the
faintest shadow of a face was left. Then I wrote with
my pencil across it:
VALERIAN'S LAST GIFT.
I ran into the balcony. They were just starting. The
padrone, surrounded by his satellites, stood cringing
and congéing at the door: the postillion was already
in his saddle, the courier climbing deſtly into his
rumble. I took my aim just as the whip went “crack!”


292
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
,
brings me peace when I look into it. And when I see
her baby curled like a rose-leaf on her bosom, and her
two sturdy boys, who clean father's palette and mimic
father's pictures in chalk upon the studio-wall,-ah,
well, I say to myself, there is nothing the Schwartzen-
heim palace contains, nothing that poor dead woman's
life ever compassed, that I would take in exchange for
the joys my wife has given me!


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE.


-
_
-
-


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE.
Mann
MORE than forty years ago I was a poor art-student,
journeying over Europe, with a knapsack on my back,
having resolved to visit, if possible, every gallery worth
a painter's study. I started with but a few shillings in
my pocket; but I had colours and brushes, strength of
limb, and determination of heart. It was my practice,
on entering a town, to offer to paint a portrait, in
exchange for so many days' bed and board; or,
when I found no man's vanity to be thus played upon,
I applied at all the likeliest shops, and I seldom failed
of work. Thus I was enabled to carry out my scheme,
while most of my fellow-students were vegetating where
I had left them, with minds unenlarged by contact
with the men and the arts of other countries. Though
I left England with a heavy heart—for I was leaving
behind me the hope and promise of my life--and
though I was away on my walk through Europe more
than two years, “in weariness" ... and "in fastings
often,” yet I never envied the unambitious routine, the
inglorious repose, of my less enterprising friends. I was
constantly obliged to go without a dinner, when a turn
of ill-luck (some temporary illness, or the artistic ob-
tuseness of a whole city) had drained my purse very


298
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
The sacristan was upon his rounds, to see that there
were no loiterers in the sacred building; his vigilant
eye spięd me. He laid a hand on my shoulder; he
shook me-I must move off. With a heavy sigh I
rose, and then, for the first time, perceived two young
women standing behind the sacristan, their eyes fixed
upon me. No doubt they were leaving the cathedral,
and had stopped arrested at the sight of a young man
being unearthed from a confessional.
It was impossible to mistake that they were sisters,
though one was shorter and much less well-favoured
than the other; but they had the same grey piercing
eyes, fair skins, and hair which was something beyond
flaxen-it was almost white. This hair was worn in a
strange fashion, which I cannot describe, though I
see it even now before me—the glittering spiral threads
hanging partly down the back, and surmounted by
some sort of black coif or conical head-gear. Their
aspect, altogether, was very singular: I found that, so "
goon as my eye had fallen on them, I could not take
it off; and, to say the truth, if I stared, the young
women returned my stare with interest. As I moved
wearily away, the elder one spoke:
“Have you no money to buy yourself a night's
lodging, young man?”.
“I have enough for that, Fräulein," I replied,
colouring, “but I am almost too tired to go about and
look for one. .... I have been ill, and have walked
some miles to-day.”
The sisters exchanged glances.
“If it be so, we will give you a supper and a night's
lodging. We need no payment. We are bound by a


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE.
299
vow to help any poor wayfarer so far. You may come
with us, young man.”
Something within me said, "Do not go.” But why?
What young fellow of twenty would refuse the hospi-
tality of two handsome women, especially when he has
but a few shillings in his pocket; is tired and hungry?
Yet I hesitated.
“Accept it or decline it,” said she, who was still
the spokeswoman, somewhat impatiently. “We cannot
wait here longer.”
We were at the door as she said this.
“I will paint your pictures in the morning, then,
in return for your hospitality,” I replied, smiling. I
was a vain boy, I am afraid, in those days. I had
good teeth, and liked to show them. The younger
sister, I saw, never took her eyes off me. There was
no harm in appearing to the best advantage. I bowed
rather directly to her as I spoke; and once more the
sisters exchanged glances.
A hired carriage was waiting. Without a word,
they stepped into it, and I followed them. The driver
clearly knew where to drive. Without any order being
given, we set off rapidly, but in what direction I did
not think of observing. Like most German carriages,
the glasses rattled over the stones, so that I could not
hear myself speak. I made a futile effort, but neither
sister attempted to respond. Both sat there, opposite
me, motionless, leaning back in the two corners. I
had nothing for it but to watch their faces in silence,
and speculate about their history, as the lamps, swung
across the narrow streets, threw lurid jets of light ever
and anon upon those two white masks under the black
pointed coifs.


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE.
303
absorbed in her own thoughts; and once, when her
hand touched mine, I observed that it shook. She
filled up a tumbler of water and drank it. Lori pushed
the beer towards me.
“Fill up for yourself—-" I drained the jug into
my glass. I raised it to my lip and began to drink.
Suddenly Gretchen uttered a sharp cry, and started up.
In doing so, she nearly upset the table; and her elbow
somehow came in contact with the glass in my hand.
Its contents were spilt on the floor.
“Ach! the beetle— the horrid thing!” she cried.
“It has gone down my back, I believe!” She rushed
from the room, as white as a sheet.
“Fool!” muttered Lori, setting her jaws tight.
“What waste of good liquor! And there is no more
in the house! I will send her, for her pains, to go
and fetch another schoppen.”
“Not on my account, I pray. I like water quite as
well. Nay, your ‘Bayerische bier' sometimes disagrees
with me."
She looked up sharply into my face.
“Why, what manner of man are you, that drink
water?” she demanded.
“I seldom afford myself anything else," I replied.
The beer had streamed from the table to the floor,
where it had formed itself into a long diagonal channel
towards the stove. It was still dripping, which drew
my attention, I suppose, to the boards. The beer had
encountered one or two black-beetles in its course. I
had heard of their fondness for fermented liquors; it
had taken effect very quickly in this case. I saw them
struggle, feebly and more feebly, to crawl away from


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE.
311
outside. There could be no longer a doubt of the
design against me.
The many church clocks through the old city struck
two. I listened for any movement in the house, and
once I fancied I heard some one breathing outside
my door. But I waited a long time, and it was fol-
lowed by no other sound. Then I began to drag the
bed, the table, and the chairs, and to pile them up
into a barricade against the door. This occupied some
little time, and, work as quietly as I might, the neces-
sary noise prevented my hearing anything else. It
was not until my task was done that I became con-
scious of something moving in the garden, just below
my window. There was a dull low thud, as of some
hard substance striking the earth at regular intervals.
I crept to the window and looked out into the moon-
light, which was now fast disappearing behind a
gabled roof. Instead of illuminating the entire plot of
ground, the faint rays now fell slantwise into the
garden, of which more than one-half was swallowed in
black shadow. But I clearly distinguished two figures.
Do you remember Millais' Vale of Rest? When I saw
that picture, years afterwards, I could not help shud-
dering. It recalled so vividly the attitude of the two
sisters as I beheld them in that terrible moment. The
women were digging a grave; the elder one with all
her masculine energy; the younger, reluctantly, as it
seemed, removing, with slow strokes of the spade, the
black earth, and pausing long between each. Once
she looked up, and the moonlight fell upon her wan
haggard face. She put back the long silver-lighted
hair from her brow; she leaned upon her spade; and


312
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
then a whisper, like a serpent's, in her ear, urged her
to her task again.
Should I fall asleep now, I was a dead man. I
knew it. No strength, no agility, could save me. The
dread of this became so acute, that it worked upon
my imagination. I began to think I felt drowsy. A
numbness seemed creeping over my limbs. A weight
was falling gradually on my stiffened eyelids. I prayed,
in an agony of terror, that I might not be killed asleep
-that I might, at least, have a fight for my life.
Suddenly Lori raised her head and listened. The
sound to which she had listened—a whistle, so low
that I could scarcely hear it was repeated. She crept
stealthily across the garden, and raised the latch of
the postern, which evidently did not open from the
outside. A man came in, a burly thickset fellow, and
the door was closed again. The three stood together
for a moment in the moonlight. Lori and the man
looked up at my window (I took care they should not
see me), while Gretchen turned her head away and
wrung her hands. Then all three came slowly and
noiselessly towards the house.
Now or never was my moment for escape! There
was one chance for me. I had seen how the door
opened ... if I could manage to reach it! .... But
if I hesitated, a few minutes hence the drugged beer
might complete its work, and I be unable to move
hand or foot. I opened the window softly, and looked
out. There was a drop of about twenty feet into the
garden (which, it must be remembered was some feet
below the kitchen again). If I jumped this, the noise
must attract attention, and I might sprain or break my


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNE.
313
leg into the bargain. An expedient occurred to me.
I had not replaced the flooring which I had removed.
The board, which ran the full length of the room,
measured nearly sixteen feet. Leaning as far as I
could stretch, out of window, I managed to rest one
end of this board upon the ground, the other against
the house wall some four or five feet below me.
I had scarcely accomplished this, when I heard the
sound of feet outside my door, a bolt withdrawn, the
handle turned. My barricade would obstruct the door-
way for some few minutes: but for some few minutes
only. I had just time to swing myself from the window-
sill by my hands, to get both feet round the plank, to
slide to the ground, to fly like the wind, to raise the
postern latch, when the crash of falling table and
chairs reached my ears. I ran-I know not in which
direction-up one street, and down another, on, on,
fancying I heard the sound of feet behind me; no soul
visible, to right or left. At last, breathless and ex-
hausted, down by the river's side, I came to a soldiers'
guard-house. A sentry was at the door; there was the
ruddy light of the men's pipes and of a lantern within.
No haven was ever more grateful to shipwrecked mariner.
I fell down upon the step; the sergeant and his men
came and stared, demanded with oaths what I wanted,
and, as I could not speak at first, declared I was drunk.
Then, as in half-inarticulate phrase I poured out my
strange tale, they changed their minds, and declared
I was mad. But as I was an amusing rather than a
dangerous lunatic, and served to beguile the tedious
hours of the night, they let me remain among them;
· asked the same stupid questions over and over again;
laughed their horse laughs; and spat, and spat all round


318
MORALS AND MYSTERIES.
the savage satisfaction at the prospect of seeing them
broken on the wheel ----"
“Broken on the wheel! Good Heaven, sir, you
surely don't mean that this sentence was carried out?”
“Yes. It is, as I have said, very unusual, now,
for this punishment to be even recorded, still less en-
forced. But in cases of very rare atrocity, nothing
short of it seems to satisfy the public.* I saw even
women, to-day, looking on unmoved; though I, a soldier,
who have seen a good many bloody battle-fields in the
great war, would fain have ridden away when I heard
the first crush of the elder sister's arms. It was hor-
rible to hear—and then her cries! You know how it
is done? The head is held down by two men, by a
rope tied round the neck. The limbs are then broken,
one after another, from above, by a heavy wheel. At
the end, the head is severed from the body by a sword.
The elder sister's agony was prolonged to the very
end. I suspect the executioners were more merciful
to the younger sister. It is known that they sometimes
contrive to strangle the culprit while holding the head
down. The younger, after the first sharp cry, never
uttered another. She had ceased to suffer, I hope and
believe, long before she was beheaded.”
Some minutes elapsed before I could speak. I
opened my sketch-book, and turned over its pages.
“Sir,” I said at last, “I have one question more to
ask you. Do these heads at all resemble the wretched
women whose death you this day witnessed?”
“Assuredly they do. They must have been drawn
from life,” •he replied.
* The wheel was absolutely abolished in Prussia about thirty years ago.


THE TWO SISTERS OF COLOGNÉ.
319
I then told him my story, as I have now told it
you. I need hardly say he did not doubt but that I
had actually, in the flesh encountered the sisters Strauss,
and had been in such imminent peril as very few men
have survived. As to the hypothesis of a dream, which
had taken such firm root in my mind that I could not
lightly discard it, the officer laughed it to scorn.
Yet even at this distance of time, when I read and
hear strange stories of second-sight, of prophetic dreams,
and warning vi ions, a doubt crosses my mind, and I
ask myself whe her my adventure with the two sisters
of Cologne was ot, perhaps, of the nature of these?
But you now kr, y as much as I do, and I leave you
to decide the poi for yourself.
THE END.


PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.