Zl / UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE GIFT OF MAY TREAT MORRISON IN MEMORY OF ALEXANDER F MORRISON EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL, a JJmcS of Romantic Calrsi of tije (JMoen Cime. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE CATTERMOLE. V LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COYENT GARDEN. 1889. LOND PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES IND SONS, LIMITED. -TAMFORD STRKFT VNI> CHJUUXO CROSS. 4 M t C 15a ADVERTISEMENT. Little need be said in commendation of this artistical volume. Cattermole ranks, by common consent, in the very 5* first class of English artists, and the present examples are ^ among the most pleasing of his efforts. The Engravers, all of distinguished excellence, have done justice to the painter ; and, considered as a whole, it is perhaps not too much to say, that the present volume, for perfection of art combined with -J- moderation in price, stands unrivalled. The letterpress is contributed by various competent < writers, under the editorial superintendence of the Baroness '4 de Calabrella S 5 H. G. B. 439087 CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTION . ». ■ , . 1 EVENING THE FIRST. THE TOURNAMENT 13 ANDRIANI , 55 EVENING THE SECOND. THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY 90 love's IAST TRYST 148 EVENING THE THIRD. some passages in the life of the conquistador . . 154 the secret of the fountain 173 the poet's bride ... 184 queen mary's welcome 190 the abbey in ruins ... 193 VI CONTENTS. EVENING THE FOURTH. nor THE ASTROLOGER .206 THE GUABDIAK ANGEL 231 THE NUBIAS 204 EVENING THE FIFTH. ... 297 Mil; TERRACE GARDEN 326 II.NCE * 349 EVENING THE SIXTH. THE ASSAULT OF THE DEVIL* S BRIDGE 30o CHABLBS THE TWELFTH , 868 LOVE To THE RESCUE ....... 37.1 ILLUSTRATIONS, DRAWINGS BY GEORGE CATTERMOLE. SUBJECT. NAME OF ENGBAVEE. PAGE 1. The Armourer's Tale L. Stocks ... 25 2. Arming a Young Knight . . . . J. Goodyear . . 36 3. The Knight's Departure for the ) _ „ _ \ L. Stocks ... 41 Tournament ) 4. The Tournament C. Rolls .... 53 5. The Knight's Death J. Goodyear . . 54 6. The Sleeping Captive C. Rolls .... 69 7. Ship est Flames J. C. Bentley . . 132 8. The Aged Minstrel L. Stocks . . . 147 9. Moonlight Scene in Venice . . . R. Brandard . . 148 10. Ancient Hall, with Soldiers ) T ^ „ 7 \ J. C. Bentley . . 165 Carousing ) Vill 1 1 I I SI It \ I i ' 11. The Magi Foi ntadj NAME in l.M.ItAVEK. ./. Couaen 12. 'I'm : C. Rolls . //. Griffith*. 1-1. TED . . . . ,S". Fisher 15. 'I'm AflfTB iLOGEB //. YiloKs. 16. Tm Li Doria GARDENS . . — Radcliffe 17. cled Vessel in a> Storm . . R. Brandard 18. Zoe, AT her-Balcont .... C. Rolls . . 19. TheTerraCI Gardeh J. Cousen . ; .ah; i ii Ai-i.i F. Eaglehart 21. '' lTaaaoh J.C.Bentley 22. ThbMonr — Bighorn A IIawkini; Party R. Brandard TheWi J. B. Alien. 181 189 192 198 224 233 275 322 327 360 382 391 407 EYENINGS AT HADDON HALL In the most singular and romantic, and withal the most beautiful, of the divisions of our all-beautiful Eng- land — the district of the Peak — is situated one of the noblest of those architectural relics of the times of Chi- valry and Romance, which any country, even England itself, can boast — a relic that is preserved by its owners with as pious care, and made the object of as many pil- grimages of admiring interest, as the shrines of saints are wont to be, in countries where saints were needed to supply the place of those social virtues of which the " merry England " of the olden time was the chosen home. At the period when Haddon Hall was the proud seat of the Vernons, the old English hospitality of our barons and feudal chiefs rendered superfluous that less gracious and grateful dispensation which had previously borne the name of Charity — a name that the wiser bene- volence of the times we speak of had, in England at least, banished from the vocabulary used to interpret between man and man. At this period, the princely hospitality of the Lords of Haddon Hall, demanded for its due dis- pensation the constant services of a retinue of seven score of domestics, and an annual outlay that would have ex- 1 l llADIiiiN I! LLL. sted the tn iury of many of the reigning sovereigns less favoured countra I Lb within the precincts of this princely abode of the \ l0 iM and the .Manner ■> that those simple revels are to place in which we would lain interest the imagina- tions of our readers, with a view to their due appreciation (,!' those exquisite specimens of high art which it is our pleasant office to he the medium of introducing to the world, and which <»we their inspiration to the stately times .liich those stately nln- belong — times when, depre- them as we may, by our meaningless epithets of "rude," "barbarous," "uncivilized," and the like, gave t«. nohhr achievements of human intellect, brighter of human character, more beautiful examples of human virtue, and more signal evidences of the heights to which our common Mature is capable of attaining, than are i '-dreamt of in the philosophy/' much less realised in prai '. ••, of OUT <>wn ultra-civilized day— times, too, to which the highest art and the purest literature of our own dav are frequently compelled to resort, in search of those i excellence, those traits of heroism, and those bols of intellectual and moral beauty, for which the moured seekers look in vain in that more "cultivated" .•. Inch they appeal. But !■ t as m>t, in our desire to be just to the illus- Deadj do an unjust thing to the illustrious Living — • ;' all let OS do this on the threshold of that spot which, : be, is di stined to he hallowed by the revival very institutions to which the "good "Id time-" d their goodness, and "merry England" all her t merriment, [f the social life of England tined ent "winter of her discontent" melt into the spring-time of hopeful promise, and happy perform- * EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 3 ance, by a recurrence to those antique usages, the birth of which was coeval with the antique halls to which we are conducting our readers, it will be (under Heaven) through the instrumentality of what the wise world is at present pleased to consider as the "dreams" of a scion of that noble house to which those halls belong. If we err not greatly, the name of Manners will, at no distant period, be associated with that noblest and happiest of all revolu- tions, a recurrence to those wise simplicities of social life which mark the youth of all nations, and which too seldom survive it. It is, then, to Haddon Hall, with its noble recollec- tions, its happy associations, and the still happier promises and prophecies of what may belong to its future destiny, — that we desire the reader to accompany vis in imagination, while we endeavour to place before him, in a light worthy their unequalled beauty, results of the pictorial art which nothing but scenes and social institutions like those of Haddon in the olden time could have inspired, and which, in the presence of more modern localities and associations, would lose half their interest, and all that dignified pro- priety and appropriateness which are the crowning graces of high art. Haddon Hall was built before the Conquest ; and the extensive and elaborate alterations, and vast additions, made to it at so many different periods, afford a signal proof of the estimation in which this noble baronial man- sion was held, both for its internal magnificence, and the beauty of the surrounding scene. To have demolished any portion of this dignified and time-honoured structure, would have been held sacrilege by the whole neighbour- hood ; indeed, there were so many legends and supersti- tions connected with the various psrts of it, that it has 4 EVENINGS AT IIADDON IIALL. always been an object of veneration, and sometimes of terror, in the country around. Even to some of its mas- Bive trees there were tales attached, which were handed traditionally from generation to generation, but never whispered beyond the precincts of the domain. Some of e are now about to be disclosed for the amusement of our readers. In the meantime, we must be allowed to complete our descriptive sketch of the spot at that parti- cular period of its existence (we will not specify precisely how many or how few years ago) at which we have chosen to make it the scene of our revels. The mansion was approached by a massive portal be- tween two towers, near the angle of the lower ward; at the upper side of which, was the principal entrance to the body of the mansion, many of the earliest features of which have been studiously preserved. The great banqueting-hall in particular remained nearly in its primeval state, and con- tained many antlers, casques, and bucklers of various ages, from its foundation. This hall opened, at the lower extre- mity, immediately into the kitchen, from one part, and from another into the buttery, whence the substantial viands were formerly served. Near the door of the latter, tlere still remained (and remains) a curious instrument attached to its post, resembling a handcuff, — in which, it iv supposed, the wrist of any recreant who refused to quaff the generous gohlel presented to him, was confined in a position raised above his head, so that the contents of the goblet which he had rejected might be poured down his sleeve; for, in those simple times, it was deemed as much a duty to do honour to hospitality as it was to disp it : you might stay away from the generous revels; but if you chose to be present at them, you were expected to yield to those influences which, for the time, made alj EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 5 equal. In this hall, in former ages, the lord of the soil sat at the high table, surrounded by his family; while his vassals and retainers occupied two long tables flanking the walls. On the occasion we are about to signalise, — which was in celebration of the birthday of his only child, a beautiful girl of fifteen years of age, — the then lord of this princely domain occupied the same seat, and the customs and cere- monies of the antique time were preserved, as far as they could be rendered consistent with modern luxuries and refinements; as, for instance, the rushes, which had for- merly strewed the floor, were now replaced by magnificent carpets from the Turkish looms; the bare oaken forms by cushioned, high-backed, and richly-carved chairs; the pewter or wooden trenchers, by massive services of plate. Many ancient goblets had been preserved, and were held in far greater veneration than any of the splendid addi- tions of gold and silver plate which adorned the gorgeous sideboards. The ancient arras had been kept through each generation with great care, and still decorated the walls. The upper end of this hall communicated with the guard-room, leading to a spacious staircase of old black oak, in the walls of which were many niches containing suits of armour and military trophies. The ceiling was of massive oak, panelled, and decorated with gold and bril- liant colours, and emblazoned with the numerous armorial bearings of the noble ancestors of the family. The large bay window, by which the staircase was lighted, projected from the centre of the broad landing, and contained rare specimens of ancient painted glass. At each end of this landing were doors, communicating, the one on the right to the state apartments, and the other, on the left, to the EVENINGS AT SADDON HALL. private apartments. These continued in opposite direc- tions round the great quadrangle, meeting on the opposite Bide in the chapel. The first apartment on the right was an ante-chamber; the second, a spacious and lofty room, or audience- chamber, opening directly into the great gallery, — the proportions of which might, at first sight, appear some- what too narrow, but this apparent defect was amply com- pensated for by three deep and spacious recesses, the farther end of which was composed of alternate casements and mullions of stone. The upper compartments of these ments were nearly tilled with the finest old stained glass, while the lower portions were left clear, with the evident object of gaining an uninterrupted view into the tilt-yard; in the wide arena of which many a tournament had been held, in those days when every word and action of a true and loyal knight had some reference to their lady-love ; when they styled themselves servants, or slaves of \<>\c — "serviteurs, ou servants d' amour ;" — and in this adopted character of slaves, they often Buffered themselves to be led to the place of combat by their fair mistret by small chains, or rich ribbons, fastened to the head- ph -co of their horses. In the same quality, the knights wore the colour and livery of their ladies, and certain devices, which were only understood by each other; and thes< i's d'amour" are the principal origin (according to Saint Palaye) of the unintelligible words to be found in the arm- of many noble houses. The gallery, of which we have spoken, had been the favourite resort of the family of each possessor; and whether occupied by a large or small party, had always a cheerful and commodious aspect. Many a game of blind- man's buff had been played at one end of it, by the young EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 7 aud buoyant of spirit, without disturbing the gravity of some political discussion that was being carried on by the diplo- matists of the day in one of the recesses, or deranging the whist party of some dowager intent on the odd trick. From time to time, Haddon Hall had been honoured by many royal visits ; and the descriptions preserved in the record-tower, of these entertainments, prove that they must have been of the most sumptuous character. In latter years, the banqueting-hall had been used only upon great occasions ; and the party lately assembled to celebrate the birthday of the young heiress, having been reduced to a comparatively small circle of relations and intimates, the grand apartments were abandoned, and the well-stored library became the resort of the remaining guests, among whom might be found that happy mixture of society nowhere to be met with in such perfection as in an English country-house. There were persons of various nations, holding eminent positions — ministers and diplo- matists, — distinguished members of the church, the bar, and the senate, — learned orators and statesmen, — men of nigh literary and scientific accomplishments, — members of the army and navy, — some students from the universities ; and, as might be expected, in company with such an assemblage of high-bred gentlemen, a goodly knot of fair, accomplished, and amiable women were also present. The season had advanced to the middle of March. The weather was unusually sevei'e ; snow was lying deep on the ground, forbidding egress from the mansion. This circumstance, which at first threatened to throw a gloom on the party, became unexpectedly the source of much interest and amusement. Ennui had begun to make itself felt, and the question of — What shall we do to pass the time ? had been whispered confidentially from one to an- R EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. other, till everybody seemed to have learned it by heart ; wheilj at last, the lovely daughter of the house, the Lady Eva, who was turning over a portfolio of " rich and rare " gems of art by George Cattermole, suddenly exclaimed — " 'Will some one come and explain what these beautiful pictures mean V The question, simple as it might seem, involved a point of critical difficulty, felt by most of those to whom the inquiry was addressed, but not readily to be solved by any one of them, without more thought than they seemed disposed to give to the subject. All present, not excepting the Lady Eva herself, appreciated the extraordinary beauty of the designs which lay before them ; but all, and she in particular, were evidently perplexed, and some were even annoyed by the vague and unsatisfactory feeling which always attends the inspection of a design, of the precise subject of which we are ignorant. All felt that the di signs, which were by this time eagerly spread out upon the library table by the Lady Eva, were exquisite works of art ; and all, like her, the more they examined them, I came the more anxious to learn the particular subject of which each picture was an illustration. The artist himself not being present to reply to the repeated (mental) cry, on all hands, of "Explain! Explain \" the case seemed a hopeless one, when a lady — (there is nothing like female wit for solving a knotty point, for if no other course is left, she will cut the knot, and solve it that way) — a lady exclaimed — "It would be easier, I suspect, to invent an illustration of each of these beautiful designs, than obtain, even from the artist himself, an intelligible account of the incidents of which they are illustrations." The vivacious fancy of the lovely Lady Eva seized the idea almost before it was fairly expressed, and she eagerly EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 9 exclaimed; — "Oh, do invent some stories ! How delightful it will be ! Who will begin ?" At first, the eagerness of the fair girl did but rouse the attention of all present to the object of her anxious interest. But to look upon works of art like those in question, and not to feel the interest and curiosity they excite " grow by what 'tis fed on," is impossible. Every one was presently absorbed in the careful examination of the several designs, with a sort of half unconscious desire to arrange his or her thoughts or feelings respecting each of them, into some tangible and intelligible narrative form ; and before the Lady Eva, in her anxious culling of the designs, with a view to the commencement of the pleasant project, had found time to repeat her question, of " Who will invent some stories ? " several of the members of that accomplished company had made up their minds that the project should not fail for want of their assistance. Just at this point, the first dinner-bell rung, to the no slight chagrin of the eager and excitable Eva ; " And when a dinner 's in the case, All other things, you know, give place." At least, it is so in that true home and temple of Hos- pitality, an English country-house. But they often give place, only to be entertained with double zest for the delsv. At all events, in the case we are treating of, the appare interruption to the project did but forward, rather thai, retard it, and even before the lady guests had quitted the board, it had been fully determined, on all hands, by a sort of tacit compact, felt rather than expressed, that the Birthday Revels of the lovely daughter of their host should be signalized by something more likely to be 10 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. remembered pleasantly and profitably in her after yens, than the inanities of a quadrille, the tuirlings of a waltz, the tramplinga of a polka, or the small-talk proper to the intervals occurring between such frivolities. Accordingly, by the time our party had re-assembled in the library that same evening, a desultory conversation between the most gifted members of it, especially those among them who had some practical knowledge of the use of the pen, had arranged the general features of the simple plan on which to carry out the fortuitous suggestion of the young Queen of the Revels of Haddon Hall; leaving the minor details of the plan to the momentary suggestions of its originator, and thus affording her the double delight of feeling that she was in some sort the architect of that monument which was destined, in after years, to mark her happy advent to that loveliest of all the phases of female life, the debateable point which intervenes between the fresh dawn of roseate girlhood, and the bright sunrise of incipient womanhood. It only remains for the recorder of these " Evenings at Haddon Hall" to relate, in the fewest possible words, the simple steps by which the Lady Eva was led, almost unconsciously on her own part, to work out the inartificial plan which her eager and excited imagination had ori- ginated. And first, of the first Evening. EVENING THE FIRST. It nrast be noted that the Lady Eva, who was, perhaps, even better acquainted with the history of her father's noble place than any one else present, had, while waiting somewhat impatiently in the library for the advent of the last lagging guests from the dinner-table, in her nervous restlessness, several times passed to the moon-lit windows of the fine old room, and looked forth vaguely on the great court below, tracing the massive shadow of one of the old towers, as it lay in heavy blackness on the other- wise bright space. But on the last occasion of her look- ing forth, a thought seemed to flash like a sudden light upon her eager fancy — she started from the window — clapped her fair hands, as if in an ecstasy of mingled pleasure and excitement, and exclaimed aloud, — " A Tournament ! The very thing ! How delightful ! That shall be the subject of our first story." While speaking, she betook herself to the table where the beautiful drawings, on which her mind was so intent, were spread in bright confusion, and selected from among them five, which evidently owed their origin to the times when noble feats of arms held the place of those ignoble sports — (our male readers will forgive us the phrase, bear- ing in mind the sex, and, it may be, pitying the simple 12 EVENINGS AT IIADDON MALL. tastes of the recorder of tins, simple Revels) — which have mainly helped to banish chivalry from the land. " There !" continued the lovely child, worthy herself to stand for an effigy of one of those "ladves-fuyre" who figured in the times which now filled her eager thoughts; " There ! somebody shall make a story about those five beautiful designs, and call it ' The Tournament.'" " Mark you her absolute shall ?" It was final, on the present occasion, as the "shall" of beauty is, and (some- times) ought to be. Turning with the quick tact of youth to the individual of all that company best fitted, by his studies and tastes, to carry her happy thought into effect, the Lady Eva went up to him, and, holding out the designs, exclaimed — raising her beseeching eyes to his face with one of those radiant smiles which are so resist- less in the early bloom of girlish beauty, — " There ! you shall be my knight-errant of the evening, and lead the Revels. You know what a number of pretty things you have told me of the brave knights and beau- tiful ladies who used— I don't know how many hundred years ago— to grace our old court-yard below, and turn its present dreary and dreamy silence into a scene of noisy revelry. Nay, it was only yesterday you were telling me anecdotes of some of the wearers of those very helmets, and the wielders of those very swords and lances, that hang uselessly on the walls of our old banqueting-haU. If you could make, or remember, all those delightful little stones and anecdotes from merely looking on a few bat- tered casques and rusty weapons, surely these beautiful drawings must inspire you witli whole volumes. Come — take them ! Look at them for five minutes, and then im- provisez me a Tale of Chivalry that shall make them all as intelligible as if they were executed for if, not it for them." THE TOURNAMENT. 13 The appeal was not to be resisted — at all events, not by the young and enthusiastic student and admirer of that age and its attributes to which the appeal applied. He took the drawings that the Lady Eva held out to him ; examined them one by one, carefully and intently, for a few minutes, and then, the company having hushed itself to silence for the expected result, he pi-oceed to relate THE TOURNAMENT. The ravages of war seldom leave enduring traces on the earth. Often a field of battle, with all its agonies and terrors, is known only by the richer harvest that waves on its breast. Nature, which banishes so soon from a nation's mind and heart the memory of great calamities, is careful, at the same time, to efface all material vestiges of them. Even walls, that have been carried by storm and blackened by fire, soon cease to exhibit distinct signs of strife. Luxuriant vegetation covers the stains of blood and smoke ,• creeping plants and shrubs insinuate their roots in crevices made by the shock of artillery, and gracefully crown the battlements and towers that have been partially overthrown by the repeated assaults of an armed host. When this transformation is complete, hardly, to an un- practised eye, can the slow and peaceful ravages of time be distinguished from the work of destruction accom- plished by man. A generation does not elapse before the castle that has been overthrown by an enemy, and that presented at first frightful images of war, shows the same aspect as one that has been suffered to go to decay from the protection of its walls being no longer needed, and that stands, even in ruin, a monument of peace. Many dismantled castles of the character thus indi 14 EVLXINGS AT HA DOOM HALL. cated were to be seen in England in the reign of the fourth Edward, after the long and disastrous civil wars. In the county of Derby there was one calculated to strike the eye, from its magnitude and the peculiarity of its site. It was built on a natural elevation, which, from having been gradual, had by art been rendered rugged and abrupt, — the steep pathway, by which access alone could be gained, having been jealously guarded from the possibility of suc- cessful attack ; but overthrown defences alone now marked the care that had been taken to render the fortress impregnable. From the height there was a noble view, over wood- land, meadow, and river, till the prospect was bounded by a chain of irregular hills, which, in all aspects of light and shade, mingled so naturally with the hue of heaven, that it was difficult to tell where earth ended and sky began. To the east these hills were softened down into a series of gentle undulations ; and here, at the extreme range of vision, rose the walls and turrets of a castle, belonging to the house of Lenorde. Between this powerful family and that of the Fauconvilles there had long been bitter and deadly enmity. The clear stream that separated the two domains, and served as their frontier, suggesting, with its pellucid waters and richly fringed banks, only images of peace, had often ran red with the blood of the retainers of the two great rivals. There was perpetual and, as it seemed, inextinguishable strife between them, and each lord could refer to a long list of injuries, treasured up with as much care as the noble deeds of his ancestors, to justify the continuance of the feud, and the call for reta- liation. It was remarked that, in all disputes of the state, these houses invariably took opposite sides. Tra- dition traced their hatied (so Ions will hatred survive its THE TOURNAMENT. 15 first occasion) to a quarrel that had taken place on a point of precedent when the Conqueror was preparing in Nor- mandy his invasion of the English shores. From this insignificant source had descended the broad tide of quarrel that had caused so many calamities, and that seemed widening and augmenting as it pursued its course unchanged through all the mutations of time. At no period within memory had the two families been at peace. As the fortunes of one sank, those of the other commonly rose ; but never had either possessed sufficient power to wholly crush his opponent. An ancient prophecy, sug- gested, doubtless, to some bard by the hope of gaining his lord's favour, or of pleasing the popular prejudices of those with whom he lived, ran that friendship between the two houses should be fatal to both. The superstition was cherished on each side, and guarded in remembrance with as much care as an article of faith : it well answered its end, and caused the prospect of even a temporary arrangement, or the slightest approach to conciliation, to be regarded with horror, as an omen of evil. In the long wars of the Roses, the two chiefs then at the head of their respective houses, found ample oppor- tunities of gratifying their animosity. Deadly injuries were mutually given and received. In the conflict, both champions were weakened, and shared in the fluctuations of the sides they embraced, but years elapsed before one could boast of a superiority over the other. When, at last, fortune determined the victory, she did so decisively. Sir Richard de Lenorde and the Baron of Fauconville were in the prime of life when the war first broke out. Sir Richard, more renowned for policy than deeds in arms, espoused the cause of York, destined in the end to be victorious. His rival, of more chivalrous character, and 1G EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. one of the best knights of his age, remained steady ii his allegiance to Henry the Sixth. When, at length, the White Rose was in the ascendant, Sir Richard, whose in- fluence was strong with his great lcadei, the Duke of York, persuaded him to bend for a time all his strength to the subjugation of one of his bravest and most dangerous opponents. An army, rapidly collected, advanced, without notice of its approach, and surrounded Lord Fauconville's castle. The brave chief, without hope of relief, saw him- self doomed to inevitable ruin. Throughout the land there ran a rumour that a terrible example would be made of the powerful and malignant Lancastrian. His defence was worthy of his fame. Disdaining a submission, which he knew would be fruitless, he boldly defied his enemu -, and knowing who had brought this overwhelming force against him, sent a formal challenge to his foe, Sir Richard de Lenorde, demanding that the fate of the siege should be decided by a mortal combat between them, in view of the besieging army and the defenders of the castle. The days were past when such a chivalrous defiance would be accepted, and the answer returned was stern and con- temptuous : — " We have met as equals, often enough," it said ; " when we face each other next, it shall be for the moment that elapses before the headsman strikes his blow. It is not for a rebel to prescribe terms to his conquerors." Braver knight never mounted steed or guarded fortress than the good Baron of Fauconvillc. But unavailing are the efforts of the highest will against the might that over- masters it. In vain does the captive, with stout heart and strong hand, strive to rend the massive walls that enclose him ; in vain does the pilot oppose skill and resolve to the strength of wind and wave. The lord of the belea- guered castle disputed every inch of ground with his foes. THE TOURNAMENT. 17 but they were numerous, active, and determined. Slowly they gained the outward defences, and advanced to the very walls : force did much ; famine more. The whole garrison became exhausted or disabled, and on the morn- ing when the grand assault was made, not a hundred men were on the walls to meet it. There was a bloody and desperate struggle, hand to hand, upon the ramparts. Fighting to the last, though wounded and faint, the Baron was surrounded by a host of foemen, and struck to the ground. Then all was lost, and the castle given to rapine. Utterly helpless, but with a spirit still unconquered, the Lord of Fauconville was led into the presence of his here- ditary foe. An order for his execution had been obtained from York, who was enraged by the length of the siege, and the loss of his troops. In the sight of weeping cap- tives and the triumphant host stood the fatal block, with the executioner wielding his keen axe beside it. Disdain- ing to ask for mercy, the brave lord advanced with firm and steady pace to his death, haughtily returning the exulting glances of his pitiless foe. Once only his frame shook with a strong convulsion, and his features lost their composure. It was when Sir Richard de Lenorde rudely seized from a matron's arms the infant son of Fauconville, the sole hope of his house, and triumphantly held him in view of his captive father. For an instant, the chief hesi- tated ; nature was strong within his breast ; and he almost decided to dash through his guards, snatch his son from the polluting grasp that held him, and die with him in his arms ; but his pride forbade him to give this last triumph to his enemy. "With a strong effort, he mastered his emo- tion, and commended his child to God. As he reached the elevation where the apparatus of death was displayed, he gazed round on the lovely view, every object of which 18 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. was endeared to him by some early recollection. Then, raising his noble form to its lull dignity, and casting back the masses of hair from liis pale but high and haughty features, he exclaimed, in tones that were heard widely round, and fell distinctly on the listening ear of his inve- terate rival — "Sir Richard de Lenorde, had 1 fallen by thy hand in the fair and open combat of man to man, I would have forgiven thee with my dying breath, and hav< prayed that the quarrel between our houses might cease. Thou hast taken a mean advantage of me ; this is butcher}', not conquest ; my blood be on the head of thee and of thy children/' The whole assembly, awe-struck, heard the curse, which, spoken by dying lips, seemed to breathe the spirit of pro- phecy. Then, calmly placing his head on the block, the baron held his hand aloft, a sisn for the headsman to -trikc. As the axe flashed in the air, and descended, a scream of grief and agony burst forth from a thousand faithful hearts. It was the death-wail of the greatest and bravest warrior of an illustrious line. .Motives of policy, mingled, perhaps, with some touch i i pity for the orphan's helplessness, prompted Sir Richard to spare the child. Were he removed, the house of Fau- conville would not long remain without an enterprising leader, who might renew the strife. From this danger the knight felt secure, so long as he kept the true heir in his custody. The result showed his prudence. In Ins hands, the young lord became a hostage of peace, and the wide domain, that had so long been the her; of the Fauconvilles, was quietly submitted to Sir Richard's authority. Years went by, and the curse of the dying lord bore no fruit. In the incrcasimr prosperity of the house of Dc THE TOURNAMENT. It Lenorde, it faded away from the memory of all but a few of the most devoted adherents of the murdered baron. Sir Richard helped to place the crown on Edward's brows, and to give the last fatal blow to the Lancastrian cause at Barriet. His son, a noble youth, was one of the favoured attendants of Edward's court, and the old knight lived full of years and honour. As the defeated party gathered round the new monarchy, they began to acquire influence, and the connexions of the Fauconville house threatened to call De Lenorde to account. But he had anticipated their clamours. A grant from the crown — how procured little mattered — gave him title to the Faucon- ville lands, with the exception of some few acres reserved round the castle ; and another royal order constituted him the guardian of the young lord. To all appearance, he performed his part fairly ; the castle was partially restored, though its defences were carefully left unrepaired, and the remaining portion of the child's inheritance was ostenta- tiously placed under careful stewardship. The policy of Sir Richard was to give no pretence for clamour, and he succeeded. Had the character of the young lord been other than it was, the old knight might have played a bolder and more daring game. But as the youth advanced to man- hood, there seemed nothing to fear from him. Gentle, almost timid in disposition, he took little delight in war- like exercises, preferring more peaceful pastimes, with hawk and hound. Educated in a religious house, he had caught some- thing of Ihe monkish taste for learning, which his politic guardian took care to encourage. He gave the boy's dreamy tastes free indulgence, and let him wander as he willed araid rural solitudes. With a pleased eye, he saw JO EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. that one of his girls was the chosen companion of the youth's excursions. To the knight's thought, there was nothing unnatural in an union between the two houses. Such allianct a were of common occurrence, since the wars had finally ceased; and were Edmund Fauconville wedded to the Lady Alice dc Lenorde, the last fear would he re- moved from his mind of being called to account fur the blood he had shed, and the lands he had usurped. He watched over their growing passion, laughing, as he fancied that the youth was more girlish in his heart than his com- panion. Fate denied him the full accomplishment of his wishes. He sickened; and, warned that his end ap- proached, summoned his family around him. He placed first the hand of the timid Edmund in that of his own bold, spirited son, Sir Raoul, though both youths shrank from the contact, and then motioned the young lord to embrace the sorrowing Alice, who knelt by the bed-side. Thi' youth complied ; but it seemed when he again rose, and shook back his dark waving hair from his thoughtful features, that the dying knight's spirit was mightily dis- turbed, as his eye caught the earnest and tixed regard of the vouthl'ul baron. He gave a deep groan, as if his soul was troubled by sonic grievous remembrance. The priest, who hung above him to catch his last accents, heard him murmur — " How few years have made us even ! May the curse he with me in my grave !" With these words he sank back and expired. It is beautiful to sec young and loving hearts happy in the present, and confident in the future, dreaming neither of gloom nor cloud, having no foreshadowing of coming ill, fancying thai the clear blue sky of a summer's night, vith its myriad stars, is an image of life and its pleasures. THE TOURNAMENT. 21 Then only does hope exist without fear, and indulge its happy illusions without dread of their fading. Two beings in the very brightness and dawn of youth- ful maturity wandered together through the sweet scenes of nature that surrounded their castle homes. The che- quered shade of forest trees shielded them from the ar- dent sun, and a stream, now deep and silent, which they compared to their love — now shallow and babbling, which they likened to joys less pure than theirs, filled the air with a delicious murmuring, and gave the promise, if not the reality, of refreshing coolness. The youth and maiden spoke of their prospects and plans without reserve. After their marriage, they would reside together in the abode of his fathers. It was less splendid, less luxurious, than the dwelling she had been accustomed to, but it had the re- mains of former grandeur, and they could make of it what they pleased. As the day declined, he led her will- ing steps up a steep pathway, conducting to the height, where the castle walls, though the battlements were over- thrown, and the defences gone, threw bold masses of shadow down the eastern slopes. The girl marked the ruins with a smile. " Ah, how beautiful," she said, " are these large masses of stone, covered with fresh moss, and blooming with wild thyme and oxslip \" The youth's cheek was flushed, but he did not answer, and the girl went on — " We have lost nothing by nature's gain. These walls, they tell me, did but provoke war, without contributing to the happiness of those who dwelt within them. Look, here is the home entire." It was so ; whatever damage had been done by rude assault to the domestic apartments of the castle, had been 22 l VENINQS AT HADDON IIW.L. repaired. Little was wanting to the noble mansion, Eave in the interior the restoration <>i' the rich furniture and decorations winch hail once adorned it. He guided her through the large and lofty halls, mag- nificent even in their desolation, and led to rooms which had been partially refitted, enjoying her exclamations of surprise that so much had been done since her last visit ; and thence to the chapel, where, in fair order, were ranged the tombs of his ancestors. Not one was wanting. The young lord knelt for a moment before the sculptured effigy and graven words which told of the valiant deeds and virtues of his sire. He died, said the tablet, in defending Ins castle from an assault led on by the great Duke, father of King Edward. "A noble death, Alice ! He was a knight of high re- nown, and won his spurs in France, fighting by the side of the renowned King Henry. But, come; I have yet a greater surprise for you I" They traversed a long and wide gallery, at the end of which a massive door admitted them into a noble hall The effect was singular. Through a richly-stained western window, the setting sun cast a Hood of brilliancy upon the lloor, reflecting the arms of the Fauconvilles, and the pic- tured representation of their most famous deeds. Around the walls were many suits of polished armour, looking — so cunningly were the plates of mail arranged — like stalwart knights, ready to grasp the spears which stood beside them. In the centre, an aged man, with white hair, yet with grim and stern aspect, sat before what seemed a huge oaken frame-work, which served him as a hoard on which to pursue his labour. Anns of all kinds, in good order and well polished, were disposed in fantastical devices on the panels of the hall. A portrait, representing a head full cf THE TOURNAMENT. 23 dignity and command, rested against a carved cabinet. The likeness to the youth, who gazed on it 'with melancholy aspect, was striking. Beside it was a shield, with the stain and dent of many a combat marked upon its disc. The girl rallied her lover on his warlike tastes. She expected to have seen a library, rather than so fine a col- lection of arms. Was he thinking of arming his vassals, and going to the approaching tournament ? There was something in the tone of raillery in which she spoke that displeased the old man. " And why/' he said, " should the Lord of Fauconville not be at the tournament as well as Sir Raoul de Lenorde ? When were his fathers found at home, when honour was to be gained abroad ? But I forget," he added, with a grim smile ; " these tournaments are mere holiday shows now, where men tilt with headless spears, and lay on blows with blunted swords. Had knights done so in my young days, "'twould have been long before we won Agincourt \" " This old man, Alice," said the young lord, bending over the chair in which she sat, " was my father's most trusted follower. All that you see here is his work, not mine. Here he exercises me in arms, and cases me in a coat of mail ; then from this window looks into the court- yard below, to see how lightly, with my suit of steel, I can leap upon a steed or bear a lance. We must not thwart him, though sometimes he extends too widely the privilege of age." The old armourer's ears caught the last words ; they heightened the displeasure which clouded his face, from the instant he saw who accompanied his lord. " The privilege of age \" he said, with something of sarcasm. " Ay, there is reason to complain of it, when we see nothing of the privilege of youth. In my clays of 24 EVENINGS AT HADD0N BALL. manhood, those who bore Qoble names thought it a pri vilege to do feats of arms, to avenge the wrongs of their house — to mount the war-steed when a challenge was sent abroad — to wear coats of mail like those, not silken gar- ments — to ride with their followers at their back, not strol! for ever through chambers that idleness keeps empty of trophies." The youth's brow had darkened, though he retained his temper. " He rails at me often thus, Alice, though scarcely so sharply; yet he knows that I can wield both spear and brand. How now, Stephen V he exclaimed, in a louder voice, "is this fitting speech for thy lord's son V There was deeper sarcasm in the old man's tones than he had yet ventured on, as he answered the question with another — " For my lord's son ? " " Ay, for your lord's son ; I understand your mcaniiur, old man. AVouldyou have me prove my title to my name by always railing and quarrelling? Is it not enough that I am prepared to defend my right, if need be ? You have; ceased this reproach since last my rapier struck yours from your hand." " Ah \" said the armourer, " it is a pity you can be brave to no one but your father's old servants." This was too much even for Lord Edmund's gentle temper, and he was about to make an angry reply, when the Lady Alice interposed. She spoke gently and sooth- ingly to the old man. " You have seen much of brave service, good Stephen, and have been witness to many noble deeds — can you recall the memory of none of them now? — or do you think us unworthy to bear them ? Tell us of a tournament in your time, as you think our-- so foolish." THE TOURNAMENT. 25 The armourer seemed little appeased by the lovely girl's gentleness. He neither looked at nor spoke to her, but turning to the young baron, who had then taken a blade from his board, said — " One noble tilting I have in memory, if my lord would desire to hear it, though it may be thought a re- proach to these prudent times. Ah, St. George ! men thought little of broken bones in those days. Those who were present at that field will not soon forget it." " Well, let us hear your story. Alice, there is an hour of sunshine yet ; the evening will be sweet and cool ; some May yet lingers on the bushes ; the mavis and the night- ingale will give you their song as we return. I have a palfrey for you here. Do you mind, dear love, a half- hour's ride after sunset ? " A blush and a sweet smile were the answer. The old man commenced his tale. " It was after the return of our brave King Harry from France — oh ! that the son of so great a king should have been such a weakling ! I mind the time well ; for through- out the land there was nothing but joyance and idleness. I say, it was when brave King Harry — whom the saints keep ! — was newly returned from Prance, that the court, from very wantonness, began to quarrel. Some knights there were, prou d of their looks and glittering dresses, and their fame, who would, if they could, have behaved over pertly to the ladies of Queen Katherine's state. They were checked soon enough. I warrant they repented quickly of their forwardness, when they saw how it was resented. The rumour ran that one young malapert had his ears boxed by a noble lady, to whom he was too free of speech. 20 BVENINGS AT II\DI)i)\ HALL. " These young coxcombs were mightily incensed when they saw the laugh turned against them. In revenge, they spread abroad rumours unfavourable to the reputation of the court ladies — ay, and in gross terms too —declaring that the maids of honour wen- not worthy of their titles, and that the dames who surrounded the throne were neither so fair nor so virtuous as they might be. You may be sure these Bpringalds were soon called to account. But, to do them justice, there was no lack of spirit among them ; and, banded together, eight-and-forty knights, of good re- pute in arms, who had won honour in France, and seen the princes and chivalry of that land fly before them, declared they would maintain their avouch with lance and sword, on foot or on horseback, in silken doublet or coat of mail, against the like number of gentlemen of birth, who would come against them. Ha! ha! they might want prudence, they might be too quick in quarrel, but braver men never bore shield. Their blades were ever ready to their hands, and their scat in their saddle as firm as the roots of an oak in the ground. And that was known all over merry England ; so that their hardihood was applauded, and none cared to take up the glove they had thrown down. " When the ladies saw that knights were wanting to champion their cause, — for the graver sort would have nothing to do with this mad-cap quarrel — they wept for very shame and vexation, and vowed, that if the defiance were not met, they could show their faces round the throne no more. Some gallant youths declared they would do battle for the ladies' fair fame against all comers; but the challengers stuck to their terms, and said, an equal number must meet them in the field — eight-and-forty against eight- and-forty; and that until their number was completed, they held their challenge unaccepted, and the la lies disgraced. TIIE TOURNAMENT. 27 " Oh ! honour and virtue were dearly prized in those days ! No son forgot his father's fame — no daughter, her mother's purity. These ladies then put on weeds, declaring their fair repute was dead, and that they would weep for it, as loving wives weep for a well-loved spouse. The joy of the court was gone; no more silken bravery — no more laughing looks — no more merry, quick-glancing eyes — no more mirth and pageantry. Those who came to West- minster then thought the nation was in mourning. There were old men living who said, nothing so sorrowful had been seen since the great plague of 1349. Wherever these noble and beauteous ladies went, there were the sounds and sights of woe ; and, to make the matter worse for them, the king swore by St. Denis he would not in- terfere, but leave the gallants of his realm to fight out the quarrel as they pleased. " There was one young lord who took up the ladies' cause in a manner that won for him the good-will of all the women in the land. He dared the leader of the chal- lengers to combat with what weapons, and in what guise he pleased ; and when he was refused, swore by the Holy Virgin — and the brave youth kept his oath — that he would never quit his coat of mail till he had formed a band to meet the boasters, and had fairly broken a lance with their leader. Beauty and glory were his cry. Ah ! that was a time when such a cry would be carried over the world. " It is likely you may not recollect that the Princess Philippa, daughter of great John of Gaunt, was wedded to the brave and good king of Portugal, Don John, as they called him. I saw her, when a boy, as she went in a stately litter to Dover. We gave her a true English cheer; she waved her delicate hand to thank us, and then drew aside the silken curtains of her carriage — I mind them 28 EVENING8 AT I1ADDON HALL well, worked with cloth .it' gold — and let us catch the last Bight of her lnv.ly face. Her hair, the colour of the silk the worm weaves, hung in glossy ringlets ahout her face and fair shoulders, and her eyes were as hlue as the skies above, or as mariners who have ventured far to sea say the ocean is beyond sight of land. This princess thanked us with gentle courtesy. Oh, the noblest in the land could then sometimes spare a smile for the lowest ! " A noble queen did this gentle princess make ; and the youth of her adopted land loved her as though she had been born of their own soil. When she heard what was passing in England, she sorrowed too — for she never forgot dear England, that had such pride in her; and then she dressed herself in weeds, and said she must needs mourn for the disgrace that had fallen on the daughters of her own native countrv. " When the queen's grief was told, all the hot blood of that southern land was on fire. More knights crowded to court than when an expedition was threatened against the Moors. They swore, by all the saints of their land, that they would die or change the mourning garments of their queen into the gayest colours that the loom could fashion. The king would let no more than forty knights depart, and those; were chosen by lot from the very chivalry of the land. " Eight English knights, on the ladies' part, went to meet them, and at their head the brave young lord, who, over his polished mail with its gold studs, wore a scarf of crape, to signify that he mourned, too, till the fair fame of the court dames was established. As the goodly pro- cession moved to London, there poured forth, from town and hamlet, thousands to welcome it. The knights passed beneath arches of welcome, and not a lady in all the land THE TOURNAMENT. 29 was there who thought herself too noble or tender to walk before them, and cast flowers for their horses' hoofs to trample. I warrant, in those times, no brave man ever wanted encouragement from ladies' eyes. " The king himself received them at Westminster, and lodged them in his palace. Who will forget that he slept himself in a tent, and waited on these knights as though he were a humble squire ? Night and day, the ladies worked for them banners, favours, and scarfs. I saw my- self, Sir John Maxwell, Lord Mayor of London, ride in his scarlet cloak, with all his officers and aldermen about him^ the golden mace, and the weighty sword of the city, such as a stalwart man could scarcely wield, — I saw them all go to Westminster, to pray the king that the tournament might take place within the city walls. The king was proud it should be so, and the lord mayor charged himself with the whole expense of fitting up Smithfield, where so many knightly games had been played in times past. " Where would you find such a goodly company now as assembled then ? That was before Englishmen had taken to cut each other's throats. The flower of all the kingdom assembled that day, for it was bruited far and wide that such a tournament had never been seen in Eng- land before. The people lined the road-side by thousands, the hedge -rows were trampled down, and every tree swarmed with life. As you came to houses, you saw balconies decorated with cloth of gold and gems, and ladies ready to shower the most precious things they had in the warriors' path. No one knew how rich was London till that day. You could not see the colour of t\e houses for the tapestry that hung adown them. " Had you seen the procession, you would have thought our brave king was just going to take possession 30 EVENINGS AT II addon HALL. of the Franco he had won. There were airbus and men- at-anns to clear the way; but as they went by, the city youth broke Into the road again, that they might mingle in the procession, and swear, in after-times, they had taken part in it. Then, there were trumpeters and heralds stiff with their gold embroidery, and the king-at-arms, looking more magnificent than any monarch ever seen — a body of knights in glittering steel came next, and after them the judges of the field — more archers to clear the way for the challengers — eight-and-forty of the bravest knights in the land, armed cap-a-pie, with their steeds dancing for delight as the trumpets sounded and the shouts of the people shook the air. The ladies in the balconies and windows cast down their eyes ; but many an admiring glance did those knights gain that day, Fll engage; for where could there be collected a band of fairer and braver youths ? " ' Room, there — room!' Ah, then came the glory of the pageant. The king himself — the darling of tin- land — shame to it that it forsook his son! — the king came, in the midst of his brilliant court, armed in mail from head to foot — I lie, his noble head was bare; a page bore his plumed helmet before him, and bent beneath its weight. Not a man who looked on the king that day but would have died for him, so loyal in those good days were the people. Those who shouted before, now wept ; those who danced, knelt down ; those who tossed their caps into the air, now raised their hands to heaven, to implore God's blessing on his royal majesty. " The Knights of Portugal rode next the king. Well do I mind their order — five a-breast, each with an English leader, and the gallant young lord, who had worn mad night and day tor three months past, at the head of all THE TOURNAMENT. 31 As they came on, the ladies all welcomed them as their champions; benisons were showered on their heads by gentle lips, and look where they would, they saw only loving glances and sweet smiles. Flowers and favours were rained thick upon them; hands were clapped, and scarfs waved in ecstasy. Every one said those knights must triumph. " Then, last, in their mourning weeds, came Queen Katherine, and her maids and matrons, looking more lovely for their show of grief, more fair for their sombre garments. " The day would close before I could tell you all the gallant actions of the field. The challengers well main- tained their fame, yet still they were always worsted. The combat of the two leaders was most expected, for their fathers were rivals before them. When they met, at last, and rode proudly round the lists., the very sound of ap- plause was hushed in anxiety, and spectators hardly dared to draw their breath. The young lord who championed the ladies' cause was such a stripling as thou art now; thy years were his ; yet he had then won honour which, had he died that hour, would have rendered his name famous for ever. As he looked round, before closing his vizor, there was many a lady there who vowed she would mourn for that handsome youth till her death, should he perish in the combat ; and the Virgin had endless gifts promised her shrine to bear him harmless. " The chargers they rode seemed to know the sound of the trumpet, and to be eager for the strife as their lords. They met in the middle of the field, with a shock that well- nigh appalled the stoutest heart there. Not for an instant was the conflict doubtful. The challenger, man and horse, rolled over and over on the plain ; but the ladies' champion S2 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. remained erect in his seat, his feet in the stirrups, his crest untouched, and the point of his opponent's lance borne harmlessly in his shield. He rode round the ring as gaily as before the encounter. For one instant surprise kept the spectators mute ; no one had ever seen a victory more complete. Then rose a shout, which was heard that noon at Westminster. The queen crowned her champion, and the king threw round his neck a chain of gold and gems. " Fifty years are passed since then, but I can live on the memory of that hour. I shared in the triumph of my lord — my hands removed that armour from his honoured frame, never to be stained in conflict more — my " " Thy lord ! — thy hands \" impatiently exclaimed the youth, interrupting the armourer ; " what is this ? — what mean the tears that are flowing down thy cheeks ? Old man, you torture me. Speak, — this instant — speak, I command you \" " I have said it," said the armourer, solemnly ; " the victor was thy father." " And the vanquished knight ?" breathlessly asked Alice. " Lady, he was Sir Richard de Lenorde. Hear me vet. Now or never must I speak — now that a great truth, too long concealed, is struggling for utterance within me. Young lord, let go that hand. Her >-in: never forgave thine the issue of that day. He shunned him in open conflict, but he plotted his destruction. My lord died not with his sword in bis hand, but with his head on the block. Sir Richard de Lenorde gave the order for his execution, and stood by to see him die. The curse thy noble father left upon the head of him and his — the curse that still rings in my ears — has yet to be fulfilled." THE TOURNAMENT. 33 "With these words, the old man rose, and abruptly left the hall. The Lady Alice, almost fainting, laid her hand upon the young lord's shoulder for support. He clasped her to his breast — all the tumult of his feelings giving way to love and pity. In the gloom of night that had gathered round them, he vowed again that no power should part them, and that he would be true to her even in death. He knew not yet the power of the malignant star that ruled his destiny. No change could be noted in the grim features of the old man, when in the fresh air of morning he resumed his well-loved toil. He polished, filed, and riveted as before, and seemed to have no other thought than for the careful execution of his labours. A light but firm hand laid on his shoulder caused him to start. He looked up, and saw fixed on him the pale and eager gaze of his young lord. " Stephen, your tale was harshly told. It should have been given to my ear alone. But you are faithful. Is there yet more to be disclosed?" " What more do you think I have to tell V " Nay, I know not. Old man, you have maddened me, and I will be content with no half confidence. Let me know all your thought." The risid features of the armourer relaxed, and he changed at once from the stern monitor of vengeance, to the old and devoted adherent. " Dear lord, the living likeness of him I loved more than words can tell, I see in thee the only prop of this great house. Why should you stay here, when fame and renown are to be won abroad ? Why be an outcast from the court, D 84 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. where friends are gathering to serve you? Why not ap pear before Edward's throne — men name him irencrous — re-asscrt your rights, and rescue from disgrace and ob- scurity an honoured name?" A single night had aroused in the youth's breast all the warlike ardour of his race. lie mused for an instant, and then said — " Well, Stephen, say on." "The rumour runs that the king is quick to be caught by address in warlike exercises. Who can have better claim to excel in them than you? If this hand, that taught you, be weak, it has the skill and cunning of sixty years' practice." " You would have me, Stephen, take part in this tour- nament — this gaudy reflexion of the past. Well, what more ? " " My honoured master, have I not proved to you my devotion and love ? Let me implore you, as you regard the memory of your dead father, as you prize your own safety — no, no, I know you regard not that — as you would preserve the noble name that has descended to you, separate yourself from the enemies of your house, bid them defiance — a marriage with the De Lenorde " " Peace, old man ! that matter is beyond you. I will go and demand justice from King Edward on his throne — demand the lands of which our house has been de- spoiled. Answer me not. See what arms you have ready for my use." The armourer, with trembling hand, swept from the oaken board on which he worked the implements of his trade. Touching a hinge in front, a piece of planking waa lemovcd, and a lock exposed to view. Taking from his THE TOURNAMENT. 35 dress a large and curious key, he presented it, kneeling, to his lord. The young baron seized and applied it to the lock ; it turned, but the huge chest refused to open and disclose its secret. The old man took a ponderous hammer, and pointed to the head of a spring in the lid, which seemed merely one of the studs intended to give solidity to the structure. Lord Edmund grasped the hammer, swung it above his head, and let it fall with a tremendous stroke on the bolt-head. Loud was the clang ; and as it died away, almost with the sound of a solemn and deep-toned note of music, the lid rose, and discovered the contents of the chest to the gaze of the startled lord. Within, extended at full length, was a suit of gorgeous armour, disposed in the attitude of the sculptured effigy on the tomb of the last Baron of Fauconville. The gauntleted hands were raised as in prayer, and the vizor was down. The casque was surmounted by a noble plume ; the cross- handled sword lay by the figure's side, and a shield hung at its feet. The armourer was the first to break the silence. " Such a figure, Lord Edmund, was thy father on that day when he overthrew Sir Richard de Lenorde. That armour was treasured for the heir of his house. See, I have kept it faithfully; there is on it no spot. In the sack and ruin of the castle, I saved this from the spoiler's hands." As if under the influence of a magic spell, or as if he expected to view his father's form beneath the mail, the young lord, with a tender but eager hand, raised the polished breast-plate. A scroll of silver only lay in the hollow. It bore this inscription —* 86 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL 1 tTis tlic Inningc of tl)is mailc vTliat must mate its miqfytc afaadt. " The lining ! " cried the youth, as the meaning of the couplet flashed on his mind ; " yes, the heart it covers, not the steel itself, — the hand that grasps this sword, not the inanimate blade, must win the victory. I am ready to fulfil my part. Stephen, do thine. Come, encase my body in this mail." " Nay, my good lord, there is time yet. These games are some days distant." "As did my noble father, so will I. By the cross, I swear, this armour shall not leave my limbs till it is taken from my corse, or I have restored the fortunes of my house \" As the young lord spoke, his resolve inspired his fea- tures, lent fire to his eve, and, thrilling in his breast, ex- panded his whole frame with energy. The armourer saw that was no time for remonstrance or advice. Piece by piece, he encased his young lord's graceful and noble figure in the brilliant steel, light, yet brought to the finest temper, and polished as the purest mirror. Hammer and pincers closed the rivets fast. The transformation seemed hardly less wonderful than those recorded in the fables of old ; the peaceful dress gave place to the guise of full-armed war. Completely locked up in the suit of steel, Lord Edmund moved with dignity and ease, and raised the cross-handled sword to his lips to seal his oath. The kneeling armourer would have placed the gold spurs of his father to the youth's heels — " Not yet — not yet, good Stephen, I have to win them first. By the grace of God and the Virgin, they shall not long be wanting. Prepare for my journey. See that I THE TOURNAMENT. 37 gp with the state befitting the Baron of Fauconville. Let these old walls see me ride forth in pride, as did ray ances- tors. If my train be scanty, there is more need for me to enlarge it. Let those beware who would stand between me and my birthright. On the second morning from this day, Stephen, I depart." Again it was evening when the lovers met. But the sun shone no loDger for them as formerly. Shades of fear and mistrust had gathered around their future. Lord Edmund was cased in steel, and felt not the gentle pres- sure of the hand of his betrothed. He answered her ear- nest entreaties — " Dearly as I love you, Alice, all your persuasions are in vain. I have had visions of this hour before, but they were visions only of brightness. I dreamt of glory to be won without pain. Now I feel that the path I have to tread is a harsh one, but 1 will not shrink from it ; the honour of my name must be vindicated ; it is better I should die, than that its lustre should be tarnished." " Why should you expose yourself to needless peril by going to the court, where the enemies of your house are so powerful ? Remain here till the king requires your service in a foreign land ; the delay cannot subject you to reproach." " You are mistaken, Alice ; there is not a vassal of my father's house, whose silence does not cast bitter scorn on my inaction. I understand their moody manner now. Why was there no friend to inform me earlier of this cruel truth?" " For what good end could you have known it, Ed- mund ? Other families have suffered as greatly, — ay, much more than thine. Your face is darkened ; yet recol- 429087 38 EVENINGS AT BADDOM HALT. , in those pitiless wars how readily men devoted eacn other to death — how little of mercy was shown on either Bide." "Piace, Alice, peace, for mercy's sake; your accents, sweet and gentle as they are, put me to torture. I know what you would say. Your father sheltered my child- hood. Well, but he repaid himself by my inheritance. He protected my youth. True, but he believed he had nothing to fear from me. He let us love, Alice, caring nothing for the bitterness of this hour." "You repent your love. You would have me absolve you from your vow. So be it ! I have strength as well as you, Edmund." " No, Alice, no, as Heaven is my judge ! I love you dearer, purer, truer than ever. But a blighted name you shall never share. There are friends of my house around Edward's throne. They believe mc a fool or a coward ; for rumour has been busy in throwing shame upon me. When I appear in arms, that shame shall be dispelled; my sword shall hurl the slander down the throats of those who dare to breathe it." "Most of all, do I fear a quarrel between you and my brother. lie is hot in temper, and stands high in Ed- ward's favour." "That is well. He will assist mc, then, to recover my heritage." "Let the king decide that. But, Edmund, you will shun Raoul ? Promise me only that, and I will see you depart with less pain." On tie- part of the young lord there was a momentary hesitation, and it was easy to sec, from the heightened colour of his brow, that strong passions were working within his breast. At last he answered, — THE TOURNAMENT. 39 " I will neither shun nor seek him, Alice. For your dear sake, I will give him no occasion of quarrel. And should we meet in the lists, what then ? You hear how old Stephen despises the bloodless contests of these days. Calm your fears, love. Dark and terrible is the cloud that has come upon us ; but who knows how soon it may break, and reveal again the pure sky? I hold you to your pro- mise. To-morrow you will see me depart." With that they separated. Forth went the rumour round the country that on the Baptist's morning the Baron of Fauconville would ride from his castle in state to King Edward's tournament. Various were the emotions this intelligence excited. The adherents of the house of De Lenorde heard it with incre- dulity and ridicule, not unmingled with a feeling of fear. The old vassals of Fauconville were clamorous in their expressions of joy and triumph, and scrupled not to avow their belief that the time was come for the restitution of their house to its ancient splendour. Anxiety and expec- tation brought to the castle-yard a large assembly, who beheld with some surprise an image of the former fame and power of the barony in the preparations made. Some dozen of well-appointed men-at-arms stood ranged around the ground, ready to mount horse at their lord's com- mand. A herald, with the arms of the Fauconvilles richly blazoned on his coat, and mounted on a gay steed, was giving orders for the departure, and a crowd of old retain- ers were preparing to welcome with applause the approach of their lord. If there was nothing grand in these ar- rangements, they were yet more imposing than had been looked for. Whatever was done, was in excellent order, and no more had been attempted than could be properly effected. 40 EVENINGS AT IIADDO.V HALL. Fio*n the domestic apartments of the castle a door led to a balcony, which had formerly been distinguished for its rich gothic tracery : much of its ornament still re- mained, and it had been newly fitted with crimson cloth. Those most experienced in the past history of the house pointed out this balcony to their younger auditors, and told how in old times the lady of the castle had there stood to take leave of her lord, and to watch his departure through the castle postern, till he was lost to view in the woodland of the plains. The faithful Stephen, with joints too stiff for active motion, remained beside this balcony, watching with keen eye that nothing was wanting in this hour, which he knew would be so eventful in the life of his lord. His grand- son, a fair boy, partly supported the aged man, whose pride helped to keep him erect and stern. His two sons were in the young baron's train. The hour of departure had arrived, and the herald sounded a cheerful blast on his trumpet, which, waking echoes so long undisturbed in the neighbourhood of those walls, filled the heart of every Fauconville with triumphant expectation. At the instant, Lord Edmund, mounted on a noble and completely appointed war-horse, rode into the yard. Two pages were at his side, one with a goblet of gold, the other bearing a light steel cap, rapier, and gloves for use in his journey. To the affright of some, and the amazement of all, the Lady Alice entered the balcony, to bid her knight " God speed." With graceful courtesy the young warrior urged his steed to the place where she stood. There was a momentary parting, and some words said of sweet delight, which brought the red blood brightly to the lady's face. In her aspect, hope seemed to nave part, though her eyes were downcast and her hands THE TOURNAMENT. 41 clashed. The page presented his lord with the cap, gauntlets, and rapier he bore. The young baron cast them to the ground. " Thus," he said, " will I travel, — in this guise will I remain till my fame as a knight will allow me to lay aside my father's helm and sword." He stooped to raise the goblet presented him on a salver, touched it with his lips, then waving for the last time his hand to his betrothed, he set forth with high and gallant bearing on his dangerous mission Never had the English court been more gay than in the period immediately preceding King Edward's pro- jected invasion of France. The horrors of civil strife were over, and the whole kingdom rejoiced in its return to peace and security. The beauty of ladies, the valour and grace of knights, again became the theme of troubadours. Banquets and revels succeeded to strife and intrigue. The halls of royalty, brilliantly illuminated, echoed to the ring of joyous laughs, the tread of light feet, the strains of sweet music, the whispers of devoted love. Again quaint masques and gorgeous pageants enlivened the night, and tourneys, jousts, and other martial exercises, gave entertainment to the day. All appearance of mourn- ing was banished : the dresses found most favour that were most rich and fantastical. In hall and bower there fluttered the rarest materials, the gayest colours. Men said that the age of gold had at once succeeded to the age of iron, so gay, splendid, and luxurious, was the monarch's reign. Whoever was distinguished for courtly accom- plishments and grace of person found ready favour in the king's eyes. Full of his projected invasion of France, he sought to collect round him the most ardent and bravest spirits of the realm. The adherents of Lancaster ceased 42 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. to be objects of suspicion; their cause was utterly lost ; its princes cut otf, its chiefs slain, its hopes and resources alike gone. The victorious Edward reigned without fear, and was inclined to Bhow himself the king of the nation rather than of a party. Accomplished in all knightly exercises, beautiful in person, gay, young, and graceful, the monarch delighted in all the pomp and pageantry of the tournament. He had ordered one to take place with unusual magnificence at "Westminster, and had invited all persons of gentle blood to take part in it without distinction. Regulations were issued to protect the combatants from unnecessary danger, as the king wished the pageant to be distinguished by superior address and agility, rather than by the number of combatants slain and maimed. The gallant youth of the kingdom looked forward to the martial show without the slightest apprehension for the result, and fair ladies anticipated the display of their lovers' heroism and splen- dour, without dread that they would be thrown lifeless to the plain before their eyes. The pageant was graced by the presence of King Edward himself, who, with his beautiful queen, Elizabeth, sat prepared to award favour to the successful knights. The spacious amphitheatre of seats which had been pre- pared was crowded with lair and noble spectators, who manifested their interest in tin < \ercises by the bursts of applause with which they rewarded unusual dexterity. The better to prevent accidents, barriers were placed in the arena, on each side of which the combatants were to run, that they might avoid those tierce shocks of horse to horse and man to man, which, in former times, had so often been attended with fatal consequences. The tournament was to last three days. To accora- THE TOURNAMENT. 43 modate the crowd who desired to take part in it, the king ordered that no kiaght should combat on more than one day, and that each day should have its victor. The three conquerors were allowed to demand boons of the king, such as a great monarch might grant ; and as it was known that on such occasions Edward was profuse in his liberality, the fortunate knights might well hope to gain the highest prizes in the gift of the crown to bestow. Near the person of the king there sat one lady, whose bold and brilliant beauty attracted universal homage. Her countenance bore the aspect of that high command acquired by distinguished birth and early indulgence. Her eyes were dark, lustrous, quick, glancing, and full of passionate fire. Her voluptuous mouth and ripe lips, and her cheeks suffused with lively colour, gave to the haughty fair one an appearance of almost masculine beauty, but that her bust was so full and swelling, and that her raven hair fell in the richest profusion of waves about her neck. One seat lower, at her feet, was a gentleman in the prime of manhood, dressed in the richest style of that extravagant period, but whose natural nobility of look and goodly form carried off the bravery that might have made another appear ostentatious. He was in conversation with the proud lady, his face turned admiringly to hers. " Do you tilt to-day, Sir Raoul ?" she asked. " Good troth, I know not whether any knight will appear worthy my lance." " What ! do you esteem your skill so highly V "Nay, I rate not myself. Do you name one who has gained an advantage over me, and I will abandon to him the right of basking in your smiles." " Well, Sir Raoul, I shall remember your words ; and 44 EVENINGS \T IIAIiDOX HALL. when I sec a champion worthy your might, then will 1 summon you to horse." "And then will I prove myself worthy your favour." "You will obey my command, to tilt or to retrain ?" " Most faithfully : the Lady ESlgarva shall be mistress of my actions, as she is of my heart." The haughty beauty exercised her privilege capriciously. Many spears were fairly shivered that day, many an adven- turous youth was hurled from his saddle into the dust, of the arena ; yet, though continually fresh knights crowded forward, she kept Sir Raoul at her feet till a stout knight, Lord William Audley, was proclaimed the victor. Those who chose to conceal their titles were at liberty to do so ; yet, though the practice was generally adopted of choosing some motto or characteristic denomination, the combatants seldom failed to be recognised by their arms or manner ; for those who were accustomed to such exhibitions could as readily detect a knight by his horse- manship or bearing, as in these days an author is recog- nised by his style, or an actor by his voice, whatever masquerade he may assume. But on the second day, a young warrior appeared in the lists, with a plain shield, terming himself " L'Inconnu," who baffled the specula- tions of those who boasted a knowledge of every good lance in the kingdom. This young unknown, slight in figure, but of most graceful bearing, and gorgeously armed, obtained a decisive advantage over the knight who, up to the period of his arrival, had maintained his good fortune against all comers. There were some stout and practised warriors who generously declined to combat with so youthful a champion ; yet he shewed that their forbearance was little needed. In three several encounters THE TOURNAMENT. 45 with soldiers of high repute, he worsted them all, hurling the last, Sir Thomas Aspinall, who boasted much of his might, with force to the ground. The king loudly ap- plauded the feat, and smiled upon the young victor as he rode round the barriers. What prompted the graceful unknown, after each suc- cess, to single out the Lady Elgarva for his homage ? Was it her brilliant beauty, or was it that Sir Raoul de Lenorde was at her feet ? Had he forgotten so soon his vows to the lady of his love, the promise he had given her, the scroll that indicated it was the heart and cause of the warrior that won his triumph more than lance or shield ? It was even so. In his hour of pride and victory, he saw only the enemy of his line ; revenge dictated his homage to the haughty beauty; every tribute of admiration he offered her was a challenge to the knight who looked admiringly into her eyes. Still the Lady Elgarva kept Sir Raoul in- active, though he fumed to contend with the audacious champion. The young victor bowed with grave dignity to the acclamations of the crowd, after his last and most sig- nal triumph, and bent low as the crest of his steed to the king's mark of admiration ; then he looked up to the gal- lery where the Lady Elgarva was seated, and respectfully lowered to her the point of his lance. The proud beauty's cheek was flushed, as the eyes of the whole assembly were bent towards her ; but her love of distinction was not yet satisfied. She spoke hastily to her lover, at her feet, — " Now, quick, arm ! Meet this champion. He will try thy prowess !'' Sir Raoul sprang to his feet ; his arms and charger were at hand ; but before he was prepared, the king, wishing to spare L'Inconnu too severe a trial of his force, gave the signal fo:* the day's proceedings to end. Sir Raoul arrived 4() EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. only in time to see the succcsst'ul unknown again lower his lance to the Lady Elgarva, while he was proclaimed by the Jit raids the victor of the day. The contests of the third and last day were more numerous than on either of the preceding ones. Sir Raoul, tired by his disappointment, and the consciousness that Lady Elgarva' s eyes were on him, early gained a supe- riority, and maintained it until the close of the contest. Those most experienced, in martial exercises, and among them Edward himself, declared him to be one of the most accomplished soldiers in the realm. A magnificent banquet was prepai-ed for the evening ; bui in the meantime the king prepared to redeem his premise. The three victors were summoned before his throne, that the whole assembly might be witness with what readiness the king would grant whatever was de- manded of him. " What boon hast thou, Sir Raoul de Lenorde, faithful son of a faithful father, to ask of thy king, he will not freely grant ? Speak thou, and speak all freely." " My liege, I beg of your grace's favour the hand ol the Lady Elgarva Montacute." " Ah ! St. George ! thou hast spoken well. The ric heiress in our gift ; whose lands, too, lie not far from thine own, and a queen for beauty. Richer gift never sovereign accorded to a subject. De Lenorde, she is thine ! Now, Lord "William Audley, speak thou. I need not tell thee to ask fearlessly. Thy modesty, man, I know will not be a barrier to thy preferment." " Faith, your majesty, I have so great a love for your royal person, that I would fain be with you always. And as your grace's master of the horse " " JIo, enough. I woild I had entered the lists myself, THE TOURNAMENT. 47 rather than allowed thee to remain conqueror. Sir Ed- ward Ashley, here. Make out the patent ; Lord William Audley, my new master of the horse. This good soldier's bluntness has saved me a world of trouble in choosing from a crowd of applicants." " Indeed, your grace/' answered the staid minister of the king, " I think there be never a place vacant but there are a hundred seeking to fill it.'" " And now, Sir L'Inconnu, since that is thy title, raise thy vizor ; show thy face to thy king, and ask, if it be thy will, a richer boon yet. What, so young and fan ! By the rood, if thou followest me to France, and wield thy lance there so well, thou shalt have a duchy of our new kingdom. Thy eye is as keen as a hawk's, and thy hand as true to thy aim as his stoop on the quarry. What, noble boy — for noble I'll swear thou art — is thy petition ?" "First, the honour of knighthood from your majesty's hand." Lord Edmund could hardly have presented a request which the king would have received with more pleasure. The monarch expressed surprise that he had not already received the accolade from a more renowned sword than his. Then as the youth knelt, the king questioned him of his name, heard it rather with satisfaction than displeasure, and bade him rise, Sir Edmund, Baron of Fauconville. " Now, ask again. I owe thy house no ill-will. Thy father died cruelly enough, as I have heard, before I drew sword. Thou art welcome to our presence. Say, what seal shall I put to thy allegiance ? What hast thou to ask from thy king?" The youth again fell on his knee. " Justice, my gracious liege !" "Ah — how ? You* words are wade." <18 EVENINGS AT HADDON II AT.L. "The restoration of my house's lands/' The king bit his lip angrily. These demands, which were becoming more frequent, perplexed him extremely, and for an instant he hesitated to reply. His petitioner eagerly watched the changes of the king's face, and Beeing him still pause, poured forth a passionate appeal in behalf of his suit. " Good, my liege, pardon my too great boldness ! Hear me for an instant. My father fought for the king he served, as I would combat for your majesty's right this hour. He met his foes fairly in the field ; he gave quarter where it was asked ; he slew no prisoners ; he struck no defenceless man ; when the battle was over, he gave his hand to his foe ; he fought with the chivalry your high- ness loves. The ancient foe of his house came against him treacherously and basely. To avenge a private quarrel, to wipe away a disgraceful defeat, he engaged your royal father's arms against my sire. What wonder that he fell ! He was murdered in cold blood ; his lands were usurped by his enemy. Pretending to be my guardian, he stripped me of my heritage, and left me only a ruined castle, and as many roods of land as might support a yeoman. Your highness knows what part the house of Fauconvillc has played in this kingdom's history. The name must perish without your gracious aid ; 1 will not transmit it impove- rished and disgraced. j\Iy dread lord, I am careless of myself; I desire only my house's honour. Grant me this boon. Make men respect your justice as they fear your might, and declare that the reign of vengeance is at an end." The king was moved by the earnest words of his petitioner. "Sir Raoul de Lenorde," he said, "I have heard cf THE TOURNAMENT. 49 this before. Restore to this young lord his lauds, and I pawn thee a king's word, thou shalt lose nothing by thy act." " My liege/' answered Sir Raoul, boldly, " his father dared to brand thy father as a traitor, and justly died. He should be thankful for the clemency that has spared him." The young lord's eye flashed with indignant fire, as he said — " Dost thou, the son of the spoiler, justify the robbery? Shame on thy false heart ! Was it for this I took thy hand?" " Had I not, boy," contemptuously replied Sir Raoul, " been some moments too late for the combat yesterday, I would have quelled thy braggart spirit, and sent thee to beg cure of a leech, instead of lost lands from his high- ness." " Be silent, on your lives, I charge ye," commanded the king, as he rose. " Sir Raoul de Lenorde, see thou that our bidding is fulfilled." As the king turned to depart, Sir Raoul said, scorn- fully and aloud — " A beggar is a traitor's fit descendant !" " And this," exclaimed the young lord, quickly draw- ing his mailed gauntlet from his hand, " the fit answer to such a taunt." He struck his rival with his steel glove as he spoke, fiercely across the mouth ; a stream of blood followed the blow. Swords were drawn ; but, at the king's commandj his guards promptly interfered, and the fiery youths were removed in custody to await the king's pleasure. Edward retired, enraged at the insult offered to his presence. For a short space he remained alone in moody disnleasure ; then he summoned to him some of his chief 50 EVENINGS LT H ADDON HALL nobles, aud announced his decision. As the rivals desired nothing so much as a personal encounter, he commanded that, on the morrow, they should engage in mortal combat, in the arena that had witnessed their triumph and their quarrel. If the vanquished escaped with life, the king's decree was, that he should die by the hands oi' the execu- tioner. His estate was to be forfeited to the crown, and his title declared to be extinct. The friends of the two disputants heard this decision with awe ; yet as it appeared 1 1 ist to both, and moreover would gratify the monarch's love of show, no one dared dispute it. Heralds published abroad the king's pleasure, and an- nounced the approaching combat. Then was it seen how slight was the interest felt in a mere pageant compared with that entertained for the game in which life was to the victor, and death to the vanquished. The old taste of London for bloody encounters seemed at once to revive, as the news ran through the city that a mortal duel would be fairly fought before the king. The merits of the com- batants were keenly discussed, and places eagerly de- manded. The hearts of court ladies beat with anxious thrill for the event of the morrow ; each had her favourite, and such wagers as ladies lay were freely sported on the result. The barriers were to be dispensed with, the weapons were to be keen and sharp. All knew that one of the combatants must die. Never had lists been graced with a goodlier show of spectators. There was something superior even to novelty in the excitement of this combat. As nobles sat together in the balconies, as groups crowded in the space below, they ceased not averring to each other that one of the combatants must die, As it was told how gallantly they handled their weapons THE TOURNAMENT. 51 — how nobly they rode — how fairly they had overthrown all opponents — how equally they were matched in skill and dexterity, it was still repeated that — one must die. When the enmity of their line was spoken of, and the calamities that flowed from it were numbered, — when it was related that these knights were the last of their race, — it was answered, the feud must now cease for ever, for that — one must die. The monks who attended to shrive the warriors and prepare them for the combat, exhorted them to leave no sin upon their souls, as on that morning — one must die. King Edward himself, as he sat in his chair of state that day, knew that the affront to his presence would be dearly expiated, for that of the offenders — one must die. The Lady Elgarva sat by the queen's side, her white bosom heaving with strange excitement, and her eyes darting keener lustre, as she whispered in the ear of her royal lady, that — one must die. Now, indeed, was the strife of four hundred years to terminate. Now, for the first time, the two sole repre- sentatives of their houses were to meet face to face, with the knowledge that the feud must end that day, and that of them — one must die. In the spacious galleries not one place was vacant, when the monarch and his train appeared. The arena was cleared, and all was announced to be in readiness. The king raised his hand, the marshal of the lists shook aloft his truncheon, the heralds sounded a charge, and amid the silence of death, the champions appeared from opposite sides of the barriers. The titles of the knights were read, and answered to with firm and steady voice. Each had his vizor up, and 52 EVENINGS AT H ADDON H.\LL. gazed steadily upon his opponent. They crossed from, side to side, passing each other in the centre of the ring. Then it was seen how much more powerful in frame was De Lenorde, and how faint was the chance that his youthful antagonist could successfully meet his assault. As they almost touchedj they gave one to the other a grave and courteous salute, while their noble chargers, as if this were a day of festive pride, shook the ground with their hoofs as they pawed it, and champed the bit and tossed the head till the white foam flew over their steel frontlets. The marshal, with his assistants, placed the knights in line directly face to face, and the steeds, when their posi- tions were assigned, seemed changed to marble, so still and motionless did they stand. Their riders took their spears from the hands of their squires. Lightly poised in their hand for a moment, and held aloof, they were then fixed in rest ; the vizors were drawn down ; the moment of conflict approached. The spectators drew their breath thickly ; some maidens turned pale, sickened, and slowly fell from their seats. There were none to heed or help them. Every eye was lived on the arena, and on those motionless figures of man and horse. The marshal caught the king's eye ; it signified impa- tience. The truncheon was raised : the heralds sounded, once, twice — still there was no motion, — thrice — and as if lightning had descended from heaven, and animated those erect and splendid forms, they sprang at once into rigorous and rejoicing life ; the chargers bounded impe- tuously forward ; the earth trembled with the shock : they met in mid-way. There are sights of an instant — of a point of time too I THE TOURNAMENT, 53 minute to have a name — that are impressed for ever on the brain. Such a sight was the meeting of those noble youths. Each aimed at the crest of his adversary, and each aim was true. Frightful was that crash of bounding life. The stout spears were shivered, but not before they had done their office. The helmets of the champions rolled far away, as the gallant steeds were thrown back on their haunches by the shock. Through the head and brain of the Knight of Lenorde went the well-directed spear-head, and borne back, he fell from his steed heavily, with his face to the dust. Firm in his saddle remained Lord Edmund, though not unscathed. The lance of his opponent, in carrying away his casque, had deeply gashed his throat, and his charger, freed from all control, carried him wildly round the barriers. They raised the dying man, and took the fainting victor from his saddle. Then there was a buzz and movement, and the king rose, disturbed by a tumult at his back. Frantic with haste and eagerness, the Lady Alice De Lenorde fell at his feet. She had come too late. The Lady Elgarva caught up her magnificent train, and proudly swept past the hapless girl, as she fell senseless to the ground. They bore the wounded lord to his paternal home, for there he was resolved to die. They laid him in that hall where he had first listened to the armourer's tale, when his heart was full of love and hope. He chose that chest for his bier, and his casque for his pillow. When told his wound was mortal, he refused to part with his coat of mail : in his harness would he die. He commanded that thus he might be laid beside his father. 54 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. Priests brought him the sacramental cup and the of redemption, and monks Bang chants for bis departing soul. The few faithful servants of his house »rere there, clamorous in grief, and some who claimed a dearer itit < resl in him by birth, stood around him, and wept for the lost of so brave and true a knight. But the dying lord had voice and eye for one alone, — for that fair girl, the play- mate of his childhood, the love of his youth, who hung en- tranced above him, answering only with the sobs of a bursting heart his prayer for her forgiveness. One last, last kiss was their parting pledge of love, ere the priest bade the knight fix his failing sight on the emblem of sal- vation. He turned his head ; but when he no longer saw his beloved, darkness settled round him, and the monk who held the ready cup, raised his eyes, and said — " Peace be to his soul — he is dead." With a broken spirit, the Lady Alice retired to a con- vent. She lived only long enough to see the heritage of her father and her lover shared by strangers ; but the Lady Elgarva flourished for years in splendour and pride, the ornament of the court, and told, in after times, what noble rivals had contended for the light of her smile. " Well \" exclaimed the Lady Eva, looking round, ex- ultingly, at the conclusion of the foregoing Btory — "well, was I not right? Are not those beautiful pictures tenfold more beautiful, now that we know what they mean ? For we do know what they mean, through that story, better than all the explanations in the world could have taught us. " Come \" exclaimed she, after a pause, seeing that no- body volunteered to proceed with her project — "come! you shall be the next on my list of story-tellers/' — turning, as she spoke, to the lady of a distinguished diplomatist, ANDRIANI. 55 who sat near her. " We know that you can make pleasant stories, even out of painful subjects. Look at this poor prisoner ; he reminds me of your prisoner in Maurice of Saxony. Do tell us a pitiful story about him \" And her soft eyes seemed to be suffused with tears as she looked at the picture. " But why, my pretty Eva," replied the lady so ad- dressed, " why desire to hear more on a theme, the mere mention of which has cast a melancholy hue on yotir late happy face ? Let us pass by the prisoner, and go to some more pleasant subject." " Oh, no ! no ! " cried the enthusiastic girl ; " I like to be unhappy sometimes — I mean, in stories and books; it makes me so much happier afterwards. You must tell us a story of this poor captive." There was no reply to this earnest appeal from the lovely Mistress of the Revels ; and the lady to whom it was addressed, proceeded, after a brief but thoughtful pause, to relate the story of ANDKIANI. The numerous islands which lie scattered on the bosom of the beautiful Lago di Garda, were reposing under the cool shadows of a gloomy evening early in the September of 1259, while a soft breeze drifted at intervals dark and vapoury clouds athwart the moon, confounding in occa- sional and partial obscurity the cottages and buildings which were dotted along the shore, with the fruitful orange, olive, and the luxuriant vine, whose tender stems, bending under the burthen of their rich clusters, twined and interlaced themselves in graceful garlands and festoons 56 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. from branch to branch of the mulberry groves, which were grouped around these lovely retreats. A small and lowly islet, situated apart from its more congregated neighbours, presented no other habitation — and, indeed, its circum- scribed limits admitted none of greater pretension — than a rude shed, canopied by a clump of pines, from the rough hewn logs of whose paternal arms it had been fashioned, apparently without the aid of any other implement than the woodman's axe. This cabin not (infrequently afforded temporary shelter to the fisherman, while perseveringly watching his carefully-laid nets and baited lines, till the dawn should decide his success, and probable gain for the coming day, by the fortunate capture of the delicious carpione. The south wind moaned capriciously and by soft gusts, like the sobbing of wayward infancy, among the tall flags and rushes which girded this islet, bending their pliant spear-like forms till their taper tips, in their rustling obedience to the breeze, kissed and rippled their dark and watery bed, scaring from sedgy nooks and mossy banks the wild water-fowl, which, startled as the waving reeds grated above them or swept their drowsy pinions, dived and darted from their osiery lairs in search of a haven more secure from the molesting sounds which invaded them. .Moving lights from the villas were dancing, like wandering meteors, upon the ruffled waters, when a man issued from the hut, and with crossed arms planted him- self against the trunk of an ilex, which the lightning of the summer's storm had not spared, and patiently mused, till one glimmering beacon from the mainland alone outlived its fitful companions. Disburthening him- self from his cloak, he cast it over his arm, and descending the grassy slope to the narrow landing-place, threw it into a small skiff which lay moored to the bank ; casting a rapid ANDRIANI. 57 glance over the wide waters, he lightly bounded into the bark, and pushing it from the shore, rowed swiftly in the direction of the signal, for the appearance of which he had been so anxiously watching. Before he had passed more than two-thirds across the lake, the beacon-light wavered, and was scarcely perceptible. Resting upon his oars, he surveyed the distance he had yet to make, then untied a handkerchief from his neck, which he tore in half, and muffling the filling of his sculls, pursued his course. The cottage which it was his object to attain lay about two hundred yards from the margin of the lake, and some three or four miles above the castle of II Garda. Humble as it was, and poor as its appearance bespoke its inmates, con- cealment seemed to be their main care, for, with the aid of evergreen shrubs and climbing plants, it was nearly hidden from observation. To judge by the countenances and movements of those inhabiting this isolated dwelling, poverty was around them, but peace of mind did not lighten the evil ; for penury, apparently, was the least of their anxieties for the future. A hale, though elderly man, whose garb denoted him to be a fisherman, was measuring a small chamber with impatient strides ; the net which he had commenced repairing was thrown aside, for his uneasy thoughts evidently did not admit of any continuous occupation. Every now and then, he stopped short, and placing his hands at each side of his face to shade his eyes from the bright-burning lamp within, looked forth from the casement, which commanded a view of the waters. A maiden was seated somewhat apart from him ; her face was buried in her outspread hands ; their whiteness, with the delicacy of her form, proclaimed her peasant's dress to be rather a disguise than the accompaniment of her station. Although her face was concealed, and for manv minutes she 58 EVENINGS A I HAODON HALL. did not vary her posture, her ready ear was evidently watchful of, and took in every sound. When her com- panion closed the casement with an exclamation of impa- tience, a heavy siirli told of intense disappointment; that sigh was responded to by a female, who arose from her spinning-wheel, and laying aside her distaff, approached her husband; for such he was. Gently touching his arm she whispered, "You are a poor comforter, my Giovanni; doubtless, he waits and watches until others are at rest." Then, herself advancing to the window, she again drew him towards it, and pointed to a dark object which was gliding close in shore. Answering to her quiet intimation, he replied, "It is not he;" then hurriedly lifting his cap from the table, and removing the light further from the window, unbarred the door. "Oh, do not leave us, good Giovanni!" cried the maiden, starting to her feet, while her dark eyes were earnest with fear and entreaty. " If the doom with which I am menaced were death only, I would say, Fly, and leave me to my fate ; but you well know it will be worse — oh, ten thousand times worse than death, Giovanni !" Here terror usurped her power of further speech, and contracted her brow with agony. She clung wildly to him. Respectfully he raised the distracted suppliant from h:- shoulder, and, in a tone of mingled tenderness and reproach, said, "Leave you, signora ! — have I deserved such a suspicion V* "Oh, I mean not thus," she replied, energetically and hurriedly; " lor well I know that to succour me you are ever heedless of your own safety : already, to protect me, you have left all, and by your unshaken fidelity to the sur- vivors of our crushed house, you have lost all. Reproach I Oh! no, no!" ANDRIANI. 59 " Speak not thus, signora ! I have done my duty ; I have fulfilled my promise. But no more of this, dear lady ; suffer me to quit you for a few moments only. Our bea- con-light may have induced the brave Andriani to believe that he could join us with safety, and I much doubt if there are not watchers at this moment to intercept him." An impatient tap at the window further alarmed the group, and the trembling girl was almost sinking to the floor with affright. Giovanni paused, and bent forward in a listening attitude. "Open for Andriani!" were the welcome sounds which reached his ear. He lost no time in admitting the visitor ; but a stranger presented himself, and dread again pervaded the party, who feared to ques- tion the intruder. The open and anxious expression, how- ever, of his fine features assured Giovanni, that, unac- countable as his appearance among them at such a moment might be, he did not come unwarranted, or with any hos- tile purpose. Albina, who was still clinging to Giovanni's arm, raised her eyes to him, and demanded, in tremulous accents, "Are you come to aid?" " I am indeed, fair lady ; but there is little time for explanation. By Andriani's desire I have closely watched, in Verona, the movements of him who there holds sway. His secret purposes are well known to me. Thus, being apprised of your peril, I prevailed with the boatman to allow me to steer the bark which now lies moored to the willow by the shore, and which is destined, when Eccelino and his followers have secured you, to carry you down the lake. He has chosen this method for your transportation in order to screen from his wife and from the public eye an act of lawless violence, which might lead to further con- spiracies against his power and life." fiO EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Giovanni struck his forehead, and looked upon Albina in despair, at a loss how to evade the immediate danger which seemed to menace them. " Thus/' answered the young Btranger, responding to his thoughts; "we must secure the boatman, and make good speed up the lake. At the foot of the mountains we shall find the assistance which Andriani, whom I have for- warned, has doubtless provided for this emergency." "Ready \" replied Giovanni, with energy, at the same time thrusting a stiletto into his belt, and taking down a broad-sword, which hung from the wall, concealed behind his cloak. "Oh, take me with you!" cried Albina, again appeal- ing to her protector, and looking imploringly in his face. " Are yon prepared," he asked, " to witness strife, per- haps bloodshed, signora? — But hark!" A hasty step, and the watchword, "Andriani," scarcely preceded the entrance of our islet boatman. "Thanks — thanks!" he said, pressing the stranger's hand. "Albina, we must fly!" The appeal was an- swered by her throwing herself into his arms. The pre- vious intention of the party was briefly explained to him. " Hold !" he exclaimed, as thev were leaving the cot- tage ; " wc need not this delay. Your weary and slumber- ing companion, my friend, is bound hand and foot in his bark, and both are by this time far adrift upon the lake, his sculls broken, and scattered on the waters. Farewell, Giovanni j we must trust to your adroitness to delay and mislead the tyrant." While he said this, Giovanni took up the cloak which he had thrown aside, and with the aid of his wife care- fully folded it round their charge, who was quickly em- barked, and the boat vigorously and rapidly plied up the ANDRIANI. GI lake. They had scarcely departed, when the tramp of horses drew forth an exclamation from Giovanni; "The Virgin be praised — they will miss their aim!" He had time only hastily to resume his net, and Benita her distaff, when Eccelino and his followers burst into the cottage, filled the small apartment, and Eccelino, advanc ing, cried, " Arise, old man ! " Giovanni did as he was bid, at the same time feign- ing surprise at the unwelcome intrusion. He carefully gathered up his net, and hung it over the wooden bench on which Benita was sitting, then coolly eyeing his unbid- den visitors, bowed to their leader. "What is the signor's pleasure ?" he demanded. "If he comes in quest of fish from our lake, I am sorry to say that I can neither supply a carpione for his supper, nor earn my own breakfast for the morrow," pointing to the rent net. " You know better, fellow ; men come not armed to barter for fish. Where is the maiden who abides here — the famed bandit's sister ? It is her we seek." " No maiden harbours here," he replied, with a look ol astonishment ; " the signor is mistaken." " It is false, knave ! You shall pay for this." And seizing Giovanni by the collar, he shook him rudely, and bade him precede him in his search through the premises, while he sent two of his men to the shore. " You see, signor, I spoke truly ; the maiden whom you seek is not under this rc\f." " Then thou knowest, knave, of her hiding or escape ; either, doubtless, of thy contriving." "You wrong me, signor," he answered, respectfully. " My faithful Benita and my net are all I possess." " He speaks falsely ! " cried one of the tyrant's myrmw 62 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. (.Inns. "The boat sent under Matteo'a caie rides over the waters at the will of the waves." "Old man, you shall speedily answer lor this false- hood ! Bind him, fellows \" cried Eccelino ; "let him be food for the fishes." " As I hope for the Holy Virgin's protection," cried the now terrified Giovanni, " I have not left my cottage since noon to-day ; busy in repairing the fractures of my net — the only means of my subsistence, — I have neither found leisure to launch a boat nor handle an oar. Spare me, I beseech you ! " Giovanni did not expect the mercy which he craved from a man who notoriously never showed any. lie cast a significant glance from the net to his wife, who, alert to his purpose, lifted it from the bench and placed it over his arm. A whispered communication, as she did this, passed between them, and she tied from the cottage. The old man now stood more resolute and erect, while a smile, almost amounting to defiance, curled his lip. "As I left the shore," chimed in again the former speaker, " two men were manfully rowing a skiff up the lake, but were then scarcely :i mile from the land." " Doubtless," observed Giovanni, calmly, " they were fishermen, anxious to cast their net before the troubled waters shall render their labour useless. We poor fisher- men," he added, " arc obliged early and late to pursue our calling; for ours is a precarious subsistence, hanging upon the chances of wind and weather." " Ha! ha! you are plausible, old man; but it will not avail you. Speak out, 'tis the only hope I give you for your life." " Signor," he replied, " I trust not so, for how could I foretel your purpose or your coming ? Bear me blame- ANDRIANI. 63 less, I beseech you, and seek her, for whom you inquire, elsewhere." Eecelino, whose dark features were working with wrath, deigned no reply to this appeal ; but, turning to his men, who were grouped around him, pointed to Giovanni and repeated his command. " As he will not speak, do my bidding, fellows ; and then to horse." While he was uttering this sentence, Giovanni had been imperceptibly gathering his net in his right hand, his eye continuing steadily fixed upon the speaker, from the hard lines of whose countenance, which grew sterner and sterner, he saw that further parley or remonstrance would be instant death. As the men ad- vanced to obey and seize him, he sprang suddenly upon the table, and casting the net dexterously over the by- standers, at the same time kicked the lamp to the other side of the room, and without a pause, darted through the casement. The rowers exerted their utmost efforts ; the wind was rising each moment, the waters became more and more disturbed, and threatened to swamp their light bark. Few words were spoken. Albina, reclining at the bottom of the boat, and, drenched with the spray which continually broke over them, endeavoured, with straining eyes, to penetrate the gloom which was increasing on all sides, and assure herself that they were not pursued. At lengthened inter- vals the pale-faced moon, for a few brief moments, shone forth, as if, by her transitory light, she would display to them the rising surges around them, and their consequent danger ; then merging herself again behind piled moun- tains of dense and purple clouds, left them to combat with their peril, without a beam by which to steer their course. The dreary prospect thus momentarily presented to T4 EVENINGS AT HADDON MALL. their view, served the more to stimulate the energies of the unflinching boatmen to continued and increased exertion They well knew that as yet the troubled waters were only lashing themselves into the utmost terror of their fury, and that when the acme of their foaming rage should overtake their light bark, which for some time they had with diffi- culty steered across the agitated waves, it must fill and sink in the storm. On the morrow, perhaps, the blue waters would array themselves in sunny smiles, and calmly ripple over the victims of their wanton anger, as if in mockery of human weakness when contrasted with their now overwhelming power j then, in playful gambols, cast their lifeless prey from their cold embrace, and convince the ruthless tyrant, who would capture to destroy, that his passions were baulked, and his cruelty forestalled. Rapidly-following Hashes of lightning were succeeded by, and left them in, total darkness; the distant thun- der rolled and echoed among the rocky mountains ; the boatmen, in tenderness to their helpless charge, were silent, nor did Albina impede their strenuous exertions by expressed terror or useless complaints. One involuntary exclamation alone escaped her, as a flash of forked light- ning, which swept along the whole range of the horizon, and rendered every object for a moment perfectly visible, blinded her. "Thank Heaven !" exclaimed Andriani, as the tran- sput illumination leit them, " we are under the lee of the mountains." They had, indeed, nearly gained the head of the lake, and were entering into smoother water. By the repeated and vivid flashes which danced and played on every object around, they descried figures moving on the shore. To this point they steered. ANDRIANI. 65 " Hold ! they see us," cried Leonisio, hying his hand on the arm of Andriani, who was preparing to give the signal of their approach. "While they were yet some yards distant from the iutended spot of their disembarcation, two troopers, with led horess, dashed into the water, breasted its violence, and gained the boat. " Either this is a frantic freak, Antonio," said Andriani to the foremost man, " or immediate danger has prompted it. " The latter," quickly replied Antonio. " Mount, and haste away. Our scout reports that they will soon be upon us. I have posted our party in advance, to parry their first attack ; they greatly outnumber us already, and doubtless their leader is not far behind." Andriani made no reply ; but, as Leonisio steadied the boat, lifted Albina on one of the led horses. " Now you, Count, to the saddle, and follow ; to your protection I trust Albina ; I will keep the jackals at bay, and head my faith- ful followers, who are prodigal of life and limb in my service." Leonisio hesitated. " My friend, it must be so," added Andriani ; " here you can do me little service ; in accom- panying and guarding her, much. Antonio will be your guide." Leonisio paused no longer, but springing on the animal held for him, gained the landing-place with his precious charge. A few strokes brought Andi-iani's bark to the shore, and as few moments saw him armed, mounted, and in full career to join his band, repel the attack of his enemy, and cover the retreat of the fagitives. With desperate haste they urged on their flight ; heavy sighs were the only responses Albina was able to give in reply to Leonisio's encouraging words. What torture of F 56 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. heart did the reflection bring, that the brave Andriani was left to stem the fury of that powerful and unrelenting foe, the Bconrging-rod destined for a time to lash Brescia* Padua, and Verona, and track his way with cruelty and bloodshed. Her companion answered to her tears and sighs, (for hers was the mute eloquence of grief,) by assuring her that Eccelino could not yet have joined the party he had sent forward early in the day, possibly to watch Andriani's movements, even if he intended to do so, which he doubted. His speech and tone were gentle and persuasive ; he warmed into enthusiasm when he spoke of Andriani's courage, forethought, and intelligence ; he fur- ther urged his presence of mind and aptitude at stratagem, qualities which had served him in many hair-breadth escapes and encounters, and would, he trusted, avail him now as they had done. Such arguments were judiciously brought forward by snatches only, when he found that Albina's grief and terror were enfeebling her frame. Day dawned as they reached the intricacies of the mountains, and they were obliged to slacken their pace ; for here a torrent, hissing, roaring, and tumbling through a deep ravine, was to be forded, there a perilous cleft, be- tween two perpendicular rocks, to be crossed. The inti- mate knowledge which their guide possessed of such passes alone ensured their safety : one false turn would have pre- cipitated them headlong to destruction. The storm during their progress had passed away, and the moon once more rode unclouded in the heavens. A stony steep at last brought them to the face of an overhanging rock, which rose like a wall before them; a sharp turn inwards round its angle, led them to a passage which did not admit two a-breast. At its termination, there was just sufficient room to turn their horses, and to pursue a still longer and ANDRIANI. 67 narrower path which fronted them, and which after ascend- ing and descending, introduced them, when the watchword had been given, into a wide and open space, resembling a rude but roofless cavern ; for slanting rocks were still piled toppling a hundred feet above them. A mountain spring came leaping down the craggy heights ; then overflowing a ~ atural basin, crept away among the numerous fissures, to fill some cavern pool, or feed a never-failing stream. The day was breaking, as Albina was lifted exhausted from her horse, and consigned to the care of two females, who, like others, had fled with their husbands from Eccelino's barba- rity, to join Andrianfs band in the mountains. One of the troopers had been sent back, when the fugitives had gained the narrower defiles, to seek his leader, and carry a report of their progress ; but when he reached the scene of the night skirmish, neither friend nor foe in life was there. Filippo found two of his comrades in the sleep of death ; one had expired clutching the throat of an enemy, with whom apparently he had been in contention when he re- ceived his own death-wound. He turned and wept, for it was his brother. A wretched peasant, who had come to glean a harvest from the dead, assisted him to bear the corpse to the bark which Andriani had left upon the shore; they sank the body in the deep water, cased in its heavy accoutrements, without a funeral rite, and then accorded to its gory companion and foe the same watery grave. The peasant could tell him nothing, for he had issued from his hiding-place after the fight was done. These melancholy obsequies performed, Filippo retraced his steps; as he gained the mountains, his companions gradually joined him ; where was their leader ? Their downcast looks answered, " a prisoner." When Leonisio had arisen, he satisfied himself that 68 EVENINGS AT HADDON ALL. another outlet from their fastness existed, but too dangerous to be attempted, save in a case of utmost need. Seeing the band enter one by one, he anxiously waited to greet his friend; but the despairing looks he encountered were heralds to the sad news they brought. Could they tell alight of him ? Only this, that, too eager to lead on his men, he had rushed a-head of them, was surrounded, and made prisoner. In this strait, he called to them to save themselves, and report to Leonisio his condition. Had Eccelino come up with them ? No ; but it was their belief that II Garda would be Andriani's prison. Leonisio turned mournfully away, and placing his foot on a projecting stone, for a few moments gave himself up to thought. His re- flections were soon matured ; he changed his position, and gazed upwards at the sun, which was shining brightly upon their retreat, then called the men around him. " A good omen," he said, cheerfully, pointing to the heavens; "refresh yourselves, my men ; at nightfall, dis- perse near the passes, and wait until a signal shall call you together ; I must enlist two of you to accompany me ; Antonio, you must remain with six others to guard our charge." All who were not disabled volunteered their services, but lots were drawn. While Leonisio hastily broke his fast, a fresh horse was brought from one of the caves which opened upon this arena ; and with a heavy heart he again descended the mountain. Exhausted by fatigue, wounded and shackled, the un- happy Andriani lay stretched on his stone pallet, in a dungeon of the castle of II Garda. The fates had torn out the bright page of hope from the tablets of his future fortune, and the prospect of a scaffold was before him. The ANDRIANI. 09 licentious tyrant — lie who in the plenitude of his abused power had ordered the execution of Count Bonifazio di Panego, his brave father, — the execrable Eccelino, the spoiler of his house and lands, would perpetrate the last act of the tragedy, and in his person extirpate his house and name. How impotent was he now to redress these wrongs ! how subdued, how crushed and sunk were those high aspirations which had goaded and sustained him to seek for restitution, retribution, or revenge ! The cold dew gathered on his brow like the unwholesome damps which exuded and were dripping from his prison walls. He clenched his hands in agony across his forehead, as he recalled the scenes of misery and bloodshed his young and innocent years had witnessed, and the narrow escape of his loved Albina from dishonour ; but he had saved her, nor did he doubt the devotion and fidelity of his followers, the friendship of Leonisio, or their united valour and endeavours to secure her preservation in those secret haunts and fast- nesses which had so long sheltered him; then other thoughts as tender, but more selfish, stole over his weary senses : the vision of his Fiorenza rose in her beauty before him ; her beaming eyes seemed to gaze in sorrow upon him, her parted lips to pour forth words of constancy and consolation to him. In airy dreams again he trod with her the tran- quil groves which had often witnessed their youthful sports; again he wearied his young voice in rivalry of song with hers ; then hanging their lute upon a branch of the sober cypress, which, clothed with dark, impervious foliage, spread widely its evergreen arms of fan-like form, whiled away the hours of noontide heat in listless indolence under its friendly shelter ; or, wandering among the brakes and dells, sportively caught in their tiny palms the liquid gems which parted from the cascade above, broke upon the lower TO EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. rocks, and dashed far and wide among the lichens, fern;, and creeping plants which trailed or waved their bright green leaves in contrast to their gray and stony cradles. Then sterner visions invaded these peaceful fancies of childhood's happy and thoughtless spring-time days j blood and deadly strife were mixed with fantastic scenes of splen- dour; while gnawing reptiles fixed upon his heart, gro- cesque and horrid masks chased him round lordly courts and halls, through devious paths and mountain steeps to the brink of a precipice; he groaned and awoke. A muf- fled figure with folded arms was standing beside his pallet, and watching; his countenance as each unreal and wavward fancy passed over it. His name pronounced aroused him ; he raised himself upon his elbow, and endeavoured to recognise the person before him, for surely it was a voice which had once been familiar to his ear — a voice whose friendly tones had relaxed into discord since the harmony of his own fortunes had been broken. " Andriani," repeated his visitor, "chance brought me to II Garda, as you were led a captive through its gates ; I have come to save you, if you will." " If you have the power to release me from the tyrant's clutches, Count Bonifazio, it must be done at your will, not mine ;" and he fixed his bright, keen eye upon him. " I will it, Andriani, if, without delay, you accede to my conditions; Eccelino knows not yet of your capture." " Name them, Count," he replied; "I am not indif- ferent to life, and will purchase it on honourable terms." " Renounce, then, your contract with Fiorcnza," said the Count, sternly. "Count Bonifazio's daughter shall never be the bride of an outlaw." " Does Fiorcnza demand this of me ? Docs she, too, abandon the oppressed and deserted Andriani V ANDRIANI. 71 " She does, Andriani, for your life's sake — to spare the Count Panego's son from an ignominious death." Andriani rose, his eyes flashed with the fiery resent- ment of his heart. " Did Panego's son, Count Bonifazio/' he demanded, energetically, " deserve an ignominious death, when, foremost among your followers, he fought by your side, — when, with your son, the brave Leonisio, more than once he defended your castle walls ? Did he deserve an ignominious death, when he cleft in twain the soldier whose sword was at your breast, and when anew you swore to keep inviolate his contract with Fiorenza? Was he an outlaw until you made peace with that tyrant, who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all Padua, sent the noble Panego to the scaffold ? who drove the per- secuted and forsaken Andriani to the mountains, to seek a precarious subsistence for himself and those true, though humble few who still faithfully adhered to him ? Has Andriani's arm slain the impotent and helpless ? Has Andriani's tongue given forth the barbai-ous fiats of torture, mutilation, and, after, death to the weak and defenceless ? Hath he constructed in his mountain holds horrible prisons and infernal machines for human suffering, and torn the lacerated and quivering limbs from his innocent victims ? Hath he saturated each impress of his foot with blood, and made his name an accursed watchword for barbarity ? It is not the outlaw, Count, whose alliance you now scorn, but the beggar ! A beggar, beggared by that scourge and monster of mankind, your kinsman, Eccelino \" He paused, then in a hoarse tone added, " If Fiorenza re- nounces me for such heinous crimes, let her declare to Andriani that Andriani is unworthy of her pure love — let her denounce the proclaimed outlaw, and forswear her 72 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. often-plighted faith ; if she refuse this, there is truly but I jut one remedy." " Name it," cried Bonifazio, with eagerness. Andriani approached him, and bending forward, whis- pered, " Send the son of your bosom friend to the ig- nominious death with which you threatened him ; his constancy and hers will well deserve such a punishment." The Count was staggered, and could find no reply. He knew that he had a noble heart and a lion spirit to deal with; he could find no ready arguments to contravert the painful and upbraiding truths which had been spoken; he turned away, and motioned as if to depart. Andriani watched his receding figure. " Hold, Count, yet one word; you shall now hear my conditions." The Count Ricciardo returned. " The love of life," he thought, " will yet subdue Andriani's haughty mind." They gazed for a few moments in silence at each other; the trace of passion and the flush of anger had passed from the prisoner's countenance ; he stood pale, but proud and erect, before the Count, who waited with impatience for his proposition. " Speak quickly, young man, for time wears; by special favour from the governor, I have ob- tained access to you; I may not tarry." " Release me, Count," said Andriani, calmly. " Leo- nisio, mark me, has sworn to revenge my death ; release me, Count, for that time may come, when Andriani's arm, and Andriani's mountain horde, may serve you and his country well. I will not abandon my contract with Fiorenza, nor Fiorenza's love; neither, till better fortune — if I live — shall airain invest me with Panego's honours, and Panego's lands, will I claim Fiorenza for my bride. I would live, but live with honour; I fear not death." ANDBIANI. 73 " You trifle/' returned Count Bonifazio. * You for- get/' he added, with emphasis, " that death dissolves all contracts." " So it would appear, noble sir, for even your sworn friendship and brotherhood were buried in Count Panego's grave." The Count winced; the reproach stung him, and came home to his heart ; nor could he stifle the full remembrance of the oaths by which he had bound himself to protect the unfortunate prisoner before him, the son of his murdered friend. He would fain save him, but upon his own terms. " You are mad !" he at last exclaimed. " When, like a wild bird, you chose the mountains for your haunts, why did you daringly quit their heights to invade our peaceful valleys in search of prey ?" " Ha ! ha ! peaceful valleys, say you, Count ? — peace- ful valleys ? Know ye that the putrid atmosphere from your blood-stained lowlands, rises like a noxious vapour to taint and infect the pure ether of our cloudless skies ? You ask why did I leave my mountain-heights for your pestiferous valleys ? I will tell you, Count Ricciardo di Bonifazo," and he powerfully grasped the Count's arm. " I left them to save Count Panego's daughter from the wanton pursuit of Verona's ruler; to save her, that tongue should not report — that eye should not see — Albina di Panego the leman of her father's murderer. Yes, the eagle left his eyrie to snatch the innocent lamb from the vulture." As the last sentence left his lips, his nervous grasp on the Count's arm relaxed, his countenance assumed the hue of death, and he sank back on his pallet senseless. When Andriani awoke from his stupor, and feebly raised his head, the lamp was newly trimmed, food was placed by his pallet, and his manacles removed. 74 tVENINOS AT n.VDDON IIALL. Before Bonifazio had entered his dungeon, the pangi of hunger for some hours had gnawed him, and further spent by emotion, even his hardy frame could endure no more, but sank, completely subdued. He stretched his hand to the pitcher of water, slaked his burning thirst, and eagerly devoured the provision at his side. The day was waning into night, but he had no guide to passing hours. He had slumbered, and ere the Count's departure, had been deprived of sense, but how long he had thus remained he knew not; possibly, some kindly feeling had prompted Ricciardo to wait till he showed symptoms of recovery from his deadly swoon ; perhaps he tarried with the hope that he might never wake again; for unless he would const at to abandon what was dearer to him than life, Fiorenza's love, the Count's interest did not tally with his preserva- tion, and then he thought how scenes of strife change men's minds — ambition unrestrained, their kindlier natures — how does it warp their first and better purposes ! He rose, and ascended the steps which led to the strongly-secured door, but no human effort could move it. He sat himself down upon the upper stair, his head bowed upon his bosom. The Count, doubtless, had left him to his fate, but would not Leonisio, when his men brought in news of his capture, seek him ? Perhaps the knowledge of his captivity would only reach him when too late. But how useless were these reflections of mingled doubt/hope, and despair, to amend his condition ! With a heavy sigh he once more returned to his wretched pallet, and, taking up his lamp, determined to examine the extent of his prison. As he did so, its light gleamed on the polished blade of a dagger, which pro- truded from his resting-place of stone and straw. A ray of hope again crossed his mind; he tried its edge; and ANDR1AN1. 75 minutely inspected it. The word "Hope" was barely discernible upon its bright surface. He placed it in his oosom, and a thousand wild conjectures rapidly succeeded each other in his thoughts. Was this weapon conveyed to him to provoke his despair to suicide, or as a protection against secret assassination ? He would not believe that the Count, however anxious he might be to rid himself of his claims upon him, or however unwilling that the affi- anced husband of his daughter should be led to public execution, would instigate the one, or sanction the other atrocious measure. He was bade to hope. In what anti- cipation could he indulge, if the news of his capture should reach Eccelino ? for how would that tyrant exult if he could satisfy and satiate his own hatred and revenge upon the plea and show of justice ! In those deep vaults no sound could reach him ; there all was solitude and silence, nor did his lamp illuminate one third of his unexplored and spacious, but dreary prison. It was possible there might be some other available outlet, and he now proceeded to put into execution his intention, and ascertain its limits. He passed through numerous intersected arches, springing from short and heavy columns, doubtless, in part, sup- porting the castle towers above, until he arrived at the massy wall which enclosed him. With patient scrutiny, he held his lamp in every direction; his foot stumbled, the ground was no longer level ; it was a newly-made grave that had endangered his falling, and the consequent extinction of his lamp. He shuddered, and imagined him- self a partner in the same lone prisoner's grave, or one beside it. It had been made and closed, apparently in haste, for a pick-axe was lying close by, as if hurriedly cast aside. A small iron grating, immediately but high above this dungeon sepulchre, imparted new hope to our 76 EVENING* AT IIADDON HALL. prisoner. "With the implement so happily offered to his hand he contrived to excavate a footing, and assiduously bent all his force to remove the bars from their sockets. The work was nearly completed, one bar only remaining before a free passage would crown his efforts, when ad- vancing footsteps told him how useless his labour had been. There was no time to quit his position, for two persons stood directly beneath him. The ponderous instru- ment was in his hand ; should he hurl it at them ? The aim was sure, and one thus disposed of, the other would soon succumb to his strength and prowess. He raised his arm, but before the fatal stroke was given, the lamp, which his supposed assailants had lifted from the grave, shone upon the upturned features of Leonisio ! With one bound Andriani was at the side of his friend — one sentence alone was exchanged — Albina was safe. Leonisio's companion, meanwhile, was examining the work which the prisoner had commenced. " Since the signor," he observed, " has opened this barrier, it may be a better and a safer way for us, and may hereafter save my neck, if I should fall into the governor's hands, by drawing suspicion from me as having aided in his escape." They lent their united efforts, the remaining bar was soon removed, and the party found themselves in a vault nearly resembling the one they had quitted. " Have you the key V demanded Leonisio, as he advanced to the door. 1 1 is attendant looked blank. " And if I had," he answered, " there are strong bolts on the other side." " Then we must hew a passage through the walls, cried Andriani; and with both hands he raised the pick- axe, which he still retained, above his head. The other arrested his arm. "Hist, Signor! thia AN3RIANI. 77 prison has not of late been used, I bethink me the door mav not be closed •" at the same time he advanced before Andriani, and pulled at a strong iron ring, which was in- serted near the lock. The door yielded, and they entered a passage hewn in the solid rock. Singly and in silence they pursued its tortuous windings, which were at last ter- minated by a grated portal. Here a justly-fitted key, pro- duced by their conductor, gave them exit upon a narrow and low platform, where a sentinel was making his solitary turns. Before the soldier had time to give the alarm, Andriani rushed upon him ; assisted by his companions, he disarmed, and thrust him within the passage, then closed and locked the grated door upon him. It was still dark when they descended the slimy steps which led to the water. Leonisio struck his sword sharply against the wall ; upon the repetition of the stroke, two boatmen appeared from behind the lee of a buttress, and quickly steered their bark alongside the rocky stairs. As the re- leased Andriani turned his eyes to look back upon the frown- ing aspect of the stronghold from which he had escaped, he breathed more freely : they gained the shore as the dawn began to break, and ere the sun had shed his full influence on the tops of the mountains, Albina was in Andrianv's arms. Their escape had been too rapid to allow of observa- tion, question, or rejoinder. As they passed onwards, according to the preconcerted signal decided upon by Leo- nisio, the band by degrees left their hidden lairs, and con- gregated round their leader. Albina looked inquiringly in her brother's face ; his exhausted condition and disor- dered appearance told plainly of some bygone fearful struggle, and her speaking eyes demanded an explanation which she dared not trust her voice to ask. 7S EVENINGS AT HA.DDON HALL. "lie has saved me, Albina," pointing to Leonisio; '' how, you must demand of him, my sister." " I would ask him/' she replied, " I would thank him, but my gratitude overmasters my power to do so." Her thick voice and falling tears confirmed the simple assertion. Leonisio looked upon her; he now saw her in all the freshness of her beauty, heightened by feeling and tender- ness, drawn from the pure sources of affection, sisterly love and gratitude, and he rejoiced as he contemplated this lovely work of nature, that the service which in friendship he had rendered, might allow him some claim for a return of that love which was springing in his bosom. It was now Albina's turn to assist in administering to their wants, for, in truth, the whole party needed refresh- ment and rest. While they partook of the former, Andriani related his capture and escape, but in considera- tion of Leonisio's feelings, touched lightly upon his inter- view with the Count in his prison. " And now, my friend," he said, as he concluded, "you must take up the tale, for by what means or agency you effected my deliverance, I have yet to learn." " Willingly," replied Leonisio. " When I quitted this airy castle of yours, I had hardly shaped my plans, save .hat on your rescue I was determined j I hoped, as in fact I Jid, to meet my father at II Garda, on his way to Verona. _ desired to be immediately conducted to his presence, but I did not find him in the quarter assigned to him. While searching for him I encountered Niccolo, who is my foster- brother, and bound to me by the strongest ties. From him I learned that for some months he had been entrusted with the charge of the state prisoners ; that Eccelino had arrived at the fortress during the night, sought some hasty refreshment, and then returned immediately to Verona; ANDRIANI. 79 that you had been brought in soon after dawn, a captive, and just at the moment of my father's arrival ; and that he, Niccolo, was then waiting his return from your prison, whither he had conducted him, to carry your supply of food. I knew Niccolo could not and would not refuse me any service I might demand from him ; hastily, I scratched the word ' Hope' upon my dagger, and enjoined him to place it where you would find it, and then appointed him, these duties performed, to meet me at midnight at the same spot. I again went to seek my father ; when he entered his apartment, where I had been waiting for some time with restless impatience, I strongly urged your claims upon us, and from him heard the full detail of your stormy interview. I found that he was ill at ease with himself : pride had veiled his better feelings, but had not smothered them. Your reproaches, while they angered, had also shamed and grieved him ; and Eccelino's infamous attempt to carry off your sister had disgusted him, while it justified your descent from the mountains, and your encounter with his troops in her defence. He confessed that the shade of your murdered father seemed to hover between yourself and him in your lonely dungeon, and that on leaving you in that exhausted state, he had com- manded Niccolo to remove your chains, and supply you with sufficient and proper food. Fiorenza's positive refusal to break her plighted faith with you, unless at your demand, as the larst sacrifice which she could make to save your life, had maddened him. He left her at San Bonifazio, with the determination to seek and force you into compli- ance, if possible. When thus fortune assisted his mea- sures, and placed you in his power, he procured permission to visit you. Fortunately, the soldiers who brought you to II Garda had not yet departed from that for.ress. 80 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. From this conversation I gathered, that although he wou.d bend you to his purpose, he was loath to denounce you to his kinsman, with whom, as you know, lie is frequently at warfare. I left him, with the assurance on my part, that I would keep inviolate my faith, and hold sacred my bond of friendship with you in flood and field. 1 ordered the two men who accompanied mc, members of your own band, to station their boat at anv rjoint which Niccolo should indicate. He agreed to accompany me to your dungeon ; the rest you have already told." AVhile Leonisio thus simply and briefly narrated the means he had taken for Andriani's escape, Albina's eyes were bent upon his glowing countenance ; to the gratitude which was thrilling in her bosom, she dared not give ex- pression, lest other feelings, more tender, should form themselves into words, and give too strong an essence to her speech. She was hardly conscious herself, of the struggle which was passing within, but Nature loves not control ; the blushing cheek was the tell-tale of the guile- less heart. On his return, Andriani had ordered a dozen men, under the command of Antonio, to keep watch in the mountain passes, to act as scouts, and to collect forage. The peasantry were willing enough to supply those who protected, but did not molest them. The gray of evening was now throwing its shadows on every recess and cavern opening, while the projecting rocks caught the golden tints which departing day had yet to give, when our trio were once more assembled in their roof- less hall. The laugh and jest, with recollections of early days, for a time kept them in conversation ; but, by de- grees, their spirits and thoughts partook of the fading tints around them. Andriani' s were far away, with his peerless Fiorenza ; Leonisio dwelt with concern up in his ANDRIANI. 81 separation from Albina on the morrow; and Albina was occupied with similar regrets, and mingled fears for the fate of the faithful Giovanni and Benita : thus, by degrees, they sank into silence. A sudden movement among the men at the entrance of the passage, where they were on guard, and where others were also grouped, roused Andri- ani from his reclining position. Antonio entering, fol- lowed by four of his companions, and leading three persons captive, sent the angry blood into Andriani's cheek. " Lconisio," he cried, turning to his friend, who had also quitted his seat by Albina, " this is not our usual mode of warfare ! What means this, Antonio • and by whose authority do you make war on women?" " Abate your displeasure, I pray, Count," replied An- tonio respectfully, at the same time advancing, somewhat alarmed at the wrath which was quivering on his com- mander's lips and darting from his eye. "We found these persons wandering among the mountains : they stated that their feeble escort had been dispersed, and their baggage plundered, by some loose and disorderly stragglers from Eccelino's troops. While these marauders were intent upon rifling the booty, with the assistance of the brave old man who was part of their convoy, they fled, and reached the shelter of the mountains. He gave me reason to be- lieve, by the extravagant marks of joy which he exhibited, when, in answer to his questions, he found you were rescued, and by his acquaintance with our password, that he was one whom you would gladly see ; his only desire, he said, was to join you ; he implored me also to protect those with him. I consented so to do, if they would not hesitate at the perils of our way, and permit themselves to be blindfolded. Thus, carefully guiding them, I have brought them hither/' 6 82 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. While he was yet speaking, Andriani motioned for his uncxpectt 1 visitors to be brought forward. "You have done wisely, Antonio, although not exactly the booty I expected you to bring." "Not less welcome, I will vouch," cried Giovanni, stepping forward. " Far, ah, far more welcome, my faithful friend !" cried Andriani, greeting him most cordially, "for in truth, Albina and myself have had many misgivings on your account." " Indeed, indeed, we have, my good Giovanni ! " cried Albina, while the warm and grateful tear dropped upon the old man's hand, which she fervently pressed. Giovanni's features lighted up with a beam of satisfaction, and an arch smile played round the corners of his mouth, as he turned his head over his shoulder ; but a painful throb sent the colour from Albino's cheek, as she saw one of Antonio's female captives locked in Lconisio's arms, and leaning on his shoulder. He was tenderly bearing his burthen towards them, but she had not the power to quit the spot, and give the fugitives the greeting their situation demanded. An- driani caught but one glimpse of that fair form, when, with a bound, he was at her feet, " Fiorenza ! my beloved Fiorenza ! " The rocks around echoed the passionate exclamation, "Beloved Fiorenza!" The icy chain, which, for a few- moments, had rivetted Albina, was broken, and, with un- feigned joy, she pressed Fiorenza to her bosom. Lconisio resigned her to Albina's care, and took Giovanni aside, for an explanation of this unexpected meeting. Andriani cared only that she was there, and all he loved around him. At this blissful moment, years of adverse fortune, sorrow, strife, and struggle, seemed to be repaid, and blotted from his memory. Giovanni related his escape ANDRJAM. 83 from Eccelino : he had concealed himself till the tramp of horses assured him that the tyrant had taken the road back to Verona ; he then returned to his cottage, provided himself with some necessaries and provision, and having sought Benita at the house where she had taken refuge, obtained a horse, and went in quest of Andriani. On his way, he heard of his disaster; then changing his course, he did not pause until he reached San Bonifazio, hoping that the Count would exert himself to save the son of his lost friend, but he was gone ; he then entreated to be admitted to the presence of the Lady Fiorenza, who was nearly dis- tracted by the intelligence which he brought of Andi-iani's danger. She knew that it was her father's intention to visit II Garda; she insisted, therefore, upon setting off immediately to seek him ; and to urge her entreaties in favour of the prisoner, reckless of the danger, inconve- nience, or even the displeasure of her father, which so prompt and bold a measure might bring upon her : indeed, there was no time to dwell upon evil consequences, as little for preparation ; she dared not weaken the force left to guard the castle. Attended, therefore, by one female, by Giovanni and three varlets, with two horses for baggage, she commenced her journey. They had halted to take some refreshment, and were again pursuing their route, with unabated haste and dili- gence, when Giovanni slackened rein, and in alarm pointed out the advance of a party coming upon them, and which, he well knew, would treat friend or foe alike. He coun- selled Fiorenza to fly, before the distance between them should be lessened, and abandon their light baggage to the plunderers. To this, without hesitation, she consented. The attendants were to remain till the marauders gained sight of the booty, and then disperse themselves. They 84 EVENINGS AT IIADDON II ALL. hoped the bait thus placed in their view would, for a few minutes at least, arrest their greedy attention. Mean- while, they BOUght the mountains, where they wandered until they fell in with Antonio. Scouts were still out, and others were immediately dispatched, some in disguise j such were to make their way, it' possible, to Brescia. During their absence, means and measures were con- sidered for the safe convoy of Fiorenza back to the castle of San Bonifazio, whither it was decided Albina should accompany her. The morning would bring in those now out upon service, and Andriani considered his force suffi- cient to guarantee their safety against any of Eccelino's straggling parties whom they might encounter. Precious to the lovers were the few hours thus accorded to them ; each flying moment rivetted more firmly the links which bound them in strong affection to each other. Andriani, to the last moment of the evening, lingered by Fiorenza's side; and when fatigue constrained Albina and herself to >eek rest in the rude lodging which a cavern could afford them, he set about his arrangements for the following day ; then snatched a short repose, far too anxious for the safety of those who under his guidance were to be lodged in security, to lose in indulgence the early hours, which would give him an opportunity of reviewing his prepara- tions. Leonisio and himself were still in discourse, and debating every means which prudence could suggest against accident, when they were joined by those in whom all their thoughts centred. The joy of the preceding day was so- bered down almost to melancholy, for a brief space only intervened ere they must part, and all beyond was uncer- tainty. The necessity for their separation was not cheered by any brighter prospect to relieve the present and positive evil of its dull truth. Andriani's activity, however, had ANDRIANI. 85 left him leisure to enjoy the good that yet remained, in the society of Fiorenza. All, finally, was ready, and they only awaited the return of the scouts sent out on the pre- vious evening. As the sun began to glance his rays across one side of their craggy abode, Andriani and his friend experienced some uneasiness. None of the men had returned, and until some information was obtained, they could not venture to descend the mountain. Meanwhile, time was wearing apace, and Andriani felt that his asylum was ill suited to the propriety and habits of those who, in peril, had sought it as a refuge. Fiorenza dreaded her father's anger, if he should return and learn from others the imprudent journey she had undertaken ; but if she could reach San Bonifazio before him, Leonisio would seek him, and mollify his dis- pleasure. Leonisio and Albina, whose love, although ardent, was still young and unforbidden, were rather anxious for others than themselves. " The signal at last \" cried Andriani. The heavy stone which closed the passage was rolled back, and two of the scouts brought in their report, that the mountain passes were clear; nought but fishermen's barks were moving upon the lake, nor was there any evidence of impediment to cause them further delay. This intelligence was confirmed by those who had been sent in other directions, and arrived soon after the first comers. « I would fain see them all in before we depart," ob- served Andriani, appealing to Leonisio, "and learn the news from Brescia and Verona." He was not kept long in suspense, and the short delay gave further proof of his prudent judgment. The last scout reported that Eccelino had been wounded in the foot at Cassano, and had been carried to Vimercato; Azzo 86 EVENINGS AT HADDOX HALL. d'Este, with the Ferrarcsc and Mantuans, also the Mar- chcse Oberto Pelavicino and Buoso da Duora, with the Cremonese, were leagued in arms against him, while him- self was expected, when his wound was cured, to advance with the Brescians and meet this formidable coalition. It was believed the Count San Bonifazio was with the Marchese Azzo d'Este ; but to this fact no one could speak positively. "While the men gave these details, a crimson hue flushed Andriani's care-worn features; he turned his eyes, which were full of hope, brightness, and intelligence, towards Fiorenza, at the same time exclaiming, " Heaven be praised ! Andriani's arm shall not be wanting in the fight." No obstacle appeared now to offer itself to immediate departure, but as the aspect of affairs was changed, it was necessary to make some alteration in the disposition of his force, and give some fresh directions to those who were to be left in guard over his secret stronghold. Giovanni would not consent to remain behind ; he had shared, as a faithful retainer of their house, their fortunes, and would do so still. As they approached the drawbridge of San Bonifazio, Fiorenza turned to Andriani ; the tear stood quivering in her eye; she pointed to the barrier but a few paces before them. Her voice trembled as she said, "Andriani, here we must part; you go to quell a tyrant revenge the death of a father, release your fellow men from horrible oppression, and, reinstated in your honours and your rights, claim the guerdon of my hand ; it must be, nor can I say a word to stay your purpose, which patriotism, duty, and plighted love enjoin. Heaven be with you! Till your return, my prayers shall unceasingly be offered in your behalf: if," and the words almost choked her— • ANDRIANI. 87 "if you fail, and fall, Andriani, you will leave to the church the legacy of my plighted vows to you, aud a willing bride." One interchanged long look of love, one pressure of united hands, and Fiorenza, giving a slight jerk to the rein of her horse, with Leonisio passed the bridge. A sobbing adieu from Albina, and Andriani was left alone to watch their receding figures as the portcullis was lowered, and the closing gates shut them from his view. He was still lost in mournful meditation, when the tramp of Leonisio's horse, in recrossing the bridge, aroused him. With a heavy sigh, in silence he wheeled round, and the friends proceeded at a brisk pace towards the theatre of war. As they came within sight of the Adda, they found that the hostile parties had already commenced their fierce contest. They rushed forwaid at the head of their small band to that part of the field where their presence was most needed, and the fight was hottest. Eccelino had already passed the ford ; raging with fury, he was clearing the way before him till his further progress was almost impeded by the dying and the dead which he had heaped around him. Andriani marked him well ; fighting his onward course through a medley of friends and foes, panting and bleeding, he at last attained and faced his deadly enemy. Raising himself in his stirrups, and throw- ing up his visor, he cried, in a voice which rang with an echo amid the clash and din of arms, " For Andriani the Avenger I" Then spurring on his charger, he whirled lm sword three times in circles above his head without tQe intermission of a second, and ere the tyrant could raise an arm to parry the deadly assault, the crashing strokes <;♦•- scended in rapid succession upon his helmet. The Brescians, before wavering, now gave way and fled, and Eecelino 88 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. remained in the hands of his opponents. Shouts and exe- crations hailed the capture of the wounded monster; crowds flocked in to view him, pursuing him with reviling* as he was carried forward to Soneino. It was with difficulty that the enraged populace were kept back ; they clamoured that he should be delivered to their vengeance. They would wil- lingly have anticipated the moment which should rid them of a tyrant, who by his cruelties had goaded them to mad- ness. This act of retribution his captors forbade. The wounds given by Andriani's arm, although mortal, left him a few days' respite for repentance, a brief mercy which he despised. Without one solitary prayer or requiem, he was deposited under the portico of the Palace of Soneino, while all Lombardy feasted and sent up their voices in rejoicing ami thanksgiving that he was taken from the world, and that a country which he had deluged with crime and blood was freed from his oppression. Andriani had fulfilled his compact ; with his sword he had severed the yoke of tyranny. No more a wanderer or an outlaw, but noble among the noblest, wealthy among the wealthiest, and brave beyond the bravest, in all the freshness of his glory, he sought her whose constancy and truth had shone like a hallowed light to cheer the midnight of his adverse fortunes. He claimed the plighted hand of his Fiorenza, which was no longer withheld from him; neither did Count Kicciardo di Bonifazio frown upon the union of his cherished Leonisio with the richly-dowered sister of Andriani Contc di Panego, the gentle and lovely Abulia. Giovanni and 15enita stood foremost at the sacred altar, round which wen; grouped those faithful followers who had not deserted the persecuted children of the murdered Conto di Panego. EVENING THE SECOND. No sooner had the party assembled in the library, on the second evening;, than the Lady Eva occupied herself in searching anxiously among the designs that lay before her; presently she fixed upon two as dissimilar from each other in the associations they were calculated to call up in the mind of the spectator, as terror is from gentleness, or grief from joy : the one representing, with marvellous truth of effect, the burning of a vessel at sea ; the other, the return of a minstrel to his home. " There \" exclaimed she, " who will be able to tell one story about two such pictures as those ? One of them almost making you weep with pain and terror, — the other with pleasant thoughts I" Holding out the two designs, she looked around, and her glance rested on a lady who had written on various subjects. " Ah \" she exclaimed, as she placed the two designs in the hands of that lady, " you, whose imagination is a perfect prism, you can find no difficulty in portraying in their true colours even two objects as dissimilar as light from darkness." It seemed to have already grown into a tacit under- standing that the Lady Eva was to have her way im- 90 EVENINGS AT IIADDON IIAL1 plicitly during the six evenings allotted to the lengthened celebration of her birthday j and the lady to whom she had thus addressed herself, though evidently reluctant to be called so early into the field of emulation with so many accomplished persons as she saw around her, seemed still more reluctant to disappoint the excited expectations of the eager child whose beseeching glance was fixed upon her. She paused for a brief space ; examined the pictures with an attentive care j and then proceeded to relate THE FORTUNES OP THE GLENGARY. In one of the remotest parts of the northern division of Scotland stood the ancient castle of Glengary. To the eyes of a Lowlander, its situation might appear too insular, too lonely, for the cheering intercourse of society ; but the lairds of Glengary had been used to behold in the girdle of heath-clad mountains and the fall of rushing waters which skirted their domain, features of grandeur and attraction undreamt of by any but their own clan. The hills were to them emblems of the strength and durability of their race. The lofty pine and the dark brown heather were to their eyes more picturesque than the richly wooded vales of England's garden scenery. The character of the kilted clan of Glengary seemed to partake of this wilder scenery, and their nerves and sinews to be braced to the hardier exercises and amuse- ments of the clime. The noble chieftain, Sir Norman Ramsay, had from boyhood lived on the estate, and had from infancy been beloved by all the vassal train. He had married young. For many years but one child, a son, had been born to him, and this son was preparing to enter THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 91 the army, when the birth of his sister brought desolation on the poor father's heart, by taking from him the cherished wife of his affection. Not only was the husband's cup of sorrow full, and his tenderest feelings rent asunder, but the son's support and protection against his own turbulent nature were buried in his mother's grave. From that hour his fierce passions seemed beyond control. Her influence over him had been great; it was the influence of a calm and gentle mind, leading a proud and wilful spirit by the flowery chain of a tender mother's love ; effecting by a tearful caress what the father's firm reason and unbending principle often failed to accomplish. For a few weeks after their mutual bereavement, a gentler intercourse seemed established between parent and child. But at length Allan received orders to join his regiment ; and for years they did not again meet. Indeed, till Marian was entering her fourteenth year, her brother was a stranger to her. Her tender age, her girlish beauty, made a favourable impression on him. She listened with delighted wonder to his description of those warlike scenes in which he had borne a part, and his vanity was flattered by the deference with which she treated him. The dis- parity in their age prevented his naturally jealous and envious temper from taking umbrage, when Marian was folded to their father's heart, and caressed as his best loved one; or, if a pang was felt, it was subdued by finding Marian's arms round his own neck, and her young and glowing cheek pillowed on his shoulder, as soon as released from her father's embrace. In their rambles over their native hills, Marian would beseech Allan to talk to her of their mother — the mother the, alas ! had never known ; and on these occasions, 92 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Allan's stern mind would melt to childlike softness while speaking of her virtues, and remembering her endearments. Ere his have of absence had expired, Allan had trained strong hold on Marian's heart, and many an hour did she weep bitterly after his departure, while she thought of how long they might remain separate. She wondered that her father did not seem to share in these regrets ; for she dreamed not that, while kind and gentle to her, Allan's conduct had been selfish and overbearing to then- parent. Nor was Sir Norman the only one on whom her brother's bursts of ill-controlled temper broke forth. Marian had often witnessed that to the poor old and now infirm steward, who had been the firm and attached servant, the faithful and zealous friend, of his lather and grandfather, his man- ner was ungrateful, and oftentimes insolent. To the min- strel, whose service dated from before Allan's birth, and whose loudest strain was poured forth to proclaim it through hill and dale, making the very cairns resound with that event, he was bitter and impertinent; and to .Marian, who loved these faithful followers with a love second only to that she felt for her father, this conduct was painful to behold. It had been one of her privileges to support the steward as he strolled through the house, imagining he was still directing its concerns, though, in reality, he was oftentimes too feeble to direct his own tottering steps. On such occasions, the young girl would spring to his assist- ance, and, leaning on her arm, he would linger in the dif- ferent apartments, whiling away the time with old tradi- tions of her ancestors, whose portraits were dispersed about the house. Age seemed to have made itself manifest in the mortal frame of Angus ; while his mind remained un- impaired, his memory had perhaps lost something of its THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 93 freshness ; it no longer retained passing events with accu- racy; but those long gone by were firmly and faithfully imprinted on it. Fergus the minstrel had been brought up and had been taught by Angus to string into poetry the wondrous deeds of the Glengarys, and then wander forth to sing them. Between each ramble he was wont to pass his days with Angus, occasionally tuning his lay in the presence of Sir Norman and the gentle Marian, who would listen to his warlike strain, till the deeds of her ancestors would tinge her cheek with pride, or her eyes would fill with tears at the relation of some pathetic scene in which they had been engaged. For neither of these attached followers did Allan feel kindness or sympathy, and in a second hurried visit which he paid them quite unexpectedly, he avowed to Marian his dislike to the steward. " How can my father tolerate that old drone's impertinence !" he exclaimed. " It is to be hoped, ere I come into possession, he Avill be laid in yonder kirk-yard, or he will have to provide himself with other lodgings, I can tell him." Soon after his son's first visit, Sir Norman received some startling news respecting a law-suit instituted by a perfect stranger, a man wholly unconnected with his family, claiming a right to, and seeking to dispossess him of, his personal estate, of which estate he had taken posses- sion at his father's death, not only as next of kin, but under a will found among his father's papers — a docu- ment which was regarded merely as a proof of the extreme care which characterized all the late Sir Archibald's pro- ceedings. It is true that, soon after Allan's birth, he had received some anonymous communications, recommending him to be frugal , and to put aside something for a future 94 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL day, as the property he considered his own, and his right of succession to it, might be contested, on the arrival of certain parties from abroad. No credit, however, and but little thought, had been given by Sir Norman to these communications at the time they were made; but now that a suit was actually commenced, they naturally recurred to his mind. Still, as his agents had written him word that this action seemed an act of insanity, and that he could not possibly be harmed by its prosecution, as not a shadow of a case could be made out, he did not, knowing the over- bearing and imperious temper of his son, even mention the matter to him on his second visit. For some months nothing more was heard of it, and Sir Norman supposed the parties must have been imposed upon, and had since discovered the truth ; but suddenly it appeared that some new and conclusive evidence had started up, and that it would be prudent to take such precautionary measures as had till then been deemed needless. Among other de- mands, his agents begged to inspect the title-deeds by which he held his estate. Sir Norman Kamsay was a man of great precision and exactness in all his arrangements. Everything around him breathed order and regularity, and though ill dis- posed, on the receipt of his solicitor's letter, to trust the deeds demanded into any custody but his own, he deter- mined to inspect them himself, and proceeded to remove them from the strong chest in which he had placed them many years before, — when, to his utter dismay, he could not find a single document but some of comparatively re- cent date, while those he sought were coeval with the mountains which girded his estate. " Who can have done this act V* b-? mentally exclaimed, " and for what purpose ? To whom, but to me and mine, THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 95 ean these deeds be of any value V f These were his first questions ; but in another moment, tne conviction of the important use that might be made by his opponent of his not being able to produce them, threw a diiferent light on the loss, and as he sank heavily into a chair, he said aloud — "I am a ruined man!" At this moment, Marian, who had been seeking him, appeared at the door. Calling her to him, he folded her to his heart with even more than his usual fondness ; and when he released her, two large drops glistening on her shoulder evidenced a father's grief at the thought of his child's future poverty : — for Sir Norman was so unnerved by the discovery of this act of treachery, that he looked at once to the worst, and already saw his estate wrested from him, and his children reduced to the mere pittance which his late wife's fortune would ensure them. His gentle daughter had been his first thought ; she was too young, too artless, to understand the loss of fortune, but he could not look on her, all lovely as she was, without a shudder at the change which seemed lowering on her youth. Then he thought of his son, whose haughty bearing, whose un- controlled mind, whose hitherto thoughtless expenditure, rendered him little fit to struggle against so great a reverse. Last of all came the thought of his poor wife, his children's mother ; and for the first time did he seriously thank that Almighty power which had seen fit to call home her gentle spirit ere such a blow fell on the objects of her tenderest love. After the first amazement had in some degree subsided, Sir Norman carefully examined the iron chest in which these deeds had been deposited. Twenty-five years had intervened since he had referred to them ; h\\". on several different occasions, when he had placed new documents in 90 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. the chest, he felt positive of having always seen them lying at the bottom of it. The closest examination could dis- cover no sign of force having been used to gain possession of them; the iron clasps were as firmly attached as ever, the lock was uninjured, and from the peculiar construction of its wards, it could not have been forced without some marks of violence ; and the key had always been deposited in the bureau from whence Sir Norman had that morning taken it. The more he reflected on the circumstance, the more mysterious it became. For some days he was silent to every one on the subject, but on receiving a second and more pressing request from his agents, he determined on revealing his loss to old Angus, ere he proceeded to Edinburgh, to make it known to his men of business. Ac- cordingly, the evening before he was to commence his journey, he summoned Angus to his study, and began relating his fearful discovery, and the use which might be made of the extraordinary abstraction of these deeds. " You must tax your memory, my old friend," said Sir Norman ; " you must try and remember every event which can throw light on this malicious prosecution." The old man's face was bent down as he approached his ear, to prevent whatever his master might have to con- fide to him from being heard by others, and therefore Sir Norman could not observe the impression caused by his relation of these facts ; but as he ceased speaking, he heard a sort of gurgling in the throat, and saw Angus fall forward from his chair, his hands clasped, his eyes rigid as in death. There was a struggle for utterance, but speech was denied ; and ere Sir Norman could summon assistance, he became aware that his poor old servant was dying. THE FORTUNES OF THE GLEXGARY. 97 The steward was conveyed to his bed, and every means used to restore him, but for many hours he remained senseless. Sir Norman watched by him, but hearing that Marian appeared inconsolable, he went to appease her grief, and remained absent some hours. For a short time the dying man seemed to revive; he made signs to be raised, but fell back. The minstrel, who had been kneel- ing by his bed, approached his eai', and Angus articulated with difficulty some words, to which the other listened in silence. What these words might be, none but themselves could know, for they were uttered low and indistinctly, and in a foreign tongue. That they were of fearful import, the convulsed features of the dying man, the pale and terrified looks of the minstrel, afforded evident proof. The dawn had broken; the glorious luminary poured one bright ray through the oriel window : it fell on the pale and distorted features of Angus, and revealed to the Glengary, who just then opened the door of the apartment, that the spirit of his old servant was no longer of this earth. A few wild notes which broke from the harp of the minstrel sounded his requiem. Sir Norman delayed his journey to the metropolis while his daughter's preparations were made for accompanying him ; for he could not think of leaving her unprotected by his presence. Angus, old and infirm as he had become, would, from his faithful attachment, and his mental vigour, which was always devoted to the good of the family he served, have been considered sufficient safeguard during his absence. Hitherto Sir Norman had not supposed that he had an enemy on earth ; but now it was too apparent that some one or other stood in that relation towards him. It was impossible for Sir Norman not to connect the awfui u 98 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. visitation which had befallen Angus with the topic on which he was speaking at the instant it occurred, and for a mo- ment, perhaps, a feeling almost amounting to suspicion arose, as he thought of the sudden seizure, and remem- bered that till he mentioned the discovery he had made, old Angus appeared in his usual health. But Sir Norman was too just and too honourably-minded to harbour mistrust of one whose long service and tried honesty for three gene- rations had secured him the respect of laird and peasant, and whose impartial fulfilment of the duties of his situation had earned for him the attachment of every one for miles round the estate ; and, with a feeling of self-reproach for having even glanced in thought at such a possibility, the chieftain banished all mistrust, and attended in person the old man's funeral. Sir Norman and his daughter had scarcely arrived in the capital, when, spite of every effort which had been made for the recovery of the lost deeds, the day of trial was fixed without any clue to them having been gained. True, Allan had written to his father and to their man of business, declaring his positive belief that old Angus had been bribed to sell them to the enemy ; and, in the same letter, he had not scrupled to denounce the minstrel as his accomplice, and to urge that he should be forthwith seized and examined. Sir Norman was indignant at his son's petulant interference, and resented his defamation of the old steward's character. Marian was thunderstruck when she heard the charge. "Impossible!" she exclaimed. " Suspect Angus of a fraud upon my father ! As well might Allan or myself be accused of it." And no argu- ment that could be adduced, nothing that could be ad- vanced, shook her faith in the integrity of the old man. Meanwhile, the men of business looked at the proba- THE FORTUNES : F THE GLENGARY. 99 bilities of the case ; and as they could find nothing more likely, would have given credit to the accusation against Angus, had it not been that, through some underlings connected with their own and the adversary's office, they had obtained information which gave them reason to sus- pect that the missing deeds were not in the possession of Mr. Muir ; and that a deed of sale of the reversion of the estate after his death, executed in proper form by Sir Archibald Ramsay, was all their case rested on. They, however, considered it their duty to secure the minstrel's person, and for that purpose sent to Glengary ; but he was. nowhere to be found ; and this cii'cumstance rather gave colour in their minds to the accusation. The suit was now pressed on by the wealthy stranger as rapidly as the forms of law would admit ; and at length the day of trial arrived. In the opening of the case, the late Sir Archibald's will was described as a nefarious act. No longer did Sir Norman, who was in court, regard the decision of this suit merely as the question on which his inheritance rested. All thoughts of poverty or wealth, of lands and vassals, were absorbed in an overwhelming desire to clear his father's memory from the stigma cast on it. Home, fortune, position, influence, all became nothing but as they might tend to that one end. Sir Norman resolved that no tongue but his own should defend his father's honour ; and though unfavourable impressions had spread themselves over the minds of their firmest supporters, on his admitting the impossibility in which he found himself to produce the title-deeds of his estate, and a smile of in- credulity had been visible on the countenances of some while he related the manner in which he had discovered their loss, still, as he proceeded, his calm and lofty tone, his simple but forcible language, his expressions of out- 100 fcVENINGH AT II ADDON HALL. raged honour, so feeling and so emphatic, were carrying conviction to the hearts of his hearers; — when suddenly a stir was heard — a buzz, a press, a general commotion, was perceived — and then a man rushed breathless into court, and presented some documents to the prosecutor's counsel, who appeared completely taken by surprise, hut in an instant recovered himself sufficiently to declare that, in his hand, he held the title-deeds, so plausibly declared by Sir Norman to have been, till lately, in his iron chest. The suit was at an end. There could be no pretence for withholding the verdict from the prosecutor. The deed of sale might have been a forgery, but the possession of the title-deeds of the estate spoke for themselves, and Sir Norman left the court, not only a ruined, but a broken- hearted man. In vain did his daughter speak in those soothing tones from which he had never before turned away. Her own senses were so bewildered by what had occurred, that she hardly knew what to urge in mitigation of her father's anguish • but when she prophesied that the villany practised against them must, sooner or later, be brought to light, he would catch her to his heart, and pray God that she might live to see her grandfather's name avenged. As soon as they could remove from the capital, the unhappy father and daughter retired to a small cottage, situated in a glen near to their ancient home. A very small income — being a life-interest in his late wife's fortune — was all Sir Norman could now call his own. Mr. Muir, perhaps, felt how little his presence would be tolerated at Glcngary; for there appeared no sign of his coming to take possession. The house remained closed, the park neglected, and silence reigned where many a scene of festive mirth was remembered, and many a banquet THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 10J had been spread for all who came as guests, and whence, within the memory of living man, never had the poor or wayfaring been turned away without relief or hospitality. At first, each week passed in their cottage seemed an age, both to Sir Norman and his daughter ; but week suc- ceeded week, months had nearly swollen into a year, and no change seemed likely to occur. Sir Norman evidently pined, and his state of health gave great alarm to his daughter. A change of scene, a warmer climate, was advised, and Marian proposed to her parent to remove from their humble home. Then came the galling pinch of poverty. True, they had no debts to cripple or retard their movements. Their Might might be taken without fear of any opposing creditor; but the means for a long journey were wanting. Marian's heart beat quick, and her eye flashed with something like indignation, as she asked herself — "Shall my father's health, perhaps his life, be sacrificed for want of a small portion of that wealth his hand has so often bestowed on others ?" She knew that the means would be found, were the want made known. Not one of his clan but would have given their last shilling to prove the love they felt for their chieftain. But Marian could not become a supplicant, even for her father, while any other means re- mained untried. While in the capital, Sir Norman had given her the jewel-case of her late mother, and told her to wear any of the more simple ornaments it contained. She had re- moved from it a locket containing her father and mother's hair, with the date of their marriage engraved on it, which she had since constantly worn, but had never since opened the case. Now she flew to it, and while taking from it each separate ornament, many of them costly ones, she 102 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. fancied her mother's sweet and gentle spirit was hovering round her. " I must not tell my father/' thought she, " that I am about to sell his gift, for he might not permit it ; but, once converted into money, he will not refuse his child the happiness of seeing him restored to health by the exchange." Marian had no friend to whom she could confide her plans, and alone she could not hope to execute them ; so the trinkets remained for the moment unsold. But as Sir Norman became more feeble, and the second summer was rapidly passing away, Marian grew wretched under the sad prospect of her father's being exposed to the rigour of another winter in that northern climate. " Could I but persuade him to go to London," said she, " there I might find a purchaser for these diamonds, which, by their daz- zling lustre, seem to reproach me for letting my lather fade." Marian's pleadings were in vain, so long as she en- treated her father to seek further medical advice for him- self; but when the restless anxiety she felt began to act on her own health — when her cheek became pale, her tone languid, and her step lost its buoyancy — the fond father saw sufficient cause for a visit to London, and their journey was instantly arranged. Ere Marian could leave the neighbourhood, she felt an irresistible desire once more to behold the home of her infancy. She knew that strange stories were afloat — that the old house was said to be haunted — that unearthly sounds were declared to have been heard by those who had ventured within its walls. But Marian, strong in in- nocence, and firm of purpose, feared no evil results from her intended pilgrimage, save that she might be refused admittance. THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 103 The owner of the neighbouring manse, to whom she confided her wish, agreed to conduct her to the village, and aid her in this act of harmless deceit, for she cared not to disturb her father's mind by mentioning it. Early one fine autumnal morning they departed for the village, when, leaving her companion to see that his horse was taken care of while he went to visit some sick person, Marian proceeded on foot to the entrance-gate. It was open ; she passed quickly into the neglected park, and by a short cut made her way, with some difficulty, towards the house. Its windows were closed, and an air of desolation reigned around. She rang the bell. Its sound seemed to terrify her. How often had she listened to that deep-toned bell, when expecting her father or Allan to return from some field sports ! Then its peal seemed joyous ; now it sounded like a mournful knell, and as it reverberated through the empty halls, each echo proclaimed aloud their fallen fortunes. She remained some time within the porch, but no one responded to her call, and with a shudder she turned from the door which was wont to be thrown open to welcome her entrance. Buried in thought, she proceeded at random till she found herself at an angle of the building, near which she remembered there was a small door, that had been used by the old steward, when he wandered from his own apartment into the park, without coming through the house. On approaching, she found it a-jar, and, well versed in all the windings which to another would have been intri- cate, she made her way to that part of the dwelling which the family had occupied. Arrived in her father's room, Marian paused. How many thoughts and reflections rushed on her mind ! Her heart beat — her head grew giddy. Something like fear 104 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. took possession of her mind, but she tried to shake it off. True, she was alone ; but who had so great a right as her- self to be then — there, in the home of her childhood — there, in the halls of her ancestors — there, where the blood oi her forefathers had been shed, to maintain their right of possession against the Lowlander and the Saxon ? "What, then, had she to fear within those walls ? Their desolate appearance — their untenanted state — did it not prove that no stranger could find in them a home? Her father had, by treachery, been driven from his habitation : but no other had found in it a shelter. More tender thoughts quickly succeeded this burst of pride. In one room, some kind word of her father's was remembered ; in another, some stirring tale of former years, in which her ancestors had taken part, had been related by the poor old steward. She was now in the banqueting-hall, and casting her eyes around, she beheld the small gallery in which the minstrel had been wont to sing the deeds of other days. That gallery now vacant — her lather an exile from his home — her brother far away — the old steward's memory attainted by foul suspicion — the minstrel supposed to have fled from justice, — her heart sank — her head drooped — the maiden's proud feel- ings were quenched, as, friendless and forlorn, she stood leaning for support against the large buttress of the pro- jecting chimney. The wind was high, and rushed mournfully through the dreary pile ; but at intervals it seemed to bring a sound of music on its wing. Marian listened breathlessly — it came nearer — she threw back her long and silky ringlets to hear more distinctly. Could it be ? she asked herself. Did she dream, or had the recollections of former days bewildered her senses ? The music became clearer, i'HE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 105 and Marian no longer doubted but tbat it was the min- strel's harp, the minstrel's voice. When it ceased, Marian sprung forward, crying, "Fergus, Fergus, it is I ! — it is your chieftain's daughter who speaks ! " But no answer was given. She ran wildly to the spot whence the sounds had appeared to come, and then to the part of the building formerly inhabited by the minstrel, but neither sign nor sound of human existence could she discover. The morning was far advanced, and fearing to alarm her father by her long absence, she forced herself to quit the house by the same door she had entered, and crossing the park, regained the village, where the curate awaited her. Marian's heart was too full for speech, and silently they returned to the cottage. The following day Sir Norman and his daughter com- menced their journey. They remained in London some weeks, during which time they received several visits from Allan, who came there, he said, to meet them. But he was no longer the same Allan, Marian's childish heart had enshrined as the bright reality of her glowing imagination. He was changed in appearance, changed in manner, changed in temper, and the hours he spent with them, instead of giving his sister pleasui*e, were rather antici- pated with dread, and remembered with pain. Once, when he had seemed less reserved, she ventured to tell him of her visit to the castle, but had not proceeded far when his vehemence frightened and arrested her relation. She felt, if the mere mention of her visit had such an effect on him, how little he would enter into her feelings — how little would he comprehend the sounds she had heard. Marian had often wished to speak of the minstrel's strain ; but her father's weakened nerves, his shattered 10G EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. health, rendered her fearful of mentioning it to him. She had looked forward to Allan's being with them as the mo- ment when she might relieve her own bewildered mind, by giving him her confidence, and seeking, through the aid of his stronger reason, a solution of those thoughts which seemed too weighty for her own. But this hope was soon dissipated : Allan sedulously avoided all reference to for- mer years, and on more than one occasion gave Marian to understand that any allusion to the two " old rascals," as he called them, who had compassed their ruin, would banish him from her sight. Silenced rather than satisfied, Marian came to the pain- ful conviction that her weight of responsibility would neither be lightened nor shared by her selfish brother. There were moments when he would look at her, as she pursued her quiet domestic occupations, with a fixed stare almost like insanity, place his hands before his face, and rush from the house like a maniac. But his whole con- duct was so strange and inexplicable, that, in her despair of unravelling it, Marian thought but of concealing its existence from her father. Alone she was left to devise for that father's comforts ; she felt that on earth there was no helping hand, no friendly counsel, to sustain her; and, firm in the pursuit of her one paramount duty to her invalid parent, she sought, with trust and perfect faith, that support from above which is promised to the lone and the helpless. Had Allan performed the fraternal part Marian had so joyfully anticipated, she might not have relaxed in her own personal exertions; but, assuredly, she would never have accpuired that energy of character which marked her after-life. Trusting to human aid, she would have faltered and trembled under every fresh evil ; but now her mind THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 107 had sought a higher trust ; she was calm and resigned, leaving the event of all in the hands of her heavenly Father, while she fulfilled, with strict and scrupulous devo- tion, her care and duty to her earthly one. Marian requested the physician who attended Sir Nor- man to recommend her to a jeweller of established repute, and Dr. R , surmising that it was rather an errand of sale than a desire to purchase, made it a point of con- science to speak of one whose just and liberal dealings were known to him. Early one morning, she set out to find her way into the city, where the address given her pointed out the residence of this merchant. It was a dark and gloomy morning ; the atmosphere was dense and yellow with a November fog ; the multi- tudes she met, the many who hurried by her, all wore the appearance of urgent business ; but there was an air of animation and bustle which made Marian contrast her sad and secret errand with what appeared their cheerful pursuit. Many hours of the previous night she had sat contem- plating the riches she was about to part with. To her the objects she looked upon were full of sweet and happy recollections ; to their next possessors they would have no value beyond their intrinsic worth. As she approached the spot which she had set out to seek, she involuntarily found herself slackening her pace, and as she pressed the case, concealed by the ample folds of her cloak, closer to her form, a doubt of her ability to go through her task arose; but in the next instant she remembered her father's harassing cough, and proceeded at her utmost speed, till she beheld the name she had been directed by the physician to ask for, in large letters over a low, heavy-looking house. Some articles of massive silvei 108 EVENINGS AT II ADDON II ALL. in cither window convinced her that she had found the residence she sought. On entering the shop, no one approached to speak to her — indeed, she had proceeded to the entrance of an inner room ere even her appearance seemed to be re- marked. Stooping down, she inquired of a man who was employed in piling silver dishes one on the other, if Mr, Needham was at home. The man looked at her for an instant, and then, without quitting his occupation, said, " You had better go forward and inquire." .Mechanically she repeated the question to the next person she saw, who answered it by inquiring if she was known to Mr. Needham. " No," she replied ; " but I have a note for him from the gentleman who recommended me to come here." " Will you let me sec the note ?" said the man ; " per- haps I can attend to your business, without disturbing Mr. Needham, who is particularly engaged." Marian paused : the physician had told her to deliver the note herself to Mr. Needham, but it appeared he was engaged. As she was hesitating, the door of an adjoining apartment to that in which she stood was opened by a venerable-looking man, who came forth, accompanied by a younger one ; on perceiving a stranger, they both paused, and the elder one inquired if she had been attended to. There was something so kind and respectful in the accent of the speaker, that Marian at once regained her self possession, as she replied — " I have a note from Dr. R , which will explain my business; but I hear Mr. Needham is engaged." "I am Mr. Needham," said her companion, "and will attend to you in five minutes. Do me the favour to be seated." THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 109 Marian presented the note, and as Mr. Needham perused it, she perceived a look of commiseration steal over his countenance. When he closed it, he looked kindly at her, and said — " Pray walk into this room, where there is a fire ; I will not keep you waiting." " In less than five minutes, Mr. Needham joined her, and, drawing a chair to the table, inquired how he could serve her, adding that Dr. R 's note led him to con- clude that she might wish to change or dispose of some ornament. What a relief to Marian, to have the want, so painful to proclaim, thus considerately anticipated ! She unlocked the box, which she had placed on the table, and replied — " These were my poor mother's jewels ; they were given me by my father, in happier days. Since then, our circumstances have become changed, and I wish to sell them." A pause of some moments ensued. Mr. Needham' s eyes remained fixed on the case, when Marian timidly added — "Will you become their purchaser?" " My dear young lady," replied Mr. Needham, as with almost paternal affection he looked at her, " have you well weighed the sacrifice you are making — are you aware of the value of these jewels ?" " Oh, yes," said Marian, as she burst into tears, " they were my mother's !" Inexpressibly touched by her reply, he continued, " Surely a portion of these would be sufficient for any momentary difficulties ? " " Alas ! " interrupted Marian, " ours are no momen- tary difficulties. My father's health has been for many 110 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. months si .king under accumulated and unmerited losses; an expensive journey, a residence in a wanner climate, are necessary for the preservation of his life, and this case contains the only means by which it can be accomplished without injury to others, which my father will never listen to." Mr. Needham looked kindly and encouragingly, as he said, " May I wait on you to-morrow, or would you prefer returning here ? It is a business I should like to reflect on." " I will come here," replied Marian ; " for my father must not know of my intention; at least, not till it is beyond recall." "Be it so, then," returned her auditor. "I must, however, beg you to reflect well on the act you contem- plate, and I will consider if, and how far, I can assist your views. Meanwhile, will you trust me with this case, that I may examine its contents?" "Assuredly," replied Marian; and she arose to depart and hurry home, her heart full of thankfulness for the hope held out of her project being crowned with success, and of gratitude to the kind physician who had recom- mended her so feelingly to the jeweller's notice ; for she felt convinced it was to his note she stood indebted for the amenity shown her by Mr. Needham. In part, her conjecture was right. Dr. II 's note had interested Mr. Needham in her favour ; but it was her own modest demeanour, her own unassuming but exem- plary sacrifice, which rivettcd the merchant's good opinion, and disposed him to serve her to an extent and in a manner she little expected. On reaching home, Marian found that her father had risen late, and been so engaged with her brother, that he THE F0R1UNES OF THE GLENGARY. Ill had not asked for her. When she entered the sitting- room, she found Allan about to leave it. The livid pale- ness of his countenance terrified her. As she watched him descend the staircase, he seemed hardly able to support himself. She called to him to stop, but her voice fell un- heeded, as he rushed from the house. In her father's manner, no agitation was apparent ; and, fearful of alarm- ing him, she refrained from speaking of Allan's haggard look. The next morning, when she repeated her visit to the city, she found Mr. Needham evidently watching her arrival. He conducted her into the room she had before occupied. The jewel-case was on the table. Mr. Need- ham drew two chairs to the fire; and when seated, he observed, after a moment's hesitation, — " I am about to speak candidly to you, lady, though I hope, not so abruptly as to distress or offend you. An ornament in that case has revealed to me your name and family ; and the few facts you yesterday related leave me in no doubt as to your father having been once known to me." "You know my father, sir?" interrupted Marian. " Oh, then, I am indeed fortunate in my application ; for you must be satisfied that I am only doing my duty in parting with these memorials of former years." u Your conduct is noble," said Mr. Needham ; " and I reverence the motive, though I cannot permit the act it would impel." Marian started, and became pale as death. Her hopes, which had been raised almost to certainty, seemed at once dispelled. Mr. Needham watched the effect of his words, and continued — " No, my dear young lady, I cannot, indeed, allow such 112 EVININGS AT II ADDON HALL. ;i sacrifice, the extent of which you do not know ; but though I cannot become a party to your wishes, I must endeavour to prevail on you to adopt the plan which suggests itself to me. We will place your seal on this case of jewels, which must remain in my custody. I will advance the sum of 500/. for your journey and first year's expenses, and will bind myself for three succeeding years to place 300/. more in the hands of any banker where you may be residing, or as you may by letter direct. If, at the expiration of four years from this time, you cannot repay me the sums advanced, these jewels will become my pro- perty." "But I have no prospect," exclaimed Marian. "There is no possibility of my ever repaying the money. Indeed, sir, I cannot accept your generous offer. You might be- come a considerable loser, for the jewels may not be worth so much money." " Well, well, that is my concern." " But all this is so unexpected, so extraordinary," again interposed Marian, "that I dare not concur in it unknown to my father." " And yet," replied Mr. Needham, " you would have sold, irrevocably sold, without his knowledge, the very objects I propose to you to leave in my hands as a gua- rantee ? Ah, young lady, like many others you have been deceiving yourself, and have fostered a plan of your own suggestion, till you have ceased to perceive the real act of irretrievable disobedience it necessitated; though you start from one far less complete, and with a chance of becoming less fatal, when proposed by another. Surely, the mere possibility of being able, at some future day, to regain these jewels, ought to be acceptable, considering them as a sacred treasure to a daughter's heart." THE FORTUNES OF TIIE GLENG.1RY. 113 Marian now burst into tears. Could Mr. Needham, could any one, suppose that she did not feel the sacrifice to be one, only to be thought of as the means to enable her to fulfil a yet more sacred duty? The worthy merchant allowed her to weep unrestrainedly for some time, and then taking her hand, he said, " For- give me for having distressed you. I did it for your good. I see so much to praise and admire, that I felt it a duty to point out an equivocation which seemed unworthy of you. Do not let us lose time. I have prepared a receipt, which also contains my written promise not to open or deliver this case to any one within four years, without your order. You must, m exchange, give me your acknow- ledgment for 500/. as the first instalment of a bond which I have ordered my solicitor to prepare, and which I shall also get signed by my son, the young man whom you, perhaps, remarked with me when I so accidentally found you waiting hei-e yesterday ; for as this transaction must be one of a private nature, without any reference to the firm of which I am a member, I wish my son to become aware of its existence, in order that no difficulty or mis- understanding may arise in case of my death within the four years." Marian signed the papers Mr. Needham placed before her. She was so deeply penetrated by his conduct, as to be unable to express her thanks. To a less practised observer, or to a mind less prone to indulgence, she might have appeared ungrateful ; but Mr. Needham had, in his lifetime, conferred too many benefits not to be an expe- rienced judge of the impressions they produced, and Marian's tearful eyes and trembling frame were surer proofs to him of her gratitude than the most elaborate thanks, or the most eloquent language, she could have I 1 14 EVENINGS AT HADfXlN HALL. uttered. When all was concluded, he draw her arm within Ins, and said he would have the pleasure of conducting her home, as his carriage was at the door. During their drive, he entreated her to lose no time in disclosing to her lather the transaction she had completed. " It will be freed/' he observed, "from every unpleasant feeling to both of us as soon as he is our confidant." " Oh ! Air. Xeedham," cried Marian, " how can I ever thank you, much less repay you, for such magnanimity ?" " By giving me your solemn promise that you will not undertake any other affair of moment without consulting i ne upon it." " I promise solemnly and faithfully," said Marian. She looked up as she said this, as if to ratify her vow in heaven — when, standing close to the door of her home, at which they were just arrived, she beheld, to her ex- treme astonishment, Fergus the minstrel ! The carriage stopped. As Marian descended, she cast a hurried glance around, but the minstrel had vanished. The news of old Angus's sudden death had reached Allan (or, as he was more usually called, Master) of Glen- gary, while sitting in his room with a man who had for some months been his shadow. "Wherever he went, Major Jarvis was sure to follow him. He had become his friend, his adviser, almost, it might be said, his master: — it was the knowledge of Allan's haughty spirit which alone prevented his appearing to be so; for he feared to rouse a feeling which might snap the link between them before he had drawn it round his victim too tightly for escape. But the assumption of power was all that was wanting — the reality of it was absolute. " Good God !" exclaimed Allan, on opening his father's THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 115 letter - • " what a frightful catastrophe ! and may I not have been accessory to it ? Oh, how much better would it have been to have lost all hope «f retrieving my diffi- culties, than that the life of a fellow-creature should have been sacrificed \" "You talk in enigmas, Allan," said Jarvis; "what has happened, and what are you reproaching yourself with ?" But Allan was in no mood to answer; for a few moments the better part of his nature was in the ascend- ant, and his heart really sympathized in his father's dis- tress at his poor old servant's loss; but, unhappily, too much guilt had already tainted his mind ; he had become too much the slave of evil passion not to turn from this goodly thought. With Allan, virtue was a solitary star, shining but for an instant, making the surrounding dark- ness visible. Jarvis, who had remained contemplating him in silence, now put his hand on his shoulder, saying — " Come, cheer up, Allan ; whatever has befallen you, I, for one, will stand by you to the last — ay, even through shame and disgrace \" He had touched the right chord. Allan started up. "Disgrace! — shame and disgrace! no, no; no chance of that now ; the only tongue that could have dared to accuse me is hushed in death. Jarvis, old Angus is dead !" "And you tell it me in that rueful tone?" exclaimed the other. "Why, Master of Glengary, are you a man, and rejoice not at your escape ? While that old driveller lived, there was no certainty of your not being suspected ; now, you are indeed free from detection. Shew me the herald of this good news." And without waiting for pe,- mission, he took up Sir Norman's letter, and read it through. 116 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. "Dreadful ! is it not?" said Allan. "The man who could have any feeling but joy in its perusal could be do friend of yours, Allan. But you do not seem prepared to take advantage of this, as you assuredly must do." " How is that V said Allan, who had relapsed into deep thought. " Why, you must boldly accuse him of having sold the missing deeds to your father's enemy, and make his death appear a sudden revulsion of his conscience." " But did you finish my father's letter ? did you see that the minstrel may now know whatever Angus sus- pected ?" asked Allan. "True," said Jarvis; " but he must be accused as his accomplice; his absence at such a time would almost fix the charge on him. Shall I spirit him away?" " You are ever ready, Jarvis, and I have had too many proofs of your talents, not to trust implicitly to you to advise me for the best ; but for some time past a thought lias tormented me — and yet " " Out with it, man," cried Jarvis, u unkennel this thought ; let us look at it, and see if it cannot be made a scourge for others instead of ourselves." "I will tell it you," replied Allan; "there is a reluct- ance and a shuffling in the manner of old Isaacs, whenever 1 refer to those deeds, which alarms me. ' They are voluminous/ he says, ' and extracts from them must necessarily be long — or this being the vacation time, he has few clerks at home,' or some such excuse, instead of fixing a time for their return." "Well, and what is the hurry for their return, except that you arc kept out of your money ? But I can help you on a little longer." "HE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 117 " Isaacs does not want to keep the money back ; he has even given me a part," interrupted Allan. Jarvis remained silent, while reflecting on what his friend had said, and endeavouring to find a cause for the Jew's parting with the money before he was obliged to do so. " Why," thought he, " should he care to retain pos- session of the deeds V but as he could imagine no cause, he resolved to go and see the Jew next morning, for the purpose of interrogating him; and turning to Allan, he carelessly inquired if he would accompany him to a party to which they had both been invited ; but Allan declined, preferring, for once, to pass the evening alone, to joining the heartless set in whose society he had lost, not only his money, but that feeling of honour and integrity which can alone command the respect of others, or ensure our own. Allan sat musing over a dying fire, the expiring embers of which gave out fitful and uncertain light. A shade was over the only candle which had been placed by his orders in a distant part of the room, and there was just sufficient light to distinguish the surrounding objects, to which habit had familiarized the sight, but barely enough to recognise any new ones. Many preceding events of his life became present to his imagination. The look of pity and mistrust with which old Angus had appeared to watch his every word the last day he was with his family seemed before him. Some sound made him start ; footsteps seemed to approach, he fancied that the door was opened softly. An indistinct dread of harm seized on Allan, and rooted him to his seat. He felt that some one was near him — so near, that their very breathing had become audible; but still he sat spellbound, till, from the receding step, and the door being again closed, he imagined himself once more alone. 118 EVENINGS AT B ADDON HALL. On looting round, no form was visible; but on the table a letter had been placed. Approaching the candle, Allan tore the letter open and read — " When the missing is restored, then only shall Allan of Glengary know peace \" Who could have written those words ? I lis secret must be known to some one, whom he did not even sus- pect. And at this thought, his stern, unbending mind, became harrowed by fear. Again he sat down and tried to reflect calmly ; but it could not be — and the night was spent in feverish and restless musings. The day broke, and he thought of retiring to bed, but soon after fell asleep in his chair. His servant, surprised at not hearing him, went to his room, and not finding him in his bed, entered the sitting-room. A noise purposely made, roused the sleeper, who exclaimed — " Go instantly, William, and tell Major Jaivis that I wish to see him ! — Fool, fool that I was," added he, as his servant left the room, " to fall asleep, when these hours of delay may prove fatal \" As he paced the room with impatient step, his eye caught sight of himself in the glass. Turning hastily, he (1 for some moments contemplating the haggard fea- tures it n fleeted, and then with a shudder sat down, and burying his face in his hands, remained immovable till William's return. " Major Jarvis's compliments, and he will be here in half an hour/' was the message he received ; to which he merely replied, without altering his position, " Leave me till he comes." Somewhat more than an hour intervened, and then Major .larvis's voice, humming a popular air, was heard. It grated on Allan's ears, and seemed to rouse him to anger, for it was in a harsh and almost rude tone that he THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. Jl9 exclaimed — " Jarvis, my patience is almost worn out, wait- ing for you ! " Jarvis's quick eye perceived that something more than usual disturbed his host, and changing his gay and cheer- ful tone to one of interest, he replied — " I should have been more expeditious, had you sent word that you were impatient for me. But what has happened, my dear fellow ? you look as if you had been up all night." " And so I have," said Allan ; " nor did I fall asleep in my chair till after daylight. And yet, during the night, some one entered here — some one stole on my privacy; and I — fool, dotard that I am — let them escape to accuse and ruin me ! " " Why, you are still dreaming, Allan ! Some one en- tered here — some one came to do you mischief — and you let them go without interruption ? Why, this is the coin- age of an overwrought brain." " And this letter," cried Allan, as he held it to his friend — "is this, too, madness?" Upon reading the few words it contained, Jarvis said — " Allan, there is something in all this I do not uuder- stand. Do be calm, and tell me, if you can, if any one entered your apartment, or how this letter was conveyed to you?" Allan then related the sensation he had experienced, his conviction that some one was near him, and the in- ability he felt to move or speak, and that on rousing him- self he had perceived the letter lying on the table. " Know you the writing ?" asked Jarvis. Allan shook his head. " Then all rests on conjecture," observed Jarvis ; " and the only way to come at the truth will be to consider, 120 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. first, who can be acquainted with the circumstance that r alludes to ; and, secondly, for what purpose you are informed of their knowledge. The latter will he more puzzling than the former to decide on, for I entertain no doubt that the minstrel must he the person. But what his design may be is not so clear." " As I thought," exclaimed Allan ; " all is lost I" " And I see everything gained," replied Jarvis. " The minstrel is aware of what Angus suspected. But dead men's suspicions furnish no proofs. He must be accused as Angus's accomplice, which will appear probable to those who were present at their last interview. But though accused, he must never be brought to justice. Some way must be found to dispose of him; but the first step is the accusation. Write boldly to your father." " My father will never believe harm of either of his servants." " He must be made to believe it, or at least to act as if he did. Give him no choice ; but write yourself to the man he has employed to defend the suit, stating your belief that Angus was the thief, and desire them to secure the minstrel as his accomplice." Allan mechanically wrote as Jarvis dictated, but once or twice urged the latter to go to Isaacs, and induce him to give certain documents into his possession. "We will go together," replied Jarvis, "when, your letters are finished." Not that he expected any argument would induce the Jew to grant such a request \ but he wished to form his own conclusions as to whether he had any hidden motive for detaining them, beyond the common trick of Bwelling his bill by making delays in the business. On arriving at his house, they were told that he was particularly engaged, and could not be spoken with. The THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 12] same occurred on the next and many following days ; but when, at the end of a month, Allan did get admittance, he found old Isaacs' manner, which had before been cringing to sycophancy, abrupt and insolent. He gave Allan no time to make his request, but poured forth a stream of abuse, calling him a swindler, who had taken advantage of his unsuspecting nature, to rob him of his money under false pretences, which had well-nigh involved him in a suit with an honest and injured man. Allan remained for some time silent with astonishment, but at last said, haughtily — " You are under some misapprehension, Mr. Isaacs. I have borrowed money from you, but on your own terms, be it remembered ; and I have given you every proof you desired of my future inheritance." "Proof, indeed ! Yes — proof that you have no inhe- ritance at all ! Oh ! just as though you did not know all this ! Do you pretend that you did not know that your father, and your grandfather before him, had been for years past wronging another out of his property?" Allan's blood was in arms. His father, his grand- father, accused of roguery ! — their honesty impugned by an extortioner like the man before him ! Foaming with rage, he exclaimed — " How dare you, old villain, speak thus of your bet- ters? I tell you" — and he approached him with his fist clenched — " I tell you, it is false; and that if you again dare to assert it, I will tear your tongue from your un- hallowed mouth ! " " Help ! help !" screamed the Jew. But no one came, and Allan saw the momem ^vhen he might regain all he desired to obtain. "Give me the deeds, base villain!" he exclaimed, as 122 EVENINGS AT HADDUN HALL. he seized him by the throat, "or I will be the death of thee!" The Jew's fiendish laugli, as he said, " That can I not do, for they arc- in the hands of their rightful owner," made Allan's hand relax its grasp, while with a heavy groan he fell, like one shot, at the feet of the usurer. It was many hours after this scene ere Allan awoke to perfect consciousness ; he was then in bed, both his arms bandaged, by which he conjectured that he had been bled. Raising himself, he put back the curtain ; a night-lamp was burning ; there was no one in the room but his ser- vant William, who was buried in a sound sleep. Allan's ideas were at first confused, and though aware that some misfortune had befallen, or some sudden illness overtaken him, he could not recollect anything distinctly; but by degrees the mists which had obscured his reason were withdrawn, and the whole dreadful truth became present, lie perceived, that though intentionally innocent of the result, his criminal removal of the deeds, to enable him to raise money, had placed them in the power of his enemy, and that virtually he was guilty of the ruin of his family, and the stigma on his grandfather's reputation. Hours passed on ; the servant still slept, while Allan's soul was torn by remorse. "1 will go to my father/' he said, " I will avow all. He can but curse me. And what curse can be more bitter than my own despair?" Allan made an effort to rise, but soon found that he was too weak to effect it, and sank back on his pillow again, to reflect on the enormity of his conduct towards a parent who had been only too indulgent and forbearing, under his many acts of aggression, lie remembered the solemn promise his father had exacted, that whatever THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 123 were his crimes (for such the chieftain designated his thoughtless expenditure) they should always be confided to him — and that when, in the breach of that promise, he had sought those means for self-relief, at which, even in the moment of commission, his soul shrunk back ap- palled — when he was stealthily conveying away, like a thief, those deeds to his room — he had encountered the venerable form of old Angus, — and the shame of that moment became again present. He again saw the stern and searching eye bent upon him, for though he had assumed a tone of bravado, and even presumed to insult the aged servant, from that hour he had felt himself a degraded being. He foresaw that his mind must be on the rack till he could replace those deeds ; but little did he think or imagine the abyss in which honour, reputation, wealth, and peace, w r ere to become engulfed by his ab- straction of them. Even now it seemed a dream — a dream too horrible to be true. Might not Isaacs have deceived him ? At that moment the door of his chamber was opened. It was Jarvis who entered. His step awoke the servant, and he started up. Jarvis inquired how his master had been. " He has slept soundly all night," replied William. " When he awakes," continued Jarvis, " do not answer any questions he may ask you. The surgeon says his mind must be kept tranquil, or there will be great mischief. If he is sensible when he awakes, you had better send for me •" and with this admonition his friend left the room, without even approaching his bed. As soon as he was gone, William put some coals on the fire, trimmed the lamp, and again settled himself to sleep, leaving Allan to his bitter reflections. It was long after daybreak, when, nearly choked with thirst, he asked 124 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. for drink, and having swallowed it, again closed his eyes, aa it' he could, by shutting out the light, lessen the intense- ness of his anguish. Not for many a past year had Allan prayed with the fervour and faith of that lonely night. The misfortune which had befallen him was too great for his stunned senses to comprehend its full extent; but the heartless neglect of his servant, who had lived with him from a boy; the luke- warm inquiries of the man who called himself his friend, were bitter lessons. His high and noble-minded father, his gentle sister, how different would have been their watch and their care ; and yet, if what Isaacs had said were in- deed true, never might he hope to behold cither of them again. " Better to know the worst," exclaimed he, mentally, " than to grow mad on one's own fancies;" and calling to William, he desired he would tell him how long he had been in bed, and what had befallen him before being placed there. William hesitated, and Allan was proceeding, with something of his habitual impetuosity, to insist on being answered, when Major Jarvis again entered the room. This time he went to the bed, took Allan's hand in his, but at the same time placed his finger on his lip to indicate the necessity for silence; but Allan implored Jarvis to tell him the whole truth. " Have I been mad," said he, "or am I the destroyer of my race?" "Neither," said Jarvis; "but, my dear fellow, you must be calm — you must not " " Preach calmness to others," cried Allan, as he tore the bandages from his arm, and with all the artificial strength given by fever, attempted to spring from his bed. " Tell me all — all — or I will find some means of dis- covering it, though at the risk of life." THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 125 Jarvis, terrified at the vehemence of his manner and the wildness of his eye, promised, if he would but compose himself, to relate all he knew; and Allan, sinking back on his pillow, made signs that he was attentive. " Terrified at your long absence," said Jarvis, " I pro- ceeded to old Isaacs, who accused you of having tried to take his life, and confessed that, to preserve it, he had dis- closed a secret which he had sworn to keep unknown." " Go on," said Allan; " did he confide to you the nature of that disclosure V " Yes," replied Jarvis ; " he told me that immediately after you had left his house on the first day he refused to see us, an aged stranger called, and besought him, as he valued his own soul, to declare whether or not he was in possession of the title-deeds of the Glengary estate, and if so, for what sum he would relinquish and place them in his hands. Of course old Isaacs was too subtle to give an answer which could commit himself; but he endeavoured to extract from his simple-minded visitor on what grounds he supposed such an improbability as his being possessed of them, and who it was who would be willing to bid for them, supposing he could furnish a clue to where they might be found. The unwary man, whom I have since discovered to have been no other than Fergus the minstrel, did not hesitate to confide to old Isaacs the discovery made by your father, of the loss of these title-deeds, and the pos- sible advantage which this loss might give a certain Mr. Muir, an impostor, who had threatened to dispossess hi» honoured master of his inheritance. He related, likewise, the steward's sudden seizure, and the charge he had given him, in his dying hour, to depart from the castle, and never to return till he had traced these deeds, and re- stored them to their rightful owner. A long life passed 126 EVENINGS AT IIADDON IIAI.L. m faithful service had enabled the old steward, he said, tc collect a considerable sum of money, which he had ordered him to expend for the release of these deeds from the custody of whoever might possess them. " ' And why,' inquired Isaacs, ' do you think fit to regard me as their jailor?' " ' Why that,' replied Fergus, 'is a question I would rather not answer, because my old friend, when he charged me to get back these deeds, also charged me to preserve the honour of the family intact. But I did not apply to you without being pretty sure that I was right, though I don't wish to mention the name of one I have seen visit you within the hour.' " ' You must leave me your address, my friend, and call again to-morrow,' was Isaacs' reply; and anxious to be alone, to reflect on the best mode of turning this interview to advantage, he dismissed his visitor. " Mr. Muir's professional men," continued Jarvis, " were known to Isaacs, and to Edinburgh he instantly repaired, and by degrees discovered from them that their case against Sir Norman rested on a deed of sale from your grandfather, who, when in great difficulty, sold the reversion of his estate, under a promise that, during his life, the transaction should never be made known. The purchaser's agent was the only being privy to the affair, for Sir Alexander would not confide it to his own. It was to the present Mr. Mini's lather that the sale was made, who Boon afterwards became, by the failure of a house in Cal- cutta, a beggar, and left Europe to make a second fortune. A few years after he died, and so did his agent. Both these events happened in Sir Alexander Ramsay's lifetime. The present claimant was but a child at the period of his father's death, and only within a very few years, by a search THE FORTTTNKS OF THE GLENGARY. 127 into that father's papers, became cognizant of those rights which he is now determined to prosecute to the utmost stretch of the law. Mr. Muir considers that Sir Norman's conduct has been so offensive, that the suit has become as much a matter of pride as a struggle for property. " ' But/ observed Isaacs, ' it is a suit which cannot stand. A simple deed of sale without any support, and with every probability against it, will make but little way against old prejudices and established rights. Who will believe that the title-deeds would be left with the Glengary family V " ' We must/ said the agent, ' force Sir Norman to produce these deeds. Some endorsement may have been made on them, which will establish our case/ " ' And should there be nothing of the sort/ observed Isaacs, 'what then?' " ' Why, then we must rest on the truth of our case, lame as are its premises. Mr. Muir has ample wealth, and will carry it from court to court till he gets his rights.' " ' To get the title-deeds into your possession were a simpler process/ said Isaacs, with apparent calmness. But while he spoke he kept his eye steadfastly fixed on the man he addressed. " ' Why, it wants no ghost to tell us that !' exclaimed the agent, with a laugh ; ' a deed of sale, with the title- deeds in hand, were tantamount to possession.' " ' Then why not obtain them ? What would you give to any one who could put you on their track ?' " ' Their own terms, were such a thing possible.' " ' I will communicate with a friend/ replied Isaacs ; and departed satisfied with his first essay. 1:28 EVENINGS At IIADDON HALL. " The following morning brought not only Mr. Muir's agent, but his advocate, to old Isaacs' lodging. " It is useless," continued Jarvis, "to repeat all the old usurer advances in extenuation of the act he committed, or his pretended conviction that he was acting for the benefit of the injured in parting with these deeds; for neither you nor I should believe one word of it, while we should feel certain that the 10,000/. he has received was his sole inducement to this treachery. An oath of secrecy was exacted from him, and his breach of it places him in some measure in our power. I have made use of it to insist on his seizing on the minstrel, and conveying him to some place where he may remain concealed, and from whence escape will be impossible." " "What is the object of this fresh crime ?" faintly in- quired Allan. " I know not what you may term crime," said Jarvis, " nor why you should defend an old rascal whose follj has destroyed your family. What matters it whether the act spring from guilt or folly when the results are fatal ? Do try to behave like a rational being, Allan, and bless your stars that one such idiot as old Fergus is alive in the world, to save you from all future fear of detection." " Hut what shall hide from my own conscience the awful truth, that it was my cursed imprudence and ba^c: abstraction of my father's papers, which has been the real cause of his ruin '.'" " Not a bit of it, Allan ; how can you be so weak as not to perceive that this catastrophe must have occu-red ? The enemy of your house is rolling in wealth. Nothing could have prevented his gaining a verdict, sooner or later. The suit might have been a prolonged one, but what could THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 129 that have availed your father, except to involve him in a labyrinth of debt. Believe me, Allan, it would be wiser to think of the future, with a view to remedy some of the evils it portends, than to dwell on the past, which is irre- mediable." " Why talk of the future ? To me the future is a blank ; henceforth I am a beggar and a disgraced man \" " You certainly bid fair to be both, if you indulge ir> your present state of mind, and all my exertions canno prevent it ; but I must say it is a hard case, after years o friendship and devotion, to meet with such a return ; for 3 need not tell you that your ruin will be mine. I have hai no thought of self-preservation distinct from you ; you good or evil fortune I must share." Allan was touched by the calm, dejected tone, in which Jarvis spoke. Within the last few hours he had for the first time doubted his friendship ; but habit, long depen - dence on his judgment, and a softness of feeling, induced by his bodily weakness, got the better of the doubts which solitude and reflection had raised. Putting out his hand, he grasped Jarvis's, and soon after, exhausted by conver- sation and argument, sank into a deep slumber, from which he awoke more than ever the slave of him whom he called his friend. Jarvis made arrangements with old Isaacs to wait two years for the portion of the money he had advanced before the minstrel's visit, for which Allan gave his note of hand, and both the young men left town to join their regiment. It has been stated that Allan's correspondence with his family during their residence in the cottage was not frequent. He had once, in a moment of good impulse, entreated Sir Norman no longer to continue his allowance : 130 EVENINGS A BADDON HALL. but bis father had persisted in doing so, though its pay- ment BwaUowed more than half his small income. " Remember , Allan," said he, "that the terms debt and disgrace are in my mind synonymous, and that the honour of our family having been attacked by a foul aspersion on the dead, it behoves the living to be doubly vigilant in guarding theirs from suspicion." But Allan, alas ! was too deeply involved to be able to extricate himself. The only being aware of his difficulties always made light of them, and often, though apparently without design, induced their increase ; while his victim, though sensible of the evil, had not courage to act but as he was tutored. His mind had so accustomed itself to this subjection that it at last became powerless in its own cause ; thought of the future, reflection on the past, were alike painful, and both were resolutely banished. At the period of Sir Norman's visit to London, Allan was also forced to be there, for the purpose of negotiating another loan ; but he contrived that, at least to his father, his journey should wear the mask of filial and brotherly interest. The first sight of Marian converted this pre- tended feeling into something like reality ; but the stings of conscience, each time he looked at her young and en- during form, each struggle that he witnessed for resignation under her father's deprivations, were too severe, and his visits were as rare as he could make them, without the fear of hearing some remonstrance from both of them. But Sir Norman's mind was too deeply imbued with grief to notice even the shortness and unfrequency of his son's visits, and his sister was too proud to sue for what she nad imagined would be joyfully given. His agitation on the morning Marian returned from THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 131 her first visit to the city was caused by his having, while talking to his father, approached the window, and from thence beheld the minstrel. After that day, Allan no more visited his father or sister, and when, prior to their own departure for London, they sent to his lodging, they were told he had been suddenly ordered back to his regiment. Something less than three years after the period ot which we have been speaking, an elderly gentleman was seated at an open window of one of the houses situated on the side of the hill of Cintra. The evening was sultry, and every now and then a flash of lightning played about the shrouds of the various vessels anchored off the bay of Lisbon. A young girl sat at his feet ; she had been reading to him ; but the night had come on them so quickly, that she had been forced suddenly to resign her occupation. The book still rested on her knees, but her eyes were turned upwards to her father's face. Silently, but not tearlessly, she watched his breathing, which seemed unusually oppressed ; and as the flashes of lightning became more frequent, and illumined the apartment, she fancied that his pale features wore a look of pain and distress. "The coming storm oppresses you, my father/' said she, as she arose to open the lattice window ; but not a breath of air penetrated into the apartment, while the rich perfumes from the orange-trees, and the aromatic odours of the wild thyme, served to render the overcharged atmo- sphere still more oppressive. " Do not leave me, deai'est," said the invalid ; and in an instant Marian was at Sir Norman Ramsay's side, with one arm passed round his neck to support him as he leant 132 EVENINGS AT BAODOM BALL. forward, trying to catch a breath of fresher air. Thunder .night now be heard in the distance; and it was evident that one of those awful storms with which Lisbon is often vi>ited, was about to take place. An hour passed, and not a drop of rain had yet fallen; but suddenly, an intense glare illumined the horizon. Marian was not sure if her father perceived it, and there- fore restrained her emotion ; when suddenly alarum bells were heard in every direction, and persons were observed, at each flash of lightning, to be running to and fro, as though conscious of some impending calamity. Marian hx.ked closely at her father, and perceived that he had fallen asleep. Not for worlds would she have disturbed him by withdrawing her arm; but her suspense almost amounted to agony as she observed the blaze extend and become more lurid. Sir Norman's servant entered, and .Marian, pointing with her disengaged hand to the light, whispered to him to hasten and inquire the cause. In a few moments he returned, to tell her that a vessel had most probably been struck by lightning, and that it was in flames. Heart-stricken at the idea of what her fellow- creaturea were enduring, Marian continued to gaze at the terrific sight. The sparks arose in myriads to the clouds, and then descended like a shower of fire. Again the alarum bells sounded louder, and Sir Norman awoke. " What is it ?" he asked. " Where arc you, my child ? Are you safe, or what has happened ?" " You have been dreaming, dear father/' said Marian ; " but surely no dream could equal yonder dreadful reality !" And, completely overcome, she sank on her knees, and burst into tears. Sir Norman's servant now repeated to his master the intelligence he had gained respecting the distant light, THE FORTUNES OP THE GLENGARY. 133 and both father and child prayed fervently for the crew of that burning ship. At length the light grew less intense,, and then became quenched ; but how many lives might have been quenched with it ? Neither of those lonely watchers dared ask of each other what might be the thought of either ; neither found courage to articulate ; but in their very silence there was sad foreboding. The servant had gone of his own accord to discover what had been done by the boatmen. Many of them had put to sea ; and as the last effort of the flame gave out a brighter light, a raft had been seen floating towards the shore. Daybreak found Sir Norman and his daughter still in that same apartment : the storm was over, and the glorious orb of day was rising, in all his calm and effulgent beauty, directly in front of that window whence they had a few hours before watched the light so fraught with terror and dismay, the terrific sight of which not all the beauty of that sunrise, not all the serenity of the opening day, could erase from their minds. Marian besought her father to retire to rest ; but as soon as she had conducted him to his chamber, she re- turned to the same spot, to weep and to pray. Not a soul, it would seem, had tasted of rest that night, for at every moment she discerned their neighbours returning from the city. But much as she desired to hear all they had learnt — anxious as she felt to discover if any of the boats had reached the raft, and how many had been saved — she felt powerless to move, or to ask these questions. Did some mysterious foreboding whisper to Marian's heart that on the safety of that raft her future life might depend ? Born in a country where superstition held Bway 134 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HAIL. — nurtured among those who were its willing disciples — the scenes of her own early life so mysterious and un- fathomable — what wonder if Marian dwelt on certain feelings till she believed them tokens of good, or warnings of coming evil. In the present instance there was a con- tusion in her ideas, whether for good or evil she knew not; but she felt that the foregoing night would hold some sway over her future fate. Before Sir Norman was stirring, Marian had become acquainted with the fact that several persons had been saved upon a raft, whence one had been precipitated and lost. The vessel was a Turkish felucca, coming direct from Tripoli, her crew mostly Turks ; but one of the per- sons saved, though habited in an Eastern dress, was an Englishman ; the one who had perished was also said to be of the same nation. Towards evening, Marian was informed that the Eng- lishman who had been saved requested admission to her presence ; and, anxious to show hospitality to a country- man, she immediately received him. His form was noble, and his features, though somewhat bronzed by an Asiatic sun, bore the stamp of English birth, while his Eastern costume gave an air of chivalrous bearing, which the dress of his own country might not have bestowed on him. His countenance bore the marks of dejection and suffering, and when he spoke, Marian fancied that his features were not wholly unknown to her. " What can my father have the pleasure to do for you V was her first question. "Though unequal to receiving a stranger himself, he bids me offer you whatever hospitality you will accept, or any other assistance you may require/' " Lady/' said the stranger, " I perceive that your recollection has not kept pace with mine. The cursory THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 135 glance I had of you at your first visit to my father, Mr. Needham, has never been forgotten." " Is it possible V exclaimed Marian. " Mr. Needham's son must, indeed, be warmly welcomed by my father and myself ;" and as she spoke, she held out her hand, on which the stranger pressed his lips, with an air of the deepest respect. " Let me acquaint my father with this unexpected happiness," added Marian ; but Horace Need- ham arrested her step, and entreated that she would first listen to all he had to relate. It was to spare Sir Norman's feelings, he said, that he had been induced to seek this interview with her. The sad forebodings which had crept over Marian's mind again became present, and, pale as death, she entreated to be told what fresh sorrow awaited them. Horace looked at her agitated countenance till he almost lost his own self-command, and she had again to urge him to tell her the worst, ere he found voice to say, " Many of us left the burning ship ; but all had not strength to reach the shore. The one who perished had been long ill ; he was worn out by sorrow and sickness ; accident made us acquainted; his sufferings and his self- upbraidings made me his friend. It was at my suggestion that he sought this shore — it was my promise to gain for him a pardon he dared not ask, which induced him to embark in that ill-fated vessel." Horace paused to watch the effect of his recital, but Marian neither spoke nor moved, and he continued — "No earthly power could have long prolonged his life — no, not even a father's pity, a sister's love !" Again he paused, but this time it was to receive the death-like form of Marian in his arms. She had felt the truth, and compre* nended that Allan was the lost one. 136 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Her swoon was long; and though Horace carried her to an open window, and used such means as were at band to revive her, it was not till he had begun to fancy that she would no more recover, that she slowly opened her eyes. After a few moments, something like warmth re- turned to the fair form which he had been holding in bis arms, cold and rigid as in death. She looked at him, and the deep sympathy with which he regarded her was suffi- cient evidence that she had not mistaken the misfortune he wished to acquaint her with. To think of her father, to lose all feeling for self in her anxiety for him, had so long been the occupation of Marian's life, that it was at the thoughts of his grief that she now wept. Horace remained silent : he allowed her tears to flow without an attempt to arrest their course. No words he might utter could, in that heavy hour, he knew, bring consolation ; but when a tear fell on Marian's hands, which were held in his, and she knew that tear flowed not from her own eyes, she felt that the sympathy of at least one heart was with her, and at length she gained courage to inquire and listen, before proceeding to her father, to some of the following particulars. Horace Needham had said that accident brought him acquainted with Allan of Glengary, but it was an accident which not only riveted their intimacy, but turned Allan from his path of evil to one of sincere and earnest re- pentance. From an early age, travel had been the darling pursuit of Horace Needham, and the Eastern countries his favourite ground of search and exploit. An only child, he was his father's idol, and his society, whenever he did enjoy it, gave a charm to his existence; but never had the fond THE FORTUNES OE THE GLENGARY. 137 father sought to restrain his son from pursuing the path which seemed necessary to his happiness. When with him he saw so much in his character to admire and be proud of, that he felt, in whatever clime fancy might lead him, honour and right feeling would be his safeguards. On parting from his father, he had promised that this should be his last expedition to the East, and that on his return he would tax his father's hospitality for a continued residence at his country-seat. On entering Turkey, by the Danube, he had found himself benighted at the town of Seniiin, and though nothing could be less inviting than the fare spread for travellers, or the beds prepared for their repose, Horace felt no repugnance to make trial of both. The sleeping apartment to which he was conducted was not untenanted. On one of its four wretched pallets a fellow-traveller was stretched, apparently asleep, and Horace soon become convinced that the sharer of his room was in a state of delirium ; his wild ravings were awful ; and sleep being banished from his eyes, Horace listened with pity to the dreadful self-accusations and re- morse the wretched man was pouring forth. At length, he moved, and springing from his bed with the look of a maniac, rushed to the window with the intention, as it appeared, of jumping out ; but the window, which was in the roof, was so constructed with closely-fitting iron bars, (possibly to prevent the entrance of any one from the neighbouring houses by a terrace extending along them,) that he could not effect his purpose. He then approached a small valise which was placed close to his bed ; Horace distinctly saw a pistol in his hand ; he sat down on his bed> still grasping it. Some words he uttered seemed as though he wished to pray ; but again the delirium returned, and he proceeded with rapidity in the same strain as before. 138 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Horace did not withdraw his eye from him for a single instant ; he dared not call for assistance, fearing to render the unhappy man more desperate, and increase the danger he apprehended from the pistol ; but he felt that on his calmness and presence of mind both his own and another's life might depend. The raving ceased — the stranger evidently now prayed — the words of " Father — Marian — forgive me, and pray for my soul \" though almost whispered, were heard by the listener. In another instant he saw the pistol raised to his head. There was no time for thought, but impulse guided Horace ; with one spring he was by the unhappy man's side — his ami turned the direction of the pistol — which w tut off, without injury to either. The noise of the report roused the household, and Horace, still holding the stranger in his grasp, endea- voured to assuage their fears, by declaring the report of the pistol to have been an accident. As soon as all was again still without the chamber, Horace besought the stranger to go to his bed, endeavour to compose himself, and thank God for having preserved him from the com- mission of the crime he meditated. A change had come over the person he addressed ; fever and delirium had passed away, and were succeeded by a state of weakness bordering on inanition. He sighed heavily, but for some hours uttered not a word. At length he fell asleep, and as Horace sat watching him, he felt convinced that the heavy sweat which now stood on his brow, though indicative of illness, must preclude any fear of an immediate return of fever. When the sleeper awoke, he cast his eyes around, and, on perceiving Horace, beck- oned him to approach his bed ; he took his hand, pressed THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGA.RY. 139 it, and said, in a very low tone, — "There are those who may hereafter thank you for having saved me from suicide." Horace sent for a doctor, who pronounced the sick man to be in a very precarious state, and declared his removal quite impossible without imminent danger. For many days, Horace watched by him with unremitting care. As soon as he became well enough to converse, he entered voluntarily on his position, and confessed to Horace that for several weeks he had been meditating suicide, as the only means of saving himself from disgrace. " My life," added he, " can bring but sorrow and shame on all connected with me; I have sinned heavily against those I most revere ; their pardon I may never hope to attain. I am an outcast from society, and have been rendered all this by one whom I called friend." Allan, for it was he who had been thus mercifully in- terrupted in his intended crime, continued to pour into Horace's ear the relation of his life ; but as its incidents have been already related, up to the period of his father's leaving London, we shall proceed at once to that portion of it which immediately followed on his observing the minstrel standing opposite Sir Norman's lodging. It has been said, that he rushed from the house on that occasion, regardless of his sister's voice; his object was to seek and again secure the minstrel : " But vain," said Allan, " was all search : the greater part of that J ay, and the whole of the following night, did I go from place to place, endeavouring to discover where he was concealed ; and in despair I left London, hoping that he might not have been aware of my vicinity to him. The same round of dissipation and extravagance stained the following two years of my life, during which Jarvis appeared to be my 140 EVENINGS AT HAUL-ON HALL. friend. I was over head and ears in debt, and when the. period approached for the payment of old Isaacs, the iak of my commission was my only resource; it was sacrificed, and I found myself still heavily in debt, and without one shilling to discharge it, or provide for myself. About this time a distant relation of Jarvis's died, which event put him into possession of a good fortune and a baronetcy, and I was weak enough to imagine that the man whom I had called friend, and to whom my purse had been ever open, and at whose instigation I had resorted to measures at which my soul shuddered, to procure large sums of money which he fully shared with me, — I say I was weak enough not to imagine that this man would choose such a moment to desert and revile me. But so it was; and with- out money or friends, I quitted England, where nothing short of a gaol awaited me, to seek employment in some other land. Sickness overtook me. I have been at death's door, with nought but guilt and dishonour before my eyes. I have loathed myself and all mankind, till it seemed my curse that I did not die. In my lonely wanderings, in my fevered dreams, I have beheld the minstrel's form ; I have heard his voice proclaiming mc accursed, till my brain be- came diseased, and my only object self-destruction." Horace, it will be remembered, had been made ac- quainted, by his father, with the relief he had afforded Marian, and the circumstances of the Glengarys; and it seemed something like the hand of Providence which had led him to rescue from crime the son of that house. As soon as Allan could travel with safety, Horace insisted on his accompanying him to Constantinople. At this earlier period, the Danube, which now bears on its vast surface steamers and other vessels laden with the productions of every province in Hungary, was merely THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. ]4] traversed by the rude, half-finished rafts, navigated by the inhabitants of the district through which the rivei finds its way. These vessels, composed merely of huge beams of wood, firmly linked together by iron stanchions, never re-ascended the river, being broken up for fire-wood at the place where they discharged their cargo. In one of these rude craft, protected from the weather merely by a small cabin raised a little above the after part of the deck, our travellers were glad to engage a passage, Allan's weakness rendering a land journey impracticable. The only sign of human habitation was the occasional mud hut of the Wallachian shepherd, built on the low marshy bank of the river. In one of these they were oftentimes glad to find protection and shelter, and to halt a day or two for Allan to recruit his strength. Horace saw plainly that life was not long to be Allan's portion on earth ; clearly he perceived that the awful fiar. had gone forth, and that ere many weeks had sped, al. that remained of Allan of Glengary would be, the remem- brance of his follies, his crimes, and his repentance ; and most earnestly did he seek, by every argument and en- treat}', to render this repentance sincere and availing. He would speak to him gently of his past ways, and when Allan would shrink aghast from their contempla- tion, he would point out to him that He who came to save sinners exacted no other tribute from the sinner than firm faith and true repentance. Allan often expressed a desire that his father should know the fearful act he had been guilty of, and which led to such fatal consequences. "Could I but obtain his for- giveness," he would say, " I could better hope for mercy from above. ' As his bodily strengtn diminished, his senses became 1 12 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. more acute ; and the remorse he expressed at having subjected poor old Angus's memory to disgrace, was bitter indeed. They were one evening in one of these huts, unable from Allan's weakness, to proceed. A thin partition di- vided their apartment from an adjoining one. Carried away by his feelings, Allan had spoken with some of his wonted impetuosity of language; his voice had perhaps startled some one near them, who was willing to try if his might also be remembered ; a few chords were struck, and then a faint and feeble tone was heard uttering some words in the Gaelic tongue. Allan started from his re- cumbent position : he grasped Horace's arm as he mur- mured, " Save me, save me — 'tis the minstrel !" " Be composed," returned Horace, " be patient, I entreat you, while I go to seek this man who has so startled you, and prove whether or not he be the person you imagine." " Oh, bring him not here to curse me ! " cried Allan, as he sank back exhausted. Horace gave him some drops of a cordial he always had at hand, and as soon as he could leave him, proceeded in search of the harper. On perceiving a man leaning against the partition which separated the apartment, he went up to him, and whispered, w Know you aught of Fergus the minstrel?" The start, the agitation, and bewildered look, which met his glance, left no doubt that Allan's recollection was correct. " Seek you Allan of Glengary ?" he continued; "if so, your errand is finished; I can lead you to him; not," he continued, "to the proud and impetuous youth you re- member by that name, but to one well-nigh worn out by THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 143 suffering and remorse. Have you no peace to speak to such an one ? " " Peace ! " exclaimed the minstrel ; " peace to him who destroyed my only friend, and gave his memory to shame and obloquy ! peace to the destroyer of his house ! peace to him who " A heavy noise, as of some one falling, arrested the old man, while Horace exclaimed, " He has heard all — you have killed him !" Horace returned to the room he had quitted, to raise and restore Allan to life, who had, as he conjectured, heard all, and fallen senseless under the torture of the minstrel's words. It was impossible for Horace to quit the unhappy suf- ferer that night, during which he was a prey to delirium ; and when, in the morning, he fell into an uneasy doze, no one knew anything of the minstrel. He had come and he had gone, without exciting attention. Every day that Horace watched by his friend, he be- came more convinced that his life was waning fast ; but, at the same time, he felt assured that nothing could render calm the last moments of that erring and unhappy man, or inspire him with a Christian's hope, but the confession of his crimes, and the forgiveness of his earthly parent. Under this persuasion, he besought Allan to embark with him for Lisbon, where, through Marian's correspondence with his father, Horace knew that Sir Norman and his daughter were resident ; and, at length, on condition that his arrival should not be mentioned till his father's feel- ings were made known to Horace, who took the whole mediation on himself, Allan suffered himself to be placed on board the vessel, the destruction of which Marian had 1 11 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. seen reflected on the sky with feelings of such awe and such harrowing forebodings. It was Horace who DOM Allan in his arms to the raft, but who had not strength to retain him in safety there. An unfortunate movement made by the struggling crowd, anxious to save themselves, precipitated them both into the ocean, and when Horace rose to the surface, his friend was no longer in his grasp ; neither could he regain the raft, but owed his safety to a floating mass which had been detached from the wreck. It was judged better, both by Horace and by Marian, that Sir Norman should not be apprised of any part of Allan's unhappy life and degenerate conduct. He was now beyond the reach of pardon from his earthly parent, and why disturb that parent's last years by a knowledge of what could not but render those few years miserable? It had been the will of Heaven that earthly forgivt should not be awarded to the sinner; but Horace, who spoke of his repentance, and .Marian, who listened with deep interest to each proof of its fervour, could but pray that a more enduring mercy was secured to the penitent, by the one great sacrifice of Him whose death was the sinner's ransom. Sir Norman bore the intelligence of his son's death with more fortitude than his daughter had anticipated ; for the sad reverses of his own fate had subdued his feel- ings into a sort of drowsy passiveness. Horace Needham had become domesticated at Cintra; his whole world seemed centred in that little spot. He had made himself so necessary to Sir Norman, that the old chieftain forgot, in his presence, that he had no son ; indeed, never had he experienced from his own son the THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 145 sweet and gentle offices of affection bestowed on him by Horace. There was another individual to whom his society was not less precious ; but it was not till a letter was re- ceived' from Mr. Needham, requesting Horace's immediate return to England, that any of them were quite sure of all they were to each other. " Marian, my beloved, my peerless Marian, how can I leave thee V murmured Horace, as they stood watching the starry firmament, on the morning before the vessel, in which he had taken his passage, was to sail for Falmouth ; and Marian's fast-falling tears evinced that to her the separation was not less painful. "Oh, let me not depart/' he continued, " without the assurance of thy love ! Let us here, in the sight of Heaven, plight our troth ! I cannot leave thee but as my affianced bride ! " " Think, Horace," replied Marian, " of all your father's noble conduct to me and mine. But for his beneficence, we were little removed from paupers ; and is it for the creature of his bounty to aspire to his son's hand?" " Talk not of aspiring, thou peerless one ! Say, rather, shall a proud and time-honoured chieftain's daughter think a merchant's son her equal ? Ah, Marian, if thou didst but love as I do, thou wouldst know that in the bright and glorious light of that feeling, neither rank nor wealth are discernible ! Love is omnipotent, or it is but a mockery of the word." " Horace," replied Marian, " the secret of my love is no longer mine own ; it stole so softly into my heart, that there was no time to be wary; and, almost before I knew it myself, its existence was known to you. In your father's hands rests its termination ; whether I am to be a blessed and happy wife, or my love is to remain hid in the deepest recesses of my heart, his word can alone decide EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Nay, look not displeased, Horace. Ask your own noble i :. if mine would be worthy to be allied with it, if that alliance were to be baked on ingratitude." " Ever right and ever perfect art thou, Marian j and in listening to these truths I feel that they but make thee more dear to me ! But, dearest, why doubt my father's willingness to secure my happiness ?" " 1 do not doubt it, Horace. I dare not think I ought to doubt it, — for then, indeed, I should be wretched." Horace caught the speaker to his heart, and though no plighted vows were spoken, both felt that henceforth they lived but for each other. Little more remains to be told. The chieftain of Glen* . has paid the debt of nature, but not before the stigma on his father's name had been effaced by the indefatigable and untiring exertions of our old friend Mr. Needham, the noble-minded merchant, who, from the first, suspecting treachery on the part of Mr. Muir, had persevered in his inquiries, despatching the minstrel on one expedition after another to the East, where the late Mr. Muir had died; till, at length, a deed was discovered which gave ample proof of the late chieftain's having redeemed his estate ere he executed his will. This news was brought to Cintra by Horace, who came, by his father's desire, to conduct his beloved Marian and the Glengary to their ancient hoim ; but another revulsion of fate had been too much for the aired chieftain. He was one among the many who find it more difficult to support the extreme of joy than to endure the bitterness of sorrow. His spirit was broken, iie calmly sank to his long rest, supported and cheered to the last by the presence and filial affection of his exem- plary daughter. THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 147 *J* *T* *7* *|* *fi ***** Eighteen months have elapsed since his death. The minstrel has again returned to the castle. Marian's first interview with this old and faithful servant presented a touching scene ; but when first summoned to the presence of the Glengary — for Horace had, on his marriage with its heiress, assumed that distinction — how great was the minstrel's surprise to behold and recognise the traveller who had spoken with him in the lone hut on the Danube ; for, wishing to assist the old man's memory, Horace had arrayed himself in the Eastern costume which he had then worn. Once more the minstrel's harp was strung, and again the name of Glengary resounded through the castle walls. The more happily and entirely the project of the fair Eva seemed to succeed in eliciting pen-and-ink pictures out of painted ones, the more eager did she grow that the progress of it should not flag. The second evening had already reached the accustomed hour of retirement at the moment when the last story reached its close ; but, on see- ing one or two of the guests show signs of departure, she seized on a beautiful design which lay immediately before her, and, as if a new thought had come to her, she ex- claimed, " A Poem ! we have had no poetry yet ; and I have heard that Painting and Poetry are sisters, and always go together. Look ! this moonlight view is poetry itself. Who will ' marry it to immortal verse ?' as I have heard some poet say or sing, on a similar occasion. Oh, I know !" she continued, after a momentary pause, during which no one answered to her appeal — "I know!" and she turned to a young lady, who had just returned from 1 IS EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. Ii;l1v, and who had lately told her many legends that she gathered in that "sunny land." "Here," she ex- claimed, "is one of those gondolas you have so often described to me — and a lover, I think, by his earnest look — and a beautiful lady up above. Why, this alone story, if you would but make it into rhyme. Do try !" " I cannot invent stories, my dear Eva, as your other friends do," was the reply ; " but I will repeat to you a legend I heard in one of those very gondolas, and you may fit it to your picture if you can, though it will, I am afraid, impart infinitely less illustration than it will receive." The lady then related LOVE'S LAST TRYST. A ROMANCE OF VENICE. 'Tis night, and such a night as smiles. In beauty 'neath a southern sky ; The silvery waves are hushed to rest, And in the moonbeams slumbering lie No cloud to dim the stainless blue, Upon the crystal deep is thrown, Where Venice stands in regal state, Encircled by her glittering zone. Amid the fairest spots of Earth, Ye tranquil stars watch o'er below ; Never can one more lovely be Than this ye sweetly shine on now. Still is each sound of Life ; awhile Reposes Pleasure's wearied train, And brooding o'er with dove-like wings, Day-banished Silence breathes again. Not long it reigns — the stroke is heard Of oars, whose bright phosphoric ray love's last tryst. 149 Gleams in the distance, and a bark O'er the blue water makes its way, Yet stealthily, as if it sought But wakeful ears to list the song That o'er the calm, unruffled wave, The night-breeze gently bears along. *' 'Tis midnight's charmed hour, And every folded flower Weepeth in sorrow that sweet Day hath flown. Softly she sunk to rest, Lulled on Night's quiet breast, And o'er her smiles her ebon hair is thrown* The Hours pass slowly by, With pinions noiselessly, On to the curtained East they sadly move, As if they feared to break Her slumber, or awake The listening Echo of my whispered love. They wait for thee, sweet one, For thy dear smile alone Illumes my dreary path o'er Life's dark sea 5 Rise in thy beauty, rise, Star of these southern skies, For weary is my way, love, without thee." The song is o'er, and he who sang Still lingers at the vessel's prow ; Lofty his port, but southern suns Have left no trace on cheek or brow To mark him of Italia's clime ; But through the gondolier's disguise The Austrian Ulric stands reveal' d. No mask but Love's keen glance defies. Why comes he here, alone, unarm'd, 'Mid hearts that seek to work his woe ? How will his single footstep gain The dwelling of his direst foe ? And yet he comes ! — as seamen scorn The dangers of the storm, and keep Watch o'er the one bright guiding star, That lights their pathway o'er the deep. 150 EVENINGS AT IIAI1DON HALL. And who, Bianca, loving thee, But would have risked a life's poor stasa, And felt e'en blessed were the boon To lose it — if for thy sweet sake ? Oft hath he stemmed the Adrian wave To gaze upon those deep-fringed eyes, Dark as the veil that shades their Hght, And radiant as their own fair skies. Now from Lioni's silent tower A fairy hand puts lightly by The lattice ; on the peaceful scene A fond glance wanders wistfully. 'Tis she — Bianca! — she who loves This foe to Venice and her race, To-morrow's dawn that gilds these tower* Will shine upon her vacant place. A distant clime, and other tongues Will hail her by a holier name, And one fond glance her home shall make-» To love all climates are the same. In very weariness or scorn, She flings aside the gems that press Her throbbing brow, that little needs Their aid to make its loveliness. Ay, loose thy richly 'broidered vest, And throw thy mask of smiles aside, Thy prisoned heart beats free at length From chains the World hath forged for 1 Well mayst thou curse the noble blood That flows to whelm all Life's sweet ties, For feuds of them who sleep in death, And one poor maid the sacrifice. A cloud is on her brow to-night, A nameless fear that mocks control, Shadows the Future that had shed Its sunniest visions o'er her soul. Her pale, sweet face, yet paler seems, The pearls that braid her raven hair, Beneath the moonbeam's glittering light, Gleam in its darkness' far less fair. love's last tryst. 151 Moored nearer yet the palace walls, Once more awakes her lover's strain ; Secure, in past security, The signal song is heard again, Around her slight and trembling form She throws a mantle's sheltering fold, Her foot has reached the postern gate, So oft their trysting-place of old : She paused. Perchance the ties of home, Familiar voices, household words, Came thronging at this parting hour To touch the full heart's swelling chords. Slowly she moves ; a coward eye Hath tracked her footstep through the shade Of the deep arch ; one moment more, She falls beneath a ruffian's blade ! Oh ! not for thee was aimed the blow That quenched thy young life's vital flame, 'Twas for the Austrian's bosom dealt By him who owned a brother's name. By a lamp's uncertain lustre, in a dungeon's narrow cell, Where the gibes and frenzied laughter mark the spot where maniacs dwell, Paces one whose tale of sorrow oft hath drawn the stranger's tears — 'Tis an aged man ; each midnight, through a weary length of years, Steals he to the narrow casement — watching for his bride, they say, And he tells the maddening story as it were but yesterday. " Ere the vesper star had risen in the summer twilight sky, 'Neath yon tower's friendly shadow, swept my lone, bark silently. Then the cypress hushed its murmurs, and the waves their rippling sound , 'Twas to list her whispered welcome, that sweet Silence breathed around. There I lingered, till the midnight melted into silver mist, And the rosy hues of morning, beach and bower, and islet kiss'd. 'Mid the azure waters, Venice, throned upon her hundred isles, Looked a bashful bride unveiling 'neath a lover's radiant smiles ; With a timid hand withdrawing from her shrouded face the screen That concealed her tearful beauty, thus uprose the ' Ocean Queen :' — Venice ! let the pangs I owe thee blight thee with the woe thou'st wrought, Let my wild curse cling about thee, that thy treachery hath bought 1 152 EVENINGS \l BADUON HALL. May a despot's foot oppress thee, brand thee with each loathsome crime, Graven in the brazen annals of the blood-stained book of Time! Cycles hence, the sighs of anguish, from thy murderous hand the BOI Shall have strength to sap thy power with a stranger's withering cur May thy noblest blood betray thee ! Blood ? Upon my wildered brain < tomes a dream of thee, Bianca, stealing o'er my soul again. - . the moon is bright above me ; she who lives among the stars, ( Kim > in all her bridal beauty, smiling through my prison bars ! Lightly floats her dark hair round me ; — ay, she comes to set me free ! There is blood upon her bosom, and that blood was shed for me ! What ? they strike me when I clasp thee ! Fear not, love, I will no* chide ; Long I waited through the midnight, yet thou didst not seek my side ; Nor till Morning's dawn had opened was my cup of sorrow fali ; When in Death's cold grasp I found thee — mine, my lost, my beautiful. EVENING THE THIRD. On the company re-assembling in the library, on the third evening devoted to the Haddon Hall Revels, the Lady Eva was, as usual, duly prepared with her pictorial treasures. Holding in her fair hand the design which she wished to be next illustrated, she glanced round the gay and intellectual circle, and her eye fixed on a gentleman of whose literary abilities she had heard much, but with whom she had too slight an acquaintance not to feel timid at proffering a request. With that ready and gentle cour- tesy which distinguishes some few above their fellows, the gentleman anticipated her wishes, and, going up to her, remarked that the drawing she held in her hand was a masterly delineation of a wild, bold, and chivalrous scene. " Does not the principal figure in the group remind you, Lady Eva," said he, " of the pictures we have seen of Hernando Cortes?" " I had not remarked it," she replied ; " but it would gratify me particularly to hear something of that extraor- dinary conqueror." The gentleman took the design from the Lady Eva's hand, saying, " I will endeavour to recollect some passages in his life, and one in particular, which connects him in my mind with this drawing." Then, after a brief pause, he proceeded to relate — 154 EVENING8 AT IIADDOX BALL. SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF THE CONQUISTADOli. "They tell me that I am good for nothing; that I am a rank, profitless weed, fit only for the burning. Sancta Maria ! how many brawling youths have lived to be gnat men, and to belie the prophecies of the grey-beards;" and the speaker, with a toss of the head which set the feather " .-waling in his bonnet," smote his thigh with the palm of his hand, and laughed the clear, sonorous laugh, which youth but rarely transmits to manhood. The laugh, sincere as it was, elicited no response from the companion of the thoughtless stripling — a pale, meek- eyed girl, who sat beside him, one small hand resting on his shoulder. It was evening — a summer evening — a summer evening in Spain. The Betting sun had thrown into deepest shade the walls of old Medellin. The place in which they sat was an ivy-grown ruin, in the corner of a high-walled garden. It might once have been a private chapel: it was now a summer-house. Into the arched window-holes peeped the tall, heavy-leaved shrubs, and the languid heads of many gorgeous flowers. The still air was laden with perfume. Sultry was the twilight hour. "Yes, they may prate," continued the youth, "and shake their heads, and look wisdom at me — a world of stern reproof in their cold, hard eyes. A fig for their prophecies ! They shall see me, some day — the prophets ! — if they only live long enough, a — what shall I say, sweet Marina? — a grave and venerable judge." The young maiden could not choose but smile, as she saw the look of mock solemnity with which her friend accompanied these words, but there was something of sad- THE CONQUISTADOR. 155 ness in the tones of her sweet voice, as she said — " Will you never — never, be serious — not even for my sake, dear? — you, who have sworn to do such great things for me, to deny me, in practice, even this. A judge ! — Sala- manca will be proud indeed of the plant which she reared last year. Law ! — - you who are ever ready to break the law, — you to expound or administer it ! If Medellin ever glory in her son, little will be the share of honour dis- pensed to learned Salamanca. Our great man may be among the heroes — not among the sages of the world/' "And is't not better to be among the heroes?" asked the youth, in an eager, and a graver tone. "You shake your head, but your eyes let the secret out. Was there ever a woman yet, who loved not the arm that strikes, better than the tongue which argues — the mailed coat of the soldier, rather than the sombre gown of the clerk t" "You wrong us," returned the maiden. "A true woman best loves that which most calls forth the dignity of man. And believe me, love, it is not as a scourge — as a fire-brand — that man exhibits the highest nobility of nature. If we are sometimes dazzled by brilliant acts, and clap our hands as the actors pass by, forgetful of all the sorrow — all the suffering — which has smeared, as with blood and tears, the wheels of their chariots, it is only because the weakness of humanity clings to us evermore, and being weak, we, in our erring judgments " " Tut, tut ! " interrupted the youth ; " if it were pos- sible for sweet ladies of seventeen to prose with their rosy lips, I should be tempted to charge you with uttering the sagest commonplaces which have ever grated upon these ears since I did penance in the lecture-room at Salamanca. By the Virgin, such lips were never meant to preach solem- nity withal ! The language of love, not of counsel, befits th at 15C EVENINGS AT HADDON II \LL. delicious mouth ; and love's language, you know, sweetest, is not always made up of words." It might have been that there was some obscurity in this last sentence, or the youth feared that there might be, for he attempted an explanation ; and it was a practical one. There was a pause — there often is, after such explana- tions — which the girl was the first to break. "I do not seek," she said, " to chain you down to the hall or the cloister; but something I would do to curb your errant propensities — to direct your aims, which are often noble, your efforts, which are always strenuous — into one on- ward course, that so, steadily pursuing the path of duty, you may in the end accomplish great things." "Great things! — accomplish great things! I was born to accomplish great things." He laughed, but there was this time little sincerity in his laughter. " Yes, I shall be very great some day ; and you shall be very proud. And little Gonzalo, too, who comes, if I mistake not, this way — else what is the tiny figure I see through the tall shrubs, which have now shut him quite out from us ? Ah — the fine little fellow ! A brother worthy of such a sis- ter ; and he, too, shall be very proud. Yes, my boy, when I am a great leader, you shall be one of my captains. I will not employ you then so unworthily as now : you shall not be a spy, but a cavalier. And what tidings have you brought ?" The child, a fine little boy of some six years, had by this time entered the summer-house. Running up to his sister, he said something, but what, it was hard to divine ; partly because he was scant of breath, and partly because his utterance was marred by a strong natural lisp. But of the nature of the child's story there was no doubt. It had ceased to be safe for the youth to remain longer in that THE CONQUISTADOR. 157 garden. The father of his beloved had returned from his accustomed afternoon ramble. It was time for the lovers to part. " Thanks, my brave little fellow ; I shall repay you some day ! " and, taking the child into his arms, Her- nando Cortes kissed the cheek of Gonzalo de San- doval. Another minute, and Hernando was on the garden wall. There was not in all Medellin one more active than he ; but ancient masonry will sometimes play scurvy tricks even to nimble youths, and the garden walls of Don Sandoval were well-nigh as old as his lineage. Alas, for the young lovers ! Hernando had scarcely reached the summit, ere the crumbling masonry gave way beneath his weight, and the youth fell heavily, with a mass of rubbish, on the other side. Then for awhile all was utter darkness. When the light dawned again upon him, he was lying in his father's house. * * * Gloomy was all around : the massive stone pil- lars of that inornate church, the lofty arched roof, with its rudely-sculptured cornices, the large heavy-moulded win- dows, the simple altars, bedecked with little of the wonted finery of the faith, the dark ungainly pulpit, the long aisles, dreary at noon-tide, in the full glare of the meri- dian sun, and how dreary now that the few tapers, which stood upon the altars erected to the Christian's God in the new colony of Fernandina,* shed all the little radiance which struggled through the thick gloom of a starless midnight ! Gloomy was all around — more gloomy the thoughts of the lonely man, who now paced, with folded arms, those solemn aisles ; now leaned, in deep meditation, against the * Cuba. 158 EVENINGS AT iniHiDN HALL. rude altar-rails. That church was to him a sanctuary; but at such an hour, in such a place, what wonder that even his Btrong spirit should have bowed beneath the leaden weight of despondency which sat upon his heart? — that even he should have obstinately questioned the value of safety, so highly priced? He was a young man of goodly aspect, of fair propor- tions. Nature had been bountiful to him ; and he was now in that early summer of life, when her gifts are ever in best condition, fresh, but with something in them, too, of the vigour of lusty manhood. He had numbered some twenty-seven years ; and they had not been uneventful ones. Fortune had played him some sorry tricks, but they were mostly of his own invitation. No one, then, thought that Hernando Cortes was his own best friend. Another man would, in his present condition, have appeared in most woeful plight. His hair was disordered, his cheeks unshaven, his clothes, in many places, rent and soiled. There was blood upon his wrists and ankles, and he walked not without pain. But still the man who had now a second time broken the bonds of his persecutors, and sought refuge in that holy edifice, was of gallant bearing and goodly aspect. Nature had been too prodigal in her gifts for aeeidc.it easily to mar and mutilate It was, indeed, an hour for profouudest meditation ; and even he, the man of action, whose thoughts were ever in advance of time, whose nature it was ever to look for- ward, even he, in those gloomy aisles, was sunk in medi- tations, of which the past engrossed the greatest share. Much pondered he upon his early years, his idle pranks at Salamanca, his wild adventures in his native town, his first love, his own Marina. There was sweetness there; but not without a sting of remorse. He had been happy — so THE CONQUISTADOR. 15U happy. Such happiness, in after life, is not to be renewed. But what had been the end of that long dream of bliss ? The old tale. And yet in heart he knew himself to be still true. Many acts of licentiousness had stained the page of his manhood ; passions, strong and heady, had moved him to much wrong-doing; injuries to others, to the dignity of his own nature. The irresistible will, the fearless heart, the strenuous impulse, breaking down all barriers of right, all restraints of decency; and yet, be- neath all this, there had been an under-current of purer feeling. Ever had he fondly loved the meek-eyed Marina and her lisping brother. Love ! What love ! To ruin, to blight, to fix a burning sorrow for ever in the heart of the loved one ! And then another image rose up before him ; another young and lovely girl. One whom, in his new island home, he had courted openly, in the sight of men ; one to whom he had plighted his troth ; and yet time had passed over the heads of the betrothed ones, and the compact was un- fulfilled. Here was another act of grievous wrong-doing. Catalina Xuarez, the much-doating, the beautiful, the true. In his prosperity he had slighted her, and now he knew the full worth of her woman's heart. A true woman — now that the toils of great peril were around him — now, she was to his aid — to rescue him ; and yet beautiful as she was in her fair face, and gentle nature, and heroic truthfulness, he had not a heart to give. But justice, ex- pediency; and then the grim face of his great enemy, Velasquez, rose up before him, and Cortes, with set teeth and clenched hands — hands still bleeding from the wounds he had received in his struggles with the cruel chains, which had fettered him on board the prison-ship — strode rapidly away from the altar. Velasquez, the Governor of 160 EVENINGS \T I1ADDON HALL. of Fernandina ! how Cortes longed to meet him face to face, and to close with him in one greal struggle, neither armed with power beyond that which Nature . o all her children — not as in unequal strife between governor and vassal, hut on the fair open field of manhood, Had not Velasquez wronged, insulted him? And what had he done, under such wrongs ? Nothing. He had hut con- versed with others, who had their grievances to Bet forth ; and had pledged himself to proceed to Hispaniola and appeal to higher authorities; and Velasquez called this conspiracy — the name that coward selfishness ever gives to the efforts of injured men to obtain for themselves justice, lie had been beaten down — worsted for a time ; but his hour would yet come. " Yes," he repeated, as the buoyancy of his nature reasserted itself, and the sunshine of his heart burst through the surrounding gloom — "yes, I am undermost now. I have trodden on slippery ground ; but courage, courage, Hernando Cortes, you have not fulfilled your destiny yet ! . . ." In such varied meditations as these, hour alter hour passed away, till the ■-■viy dawn of morning had succeeded to the solemn blackness of night. Still Cortes paced the dreary aisle, until arrested by the sound of his own name uttered in a low sweet voice, whil.-t at the same moment he felt a light hand upon his shoulder. " Hernando \" — he turned round and confronted a female figure, wrapped from head to foot in a large black mantle — " Cortes, I am here ! Catalina is at her post beside you. You are safe. ■ n to me, and your trials arc at an end. lie knows all — the guard is now upon the hill — Velasquez is stirring, but he shall not harm you — Isabella, my sweet sister, is now at his side — she will accomplish much ; but you must act your part boldly." THE CONQUISTADOR. 161 " Did I ever lose anything yet for lack of boldness ?" "Never; but this, remember — Velasquez will be cheated, so that he seems not to be cheated. He will not remove the guard, but he will be contented if you elude it. Now take this woman's mantle — I thank God that my stature is beyond that of common women. They saw me pass. They spoke to me. One man at least knew me ; he must have known that I was wending here to see you. If compelled to pass near them, with eyes on the ground and kerchief to your face, your silence will be interpreted as we would have it. Hie thee straight to Velazquez. He will not be wholly unprepared to see you. The rest I leave, Hernando, to your own strong soul." Disguised in the woman's mantle, Cortes was about to quit the sanctuary, when a sudden thought arrested his progress ; he turned round, took the hand of Catalina, and silently led her to the foot of the altar. Still holding her hand he knelt clown, and in tones of the deepest solemnity exclaimed — " Holy Virgin, who now lookest down upon me and this maiden, linked hand in hand before thee, hear me, as now at the altar-foot I pledge myself never to Jeserther — hear me, as I solemnly vow, ere another moon has waned, to make her my wedded wife; and may God smite me with all human afflictions if the vow be not ful- filled \" He rose, and turning towards Catalina, said, " Such as I am, sweet one, I am yours. If you can value a heart like mine, whose freshness is lost for ever, take it. I have hesitated, for sorry is the return you must take for the gift of your virgin affections; but it is far better, Catalina, that there should be no deceit ; that were a sorry stock indeed to begin house-keeping upon." The vow was kept. Within the promised time Cata- lina Xuarez became the wife of Hernando Cortes ; and M 162 EVENINGS AT IIADDoN HALL. G ivernor Velasquez honoured the bridal with hia courtly presence. * * * The last rays of the setting sun streamed through the windows of that long arched chamber, and, . a little while, the massive shadows which had covered that stirring scene, were broken by broad patches of light, falling upon the stone floor, and the solid walls, and re- vealing more than one strange group of revellers, who, seated at rude oaken tables, were making the vaulted roof ei ho witli their uproarious mirth. It was a scene not of easy interpretation. The roystcrers were men of all ; -<'s; judging by their countenances, of all characters; by their attire, of all classes. Some seemed to be mariners ; others, the casque and the cuirass bespoke of the military profession. A lew bore no exclusive stamp upon them, but in the faces of each, however varied, there was a look of eager determination, which seemed to denote a com- mon object, a common bond of unalterable purpose. At one end of the long vaulted gallery there was a flight of steps, leading to a narrow entrance-door, and near to tlii-, on a raised platform, beneath an arched win- dow, a party of men, chiefly of the military order, were thered together, with pikes and spears in their hands, whilst a cavalier, standing upon one of the lower steps, mustering them severally by name, and taking nott of their equipments. Nor wen- these the only occupants of the chamber. With the ragged figures and stern res of these adventurers, were mingled the graceful forms and the sweet faces of women On a carpet of many colours, spread out on the cold floor, near an old i binet of carved wood, which now seemed to be used as un armoury, sat a comely dame, nursing a young infant, THE CONQUISTADOit. 16b and near her two ladies — the one sitting; the other stand- ing by a window — looked forth into the outer world, apparently intent upon some distant object. Not far from these, in deep shadow, stood a youth, who might have numbered some nineteen summers, of handsome counte- nance, and strong active figure, dressed, though with some- thing less than the wonted ostentation, in a style becoming a cavalier of good descent, and beside him, in eager con- verse, was a lady, perhaps some ten years older, whose lineaments were like the youth's, as sister's to brother's, but whose meek eyes, and pale sad face, told a tale of patient sorrow, crowned with calmest resignation. At some distance from these, near the head of a long table, stood another cavalier, the most remarkable figure in all the many groups, conversing with a lady of exceeding beauty, whose sweet eyes wei*e full of tears, whilst the revellers beside them filled their glasses, shouted and filled again, in all the ecstasy of half-drunken merriment. From these turn we awhile towards the youth and his meek-eyed sister, who stood in the shadow of the wall. " Hear me, Gonzalo," said the latter; " and let my words be treasured up in thy heart. Never reproach him, my brother — never. / have not upbraided him ; neither then, nor since, nor now. I come not here to blame, but to bless. He is your friend, brother, — he is mine." " Yours, Marina ! he your friend ! Hernando Cortes your friend?" "Yes; out of all my sufferings, the pitying Virgin, not unmindful of my tears, not regardless of my prayers, has helped me to derive peace undying. He is not in effect our best friend, my brother, who makes us most happy upon earth. I am contented ; be thou the same, Cortes is thy friend. He has promised to advance thee H' I EVENINGS AT BADDOh HALL. upon earth. Be honourable, and he will honour thee. Thou wilt be great and glorious, for Hernando Cortes is thy friend." "He has promised!" returned the youth. "Alas! Marina, what did he promise thee ?" " He was young then — rash, idle, impetuous, and sorely tempted. He is now a man, in the lusty summer of life, with great ends to accomplish, with a great soul wherewith to accomplish them. What can he do without truth ? If not true to others, if not true to himself, what but failure can crown all his efforts ? Cortes is a great man. Confide in him, and you also will be great. Your eager longings will be satisfied, Gonzalo." " I fear, sweet sister, that the nobility of thy nature makes thee too hopeful of the truth and nobility of others. But I will believe him. Yes; I will believe him, though another now bows herself over the hand of her lord — that hand which should have been thine, .Marina." As he spoke, the figure of Hernando Cortes was ra- diant with the red sun-light, which fell upon his face, blazed upon his polished breastplate, and made a very "flaming sword" of the bright blade, which, with point upon the ground, he held in his left hand, whilst the lovely woman — Catalina, his wife — bowed herself over his right, and pressed it fondly to her lips. The face of Cortes was that of a man who struggles against strong emotion. His heart was touched; but he was a leader, in the presence of his followers, on the eve of a great enterprise Before them, compelled to dissemble, he retained an out- ward composure which had no counterpart within; and when the last farewell was uttered, the face of Cortes was rigid and pale as marble He saw her depart, through a door which opened into a small inner apartment, and as THE CONQUISTADOR. 165 the noisy party at the drinking-table toasted the lady of their chief, rilled a beaker to the brim, and hastily swallowed its contents. The departure of Catalina was the signal for the de- parture of the other women— -the wives and sisters of some of the principal officers of the expedition As one after another departed, Cortes looked anxiously around, as though eager to find himself alone with his comrades. Soon it was even as he wished — nay, not wholly — there was one woman's dress, which, in a mass of shadow, for a little time escaped his observation. When he saw that one still loitered, he turned towards a soldier beside him, put a brief question, and received an answer. He then cried aloud, " Gonzalo de Sandoval V The youth stepped forward and stood before Cortes. " Gonzalo," said the leader, in tones of the utmost suavity, "it grieves me to sever loving hearts, and, most of all, very young hearts; but the hour has come at which it behoves us all to think of sterner things, and I must bid you part from your beloved. Tell her that you will soon return, with hoards of gold and jewels from the New World, to claim her as your bride — bid her take one last look at the setting sun, and then, evening after evening, at this hour, to look towards the new home of her be- trothed " " General, she is my sister \" Cortes started ; " Your sister — Marina ?" " The same — she is here — she would speak with Hernando Cortes." " Bid her come to me — nay, that were rude, indeed — I am playing the Governor somewhat early — lead me to her." The deep emotion of his heart betrayed itself beneath this assumed levity. 10(5 EVENINGS AT UADIxtX BALL. They had not met for years, and now that once again they stood face to face, how changed they were I It were hard to say which felt the most; but over his feel- ings the strong man had less mastery than the gentle woman, and she was the first to speak out, in clear, wi- ring accents. There was something of solemnity in the tones of her voice, as she said — " Cortes, I have come hither not to speak of the past— the future lies before thee, a broad and shining tract, over which I would not cast a shadow. Upon this great adventure thou goest forth, with my blessing on thy head. It is of little worth, Hernando, but there may, in that far country, come an hour — haply long after the moss has grown over the cross which marks my grave — when it will be a solace to thee to know that I have blessed thee with my whole heart, and prayed the Virgin to smile upon thee ever. My brother goes with thee, Cortes — I ask thee not to befriend In 11 1, for thou hast already promised to be a father to the boy, and thou wilt find him worthy of thy tutelage; but if I might ask a boon of thee " " Ask something — anything," interrupted Cortes, his voice betraying deepest emotion — " the greater it be, the more ready I to grant it. lleavcu knows I would do much for thee, Marina." " It is but a little thing," she said. "Among strange jieoplc — among men of different colour and different faith — speaking another tongue, and bowing down to gods — oh ! lurw different from ours — lies thy shining career. In our dealings with such men, it is too common to forget that they are fashioned of kindred clay— that they are men ami our brethren still. I Bpeak not, Cortes, of such natures as thine, but there are among the adventurers, who form thy little band of conquerors, some rude and THE CONQUISTADOR. 1G7 stormy spirits — slow to reflect, quick to act — to whom cruelty is a pastime. Men return blow for blow — cruelty will be met with cruelty — but there are those who cannot retaliate — the innocent and the helpless, who can only suffer — the women, Cortes, however little they resemble the daughters of Old Spain, remember that they are my sisters, the sisters of all the happy dames and merry maidens, who hear with pride, in thy native Medellin, of the exploits of her noblest son ; and when it is in thy power, Cortes, to stretch forth the sheltering arm, and to employ the healing hand, when suffering woman looks up for aid to the leader of the white man, as to a God, re- member then the last words of Marina de Sandoval, and know that she smiles upon thee, in the flesh or in the spirit, and that the mild eyes of the benignant Virgin look down upon thee in sweetest approval. Wilt thou promise V " As I hope for mercy ! God smite me, if I fail V " Enough. And now God take thee, Cortes, into his safe keeping. Farewell ! Gonzalo, I am ready/' " Yet, stay ; Marina, one word more. Have you quite forgiven " It was too late ; she had drawn her mantle around her, let down her long black veil, and, attended by her brother, passed clown the gallery without once looking back. "Alone!" muttered Cortes; "quite — quite alone! Now, then, for graver matters." And Cortes stood among his men — once more the great leader, inspiring, animating all. The sun had set; the revel was at an end. Even the most noisy of the roysterers now stood before their commander, cool and collected. The oath and the iest were silenced; all remembered the great work that 108 EVENINGS AT ll.VIIDON HALL. they were about to do — all remembered that, ere to-mor- row's sun had risen, the little fleet, which might now be seen from the windows of that old edifice at anchor in the bay, would be steering, with its rich freight of gallant spirits, away from St. Jago, on its voyage to the New World. And as Cortes now addressed his followers, now conversed with his officers, now consulted his charts, which had taken the place of the bowl and the flask on the old oaken tables, a smile of triumph lit up his face ; and ever and anon he muttered, with compressed teeth, "Not this time under the heel of Velasquez — not this time in the dust." On a wretched pallet, in a small, comfortless apartment, wanting light, wanting cleanliness, wanting every cheerful accessory, a man lay dying, at an inn in the little sea-port town of Palos. The ravages of sickness had not paled his sun-burnt cheek, nor thinned his clustering chestnut hair; but death was written on his face most Legibly — the face of one in the full summer of life, smitten with hopeless disease — struck down in the very flush of triumph, the joyous pride of a great object achieved, the heart-stirring anticipations of one who, after years of toil and much peril in a far-off land, has returned, laden with honour and wealth, to enjoy, in his old home, among his own people, the harvest he has reaped so painfully abroad. Alas ! and is this the end of Gonzalo de Sandoval ? To die thus; and yet not ignobly, not alone— nor unwept, nor unhonoured. Many a group of brave soldiers, clustered around the door-way of that little inn, or sat in the common drinking-room, with blank faces, uttering but few words, and those in lowest whispers ; or, haply, THE CONQUISTADOR. 169 after awhile, moving from their places with silent tiptoe tread, and ever checking, with raised hand and expressive face, the song or the shout of the careless stranger. But twofold the honour done to the death-bed of Gon- zalo de Sandoval. It is a great thing to be loved by one's followers. It is a great thing, too, to be loved by one's leader. And thus was he doubly honoured ; for Hernando Cortes sat by his bed-side. From the convent of La Rabida, whither he had be- taken himself on touching once again the shores of the Old World, to rest his weary body and to refresh his over- tasked mind, roused by the sad tidings of the fate of his much-loved captain, Cortes had hurried to the inn at Palos ; and there, almost with a woman's tenderness, a woman's zeal, he had watched and served in that dreary chamber. ... A great thing, indeed, to have one's pillow smoothed by such a man ; a great thing, indeed, to have the con- queror of a world acting the nurse by one's bed-side. Great the consolation ; but the slayer of thousands could not save one life. " Man sends forth the arrow of death : God alone can arrest its flight. How impotent we are !" . . . And Cortes, beside the couch of his dying friend, bowed himself in deep humility of soul. . . . The sick man had slept, or it was like to sleeping, for his eyes were closed, and save ever and anon a slight move- ment of the one thin hand which Cortes held gently in his own, and a sweet smile which played about his mouth, he lay there in marble repose. His dreams, his thoughts, if haply he were not sleeping, were very pleasant, very peace- ful. The wild war-cry rang not in the ears, a sea of blood swam not before the eyes, of the dying captain. All of this was passed over, and other scenes floated tranquilly before him. " Happy, happy," muttered Cortes ; " the 170 EVENINGS \T IIADDON Iiaia,. spirit of that sweet saint, his sister, is whispering glad tidings in his ears." It might have been so; but now the angel visitant was gone. Gonzalo opened his dim eyes, turned them upon his friend, and said, in accents low but very clear — "Waking or sleeping, I have had sweet thoughts, blessed remembrances, my general. I have been again in that old chapel, again among the tall flowers, o'cr-topping me, in my father's garden — The good old man! . . . And my best of mothers ! . . . My sweet sister. . . . All gone — all gone before ! . . . I have been once again among them. And you, too, I have seen — the old Hernando Cortes, the gay youth, who climbed that tottering garden wall, and fell on the other side." . . . " Gonzalo ! that fall was the fall of Mexico. Then, on the sick bed, my mind shadowed forth the stirring scene? of my manhood. Then I conceived the great things which have brought me fame, wealth, everything but happiness." " You may be happy ; you must be happy ; at home again ; among your own people." . . . " Oh, Gonzalo, what is Spain to me ? Marina among the angels, Catalina buried in the New World, and you, my friend, my faithful companion, my brave captain — you, ///us; you tints, Gonzalo !" "A mother lives to sit under the shadow of thy great tree of honour, Cortes. The Virgin lias not suffered every well-spring to be dried up in the soil of home. Think, General, of the thousands who will go forth to meet you. . . Your old friends, your fellow-citizens. . . . How proud old Medellin is, with her namesake in the New World. Our birth-place, Medellin our mother — Medellin, your child, Cortes " THE CONQUISTADOR. 171 "Say ours — what would Hernando Cortes have been without Gonzalo de Sandoval ? My best of friends, bitter at such an hour is the thought that I have never done you full justice. . . . Hasty, impetuous, more ready to strike than to hear, I have wronged — once deeply wronged you. . . . Hast quite forgiven that hasty judgment V " General, for that I am more your debtor, than for all other bounties. Men err— the great and the small alike — and appearances were strong against me; but only the very great can confess an error to those who lie far below them. How doubly glorious the broad sun-light, bursting from beneath the shadow of the cloud ! Never did I love Hernando Cortes, for never did I know him so well, as after that brief season of gloom, when I sat beneath the cloud of his displeasure. ... Oh ! if Marina had but lived to know how nobly you kept your promise . . . aid- ing, supporting me— making me all that I have been of great and prosperous, my friend." " And that other promise. ... I did my best— God knows I did my best," repeated the Conqueror — " At Cho- lula, at Mexico, Heaven knows I did not forget my promise ! ... I did not forget the sweet saint who implored me ever to be merciful to woman — that last night, how vividly even now the scene stands out before me " "And me — ah ! yes . . . I well remember ; and how, as red morning dawned, the wondering people poured down to the quay, thinking it not less than a miracle that our little fleet was standing out to sea. And Velasquez ! —how I laughed to think how we had cozened him ! The churl ! — how blank he looked, as we communed with him from our little boat ! Ah, Cortes ! how the hand of God directs us ! What now would have been the aspect of the New World, if Velasquez had triumphed over you?" 172 KAENlNOfi AT BADDON II.YLL. "What, indeed! . . . But it was not permitted to him. I had not fulfilled my destiny then. . . . How vividly do I remember all — how deeply do I ever bear it stamped upon my heart, Gonzalo. In memory of that scene, of that promise, I named the first woman over whom 1 held the shield of my protection — the first whom I saved from insult — after her, who appealed to me thus nobly in favour of her sex — a woman, too, not all un- worthy of the name she bore — one, who taught us all that the beauty and the truth of womanhood will flower almost as bounteously under the shadow of idols as in the sunlight of the countenance of the Christian's God. And Catalina, too, she was there. Poor Catalina ! . . . to think that the true and loving wife should have braved sn much, only to find her own grave ; and that out of this hallowed grave should have sprung the blackest calumny which ever overshadowed my name ! Gonzalo, Gonzalo — when I think how much you did, at that sad time, to crush the slander under your indignant heel, I cannot thank you — I cannot love you too much." . . . "And yet I did not crush it — the rank weed does flourish still, in all its gross luxuriance. Curses on them . . . the curses of a dying man !" And clenching his fist, with all his remaining vigour, he threw out one of his emaciated arms and smote the air, as though he beheld before him one of the black-hearted slanderers of his chief. The effort was too much for him ; the strong feeling did violence to the weakness of physical nature ; and he sank back, utterly exhausted. His hour was very nigb, .... but not thus did he perish. Gonzalo de Sandoval died not with curses oh his lips Tranquilly his spirit departed — forgiving all men, blessing all men, he turned his face towards the wall THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 173 and died. His last words were words of peace ; and Her- nando Cortes closed the eyes of bis beloved captain. . . . Honoured in life, in deatb was be honoured. . . . His own followers — the best and bravest — carried the bier to the grave, and as the last rites were performed with all solemnity by the Friars of La Rabida, the eyes of the Conqueror were not the only ones which glistened with unwonted tears. On the conclusion of the foregoing tale, a young and enthusiastic poet, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, took up two drawings which lay before him, and which he seemed to have culled from all those which remained unillustrated, and holding them up to the Lady Eva, he said, " If you will let me have my choice of de- signs, I will, if this good company do not think me pre- sumptuous, volunteer a share in the Birthday Revels. These two subjects are at once so charming and yet so totally dissimilar — the one the ideal of Romance, the other the perfection of Reality — that their suggestive qualities will, I feel, make up for any deficiencies in the imagina- tion or fancy of the illustrator. But if I am permitted to undertake this pleasant office, you must allow me also, in virtue of the contrasting qualities of these two lovely designs, to unite both verse and prose in their illustration." The offer of the young poet was gladly accepted by all the company, and he proceeded to relate THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. Delmar Castle was the scene of unwonted festivities. Banquets, balls, concerts, fetes, of every kind, followed each other in uninterrupted succession. Every chamber in the 171- EVENINGS AT BADDON II ALL. spacious old mansion — once a stronghold of knightly power, now a modernized commodious residence — had its occupant. Crowds of visitors from neighbouring -rats, and even from the distant metropolis, came and went. flitted to and fro, remained or departed, according to their whims, their engagements, or the proximity of their homes. The tenants on the estate and the dependants of the family were partakers, in their respective spheres, of the general joy. Happiness seemed for the time to reign absolute over this favoured spot of earth. To celebrate the completion of the eighteenth year of his only daughter, these rejoic- ings were given by Sir Michael Lindsay. Beatrice was in every sense worthy of the honours paid to her. Exquisitely fair, moulded with faultless symmetry, her features delicately chiselled, and marvellously express- ive of every emotion of the soul, her eyes pure and intel- lectual, her brow ample and serene, her movements full of dignity and grace — imagination could not conceive a love- lier being. But if nature, had exhausted her art in per- fecting the outward form of this noble creature, Heaven had exceeded its limit in breathing into it a spirit of unusual fineness. Under a father's tender, judicious care, her intelligence had expanded, her mind had received the highest cultivation; and every soft and womanly feeling had been preserved untouched by the least affectation, pedantry, or conceit. A son, twelve years of age, was the only other child left to Sir Michael by a wife whom he had adored. In the lively, playful boy were centred his proud hopes of transmitting the ancient baronetcy in a direct line to posterity; in his accomplished daughter reposed all the love that outlived in his breasl his sainted lady, blended with affections of younger growth and of more flattering promise. THE SECRET OP THE FOUNTAIN. 175 More than one heart fluttered during the progress of these natal festivities, at the contemplation of the beauty and gracefulness of her who was at once the divinity to whom homage was offered, and the chief dispenser and promoter of the pleasurable rites. Many anxious mothers built lofty visionary castles of future greatness for their aspiring sons, upon the illimitable expectations of fortune assigned to the young lady by their fond fancies. Mean- while, she herself knew not of these amorous palpitations, thought not of these maternal aspirations ; innocent, art- less, happy, she presided over her father's hospitalities with infinite cheerfulness, smiling alike on all. Yet there was one man in that throng whose approach excited in her bosom strange, undefinable sensations, whose presence op- pressed her with mingled feelings of admiration, awe, and other less understood emotions. Beauchamp Marmion was one upon whom the fatal gift of genius had been bestowed, and with it all the warmth of temperament, the susceptibility, the fitful ness of exaltation and depression, which are its unfailing concomitants. Being distantly related to Sir Michael, he had spent many joyous days of his boyhood at Delmar, and had conceived a precocious passion for the "rose-bud of beauty/' as he then called Miss Lindsay, and had given expression to his admiration in many of those ardent effusions which are the safety- valves through which escape the intense throbbings of the poet's heart. Beatrice had accepted his strains as so many pretty compliments to herself, more fictitious than real, without comprehending the full meaning of the glowing thoughts, and without perceiving the germs of undying love that warmed themselves into life in these inspired lays. Four years had passed since they had rambled together 176 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. over garden and field, since he had addressed to hei his last tuneful sonnet; the sylph-like girl of fourteen had expanded into a blooming woman — the clever minstrel had become an illustrious" poet. His name had come to her borne on the wings of fame ; she had read his pub- lished works, and thought she could discover in them the traces of his early feelings ; she cherished the memory of their former friendship; she dreaded the renewal of their second intimacy. The meeting of Beauchamp Marmion and Beatrice pre- sented nothing to a casual observer to distinguish it from that of any two persons of different sexes, on a similar occasion, between whom friendship and relationship ex- isted. But an eye practised in the study of female diag- nostics, might have discovered that the lady trembled almost imperceptibly, that she lost a shade of her habitual self-possession, that an air of colder courtesy chilled her Balutation, and that she uttered a welcome of more formal construction than accorded with her usual free and unre- strained nature. A keen watcher might also have noticed that, as the greeting passed, a cloud stole over the gentle- man's clear brow, that his colour sunk to a paler tone, that his lip quivered, that his voice lost its manly firmness. " 'Tis as I feared — she loves me not!" he mentally exclaimed, when his reception was over — "she who has been mv genius, my inspiration, my soul — she whose face and form wreathed themselves into every idea of beauty that I ever expressed — she whose mind has been the hea- ven whence I drew all that is immortal in my thoughts and works — she whom I dreamt of, lived for, worshipped — she loves me not! The puling, sentimental, frantic rhymer is contemned, as he should be. One of a fated tribe, whal else had I to expect, save misery?" THE SECRET OF THJS FOUNTAIN. '. 77 How strange, that that man who could, when calm and uninterested, sound the lowest depths of the human breast, unravel each intricate mystery therein concealed, and accurately translate every language of the eyes, voice, and countenance, should, when his own feelings and pas- sions were enlisted, be more than blind, be worse than dull, be ridiculously erroneous in all his conclusions ! " Ha ! "'tis clear as day ! Fool that I am not to have guessed it before: she loves another — Lord Brookland. A good match — an excellent match. Rich, unthinking, riotous, the beau ideal of a lady's wish. What cai'e could she have for a grub, a book-wonn, a sonnet-maker, such as I?" Thus, giving wild scope to an imagination fertile in creating unhappiness for its possessor, and, in a fit of complete despondency, delivering himself up to what he poetically called " his destiny/' Beauchamp Marmion kept as much aloof as possible from the festivities, avoided encountering Beatrice, and held communion only with his melancholy, bitter thoughts. Meanwhile, Beatrice, unconscious of having given her former playmate the least cause of offence, and completely ignorant of the real nature of the admiration she felt for him and his writings, simply wondered at his conduct, secretly ascribed his abstracted mood and dejected man- ners to the influence of genius, and silently wished her birthday festivities at an end, that she might walk and talk with him, as of yore, and, peradventure, receive from him some new and graceful tribute to her charms. Amongst the visitors at De^ ar Castle was Lord Brookland — a good-humoured, ^/easant, fox-hunting, young country gentleman ; the owner of no great quan- tity of brains, though the inheritor of large neighbouring N I , 8 EVENINGS A I II kOUON HALL. estates; a man who could boast of an excellent heart, though not of a tender one — of a generous mind, though not of a refined understanding. Between Sir Michael Lindsay and the late lord a strong friendship had existed, and they had often indulged, over their claret, in can- vassing the probability of a future union between the heir- apparent of the one and the only daughter of the other. No pledge had ever been made on the subject, for both fathers were too wise to think of promoting a marriage that might be opposed to the wishes of the persons most concerned; but the advantage of such an alliance for Beatrice naturally recurred to Sir Michael's mind often since the death of his old friend. lie was resolved never to constrain his daughter's affections, but he nevertheless deemed the match, if it could be effected, one most de- sirable in many respects. Lord Brookland so far ac- quiesced in the desires of his deceased parent and in the wishes of Sir Michael, as to regard Miss Lindsay as the most beautiful of created beings, next after his favourite hunter. He believed, that being doomed, like his fore- fathers, to the pains of matrimony, he would not easily find a wife who could sing a sweeter song, preside with more affability over his convivial leasts, or attract more admiration at a country ball, a meet, or a race-course. He had even gone farther, and had confessed his partiality fbl the young lady to Sir Michael, who referred him to her, declaring that he could not interfere, directly or indi- rectly, until Beatrice's inclinations were first frankly as- certained by him who aspired to her hand. The gaieties at Delmar Castle were drawing to a close : the ball which was to terminate them was at its height; the spirits of the company were exuberant. One person only in that gay throng wore an abstracted brow, seemed THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 179 uninspired with the general mirth, glided from place to place without evincing any emotion of pleasure — scarcely of life. Like a mummy at an Egyptian feast, Bcauchamp Marmion appeared, regarding the hilarious crowd with solemn gloom — among them, but not of them; dead to the present, brooding over the past — a mockery of human excitements. Wherever Beatrice mingled in the mazy dance, or reclined for a moment after her fatigue, thither would his eyes mechanically turn ; but they, in truth, saw not the graceful object which they followed — they were engaged looking into his own breast, where everything was dark, despairing, and teeming with dismal shadows. The attentions paid by Lord Brookland to Beatrice throughout this evening were remarkable. He had en- gaged her for almost every dance, and displayed such pro- gress in the art of agreeable courtship as surprised all who were cognisant of his usually blunt, unceremonious manners. Indeed, he had convoked all his powers of pleasing for one grand occasion, on which he had made up his mind to settle his love affairs for life. At the conclusion of a mazourka, Lord Brookland led his partner to a retired seat. Having procured her some slight refreshment, and finding his courage elevated to the necessary pitch, he invited her to enter a convenient con- servatory, to hear something "very particular" which he had to communicate. Beatrice, wholly unsuspecting the motive of his request, and femininely disposed to listen to anything "very particular" from a friend, assented with- out an instant's hesitation. They passed into the aro- matic retreat. " Miss Lindsay," began his lordship, as soon as the* ^ r ere seated—" I have your father's permission to pro- pose — that is, to offer, I mean — pshaw ! In one word, l \ i KINGS AT BADDOM HALL. Miss Lindsay, I tliink yon a beautiful girl — a pood girl. ! have a mind to take a \\ ife —will yon marry me ? Tl now — I have said as much as if I had made a speech of an hour's length." While he rapidly uttered these words, he seized the hand of the astonished Beatrice, and pressed it vehemently to his lips. At that moment the figure of Beauchamp Marmion darkened the entrance of the conservatory. His eyes fell upon the agitated girl, and lingered a few seconds, with an expression more of sorrow than of anger. A half- suppressed sigh escaped his lips : the figure then disap- peared, unnoticed by Lord Brookland or Beatrice. A very short time sufficed Miss Lindsay to collect her alarmed thoughts. With dignified firmness, prompted by that modesty and nobility which in her were innate, she declined the honour proposed to her, and in such terms as set the question at rest for ever. Lord Brookland and sin- left the conservatory as good friends as before, though the pretensions of the gentleman to her hand were unequivo- cally withdrawn. Delmar Castle had returned to its wonted peacefulncss ; the bustle attending the arriving and departing of visitors had subsided; the commotion left by yesterday's past fete, or originating in to-day's coming festivities, was no longer discernible. Beauchamp Marmion and a young lady, a cousin to Beatrice, were the only guests who re- mained. How doubly delightful does a country scat ap- pear after the departure of a motley crowd ! How enfranchised — how relieved from hostile invasion — how restored to natural repose! The discordant hum of men eded by the melodious song of birds ; the tramp- ling of feet i* exchanged for the sweet murmuring of :- - THE SECRFT OF THE FOUNTAIN. 181 trees ; the noise and rattle of society, with its conversa- tion, suggestive of no valuable thought, is replaced by charming solitude, which speaks wisdom and true philo- sophy incessantly to ear and heart ; the voices of passion, of erivy, of malice, of paltry ambition, are hushed, and in their stead, love — fresh, genial, all-pervading love — breathes from field, and plant, and flower, and bird, and beast. Beauchamp Marmion had consented, after much per- suasion from Sir Michael, to prolong his stay for a little His pride and his reason counselled him to go, but his destiny and his heart urged him to remain. He con- temned himself forhis weakness, in hovering around the light which had vitally seared him, yet he could not summon resolution enough to plunge from it into unfathomable darkness. Retracing those steps, which in happier days he had taken with her through dell and glade, he fed his melancholy to repletion ; and then, in the secrecy of his chamber, relieved his breast by venting his tribulations in wild and agonised verses. Delmar Castle, like many old seats which have under- gone successive modernisations, presented, both in itself and the buildings attached to it, a medley of all the styles of architecture now extant. Egyptian, Greek, Hindoo, Italian, Gothic, Moorish — there were specimens of all — and some so mixed and confounded, that they literally can be described only as the composite. One of the curiosities of the castle was a reservoir of water, which went by the name of " The Magic Fountain." The copious stream of a rivulet had been conducted with much art and taste under a high and magnificent arch, and thence caused to form a beautiful cascade, by falling 182 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. into a tank of large dimensions. The mysterious way in which the architect had contrived to let the superfluous waters escape, so that the basin, though ever receiving, never overflowed, gave rise to its name. The Magic Fountain was a favourite retreat of Beatrice, as well for its cool shade and convenient bowers as for the ideas of romance which somehow were associated with its locality. Thither she and her cousin, Caroline, repaired to sing, and chat, and read away a lovely evening. Seat- ing themselves on a flight of marble steps that led from a terrace down to the aqueduct, they indulged for some time in sweet retrospects and bright anticipations becom- ing their youth, their beauty, and their innocence. Their confidences were exchanged, charily at first, and after- wards k>> reservedly. Yet still each had a little secret lurking in a corner not yet unfolded — a secret that she could not unbosom — a seeret that perhaps should die with her unrevealed. Tearful lest her tongue might utter that which should be left unsaid, Beatrice seized her man- doline, of which instrument she was a proficient, and ran her taper fingers along the chords. The strains extracted were for awhile fantastical, but soon they settled into a pretty simple melody, to which her voice kept concord. With particular sweetness and expression she sang and played the following Strenattc. " Wake, maiden, wake ! Rise, beauty's sun, And at thy lattice high appear ! The sky a sable pall hath on, In mourning for thy absence here. Arise ; and with thy peerless sight, Dispel the gloom of sorrowing night ! THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 183 44 The winds that but a little past Breathed tones of love when thou didst hear, Now howl in grief — each deep-drawn blast Bewailing thy sad absence here. Up — up, then ! one kind look or tone Will change to love their savage moan. " Appear — appear, blest sun ! and light All heaven and earth with joy again, Lest nature, grieved, should turn to blight, And chaos recommence again. Appear, my love — appear ! and fill With bliss thine ardent minstrel still. " Arise ! and with thy peerless light Dispel the gloom of sorrowing night ! " Beatrice's cheeks were suffused with blushes, her eyes sparkled with animation, her whole being glowed with en- thusiasm. Caroline, though no alchemist, could not avoid discovering that there was something in this song more than the words imported, something that touched the tenderest chords of her young cousin's heart. With femi- nine tact, she refrained from noticing Beatrice's emotion, and merely exclaimed, — " What a charming air ! I don't think I ever heard it before." " I should think not ; it is by an unknown composer," replied Beatrice, with a faint smile — "that is, the music, I mean," she added, correcting herself. "But the words — are they too, by the Unknown?" demanded Caroline, curiosity having urged her to put the question in a direct shape. "Unknown ! — no!" answered Miss Lindsay, kindling into emphasis. " But come, I have a book of beautiful poetry with me ; bt us sit by the fountain and read." As she spoke, she laid down her guitar, and leading 184 EVENINGS AT B ADDON IIAf.L. line by the hand to the marble bench beside the fountain, the two cousins Beated themselves, and began to peruse a dainty volume, which Beatrice took iVom her reticule. Page after page was recited, the last being • pronounced yet more exquisite than its predecessors. The poems were short, and written at various times, under divers shades of feeling, and on many different topics. One deep vein, however, ran throughout them — the vein of early, pure, requited love. Beatrice was the reader. She had evidently learnt the pieces by heart ; and she threw so much natural eloquence and passion into them, that they came to the car of Caro- line like strains of inspiration — like music really divine. " Ah ! you have not heard my favourite yet," broke in Beatrice, exultingly, as she interrupted her cousin's ex- clamations of delight. "Listen to this \" she cried, spring- ing to her feet, and preparing to give the verse the benefit of her impassioned elocution. Then, standing before her < i itrauced cousin, she read, or rather recited, Z\)t ^poet's T3ritic. " The Poet's Bride — oh, happy girl ! well mayest thou look so proud, And walk with BUch majestic step among the envying crowd ; The empress seated on her throne — the goddess in her shrine — Commands not half the worship and the glory that is thine. What kingly bridegroom ever clothed his regal one in rare And gorgeous robes of beauty, such as those which thou dost wear ? What amorous god did e'er bedeck his heavenly qui en above With gems immortal such as those the Poet gives his love ? Oh no ! the robes the Poet weaves are wrought of threads of light, Are dyed in fancy's rosiest shade of colour— soft and bright ; The gems he gives are brilliant stars, whose lustre ne'er will dim- Alike beyond the hand of theft, or fashion's varying whim. THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 185 lhe flowers he weaves around thy brow are of unfading bloom , From time they gain a lovelier blush, a costlier perfume. The golden braid and silk he gives, to mingle with thy hair, Are bright beams conquer' d from the sun, and chain' d for ever there. From heaven he wins its softest, purest, and brightest blue ; To give it to thy witcbing eyes, to tinge their modest hue ; The quickest lightnings are impress'd, in fiercest hour and mid, Are tamed, and gently taught to play among thy glances mild. At morn the virgin snow he takes from mounts of fearful height, To give unto thy neck and breast an all-surpassing white ; While sweet Aurora of her blush is half despoil 'd, thy brow And cheek of beauty to enrich with ever-chast'ning glow. The voice of rills, the bee's sweet hum, the music of the spheres, Are brought to murmur on thy tongue, which ravisheth all ears ; And gentlest zephyrs, as they play th' JEolian harp along, Are ta'en, and hush'd to sleep, to wake in thy harmonious song. Then walk in conscious dignity — oh happy, happy Bride ! Thou art the Poet's only love, his glory and his pride ! Nor empress on her purple throne, nor goddess in her shrine, Can boast one half the dazzling fame and glory that is thine." By the time Beatrice had concluded the poem, she was nearly overcome by her emotions. Caroline likewise was much moved. The moment for entire and perfect con- fidence between the two girls had arrived. " Oh, Beatrice ! you love this poet V } was the first startling question that rose to Caroline's lips. " I do," was the simple reply. " And he is " " Beauchamp Marmion." " He ? — and the writer of the Serenade V " The same. He wrote it for me, four years ago this very night. I have set it to a little tune of my own com- position." " And you would be a poet's bride V 186 EVENINGS AT MADDUX HALL. " Rather that than queen of the universe. " A loud merry laugh pealed in the cars of the affrighted ladies, and brought the interesting conversation to an abrupt termination. Appalled, they turned, and perceived the delighted face of the young heir of Delmar, who had approached them unnoticed, and who, from behind an adjacent tree, had distinctly heard the whole secret of his sister's heart. Ere they could devise any expedient to stop his tongue, the boy had scampered off, shouting and dancing at the trick he had played, and determined to let all the world know that Sister Beatrice was to be a poet's bride. Marston Lindsay was an intelligent, high-spirited boy, a favourite with every one, somewhat of a pet, and exces- sively fond of " harmless mischief. " He loved his sister better than all the world beside, and would have suffered martyrdom rather than seriously injure her by word or deed. But to banter her, or make her blush, was his greatest pleasure. Now, he believed himself richer than Croesus, for he was in possession of a treasure : how to get rid of it, was what puzzled him ; how to exchange it for the greatest quantity of fun, engrossed his imagina- tion. Poor child ! he little knew what it is to sport with a young maiden's first declaration of love ; he little understood the meaning of the confession he had over- heard; his was the gamesomeness and innocence of twelve years. "With perversity of judgment, to which ardent, proud, over-susceptible minds are unfortunately prone on matters touching their own affections, Beauchamp Marmion had, during his visit to Delmar Castle, misconstrued every word, look, and tone of Beatrice. He had worked him- self into the conviction that she had forgotten their early THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 187 loves, and cared not for him beyond a mere acquaintance ; he believed that he had irrefragable proof of her engage- ment to another ; he regarded their eternal separation as sealed ; he vowed that, though his heart should break, he would never let her hear a sentence of reproach from his lips. But the torture of daily beholding the idol he wor- shipped, and yet of maintaining a rigid silence in his adoration, was beyond his strength ; the task became in- supportable ; he resolved to leave Delmar without delay. Returning from a long sombre walk, and deep in medita- tion on his blighted hopes and miserable fate, he was sud- denly arrested by Marston, who, glowing with excitement, and almost out of breath with running, whispered joyously in his ear, — " Oh, I have such a secret to tell you about Beatrice ! We will have such quizzing of her [" Beauchamp trembled violently, and grew ghastly pale ; he attempted, but could not utter a syllable. The boy continued — " She's going to be a bride — a poet's bride — ha, ha, ha ! I heard her say it myself, just now, to Cousin Caro- line. Do come and let us tease her about it [" Beauchamp leant against a tree for support. He felt stupified, under the influence of a dream. He was recalled to his senses by the boy, who said — " Are you a poet V The question passed through every fibre of Beauchamp's frame like an electric shock. His suspicions and his despair yielded to the potency of that simple question. cf Why do you ask, Marston V he, after a pause, arti- culated. " Why, because, if you are, and that you have written the book of poetry, you are the very person I heard her 188 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. .say die Loved. Now I think of it, your name was men- tioned. But, come — do Let us go back to the Magic Fountain, and torment Beatrice! She will blush bo! We will have rare sport V The boy rattled on. Beauchamp learnt what gratified his wildest wish, what almost surpassed his credence. Having enjoined the most inviolable secrecy to Marston, they returned towards the Castle. The dark cloud had entirely cleared away from the brow of the poet. That night the courteous moon and accommodating stars were witnesses to lengthy explanations, to repeated vows of mutual passion, to eloquent protestations of eternal love, and to the formal registration in Hymen's book of two beings who were resolved to be made one with the shortest possible delay consistent with duty and propriety. Beauchamp Marmion prolonged his visit at Delmar for ral weeks; the reserved misanthrope became the soul of domestic joyousness; the sarcastic raller at all woman- kind was changed into the devout believer in the perfecti- bility of one; the desponding lover was turned into a thrice happy betrothed. A poem which he had written under the paroxysms of his late insanity, and into which he had thrown the concentrated gall of his diseased mind — painting woman as a fiend, and representing himself as the lacerated victim of her black arts — caused him to laugh immoderately when he thought of it. The irony, the reproach, the invective, the denunciations, launched by him upon the whole sex, now appeared so exaggerated, so grossly unmeasured, that he resolved to commit the mad effusion to the flames. Before doing so, however, he be- thought him of showing the manuscript to Beatrice, to prove to her from what a state of frenzy she had rescued him. THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 189 Beatrice read the composition, shuddered, wept, thrilled with admiration — "Burn that!" she exclaimed — "that ! Why it's a master-piece — there '& genius in every line — lightning in every thought ; there never was — there never will be — so intense, so magnificent a poem ! If you love me, you must publish it, without a word of alteration." With the unhesitating compliance of an affianced one, Beauchamp packed off the poem to his publisher. The critics ratified the opinion given by Beatrice : the author was pronounced to be the greatest of living geniuses, and the most injured of men ; and while the world was bewail- ing him as one reduced to a shattered wreck by a heartless female fiend, he was enjoying the best of good cheer, and anticipating the delights of paradise with her who was the faithful angel of his love and life. Twelve months rolled on from the day when Marston overheard the confession at the Magic Fountain. Within a tastefully appointed dressing-room a lady sat, motionless, entranced, rapt in beatific visions. She was ap- parelled in rich but simple robes, and her unadorned beauty shone resplendent in its own lustre. Her eyes were kindled with happiness, her cheek was glowing with content, her form was dilated with pride. Her tiny feet resting on an embroidered cushion, and her marvellously small hands reposing in her lap, she ap- peared an exquisite model for a sculptor. But on what were her eyes fixed ? where was her wandering mind ? They were gazing into the profundity of the future. They were contemplating splendid triumphs, unheard-of glories, crowns of immortal laurels, pageants, trophies, honours greater than ever before were dreamt of — brighter than ever could be realized. Let us not interrupt her delicious 190 EVENING8 AT HADOON IIU.L. trance — let us not break the spell of enchantment which envelopes her — let us not dissipate; the illusion in which she revels: the realms of imagination arc her own, for she is young, lovely, enthusiastic ; she has reached the pinnacle of her ambition — she is the wife of Bcanehamp Marmion — she is the Poet's Bride ! The best of all good things is a good example, for it is the maker and multiplier of good. That which was set by the volunteer relater of the foregoing tale was followed, on its conclusion, by a lady whose distinguished literary posi- tion, as the Royal Historian par excellence, might well have entitled her to set an example on the present occasion, rather than to follow one. "I am not an adept at impro- visation," said she, " but there is a subject, of which this beautiful drawing reminds me, that might inspire the darkest imagination, and awaken the drowsiest fancy. But vou must allow me to treat of it in ' numerous verse,' for plain prose cannot reach 'the height of my great argument.' " So saying, the accomplished Historian of the Queens of England proceeded to sing — QUEEN MARY'S WELCOME. O'er Leven's dark tow'r the young May moon has risen, And our Queen, our bright Mahv, lias 'scaped from ber prison. Good speed to the shallop, that bears o'er the wave The fortunes of Scotland, the fair and the brave. She raises the signal — her gold-broider'd veil, With its border of crimson, it floats to the gale, And gleams in the moonbeam, all glorious to see Our Queen, our own Mart ! Once more she is free ! Wi Bee her, we know In r ; and there, by h<-r side, Stands the gallant young stripling, her champion and guide : QUEEN MARY S WELCOME. 19J Oh! Willie the landless, the orphan,* shall win Prouder name by this deed, than the lords of his kin. " Though traitors have broken their faith and her laws, Our Queen hath good friends still to fight in her cause ; Ay, men pure and stainless, who never have sold The honour of Scotland for England's base gold. Oh, many 's the vigil we've kept for her sake On this storm-beaten rock, that o'erlooks the broad lake, Till practised through darkness and mist to descry Every object, that varied its surface, flit by. Long months we have watched for this moment in vain, And each night found us still at our eyrie again. How our hearts throbbed and fluttered with eager deligL-, When we first marked the shallop unmoored for her flight As it glided the castle's dark shadow beneath, Every pulse was suspended — we scarce drew a breath Till we saw it, still trembling 'twist hope, fear, and doubt, O'er the moonlighted waters shoot vent'rously out. But the peril is over ! she springs to the shore — She is Queen of the true men of Scotland once more!" They gather around her, that stout-hearted band, They kneel at her feet, and they kiss her fair hand ; But brief are their greetings ; 'tis death to delay ; The fleet steeds stand ready : the word is — " Away !" Queen Mary has mounted ; a blush on her face, As they murmur of " beauty and womanly grace ;" * Willie Douglas, commonly called Willie the Orphan, or Little Douglas, was a young cadet of the noble house of Lochleven, brought up as a page in the castle. When his cousin, the gallant George Douglas, was banished from Lochleven by his mother, for contriving the former ineffectual escape of Queen Mary, with whom he was pas- sionately in love, Little Willie succeeded to his trust, and, although only sixteen, successfully completed the undertaking. Many interesting particulars of this brave boy are to be found throughout the Letters of Mary Queen of Scots. (See second edition, lately published by Colburn.) Queen Mary did not forget her obligations to Willie at the hour of her death ; his name >ccurs in the will she wrote on the night before het execution. 192 EVENINGS AT II.UMto.N HALL. For soft as the moonlight that kisses her brow, Or thi plume that waves o'er it, her bearing is nowj Yet in, daring moss-trooper that Bcoors Ettrick side, More firmly can sit, <>r more fearlessly ride. Like a tiird just escaped from its cage, in her glee, She feels the buhl spirit that gladdens the free ; One touch to her courser, and off like the wind, She leaves mountains and woodlands and waters behind; And she proudly looks back to her friends with a smile, As she clashes the first through the rocky defile. " Nay, forward, dear Lady, the race is for life ; Push (inward amain, through the fair plains of Fife ; We must pause not for breath, nor to tighten a girth. Till we've won the steep bank of the wide-rolling Firth. Then hey for the terry — St. Margaret to speed ! May the boatmen be ready and true at our need." They have crossed the wild waters, and there, on the strand Fair escort and tried, the brave Livingstones stand ; And the Hamiltons, foremost in courage and zeal, Pour down to the muster from bonny Kinneil. Already an army Bweet Mary commands, Who'll a\engeher, or die with the arms in their hand And brightly the Monarch has smiled through her tears, As she bows to her yeomen, and welcomes her pe While they gaze on her beauty ; and vow " 'tis a cause To win cowards to fight for true glory's applause." Now, gallant Lord Seaton, lead on to the west, For the Queen comes to Niddry this day as thy guest ; Brief warning hast thou to prepare royal cheer, To shoot tlie wild moor-fowl, or slay the red deer; "> et fling wide thy portals, and blithe will she be, Though rude be the fare, to take breakfast with thee. Ah, grey roofless castle, how changed is the scene In thy desolate halls, and thy courts lone and gn Since thy lord knelt in homage to welcome his Queen, And they rang with the shouts of the loyal array Who feasted with Seaton and Mary that day, While gaily the strains of the minstrels arose — " Hero' 2 a health to Queen Mary ! and death to her foes?" fHE ABBEY IN RUINS. 193 At the conclusion of the foregoing poem, a young writer, whose forte is the reflective and meditative rather than the stirring and imaginative, signified his willingness to con- tribute his share towards the Revels of the evening, pro- vided the company would accept, in place of an illustrative tale, the result of those reflections and associations which had been called forth in his mind and memory by the contemplation of a design, the profound repose of which seemed, he said, to put to flight all thought of movement and action, and leave no room for anything but the brood- ing image " Of those lone walls and solitary cells Where heavenly pensive Contemplation dwells, And ever-musing Melancholy reigns." The offer was gladly hailed by the Lady Eva, if only for the variety it would give to the proceedings of that evening, which it was determined should close with the following Reflections on *o THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 1 There is a temple in ruin stands, Fashioned by long-forgotten hands. ****** ****** Out upon time ! it will leave no more Of the things to come than the things before ! Out upon time ! who for ever will leave But enough of the past for the future to grieve O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be. What we have seen, our sons shall see ; Remnants of things that have passed away, Fragments of &tone rear'd by creatures of clay." Byron. o ]<)! EVENINGS AT HADD0N HALL. Por.ritY accommodates the shows of things to the desires ol tin mind, and as these desires are infinitely various, so are the forms of beauty into which the genius of poetry moulds the thoughts of the heart. Where is the feeling heart of man or woman that will not, in certain moods, acknowledge the romantic, melancholy beauty of Byron's complaint of Time ? "Who does not yearn over departed memories, when he looks upon a magnificent ruin, nor i he could unlock the heart of its mystery, and live in the spirit of the time when as yet it was no ruin, but the scene of life and emotion — of battle — strife, perhaps, or of love's soft persuadings, or deepest policy, or high re- solves, or (highest, holiest of all !) of religious strivings — meek aspiration, lone endeavour, looking through the gloomy gates of death to the joys of heaven and the ever- lasting song of angels ? 5Tes, such are often the speculations of an ardent, con- templative curiosity, plunging into the far and shadowy depths of time, and reproaching the destroyer that he has left so little. But, again, the mind sets out upon a different flight ; and at first hovering o'er the crumbling remains of de- parted strength and magnificence, subsides at length into calm and not unpleasing contemplation of the work which time has done, and gradually arrives at a kind of worship of the dim magnificence of ruin, acknowledging that there is a Providence even in decay; which, while it sweeps away much that is too hateful for prolonged existence, bequeaths to us bright dreams of the past, and makes room for the healthful exercise of head and hand in every successive generation of men. 1 1 ;i i 1 ! thou superb relique of the middle ages — the abbey of the olden times, the castle and the church in one; the THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 195 abode of the learning and policy of the period, and not un- frequently of the stoutest hearts that rushed to battle as to a banquet — of the strongest hands that wielded the pon- derous lance as it were but a riding-wand, or the huge sword that cut through plate armour as if it were but a woollen doublet ! Hail, old abbey ! magnificent even now, in thy stern, stony grandeur, an image of enormous power ! Beautiful, too, in the graceful shafts and delicate tracery of the windows, presenting images of the elevation and piety which graced the barbarism of the time, and often checked the ruthless hand of the bold and cruel. See how the light streams through, like a gleam from heaven, upon the stern monument of human strength, and of the short- lived existence of it. " Fragments of stone rear'd by creatures of clay." Yes, " clay " — as to their mortal bodies, which have long ago crumbled into dust and ashes ! But the spirit which was in them, wherever be now its abode, or what- soever its mode of existence, did its work in its time, and has not perished ; but survives, not only in history and in tradition, but in its effects. We are inheritors, not only of the names and the possessions, but of the spirit of our fathers ; and though they have all undergone changes, yet survives it in pure prosaic matters of fact as much as the antique works of men's hands, and more than they. Time rolls his ceaseless course, and decay and reproduction pro- ceed in their everlasting round ; but as the leaves of this year are the nourishment of the trees of future years, which in their turn produce more leaves, so do the thoughts and deeds of men, which lie still perhaps for ages, yet serve their office as the material out of which future thoughts and deeds are matured. 196 i.\ ENIN08 AT HADDOM BALL. " Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store, Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea. How are they blotted from the things that be ! How few, all weak and withered, of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity ; Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight ! Time rolls his ceaseless course." But the legends do not altogether die, which have beeo poured into the ears of our marvelling boyhood. True, they do not survive, as in the mind of the wondrous Wizard of the North, who wrote those noble lines; but in other forma they still live, and move, and have their being, and will some day leap up into obvious life, after the sordid bustle and mechanical clamour of this present time shall have passed away. The half-ecclesiastical, half-military strongholds of the middle ages, were frequently built by the side of deep waters which laved their walls. Some say this was for the convenience of fish, which has been, time out of mind, a more religious kind of eating than flesh, and therefore a special convenience to monks. "Whether fish generally .ippeared upon the tables of lordly abbots for the special uses of fasting, must be left to the decision of antiquaries. Even tradition is prone to scandal, and therefore we must not too readily yield to irreverent suspicions, which are sometimes indulged in concerning the social habits of reli- gions orders in the olden time. Monks were fat in those days, and some of them were certainly the best judges then extant of a good dinner, and the way to cook it. But to be remembered, that a life of peace and content- ment, for which religious retirement is the best security, will cause the frame of a man to swell into obesity, indc- THE ABBEY IN EUINS. 197 pendently of good living ; and if the monks were the most learned men of their day in culinary science, the same thing was to be said in respect to all other branches of recondite knowledge. What would have become of the classics or the sciences, of Greek or of gastronomy, without the help of the monks, during the ages of feudalism and chivalry, it were hard to conjecture. If the spread of knowledge have overthrown the monasteries, it is but another instance to which we may apply the illustration of the bird that died by a shaft feathered from its own wing. Perhaps it may be contended, that in the case before us the owl should be taken for the illustration rather than the eagle. It may be so ; yet, with all their vices, it is true that the monasteries preserved and kept alive, after their own peculiar fashion, the learning and the arts, which otherwise (so far as appears on the face of human affairs) might have perished for ever. Howevei', there is but too much reason to believe, that not alone for the convenience of replenishing their larders with piscine food, were these edifices constructed by the margin of deep waters. The military advantage was mani- fest. It was almost a security from attack on tne sides of the building which could only be approached by boats, and was often a means of escape under cover of darkness, and with muffled oars. No sentinel could challenge upon the watery path, and the opposite shore might be one of safety. Happy, however, it had been if this were all ; but, alas ! there were darker and more terrible uses of the con- tiguous lake, than those which belong to the exigencies of war and siege. The dark waters formed a capacious and an ever-ready grave, to which many a wretch was hurried, of whose departure to the shadowy shore of another world, the existing world, beyond the stern abbey walls, know L98 EVENING^ \ l II ;i>l>n\ DALL. nothing. The convent bell ootcd nol their fate to the •ing wind. The judicial sentence was passed in the secret council chamber, and then came the fatal oubliette, and the dark wave beneath closed upon the victim for ever. Awful are these dread reminiscences of the deep, dark dungeon, the secret way to the chamber of trial, so fre- quently, also, the chamber of torture ; and then the horrid death and unhallowed burial of the oubliette! Thank Heaven ! such things are now but memories. From that kind of cruelty and injustice the condition of civilized mankind is now free. The stern old walls of the abbey are slowly yielding to the decay of time, while moss and lichen cover the rude traces of ruin with their softness, and wild flowers wave, in short-lived beauty, in the crevices of the mouldering stone. But other traces of the past are there which appal the Bight. The lake yields up its dead. The very waters change their place in the long round of revolving years, and the receding tide reveals the story of long-forgotten tyrannies and murders. "Where be the hands that did these deeds, or they that grasped, in helpless fury, the sword which the waters have now abandoned ? Sad record of a miserable time ! The dungeon-stone, with its pon- derous key, is there. AY here be they whose eyes it shut out from the world's light — whose groans it hid from the world's knowledge? Horrible thought! More terrible than death was that lingering existence in a living grave, tortured with thinking of all that might be without, and finding nothing but despair within. How long it must have seemed to wait for death ! But that, at all events, was sure. It might be waited for long, but it would not be waited for in vain. Lo ! these are the records of the inevitable fate of man. These THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 199 skulls are the most awful of the ruins which we con- template. What are decaying walls ? Such works as man bath done, man may do again. But here is ruin indeed, and who shall pretend to rebuild it, or its likeness ? " Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the palace of the soul : Behold, through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion's host that never brooked control ; Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? ' ' These, indeed, are sad and solemn relics of the deeds and of the actors of them, who have long ago been swept away " adown the gulf of time." Fearful relics ! But let us not, after all, while admitting and detesting the horrors of feudal tyranny, judge even these times too harshly. The victims of the tyrannies to which allusion has been made, were generally men of turbulence and ambition, who would themselves have been playing the part of tyrants over others, if they had not been the victims of tyranny themselves. Their lives were an alternation of conquest or of suffering, and with that they had laid their account. And though the ecclesiastical strongholds were often the scenes of cruelty and vengeance of their own, yet they, too, were the places of refuge, and the only available places of refuge, from the blind and headlong rage of infuriate princes and nobles, whose cruelty knew no limit, and whose power had scarcely any check, save that which was interposed by ecclesiastical authority and privilege. The sanguinary lord might pursue his vassal to the death, or wreak what vengeance his aroused passion 200 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. might dictate upon the rival he had overcome, unless the convent opened its gates, beyond which the rude foot of brutal force dared not follow. There was in this wav pro- vided, on many occasions, if not always, a home of peace amid the terrors of feudal war and persecution. Again, we are to remember that, along with these terrors and these tyrannies, there was also a protection for the common people. They belonged to their lord; they fought for him, and were fed by him, so long as the land gave enough of food for all. The tyranny of the feudal lord has been swept away, but another tyranny has succeeded — that of circumstances and of necessity. And the new tyranny spares the ambitious, adventurous, and turbulent few, while it falls with strong and stern hand upon the many. The feudal lord may do longer compel a man to the wars, but neither is the owner of great posses- sions bound to share them with the people. They have now a lord who is called Necessity ; and though they have theoretical and legal freedom, yet Necessity commands them to dig in the deep mine far from the light of day. or to labour at the loom, or to enlist in the factory army, and to submit to the drill and discipline of the spinning- jenny, where the sound of the bell which summons them mi work is (piitc as peremptory as the roll of the drum on military service. True, they may disregard it without fear of the halberts or the lash, but not without fear of " des- titution," which is no less sharp a punishment. In short, society, with all the progress it has made from the institu- 3 and habits of the middle ages, has, for so far only, escaped from one kind of evil to another. The achieve- ment of a condition of society in which the multitude shall escape from the tyranny of the more powerful (c\v, and yet have the benefit of protection, and a right to share in THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 201 whatever the land to which they belong produces, is yet a desideratum in the world's history, and perhaps will be till the millennium. It is much easier to effect changes than to make sure of improvements. Not that we should there- fore be deterred from constantly trying to improve ; but if we are wise, we shall neither indulge in indiscriminate scorn of the errors of antiquity, nor in the vanity of com- plete satisfaction with what we may conceive to be our own vastly improved methods of managing the affairs of mankind. As for the monks, it were indeed easy enough to repeat the charges which have been justly made against the abuses of their establishments ; nor is it to be doubted that superstition and laziness were in the monastic ages very common characteristics of the lives of these secluded worthies. But we should also bear in mind that these establish- ments did not always and altogether consist of abuses. At all times, but especially in periods when violence and war disturb society, and mar the fair face of earth, it is natural that certain portions of men should associate for the sake of peace and piety. It is natural that they should endeavour to find some kind of refuge, not merely from personal danger, but from " the shock of accident/' and the perpetual disturbance of ordinary life. " What other yearning was the master tie Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial, or in green, secluded vale, One after one, collected from afar — An undissolving fellowship ? What but this — The universal instinct of repose, The longing for confirmed tranquillity, Inward and outward ; humble yet sublime ; The life ivhere hope and memory are as cue , 202 BVENING8 AT HADDON HALL. Earth quiet and unchanged ; the human soul Consistent in self-rule : and heaven reveal'd To meditation in that quietness ! Such was their scheme : thrice happy he who gained The end proposed ! And, though the same were missed By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none, They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed, Do in my present censure stand redeemed From the unqualified disdain that once Would have been cast upon them by my voice Delivering her decisions from the seat Of forward youth, that scruples not to solve Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone To overweening faith ; and is inflamed By courage, to demand from real life The test of act and suffering, to provoke Hostility — how dreadful when it comes, Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt." So sings "Wordsworth, the prince of meditative philoso- phers, though some persons riiul a difficulty in discovering liveliness in his poetry. Yet, speaking (or singing) upon this very subject — that is, the desire of the human heart for peace — few will deny the extraordinary energy of his verse : — " Not alone Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged And unavengable, defeated pride, Prosperity subverted, maddening want, Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, Love with despair, or Brief in agony; — Not always from intolerable pangs He fled, but compassed round by pleasure, sighed For independent happiness, craving peace, The central feeling of all happiness." Farewell, then, thou beautiful ruin of the olden time of religious brotherhood. Doubtless thou hadst thy scenes THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 203 of woe and of terror, the emblems of which lie scattered round. But let us believe that thy main purpose was that of peace, of a shelter from the storms, or from the satiety of the world, and of calm devotedness to the hopes of another and a better. "FOURTH EVENING. As the company assembled in the library on the fourth evening of the Lady Eva's Birthday Revels, they found her looking, even more anxiously than usual, for the arrival of her guests — for, at these literary meetings, she had now grown to regard the guests as hers, for the time being. On this occasion, however, it seemed that she looked for some one of those guests in particular ; and which of them it was, became evident on the entrance of a writer of a popular novel, the title of which pointed at one of the most celebrated of those historical localities, our Royal Palaces. " Ah \" she exclaimed, as the writer in question en- tered the library, " I thought you would never come ! Look at this beautiful picture — an Astrologer among his books. I do not very well know what astrologers are; very learned and very clever people, I have heard; and very wise in foretelling what will happen before it does happen. Is it not so? Now, then, I will be an astro- loger, and will predict the pleasure you will afford to all this good company, and to me in particular, if you will only tell us a story about this picture, as full of pleasant THE ASTROLOGER. 205 mystery as that ' prophecy fulfilled/ which, I remember, kept me wide awake all night after I read it." The request of the Lady Eva was complied with as frankly and promptly as it was made, and the company listened with marked attention to THE ASTROLOGER. " Bear me on that blood track \" gasped convulsively Count Christofle, vainly and feebly struggling with his comrades in arms, who were carrying their wounded friend from the field of Roras. " Bear me to her \" he again indistinctly murmured ; " let me but die at her feet — rather, let her trample me to death ; my arm it was that drew her blood \" He fainted, and was being slowly borne to the rear by his officers, when the foe, led on by the father of the wounded lady, roused to fury and exaspera- tion at what the former conceived to be a deliberate act of unmanliness, and only to be atoned for by the heart's blood of her dastardly assailant, pressed forward with resistless force, and broke the devoted band of the Al- bigenses. Dispirited by the fall of their leader, they gave way. The extraordinary appearance of the Lady Ludovica on the field of slaughter had taken the party of her father by surprise, and none more so than himself. At that moment the combat between the troops of the Duke of Savoy and those of the Protestants was at its hottest. The battle- ground was now, owing to the giving way of the Duke's army, a meadow, at the foot of a fort in which the lady had, unknown to her father, secreted herself with one of her maids, to behold the varying fortunes of the fight, and 20G 1 \ EN] M08 AT H LDDOM II W.L. from its embattled height pour out fervent prayers to Heaven for success to the avengers of the holy Roman apostolic church. The fortunes of the day had varied ; at last the forces of heresy, which, though inferior to their adversaries in number, seemed united, and, led on by a youth, absolutely drove in those of the champions of tbe el inrch. The quick eye of filial instinct perceived that her father was wounded ; his head bent over his horse's neck in an unequal conflict with his younger opponent; and, unable to restrain herself, she rushed from the tower down the steep ravine, the brink of which, when calm, she had trembled to approach. Pushing her way amid pikemen and archers, she threw herself before her father, and the next moment received a sword-cut on her ivory shoulder, from the falchion of the leader of the adverse army, at that time in personal encounter with her parent. The life of the latter was undoubtedly saved by his daughter's sudden intervention, for though her person was unseen when the blow was aimed, it was not brought fully home before the fire-flashing eyes of the striker were in- voluntarily widened by the unlooked-for vision between him and his intended victim : and by the instinct of true valour, ere a thought could take birth in his brain, his arm became flaccid and aimless ; the weapon in his hand, missing the duke, glided on, rather than smote, the bust of the lady. From a fearful gash gushed the ruddy life- stream over her beauteous shoulders, staining the white robes that enveloped her figure, and trickling on the path up which she was carried. Count Christofle's failing vision was not insensible to the revolting spectacle. Horror and disgust overpowered the instinct of self-preservation ; and had he not sunk under wounds in all parts of his person, he had resisted the succour and protection of his THE ASTROLOGER. 207 soldiers, and had thrown himself from very shame on the soil stained with her blood. His eye had met hers but for a moment — it was a cruel one — too late to avert the act that would abase him for ever — too late to check the fatal blow. What man could forget the scornful glance of a woman against whom his hand had been raised ? From that moment, until some hours afterwards, the smart of his wounds was unfelt. Count Christofle, insensible in the arms of his faithful guards, saw them not all cut to pieces in defending his helpless person from outrage — nor beheld the savage glee with which his capture was regarded by the victors. Halberds and battle-axes were raised for severing him limb from limb on the instant; and more than one impatiently claimed the honour of carrying on his pike the heretic's head to the Duke of Savoy, as the most acceptable present that could be made. The axe was raised, and would have fallen, but for the suggestion of the grimmest and most relentless of the per- secutors of the reformed, Captain Mario, who, acting under the orders of the Marquis de Pianesse, had directed his soldiers, under pain of being shot as mutineers, to exter- minate every Protestant in the district of Roras, " from the oldest to the youngest amongst the males ; from the pregnant female to the sucking child." These horrid commands were obeyed by none of his papist soldiers with more zeal and cheerfulness than by one Irish Catholic regiment. "Drag the heretic to the tower of Mount Capulet," they cried ; " and, if possible, we will prolong his life, that he may suffer the tortures of the rack, and that it may ebb slowly, in excess of agony I" This brutal thought was received with cheers ; addi- tional punishment to a brother mortal who refuses to sub- stitute the word of an Itsh'fm nope for the word of Christ 208 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. aimself, was, in the mind of these adherents of the former, an additional claim for the favour of the latter. By this mode of reasoning was Piedmont sought to be depopu- lated; stimulated and confirmed hy the bull of Pope In- nocent the Eighth, dated 1487, and that of Pope John the Twenty-second, dated Avignon, 1332, expressly exhorting " all Catholics to extirpate heretics wherever they exist, as well as to absolve all Catholics from censure in breaking faith with one, let the pledge be of the most solemn nature soever." Count Christofle was therefore dragged up the rugged rock to the tower, and cast into a noisome dungeon. The Duke of Savoy received the intelligence of his enemy's capture with exultation. His highness enjoyed the dis- tinction of being the most bloodthirsty of the holy Catholic army employed in the murderous commission issued by the. head of his church. He boasted of having impaled alive, and burnt, and hewn in pieces, more men and women and children than any of the generals embarked in this frantic service. These tortures and persecutions failed, however, to convince the simple mountaineers that Catho- licism was the only true type on earth of the mild church of Christ, whose law 7 is "peace on earth and good will to all men." However their want of perception might be wondered at, its consequences were unflinchingly prose- cuted. This devoted people, driven from their mountain homes, their farms, and villages, by the emissaries of eight successive popes, had, in a moment of desperation, bound themselves together, as a last resource, into a legion ; re- solved to die at once with arms in their hands, rather than be seized singly for the stake and the gibbet. Their once smiling happy valley was now a scathed desert, blackened ruins only marking what had existed, ere conflagration THE ASTROLOGER. 209 and the sword had laid waste and depopulated one of the fairest portions of God's earth. The young chief, under whose command they had sworn to range themselves, could boast of no high birth, had no support from alliances, and of territorial influence possessed not an acre. But his father was their valued pastor, and was a good man ; his flock thought him the best man living. What genealogical distinction could be prouder ? Purity of conduct, almost bashful modesty, bravery united with prudence, the good word of the young and the smiles of the old, were his reward. He had dis- tinguished himself early for these qualities under Janavel, Laurens, and Benet, and was bequeathed to his little band by the former redoubtable Swiss patriot, as the richest legacy he could leave them. Under him, the villagers of Lucerne, Bubiane, and Bargis, had attacked a force five times their number, posted at the foot of Mount Capulet, under the command of the Duke of Savoy. Covered with wounds, Count Christofle was laid upon a pallet ; the refined cruelty of the man into whose power he had fallen, seeking through surgical aid to revive his strength, and render his nerves more susceptible to the agonies of the torture. Fully aware that on his recovery from his wounds, — if he ever should recover, which he had no reason to desire, — he had nothing to expect but a miserable end at the hands of the Duke, the assiduities of a medical attendant greatly astonished the sufferer. He noticed that the Doctor placed a constraint upon himself, and spoke but little; never more than was neces- sary for acquiring a knowledge of the progress of his patient. He avoided his eye, and at every confession of amendment showed an uneasy aspect, and tokens of an unaccountable reservation of feeling which he would fain 210 EVENINGS AT BADDON BALL. disguise; but the Count's interest — nay, respect — for his medical attendant, involuntarily rose at these mysterious indications; a weaker man had been alarmed at them. One day, seeing that Dr. Ilersheim was ah me in his room, the nurse who invariably accompanied him being dismissed on some errand, the Count raised himself in his bed, and put a question he had long desired to ask, whilst the burning blush of shame that rose on his cheeks implied the miserable sense of abasement which accompanied the inquiry. "Dr. Hershcim," faltered the Count, " in what state is the Lady Ludovica V "Lady " scarcely articulated Dr. Ilersheim; re- lieving his embarrassment by pretended inattention to his querist. "The Lady Ludovica — yes; I could not have been deceived; though but lor a second did her beauteous face my ey< This was true ; for the lady had thrown her arms upwards to her father's neck, as he sunk from his horse ire two terrific - on his cuirass and helmet from the Count's two-handed sword. Dr. Ilersheim regarded his patient for some time m sdence — a cause for hate strug-'j-liiiLf with a generous '(-. and its offspring compassion. The nurse re-entered; he seemed relieved by this interruption to further conver- u, and in a lew minutes more the prisoner was left aloi No opportunity arrived for some days to renew the inquiry, though it was on the Count's tongue whenever 'nt of the nurse betokened a temporary retreat from the bed on which he lay. He thought that Dr. Ilersheim was aware of his desire to repeat the inquiry; THE ASTROLOGER. 211 and avoided its recurrence by watchfully retaining a third person at his elbow. Yet how* Dondered he, could the doctor have dived into his thoughts, and imagine cause lor embarrassment on the part of the inquirer, unless motives for shrinking from naming the lady existed in himself also ? Surmises, uneasy, because undefined, floated in his brain that evening, and made the still hours of the solitary night more cold and disheartening. Another slept uneasily in the fort that night. Was it the Lady Ludovica ? No ; it was the young disciple of iEsculapius himself. He had, for the care and treatment of his patient, a double set of instructions — two-fold, yet how contrary ! One originating in cruelty, thirsting for revenge, and another in woman's tenderness to the stricken, in which her own wrongs are ever forgotten. Unhap- pily for his peace of mind, the channel and instrument of these instructions was far from being impassive for the secret purposes of either party. The Lady Ludovica was acquainted with her father's implacable temper, and the terrible ordeal destined for his gallant captive on return of convalescence, and knew that this savage parent had resolved he should undergo, prior to the exhaustion of strength and extinction of life, under its excruciating tor- ments. She was a lady of high spirit, great beauty, and of that command of temper which irresistibly sways all minds within the sphere in which their possessor moves. The young Genevese doctor worshipped the high-born beauty from a humble distance, but his adoration was from his very heart. He would not repress the self-exaltation of his devotion ; but he knew its object to be as remote from his destinies as the bright morning-star, shooting her gentle radiance through the mists cf receding night. At the end of a month the Count was able to walk in 212 EVENINGS AT HADOOM HALL. a corridor adjoining his cell, a much superior apartment to his first lodging within these walls. To his astonishment, a tall female, with a single attendant, entered the cor- ridor from a small portal, which was instantly closed after them. She advanced up the passage, only lighted fro n narrow gratings in the thick stone walls. Count Christorle dicw back before her stately form, the upper portion of which was enveloped in a cloak, which, thrown over the head, and held together by her left hand, would have pre- cluded any glimpse of her face, even had sufficient light from the gratings allowed it. He retreated to his cell, at the door of which he per- ceived the muffled female pause, as it were, hesitating to enter. She entered not, but stood immovable for some minutes before him. Silence was not broken by either party. The lady turned round, was the next moment plunged in the gloom of the corridor, and, before Count Christorle could recover from his amazement, and grope his way towards the quarter where she had disappeared, the small door was closed with a dull firm clang, which told, as far as sound could indicate, of the hopelessness of escape, save possessed of the means of working its pon- derous lock of six well-sprung bolts. Hi- now regretted his want of courage to address the figure, of whose identity he remained uncertain. Some one was surely interested in his fate. Save from his medical attendant, no word of comfort had been uttered during his melancholy incarceration. The few words of kindness dropt from the latter were treasured for days after they fell from the amiable Doctor's lips. Their remembrance, and the scanty segments of sunshine that 'or a brief period of the day speckled the cold stone wall of his cell, formed the sole materials for cheerfulness. THE ASTROLOGER. 213 Beyond these, lie had nothing to expect until the gates of heaven should pour a flood of celestial brightness upon his soul, and give to his spirit above the rest denied to it on earth. He was, however, seized with a shivering fit during the night, and on the approach of daylight was in a state of high nervous fever. By Dr. Hersheinr's manner it was evident that a change in the bodily health of the Count was anticipated. The Doctor was earlier than usual in his attendance, and from the moment of his entrance to that of his departure, his eye never ceased regarding his patient uneasily. For the next few days he was weaker than he had been since his imprisonment. On the fourth from the day of the visit of the veiled figure, the Doctor, in a tone of indifference and ill-dissembled reluctance at being made the medium of communication, informed him that a religious lady, a S;ster of Charity, who wished to speak to him on points connected with the salvation of his soul, would be in his apartment the following morning. " Will not the bigots let me die in peace ? To listen for a moment to one of them is a compromise of my con- stancy to the cause for which they persecute unto death. Spare me, Doctor \" The Doctor seemed touched by the energy of his appeal, and was about to shape the request more persuasively, when the Count seized his arm, and with grinding teeth, and every muscle of his attenuated frame knit, with an effort which a sense of utter hopelessness alone could have endowed the prostrated youth, he almost shrieked in the former's face : " Doctor ! you have practised upon me. If I am to die by poison, why is it slow and tormenting ? I once 211 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. thought I had a friend in yon. Oli, my God ! how have I been deceived !" Doctor Hersheim rose from the bed on which be was sitting. Successful as he had hitherto been in concealing his sympathies and sentiments, this direct attack on his uprightness and humanity overcame his discretion, and he exclaimed: — " Poison thee, brave youth ! That end would have been too happy a one in the eyes of the powers that con- trol both thee and me; and a destiny to be envied by all who are at their mercy." "Then why am I thus thrown back from the hour I took that potion from thy hands, and was persuaded by ilue to be nearly bled to death V he muttered, in bitter and disdainful accents. "To deprive thy energies, from waste or pain's endur- ance, from giving thee further being in the world. Wouldst thou have executioners draw drop by drop thy blood; or wouldst thou yield it me for lengthened life? Wouldst have it prolonged at the behest of an angel, or short- ened by a " fiend, the excited Doctor would have said, but aware that too much had fallen from him, he checked himself. " An angel !" murmured the exhausted prisoner, uncon- scious of the Doctor's emotion. "That angel thou shalt see this night," exclaimed Dr. Hcrsheim, unable to veil his kindly feelings towards a tyrant's helpless victim, though that victim had acquired an interest, by his suffering and his impending fate, in a bosom in which he had for many years prayed to have but the humblest place. Count Christofle, supposing it was to the angelic attri- THE ASTROLOGER. 21 O butes of a devoted Sister of Charity that his doctor alluded, shook his head slowly, to mark how greatly he desired to be spared her visit, then sunk on his pillow. He was visited next morning by Dr. Hersheim, who, whilst informing him of the approach of the holy Sister of Charity, appeared desirous of adding something, but checked himself. A few moments after his departure, a female in the garb of a Sister of that holy order which aspires to earn, by ceaseless watchings round the bed of pain, the rewards promised by God to those who "visit the sick and fatherless in affliction/' entered the apartment. Her face was concealed by a veil worn under the white coif, which is the distinguishing mark of the Sisters, but that her eyes were large and expressive he could plainly per- ceive. In a collected and firm tone she at once told him that her object in paying a visit to the greatest foe of her church was to offer him pardon from the Duke, as well as absolution from the Archbishop of Arun, if he would renounce heresy, and bid his brethren do likewise. With warmth and energy she painted the beauty of unity, and the duty of obedience to God's priesthood in his church, the torments in the next world awaiting rebellion asrainst its canons, and the duty of their holy head, the Pope, in this, to exterminate contemners of his ordinances. The church had never a more persuasive and eloquent mis- sionary, or one who clothed its dogmas more attractively. The Count, raising his head upon his hand, leaned forward from his pillow as respectfully as his weakness would permit; but his anxiety was, not to hear her elo- quent sophistry, or to allow himself to be entranced with the beautiful garb in which subtlety and enthusiasm were dressing errors, but to imprint upon his own mind the faint outlines of feature partly visible through the veil, 216 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. that he might beguile his solitary hours al her departure, with panning, by the aid of imagination, a countenance worthy of them. During her discourse} she paused several times, as if expecting a reply; but the Count had no wish to interrupt his earnest counsellor, who rose to depart, after bidding him weigh well the words she had spoken. The next day the lady came again, as before attended by a Sister of the same order, who stood apart during the interview, and whom the Count desired to be seated in vain. At the close of this interview, the lady spoke more rapidly, and he thought with some show of mortification at her want of success, for he still preserved silence : the sweet sound of woman's voice, apart from the subject that evoked it, reminded him too much of the world he had quitted, of happier hours never to return, and was too en- trancing to permit him to interrupt its enchantment. At parting the supposed Sister left a book in his hands, witli earnest injunctions to read it in a right mind. He found it to be a defence of the papal faith, by Bcllar- mine. lie had seen this hook frequently, and heard its sophistry exposed. He resolved to put on paper all that iie recollected of the arguments of the most learned of the I irmers of the age a century before the one in which In- lived, as well as of those who had been the light of the primitive church of the Waldensea. To learned refutations of modern errors engrafted upon the church by her hierarchy, the Count added confutations of the charges against his brethren, extorted by their behaviour, from the lips of those who would fain be their persecutors. He bade his fair spiritual adviser remember that a high authority in her church, Jacob de Riberia, confessed, " that the Albigenses taught their children, THE ASTROLOGER. 217 yea, even their daughters, the epistles and gospels, and that he had heard a plain countryman repeat the book of Job, and divers others that could perfectly repeat the whole New Testament." He reminded her that a friend of the Duke of Savoy, the Bishop of Cavaillon, appointed a monk to dispute with them, but that he returned and declared " that he had not so much profited in his whole life in the Scriptures as he had done in those few days of his con- ference with the Waldenses." The Count continued at his new employment on behalf of the faith he inherited from his fathers, which he had hitherto only defended with his sword. At times he sunk from exhaustion, at others he seemed supported in his work of devotion with super- natural aid; words from the source of truth flowing un- ceasingly over his page. At length the visitant, bent upon the conversion of a soul from perdition, was again in his prison-room ; and the pages he had written were respectfully presented to her at the close of a more impassioned address than he had yet heard from beneath the closely-veiled coif ; but its wearer recoiled from them as from a poisonous ser- pent, after hearing from their writer the nature of their contents. " I came to save thy life on earth, and thy soul in eternity," she said ; " thou meetest my intercession with contumacious persistence in error. The Lord have mercy on thee \" Here she was overcome with emotion, and Count Christofle, alarmed lest she should fall from the mise- rable seat that supported her by his bed-side, stretched out his arm. Rising at the same moment, her veil caught his hand, and disclosed the noble features of the Lady Ludovica, under the stiff linen coif of a Sister of Charity. 218 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. The ro was more than religious interest in the brilliancy of her dark hazel eve and flushed cluck. Solitude and reflection had engraven the momentary vision of the lady of the battle-field upon his memory. These, at the raising of the veil, flashed so vividly over his mind, that, uttering a wild cry, he fell back on his pallet and fainted. The lady, darting a frightened glance at his pale, insensible countenance, directed her attendant to call in- stantly Dr. Hersheim, who had remained in the corridor; her hand involuntarily clasping that of the prisoner by an impulse consistent in any one with consciousness of having endangered the life of a fellow-creature, as well as, perhaps, with feelings which to herself she would refuse to ac- knowledge. The Doctor started at beholding the noble lady bend- ing over the person of his patient, her face marked with expressions so at variance with the proud majesty that awed the loftiest peers and the most stately dames of the Court of Savoy. He was by the bed-side, in her presence, ere he was perceived ; when, gracefully rising, without betraying any surprise or annoyance at the discovery of her position, the lady quitted the room. The Doctor, perceiving the closely-written pages which were lying on the bed, where they had dropped from the Count's hands, Bhrugged his shoulders, half repented of his indulgence to his patient, and proceeded to restore him. This was not effected so quickly as he expected. Reaction from strong emotion is slow in a weakened frame. Under a change of treatment, his strength altogether recovered, for nature was no longer tampered with. Hav- ing one morning, with a bitter smile, expressed his wonder to Dr. Hersheim at the Duke <.i Savoy's delay of the gra- THE ASTROLOGER. 219 tification of his revenge, now that his victim was ripe for the slaughter, the former, with a warmth and frankness never before evinced, took both his hands in his, and bade him from that moment consider that he was his friend. " Pardon me," replied the Count, with the spirit which returning health had restored to him ; " the relentless persecutor of the humble followers of the gospel, and my- self, can have no mutual friends ; and as long as I am a prisoner only for being a humble soldier of the latter, the minions of the former and myself are sworn foes." " For your distrust I will not censux*e you ; but the day may speedily arrive when you may find a difficulty in pardoning yourself for it." With these mysterious words, the Doctor prepared to take his leave. "When shall I see you again ? — have I still the privi- lege of being on your sick list ? Though I hold our friendship but conditional, I would not exchange willingly my doctor for a turnkey," said the Count, perceiving his motion towards the door. " This evening, I will return. Do not prepare your- self for repose. It may be late, but you shall see me," said the Doctor, in a firm tone and assuring manner That evening, Count Christone, conducted beyond the ramparts by Hersheim, quitted the Tower of Capulet by a path well known to him, over the mountains, to Aix in Dauphin e, and rested there three days, to cheer the spirits of some devoted refugees, who forgot their own danger in joy at beholding their leader alive and at liberty. He then repassed the mountain, skirting one of the Alps, by Villar and Bobi, named Pelaa de Geanvet. With not more than twenty men, he surprised Lucernette, a village near Lu- cerne, and killed many of the Duke's army. A thousand 020 EVENINGS AT MADDUX BALL. troops were instantly roused to arms, but Christofle and his band cut their way through this surrounding force without losing a man. Sick at heart witli all he heard, and despairin j brighter days for his countrymen, he resolved to enter the service of the great champion of Protestantism, Gustavus Adolphus ; and communicating his views to an officer <>t that prince, who was then in Piedmont, encouraging the Protestants in their resistance of Catholic tyranny, was entreated by that gentleman to repair immediately to Stockholm. In the wars of the King of Sweden, Count Christofle maintained his justly acquired reputation, and towards the close of three years from the period of escaping from the Tower of Mount Capulet, had amassed a sum large enough to carry into effect a long-cherished plan of transporting himself and a select band of adventurers to the newly- planted colony of Delaware, in North America, whither many Swedes and Saxons had already repaired. Instead of embarking from the Swedish ports, the place of rendez- vous fixed on was Trieste, a ship being there placed at their disposal. Count Christofle passed through Germany; found most of his party already at Trieste, but learnt that two of their number were at Malta, with an assorted cargo of the productions of the Levant, which would prove highly valuable at their place of final destination. "W hilst his brother-adventurers were busily engaged embarking the goods that were to yield them this profit, Christofle traversed every part of the island, so long the stronghold of the intrepid military monks of the Christian faith, and the bulwark against the westward progress of Moslem invasion. He found every one full of the praise of a wonderful THE ASTROLOGER. 221 Astrologer, who not only responded to his querist cor- rectly, and foretold the domestic incidents of every man's future life, but presented individuals to each other who were dwelling a thousand miles apart. The Count was no exception to his cotemporaries in entertaining an universal belief in auguries disclosed by the disciples of astral sci- ence. He found that the Astrologer was reported to have been once a physician, who, from a disappointment in love, had betaken himself to the occult studies, in which he had become such a master as to be consulted from all parts of Christendom. To this Astrologer he resolved to repair, in order to learn all he could about the powerful lady who, he doubted not, had saved his life — whether the merit he attributed to her was her due, and whether she had been induced to influence her father to abate his rigour against his Protes- tant subjects, — and if so, whether from a conviction of the abuses introduced into the church of Rome, or from kind- ness for him. This last reason embodied illusions too flattering not to be cherished, groundless and visionary as he in calmer moments was obliged to confess them to be. The Astrologer had resided two years at Malta, under the especial patronage of its knights, and three years had elapsed on the very day of the Count's visit to him, since the nocturnal flight of the latter from the Tower of Mount Capulet. The Astrologer's abode was in the chapter-house of a decayed hospital, or institution of these military monks. Its octagonal form contributed greatly to the picturesque aspect of its internal architecture, which was not a little heightened by the grotesque objects that met the eye on all sides. Every bird, beast, and fish, whose shape outrages nature's harmony, or disgusts by its dis- tasteful features, was found hung in mid-air, in varying 222 EVENINGS AT HADDON Il.W.L. attitudes, from the roof to the floor of the cha/)ter-hou»e, ranged round the central column of the crypt. The form of the apartment much aided the effect of its content-; for nowhere could the eye rest amid the bewilderment of objects. The man of destiny was tall, stately, and venerable ; a long beard fell on his breast, and his eyes were deeply sunk in his head ; he was enveloped in a rich green mantle deeply edged with sable, a cap of the latter material cover- ing his head. At the Count's entry, the Astrologer was seated before a table covered with horoscopes and planetary types for the calculations of nativities. After raising his head in the direction where the former stood, he started backwards, but immediately recovering his wonted com- posure, dexterously, though gracefully, drew his mantle more closely around him, and by a scarcely perceptible motion, pulled his cap over his forehead, so as more com- pletely to shade the upper part of his face. He waved silence to his visitor, but put out his hand to receive the paper on which the hour of his birth was written, as well as the questions to be propounded, which the former, know- ing the regulated forms exacted by these mysterious per- sonages, had duly prepared. On it was written — "Date of my birth, 10 May, 1G30, at 5 m. past 6 in the evening — -Was Lady Ludovica, daughter of the Duke of Savoy, the contriver of my escape from the Tower of Mount Capulet? — What is her employment at this moment? and upon whom and what does she most think?" The Astrologer held this paper so long in his hands, that Count Christofle imagined it had been written un- intelligibly, and was about to offer verbal explanation, when the former betrayed so much agitation of manner, that he feared to approach or disturb him. After a visible THE ASTROLOGER. 223 effort to recover himself, the sage, in a voice the Count thought he had often heard before, desired him to stand outside of two circles drawn on the floor. Flanking them, due north and south, were two large globes, and in the centre was a sarcophagus from the pyramids, carved on every side with the mystic cabala of the Magi of Egypt. The twelve signs of the zodiac were drawn between the outer and inner circles. The Astrologer waved his wand round its centre, occasionally pointing it towards Sagitta- rius, and gazing intently upon the contents of the sarco- phagus, from which a grateful perfume was dispensing itself around. Sagittarius was the sign under which the nativity of his questioner was cast. After some moments spent in cabalistic invocations to strange sounding names, which he could not catch, the Astrologer, in a solemn voice, said — "Thou art governed by the first lord of the triplicity of the tenth house, and wilt be fortunate, and arrive at honour. Thou hast been con- stant and devoted, and the cause thou hast fought for with thy blood shall triumph in the face of heaven. In the west shall arise a mighty nation, sprung from Eng- land, the cradle of the religion 'whose worship/ as the service of the church saith, 'is perfect freedom/ where tyranny and persecution for conscience sake shall not so much as be heard of in the length and breadth of its beau- tiful land. The country which shall send forth these chil- dren of light will be the beacon of thy faith, the soil where God shall be worshipped in spirit, and where no man maketh his fellow afraid. But in combating Antichrist, thou must enlist Charity, the sister of Truth ; learning and an instructed mind will convert more than the sword." The Count showed sign 3 of impatience, which the As- trologer perceived ; and after some further remarks upon 224 EVENiNOS AT BADDON BALL. the positions of the planets in conjunction with his nativity sign, he regarded him so intently, whilst his hand, still holding the wand, passed to and iVo before his forehead, that the Count ftdt a sensation altogether different from any he had yet experienced. The atmosphere, before him over the sarcophagus became a luminous medium. Gradu- ally thin vapoury clouds floated before the centre of the luminous atmosphere, thickening and becoming more opaque, as, dispelling themselves, they diminished the re- lief of the grotesque intercepting objects. Behind dee]) volumes of cloud was silvery moonlight : the planet itself was seen in unclouded loveliness, its cold rays fading on the form of a lady, who, as far as he was able to discern through the clouded foreground, was bending over a vol- ume. Whilst the clouds gradually fell away to the right and the left, the bright moon above her made clearly visible the features, shape, and dress of this lady, whose slender neck, finely-moulded head, and magnificent bust, as they thus slowly developed themselves, could leave no doubt of their possessor. Count Christofle breathed fast. His question was answered ! The recumbent lady before him in the pale moonbeams was the angel that loosened his bonds and delivered him from a shameful death. Deep and solemn were the commencing incantations of the commanding genius of this mystic revelation ; but they assumed a louder and more authoritative tone as the vision became more distinct ; and as the lady turned over a leaf without raising her eyes, his voice became awfully sonorous, its triumphant tone communicating a corresponding thrill of exultation to his enraptured client, who was also wrought up to a state of excitement that would have prostrated him before the figure, but for a power unseen that ker t him THE ASTROLOGfi 225 standing spell-bound where he was With the softest move of her transparent hand, the page was turned, and at the same moment a ray of crystal light fell on the feathery leaf of her phantom volume. The eyes of Chris- tofle read his own words written by his own hand in the prison tower; the pages under the intent meditation of the beautiful spirit before him were the same he had placed in her corporeal hands, and had seen left, con- temned, on the floor of his cell, up to the last hour of hi?, detention, for he had not had the heart to remove them. A film passed over his eyes, and the next moment all traces of the vision were fled. Instead of a bright celestial atmo- sphere, in the serene depths of which he had been existing for a period measurable by no method of time, an alligator was swinging before his eyes between two stuffed owls ; and the Astrologer was standing outside of the zodiac on the floor. "Thou art satisfied, gallant youth," murmured the Astrologer; "I know thou art. Set forth on thy journey. Thou hast no more to ask of the devoted disciple of Cor- nelius Agrippa ? " "I would know tidings of an old friend who, next to her whom thou hast made visible to my eyes by thy art, claims my honour and service." " I know whom thou meanest. Regard him also," exclaimed the Astrologer, moving behind the column of the crypt ; and Count Christofle the next moment beheld Dr. Hersheim, in the same dress in which he visited him in prison. He would have thrown himself into his arms and embraced him ; but immediately a glare of blue flame, followed by a thick sulphureous vapour, passed between the Doctor and himself, and from it came these words — " In three days thou shalt see me again!" In another Q '.-!€) EVENINGS AT SADDON HALL. moment the Astrologer's cap <>t' sable towered above his implements and Bph< res, and the ( lount was recoiling from the column, rubbing his shoulder after a hard bruise, to which his anxiety to embrace his prison doctor had sub- jected him. Shortly after, the Count found himself in broad daylight, outside the chapter-house. The revelations involved in the vision he had just beheld were not to be slighted. Count Christofle instantly resolved to repair to Lucerne, and satisfy himself of their verity. If so, what an alteration might not the change of religious opinion in the daughter make upon the councils of the lather. Could it be possible that he was to be instru- mental in working a change on which the lives of thousands must depend ? He decided to leave Malta by a vessel now in the harbour, bound for Genoa, and rejoin his friends at Gibraltar, on his return from Lucerne, where he induced them to believe pressing business demanded his presence. lie took ship next day, and landed in Sicily on the third, when the first person who greeted him on shore was Dr. Hersheim. The crowd on the quay was great. The various costumes of the motley population of this island, with those of the soldiery of a dozen different powers, always touching there on their passage from the Levantine States, distracted his attention for some minutes. He had grasped his good friend's hands, and received a salute on both the cheeks, after the manner of his countrymen; the embrace was warm and human; he felt it the harbinger of a renewal of associations with the land of his birth ; y< t he could not entirely overcome a sensation of awe and astonishment, amounting even to distrust of his senses, as he beheld the form phased so pretcrnaturally to them but a few hours previously, in the chapter-house at Malta. His quickened susceptibility for aerial revelation now THE ASTKOlAJGEK. 227 pictured, under the crimson and green scarf of a Neapoli- tan fish- wife, the Madonna of the Capella Sistina — the realisation of majestic womanhood, of that tremendous genius and grand moral being, Michael Angelo. And, as the features under his gaze relaxed from spiritual to mundane perfection, he could have sworn that the visitant of his prison cell, the eloquent and beautiful Sister of Charity, was before him. In his delirium of joy and astonishment, he turned to his friend, who was but a few moments before cordially welcoming him to a strange land. He was not there, nor to be found amid the crowd, nor could any one say that such a person had been seen. He believed himself still to be under the influence of enchant- ment, and was now more than ever anxious to find himself in Lucerne. He landed at Genoa; and he there heard that the inhabitants of the numerous towns and villages who held fast to the simple faith of their fathers still groaned under oppression. On the second day of his arrival, news came that this persecution had ceased altogether, by order of the Duke of Savoy, on the very day that Count Christofie had consulted the wondrous Astrologer at Malta ; and the story in Genoa ran, that a sudden conversion of the Duke's only daughter was the cause of this unlooked-for clemency. She was found one morning by her maids, it was said, reclining on her couch, so deeply engaged in perusing some sheets of manuscript before her as to be insensible to their approach, and they found that she had not disrobed, nor had sought slumber during the night ; nay, that without a pause for the daily arrangement of the toilette, she had sought her father in his bed-chamber, and after falling on her knees, and praying to Heaven for strength EVENINGS A.T HADDON HALL. to endure the consequences of the course she was about ta take, had declared to him that she would quit his palace, repair to tnd, and incite the Lord Protector of that Commonwealth (then regarded as the head of the Protes- tant interest in Europe) to make war upon his principality, unless persecution throughout it entirely ceased. Duke, who was ever influenced by the masculine mind of hia child, promised all she desired; and the latter refused to take meat or drink, or change her disordered apparel, until orders were despatched to publish the amnesty throughout the valleys of Piedmont. To this intelligence was added, that the writings which had ultimately wrought such a joyful amelioration in the condition of his country- men had been found in a cell from which an heretic pii-oner had escaped some three years previous, and which had been from that time unoccupied. Arrived at Lucerne, he had the happiness of finding all he had heard at Genoa perfectly true, and of receiving the highest reward a son can take from the hands of a parent — the blessing of his aged father, to whom alone he imparted his share in restoring the peace of the valley. The words of the Astrologer still rung in his ears, promising him success and good fortune in all his under- takings, lie resolved not to be distrustful of the augury, already in part so wonderfully realised, but go forward to the New World with the companions he had engaged to join. This i esolution was no sooner taken, than a mes by one of the chamberlains of Lady Ludovica invited him to her presence, with an intimation that her influence with father was at his command, to obtain any post of honour, advantage, or privilege, he might desire. The terms of the invitation left no doubt of the anxiety of his fair and distinguished convert to see him. Men posse- THE ASTROLOGER. 229 of a less susceptible mind would have rushed exultingly to so flattering and propitious an interview, but the Count recoiled therefrom, instantly resolving not to retard his departure from Europe a single day. His hand had smitten the form of this lady : and his eyes could never again knowingly meet hers; though her kindness towards him assured him that her forgiveness was sincere, his ears could not endure to hear her lips pronounce it ; his manliness would receive a shock therefrom, and all the purpose of his existence be paralyzed, by the abasement ol that moment. To carry out the prediction of the Astrologer, he fled the patronage of his sovereign's daughter, all-powerful as he knew her to be. The lady was astonished at this disdain of her favour, and sent to the Astrologer, in Malta, to learn its cause. He declared — "that the destinies of both the Count and herself forbade another interview in this world ; and that, having accomplished her glorious work of pacification, her own end was nigh." Had the Count and herself, he said, met after the wonderful effect produced on her mind by the former's written pages, their feelings would have been too deeply interested in each other to have parted ; and the impossibility of their union, and her own short space of life, must have lessened the power of the former to accomplish the great cause to which she would die a martyr. This noble lady expired shortly afterwards, from poison administered by a villain, in hopes of finding favour with Rome. So was fulfilled, to the letter, the prediction of the Astrologer. Near to the Lady Eva was seated a venerable diplo- matist, who had known her from her cradle, and felt for 230 EVENINGS AT IIAddon BALL. her all the tender attachment of a lather. When the fore- going tale was concluded, the Lady Eva arose, but paused, as if in doubt whether she might venture to solicit this dear old friend to assist her project; at length, conquering her feeling of shyness, she glided gently behind the Baron's chair, and affectionately resting hoth her beautiful arms on his shoulders, held before him a drawing repre- senting an Italian landscape, with a marble fountain, and a guitar lying on the steps leading to it. As the graceful Eva bent forward, her rich and luxuri- ant ringlets softly caressed the furrowed cheeks of the old Diplomatist, whilst she whispered — "Will it tax your indulgent goodness too much to fulfil my request?" And here let us observe, that the Baron's appearance did truly embody the very ideal of "indulgent goodness." 1 1 is silver hair partly shaded a forehead replete with wisdom and profound observation, whilst the expression of his eyes and mouth was so redolent of sweet benevolence, that he never failed to awaken confidence in the pure and young. Often, indeed, had he been heard to say, that the brightest pages he had learned in the history of the human heart were from the outpourings of young and unsophisticated minds. Fondly pressing the Lady Eva's tiny hand in his, he said, " Dear child, I am too old to weave the web of fiction; but, strange to say, this print evokes in my memory some scenes of days long gone by; and often have you reminded me of the interesting girl who was the heroine of that tale." Then sighing, as he fondly gazed on Eva's speaking countenance, he added, " You are fair and good as sin; was, Bweet maiden. May you enjoy a happier destiny ' The Baron then proceeded to relate :he story of THE GUARDIAN ANRET,. 231 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. In the opening of the spring of 1829, when Paris, by its gaieties and fetes, was attracting and enthralling the natives of every part of Europe, the young and noble diplomatist, the Marquis de Querancy, was suddenly ordered to proceed without delay to Naples, with important despatches. To any other Frenchman, such an order at that moment would have conveyed inexpressible annoy- ance. But even Paris had failed to rekindle one throb of pleasure in the mind of De Querancy. All things seemed to him tasteless and hollow in the most brilliant salons he frequented. Did a murmur of applause direct his atten- tion to any new beauty among the many syrens of the day, his calm and passionless countenance reflected neither emotion nor admiration. In such a temper of mind, it could be no grief to him to leave Paris ; and having but a few hours to prepare for his journey, he determined not even to make a single visit of adieu, except to a young Englishman, Clarence Russell, with whom he had travelled in the East, where they had become intimate, and much attached to each other. Clarence Russell, like the gene- rality of his countrymen, ever desirous of change of scene, proposed, on the spur of the moment, to accompany him to Naples, an offer which was gladly accepted by De Querancy, and the two friends left Paris together. It had been the Marquis de Querancy's intention to travel day and night till they reached Naples, but when they came within sight of the Eternal City, Clarence Russell mentioned, for the first time, that he had never seen Rome. " Of course, my dear Arthur," he added, " you will indulge me by remaining here one night ? I J32 I \ BNING8 \ l II \Mm>.\ II ALL. care only to visit St. Peter's in the morning, and will be ready to start immediately after." De Querancy felt it would be too churlish to refuse his friend so natural a desire, but it was with a heavy Bigh that he consented to it. Alas! Rome, the mighty sepulchre of the martyred saints, the great and the wise of yore, was also the sepul- chre of all the .Marquis's earthly hopes. When the friends drove up to Cemy's well-known el, Piazza di Spayna, it was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and having ordered dinner for seven, they sauntered forth in that listless way usual to travellers who want to kill time in the interim due for the preparation of meals. Wrapt up in his own sad thoughts, De Querancy followed Clarence Russell whichever road he chose to lead. After walking some time, the latter called his friend's intention to a neighbouring height, crowned with those glorious pine-trees so peculiar to Rome, expressing a wish to reach the spot on which they grew, and they found themselves in the Pamphili Doria gardens. It was about the middle of April ; some gentle showers had fallen in the early part of the day, as if to refresh the verdure, and bring forth a thousand balmy odours. Who has ever visited Koine without lingering with delight in the shades of Pamphili Doria? There the pine-trees n-\<j:n supreme in their melancholy ; the Parma violets grow wild; and the grass is peculiarly enamelled at this season with anemones ; — in short, there is a wild romance about these haunts that well becomes the Eternal City. Clarence Russell proposed to rest awhile on the marble is of a beautiful fountain, admirably situated under a natural arch of noble trees, and where a cascade seemed to pour forth showers of diamonds, its waters sparkling under the bright rays of an Italian sun. De Querancy THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 233 approached this fountain slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. Unhappy man ! Blindfold he could have led the way. On the last step there was a guitar, with a white ribbon attached to it. Clarence Russell, passionately fond of music, snatched it up, and began singing that well- known Neapolitan melody — " Ah, che soffrir mi resta !"* Often and often had De Querancy heard that air sung in vai'ious salons in Europe ; but when at this moment, and on this spot, it burst upon his ear, all the long pent- up emotions of anguish broke forth, and, gasping for breath, he hid his face in his hands, and wept like a child ! Clarence, startled and amazed, ceased singing, and placing his hand on his friend's shoulder, exclaimed, " Good God ! my dear Arthur, what can move you thus ? Far be it from me to surprise a confidence from any one ; but I have more than once felt the relief which springs from sympathy and friendship. Say, Arthur, shall I leave you alone, or will you confide your grief to one who has long watched, with affectionate anxiety, the settled sadness which pervades your every action ?" "Clarence," replied Arthur, "well do I know your frank and manly character, and that a mind like yours will pity rather than ridicule my weakness. I will, there- fore, as you desire it, try to give you an insight into my chequered life, nor attempt to palliate the faults and errors which have tended to cast an irreparable blight over my whole existence." Clarence warmly pressed his friend's hand, and Arthui began : — "My father perished on the scaffold during the fury of the Revolution, a martyr to his religious and politica. * Written by Prince Pignatelli, the night previous to his execution. 231 EVENINGS AT J A.UioN HALL. creed. He Kir em inconsolable widow, wholly devoted to his memory, and who clung to life only to fulfil his dying injunction to educate me, their only child, in those loyal sentiments for which he had died. All my Dearest rela- tions trod the same path of duty, serving the cause of legitimacy to the last, either in the wars of La Vendee, or in upholding their followers while struggling in manifold ways against those monsters of iniquity who have cast an eternal hlot on the fair pages of French history. To these fatal remembrances, and also to the wild Union legends— to which I listened in childhood with pleasing dread — do I trace that melancholy so unusual to my countrymen, which, even in those times, affected my mind. How shall I describe to you all the. tenderness of my mother — that best of women — who, during the emigra- tion, denied herself every extra comfort to bestow on me an enlightened education, and -rant me every indulgence my young mind could anticipate'." "On the restoration of the Bourbons, we left Bath, the retreat chosen by my mother during our exile from France, and returned to the home of my ancestors — an old French chateau, near Nantes. I became naturally anxious to see something of the world, but delayed ex- pressing my earnest wishes from filial piety to that revered parent, who rested her whole happiness in me. My fortune being uowise proportioned to the nobility of my birth, the army or the navy were the careers I sighed for; but when I merely glanced at these projects, a pang of anguish disturbed the sweet serenity of my mother's still handsome countenance. 'I had anxiously prayed, my Arthur/ she exclaimed, 'that you might not choose the military career, for it has been ever fatal to all of your name. Think not, my son, that I thus oppose your wishes to THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 235 satisfy my selfish love; I feel that the dull life you lead in these remote parts is unfit for one of your character and age. I only wish to aid your choice. Few careers are more promising than diplomacy; and I have some interest at the present moment with our ambassador at Rome, who is one of your lamented father's oldest friends. I should be proud to see you introduced into society under his tutelar care. He was ever my type of all that wins and commands respect in the aristocracy. Most truly did Madame de Stael describe the Due de L. M. as " the first gentleman of France." ' "I renounced, with much regret, my military plans, but felt amply compensated in sacrificing my wishes to those of this admirable mother. To an Englishman, this entire submission to a parent may appear overstrained ; for, on reaching manhood, your first impulse is total emancipation from home, and the shackles of womanly influence. "With us, the holy ties of gratitude bind us all our lives to the will of her who gave us birth. Hence the great moral influence women exercise throughout France. To woman's gentle sway may be attributed the intimacy kept up through life in French families, which you have often pronounced so patriarchal, while you lamented that it was rarely, if ever, to be found in England. " On my coming of age, my mother wrote to ask the Due de L. M. to have me appointed to the French embassy at Rome; and by return of post he answered, with his usual gracious kindness, that the son of his ever-lamented friend should find in him a second father. " I think it worth mentioning a strange incident, which happened the day before I left home — unheeded at the time, but which has since proved a foreshadowing of my future fate. " Among our tenants was an old peasant, called Dame 236 EVENINGS \ I' B ADDON EAiL. Marguerite, supposed by the surrounding peasantry, who, ai Brittany, are mosl superstitious, to have the gift of Becond Bight. She was grandmother to my nurse, had received a superior sort of education for her rank in her liiV, and had often attracted me in childhood by her love <>t* fairy stories. I always entertained a kindly feeling towards the aged sybil, so I turned into her cottage to take leave of her; and remembering the supernatural gifts attributed to her, (though incredulous to their re- ality,) begged Dame Marguerite to tell me my fortune, and held out my hand to her, that she might peruse the lines therein, according to custom. "The aged woman gazed on me long and sorrowfully; then bid me remain in ignorance, 'For,' added she, in her wonted figurative mode of expression, 'the traveller should set forth with a light heart, not to faint on the way.' " I then insisted on her explaining the mysterious sense of her allusion. "'Woe to me/ said Dame Marguerite, in her low hut impressive voice, 'for I look on the last scion of the time- honoured house of Querancy ! To you, also, the month of April will be fatal ! Shun women and music.' "I chid my venerable soothsayer for her evil omen-. Thewarning concerning April was natural enough, for in that month my father was guillotined ; but as to the two latter prohibitions, I told Dame Marguerite that without them life was little worth. "I never mentioned this anecdote to my mother, who behaved on this trying occasion — her first separation for a lengthened period from me — with her wonted fortitude; not a murmur escaped her lips ; but to offer up prayers in her lonely retreat for her child's happiness, was hence- forth her sole vocation on earth. "I arrived at Rome on the 20th of April, 1817. Ii THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 237 was the residence of all others most suited to my pursuits, for I was born an innate artist. The embassy was a home to me in every sense ; the general society delightful ; but ere long, one house became my chosen resort in preference to all others. This was the Villa Manno, the residence of Uberto Manno, the most remarkable person in Rome at that epoch. " This eminent artist — Roman by birth, painter by profession — was the honoured guest of the great and the talented of all countries. The fine arts were hereditary in his family. Uberto Manno's racy wit and pungent satire charmed alike his friends and terrified his enemies ; his rapid conceptions, and graphic pencil, raised him to a proud eminence among his brother artists. To these he was courteous and generous in the extreme, his purse and advice ever liberally given ; but to the great and noble he could, at times, assume a haughtiness of demeanour which became well his democratic principles, if their talents or conduct equalled not their worldly advantages. All the softer shades of Manno's character shone forth in his intense love for his only child, Virginia ; her mother had died in giving her birth. It is well-nigh impossible to do justice to the endearing charms of this angelic being. Her features were pure as those of the first blonde virgins of Raphael ; her figure light ; her step elastic as a sylphid's ; her long swan-like throat inclined rather forward, as if the sentle maiden bent under the constant admiration she called forth from each passing observer. To Uberto s deep regret, she possessed not the family talent of paint- ing, but her talents for music were surpassingly great. When at the piano, singing hymns to the Virgin, she seemed the personification of a St. Cecilia ; and yet was most touching when singing to the guitar that same air 238 EVEN l NG8 \ T HADDON B \ LI. which so powerfully affected me jusl now. — A ravishing mixture of saint and of Bylphid ; sometimea she looked too ideal-like for human love; and then, the momenl after, would enchant one by dancing the saltarella in the Roman costume, with the buoyant joyfulness so peculiar to her sweet self. " At the end of May, Rome is quite deserted, for the malaria reigns in all its loathsome vigour, and few care to brave this infectious malady; for me, spell-bound by the attractions of the Manno villa, I remained the whole sum- mer. Too brief were the hours, the days, I passed with Uberto .Manno and his daughter, devoted to the cultivation of the arts, and under all the illusions of a first love. How often, during the great heats, have we sat on these very steps, sketching, or reading the great poets of France and Italy alternately aloud, or listening to Virginia's seraph voice, accompanied by her favourite guitar! The only alloy to the rapturous existence I enjoyed, was the remembrance of all my mother's inveterate prejudices to my marrying one beneath me in birth; this prevented me at once telling my hopes and fears to Uberto, for I dared to hope that my presence was not indifferent to his fair daughter. Also, I had heard the painter declare that he would never consent to Virginia's marrying out of her own sphere ; and I had reason to know that more than one Italian noble had vainly tried to win her hand; but, full of sanguine hope, the best dower of the young, I thought time and constancy would level every obstacle, when a new- addition to Manno's family circle changed its aspect entirely. " The new comer was Ubcrto's nephew, Antonio Can Hi. lie was an orphan adopted by Manno, and his most pro- mising scholar. His uncle had often mentioned his talents THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 239 with pride, so I was fully prepared to regard him as a friend; but at our first interview, after one keen glance of his fiery eye round our daily group, I felt we were hence- forth rivals and enemies. Antonio was an ardent repub- lican, impetuous in every impulse. As a Frenchman, he hated me ; as a rival, he defied me in his inward soul ! Madly jealous of the admission of a stranger into his cousin's intimacy, whom he loved with all the fiery passion of a southern, he was ever on the watch, by means fair or foul, to find an opportunity to exclude me from a society so replete with bliss to us both. " Virginia was of too soft a nature to repulse any one, still less Antonio, whom she had regarded as a brother from her cradle. She submitted, with gentle patience, to the insolent sarcasms, and various inuendoes he daily poured into her ear, and would, when I was tasked by the young Italian beyond endurance, turn on me her dove- like eyes, as if to implore forbearance for her sake. " Fluctuating between my growing attachment to Vir- ginia and the certainty of my mother's displeasure, I con- tinued undecided how to shape my course, and felt truly miserable. One morning, on entering Uberto's studio, Virginia passed by me rapidly, but I had time to see that she was much agitated, and in tears. I found her father> brush in hand, pacing the room in a disordered manner, and speaking with vehemence to Antonio Carelli, who, on my appearance, left the studio, but cast on me, meanwhile, a withering look of hatred and triumph. " ' Marquis de Querancy,' exclaimed Uberto Manno, fixing on me his eagle eye, as if to road my inmost thoughts, ' you behold in me a most unhappy parent ! For the first time my child dares to disobey me, in oppos- ing herself to the fond scheme of my life, to see her united ~ 10 I \ i.v [NGS \ r QADDON BALL. to Antonio Carelli, my besl and most promising scholar that my works, my family relics, might be bequeathed to the two dearest objects 1 have on earth.' "I was stunned with this unforeseen disclosure. On recovering myself, my lirst impulse was intense joy at Virginia's open repugnance to a union with her cousin ; and forgetting all things in my love for her, 1 would hav< implored her lather to bestow her hand on me, as the dearest boon lite could afford, but I detected a lurking sneer on Uberto's lips, as he awaited my answer. I fan- cied, that, instigated by my wily rival, Uberto only sought to provoke the offer of my hand and fortunes, to reject both with scorn. Ancestral prid< resumed its sway, and hiding my deep emotion, I merely uttered some common- place phrases about offering my best wishes for his and his daughter's happiness. 1 left the Villa Mannofor the first time dejected, resolving to absent myselt' from it for a time, and yet watch, unseen, if Virginia became too easily amenable to her father's wishes. An excellent opportunity occurred to me to follow up this plan, and give the irri- tated artist time to cool over his lirst resentment at my thus crossing his favourite scheme. "My mother wrote to me at this time, to desire me to enact the part of cicerone to the noble family of J)e ( son, neighbours of ours in Brittany. As winter was fast approaching, they proposed to me to devote the last days of autumn in visiting the most celebrated spots in the environs of Rome, such as Albano, Tivoli, &c. I agreed willingly, for I sought distraction of any kind, and was pleased at having social duties forced upon me. "In the De Gosson sty] met, for , the first time, the beautiful Countess Zamoysky, a Pole. And here I must dwell at some length on this woman, who, by her THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 211 dazzling beauty and treacherous arts, exerted such a fatal influence in separating me for ever from fHp only woman I truly loved. " Painters have vainly tried to reproduce the perfect loveliness of Madame Zamoysky's features. Her glorious black eyes ; her luxuriant dark hair, braided on her high and intellectual forehead ; the perfect oval of her face ; the rich tints of her complexion, are to be found only in Raphael's Madonna della Seggiola,* or in Domenichino's Sybil in the Capitol ; then her figure was like the Diane Chasseresse, so truly proud and commanding in every aspect — in every gesture. She was the admired of all, but loved by none. Public report described her as accept- ing universal homage as her due ; but perfectly passion- less, and of spotless reputation, though united to a man much her senior in years, and wholly unworthy of her. The Count Zamoysky was a mean, cringing courtier, making poor attempts at wit, aud gladly sheltering his nonentity under the shadow of his wife's celebrity, to fre- quent every house open to society, where otherwise he would have been voted an into^rable bore. " A young Russian princ" at the time insinuated to me, that the lovely Pole had more than once taken plea- sure in drawing on young and inexperienced men, to study the intensity of their youthful adoration for her charms, and when they dared to claim the reward due to their devotion, rejected them with scorn and derision ; but this I listened to ds the calumny that too often attacks women of superior beauty, shielded by equal virtue. My own heart filled with the image of Virginia, I feared not to indulge in all the gratification I derived from Madame Zamoysky's various talents and fascinating manners. * At the Palais Pitti, in Florence. & 2 1:2 i en*] jfoa at ii \i)i)u\ ii all. "Towards the winter, foreigners began to pom- into Rome from all sides. The carnival promised to be un- usually brilliant; and at every fete .Madame Zamoysky i hi' magnet of attraction — the cynosure of all < " She attended regularly Uberto Manno's Monday evenings, where the fair Virginia presided, and did the honours of her father's house with matchless grace. These soirees were delightful, for there, mixed with the D eminent artists of all countries, was to be seen, in turn, each illustrious traveller passing through Rome. In re- turn, Uberto Manno and his daughter were invited to all the embassies and best houses then open in Rome. The painter accepted these invitations, not from a wish to soar above his equals in rank, but as a tribute paid to the divine art, of which he was the most ardent votary. "On my return from our excursions in the environs, I remarked, in my morning visits to Uberto, that Virginia was no longer to be seen in his studio; so I was obi to defer, till the next .Monday evening, my purpose of learning, from her own lips, her reasons for rejecting Hi's love. Her answer, I was resolved, should decide my future course. Dancing and music were equally re- sorted to at Manno's soirees. During a waltz with Vir- ginia, I ventured to allude to her sorrow, which I had involuntarily witnessed, also her unusual absence from her father's studio ; and told her how- painful both these cir- cumstances had been to me. A bright blush suffused her cheek, and her little hand trembled in mine, seeming to bid me hope my affection was returned, when Carelli sud- denly interrupted us by claiming Virginia's hand for the saltarella, just asked for at the express desire of Madame Zamoysky, who, leaning on the young painter's arm, said she would take no refusal. The whole assembly made way THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 243 in the centre of the room for the youthful couple, who performed their native dance with grace and vivacity. Never did Virginia look to more advantage than on that night, dressed in virgin white, as was her invariable cus- tom, her beautiful blonde hair richly plaited round her head, her soft blue eyes downcast, as if unwilling to en- counter the general gaze of admiration her dancing called forth. " ' Does not Virginia remind you/ said Madame Za moysky, ' of those graceful dancing figures on the Etruscan vases V Then, following my eyes, jealously riveted or Virginia's every movement, she continued, ' How admi- rably they contrast at this moment ! Behold Carelli's manly figure, seeming to uphold the aerial nymph-like form which now clings to him for support — now turns away in affected coyness. What a pity/ added she, as if thinking aloud, ' that her mind is not as candid as her angelic countenance would seem to denote, and that, by an unpardonable spirit of coquetry, she persists in distressing her doting father and devoted lover/ " I asked, abruptly, if their engagement had been long known ? " ' When I was here last winter/ answered Madame Zamoysky, ' Carelli, who is a great protege of mine, in- formed me of their mutual attachment, and that their youth alone retarded their marriage. But he now tells me, that on his late return from Russia, he found Virginia altered, and capricious in the extreme ; but he knows that it is only to put his love to the test, for that her heart is his, and his only/ " Knowing that she must soon hear it from others, I frankly avowed to Madame Zamoysky my unabated love for Virginia, assuring her, at the same time, how totally 2 1 1 1\ ENING8 AT II.VDDON HALL. unconscious I was till now of her previous attachment tc ner cousin. "I left Manuo's house without attempting to resume my broken conversation with Virginia, for the mere sus- picion of her having trilled with my feelings wounded me to the soul; and besides, Carelli never left her side for the rest of the evening. " The next day, when I calmly reflected on the past, 1 called reason to my aid, and ended in convincing myself that, to my sorrow, I had mistaken Virginia's endearing sweetness of countenance and manners for a warmer feel- ing. I could not bear to suppose so guileless a being could voluntarily inflict the pangs I felt ; then I thought on Carelli, and pride came to my aid. Was I, the son of one of the noblest houses in Brittany, to dispute Virginia's heart, inch by inch, with a low-born artist, and by so doing incur the lasting displeasure of my beloved mother? No — never ! I would strive to forget Virginia, whose greatest charm, in my eyes, was gone, for I had hoped to win a virgin heart. I thought, with gratified pride, on the unfeigned sympathy shown me by Madame Zamoy and sought her society more than ever. How it humbles me, Clarence, to show myself to you, whom I so honour and esteem, in such a despicable light ! Yet such was my miserable infatuation for Madame Zamoysky, that it hur- ried me on, step by step, to the renouncing of a pearl without price — to be ensnared by the specious wiles of one, who, like the ignis fatuus, beguiles the benighted traveller but to lead him to destruction. " One of Madame Zamoysky's greatest attractions in my eyes, was the respectful admiration she testified for my mother, from the various details she had learnt from the De Gossons. How she won me by dwelling with THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 24.J e.oquence on the sorrow the disparaging union of her only son would give her ! Then, if in our walks to the galleries, or during our musical repetitions, the theme of love was mentioned, how glowing were her thoughts on that subject, how touchingly she would deplore the misery of conjugal life unblessed by mutual sympathies ! At such moments as these, I thought her the most interest- ing of her sex, and felt proudly happy that this lovely woman should thus single me out from the crowd of admirers watching for a smile, to impart to me alone her hidden sorrows, ever carefully veiled from the public eye by a haughty reserve. " The winter passed most rapidly. I now no longer frequented the Villa Manno in the morning ; and when I met Virginia, which was but seldom, at the different balls and parties, her manner was frigidly cold. A bare recog- nition passed between us. This I ascribed to her entire return of Carelli' s affection. " One evening, at Madame Zamoysky's house, tableaux were proposed. The most successful were, Virginia as a Virgin of Carlo Dolci, and the Countess Zamoysky as the Sybil of Domenichino. This latter tableau caused enthu- siastic admiration. Manno and Carelli were the director? of the whole. When the tableaux were over, Carelli ap proached Madame Zamoysky, exclaiming with transport— ' You were indeed an object to bow down before and wor- ship, as the ideal of beauty, and a new source of inspiration to us artists ! ' " Indignant at the presumption of the young artist thus openly expressing his admiration to the fair Countess, I drew her arm through mine, and left the spot where Carelli stood. " ' You are wrong, Querancy,' said she, as if reading 246 l.\ l\ I NGS \ 1 HADD0N II VI. I .. my thoughts, f to blame as women for listening graciously to the artists' praise. Their homage is sincere — solely prompted by the love of their art; and then/ added she, in a soft murmur, ' I do feel a grateful triumph, if, for one night only, the Sybil has effaced the Virgin/ " I gazed on the fair Countess at these words ; and, as she stood, her lustrous eyes raised towards mine in all their radiant beauty, I must have been more than human not to yield to t lie rapturous triumph of that hour. I led her out on the moonlit terrace, and, for the first time, breathed words of passionate love into her ear. She lis- tened, and checked me not, and I thought a tear fell on my hand. When I paused for an answer, she recovered her usual composure, and told me that another time she would chide me for my folly, but in so bewitching a man- ner that I could have wished to be reproved for ever by so lovely a monitress. Her husband called her in, to speak to some guest who was leaving the assembly, and thus we parted for several days. " I called repeatedly at her house, but was invariably answered that the Countess was too indisposed to receive. " During this interval, I had a conversation with Uberto Manno, which stung me to the quick. Latterly, he had resumed, whenever we met, his old familiarity — doubtless, no longer rinding in me an obstacle to his matrimonial plans for his daughter. Madame Zamoysky was the subject of conversation among the visitors present. On leaving the house where we had met, he followed me to the door, and, in a whisper, complimented me on the miracle I had effected, in touching the heart of one as dazzling in her beauty as she had been hitherto invul- nerable in her virtue. I writhed under the hidden satire of the father of Virginia, and this within the hearing of THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 2 '7 Carelli. A fearful doubt flashed across my mind. Was I, too, to be one of the many dupes formerly alluded to by a friend ? I resolved to demand an interview of Madame Zamoysky, and probe her very heart. I wrote, accord- ingly, a most emphatic letter, imploring her, if I had not loved in vain, to wear, on the following Tuesday, a nosegay of white camelias, which I should offer to her on that day. Should she not grant my supplication, I resolved instantly to leave Rome, and endeavour to forget one who had led me to believe that my fondest hopes were about to be realized. " I named Tuesday, for that day had been proposed previously by Madame Zamoysky, as a sort of farewell party to her immediate circle of friends in Rome. The remaining days that preceded the one so fraught with in- terest to me were spent in a state of feverish excitement ; my whole destiny seemed, by the agony of suspense I en- dured, to be summed up in that one day. " Tuesday at length arrived, and a more beautiful clay never gladdened the opening spring. Though early in April, the weather was warm enough to allow the repast to be laid out on the grass, just within sight of this spot where we now sit. All the details of the pic-nic were or- ganized by the Count Zamoysky, who, in such matters, enjoyed an undisputed supremacy. " I watched, meanwhile, with torturing anxiety, each carriage that arrived, till the object of my solicitude, Madame Zamoysky, appeared in her all-surpassing loveli- ness, carrying in her hand the nosegay of camelias already mentioned. When I approached, she received me with her brightest smiles, and allowed me to pick from her nosegay a bud, which I proudly wore near my heart for the rest of that eventful day. 2-18 EVENINGS A'] HADDON HALL. " Never did this fair enchantress exert to greater ad- vantage her powers of captivation. Judge of the rapture of my soul, to feel that all these blandishments were ex- d for me, and me only. " The weather seemed to exhilarate the spirits of all present ; the women were beautiful, the men all animation. Additional zest was given to the pic-nic by the unlooked- for apparition of a band of strolling Hungarian gipsies in their fanciful costume; and many youthful couples were to be seen eagerly inquiring from them of their future destiny. Only late in the afternoon, Uberto Manno and Jus daughter joined our party. Carelli hastened to her side, with the tender eagerness of an affianced lover. A young Russian tenor had just been singing his national airs to the guitar, and a general wish was expressed that Virginia should favour us with a song. She appeared much distressed at the request, and said, she feared her voice would fail her. But Carelli besought her to try only one verse of ' Ah, chc soffrir !' which was ever her song of I ileet ion. Was it, my fancy? As she turned to reply, her dark blue eye; met mine, and 1 thought I read in them reproach, and deep anguish. Her father hastily whis- pered to her, and instantly Virginia made an effort to sing. She murmured, rather than sung, the touching complaint of the Neapolitan poet; but so heartfelt was the expres- sion she gave, that each breath was hushed to catch the low tones of her seraphic voice. She soon paused, and, with artless grace, begged of .Madame Zamoysky to finish . adding, that she would do more justice to the composition than was in her power to effect. Then, com- plaining of the damp of the evening, she rose to return borne, followed by her father and Carelli. '• A fast ebbing tide of pure and happy recollections THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 249 rushed through my memory, as I watched that fairy form vanish in the distance ; for I looked for the last time on her, who will be to me, while life lasts, ' the day-star of memory/ " The Countess Zamoysky roused me from my reverie by the impassioned fervour with which she sang. She electrified all present. Virginia was forgotten in the en- thusiasm of applause bestowed on the lovely virtuoso. "At that moment one of the gipsies renewed her whining importunities to tell me my fortune. A pang shot across my heart, for she made a long-forgotten chord vibrate in my memory — the predictions of Dame Marguerite, apparently about to be fulfilled. " Was not the month of April fatal to me and mine ? Was not my whole soul enslaved by woman's charms — enhanced by music's softest strains ? " It had been agreed upon that the same party should meet again in the evening at Madame Zamoysky' s house. Manno and his daughter did not come, but Carelli did ; and I observed that he talked long and earnestly to the fair Countess. I vainly strove to speak to her a moment in private ; though I had never witnessed her whole de- meanour more soft and yielding, still I fancied she avoided giving me an opportunity to speak to her alone. " I remembered that the Count Zamoysky was en- gaged to play whilst at the Russian embassy, and would certainly not return home before two in the morning. I therefore determined on creating an opportunity to solve all my doubts respecting Madame Zamoysky's senti- ments. " At eleven, the company began to leave, and I feigned to leave also; but, thoroughly acquainted with every issue of the apartment, on finding myself alone in 250 EVENINGS AT EADDON BALL. the last drawing-room, I turned into a door on the left that led into the Library, and which, 1 was aware, op I into Madame Zamoysky's boudoir. The library was lit by a single lamp. I was just enabled to find my way to the window, where I hastily concealed myself behind the thick damask curtains, in the deep embrasure of the window common to old Roman palaces. From it I could watch unseen whatever passed in the great receiving room, the windows of which were exactly opposite, and left open on the terrace. Thus I should be enabled, on seeing the last guest depart, to emerge from my retreat, and obtain the interview I so ardently sought. " Soon after, I beheld the Countess alone j she re- mained wrapt in thought for a short time, her beautiful head resting on her arm, supported by the piano. She then drew from her bosom a small note, and, on perusing the contents, an air of soft regret subdued the brilliancy of her dazzling beauty. Might it not have been my letter she was reading, and perhaps despising me for the timid diffidence that restrained me from pouring forth my vows of passionate love at her feet ? " She roused herself, and, tearing the letter with a haughty air that became her well, left the room. The lights were all extinguished j the clock struck twelve — each stroke resounded on my beating heart. I listened to the retiring steps of the servants — then all was silent. " I soon after heard distinctly the Countess's voice in the adjoining boudoir, dismissing her maid, and telling her that she would write till the Count's return home. " Then only I ventured to leave my retreat, when, to my utter consternation, I heard a carriage roll into the court, and Monsieur Zamoysky's voice in the outer room, already described. Thus all retreat was cut off. He en« THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 251 tered the library, giving rue barely time to screen myself again from view, and in the perturbation of this crisis I upset a flower-stand, actually placed in the window where I stood. " Zamoysky, guided by the noise, walked straight up to the window, and tore the curtains open. His wife, equally attracted by the same noise, entered from her own door, and found me face to face with her husband ! " The Count demanded of me what was my purpose in being thus suspiciously concealed in the vicinity of his wife's apartment at this hour of the night, and if he was to conclude it was with her consent. " This demand gave Madame Zamoysky time to re- cover herself ; and with admirable presence of mind, and all the dignity of offended virtue that conscious innocence ought alone to impart, she addressed herself to me, saying she defied me, by word or deed on her part, to exonerate myself from the outrage I had offered her, in thus invad- ing the sanctity of her privacy ; and then added, with galling irony, that it was a well-known weakness of Mon- sieur de Querancy's, to imagine his love acceptable where it was wholly unrequited. She then implored of Monsieur Zamoysky to forgive my youthful presumption, more to be pitied than resented, and retired into her apartment. " While she still spoke, the veil which had hitherto obscured my blinded intellect had fallen for ever ! Her beauty seemed to me abhorrent, since it was but the mask of a soul stained with perfidy of the darkest dye. That voice, which a few hours before I had compared to a syren's, sounded harsh and discordant, from the utterance of premeditated falsehood. " Powerless — for there is no vengeance to be wreaked on a woman — maddened, and reckless, life appeared to .~.kZ EVENINGS AT II \!>l>o\ HALL. me an intolerable burthen. Gladly would I have offered a defenceless breast to the weapon of an injured husband. Animated by tins feeling, I scorned all subterfuge, and declared to the Count Zamoysky that 1 came there re- aolved not to leave an art untried to seduce his wife from the path of conjugal duty, and therefore awaited his wishes, to give every satisfaction to his offended honour. " He sternly interrupted me by saying, ' Is it not enough, sir, that your audacious presumption has exposed a blameless wife to the comments of my servants, without incurring further publicity and scandal to her fair fame by a duel ? Her wishes are ever my law. I merely re- quest your absence from Home for a time, and trust, for the future, you will refrain from measuring a virtuous woman's high sense of duty by the laxity of yours!' " Struck dumb by such an odious combination of treachery and meanness, I fled from the house, like one pursued by avenging furies. I returned to the embassy, and, late as it was, demanded an audience of the Due de L. M. After briefly relating my miserable discom- fiture, I appealed to his paternal kindness to help me to have this now hateful city, and, if possible, enable me to hide my cruel disappointments by some far distant diplomatic appointment. " The Due de L. M. soothed my youthful anguish with fatherly kindness, then wrote on the moment a letter to the minister of foreign affairs, in Paris, begging of him to forward my wishes. This done, I ordered post-horses, and before daylight was on my way to France. " Hitter were the reflections that tormented me on my cheerless road home, which same road, but a year before, I had travelled buoyant with the exhilarating visions of early youth. But the deepest sorrow I felt was, to have THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 253 become an object of contempt to Virginia, and ridicule to the sarcastic Uberto Manno. " Fortune favoured me so far, that I was enabled to effect an exchange with a brother diplomate, who was to have started within a few days for Rio Janeiro, but who gladly consented to take my vacant post at Rome. " I had but one day to devote to my poor mother. Our meeting was a sad one, for she was painfully alarmed by the alteration of my whole appearance. In reply to her tender inquiries, I merely glanced at an unfortunate attachment to one already engaged; for I cared not to sully her pure mind by the fulsome tale of Madame Zamoysky's heartless coquetry; nor until this day have these details ever passed my lips. My mother saw me so firmly bent on trying to divert my cares by total change of scene, that she encouraged the idea ; and thus I left my home for the second time, and joined at l'Orient a schooner bound for America. " I spent nearly two years in the Brazils. When free from my diplomatic duties, I made long excursions into the interior parts, and occupied myself principally with botanical researches, for which I have a decided taste. I loved to explore those sublime solitudes, and reflect on the overthrow of such mighty empires to fulfil the inscrutable decrees of Providence ! Among these great wrecks of the past, I tried to forget my pigmy sorrows, and sought oblivion of the hard lesson taught my wounded heart by the hollow arts of European civilisation. " Towards the second spring of my stay in the Brazils, I joined a large party of travellers bound to the northern parts. On the third day after our depai'ture from Rio Janeiro, my attention was arrested by an Italian artist relating the consternatiou he had witnessed at Rome, 254 BVENING8 AT EADDOX HALL. occasioned by the Buicide of a most promising young brother artist, Antonio Carelli. Inexpressibly shocked at this news, I eagerly asked the Italian for further details. " ' It appears/ he replied, ' that at the last exposition <>t' modern paintings in Rome, his picture of 'Tin- Guardian Angel' was pronounced unanimously to be the finest pro- duction of the times. It created tenfold interest from the well-known fact, that his source of inspiration was his affianced bride, the lovely Virginia Manno. Favoured in love and by the arts, his rash act of self-destruction will ever remain a mystery. The day after his triumph, he was found dead in his studio ! His unhappy cousin, over- come by this fatal blow, has retired for a time, to give vent to her grief, in the convent on Monte Pincio, at Rome.' " "What a succession of thoughts and projects whirled through my brain on hearing of this unforeseen event ! But one idea was all absorbing — Virginia was again free; and my first, my unforgotten love, might still be mine I (nielli's untimely end led me to conclude that Virginia had not repaid his love. Like me, might she not have been the victim of Carelli's arts, prompted by the Countess Zamoysky ? " My resolution was soon taken ; once more restored to hope, all future obstacles seemed easy to overcome. In- stead of prosecuting this journey, I would return to Europe by a ship which was to sail the following week. "I pleaded urgent business to excuse my abrupt departure from my fellow-travellers; and having obtained astrong mule, resolved not to delay a moment till I could reach some public conveyance to take me back to Rio Janeiro. "The sky was dark and lowering; a low wind clearly THE GTTARDIAN ANGEL. 255 indicated the coming storm. All my companions endea- voured to turn me from braving alone in the forests the coming tempest. Their friendly advice was lost on my unwilling ears. They knew not of the fair prize which would have tempted me to encounter far greater dangers. We parted company, and I rode on like one impelled by irresistible fate. The storm raged about me with terrific fury. My faltering mule, blinded by a vivid flash of forked lightning, came down on its knees, and threw me on some fragments of broken pillars, where I lay a sense- less heap amid the fury of the elements. " I afterwards learnt that I was found by a Jew pedlar merchant returning to his home, a sort of place of way- fare to benighted travellers in those solitary parts. Like the good Samaritan, he picked me up, laid me across his mule, and conveyed me to his home. " On recovering my senses, my first question was to inquire the day of the month, on account of the vessel sailing for Europe. My host told me it was the first of April. I shuddered ; for again Dame Marguerite's warn- ings arose before me. I was seized with a burning fever, from the wet to which I had been exposed, and soon after became delirious, as I was afterwards told by this most hospitable Hebrew. I lay stretched on a bed of sickness for six weeks. My host had a good deal of medical know- ledge, and to his care — but, above all, to my youth and vigorous constitution — I owed my recovery. "This deplorable accident retarded my return to Europe for four months ; at last, after an unfavourable passage, I landed at Havre. My first impulse was to ask for a newspaper; judge of my despair on reading, that the daughter of the celebrated Uberto Manno had taken the irrevocable monastic vows, at the convent of the Monte 2'jC) EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Pincio, at Rome. Had it not been for the cruel mischance that delayed my return, I might have been in time t<» dissuade Virginia from her fatal resolution. Bereft of my la-t hope of happiness on earth, I Bought my mother's counsels. She recommended me more than ever to pursue my career. I obtained a special mission to the East, where I first met you, my valued friend. I have declined promotion, not to be tied to one particular spot; and thus I intend to lead the life of a wanderer, tasting of every excitement in turn. But, alas ! to you I confide that ' the heart — the heart is lonely still V Its last throb will be for the loved one immured for ever in yon dark convent walls ! " The friends rose to leave the gardens, when, again attracted by the form and workmanship of the guitar, already mentioned, De Querancy examined it more closely, and observed engraved on it the initials "V. M. ; 1817V' Struck by this mysterious coincideucc, he proposed to Clarence to obtain, if possible, further information on the subject, by inquiring at the Villa Pamphili Doria to whom this instrument belonged. AVhile he was speaking, a young girl ran up to them, claiming the guitar, saying, that she had been playing on it at the fountain, but having run home to attend her sick grandmother, she had been detained longer than she had expected. De Querancy asked her her name. She replied, " Vir- ginia T, echini." On hearing this name, he bid her lead them at once to her relation — for such he remembered to have been the name of Virginia .Manno's old nurse, whom she loved aud regarded as a second mother. A- they entered the room into which the young Italian introduced them, they found an elderly female spinning, evidently THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 257 suffering from the wasting effects of the malaria. On seeing De Querancy, Camilla Cecchini uttered an ex- clamation of surprise, not unmixed with pleasure. She greeted him as an old acquaintance, and said, " Ah, sig- nor, I little thought I should ever have had the honour of receiving you ! Sad, sad events have taken place since last we met ! " (And tears rolled down her face as she spoke.) " I see the purport of your visit," she added, looking at the guitar De Querancy still held in his hand ; " you must have already recognised it as belonging once to my dear young mistress, and wonder, doubtless, how it came into my humble possession." J)e Querancy bowed assent, and she spoke as follows : — " It was in 1818 that you left Rome, if I remember well. Soon after that time, my poor child (as the Sig- norina Manno u lowed me to call her) grew paler and more sorrowful every day. We all concluded that this deep grief was caused by her father's immovable resolution to unite her to her cousin Antonio Carelli, who vainly tried, by tenderness and violence in turn, to win her to listen to his love. She sought relief to her cares in the fulfilment of her pious and charitable duties, which ob- tained for her the touching surname of ' the Guardian Angel.-' It was this inspired her lover with his chef- d'oeuvre — since his death given to the nuns of Monte Pincio. My dear mistress's only solace was to sit for hours alone in her room, singing to the guitar. One even- ing she was thus employed, singing her favourite air, ' Ah, che soffrir mi resta ! ' when Carelli surprised her, and I heard him in bitter tones reproach her for her inexorable cruelty to him, and un- availing regrets for the worthless stranger. 1258 EVENING8 AT a ADDON BALL. "For the only time in her life, I believe, Virginia wai roused to anger. She told him, with dignity, that it \\a> jenerous to persecute one who had never for a moment deceived him ; that solely from obedience to her father she would accompany him to the altar, since he persisted in claiming an unwilling bride. 'Heartless one!' he ex- claimed, ' then be the results of this declaration on your head!' And he rushed from her presence. A few hours afterwards he committed the dark deed which has con- led his family to eternal sorrow. " My young mistress, on that day of dreadful memory, attended, as usual, morning mass at the Convent of Monte Pincio, where she was loved as a daughter by all the good nuns. "When I told her the fatal catastrophe, she was horror-struck, and accused herself of being the cause of Carelli's untimely end. Vainly I strove to console her; she bid me leave her, to find comfort in solitude and prayer, for she dared not return home and face her father's anguish ! She judged rightly. Uberto Manno declared he would never forgive her in the tirst ebullition of his fiery passion. This was, unfortunately, repeated to his gentle child; and, heart-broken with remorse, she dedicated herself to a holy life of penance, in the hopes of dng for her involuntary share in her cousin's death. Too late, Uberto Manno demanded the return home of his only child. He was made aware of bervowj he mourned, but dared not oppose it. After her taking the habit, he Rome, and, I hear, seeks to forget the downfall of all his fondest hopes, in distant travels to the Eastern courts, where he is received with the royal hospitality due to his endid talents. " The day before my dear child pronounced the irre- vocable vows, she called me into her cell, and holding to THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 2~n> me yon guitar, she said, ' My good Camilla, I love you as. a mother ; therefore I wish to bequeath to you and yours a remembrance of me, and one of the things dearest to me on earth. Henceforth my voice shall only sing the praises of the Most High ! Nor/ added she, in a low whisper, ' could I look on this guitar without my memory straying back to earthly remembrances far too tender. Teach, y Camilla, your granddaughter, and my godchild, to sing to it the songs I loved best/ And as a relic have I treasured ever since that guitar, which, for the first time to-day, was taken out of my room by my grandchild to the fountain. " The Manno villa is now a deserted mansion. Though made independent for the rest of my days by the bounty of Uberto Manno, I consented to take charge of this villa, in the absence of the Prince Pamphili Doria, hoping to derive benefit to my health from its elevated situation." De Querancy thanked her warmly for all the details she had given, and rose to leave, when she beckoned hin: back, and whispered, " To-morrow is Easter Sunday ; she will sing at high mass \" The next morning Clarence went to St. Peter's, and De Querancy attended high mass at the chapel of the French convent of Monte Pincio. Strangers are admitted, for the nuns who sing are entirely concealed by a thick curtain, which screens them from public gaze. When the friends again met to proceed on their journey, De Querancy appeared wonderfully calm, and lq the evening ot that day he voluntarily spoke of his sen- sations in the convent. "Wildly," said he, "did my heart beat, when the solemn silence of prayer was broken by the unforgotten seraphic voice of my lost Virginia ! " The subject chosen, sung in Latin, signified, l The 260 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Lamb has redeemed his sheep j Christ, who was innocent, has reconciled sinners to his Father. 1 How render the convincing truth, the ineffable expression, the inspired singer gave to these sublime words? She infused into all present the glad tidings of mercy and hope. For me, my head buried in my hands, I knelt motionless, drinking m each sound of that loved voice ! When high mass was over, I remained alone in the chapel, overwhelmed with an intense feeling of solitude ; it seemed as if I had enjoyed a foretaste of heaven, but to feel still more my exile on earth. As I once more raised my dejected head, the bright rays of the noonday sun attracted my eyes to a picture on the side of the chapel ; there I beheld ill's beautiful conception of the Guardian Angel. There stood Virginia, arrayed in flowing robes of white; her fair hair, as if gently supported by the wind, formed a crown of golden glories round her angelic head; lid- azure eyes, beaming with a soft, but all-penetrating gaze, Beemed to search the depths of my desponding soul ; whilst her parted lips, and hand raised towards heaven, indicated that permanent rest was only to be found there. The kneeling Christian, clinging to her gown, his dark brow resplendent with genius, yet marked by doubt and grief, was a most faithful portrait of the unfortunate Carelli. Long — long did I dwell on this sublime picture, and as I did so, a holy calm entered my troubled soul j I felt invigorated with new and healthy ideas ; I knelt before this image of spotless purity — touching victim ot the unruly passions of men — and vowed to lead, hence- forth, a life more worthy of the love she had felt for me, by forgetting my own selfish sorrows in helping to assuage those of my fellow-creatures. " Before leaving the convent, I wrote to request of the THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 261 abbess to allow me to have a miniature copy of the chef d'eeuvre in their possession, and begged to offer a donation to the orphan asylum belonging to them. My two de- mands were graciously received. I thus learnt that sister Virginia had the orphan asylum under her special care ; she was described to me as a perfect saint on earth — so rigorous in her austerities, (though apparently delicate,) so indefatigable in her admirable charity to all. How my hand shook as I wrote my name in the book, with the exact date, among the various benefactors of the convent. I breathed a fervent prayer that my name might be read, at some future time, by the ' saint-like' Virginia, and — oh, blessed thought! — she would, perchance, rejoice in her holy influence over me." The sequel of this touching narrative was made known to me by Clarence, after his friend the Marquis de Que- rancy's death, which occurred in 1832. " Great," said he, "was the change wrought in my noble friend the Marquis de Querancy, dating from the time of his visit to the convent of Monte Pincio. No longer yielding to that' mournful apathy which had so long lulled the bright faculties of his powerful understanding, lie seemed upheld by some secret impulse, which led him onwards, unerringly, to every ennobling pursuit. " After having concluded most satisfactorily his diplo- matic mission to the court of Naples, he returned to Paris, and soon afterwards spoke, for the first time, in the Cham- ber of Peers. All present were filled with respectful ad- miration at the sentiments he professed on that occasion ; his unaffected piety, fervent patriotism, and extended views of benevoleuce, were worthy of the disciple of Chateau- briand, and portrayed with the vivid eloquence of Berryer 262 EVENINGS at BA0DON BALL. " Frugally Bimple in his person and tastes, he devoted bis fortune to every laudable purpose, and by his personal e\. rtions improved inconceivably the country and peasantry surrounding his estates in Brittany. "One of the traits 1 admired most in my lamented friend was, that though perfectly insensible to the charms of the fairer sex, he never affected cynicism or contempt towards the follies of other young men, and thus won over more than one from the paths of vice, by the en- couraging example afforded by his own exemplary life. " In 1830, when the elder branch of the Bourbons were expelled from the throne of France, faithful to the political creed of his ancestors, he protested against and declined to serve the newly-elected King of the French; and hoping for better times, he vowed unalterable fidelity to the vmthful Henri de Bordeaux, that innocent victim of the faults of his forefathers. " In the year 1882, when the cholera raged so fear- fully in Paris, the Marquis de Querancy, who was there at the time, instead of living the fatal contagion, thanked Heaven that he had found a vast arena, wherein to ex- ercise the all-engrossing charity which animated his whole being. " He is known to have emulated, and shared to the utmost extent, the untiring zeal and holy labours of the poorest Catholic priest at this dread era in the annals of human Bufferings. Like them, tilled with holy abnegation of self, he was ever to be found at the pallet of the plague- stricken ; his immense charity and heroic courage are recorded but by the all-seeing eye of God. "At la<t, worn out and exhausted by mental and bodily fatigue, my poor friend was afflicted by a pul- monary complaint, which the faculty at once declared to THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 263 be beyond all human remedies. His mother came up to Paris to attend his dying moments, and I found her worthy of the tender veneration her son had always entertained for her. " Most grateful was I to be thus enabled to share, if not to alleviate, the sorrow of this heart-stricken mother. " On the evening of his death, De Querancy profited by his mother's absence from the sick-room to speak to me in private. " So emaciated was my poor friend by illness, that it would have been difficult to recognise in him the once so admired Arthur de Querancy. But a higher, holier beauty now adorned his head ; it was the calm serenity imparted by the high faith of the dying Christian. " ' Is it not singular, dear Clarence/ said he, ' that Dame Marguerite should have prophesied so true, for to-day is my birth-day, the 20th of April ! But I die most happy, for I have borne my cross/ said he, looking mournfully on the miniature of the Guardian Angel, which never left him. c Think you not, Clarence, that I am now more worthy of the pure love of my Guardian Angel V " As he yet spoke, his mother approached the bed-side, and offered him the calming draught she had left him to prepare. " De Querancy bent gently forward to accept it, and in this dying effort breathed his last sigh on that fond maternal bosom, whence he had derived the first suste- nance of life." At tne conclusion of the foregoing tale, a gentleman, in whose mien and bearing there was something: which 2G1 EVENINGS AT HADDOM HALL- bespoke the gallant profession to which his life had been devoted, and whose bronzed complexion showed evidently that he had stood the brunt of" the battle and the breeze," took up from the table at which he was Bitting an exquisite design of a dismantled ship under severe stress of weather, and, addressing the Lady Eva, said, " If you will let me tell yon a simple tale of the sea, of which this drawing reminds me, it may serve, rude though it be, to afford time for others to prepare something more worthy the occasion on which we are met together — an occasion which it would grieve me not to be allowed to assist in cele- brating." The offer was gladly greeted by Lady Eva and all the company, and the gallant veteran proceeded to relate THE NUBIAN SLAVE. " Mislike me not for my complexion ; I wear the shadowy livery of the sun, To whom I am near neighbour." Shakspeare. Over a parched and arid desert a train of captives painfully pursued their way. The air was heavy with intense heat. The sun, whose outline was obscured by the hazy atmosphere, seemed to communicate to the vast surface of heaven his own burning and blinding power. A pale and sickly hue of yellow coloured the whole scene. It gave to sky and desert the same scorched aspect, and from its universal and intolerable glare was infinitely more dreadful than the fierce brilliance of an unclouded noon. The sand, level, and to the eye boundless, had a hard and polished surface, which presented an image of frightful THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 265 sterility. That saffron light cast no shadow on the earth. The fainting traveller looked in vain for the reflection of his form. There was no shade, no air. Around, below, above, heat was present, as if it were concentrated into a palpable substance, resting heavily on the head, weighing down the limbs, oppressing and suffocating perspiration. To rest was to perish. The captives, with languid steps and throbbing temples, moved on, animated by the prospect of moistening their parched lips, as the guide indicated that wells were at hand. " Water ! water ! u was repeated in many dialects of Africa, one desire, in a dozen languages, and by hundreds of voices, — " Water, water, or we die !" Old Haloo, the chief of the band, whose life had been passed in the traffic of slaves, looked on the fainting throng, as if to calculate how much longer nature could support existence. He took a skin from his camel's back, drank himself, and wetted the mouth of the beast. His prisoners waited with expectation. " Oh, water/' muttered he ; " if you want water, you must move more quickly." He menaced those who seemed most eager for relief with a heavy scourge. He was understood, and the unhappy beings endeavoured to quicken their pace. The train was numerous. Most of the captives were young, some mere children, others rising into youth, others approaching k sty maturity. Those who carried on the traffic in human life understood their trade. The young were sooner tamed and more docile to command. More died, it is true, but they cost little, either to take or to keep. They did not attempt to escape, so there was something saved in fetters. A ship would carry twice or thrice as many of them as of full-grown beings ; and if they were judiciously chosen, they sold well. 266 EVENINGS AT B ADDON HALL. In this band there were almost as many girls as lads and men. AYith few exceptions, all were aaconfined. There was no fear of their attempting to escape upon the Desert. Their homes were hundreds of units away. Around the neck of each was a bag, containing roai maize. This was the sole provision for their journey. Each carried a supply for several days. They received water only at the appointed resting-places, which wen' often at the distance of a long and weary day's travel. They were driven forward like a herd of cattle, kept from straying by natural instinct. \Vhen they approached a habitable country, they were bound together in gangs, to prevent any from deserting. In this mode they were hurried to the sea-shore, to be borne across the Atlantic, and commence their life of slavery. But now they thought not of the future. They had but one wish; they believed that they should be happy if they could but satisfy the thirst which consumed them. Panting, and with swollen tongue protruding from the mouth, they pressed on, repeating the one word that ani- mated them to exertion. Some, unable to endure their agony longer, fell. They were left to perish on the burn- ing sand. In the Desert life was cheaper than water. The horrors of that day drew to a close at last. In the distance, the guides who had advanced were seen fill- ing skins and vessels from the well. A cry of joy resounded through the train. The single camel of the expedition stretched forth his long neck, and quickened his pace, while his large lips trembled with desire. As the resting- place was reached, the sun went down, and water and shade were attained together. The younger captives for- got everything in the exquisite Bense of relief and delight they experienced. "When their wants were relieved they THE NUBTA.N SLAVE. 267 were careless of the future, and sank to rest beneath the large palms, which, at the edge of the Desert, gave pro- mise of a more fruitful country. One man alone had performed that day's march with fetters to his wrists, and a thick rope attached to his ankles. He had been brought from a province of Nubia, where the White River watered the sultry plains, and tall mountains cast on them a grateful shade. A tribe of the Desert had invaded his village, burnt the dwellings to the ground, and made him prisoner. He had struggled desperately, but in vain ; though well had he maintained his reputation for courage, and justified the confidence reposed in him. Three of the savages fell by his hand ; at last, he was only overpowered by numbers. Bound hand and foot, he had been transferred from one tribe to another, till he formed part of the band destined for the sea-coast. This man was prized by Old Haloo, for his youth, large frame, and prodigious strength. No labour seemed to tire him, no punishment to subdue his spirit. He never complained. He took food and water when offered him, but he never asked for either, and, unlike the other captives, he disdained to carry provision for his journey. He was considered of too much value to be neglected, and so was supplied with sufficient nourishment to support life. He had more than once endeavoured to escape, and was now so fettered, that no struggles could avail him. At night, he was securely tied to several of the other prisoners. When the well was reached, this man had thrown him- self to the ground and closed his eyes. Water was paraded before him, but he did not heed it. He did not stretch forth his hand for one draught of that pre- cious fluid which the herd of captives sought so eagerly. 268 EVENINGS AT HADDOM HALL. All were first served, and then were taken to him a few drops of water, sufficient to support life, but not to quench thirst. This was gratuitous torture, for the element wan now abundant. When the vessel was offered to him, he struck it to the ground, and dealt a heavy blow to the slave who hore it. His outcries brought Old Haloo to the spot, lie was enraged, but did not wish to lose the hun- dred dollars which he knew he should receive for so valu- able a prize on the coast, and a larger supply was brought. The Nubian drank it, and ate some grains of maize. He next received the punishment of the scourge, ordered him for his disobedience, without a word, and appeared easily to fall asleep. There are people who hold that the colour of the skin affects the rights of humanity. They hear of an African's stripes and chains with indifference, for he has thick lips and woolly hair. He is not of the Caucasian race; per- haps, even, he may have little sense of physical pain. Why should they care for agonies that cannot be told told in a civilized tongue ! Freedom was made; for the white skin, slavery for the coloured. Thus is God's cre- ation abused. Never does he give life but for enjoyment. Man makes the existence of his fellow one scene of wretch- edness and torture. No one could pierce into the thoughts of the Nubian that night, or tell the pains of his body, the misery of his spirit. He lay still, but he did not rest. Sometimes a low groan escaped him, which he sought to suppress, as unworthy his fortitude. His bonds had fretted him, and now he could gain no relief from their pressure. To him, of all the band, that night brought no relief. He longed for the dawning of day, though with it his sufferings would re-commence ; the rest and silence of night he TH£ UlUAN SLAVE. 269 found more intolerable than the toils and action of the day. In his village home some scattered light of Christian truth had reached him. He had gathered that one God reigned in heaven, and that love and justice were his attri- butes. Often were his fettered hands raised to the sky. Was his muttered prayer for deliverance, or for vengeance? He must have thought the answer long delayed. Yet it did not seem that hope deserted him. His fellow-captives sometimes saw him on his knees, and they attributed his surprising resolution and untiring strength to the super- natural aid he received in those moments from the Deity he worshipped. Twelve days more of privation and of fatigue to faint- ing, brought that band, in diminished numbers, to the shore. The discipline that tames the lion and the tiger — hunger and weariness — had made them obedient to the slightest gesture of their drivers. They were weak in body, but yet weaker in spirit. They humbly entered the boats, though the raging surf threatened their destruction, and were conveyed on board the vessel anchored in the distance. The Nubian went with the rest, for he was now incapable of resistance. If these poor creatures had any thought, they must have wondered for what end hxms were riveted to their limbs, when they of themselves were almost incapable of moving them. They were stowed thickly in the hold, without light and without air. The slave-decks were ready, the schooner sank deep in the water with her cargo of flesh and blood, and the anchor was raised. Fair, but roughly, blew the- breeze. The vessel rose to the swell, and gallantly flew over the waters to the west. Night and day the ship rolled onwards, no pause in her 270 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. motion for an instant, no abatement of the heaving of the waters. Frightful were the groans and nhrieka of the captives. " ; Tis no matter/' said the captain ; " they arc sale. No escape here." He was wrong. The escapes were numerous. Each morning the dead were separ. from the living — not before. Those who were not on the watch, yet heard in their berths below the sullen plash in the waters which sounded the funeral knell of the victims. It was horrible to see the shoal of sharks which fol- lowed that ship. They seemed, like the rolling waters, to know no rest. They knew their prey was in that vessel, and they never forsook it. Often, in the day they were not seen. They knew their time, and they observed it regularly. Long before the sun rose, these monsters, in the earliest dawn of light, were observed moving on the surface of the water, opening their huge jaws, springing over each other, touching the sides of the ship, as if they smelt their prey through the planks, and manifesting the most furious eagerness to obtain it. The captain was naturally more careless than cruel. When matters went well, he was good-humoured enough ; but when crossed, he lost all control over himself, and his bad passions blazed forth with irrestrainable fury. In his wrath he was a perfect fiend. The slave-trade brought him wealth, and he was indifferent about the rest. There are many characters like his in the world, though not all are exposed to the same temptation, who suffer themselves to be guided by events, without a thought for the conse- quences. He had no interest in his cargo, but he felt a pride, as he expressed it, in landing it in good order. lie had amassed wealth, for his schooner was a smart thing, and had distanced many an English cruiser. She had so good a look about her, too, that she was not often sus- THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 271 pected, and besides the traffic in slaves, the captain did something in ivory, and other commodities. He was British born, and had been bred to the sea, but had lived a free life in the West Indies. For the last ten years he had said, " A few more trips, and I will give over this trade ;" but the temptation was too strong for him. The profits of a run from Africa to the Brazils or Cuba were enormous, and he was so well known, and had so great a reputation for dexterity and success, that he had abundance of commissions offered him. No one, it was found, made the passage so quick, or brought home so full a cargo. As for the guilt of his occupation, that troubled not him. When his wife remonstrated, he shook a bag of gold in her ear. " Negroes, hey," said he, after a success- ful voyage, " pooh, pooh ! My trade is in gold dust, nothing else." This man was as fond of his family as one of his rugged nature could be, and for his sole child, a girl, he hoarded the wealth made by his perilous and criminal voyages. His present cargo had been reduced in strength beyond the safe limit. Their wTetched confinement, coming im- mediately after their dreadful journey, had produced a malignant fever among them, and the mortality was so great that it seemed likely the captain would have but a scanty complement to land. This soured his temper, and when some of the crew fell sick, and he had scarcely hands enough to work the vessel, he fretted like an enraged brute. He had but one consolation. The voyage pro- mised to be unusually rapid. He w 7 as bound for the Havannah, and though he had lost a third of the slaves on board, he congratulated himself on being within three or four days* sail of port. A new mortification awaited him. •J7_! VBNING8 AT IIADuox HALL. The wind changed, and with the change his plan fell. He saw certain indications of stormy weather, and prepared to meet it, cursing the mischance which deprived him of half-a-dozen stout hands. Thick clouds gathered, but at night the wind went down with the sun. In the morning it increased to a gale, and, as if to complete his ill-luck, a fine brig was seen in the distance with the Union Jack flyiug at her mast-head. She was an English cruiser, that was quite clear; and it was soon evident that she had suspicions of the schooner, and was crowding all sail the gale would allow her to carry in pursuit. The captain's mind was made up to run for it. He hoisted canvass till the schooner's mast groaned with the press, and adopted every resource of experienced seamanship to baffle his pur- suer. He resolutely disregarded all signals. He believed that he could hold his distance till night, and in the dark- ness he did not doubt he could escape. But it soon appeared that the cruiser was the better sailer, and that her commander, heavy as the gale was, did not fear to put her sailing qualities to the proof. By noon, the distance was greatly lessened, and the captain saw that the guns of his enemy would be brought to bear upon him long before night. His position was desperate, and he determined to try an expedient which he had more than once before found successful. A raft was rudely constructed of some spare spars; to this were lashed half-a-dozen of the captivt 3. Their entreaties were no more regarded than the whistling of the wind. As a wave advanced, the raft was lowered to its surface. The result was watched by the crew of the slaver with breathless suspense. The captain calculated rightly on the humanity of the English commander.- The height of the sea was disregarded — a boat was lowered THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 273 from the brig; the chase was for a moment slighted, in anxiety to save the wretched beings whom the waves threatened each instant to engulph. They were safely got on board, but not until the distance between the two vessels was perceptibly increased. Three several times was the same plan tried with the like success. At evening the schooner was still beyond the range of her pursuer's guns. Still the gale increased ; the sky was obscured by pitchy clouds, and the schooner plunged madly through the darkness. Tremendous squalls of wind and hail swept the decks ; one fearful sea, breaking over the bows, carried away part of her bulwarks. Every inch of canvass was taken in, but not before two seamen had been carried from the yards with the sail they were reefing. The long swollen waves strained the vessel fearfully, as she scudded under bare poles. At one moment she rose on the crest of a mountain of water, and at the next plunged down into the black gulph which seemed yawning to swallow her up. It is a horrible thing when the bad passions of man mingle with the wrath of the elements — when the light- ning's flash is answered with a sharp curse, and the awful peal of thunder with a blaspheming laugh. So it was in that night of storm. The captain, infuriated by the events of the day, raved on the deck like a maniac. He stood by the helm with clenched teeth. In the darkness of night his eyes flashed fire. There was murder in every glance. Suddenly a wild uproar rose from below, a clauking of chains, and a rush against the slave-decks and bulk- headings, which made the stout timbers of the schooner quiver. The captives, feeble as they were, had become possessed with the strength of madness, as they felt the waters rising round them. The ship had sprung a leak, T 27J EVENINGS AT HADOOM HALL. and the sea rushed in through the gaping scam. The desperate slaves, handed together, rnslicd against the par- titions which confined them, or trampling down the weakest, made a platform of their bodies, and heat their letters against the decks above them. The seamen, worn out at the pumps, left them. The ship, they said, wanted lightening. The captain laughed devilishly as he caught their words. " Ha ! ha !" he raved, " we'll lighten the ship and quiet those noisy fellows down here together. Now- run out a plank there : so, so. There shall be a clean ship, if we're caught at last." The slaves were ordered up on deck by half-dozens. They complied with alacrity, believing that they should be saved from the waters that rose around them, reaching now almost to the necks of those who were stowed lowest. They came, to meet a more certain and speedy death. The captain's hoarse voice was heard above the how ling of the storm : " If they resist, kill them, and throw their bodies overboard." All shared the same fate ; there was no dis- tinction of sex or age. Most fled from the gleaming steel to the raging waters. That wild scene of massacre is too horrid for mortal view. ****** With the last batch came the Nubian, worn almost to a skeleton, yet with some portion of his vigour remaining. He obeyed the order, and came on deck. He had heard the screams of those who ascended before him, and at a glance saw his intended fate. A plank stretched to the sea; he must tread it, or be cut down by the cutlasses of the merciless men around him. He advanced firmly and unresistingly to the plank. As his foot touched it, and the armed men were off their guard, he turned, and hi* ♦* THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 275 eyes met those of the captain, glaring with the fury of a tiger, about to spring upon his prey. The glance exchanged was momentary, but of terrible import. It spoke the. mortal hatred and defiance of deadly foes. The captain raised his arm to strike. The Nubian sprang aside, struck with his fettered arm a sailor who opposed him, into the sea, and leaping forward, agilely ascended the foremast, clinging to portions of the rigging. With a fierce oath, the captain called for a musket; he raised it to fire. At that instant the clouds opened, and his aim was dazzled by a stream of lightning, which, illuminating for an instant all the scene, showed the Nubian clinging to the mast, yet shaking his chains in defiance at his enemy — the blood- stained deck, the dimmed cutlasses, the black waves, and here and there a human form, tossing up its hands in wild despair above its head, ere it sank for ever in the depths of ocean. The rage of the elements was hushed for a moment, as in awe, but as the thunder rolled away, a ter- rific storm-gust made the ship groan fearfully ; another. and the foremast, snapping near the waist, fell with a tremendous crash into the boiling sea. In the morning, the schooner lay like a log upon the water. But her pursuer was nowhere to be seen, and she reached port in safety. Of her captives, not one remained. When the blood-stains were scraped from the deck, all trace of the massacre was lost. Through the night the Nubian clung to the mast. Despite of his chained hands, he lashed part of the rigging around him, and kept himself above the sea. When day broke, he raised his head, but he could see only the moun- tainous waters rising on every side. As the long waves swept by, he could discern the head s of sunken rocks above the trough in which he rolled. A few sea-birds flew abov* 276 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. him, as if awaiting the moment when life should be extinct, to dart upon his body. These signs assured him that land was near, though he despaired of reaching it. lie was saved beyond hope. A maiden, in the first blush of youth, and bright and beautiful as morning, looked from the topmost window of b< r dwelling on the northern shore of Jamaica. She was watchful, for her father was at sea, and she had been taught to dread the fatal fury of the tempest, as she dreaded the hurricane which sometimes swept the shore of produce and of life. She perceived a speck on the distant waters, though hardly could she discern a living form. [ssuing from her dwelling, she hastened to the beach, and offered a reward to the fishers who would venture forth and make for that fragment of a wreck — a father, she said, might be clinging to it in agony. A stout boat was manned j it returned with the senseless Nubian. Be bad fainted when taken from the mast. The young girl had him conveyed to her house ; there he was tended during a delirious fever. His language was not understood : but the visions that distracted his mind could be gathered from his gestures. lie shrank appalled from the frightful images terror had stamped upon his brain, or with raised hands seemed to call down maledictions from Heaven upon the authors of the guilty scenes that were ever present to his fancy. His treatment was kind and merciful. A great reproach had just been removed from the English name. The truth, long since recognised, that all men were brothers of one great family, was now practically acted on. Property in man was abolished in all our possessions; a coloured skin was !)'■ longer thought unfit for freedom or deemed a bar to the immortality of heaven. THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 277 In the gentle breast of this young maiden a peculiar interest had been awakened for the African race. She had been taught that a long arrear of justice and benevo- lence was due to them for the wrongs they had suffered, and her heart, filled with pure and kind feeling, gladly received lessons which made the exercise of its gracious tendencies a duty. A minister of the English church had settled in the neighbourhood of her dwelling. He had left home, ambitious hopes, the pleasures of society, the chance of distinction and wealth, to take up his abode in this retired district, that he might gather the despised negroes into a church, and prepare them for freedom. In the long intervals of her father's absence, the sweet girl found in this good man a friend and instructor. Delighted with the child-like and artless simplicity of her nature, he watched over her education, and taught her the graces of polished life. He was glad that she had rescued the ship- wrecked Nubian, and now attended to him ; for he believed that all the virtues required exercise, and that they flourish best when then* blossom is left to ripen into fruit. The name of this young girl was Mary Langley. She was a child when her mother died, and as she saw her father so seldom, her disposition had been much left to the guidance of Nature. She grew up with the un- trained beauty of the plants that made her home a garden. In her heart, the love and charities of her faith had flourished in the wilder luxuriance for being untrained. When her father saw her, he was satisfied with her lovely and blooming appearance. Though now rising into womanhood, he would still treat her as a child, would take her up in his rough arms as he did in her infancy, and let her silky brown tresses flow on his breast,. 2T8 EVENINGS AT HADDON II \U. while her graceful arms embraced his neck, and he decked her out with trinkets. He could not understand all the tenderness of her character, nor make out why she was sometimes sad when he was boisterous in mirth. He saw in her only the innocence and endearments of childhood. Sometimes she would laughingly try to make him share her feelings. He listened as men do who hear mysteries of which they can make nothing, so he interrupted her by telling her what a fortune she would have when she was a woman. Yet these two beings, so opposite in sentiment and disposition, loved each other fondly. Nature had linked them together with those mysterious bonds of affection which triumph over time, separation, and death. If her father did not soon return, the maiden was to join him at a port in South America. The Nubian recovered, but it was evident that he had suffered much ; his manner was dejected ami reserved, and sometimes it seemed that the visions of his delirium re- turned, for a convulsive movement, momentary but fright- ful, passed over his usually rigid features. He appeared not wholly ignorant of Christianity, for he recognised a gold cross which Mary wore about her neck, and devoutly kissed it as the emblem of salvation. On the past he was silent; a nurse, who had recognised some words he had spoken in his fever, addressed him in the same tongue, but he remained mute. He made rapid progress, however, in acquiring some knowledge of English. When he spoke in that language, he said he had been dragged from his home, and wrecked on his passage. He would say no more. His gratitude to the young girl who had saved him seemed boundless ; he recognised her as the preserver of his life, and was willing to devote himself to her service. THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 279 Her care in his recovery, her kind tones, her beaming smile when she met him, penetrated his heart with a sense of her goodness. His large frame remained motionless while she addressed him, his full and expressive eyes alone spoke his emotion, and betrayed the eagerness with which he sought to comprehend her meaning, when he only par- tially understood her words. He seemed to know her wishes by intuition, and to take delight in studying and gratifying her tastes. Her garden, under his care, was beautifully kept. The spot was richly favoured by nature, it was open to the cool winds, and shaded from the fierce heats by hills, and plantations of cocoas and tamarinds. All the choice and varied vegetation of the fertile soil assumed, under his hands, the most luxuriant growth and beautiful arrangement. There was no toil to which he seemed unequal. Once Mary expressed a wish for a shaded walk, the Nubian knew no rest until the appointed space was planted with young trees of the choicest kinds. When abroad, an antelope and an elephaut could scarcely have presented a greater contrast than these two beings. Mary was only just rising mto womanhood, though in that ardent clime nature brings the human form, as she does all other things, to maturity earlier than in colder regions. For her height, her shape was exquisitely delicate, — only beginning to acquire that smooth round- ness which indicates the ripening of the child into the maiden. All her motions were full of airy joyousness ; she had been subjected to none of the discipline of schools, and loved to let the evening air sweep her tresses from her face, and to play amid the wild luxuriance and beauti- ful solitudes of her home, with the delights that Nature presented to her. The Nubian's massive frame was firmly knit ; he had just entered into the period of vigorous 280 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. manhood; his motions were grave, slow, and measured When the young girl was n veiling in the soft cool air, that blew from the ocean at evening, he remained standing motionless, like a colossal statue, with his hands crossed upon his hreast, and his eyes to the earth. They seemed personifications of grace and power met in amity. Hers was the will to devise, his the strength to execute. The Nubian was attentive to the offices of the church, and had been formally baptized by the name of Christian. The good minister, regretting to see his time passed in a way that could be little useful to him, mentioned in his hearing, that labour was greatly wanted at a neighbouring plantation, and that, in the present scarcity of hand-, strength and industry were equal to a fortune. He had not calculated wrongly on the Nubian's quickness — the next morning he was gone. The young girl pouted a little for his loss, but the minister showed her how much better a life of toil would be for Christian, by which he might realize an independence, than a life of profitless servitude. She was convinced, and yielded. The Nubian's proffered service was readily accepted. He toiled with unremitting energy, and was speedily noticed as a prosperous man. His savings were large, and were prudently invested. He soon saw that in this country wealth was power, and power he coveted, to realize the projects which now began to shape themselves in his soul. He saw the gentle Mary but once in the week, — he knelt with her in the house of prayer. When the service was ended, he stood beyond the church porch, tranquil and motionless, to wait her words. His answers to her ques- tions were brief, yet, it seemed, nothing of what she said was lost to him. He appeared impassible and motionless, but each accent of her tongue was treasured up in his THE NUBIAK SLAVE. 281 heart. For her he often obtained the choicest fi ait, the finest mangoes, the largest cocoas ; sometimes too, rare shells and beautiful plants. These offerings were delivered to her attendants without a word. He departed as swiftly and as silently as he came. A sorrow, which no care could remove, clouded the brow of the sweet girl. Her father wrote to her of crosses and misfortunes, which rendered it impossible for him to come to the island. Months after those notices of disaster came word that she should quit her home in a vessel which would call for her, and join him at Rio Janeiro. He intended, he said, finally to settle at Jamaica, but he had arrangements to make first, and he could not bear longer to be deprived of the delight of seeing his dear daughter. She who had been born on this spot was loth to leave the flowers she had tended with so much care, — the domestics who had grown so fond of her, — the dear minister who had been her friend from childhood ; she loved them all, yet her heart told her the faithful Christian would suffer from her absence the most. When she took leave of him, he remained mute and still, as though he had no power of motion ; but he lost not a word of her parting instructions. She would write often, she said, to the good minister. His eye glistened with delight as she added, " And some- times to you too, Christian, for I shall never cease to take an interest in your welfare." He made no answer, but kneeling, raised her hand to his lips. His gesture was full of devotion and love ; he seemed to be performing an act of adoration ; when he rose, he bent his head upon his breast and left her. There are breaks in real life, which its historian does but imitate when he passes over months or years with little comment. Not that preparations for great events 282 EViMM.s AT HADDON HALL. are not in progress, but that the movement is so slow ;md gradual, and often so hidden from human view, that its progress cannot be traced day by day. When Etna volleys forth its flame and lava, we note the awful progress of destruction with fear and wonder, and chronicle its minutest effects. But we think nothing of the mountain while it remains in repose, though in its quietude a powerful agency is working in its breast, and each hour it gathers force and materials for a new explosion. Four years passed by, and then a letter was received from Mary, announcing her speedy arrival. Her father would follow ; she came first to prepare his reception. In this interval the Nubian prospered beyond all ex- pectation. By his unceasing labour he had amassed wealth, which the diminished value of land enabled him to layout to excellent advantage. When the foundation of his fortune was thus laid, his progress w;is rapid, for on himself he spent nothing. A fortunate speculation proved his shrewdness. He foresaw the failure of the next year's sugar-crop, and bought extensively at a low price ; the result justified his expectations. He cleared an enormous profit by the transaction, and at once established himself both as a merchant and a planter. His estates were thenceforth prudently managed. He was a kind but vigi- lant master, and soon acquired all the details of commerce. He still maintained his reserve of manner, but with that few persons troubled themselves; they were content to know that he was prosperous and wealthy. When Miss Langley arrived, he was the first to wel- come her. To her his fortunes had made no change in his manner; he was still humble and submissive in her presence as when he first devoted himself to her service. She found her home more beautiful than she left it, for the THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 283 Nubian had been unceasing in his care to heighten the charms of the spot ; nothing had been omitted that could gratify her taste, or minister to her convenience. He had made that sheltered dell a paradise of nature, having col- lected in it whatever was most rare and beautiful in that beautiful clime. When, after her first burst of pleasure at the improvement she saw around, she remonstrated at the expense that must have been incurred, the Nubian inti- mated, in a quiet though sufficiently expressive manner, that he regarded her as his mistress still, and held himself indebted to her for all that he possessed. Mary was touched by gratitude so fervent and unusual ; she allowed the Nubian to pursue that course from which he seemed to derive most pleasure, and he was thankful to her for this compliance with his wishes. Each morning he sent to her some token of his remembrance, trifling, but suffi- cient as a tribute of homage. To him this seemed an acknowledgment that his life was due to her, as a single prayer in the morning consecrates us to the service of Heaven through the day. He saw her but once a-week, on the Sabbath, as before ; and he still waited, with crossed arms, beyond the porch, for her to address him. Some- times he escorted her home, and walked with her through the beautifully shaded paths he had helped to form. Cus- tom easily reconciles us to outward appearance. Mary no longer thought of the colour of his skin ; she conversed with him, as she did with the minister, and regarded him as almost a dear friend. She was pleased with his pene- trating remarks ; and on his side he was never wearied of hearing Mary's descriptions of the various lands she had visited. Her voice was, in his ear, sweeter harmony than music could ever form. He never ventured to speak of 28-4 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. her personal appearance, yet he thought, and with truib, that she had become more lovely during her absence. .Ma-.-y was at this time one-and-twenty. Born of Eng« lisli parents, her skin had been purely fair, but it had been tinged by the sun, so that it had now always that shade of beautiful and healthy red which we observe with admi- ration colours the face and bust of a blonde, when exertion or excitement makes the blood dance with quicker motion through the veins. From contrast with this hue of her complexion, her eyes appeared of a deeper and purer blue, and to float in more brilliant lustre. Her bright hair hung in curling masses down her face, framing the sweet profile, which looked forth in gay playfulness. She had become more thoughtful, but not less innocent. Her travel had taught her more of the world's crimes, but had not fixed one stain upon her heart. The morning was bright, when a ship was perceived in the distance. Langley had at Length arrived to commence his life of calm tranquillity. The news ran over the neigh- bourhood, and the surrounding residents came down to the beach to welcome the voyager, — the Nubian with the rest. Mary was caught in her father's embrace as he stepped from the beach. Her companionship had smoothed the natural roughness of his disposition. He returned kind greetings to all who met him, clasping the good minister warmly by the hand. Mary turned to introduce the Nubian, but he was nowhere to be seen. She was vexed at this, for she wished to present him to her father at a favourable moment, when he would perceive the esti- mation in which the fortunate Christian was held. She knew his general dislike and contempt of coloured people, and for that reason had not said a word to him of Chris THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 285 \vaL 's rescue from the sea by her means. She preferred that her father should first view him prosperous, before he was told of his destitution some years previously. From that day the Nubian was absent for weeks. At his dwelling it was told that he had been called by urgent business to Kingston, the capital of the island. It seems that in the soil of human hearts there is none so barren that some precious quality will not take root in it, which, if watered and nourished, may change the con- stitution of a bad nature. The poets have feigned that this principle of fertility pervades all nature, and have told that the toad, ugly and venomous, " Bears yet a precious jewel in his head." In Langley's soul this jewel was his love of his daughter. What to him seemed folly in others, was holy and blessed in her. By constantly sharing in her pure thoughts, he learned at last to comprehend them, and perceive their beauty. Imperceptibly, he learned to delight in her inno- cent pursuits. At first, when she told him of her schemes of charity, and would make him share them, he complied, from a vague feeling of cui-iosity, or to gratify her humour ; but afterwards, from the strong force of sympathy, her purity attracted his mind nearer to her own. As spirits of darkness flee from the presence of light, he found him- self, when with Mary, another person, his bad thoughts flying from him, as the dark visions of Saul rolled from his soul at the sound of David's harp. This change had been long in progress, unknown to himself. He felt him- self another and a better man, though he could scarcely discover the agency of his improvement. Let no one say that the attraction of goodness is weak. It is rr ore power- ful in commanding homage and respect than any other 286 EVENINGS \r B ADDON BALL. quality of humanity. We recognise it at once — we bow down before it — we feel irresistibly attracted to imitate what we admire. If gross passions prevail over its sweet influence, we yet never cease to regret the fatuity that has Lost us heaven for earth. If we dare to deny its supreme excellence with our lips, we acknowledge it with our hearts. AA e are infidels only outwardly. The world may refuse to bend its knee, but it never can refuse the worship of its soul. In his calmer and secluded hours, with Mary as his guardian angel always near him, the conversion of Lang- ley went on. He experienced a felicity he never knew before. He had been used to consider the clergyman a fanatic; he now regarded him as a sober and a sensible man. People having only a partial acquaintance with the world, are apt to mistake sentiment for character. The two are wholly apart from each other. Langley was as bold, as adventurous, as active, as ever he was, but his energies were now turned into a new channel. He became an ardent experimentalist on the qualities of soils; he invented improvements in crushing-mills; and, in short, brought into the life and occupations of a planter all the industry and resources which had distinguished him in another career. He learned to take an interest in Mary's flowers, and her schools for poor children, and talked of building a church after his own design. But in the midst of this new r and happy life he never looked back. He sat one evening, in company with the good minis- ter, engaged in cheerful chat. Mary had just finished an exquisite little air. The wax-lights brightly illuminated the large and lofty apartment, rendered cool by the even- ing air stealing in through the closed jalousies. The minister was not one of those austere spirits who dislike THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 287 whatever savours of gaiety and enjoyment. The soul, he held, resembled wax in this — that an impression was often most surely and lastingly stamped on it when it was relaxed. He sometimes quietly told that he had done more with the planters in a few words over a game of chess, or a hand at picquet, than he could effect by his best sermons. He sat now keeping Langley company with an excellent Havannah. The turn of conversation is often singular. A moment before they were discussing the flavour of cigars ; now they spoke of the consequences of sin. The captain was curious to know if, with a new course of life, all past crimes and errors were truly forgiven. Mary listened with more anxiety than marked the tone in which the question was put ; for the past had so little the captain liked to look back on, that he contrived to banish it from his remembrance altogether. The minister replied, undoubt- edly, that to the repentant, sin was forgiven; but he remarked that, in some way or other, a punishment was attached to the original crime, from which it could not escape. " Sin is pardoned, without doubt/' he said ; " but believe this, that not one guilty action can be committed which will not meet with a strict reckoning, and for which a full and severe penalty will not be exacted in this world or the next ; sometimes by mental, sometimes by bodily agony. To no man is it permitted to greatly offend with impunity." The captain thought this doctrine carried a great deal too far. He was for a scheme of general amnesty, such as is granted by tottering states, which confound weakness with mercy, giving out that it fails to punish, not from impotence, but from an excess of charity and good-nature. The scene and the conversation had hitherto been 288 EVKMNCS AT HADDON HALL. commonplace enough, though the changes which passed over .Mary's face, as she listened to the argument, threw in that touch of poetic feeling which is often found in the most ordinary occurrences. She knew herself deeply interested in the topic; for there were passages in her father's life, darkly hinted at sometimes by him, which chilled her blood when she thought of them. The captain grew warm, and applied the argument, as heated persons will do, to himself. " Look here, now," said he ; " suppose that I, when I wasn't so wise as I am at present, had a cargo of slaves on board ? Well, we'll say the ship leaked, that she wanted lightening, that, no matter how, it was necessary to turn them out ; do you mean to say now, that I should be punished for that when I took up with better notions ?" " I should say/' replied the minister, regarding the case quite hvpothetically, "that in this world or the next would a fearful punishment be awarded you." The captain grew a little paler. As for Mary, she gave a faint scream ; it was not without great difficulty that she could further suppress her feelings. " Tush, man ! " said Langley, roughly, " I have done such things in my time, yet what am I the worse for it now; where's my accuser?" A voice that filled the room with terror, said, dis- tinctly, "Here!" Ail eyes were instantly turned to the spot whence that voice issued. The Nubian Btood in the door-way, his figure dilated beyond the grand proportions of nature. For the second time the glance of these two men met, and the captain, though his accuser was unarmed, felt that he was a lost man. THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 289 His courage did not desert him, though horror almost froze his blood, and deprived him of sense. He rose to meet the Nubian's gaze. " With what," he said, " do you charge me V The black said, simply, " With murder ! " Langley advanced to grapple with his accuser; but Mary, quick as light, threw herself on the Nubian, be- seeching him to withdraw at once, telling him that he had accused her father — that he was in error — that he knew not what he was about. Never had the Nubian seemed more calm, as he said — "Almost I would to God I did not. Gentle girl, you speak to me in vain, I am but the agent of Heaven. The cry of the blood that wretched man has wantonly spilt has risen to the Almighty throne. The hour of retribu- tion has come ! " Four men entered the room at these words. The Nubian said to them, " Behold your prisoner ! " His terrible calmness carried conviction to Mary's heart. She tried to struggle with her dread — to address the Nubian. In vain; her faculties were paralyzed; she sank senseless at his feet. He raised her with the mingled reverence and love due to a divine being ; with such tender care and holy awe must the Christians of old have touched the body of a martyred saint. He threw back the bright masses of hair from her pallid face, and touched her temples with some water at hand. Langley fiercely grappled with the men who held him. " Villains \" he shouted, " let me go ; that fiend would kill father and daughter at one blow \" The Nubian had laid the fainting form on a couch, and knelt beside it. He raised his eyes, and said, in u 2'JO EVENINGS AT BADDON BALL. tones cfdeep pathos, "Thou nearest— -gracious God — thou hearestl still am I doomed to suffer!" "Detested n muster ! " exclaimed Langley, "why didst thou come here to destroy our peace?" The Nubian answered him not. He saw in the brightening colour of Mary's lips signs of returning life. " Guard well your prisoner," he said to the men. Then grasping the hand of the minister, who, during the few minutes of this dreadful scene, had been motionless with astonishment, he bade him watch over her. "I will not shock her by my presence. It may be, I shall never see her more." He bent down to imprint one kiss on her yet cold hand, and left the room, answering not one word to the fierce reproaches of his enemy. The Nubian had recognised the captain of the slaver the instant Langley set his foot upon the shore. His mind was torn by the storm of contending passions. The horrors of that night of massacre, setting the seal of blood to the long career of desperate cruelty and wickedness he had witnessed, was never absent from his mind. He made no vow of vengeance, but he prayed Heaven to make him the human instrument of its justice. For this end he conceived that in his labour he was gifted with super- natural strength. Accident, or, as it seemed to him, Pro- vidence, had thrown in his way two of the seamen of the slave-ship. These men, a< less guilty than their principal, he had constantly kept in the island, in the full belief that at no distant time would the captain be delivered into Ins hands, that their testimony might b< joined to his own against him. If he came not to that island within five re, the Nubian resolved to wander over the earth m rch of him. That time was within three days of its accomplishment when he saw Langley land. THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 291 The struggle of his soul ended in the conquest of the sterner passion. A voice within him cried out for ever — "Justice — justice!" With all haste he departed for Kingston. For the event that had arrived he had long been prepared. His own testimony, express and clear, was supported by that, equally decided, of his witnesses. When the depositions were taken, he felt secure that no mortal power could deprive justice of its victim. " This day," he exclaimed, as he left the court, " have I built up the scaffold on which that man shall die ! " As the intelligence of Langley's crime became known, it excited the greatest horror and detestation. He was examined and committed for murder. By the advice of his counsel he reserved his defence; his advisers franklv told him they saw no chance of his escape, if the Nubian pressed the prosecution against him with the same vigi- lance, and the witnesses all appeared on the trial. Mary had never left her father since his capture. Those words filled her with hope. She believed she had the power to save him, and that belief filled her with courage. Christian now resided in the capital. He still per- severed in his business with all his former regularity, though he felt the time was at hand when he should no longer continue it. Mary proceeded to his dwelling, and was directed to his private room. She entered it unan- nounced. He was standing at a desk, apparently wrapped in profound thought, with his face shaded by his hand. Before him was a small miniature, which Mary instantlv recognised as one of herself, that, at the earnest request of the minister, she had sent Christian in return for his con- tinued course of kindness and benevolence during her absence. From beneath his hand large scalding tears feb on the glass of the miniature.. He presented no other 292 EVENINGS AT H ADDON BALL. trace of emotion. His large form was as rigid as if it had been carved of atone. .Mary seized the moment as most favourable to hei wishes. The life of her father was at stake; with that thought what had she to do with Bcruples? She laid her hand softly on the Nubian's shoulder. He started hack for an instant, then gazed upon her with a look of in- describable love, admiration, and reverence. Mary, who knew the usual reserve of his manner, and had prepared herself for opening the interview, was surprised and affected when he threw himself at her feet, and raised his hands to her in an attitude of supplication. " Pure and beautiful being \" he said, in tones of the deepest feeling, '-how can I ever hope for thy forgiveness ? yet how can I live, how can I die, without it V Mary felt that the barrier of reserve she dreaded to encounter was broken down by the Nubian's action in an in- stant. She addressed him with the simplicity of times past. "My forgiveness, Christian! Oh, you may obtain more than that! Save my father, as you yet may easily, and you shall have my regard and gratitude for ever." Anguish was written in every line of his face, as he replied — " This is not my act, but God's. I am but the instrument he wields in his hand." "Christian! Christian! beware how you mistake the impulse of revenge for the dictate of Heaven ! Vengeance is not yours! Come, yon have been deceived by bad spirits! Hear what it is I ask of you — only this, that you take no part against my father. Fly! leave this island at once. I — 1, who saved your life, — Christian, I Bpeak not this boastingly, but as a claim to your gratitude, — I Ik -i ceh, I implore this of you, as the greatest boon that one creature can ask of another." THE NUBTAN SLAVE. 293 He groaned as if his spirit were racked by mortal agony. " This is torture \" he said; " but it cannot con- quer me. Lady, if you had seen what I have seen, the long train of fainting captives, the horrors of that hold, dark, suffocating, filthy, in which fever raged, and the dead and living lay together, the massacre of that night, which even now turns my brain as I speak of it, you could no longer doubt that the justice of Heaven cries aloud for atonement." He sprang to his feet, having his mind filled only at that instant with all the crimes he had witnessed, and the sense that he was the chosen agent to avenge them. "He must die!" he said, firmlv — "die. that the awful warning may be carried through all lands — die, that human justice may be vindicated — die, that the cry of innocent blood may be silenced — die, that the oppressor over all the earth may know God reigneth in heaven ! " The hope of Mary fainted in her breast as those awful words, delivered with the vehemence and fire of inspiration, fell upon her ear. Yet she made one effort more to turn the Nubian from his purpose. She raised her eyes to his, and waited till she saw them melting with tenderness and affection. " Christian," she said, " though I have never breathed my thought into mortal ear, nor hardly looked on it myself, yet 1 know well with what feeling you have re- garded me. I have your love, such love as men feel for a chosen bride." She saw him start, and fix on her a gaze of passionate love. " My hand, my faith pledged on the altar, shall be yours, if you consent that we fly together. Think ! will not a life of wedded love, my father's years of penitence, be more dear to you than a moment of vengeance 1 r 294 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. The Nubian turned from her for the space of an in- «tant. When he looked on her again, his face was more tranquil. "Angelic creature!" he exclaimed, "worthy, not of love, but of worship, thou art more beautiful than my dreams ever painted thee. Never did I adore thee as in this hour. No mortal heart can ever conceive the temptation thou hast offered to my soul. To save thee from an uneasy thought, I would have died — I would have deemed all the torture to which man could put me repaid by one kind word from thy lips. Yet we part now, and for ever. \Vretched that I am, I dare not ask thy pardon." He led her out unresistingly, but his keen sense saw that she shrank from the pressure of his hand. This alone was wanting to complete his agony. As she passed from his dwelling, his strong frame fell heavily to the ground. * * * * * A gibbet stood long on a promontory of the Jamaica coast. The chains clanked dismally as the sea-breeze caught them. In that case of iron swung the bones of the murderer Langley. ***** The Nubian, true to his purpose, stayed to see his vic- tim die. He had previously settled his affairs as one who was about to quit the world, giving his last instructions to a trusty agent. A ship waited for him till the execution was over. His parting words were only that his mission on earth was accomplished. No one knew whither he went. The pure and gentle Mary parted from her father only at the foot of the scaffold, when his spirit seemed wholly Hcavm's. With the good minister she quitted that THE NUBIAN SLATE. 295 island, which now presented to her only images of terror. Her heart was too confiding to live long without an object. When time had softened her grief, a lieutenant, poor, but high-minded, gained her affections. He had previously been unfortunate, but now all things prospered with him. He rose rapidly in rank; his promotion was secured by purchase ; he could never learn whose was the wealth that advanced him, that cleared off his incumbrances, and that made him a happy and a prosperous man. His sweet wife, though ignorant of the agent, suspected the source ; but the thought was too full of painful recollections to be willingly indulged in. A few years since, there came reports of a deadly con- flict between a party of Africans in a province of Nubia and a band of savage slave-dealers. The Nubians were victorious, but their leader received his death-wound in the struggle. One of those who survived him, and who, it seems, had his confidence, took from his breast a miniature, and transmitted it by a safe hand to England. It reached Mary, then a fond wife and mother, with a few words from the seaman to whose care it was consigned, telling how he who wore it fell. It was the miniature she had given to the unfortunate Nubian, and was now stained with his heart's blood. If in spirit he ever hovered over earth, he must have rejoiced as he saw that that picture, so dearly prized it? life, was sometimes dimmed by Mary's tears. FIFTH EVENING. On the morning of the day which ushered in the Fifth Evening of our revels, there had arrived at the Hall an accomplished literary friend of the host, who had been long absent in the East, travelling over every step of those lands which sacred and classical lore, combined with the beauties of Nature and the wealth of Art, have ren- dered the richest in the world, both in moral and intellec- tual associations, and who had since given to the world one of the best books ever called forth by that most fertile of all travelling themes. The Lady Eva had lately been reading these charming records of " the Crescent and the Cross" with delight and enthusiasm, and the moment their accomplished writer entered the library, she en- treated him to aid her Tale-telling project by something about " the land of the sun.'' He sought at first to ex- cuse himself from the task, by alleging that what he had told of the beautiful lands he had lately visited was the simple, unembellished truth ; that he had seen, and then described what he had seen, for the use and convenience of those who might follow him; whereas what the Lady Eva required of him was a fiction, an effort of the fancy or the imagination; and even if he had succeeded in the former case, it was, so far, an evidence that he might fail in the latter. But the Lady Eva would hear of no excuse. zoe. 297 " Surely," said she, •'•' you must have seen, in those far-off lands and strange conditions of society, enough of that kind of truth, which for us, here at home, will have all the air of fiction." On this hint, the gentleman she addressed, with grace- ful courtesy, proceeded to relate ZOE: AN EPISODE OF THE GREEK WAR. I.— GREECE AND HER LEADERS. " No gospel announces the glad tidings of resurrection to a fallen Nation — once down, and down for ever." — W. S. Landor. So spoke a true Poet — yet, for once, not truly : Time is the iconoclast of aphorisms, and every day demolishes some such unstable " eternal truth." Hellas, in her shroud of slavery, heard the Israfil voice of Freedom, and awoke ; — her spirit burst its bonds, and " Greece was living Greece once more ! " When the Revolution first broke out, the glow of war was not yet chilled in Europe : youth was still emulous, and age still proud, of glory won under the Lion and the Eagle standards. Many a young student, to whom Ther- mopylae and Salamis were more familiar names than those of Torres Vedras and Trafalgar, — when he heard that armies were marshalling in Greece and Thessaly, believed that the heroic age was to return : and many a veteran, in whom the force of imagination had long yielded to that of memory — the memory of privations and hard knocks — 298 EVENINGS AT BADDON HALL, listened, nevertheless, eagerly to the first note of war, and found the trumpet had lost nothing of its spell. No sooner had fame transmuted the Greek i( Insurrec- tion" into the "War of Independence," than volun- teers of all nations, ranks, and professions, hastened to the standard of Ypsilanti. Some of these modern paladins were sincere enthusiasts, and had abandoned a life of luxury and case for this romantic cause; but by fa the greater number consisted of needy and profligate adven- turers : both classes — the seekers of glory or of gold — were equally disappointed in the capabilities of the Grecian camp ; the latter were forced to share the life and hard- ships of the Klepht and Palicar ; the former either obtained at once a leading rank, or retired from the service in dis- gust. All these adventurers were ultimately formed into a ngiment called the "Philhellenic Band," which early distinguished itself in the field. Early in the year 1822, the young Senate of Greece was assembled at Epidaurus. The members sat, like the Areopagites of old, in the open air; or lay couched on the fresh grass, in the shelter of some olive-tree. Their ap- pearance was as various as their attitude ; some wore the venerable beard, the flowing robes, and even the turban of their Eastern oppressors ; some were clad in the graceful national costume, adopted from Albania; with crimson cap and broidered vest, and sash well filled with pistol and yataghan. Their appearance was imposing and strangely picturesque, as they sat or stood — grey-beard and warrior grouped together — on the slope of a gentle hill that com- manded a wide-spread view of the country in whose cause they were assembled. It is true that the classic Land beyond that glorious Gulf lay still in slavery; but those who gazed upon its beauty there had pledged their lives zoe. 299 for its redemption ; and when was such a pledge kept truly, and in vain ? In all Greece, a more fitting place for such assembly could scarcely have been found : beneath them lay the Saronic gulf, winding round Salamis and old iEgina : — beyond — though purple shadows wrapped Piraeus and the plains, — the Acropolis of Athens stood out against the evening sky, with its marble temples gleaming in the setting sun's last smile. That sunset streaked with gold the violet shadows of the mountains over Marathon, while far to the eastward it glistened on the sea ; and even in the darkling west one magic ray had lighted up the citadel of Corinth, through the very shadows of Parnassus. Even this Assembly, usually so turbulent and discord- ant, seemed influenced by the quiet of that evening hour. No voice was heard but that of the orator, through whose melodious, but warlike words, there stole at intervals the happy song of the wild bird, or the murmur of the waves. Occasionally, perhaps, when a friend was accused, or a native city threatened — some armed senator would start to his feet ; and, with flashing eyes and fierce eloquence denouncing the accuser, fling back the charge : but tran- quillity was soon restored. A short distance from the assembly, a guard of the Philhellenic Band lay scattered among some orange-trees that shaded the ruins of the temple ; all were asleep, except the sentries, and their young officer, who was leaning on his sword, and engaged in conversation with a stranger of very different appearance,. The latter wore a sort of undress uniform like that of a Russian officer of rank, but this might have been assumed from its con- venience and simplicity ; there was no disguise, however, in the military carriage and dignified bearing of the wearer. 300 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. His cap was drawn down over Ins keen, but thoughtful eyes ; and heavy moustaches performed their part in concealing the expression of the mouth, and giving a character of stein repose to the whole countenance: his dress was handsome, but uncared for; his sword and spurs alone were bright. His young companion, the Philhellene, presented a striking contrast to the stranger in every respect : the graceful and noble costume of Greece was carefully arranged about his light, athletic figure, and his richly-mounted arms were brightly polished. Though war and weather had scarred his cheek and bronzed his brow, his eyes still shone with enthusiasm; his whole bearing was calm and proud, but there was that in his look which told of unbroken energy and resolution. " Shall I, then, announce you to the Senate V inquired the young officer. "By what name?" asked the stranger, with a smile. " I know not, though this is our second meeting. But I feel that I am in the presence of one who alone seems superior to the unhappy circumstances of the time; and who will assuredly, soon or late, control the destinies of our country." "Of our country?" repeated the stranger, in the English language, but slightly tinctured with a foreign accent. "Yes," replied the Philhellene, "it is my country by adoption, as I believe it to be yours. I have already told you how I relinquished high prospects in England, to become a nameless adventurer in a cause which I still hold sacred — how suddenly my first illusions vanished when I found myself in the cam]) at Yassey. You also know how my comrades perished at Dragastan, — that I, as one of the few survivors, obtained command in the Philhellenic Band zoe. 301 — and this, with the exception of our naval expeditions, forms my whole history. My zeal in the cause I serve, if less enthusiastic, is more firm than ever : — my fate is now identified with that of Greece : avarice and cruelty, treachery and selfishness, may sully her fair fame ; but when I think on all that she has already done, — on all that she may yet perform, — I can still afford to hope as well as to remember." The stranger appeared to listen with interest to this confession ; and, after a pause, rejoined, " It is of such men as you that our country stands in need. I love your nation, but abhor your government. Had England but conceded the right of nationality to Greece, it would have been worth more to our cause than a hundred victories. But of this we will speak no more — It is well that we retain some of our illusions ; they may be converted, inte truths, and are necessary to veil our corruption : as your comrade, Chaussevigne, once observed to me, ' Greece is like the dome of the Invalides, at Paris — all glittering with gilding, but we know T what there is below.'* But, see ! here comes one in whom all the characteristic vices and virtues of this people are combined." As he spoke, a Greek officer, showily dressed and accoutred, was challenged by the sentries, and then, dis- mounting, made his way to the assembly. "That is Theodore Colocotronis,'' resumed the stranger ; " brave, avaricious, sanguinary, and coxcombical. I thank the Turks that they have left our old men the dignified appearance of nonchalance with which they receive him : he comes from Nauplia, with tidings of defeat. But here comes a man of another stamp — Soli's heroic chieftain, * Michaud. 802 EVENINGS \T II \1>D()\ II M.I.. Marco Botzaris. Sec how proudly be wears thai stained capote over hi^ simple vest; no herald's escutcheon in your kingly courts ever bore a nobler blazonment than the M>iU upon that shaggy skin. By heaven! they rise to meet the rugged mountaineer — there is virtue still in Greece! Their courtesy is well rewarded; he brings tidings of the surrender of Corinth by the Turks. With what classic brevity, but force, he tells his tale. Look well upon him ; for such men live short lives in times like these." " And by what means, may I ask, have you become acquainted with events that these hurried men have only just had time to tell?" inquired the Philhellene, whose interest and curiosity were strongly excited by his strange companion. " Some day or other you shall know," said the latter, " but not now. Here comes a friend of yours, the bravest, yet most diffident man that sails the seas. Fan well, for the present; tell Ypsilanti, when the assembly rises, that he who gave you this ring awaits him at Piadi ; then keep the trinket — it may serve you yet." So saying, the stranger left him; and almost at the same instant Canari grasped his hand hurriedly but affectionately, as he passed to deliver his report to the assembly. The slight and delicate appearance of this naval hero gave little token of the hardships he had braved; and when he timidly related to the assembly how he had steered his fireship into the midst of the Turkish fleet, and exploded her under their very guns — his faltering voice and downcast eyes appeared to belie his daring deed. His story was soon told; he exchanged a few words with the President, and in a few moments more had flung himself down by the side of the Philhellene — his timidity had passed away, and he was once more the frank, bold-hearted seaman. zoe. 303 " Norman ! my friend, my brother ! " he exclaimed, " I have glorious news for you to-night. We sail at mid- night for Mycone, the isle of love, and wine, and beauty ; there, even your stately step shall flourish in the Romaika, aud vour cold Northern blood shall glow with night's dark wine.* Then, on for Scio ! to avenge our slaughtered friends : — the butchering Turk holds his feast of lanterns on Friday night, and by all the gods of your mythology and my mother-land, he shall have a light he expects not." As he spoke thus, his eyes flashed fire, and his voice was in tune with the trumpet's blast. "But more than all this/' continued the volatile Greek, changing once more to a joyous mood — " more than the wine which cheers the body, or even than the vengeance that refreshes the soul, — I have found for you a heroine at last; — not one of those exemplary old women who is ready to set fire to a powder magazine, though herself and her children be a-top of itf — but a real, romantic heroine — brave, beautiful, eloquent, and even rich. What ! nothing but your old incredulous smile ? I tell you, had you heard and seen her, as I have done, you would abandon those dreams and reveries of yours for a bright reality that transcends them all, and forget that the world contained aught else but her. It was she who roused the Eastern Islands to resistance, and inspired them with resolution to be free." The Philhellene listened with interest to a rhapsody well suited to those stirring times, and inquired how long his friend had known the subject of his glowing eulogy. * The " Vino di Notte " is made in the Cyclades, of a grape so delicate, that, if gathered by daylight, it ferments, and becomes worthless. f This was a circumstance of frequent occurrence in the Greek war — when the men were slain, and nothing remained for their wives and child- ren but the brutality of the Turkish soldiery. 30-1- EYl'A IM.v \ i ii LDDON II ILL. "I'll tell you, my boy, how it happened. You know how reluctant Tenos and Myrone* have shown themselves to join our cause, or even to afford supplies. Las1 week, though I left my mark upon the Turkish fleet offScio, my own ships did not come out of action exactly as they went into it; and I was obliged to seek Mycon6, to refit. I fouud the little harbour almost deserted, and there was scarcely a soul to speak to. One surly old fellow rema however; and he told me that the whole village was gone to the orange grove, where the ruined temple stands. And there I found them — men, women, and children — crowding round Modena Mavroyeni.* Now, I'm not fond, myself, of hearing a woman talking to more than one person at a time, but — before I had looked and listened while my pulse heat five, to that inspired girl — I only wished that all Greece could have heard her, too. "She stood upon the ruined temple's marble steps, surrounded by the Primates of the island, who looked like priests of old, attendant on their deity ; and never yet did priest or Pagan picture a divinity of more glorious form or inspiring voice. She spoke of Greece, and the cause became divine ; of slavery — and I felt its chain upon my neck ; she spoke of our ancient valour — I thought I had been a coward until then, and was invincible thenceforth. She >poke of freedom, and her voice sounded like a Marathonian trumpet. She told of our slaughtered breth- ren, and her own slain sire, and the people wept; and then she spoke of vengeance ! — vengeance — fierce, terrible, and swift ! Vengeance — that would sweep the Ottoman from the face of the earth, and carry Freed mi on it-: wings ! * Her story, as well as those o! an me persons in this tale, is histoi zoe. 305 " She ceased -for a moment there was silence, as the ear strove to catch some echo of that thrilling voice : but then burst forth from every pent-up bosom one glorious shout — high, vehement, prolonged— that reached the Turks in their distant citadel, and told them their accursed rule had ceased for ever \" The Thilhellene caught instantly the enthusiasm of the sailor, and grasped his hand — "There spoke the spirit of old Greece ! " he exclaimed. a This is what I have longed to hear and know. I sail with you to-nignt, and if my faith in the regeneration of Greece has ever languished, I will kindle it anew on the altar of Modena Mavroyeni \" " Not by that name, however," rejoined his mercurial friend; who now, half ashamed of his own enthusiasm, sought to amuse himself with that which it had awakened. " My heroine disclaims the half Italian title she received from her Fanariote father, and now styles herself, simplv. ' Zoe/ — a name by which her mother used to call her." The assembly soon broke up, and the friends separated — to meet at midnight on board the galley of Canari. II.— LOVE AND WAR. " And yet in times so stormy, in a land Where Virtue's self held forth a bloody hand, To greet armed Power— in such times as these, Still Woman's Love could find a way to please." Philip Van Artevelde. Merrily the light mystico* of Canari bounded over the starlit sea — winged by her snowy sails spread widely * The mystico is a light, long boat, peculiar to the Archipelago : it i« adapted both for sail and oars, and has extraordinary speed. X 300 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. to the breeze. Strenuously, too, her stalwart seamen bent to their oars — changing at every sweep the purple water to phosphoric foam. Will was in their work; for, what- ever the vices of the Greek, his country's name was then on every lip — her cause in every heart. Swiftly they sped, for the mission of Canari was an urgent one, though now that Delhi of the seas lay wrapt in such deep luxury of repose as none but men of eager action know. The Philhcllene kept watch for his wearied friend ; and found his own imagination strangely haunted by that Island Girl; whose image would still present itself to his excited fancy, and block up, as it were, every avenue to other thought. Hitherto, everything Greek, except Greece herself, had disappointed him; although during his brief but stirring career he had left no opportunity of adventure unessayed — " Woman, the field, the ocean — all that gave Promise of pleasure, peril of a grave — In turn he tried." Little more than twelve months had elapsed since Nor- man first joined the gallant but ill-fated Ypsilanti, in .Moldavia ; but, in trial, disenchantment, and experience, those months had done the work of years. He believed that his worldly education was now complete — that he at length saw life in all its clear and cold reality. Vain thought ! such knowledge is denied to man. Every one has his own " reality," which to his neighbour seems the veriest illusion; — and who is to decide ? However war, wealth, ambition, and woman's self, may be argued down to an illusion, and lose their charm when applied to the cold touchstone of experience — Nature's glory will never lose its power over a heart in which zoe. 307 snthusiasm has. once existed. This even our adventurer could feel, as the Day-god — born anew at Delos — rose gloriously from his native isle, and shot his golden arrows over earth and sea : lightly they glance from the iEgean's silvery shield, but pierce and scatter the pale mists on Sunium's Promontory, and the proud Athenian hills. As their first warm shower fell upon Canari's cheek, he sprang to his feet. For a few minutes, he gazed proudly and fondly on the view before him, then knelt devoutly, and prayed to a little image of the Virgin. " Well ! my volunteer V he exclaimed, as he rose from his devotions ; " the galley makes good way, and we shall make Mycone by nightfall. Now, tell me what you think of our expedition ; and, first — of Zoe 1" " First inform me who it was you found me with, last night, at Epidaurus — the stranger whom you saluted so respectfully ? " "That's exactly what I cannot tell you," said the sailor, looking serious ; " he knows more of our affairs than any man in Greece, yet he never drew a sword in our cause. He is one day at St. Petersburg; another, at Stamboul ; a third, in the heart of the Morea ; dictating, not only wisely, but bravely, to our vacillating president.'' " He seemed unwilling to be seen last ni°ht," observed the Philhellene, " and Ypsilanti would scarcely wait to hear and grant my application to join your expedition, after he had heard his message." " And yet they say the prince hates the very ground this stranger shadows," replied Canari : " he feels his superiority, and fears his superseding him as president. I have heard it whispered, that this man is Capo d'Istria ; and that — cold, cautious, and subtle — he only waits until the more forward men of Greece have rendered her cause 308 EVENINGS \T II ADDON HALL. illustrious, to put himself at the head of her affairs. Now it t us change the subject ; and thank the gods that we have only Turks and war to deal with, instead of place- hunters and politics/' "Agreed — in good time, too; for yon blue speck on the horizon is the island of your lady-love." " Nay, she's no love of mine/' rejoined the sailor. " Think you I should babble about her I loved, even to your cohl ear ? Moreover, Norman, she's as proud as Lucifer, though lovely as his own bright star. And yet," he added, musingly, " I am the only man on whom she was ever seen to smile : but then it was in pity." " What ! you, Camiri — the nattered favourite ashore, the fearless and the feared afloat — you, scorned by a vil- lage \i\x\ ?" "Nay — not scorned; neither is she is a village girl. Her father was one of the first families of the Fanal,* and came to Mycone only to avoid the persecution consequent on the war. Even here, however, it pursued him ; and he was put to death by Hassan Pasha when the Turkish fleet arrived. From that hour his daughter became changed ; — no longer the timid girl, who seemed to shrink if the rude breeze disturbed her veil; she went from house to house — rousing the spirit of the people to revolt by her own sad story and her wondrous eloquence. At length, hearing that the dastardly Council of the island was about to send submission to the Porte, she appeared among them; followed, as I told you, by all the inha- bitants of the village. The beauty, zeal, and unexpected appearance of the heroic girl, gave to her mission almost a supernatural character. The senate heard her, as it * Cotutantinopohtan Greeks, called" Fanariotes,"from the " Faiial," Uic name A the district tliev iuhal'it. zoe. 309 were, reverentially; and, as her glowing words fell burning on their age-chilled hearts, they warmed to nobler views? ; each senator forgot his corporation craft, and felt — thought — voted — as an individual man. Mycone was free, and Zoe was the angel of its freedom ! " And now, to come to my part of the story : — The islaDd was to furnish its share of ships and seamen to the fleet, and Zoe was the first to contribute the two best galleys in the harbour. My name was somehow whis- pered round; and, turning to me, sh<j poured on me alone those words and looks that had Overpowered the whole assembly. What she said, I know not ; but how she said it, I shall remember in my dying hour. When she ceased to speak, the people turned to me, expecting a reply. You know my failing — my utter inability to speak before a crowd. My heart felt bursting with a thousand thoughts, but i" — stood trembling like a beaten slave. That impor- tunate assembly seemed now all eyes — and now all ears — and now seemed all gasping for my words as if for breath ; still, I was silent as the dead. Then it was she smiled. No smile of scorn, Norman ; but one of gentlest, kindliest encouragement, as she exclaimed, ' Our Canari prefers to speak by actions, rather than by words ; his silence accepts the command that shall speak in thunder to our tyrants V "With these words she ceased — the enthusiasm that had hitherto sustained her, seemed to fail ; she drew her veil timidly, but gracefully, abou!. her, and retired. Then my words came fast and free enough ; for I felt, when she was gone, as if there was no one left. I swore that those very galleys should fire the ship of Hassan Pasha, and the false Turk shall confess to-morrow that Canari keeps his word V s Merrily still flew the light mystico over the sunny sea, 310 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. as the island she was bound for seemed to rise from the waves to meet her. Gradually its hold and beautiful out- line became more clear ; then its bosomy hills and Bhadowy glens became developed ; the myrtle and olive groves came into view ; and, finally, the temple, the snow-white cotta s and the people on the shore. The mystico shot swiftly into the harbour ; but before the friends had landed, they could discover, from the excited crowds ashore, that something unusual had hap- pened. Groups of long-robed elders or white-kilted youths were scattered round, each listening to some speaker who was declaiming violently. Women sat upon the rocks, with hair dishevelled and faces hidden in their hands; while little children pressed unnoticed to their Bides. Bu-;1< and confusion prevailed along the quays; and high ab the town the blood-red banner waved upon the Turkish citadel, whence salvos of artillery proclaimed some victory. The moment his flag was recognised, loud welcoming cries of "Canari ! Canari I" resounded from the populace. Crowds pressed eagerly about his galley as she took the "■round; and before he had landed, he learned from a thousand voices that Scio was laid waste, and all its inhabi- tants were massacred by the Turks.* Canari was well used to hear of death and horror. From his youth up, he had been accustomed to wrestle with the storm, and grapple with destruction in its most ruthless form : but this murder — so terrible, so universal — for tin; moment seemed quite to overwhelm him. He thought of the kind, the beautiful, the loved, who had BO •i welcomed him to their delicious island, now cold in * Ninety thousand Grc slain on this occasion, out of a population of 110,000; and the loveliest island in Greece blighted into a Bildernesa ZOE. 311 a bloody death ; polluting with their unburied corpses the scenes that they once blessed ! He sank upon his knees ; and, clasping his trembling hands upon his burning brow, remained for some time in a silence that none dared to interrupt. Then, starting to his feet, his form dilated, his eyes flashed lightning fire, and his pale lips quivered in a vain attempt to give utterance to the storm of passion that raged within him. No words would come, though he laboured fearfully to speak ; but at last he raised his bugle to his lips, and blew his well-known battle-note — so wild, and long, and fierce, that his very comrades shrank before him, and the Turks were startled in their lofty citadel. Not all the tongues of ancient Greece could have spoken more eloquently, or made a more powerful appeal, than that one trumpet-blast. All the heroic feelings that had slumbered for a thousand years in Hellenic blood were roused to action by its spell. The whole people crowded once more round Canari — boys, and warriors, and grey-haired men — and demanded vengeance, as if it was only his to give. " And vengeance ye shall have V exclaimed the sailor. " To-morrow's dawn will bring us arms from the Morea — to-morrow night, we sail for Scio \" Then, knowing how necessary it was that this excitement should be sustained, he continued — " To-night for the banquet — the funeral feast to our lost friends; to- night we will keep festival like our ancestors ; and like them keep the morrow for revenge !"* Welcome was that word. The Myconians were of old renowned for hospitality, and the elders now hastened to occupy their fevered minds with a new excitement : the * '• Let us <line merrily, for we 6up with Pluto." — Leoiiidut. 312 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. young men hastened to the ships, and employed themselves under Can ui's orders, in preparing them for sea. Mean- while the Philhellene wandered alone among scenes that seemed everywhere to speak of Zo'e ; and pondered w hether even her spirit could save Mycone from the fearful doon 3 of her sister island. And now evening was come : not, as in our northern climates, with damp, cold shadows falling upon cloaked people, hurrying to the shelter of their houses; but " softly, beautifully bright;" genial as the noontide, refreshing as the dawn — thoughtful, tender, and inviting. The sea- breeze wafted fragrance from the orange-blossoms, as it made music with their boughs ; and fluttered through the long, dark tresses of many a Grecian maid. Where a soft green hill sloped gently to the shore, : iri and his comrades held their festival in the open air. No one could have judged, from their gay, joyous bearing and frequent laughter, that such was merely the light foam upon the torrent of one deep, dark passion, that rolled beneath. Unlearned as were most of the island Greeks of that time, there was a classic instinct amongst them that seemed to induce imitation of the customs, and even of the garh of ancient times. The white wide tunic, with its close vest, whose embroidery was an armour in itself — the long hair that floated round the shoulders, the brazen helmet, the greaves, and even the trumpet that characterized the naval Greeks, might have been worn at the Biege of Troy. Like their ancestors, too, they made this funeral feast; like them, they quaffed the rich red wine of Scio, and poured libations to the manes of the dead. But when they came to drink Canari's health, their toast was peculiar to their own time and people zoe. 313 " Sudden and glorious death !"* was drunk to their leader with as much enthusiasm as if it involved length of days and peaceful happiness. And so the festival went on. The people of the island had decreed a crown of honour to Canari, for his last suc- cessful expedition against the Turks, and now he was to receive it. As is usual all over the East, whether Christian, Moslem, or mere Pagan, the men banqueted alone. But now the sounds of a distant serenade were heard from beyond the grove, through whose vistas a procession of Greek maidens was seen advancing to its music. Ordinarily, the melody of these festive Islanders was of the soft and gentle character that seemed suited to their clime ; but now it had caught the warlike tone of the roused people's mind, and the clang of the Moorish cymbal, with the loud roll of the throbbing drum, gave strength to the soft breathings of iEolian flutes. This contrast (and yet union) of the martial with the festive spirit of the hour was every- where apparent. In the harbour, the fire-ships lay dancing on the playful waves, bedecked with flags and streamers, fluttering thoughtlessly over the volcanoes that slept below. The revellers along the shore were equipped for war ; helmets wore the Bacchic wreath ; and many an arm that raised the sparkling glass was stained with soils of the armourer's forge. At intervals, the watch-cry of the sentries broke upon the ear, through the merry chattering of children ; and the peaceful olive-groves below reposed in the shadow of battlemented cliffs above, surmounted by the Turkish citadel and its crimson flag. But every eye was now fixed on the graceful procession * I know not how I can better translate the Greek toast of " x«A»s *jXu/3<, " — a good (or handsome) bullet. 314 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALT,. emerging slowly through the okl temple's columned porch, that spanned their pathway. As they advanced, the men rose from their grassy seat, and gathered round Canari, who stood with folded arms, in embarrassed suspense. To him, that bright array of graceful women was more un- welcome than the fierce columns of the Turkish bosi ; and she who led them more formidable than all else. Her companions wore the rich and varied attire of their country; their leader alone was arrayed in simple white, airily enfolding her stately form. All the others wore chaplets of bright flowers, but she was crowned with a simple myrtle wreath. On she came — with a calm though timid air: high-souled maidenly virtue shone in her eyes, and endowed her glorious shape with majesty. The revel- lers paused in their wild glee, and bacchanals <r 1TW reverent before her; for she looked like an angel descended from a higher sphere on some gracious mission to fallen man. And such, indeed, she was — from the lofty sphere of thought in which her spirit dwelt, she had brought free- dom's aspirations, and conferred them on her tyrant- trodden countrymen. A hundred voices whispered "Zoe!" as she came, slowly, and more slowly, until she paused before Canari: then, as he knelt with folded arms, she placed a chaplet of oak-leaves on his helmet, and said, in a voice that, gentle as it was, reached every ear; " Mycone, grateful to her hero, sends you this." The acclamations that burst from the excited crowd were hushed instantly, when her lips were seen to move again, as she raised the white-cross banner. — " For what you have already done, Canari, our people offer you this crown ; for what you are about to do, they entrust you with this sacred symbol, the standard of regenerate Greece. Confident that, in your keeping, its 'ok. 315 glory is secure, we add only the injunction of the Spartan — 'H rdv, % em ruv."* Air loves sweet sounds, and wafts them carefully along. The Grecian echoes caught those classic words, so breathed by classic lips, and poured them into every listening ear of that widely-circling crowd. Once more a shout of acclamation rent the sky, and once more was hushed, as Canari, losing his timidity in enthu- siasm, rose suddenly, and gave the flag to Norman. "By him," he cried — "by him that banner shall be carried more nobly, though not more proudly, than by me. Grecian-born as I am, my country claims my life and service as a right ; but here is one who has dared as much, and done far more than I — who has shed his blood for us on the hills of Epirus, and the iEgean seas ; who for us has abandoned his own prosperous England — his home, and that of Freedom ! " Once more the acclamations rang in generous echo to that generous speech, and the Philhel- lene was startled to find that every eye was bent on him. His proud self-possession soon returned; and as there is nothing more imposing to an excited audience than per- fect calmness in the person who addresses them, his words, sincere though few; his manner, modest though manly; instantly riveted attention. But he soon found himself speaking for one alone — that beautiful being who stood before him, with her large, soft, inquiring eyes fixed radiantly on his; her exquisitely chiselled lips seeming to quiver with the echo of each word he spoke ; and the rich, warm blood betraying every emotion of her heart in her changing cheek. Why should we pause on such a scene ? — It is over j * " With it or upon k." The words and allusion of Germsnoa, Archbishop of Patras. 316 tVI.N IV.S AT II ADDON H \ l.L. and tin- people are dispersed along the shore; each group sustaining its excitement in a different mode: lure a eirele of young islanders whirl rapidly in the Romaika dance, to which the surrounding crowd keep time with clapping hands and martial song; — there a party of revellers, crowned with ivy, sustain the island's Bacchic character, as they drink deeply to the health of Zoo and the gallant stranger. Gathered round the old elm-tree, the elders are assembled in debate on the equipment of the morrow's expedition ; and many a doomed sailor is strolling along the shore, with his arm encircling some slender waist that shall never feel that pressure more. It is the invariable result of times of common and intense peril, that the usual conventionalities of life are dispensed with, and the fetters of formality relaxed. The Greek islanders were never remarkable for demureness; and now, by universal consent, every disguise abandoned, life wore, openly and honestly, its best and truest feelings — as it might be, in its last hour. Old feuds were for- gotten, decaying friendships were restored, and lovers no longer shrank from free confession, or feared observant eyes. Softly and gloriously the summer moon shone over that fair island and its joy-tranced people — joy all the deeper and more intense from its uncertainty: but a brighter light was shining, and a deeper joy was basking in its ray, where Zoe wandered with the stranger by her side. Norman was deeply versed in all the graceful learning of that lady's land: a scholar's fame had long been his, and his aspiring mind had grasped at all that ever came within its reach. And yet how much had he to learn from this simple island girl ! What was the value of all the light that ever beamed from philosophic page, zuE. 317 compared with that now shining from her eyes ? How dark and objectless seemed life till then — how eagerly and devotedly he gave himself up to a first, deep, reckless love ! And Zo'e — how changed was she within that hour! Till then, her every thought was engrossed by her orphan sorrow or by patriot pride : the first passion to which her young heart awakened was thirst for vengeance on her father's murderers ; this became sublimed into zeal for her country's cause; and feeding thereupon, her soul grew strong. Then, finally, came Love — the master passion that absorbed all others — shining out suddenly, like sun- rise in those Eastern skies : no struggling dawn — no long protracted contest between light and shade — but flashing forth upon her soul like lightning, and filling at once its whole horizon. Man seeks, however vainly it may be betimes, to pre- serve the " Divide et impera " system in his passions ; and in his heart, ambition, pride, and glory may share their rule with Love. With woman — Heaven bless her! — the master passion is a despot, and one that " brooks no brother near the throne : " whatever it may be — love, pride, anger, or revenge — it rules alone. And thus it was with Zo'e — Nature's own wayward child : but a few hours ago, her every thought was occu- pied with glorious abstractions, that seemed to leave nc room for another emotion in her mind : unconscious of hei rare endowments, to her it seemed as natural to speai eloquently as to feel deeply. She had never known what it was laboriously to strive for, and lingeringly to acquire, influence: she appeared, and her power was felt — she spoke, and it was omnipotent. To her ardent but modest mind, this influence seemed simply owing to her mission as Priestess of the glorious creed she preached. 318 l\ ENl NGS AT HADDON BALL And then came Norman, clothed with all the attnoul i 01091 attractive to her imagination] with a spirit so calm and Belf-possessed — yet enthusiastic as her own; with all tin- prestige of the most daring deeds, yet the gentleness and reverence towards woman that combines with bravery so well. Ilis eloquence, earnest and commanding, made the exclamatory harangues of her own people appear to be mere angry prattlings: and then his devotion to her — so sudden, trusting, and entire: the critical and exciting Times in which she lived — all these things "rent moments into immortalities/' and made the passion of the hour appear mature. Night went, and morning came full swiftly to that island people] hut most of all, to the palace were Zoii entertained her guests. Apart from the gay and thought- less crowds, she sat beneath a lofty alcove, looking out upon the sea. Eastern luxury was there, hlended with the refinements of civilised Europe. Italian art had decorated with frescoes the light, graceful architecture of the Sara- cens; silken cushions were piled upon the porcelain tloor; silver lamps shed soft light upon a sparkling fountain; and around it vases of flowers exotic even there, breathed perfume. And Zoe gazed upon the paling stars, and the bright- ening lulls, and the shadowy form of the Turkish mosque, that showed where the beleaguered .Moslems still kept their -round. The eyes of the Greek maiden wandered over the sea, and rested long and earnestly on the galley that bore the banner of the Cross. In a few short hours it was to bear the stranger, now her lover, to danger and perhaps to death: but he was by her side; and he also gazed thoughtfully upon that tranquil view, and proudlj on that fateful banner. zoe. 319 " To-morrow night/' lie whispered, " that flag that floats serenely now, shall ascend to the skies on the ex- plosion that destroys the Pasha's ship. But not more high or suddenly will it soar, than the hope that now breathes softly in your ear, to claim reward when we return." "When we return!" she repeated. "Alas! the charmed life Canari bears may be proof even to this des- perate chauce — he may return ; but he may come alone \" Just then the bugle of Canari blew ; and thenceforth prompt, energetic action, took the place of thought and reverie. Eager and armed crowds now hastened to the shore, and Norman's step was not the last that trod Canari' s deck. Still the little fleet waited for the morn- ing's breeze ; and at the earliest dawn the Patriarch of the island came, with his priesthood in all their sacred pomp, to bless the expedition. The " Full of hope, misnamed forlorn," confessed themselves devoutly ; and bent humbly beneath the absolving hands, before they mustered at their re- spective posts. In each of the fire-ships an altar was raised, and garlands of flowers adorned the rigging. Who could imagine, as he looked upon those ministers of peace — surrounded by every sacerdotal sign, and voice of hymns, and festive wreaths — that destruction's fiercest devil crouched below? Every cavity in these ships was charged with explosive matter ; hand-grenades lay in piles along the decks, and a battery lurked among the grapplin irons, the first strain of which was to explode it: the subtle Greek-fire — penetrating and quenchless — was laid in tubes from stem to stern ; and a curtain of bullet-proof, to defend the firemen, lay ready for tricing up the shrouds when the ships were about to act. D 320 EVENINGS AT HADDON 11 \LL. The breeze blows merrily, the harbour is deserted, the open sea is gained, and galley and Airship strain eagerly for the scene of action. Day fades, and evening conns. Scio looms before the invaders through the evening*! gloom, and soon they open on the bay where the Turkish fleet lies crowded in fancied security. The Grecian galleys come to an anchor along the unprotected southern shore ; but the lire-ships that are to begin the action sail on to the north, in order to command a leading wind. Meanwhile, the triumphant Moslems held their festival in the desolated homes of the slaughtered islanders. A thousand bonfires along the shore gave light to groups, rejoicing tranquilly according to their fashion. Every Turkish ship was clearly visible by the light of innu- merable lamps hung amongst the rigging: and conspicu- ous above all was the admiral's flag-ship; on which three bright-green lanterns showed that Hassan Pasha held his orgies. By the last light of evening, two little brigantines, bearing the Crescent banner, were seen slowly entering the bay. On they came, tranquilly and unnoticed, till, in- stead of bending their course toward the merchantmen, they were observed to steer straight for the centre of the Turkish fleet. That fleet had already experienced the fearful havoc of the Greek fire-ship, and at once a cry burst from every watchman —"The Greek ! The Greek !" Instantly the .Moslem joy was hushed; hurried and con- fused commands were issued aboard of every ship; cables were cut, and sails were instantly let fall. Just then, one of the two dark little craft that had caused such panic in that stately fleet, was seen to haul her wind; for a moment she remained motionless, while the crew of her doomed consort got on board, and left zoe. 321 Canari and his friend alone to work her. A small caique — their only hope of safety — towed astern; and on went the little brigantine gallantly through the heart of the Ottoman fleet. Cannon opened upon her from every quarter; and a thousand bullets whistled round the white- cross banner that now proudly streamed from her mast- head, as she swept calmly, but swiftly on. Canari holds the helm, and Norman leans against the foremast with folded hands, in one of which is visible one burning spark. The brig passes on silently through the confused and drifting fleet, and winds her way steadily towards the towering ship of the admiral. Now she is under her very counter — and now her gunwale grates against the sides; the grappling-irons fasten in the main-chains — the little spark has been planted and makes quick harvest ; a hun- dred dusky hands strive to shake off the irons ; but the grenades explode, annihilating everything but the grim hooks that they protect, and the stanchions to which they cling. — " Now, Norman, our task is done ! — Away for life and Zoe \" shouted Canari, cheerily, as he leapt, fol- lowed by his friend, into the caique, that soon shot clear of the fire-ship and her gigantic victim. The latter had cut her cables, and now drifted to and fro, as if struggling to get free from her destroyer; — vainly as the tall giraffe attempts to fly from the tiger that bestrides him while it tears his sides! The caique paused upon her oars, and watched for the explosion. It came full quickly; — for a moment the brig recoiled, — then seemed, transformed into fire — to plunge into the Moslem ship: instantly was the fiery invasion met, echoed, and repelled, by another explosion, louder and more terrible by far ; the huge three- decker and her destroyer disappeared from the ocean and mingled their blazing fragments in the clouds. By that sudden flash were seen a thousand turban? 322 EVENINGS AT HADD0N HALL. floating about on the dark water: one — only one — small boat was seen escaping, and Canaii's eagle eye caught the Pasha's standard at its stern. A gesture was enough : the caique shot along through the sparkling shower that hissed around it, towards that boat. It struck the barge; the very shock gave impetus to the force with which the assailants sprang on board, and their swords descended as they came. A moment is gone by ; that boat contains no living soul. The caique skims again lightly towards the open sea; and 'he insignia of the ruthless Pasha are amongst her trophies. That night and its morrow are passed by. Evening comes again, with all the soft beauty that it wore when the lovers looked out upon Mycone's bay. Softly and glo- riously once more the moon shone over that calm scene, and thoughtfully did Zoe once more gaze upon its beauty. Long had she striven to sustain her spirit with heroic thought and Tyrtsean song; but suspense had tranced her into silence, only broken by the beating of her passion- ate heart. The lute lay neglected by her side, flowers were torn and scattered round her; the very horizon she had watched so long seemed like some iron circle pressing on her brow, and she buried her face in her clasped hands. A ripple is heard — a caique shoots along the waves, and lightly touches on the marble stairs — a firm but slow step is heard — and Canari comes — but comes alone! III.— PEACE. " But song of bard, or sage's lore, That land ennoble now no more ; It is not Greece — it must not be ; And yet look up — the land is free ! " AUUREY DE VERE. Long years of sanguinary struggle and fearful vicissi- tude had passed by; Greece was left desolate of her beauty J3S3 zoe. 323 her wealth, and her bravest children — but she was left free. Her patriot people either slept in honourable death, or lived in liberty. In the early spring of 1833, the beautiful harbour of Nauplia was crowded with ships of war ; the conquering flags of Navarino — English, French, and Russian — floated from their spars ; and salvoes of artillery welcomed to her shore the monarch of regenerate Greece ! And such was the result of what cold-hearted, calcu- lating Europe denounced twelve years before as a hopeless struggle ; as if any noble cause were ever hopeless ! Twelve years before, and Ypsilanti might have said — " Lo ! with the chivalry of Christendom, I wage my war — no nation for my friend ; Yet in each nation having hosts of friends ! " * And now the most powerful nations in the world were emulous of doing honour to the cause they had so long denounced. Almost all the Greeks of the Morea, whom the war had spared, and many of those from Livadia and the islands, were assembled on the shore to greet their king. Infi- nitely various was their appearance and array ; as Primate, Klepht, and Palicar, in coloured robes, or snow-white tunics, and scarfs, and arms, and armour of antique fashions, crowded round the path their sovereign was to take. Some clambered about the broken bastions, or over fallen columns, to command a better view. Greek matrons, in their festival attire, thronged each safer spot of ground ; holding their unconscious infants up, as if they could see also through their eyes. The pathway to the citadel was kept clear, not by soldiers, but by Greek maidens, upon * Henry Taylor's admirable drama, " Philip Van Artevelde." 52 t EVENINGS AT HADD0N HALL. whom none of those wild warriors of the lulls would dare to press; and little children sang hymns of joy and wel- come as they strewed the ground with flow Faring the place of disembarkation, the ground was broken by military operations, or their result; the road to the citadel wound among huge rocky fragments, whose mossy eminences afforded resting-places to gay groups. Beyond this space rose the Acropolis, backed by the wide sweep of the hills of Argos and the mountains of Arcadia. Another loud salvo of artillery shook the sky, and announced that Otho had landed in his new kingdom, whilst a universal shout of enthusiasm from his new sub- jects welcomed him to Greece. The graceful and classic costume of his adopted country became his light and youthful figure well ; and he trod the sacred soil with a firm and noble step. His eyes glanced eagerly around; but, alas ! there was no generous fire, no proud inspiration there ! His salute was courtly, but cold ; and while Gre- cian warriors pressed to catch his notice, he chattered lightly to his Bavarian friends. He was, however, the gift of the Great Powers to Greece, and it behoved her to be grateful. And so her enthusiastic people felt for a little while. No foreboding of worse than Turkish tyranny, renewed under a Christian form, then shadowed their triad hearts ; mirth and revelry resounded every when', and the first festival of freedom was well kept. That evening — when the sun had set, the breeze blew off the land, and the fever of rejoicing was at its height — a lonely galley held her way from the festive shore, on, — over the darkening sea. She steered the same course that the galley of Canari held long years before, and i ached the same haven in the harbour of Myccne. The zcm. 325 islanders were celebrating their king's arrival with their asual zeal in the cause of pleasure ; but the pilot of the galley made no pause among the revellers. He soon found himself alone among the orange groves ; and near the ruined temple found the object of his search — a grave. A tomb of Parian marble bore a simple symbol; but while an inhabitant remained, there was no epitaph needed to tell the stranger that beneath its shelter reposed the chivalrous valour of the Norman, by the side of the passionate but pure beauty of the classic East. Canari, too, has long since found a sailor's sepulture among the islands that he died to save. There he lies in honour — shrouded only by the dark iEgean that he loved so well. *t* t* ^* *f* *p JJ* At the conclusion of the Eastern traveller's narrative, with which all the company professed themselves much gratified, the Lady Eva turned appealingly to a young lady who sat near her, and intimated that the more her own sex would assist in this novel celebration of her birth- day revels, the more she should, in after-life, recur with pride and pleasure to the recollection of this happy year. " And I know you can tell stirring stories," she addec 1 , archly and beseechingly; "for Saint Etienne revealed this fact to me one long winter night of last year." The apfeal was successful; a drawing was quickly chosen, and presented by ,he Lady Eva. and the result was 326 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. THE TERRACE GARDEN. In the southern provinces of France, the climate is almost Italian. There, along the range of the maritim. Alps, the vegetation is luxuriant as that of Italy ; the air- tints of that sunny region possess all the magic glow of the sweet south, and the short twilight following the summer day is as soothing to the soul and sense as that which heralds the night upon the shores of Naples. It was an evening in the month of August, 1790; the sun was slowly sinking towards the blue waves of the Mediter- ranean,, along whose sleepy and slowly heaving swell his last rays fell in a broad tract of light. Large volumes of copper-coloured vapours rested on the western horizon; a few white, feathery clouds flecked the deepening azure of the high vault of heaven, and already the young moon glimmered above the crests of the distant mountains. A bold promontory stretched far into the glassy waters of the gulf of Lyons. A thick wood of aged oaks, with a few tall pines rising proudly above their broad masses of foli- age, clothed the promontory from its summit to the verge ut' the steep rocks skirting its base. Midway up the ascent stood the chateau de Montauban : it was a stately pile of Gothic architecture, with the dark ivy, the growth of three centuries, clinging to its grey stone, mantling the highest turrets, and almost hiding the sculptured shields of noble blazonry surmounting each deep-arched gate and window The chateau was surrounded by terraced gardens, with their groves of orange-trees, their thickets of roses, then- stone vases filled with exotic shrubs, and their fountains sparkling in the evening light. Long flights of stone Utaira led from the upper to the lower terraces, until they ■** THE TERRACE GARDEN. 327 descended to the lowest, which was scarcely raised above the shore of a small cove, where the rippling waves, dancing in between the cliffs, washed murmuring over the pavement of the terrace. Two persons stood hand in hand upon the lowest ter- race, and looked silently over the scene we have essayed to picture. One was a young man, who might perhaps have already attained his twentieth year. His figure was tall and graceful, but cast in that athletic mould which showed that he had already acquired the full strength of manhood. His head was set on with the proud grace often seen in the works of the antique sculptors ; his fea- tures were aquiline, and strongly marked, possessing the haughty and somewhat stern beauty of the Roman statue. His eyes were dark and fiery as those of the mountain stag ; and his hair, which curled closely round his fore- head, was black as the raven's wing. His dress was the plainest garb of the Alpine hunter; but the easy dig- nity of his whole air and mien proclaimed his right to rank with the highest nobles of France. He was certainlv a handsome man, but his almost faultless beauty repelled rather than attracted interest. His countenance too truly mirrored his spirit, and betrayed the feeling of disgust and lassitude which follows the excitement of premature pas- sions. The freshness and the illusions of life were lost , he had lived too quickly, and the clear, keen observation of men and their motives, — the cold, selfish spirit of worldly calculation, had succeeded to the expansive gene- rosity and warm-hearted confidence of youth. His wealth had enabled him to purchase the bitter knowledge of the worthlessness of the world, and to buy pleasure which had destroyed happiness. His companion was a girl, apparently about one yeai 328 EVENINGS AT IIADDON n.VI.L. younger. Her fairy form, beautifully rounded, but almost infantine in its fragile lightness, her long auburn hair, falling in waves over her shoulders, her soft and dark-grey eyes, shadowed by their black lashes, and the rosy and transparent bloom on her fair cheek, gave to her beauty a witchery which had won for her the name of the Fee de Montauban. She leaned upon her companion's arm, and looked fondly into his eyes, which were fixed upon her with a gaze of equal fondness. " To-morrow \" she said, with a sigh : " so soon — so very soon \" "To-morrow \" he replied, with a look of fierce impa- tience ; " it is even now too late." " Adhcmar, why will you leave us ? There is no hope of glory now — nothing but danger." " And duty, Madeleine/' he added. " Would you, the last scion of our race, would you wish your brother to dis- honour our name, and to stain that noble shield, which has been borne untarnished since our ancestor won his spurs on the fields of Palestine, and received them from the hand of Philip Augustus?" " But the court can claim no duty at your hands," said Madeleine; "you never sought power or rank from the favour of the king. Not one of our ancestors ever received any honour from the court." "True, Madeleine. The name of a Montauban was never heard in the ante-chamber of some lowborn minister, whose arrogance marked the depth from which he had crept, as well as the height to which he had climbed. No Montauban was ever seen in the degraded levee at the ruelles of the fair favourites, the only mediators whose intercessions with our kings could obtain the royal favour for the nobles of France. Never were our names heard THE TERRACE GARDEN. 329 there; but when did a Montauban desert his sovereign in the hour of danger ?" " But the danger now lies in the hatred of men so far beneath you, that it is a degradation to contend with them," said Madeleine. " A pack of wolves may be as destructive as a lion ; shall we spare them in contempt?" replied Adhemar de Montauban. " Enough, Madeleine, I must go. I must take my place by the side of the king. I will not lurk here, as if I feared to avow my principles. I will not emigrate ; for emigration is only a cowardly desertion of our duty, our country, and our king. I am an aristocrat ; I have a name to uphold, and a property to defend, and the canaille shall know that I may die, but never shrink from the struggle." " Yet the poor peasants have been very miserable," said Madeleine ; " perhaps they only seek for justice. Dear Adhemar, do not call them canaille." 11 My sweet Madeleine, you argue like a woman. A moment since you spoke as if the blood of the rabble would stain my sword, and now you speak of them as very mode- rate, estimable people. You do not know what you want to say." " I know that I want to keep you here with me, aDd safe," said Madeleine. " For the rest, I do not understand anything about politics ; your vassals are happy, for you are very kind to them ; but on other properties near my convent I saw the peasants very wretched; they were starving, and yet they were obliged to work for their lords without payment for their labour." " Tush, Madeleine, you must not deduce principles from solitary facts. There are a few tyrants among our noblesse, perhaps, but most of them are kind to their 330 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. vassals, and considerate of their welfare; their kindness gives as favours all that the laws could grant as ri.irli t - to the peasants." " Yet, Adhcmar, it is hard to think thai one musl :i-k as a favour what ought to be a right; it is dreadful tli.it the lives of thousands, or at least their welfare, should de- pend on the caprice of one, — yes, Adhemar, even of you." " Do you accuse me of oppressive conduct ? " said Adhemar. " Oh no, you are too noble, too kind, to be severe to your dependants," said the young girl, with a look of ardent love and pride; then, seeing that Adhemar looked annoyed by her words, she changed the conversation, and added, " Will you not consult our grandfather, Adhemar ? " " He is in his dotage," said the Marquis de Montau- ban ; " I have consulted a better counsellor, Edouard de Lorency. He advises me to go, — he accompanies me." Madeleine trembled; a deep blush passed over her cheek, and then it ebbed away and left her very pale. Her brother observed not her agitation, and he went on speaking with bitter energy. " We go, and though it may cost us our lives, yet we will prove that we arc aristocrats and patriots also. Patriotism and self-interest are one in our feelings. What is the wxlfare of a country to a man who has nothing to lose by its ruin ? What is dishonour to a man who has no name?" At this moment a servant informed Adhemar that his lawyer was awaiting his pleasure in the library. " He comes to take my instructions before I leave the country, perhaps for ever," said the Marquis; "I would De Lorency were here." THE TERRACE GARDEN. 331 Madeleine remained alone. She leaned on the pedestal of a sculptured vase, which was filled with some rare In- dian plants. Their drooping branches bent over her head, and their bright and perfumed flowers rested on her hair and on her brow. Her eyes were fixed on the setting sun, but her thoughts were abstracted from all around her. A light footstep reached ner ear — she started ; a smile played on her lip, and a rosy flush rose even to her temples, but she did not turn her head towards the terrace stairs. Monsieur de Lorency was at that moment descending those stairs. He was about thirty-five years of age, but he looked much older. A wound received in America had caused his dark brown hair to assume a touch of grey. His figure was very fine, but his commanding presence was somewhat injured by the slight stoop which always bent his head. A deep furrow was traced upon his broad and thoughtful brow, and a shade of melancholy gravity rested on his clear grey eyes. He was not happy. The last representative of a noble but fallen house, he had ex- perienced the neglect and the coldness of the world, and in return, he looked upon that vain world with haughty scorn ; and shrank from the pleasures of that society, in which he felt that he was received without a welcome. When chance threw him among those who were only his equals in birth, although more richly favoured by fortune, he met them with a reserve which would have repulsed any advance towards intimacy. Though generally silent, he possessed great conversational powers, but he spoke with a cynical bitterness which sprung from wounded pride and the galling feelings of high-born poverty, and which effectually repelled the interest which his high cha- racter as a soldier, and his powerful talents as a political writer, would naturally have excited. 882 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. "Mademoiselle de Montauban," he said, "I come to take Leave of you" The tone of deep sorrow in which he spoke contrasted strangely with the cold formality of his words. After a pause, he added, in the same low, broken voice, " Your brother has told you that we must leave you to-morrow." "Why do you persuade him to leave me?" said Madeleine. They were silent once more. She still looked along the darkening sea, while his eyes were fixed on her with a look of painful thought; but though her face was half averted from his gaze, she felt that it was fastened upon her, and she dared not turn towards him. " Your brother asked my advice; he placed his honour in my hands. Could I deceive him ? If my advice has caused you grief, I implore you to pardon me. And oh ! Mademoiselle de Montauban, do not hate me." " When may you return ?" said Madeleine. " I know not," he answered. " Adhemar has hope ; he thinks the cause of royalty may yet triumph. I have no hope; the cause is lost. Our king has no energy; our nohles have deserted the country ; our priests are infidels ; the popular party wish for revenge for past injustice, as well as for the obtaining of the recognition of their own rights; the royalists wish to uphold every oppressive abuse of law, to which they give the name of justice. How can peace ever arise from these discordant elements?" " No, no," said Madeleine, " there can be no peace. I shall never see Adhemar again." She burst into tears, and hastily extending her hand to De Lorency, she murmured a few words of parting regret. Lorency took her hand, touched it with his lips, ho^ty; courteously, and timidly, and allowed her to leave THE TERRACE GARDEN. 333 him without one word which could betray the truth which he but too deeply felt, that thus to part with her was worse than death. Slowly she ascended the terrace stairs ; when the last flutter of her white robe was lost beneath the gate of the castle, Lorency caught the branch of the ipomea which had touched her hair — he plucked it from the plant — he pressed it madly to his lips, and hiding it in his bosom, he hurried to the chateau, in search of Adhemar. He found him in the library with the lawyer. " I sent for you, Ldouard, to consult you about the settlement of my property. My father's will fixed my majority on my twentieth birthday, so I have been of age for some months." " I know you have had that misfortune," said Lorency, trying to force his attention to the business to be laid before him. " I wish to secure all that I can dispose of to Made- leine, in the event of my dying, or, to speak more cor- rectly, in the event of my being killed in the civil war which I foresee. She requires a guardian; now my mother's father is almost the only relation we have living of her family. My father's family have quarrelled with me, because I announced my intention of settling every- thing on my sister. I will not name any of them her guardians. Our grandfather is already in his dotage, so that he cannot discharge that duty. Will you accept it It is a strange request, but you are my only friend." "I cannot, Adhemar — I will not!" replied Lorency. " You will not ! " said Adhemar, impatiently ; then seeing that De Lorency was pale as death, and fearfully agitated, he took his arm, led him out on the terrace, and said, " Tell me, De Lorency what has agitated you thus?" 9 334 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. " Your own words, Adhemar. You ask me to be a father to your sister, to watcb over ber, to see her every day, and to sign the contract which will make her the wife of some man whom she may love, but who never could love ncr as I have loved her from the moment I first saw her." " She has rejected you?" said Adhemar, inquiringly. " No ; she dreams not that I have dared to love her. I will not pain her by confessing the misery she has inflicted. I am too proud to acknowledge a hopeless love, even to Madeleine." " Hopeless ! I do not think it hopeless," said Adhe- mar ; " a woman might love you, if you loved her, but I never could have suspected you of so much condescension. Your pride " " What has pride to do with love ?" said Lorency. " My pride is the consciousness that I love her more than life ; more than all, except my honour. She is young ; I am old. You have shown me how old I am, by asking me to be her guardian ; her father, as it were. I am poor; she is rich. I will not tell her what anguish she has caused me." Adhemar made no answer. He left the Baron de Lorency upon the terrace, and sought Madeleine in her dressing-room, where he heard she was sitting. Her head was bent upon the cushions of the sofa, over which her hair hung in disordered tresses. At the sound of Adhe- mar's voice she looked up, but large tears stood gathered on her eyelids. Adhemar drew her to his breast. " Ma- deleine," he said, fondly, " Edouard de Lorency loves you ; but he fears that you would banish him from your pre- sence, if he dared to confess it. Will you forgive his presumption for my sake, and allow him to plead his own cause?" THE TERBACE GARDEN. 335 " I knew thi t he loved me," said Madeleine, hiding her face upon her brother's shoulder, " and yet he was so cold and so distant, that he made me very unhappy. I could not speak to him when he treated me so coldly, and then I saw that he was hurt and miserable ; and yet it was not my fault." Adhemar kissed his sister once more, and returned to De Lorency, who was pacing the terrace in extreme agitation. " I have seen Madeleine," said Adhemar ; " she has long known that you loved her." " And therefore she treated me with cold disdain/' said Edouard; " I knew that my love was maduess." "Must I offer her hand to you?" said Adhemar. " Go to her, plead your cause, and come back to me when she has given you your sentence." Half in desperation, half in hope, De Lorency sought Madeleine. The conscious blush and the unconscious smile which greeted him when he spoke to her, answered all his doubts. He threw himself on his knees at her feet, and poured forth his love, his hopes, his fears, and his joy. Before Adhemar interrupted him, he had told her the story of his life. She was his first and his only love ; and she had promised to repay the years of suffering he had en- dured, by a whole life of happiness. Adhemar was de- lighted. Edouard was his only friend, and he was now the guardian of Madeleine, so that he was freed from a great responsibility, and Madeleine was secure in a hus- band's protection. The will of the late Marquis de Montauban had fixed the twentieth birthday of Adhemar as that on which he should come of age; it had also given to Madeleine a noble fortune, coupled with a condition that she should 536 EVENINGS AT II ADDON BALL. not marry until sin:, too, had attained her twentieth year Adhemar and Dc Lorency, therefore, left the chateau im- mediately alter the fianraillcs of the Baron with Madeleine* She remained alone with her mother's father, who had long lived with his grandchildren. Months passed on slowly, sadly, over the lonely chateau. The smile faded from Madeleine's lip, and the bloom withered from her soft cheek ; her step lost its elasticity, and her low voice took a sadder tone. Her grandfather had sunk into the utter imbecility of extreme old age. She watched over him with patient tenderness, soothing the fret fulness of his feeble mind with gentle fondness. She busied herself much amongst the peasantry of her brother's estates ; her charity relieved their wants, and her assistance was ever ready to second the efforts of their industry. Their grati- tude rewarded her kindness, and while political miseries destroyed the peace of all around, there was prosperity and quiet on the territories of Adhemar de Montauban. These occupations tilled her days, but still she was unhappy. Her brother and her betrothed lover were far from her, exposed to every danger, and resolved to share to 'lie last the perils of their fallen sovereigns. Day by day Made- leine watched and waited for the hour which brcugbt her letters with a Binking heart and a dread which was almost despair, for each day might bring the announcement of the arrest or death of those she loved. And when their gloomy and hopeless letters came, they gave no happiness, for they could only tell of escape from the dangers of one day, and promised no safety for the morrow. At length, the flight, capture, and imprisonment of the royal family, left Adhemar and Lorency at liberty tore- turn to the chateau De Montauban. Madeleine was happy once more. Neither Adhemar net Edouard had been THE TERRACE GARDEN. 33? denounced by the republicans ; they lived quite alone, re- ceived no visits, and busied themselves in the construction of a small harbour at a point where Adhemar's land joined those which still remained in the possession of De Lorency. This harbour was of the utmost advantage to the fishermen of the coast, and they were grateful to the Marquis, who had undertaken the work at his sole expense. Adhemar's tenantry loved him ; De Lorency's were equally attached to him, although his poverty had hitherto restricted the exercise of his charity among them. The cures of both parishes had taken the constitutional oaths ; the municipal officers of the commune were Adhemar's dependants; so that everything seemed to promise them safety during th troubled times which were fast approaching. The Reign of Terror desolated France, but as yet the family of Montauban had escaped. Madeleine's twentieth birthday was at hand, and she had promised Edouard to give him her hand upon that day. At length the day came, and Madeleine was conducted to the municipality by her brother. De Lorency awaited them there. The legal ceremony was performed, and De Lorency returned with his bride to the chateau, where the cure was to perform the religious ceremony at the altar of the old chapel. Greatly were they astonished when they learned that the priest had not arrived. He had not sent a letter, nor even a message, of explanation. De Lorency ordered a horse to be saddled, and instantly mounting, rode to the house of the cure. He was not there ; he had left home early, saying that he would visit some sick persons, and then proceed to the chateau. De Lorency returned to the chateau. A vague feeling of alarm spread from one to the other; even the aged servants of the house shared in the undefined apprehension. The evening came at length.. z 838 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Adhemar, according to his custom, was playing draughts with his grandfather, which was the only amusement ji which the poor old man still found pleasure. De Lorency and his bride walked out upon the terrace. The night was beautiful, a moonlit summer night, and Edouard led her down to the shore. The bright waves curled playfully over the base of the low terracej the perfumes of the garden flowers filled the air, and the nightingales answered each other from the trees. A deep-hushed quiet reigned over all around ; and as Edouard' s arm encircled the form of his bride, as his low voice whispered vows of passionate love, .Madeleine forgot the vague apprehensions which had haunted her during the day, and surrendered her soul to hope and happiness. " Tell me that you love me, Madeleine ! — oh, tell me once more that you love me ! I can scarcely believe in my happiness." " You know that I must love you now, Edouard; it is my duty," said Madeleine, playfully, while unconsciously and fondly she clasped her hand in his. " Cocpiette ! is it thus you play with my love ?" said Edouard, in the same joyous tone of perfect happiness. " Nay, dearest Madeleine — " He paused, and instinctively he clasped her more closely to his breast \ for at that mo- ment a dark speck appeared amid the moonlight on the water. It came quickly on; it was a boat. It was pulled by one man, but aided by the wind it darted quickly over the waves, and in a i'cw minutes its keel grated on the sand beneath the terrace. The boatman sprung upon the terrace, and I)e Lorency recognised the good-natured, honest Pierre rluguenin, the Mayor of the commune, and one of the most attached of Adhemar*s tenants. " Monsieur de Lorency, T come to warn you. A party THE TERRACE GARDEN. 339 of gens-d'armes from Marseilles have arrived at my house ; thcv have seized the poor cure, and have orders to arrest you and the Marquir Fly while you have some hope of escape ; cross the frontier into Italy." Madeleine sank almost fainting on the steps of the ter- race. The hardy peasant looked upon her with sorrowful compassion. He had that morning united her to him who now knelt beside her in mute despair. The orange wreath was yet unfaded on her brow, and yet, ere morning dawned, they should part, perhaps for ever ! De Lorency felt that the bitterness of death was crushed into that one thought. " Monsieur, call the Marquis ; I dare not venture into the chateau ; all your servants may not be true to you." Casting one look of agony upon his bride, Edouard ascended the terrace stairs ; in a moment he returned with Adhemar. " You have been denounced, Monsieur le Marquis, and accused of maintaining a correspondence with the emigres. The gens-d'armes arrived at my house about two hours since; they brought in the priest, whom they arrested upon the road from Marseilles. While they went to search his house, I got away, and came across the bay to warn you of your danger. Do you suspect any of your dependants of thus betraying you 1" " I have never confided a single secret to any of my people," said the Marquis, " therefore none of them could betray me. This is a groundless charge, and I know the inventor of it. Boileau, my attorney, is the traitor. I detected some unfair charges in his last account, and therefore, about a week since, I dismissed him from my employment." " He has been in close conference with the officer of the party at my house," said the Mayor Hugueniu 3 tO BVKNINOS AT HADOON BALL. '• Now, farewell ; saddle your fleetest horses and fly to the frontier. I will conceal Mademoiselle Madeleine in my house ; she will be safe as if she were in a chapel." " Xo, she shall share our fate/' said De Lorency; " it would be cruelty to leave her alone, even in safctv ; fear for us would kill her. Leave us, Huguenin; you rnav be compromised; for our safety you have risked your own." " No danger for me," said the Mayor; " they know the attachment of your tenantry, and, to avoid all danger of a rescue, they will not visit the chateau till midnight. Their intention of arresting you is kept a secret. I was not informed of it by any of them, but I overheard the con- versation of the officer with Boileau. And now, farewell!" be said, as the Marquis gratefully wrung his hand. At that moment the tramp of horses was heard rapidly approaching. Huguenin hastily pushed off his skiff, and pulled her round into the shadow of the rocks. "Fly, Madeleine; Huguenin will protect you," said Adheinar, thinking only of her safety. " Never!" replied Madeleine ; " I will share your fate, your prison, or your grave. What have I on earth but you?" And as she spoke, she took her brother's hand, and the hand of her husband, and clasped them to her breast. "Madeleine, my own in life and death 1 " exclaimed De Lorency. Slowly, and yet firmly they returned to the chateau. It was already in the possession of the police. They had assembled the domestics in the saloon, where the old Mar- quis de Laferte was seated beside the deep chimney, when , as was his pleasure, a fire was burning, although it was summer. He looked from one to the other of the strange faces round him with a childish terror, and seemed to feel the presence of dangers which his feeble mind could no* THE TERRACE OARDEN. 341 anderstan 1. Madeleine placed herself by his side ; and there they sat, helpless age and defenceless innocence, alike unrespected by the tyrants of the hour. De Lorency was calm, though his eyes were fixed on his bride with a look which spoke all the anguish of his disappointed hopes of happiness. Adhemar de Montauban stood proudly amidst his enemies, and his haughty and searching glance turned from one to the other, until it rested on the traitor Boileau with an expression of bitter scorn. The traitor did not quail ; he was triumphant, and he felt no regrets. The officer commanding the detachment seemed somewhat em- barrassed ; he saluted Adhemar with courtesy, and with evident reluctance informed him that he was his prisoner. He was a young man, and he shrank from witnessing the misery which he had unwillingly inflicted. Adhemar almost pitied him. "My sister will accompany us, Monsieur?" he said. " I have received no orders respecting Mademoiselle," replied the officer. " You and M. de Lorency alone are named in my orders." " To what prison are we to be conveyed ? " "To Lyons," said the officer. That word contained the sentence of death . Adhemar turned suddenly to Boileau, and said, bitterly, " Traitor ! why are you here ?" A few words from the officer of the gens-d'armes ex- plained all. Boileau had received from the Comite de la Surete publique a commission resembling that of Canier and Lebon. He was thus arbiter of the destiny of his former master. Adhemar had doubted his probity; he had dismissed him with contempt from his employment, and he was now at his mercy. De Lorency stood in silent despair near Madeleine, who had sunk back fainting upon her chair. 34-2 EVENINGS \ l HADOON HALL. "Monsieur," said Adhemar, "will you permit my sister to share our prison ?" The young officer hesitated, spoke to Boilcau in a low voice, and said, "I dare not exceed my instructions. I will retire for a few minutes, as you may wish to take leave of your family." He left the room, followed by his men ; the terror- stricken servants also retired to the outer hall, but Boileau remained, as if he would enjoy the misery of his victims. He seated himself coolly, and fixed his eyes inquiringly on Madeleine. De Lorency saw not, heard not, knew not aught that passed around him. His soul, his senses, every faculty of his mind, every feeling, was absorbed in his love and his despair. He drew Madeleine to his breast, and covered her pale brow with kisses, while he strove to recall her to consciousness by the fondest vows of impassioned love. Adhemar pointed to Boileau, and said with an expression of contemptuous disgust, " De Lorency, take Madeleine from this chamber, which is now unworthy of her presence." " Stay, Citoyen Lorency/' said Boileau; " La fille Montauban must hear what I have to say to her. The destiny of all present will depend on her reply." " Hence, Madeleine, this is no place for you," said He Lorency, as he felt that she attempted to extricate herself from his arms. "Your fate depends on my answer," said Madeleine; and suddenly recovering her clear reason, with the noble energy of woman's self-devoted love, she placed herself be- fore Boileau, and said, "Speak! I am ready to hear you.' J "Your brother disgraced me; he deprived me of the employment by which I lived; I have obtained my re- venire. He never trusted me, but I suspected his corre- spondence with the emigres. I tracked his messengers; THE TERRACE GARDEN. 313 I know all ; I have a copy of his last letter to Cohleutz ; but though his life is in my hands, you can save him if you will. Consent to be my wife, and I will destroy the proofs against your brother, and even facilitate his escape. His estates must be forfeited, but his life will be safe." Madeleine could not speak. Boileau continued, calmly «nd unpityingly, " I know you love that man ; he, too, shall be saved. Now I leave you ; in half an hour I return to you, then I must receive your answer." " Hear it now — I am the wife of Monsieur de Lorency ! " "A ceremony can be set aside," said Boileau. "Con- sult together, and decide." He left the room. Adhemar laughed bitterly. " Con- sult, and decide," he said. " An honourable consultation, truly ! He proposes to dishonour my sister, to rob me of my lands, to brand me as a coward; for none but a coward would accept life purchased at such a price." De Lorency silently took from his pocket-book the certificate of his legal marriage with. Madeleine ; with a quivering lip he read it over, and then let it fall into the fire. Adhemar sprang forward to snatch it from the flame, but it was too late. "Madeleine," said De Lorency, "you are free; save your brother, if you can; sacrifice yourself — think not of me. I have death in my power ; I need but say before my judges, ' Vive le Roi/ and I shall escape from my tortures." "Madeleine," said Adhemar; "Madeleine, hear me. I am not happy ; I loved, and was betrayed. She whom I loved with the whole burning passion of a virgin heart, deserted me. She married another, more powerful, more wealthy; I need not name them ; she became a duchess. I met her again ; love, hatred, revenge were busy in my ■ill EVENINGS AT HADD0N BALL. bosom ; my life was a hell upon earth. The syren spread her snares for mej I sacrificed my conscience, my honour, all for her. I deceived her husband, and he was my friend; I outraged heaven, I braved hell, for that woman ; I thought her very treachery to the man whose name she bore was truth to me. Fool! dupe that I was! She gratified her vanity by my public subjection to her ca- prices, and then she discarded me. Since then, as you know, I have led a life of expiation for my career of guilt. I have only sought to fulfil my duties, — I love not life ; let me die ! " Boileau entered the room : he approached Madeleine, and asked her to inform him of her decision. " Take our estates — take all — but spare their lives ; I cannot marry you ! " " Without your hand I should have no title to the estates; and more than this, where were my revenge? Your brother disgraced me; the disgrace must recoil on himself through you. Once more, girl, choose; will you save them ?" " I am Edouard's wife; I cannot save them!" said Madeleine, in agony. She sank upon the floor ; De Lorency raised her in his arms and carried her into another room. " Madeleine ! my own Madeleine ! it were worse than death to resign you to another. In a few days I shall be murdered by those demons at Lyons. Swear to me never to wed another ; let me carry your love to the grave." " I swear it I" said Madeleine ; "but can you doubt it? Could I give to another the faith I have pledged to you ? But we shall not be parted for ever ; I cannot outlive you, my love is a part of my life." "])e Lorency, they call us," said Adhemar. He THE TERRACE GARDEN. 345 clasped his sister to his breast, and rushed out of the room. The agony of that moment was unfelt by Madeleine ; she had fainted. Edouard's hot tears fell upon her death-like cheek, as he pressed his lips to hers in one last kiss. He laid her on the sofa ; he cut off one long curl of her hair, and thrust it into his bosom ; then cutting off a lock of his own hair, he laid it beside her; and not daring to linger, lest she should return to the consciousness of her misery, he hurried from the castle. Days, weeks passed on, and brought no ray of hope to Madeleine. Her heart was broken ; her youth was blighted ; her beauty withered ; but her mind was calm, and her courage had risen to the energy of desperation. She seemed to live apart from the things of the world; the only tie that still bound her to life was the care of her helpless grandfather. The estates of the Marquis were con- fiscated, and Madeleine and the old man were driven out into the world, without a home, without support save from the charity of the former vassals of their house. Huguenin re- ceived them ; he served them like a menial, and was almost grieved when Madeleine thanked him for his kindess. The old Marquis had not known the danger which surrounded his family for many months. Even the arrest of the friends had made no impression on his feeble mind ; they were absent, but he heeded it not, as their visits to Paris had accustomed him to their absence. His removal from the chateau had at once aroused him from his unconsciousness; he felt that danger and sorrow were around him, and he trembled like a timid child awaking alone in the darkness of the night. He clung to Madeleine with touching dependence. He was wretched if she left him for a moment. He would often say to her, " Where is Adhemar? where is Edouard? Write to them, Madeleine; 846 l VENINQS AT B ADDON HALL. tell them to come home to-morrow. Why have they left me alone?" And Madeleine would seek to soothe his fretful impa- tience, and then retire to hide the bitter tears that answered his vain appeal. At length the old man's life seemed to decay. Gradu- ally he sunk towards the grave. Before he had been one month in Huguenin's house, he died. .Madeleine watched by his side. He died without pain. No priest could attend the bed of death, but Madeleine prayed for the parting soul. Madeleine saw him laid in the grave, among the mouldering crosses in the village churchyard. The turf was laid on again, and the peasants stood round in silt nee. Madeleine looked on them with a sad smile of resignation. " My frit nils," she said, "you have been very kind. I cannot thank you. May Heaven reward you here and hereafter \" The tears burst from her eyes, and she sunk on her knees upon the new-made grave. The paroxysm did not last long. She dried her tears, and rose from the sod. " I am free now — farewell ! — I go to Lyons." Hugucnin tried to dissuade her from this resolution. She was firm, and he was obliged to yield. lie could only place her under the care of the post-office courier, convey- ing letters to Lyons. That night she left Montauban. Lyons — La ville affranchie — Lyons, whose very name had been blotted from the map of France, was then Buffer- ing all the horrors that the diabolical cruelty of republican vengeance could inflict. Day after day, wholesale execu- tions decimated the population. The Place de Terreaux rivalled the Place de Grove in its horrible celebrity; but there was this difference: the people of Lyons looked on in terror, because they dared not shun the spectacle; the THE TERRACE GARDEN. 347 mob of Paris went to see executions performed, and looked on the Greve as the Spaniards do on the bull-ring, or as the Romans did on the arena. At Lyons, the executions were not so well performed, as some of the Parisian amateurs said. The victims were shot at the side of their common grave. Sometimes the firing party missed their mark, and, instead of mortal wounds, some were only slightly hurt. They were despatched with the bayonet. Then all were thrown into the grave, and the earth cast back on the yet warm bodies of the victims. Madeleine was placed by the courier in the house of Huguenin's sister, the wife of an officer in the garrison , Madeleine was therefore safe in her protection. Day by day she visited the Court of the revolutionary tribunal ; she wandered round the prisons, to which she had tried in vain to obtain admittance. She followed the condemned, as they went out to death, but she saw not those she sought. Were they already dead ? It was a fearful doubt. If she could but see them once more, even on the verge of the grave ! One day, as she returned from the place of death, a man called her by name ; she stopped — and Boileau was at her side. "To-morrow you will see them. I have purchased Montauban. I shall be rid of my rival to-morrow, and I will forgive your refusal, and take you home, if you consent." Madeleine laughed a wild maniac laugh, and turned from him without speaking. She was almost maddened at that moment. " She is mad ! " he muttered, as he pursued his way ; " and yet, how beautiful she is, after all ! " Madeleine did not return to her friends that night. .".IS EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. " To-morrotf " — it was her only thought ! the Place dc Terrcaux, her only world ! She sat on a stone — the hours passed <>n unheeded; the silence, the cold night air, calmed her fever; her mind became clear; her thoughts ucic solemn, but not despairing. Day dawned slowly over the devoted city. Madeleine knelt and prayed. How long she remained on her knees in prayer, she knew not. The measured tread of the soldiers and the roll of the cart-wheels called back her thoughts to earth. The grave was already dug — the soldiers took their ground — the condemned were placed on the verge of the grave, about to receive them. Adhemar and De Lorency were there, calm, proud, unmoved, as if they were upon an ordinary parade; with their hands clasped in the last pressure of brotherly love, they waited for death. Madeleine sprang forward, burst through the ranks of the soldiers guarding the prisoners, and sank at the feet of her husband and her brother. " I am come, I am come/' she murmured ; " Heaven has heard my prayers. \Ve shall die together/' "Heaven is merciful," said De Lorency. He raised her to his breast, and then looked up to Heaven with unspeakable thankfulness. Still clasped in De Lorency's embrace, Madeleine placed her arm round Adhemar's neck, and drew him towards her. No one thought of separating them. One victim more was nothing They repeated together one short prayer, and then calmly awaited death. Not a hand quivered — not an eye quailed. The word was given ; " Vive le Roi ! " cried the victims. The report of the muskets drowned their voices. All was over ! CONSCIENCE. 349 The next picture which the Lady Eva had chosen for the close of the Fifth Evening's seance, was one which had, more than any other, puzzled her own fancy as to a fitting theme for its illustration ; and she had, in her pretty perplexity, handed it to an admired and popular writer, whose pen had equally distinguished itself in prose and verse — whose active fancy and powerful imagination had shown themselves capable of evoking " sermons from stones, and good from everything." But the request was fruitless; his prose muse was " not i' the vein," and his poetical one had already pro- mised an illustration of a drawing reserved for the con- cluding evening's sitting. In this dilemma the Lady Eva turned to the lady whose imagination had already illustrated two designs, chosen during a previous evening ; * and an appeal, from which there was no appeal, presently produced, the tale entitled CONSCIENCE. The Chateau of Riechoffen is situated on a steep eminence, six leagues from Strasburgh. Its park and gardens are the admiration of the neighbourhood; and few travellers are allowed to pass through the village of Riechoffen without being asked to visit the superb chateau. To the lover of the picturesque, the surrounding park, or rather, the two parks, which form part of this rich domain, offer much to excite admiration ; while to the amateur and connoisseur, the valuable paintings, the splendid carvings, and the countless objects of virtu, which enrich the * " The Fortunes of the Glengary," page 90. 350 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. interior of the chateau, render an admission within its walls a matter of great interest. Two daya in the week are set apart for the, reception of strangers j but the urbanity of its present venerable owner, the good and pious Count Riechoffen, renders admittance easy to all travelli rs who, pressed for time, cannot wait for the appointed public days . The ( Oiuit and his beloved partner were for many years regarded as friends by all their vassals; and when the death of the Countess cut short the domestic happiness of their lord, not an eye in the village but wept for the loss of one so endeared to them ; not a family for leagues round that did not sympathize in a grief, which they felt, from the Count's age and character, must be irreparable. The only child of their marriage — the Count Wilhelm — was absent at the time of his mother's death ; and though he hastened home on the sad news reaching him, he did not long remain with his widowed father; and as his absences from RiechofFen were supposed to be errands of pleasure, people marvelled that he did not, after this mournful event, remain to share his father's solitude. "Whatever might be that father's feelings on his son's departure, he never betrayed either surprise or anger in speaking of it. Indeed, fewwere admitted to his presence during the first year of his widowhood; the chaplain, who lived in the chateau, was his only companion j the closet adjoining the chapel, where reposed the remains of his lost wife, his habitual dwelling-place. During this period of mourning, the gates of the domain were closed to all visitors; but after the year had passed, the Count received a few friends, and strangers were again permitted, on twe appointed days in each week, to view the chateau — all but the closet and chapel, to the former of which the Count CONSCIENCE. 351 always repaired during the hours in which company were admitted to the other parts of this superb edifice. During Count Wilhelm's second visit to his home, which took place three years after the death of his mother. he mentioned his wish to marry, and confided to his father that the object of his attachment, an Italian lady, though rich in youth and loveliness, was without fortune. The Count Biechoffen received this intelligence with unfeigned pleasure ; and the lady's want of fortune was agreeable to him ; for, aware of the sordid avarice which disfigured his son's character, and rendered him unlike either of his noble parents, such a proof of disinterested attachment delighted him, and putting his arm affectionately round his son's neck, he said — " A bride of your choice, my dear Wilhelm, wants no adventitious aid of fortune to ensure her the welcome of a daughter in my heart. Pure and good, I feel she must be ; or my son would never have chosen her to succeed his mother, as mistress here." " But she will not live here," replied Wilhelm. " The thought of this cold clime frightens her ; our rude sports would terrify her. Born and educated in her own sunny land, she would be lost in this cheerless abode, where neither the charm of music nor the sound of revelry are heard." The Count Riechoffen's tall form seemed to dilate, his usually pale cheek became suffused with the crimson flush of anger, his voice was less firm than usual, as he replied — " My son, have you forgot the sad loss which hushed the glad and happy sounds that for many years were wont to resound within these walls ? Could revelry have intruded into the house of mourning ? Since your angel mother's spirit ceased to bless this abode, what has it beer 852 l \ ENING8 AT II ADDON HALL. to mc and to yourself bu1 a place of solitude and desola* tion ? Wilhelm, the object of your love is an orphan; what ties can she have to keep her from her husband's paternal home? Your mother, my peerless Therese, left parents and other kindred to share the home which, In- ner love and the bright excellence of her character, she rendered for nearly thirty years a blessed and a happy one. My son, I would not be harsh, but I must not conceal my opinion from yr>u, that the woman who regards and esteems a man sufficiently to entrust her happiness to his care, should have no minor reserves of climate and of dwelling. Where her husband's duties call him, there should be her sunshine; and, methinks," added the Count, looking round the rich apartment in which this conver- sation took place, and extending his glance over the broad domain seen from the open window, " it were no difficult task for the most fastidious and refined in taste to recon- cile themselves to this spot." Wilhelm perceived that this was no moment to pursue the point ; and though firmly resolved never to relinquish the charms and pleasures of an Italian residence, he saw the necessity of concealing this determination for the pre- sent, and therefore' replied — " It must be my task, as it will be my interest, to erase from Giuditta's mind all the gloomy impressions it has conceived of our German austerities, both of climate and manners." " Bring her lure at once," interrupted his father, " and she shall not have to complain of a German welcome. These halls shall once more echo with mirth and son»; ! It is her son's bridal I would keep," he added, in a tone as if intended for his own ear alone, "and her pure spirit will hover round us !" Nothing could exceed the liberality with which the CONSCIENCE. 353 noble Count Riechoffen provided for his son's establish- ment on his marriage. Besides the income he settled on him, which was an independence, he caused a suite of rooms in the chateau to be newly decorated and set apart for his and his bride's use, and the lonely widower was seen again to smile as he talked of the approaching arrival of his children. But this was an event long protracted, and for many months excuse followed upon excuse. On one of the public days, the Count Riechoffen, who had retired, as was his wont, to the closet adjoining the chapel, was surprised, on passing from it into his library, to find seated on the carpet, and playing with some flowers, of which she was making a garland, a little girl, apparently about three years old. As the Count approached, the child looked up. Her dark hazel eyes filled with tears, her cheeks assumed a deeper hue, but as if trying to per- suade herself not to be frightened, she said, " Mamma, come back ! " The Count stooped down and endeavoured to take her hand, but she withdrew it ; and, no longer able to control her emotion at the presence of a stranger, burst into tears. For a long time she sobbed as if her little heart would break, occasionally screaming, " Mamma, mamma, come and take Rese awav ! " The Count Riechoffen, distressed at the child's agitation, knew not what to devise to calm her. He did not summon aid, for fear of still further alarming her by the entrance of another stranger. At length he asked, would she go with him and look for mamma ? The child nodded assent, but still cried bitterly; and thus they proceeded into the garden, but no mother was to be found. The child kept running wildly from side to side, till, quite exhausted, she sank on the gra.~*, and nothing but her hushed sobs were to be heard. Day A A 354 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. was closing; the Count watched over he. till she fell asleep, and then, lifting her in his arms, he bore her gently to the house, summoned his late wile's maid, and gave orders that the child should be taken care of, and put to bed. The strange truth had flashed across Count Ricchof- fen's mind — some cruel mother must have left that Bweet child, never meaning to return. At first, his heart was full of indignation and bitterness against the parent ; but some good angel whispered him that perhaps some wretched mother, heart-broken and forsaken, had com- mitted her only treasure to his protection, and might even then be dying — her last earthly thought, a hope that he would befriend her innocent babe. " Poor, wretched mother ! " he exclaimed j " what must have been the suf- fering and the grief which could have induced thee to part with such a child!" And from that hour Count lliechof- fen felt an affection for the hapless creature he supposed to have been cast by Providence on his care. So true it is that, in a noble breast, pity is ever allied to love. For some days the little girl continued to weep at intervals, and to run from room to room searching for her mother ; but as time wore on, her childish grief gradually subsided, and she no longer looked on Count Uiechoffen with terror, but received with pleasure his warm caress. The name by which she called herself completed her con- quest of the Count's affection. Thercsc, the name of his lost — his idolized wife, could not be heard or uttered by him with indifference. "Week after week and month after month passed, and yet Wilhelm and his bride arrived not, This delay had at first grieved the Count, but the current of his thoughts had been changed: his warm and affectionate heart had CONSCIENCE. 355 found another interest, and he had become so attached to the little Therese that she was seldom allowed to leave his side. On the evening that he had discovered the poor little girl in the library, he had summoned to his presence the old housekeeper, whose office it was to do the honours of the chateau, and recount all its wonders and all its riches to visitors. But she had retired early to rest, in consequence of some slight indisposition. He was, there- fore, forced to content himself with a message from her, to the effect that she had not noticed the entrance of any child among the crowd of strangers who had that day visited the chateau. A governess had been engaged for the little Therese before Wilhelm and his bride arrived ; and as the Count Riechoffen did not care to expose his little favourite to the haughty indifference of his daughter-in-law, she never appeared in the reception-rooms during their residence, which did not exceed six months. Much as Count Riechoffen had desired to love his son's wife, and anxious as he had felt to propitiate her regard, not a symptom of affection, not a trait of attachment, rewarded his constant solicitude for her comfort. The Countess Wilhelm was not even respectful or courteous to her husband's father. She was a spoiled and capricious beauty, without one redeeming quality of heart or mind. Her lapdog was her idol ; her Italian waiting-woman her companion and intimate. The respect entertained by a populous neighbourhood for this noble family, and the veneration in which the late Countess's memory was held, induced every one to proffer civility and attention to her son's wife ; but Giuditta's manner was either so imperious ind reserved, or so supercilious and impertinent, that she 356 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. became detested and shunned by all the ladies in the neighbourhood. Her husband, over whom she tyrannized with all the little cunning of an ignorant and uneducated woman, seemed completely weary of her, and would make long and distant excursions from home, under the pretext of wild- boar hunting, but, in reality, as was evident to his father, to escape from Giuditta's silly persecution, and Count Riechoffen saw them depart on their return to Italy, from the home which he had fitted up for their permanent abode, without one feeling of regret ; and when he again saw his lovely adopted child, his innocent and pure- minded Therese, enjoying herself and running, with child- ish glee, through the suite of rooms she had been for- bidden to approach during their stay, he felt that on the child of a stranger, — the child, perhaps, of shame — the forsaken one of its mother — on that child did the aged Count feel that his happiness depended, far more than on his own and only son. We will pass over the years of Therese's childhood and her early girlhood, during which time no inquiry had been made for her, and no clue presented itself to discover who she might be. With her growth the beauty of The- rese increased, and at sixteen she was one of the most lovely beings ever beheld. Rather above the middle stature, she was slight, but gracefully proportioned. Her fairy hands and rounded arm, her swan-like throat and beauteous shoulders, might have inspired the poet, and offered a study to the sculptor, ller small and tincly- shaped head lent another charm ; and the expression of her dark and melting eyes betrayed the meekness and mild benignity of her disposition. The affection, the ten- CONSCIENCE. 357 der and watchfu assiduity, which marked the conduct of Therese to her benefactor, was beautiful to contemplate. The joyous innocence of her heart imparted freshness to his feelings, and her young and ardent nature seemed half reflected on his care-worn and dispirited countenance. They were all in all to each other. Therese remembered no other affection, and Count Riechoffen had found all that remained to him on earth weak when compared to his fondness for this sweet and loving child. About this period the monotony of their lives was broken by letters from Italy, stating the dangerous and hopeless illness of the Countess Wilhelm, who had impru- dently swallowed a large draught of some iced beverage immediately after dancing. The next post told of her death, and announced Wilhelm's intention of bringing her remains for interment in the family vault beneath the chapel. Count Riechoffen had never mentioned Therese in his letters to his son, and therefore, when the mournful procession arrived, he judged it best that she should not appear till the solemn rites had been concluded, and he had acquainted his son with her residence at the chateau. There was such a change in Wilhelm's appearance, that his father became alarmed on seeing him, and again his former tenderness for the child of his departed wife was resuming its sway; but the unbecoming manner in which he received his father's confidence respecting The- rese, the coarse and unfeeling remarks he uttered, sent back the warm stream of returning love to the old man's heart, and he turned to the gentle Therese with yet fonder affection, as he exclaimed, " How different would have been my sainted wife's conduct ! Alas ! how unworthy is Wil- helm to have been her son ! " 3j8 evenings at haddon mall. Count Wilhelm'a residence at the chateau was of short duration j but he proposed to return in the winter, and asked permission to bring with him a young man whose father had, some years before, on his death-bed, contided him to his care, leaving Wilhelm sole executor and trustee to the very large fortune he would inherit on attaining his majority. A little less than a year was still wanting ere this event would take place, and his guardian expressed a wish that it should be passed under his guidance. Count lliechoffen acquiesced in this proposal; but how little did he foresee the results to which it would lead ! Ere the winter had set in, Count Wilhelm and his ward arrived. With the appearance of the latter the Count RiechofFen was extremely pleased ; there was a manliness and frankness in his manner, which found a ready sympathy in the mind of his aged host. Had not his youth forbad the idea, he might have been supposed the Count's own son, from the assiduity with which he sought to enter into his tastes, and render himself agree- able to him. Wilhelm was frequently absent for weeks together. At first he had invited Adolphe di Sanvitalli to join these hunting excursions; but finding that they were either entered upon with distaste, or declined entirely, he ceased to disturb Adolphe in what he termed his frivolous occu- pations. But did Count Wilhelm really know the nature of that occupation which bound the younu r and ardent Sanvitalli's heart and soul to the chateau of Kiechoffen ? Did he pause to consider the natural consequence of his constant association with a young and lovely woman, who, for the first time, was made sensible of her power to please ? Constantly thrown together, their lives passed in the CONSCIENCE. 359 exercise of those kind and pious feelings which arise in the hearts of all who devote themselves to soothe and divert the aged, how could it be otherwise than that Adolphe and Therese should become attached, and firmly and irrevocably so, before either of them was aware of the existence of such a sentiment ? A proposal of mar- riage was made for the latter by a gentleman of fortune residing in Strasburgh ; and this proposal being commu- nicated by Count Riechoffen to his son, led to a discussion so loud and angry, on the part of Wilhelm, that Adolphe, who was in an adjoining room, with the door open, could not avoid hearing it. The first sentence which fell from the Count's lips seemed to unlock the secret of his own heart. " He is not worthy of her," said the old nobleman, " or I could better make this sacrifice ; but to resign The- rese, to part with that beloved child to one who cannot know her worth, is impossible. And yet," added he, " my death would leave her unprotected, though not unpor- tioned." " No, of that I make no doubt ! " exclaimed Wilhelm, sneeringly ; " she has not stolen into your affections with- out taking care to get provided for ; the itching for money is inherent in these low-born brats, and I dare say your paragon has been, from time to time, well tutored. How- ever, my advice is to close at once with this offer ; nothing so respectable may again occur." "Are you mad, Wilhelm?" inquired his father; " or of whom are you speaking ? Of Therese's birth nothing- is known ; but her virtues and her Christian graces may stand in lieu of the proudest blazon that displays itself on a royal escutcheon. She has been to my failing years their prop and support ; she has entwined herself around my heart; and had I a grandson who would make her 3fiO EVENINGS AT IIADDON HAM.. happy, on him would I bestow her, as the best and choicest blessing I had to give." While the Count had been speaking, Adolphc di San- vitalli had entered unperceived. Springing forward, te caught the Count's hand, and, falling at his feet, ex- claimed, "Would that I were that grandson, to be con- sidered worthy of such a blessing ! but even as I am 1 would fain entreat it at your hands. Oh! I beseech — I implore you, let my love, my admiration, for your The- rese, be considered my guerdon for endeavouring to Income worthy of it." " Hold, sir ! " interrupted Count Wilhelm ; " do you forget that I am your guardian, and that it is my consent alone which can avail ? Hear me, Adolphe ; sooner than consent to your thus disgracing the noble name you bear, 1 would -" At that moment the object of this discussion appeared. I r was the hour for prayer, and she came, as was her daily wont, to attend her benefactor to the chapel. The sight of her seemed to paralyze Wilhelm's tongue. Was it shame at beholding the orphan girl, against whom his unmanly speech was directed ? or did her appearance recall some recollection, which sent the blood from his cheeks, ami rendered him mute and confused? Count Kicchoffen arose, and passing his arm through Therese's, said, " Come, my children, let us go to the house of prayer ; and may w r e, in the exercise of our devo- tions, recover our serenity." They passed to the closet, and perceived that the servants were assembled in the chapel, where the chaplain was already in his desk, wait- ing their entrance to commence his exordium. Therese took her seat, as usual, on a low chair by the Count. Cour.t Wilhelm sat opposite to them, looking gloomy and CONSCIENCE. 361 • disturbed, and occasionally stealing a furtive glance at Therese; while Adolphe remained standing behind her chair, his eyes alternately wandering from her beauteous head to his guardian's agitated countenance. The Count RiechofFen appeared absorbed in thought, his arms folded, and resting on his crutch-handled cane. The service was scarcely concluded, when a message was brought to Count Wilhelm, desiring his immediate presence in the apartment of the aged housekeeper, whose ofSce it had been for more than forty years to conduct strangers over the chateau, and whose health had been for some months fast declining. On entering the apartment, he found the old lady propped up in bed with pillows ; her eyes were sunk, her face livid, and her whole aspect bespoke the near approach of death. She motioned to him to approach, and desired every one else to withdraw. " Count Wilhelm," said she, " know you the name of Miiller V s He started, and turned pale. " Know you," she continued, " the fate of poor Constance Germain, on whom you bestowed, by marriage rite, the name of Miiller?" " Oh, tell me of her !" cried Wilhelm, thrown off his guard by the abruptness of the question. " It is thirteen years since she breathed her last, pray- ing for her destroyer, and blessing those who had fostered his child." "What mean you, Agatha? — His child? my child? Gracious Heaven ! why was all this kept from me ?" "Why?" returned Agatha — "do you ask me why? As the supposed Wilhelm Miiller, Constance had loved and worshipped him she thought her husband ; but from Wilhelm RiechofFen, who she discovered to be her betrayer, she scorned + o seek relief, and so she sank heart-broken to the grave." 362 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. "But her chiM. Agatha — her child I Oh, tell me — that did not surely perish too V The feeble spark of life seemed fast fading in Agatha's bosom. Large drops of perspiration stood on her fore- head. The exertion had been too much, and the unhappy man who stood by her bed, in all the agony of shame and remorse, feared that her spirit would depart without resolv- ing his torturing doubt respecting his child. Some mo- ments elapsed before Agatha could again articulate. At length she said, almost in a whisper, "Therese is that child/' and then she sank back in a swoon, from which she never recovered, and in a few minutes life had fled. On leaving this scene of death, Count Wilhelm retired to his own apartment, where he remained inaccessible to every one for that day. When he joined the family next morning, an extraordinary change was visible in his appear- ance ; the usual sternness of his countenance was gone ; a look of melancholy reigned in its stead, and his impetuosity seemed wholly subdued. % %. %. =fc * * It may be supposed that Adolphe di Sanvitalli did not neglect the opportunity afforded him by his guardian's seclusion, of urging his suit with the gentle Therese ; and, having won from her frank and ingenuous heart an acknowledgment of regard, he had no difficulty in obtain- ing the Count Riechoffen's sanction to their engagement, though its fulfilment could not take place till he attained his majority, which event would render his guardian's opposition vain. But it soon became apparent that all objection on Count Wilhelin's part was at an end. To his father and to Adolphe he made full confession of his early sin, but Therese knew not that he was her father, till some months after she had become a wife. SIXTH EVENING. When the company entered the library on the sixth evening, those who had hitherto noted with interest the varied and expressive countenance of the youthful Queen of the Revels, could not fail to observe that, on this evening, her features were less radiant with the sunshine of hope, less alive with the eloquence of expectation, than they had been during any previous evening of the week — a week in which the Lady Eva might be said to have lived the life of many years ; since, during the course of it, she had for the first time experienced that truest sense of existence which springs from a consciousness that others live, as it were, for the time being, in and through \is. Heretofore, she had enjoyed that vague and visionary species of happiness which, however blessed it may be as the appointed lot of childhood, leaves no more trace behind it than does the passage of a beautiful vessel through a sunny sea. But during this eventful week, the Lady Eva had, for the first time, become one of a company of noble and cultivated men and women. Many of them she knew to be distinguished among their fellows for gifts and ac- quirements, before which the nobility of birth and station bows down in willing homage. She had seen such a 364 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. company for several successive evenings, devoting their thoughts and intellectual energies to themes of which she felt that she was in some degree the originator; and the thought seemed to have communicated to her a species of intellectual life and consciousness that she had never felt before. But now that the eventful week was verging towards its close, a reaction to the previous excitement had cast a cloud upon her fair brow, which the entrance of the guests did not at first dispel. On each of the preceding evenings she had manifested an anxiety amounting almost to impa- tience for the commencement of the Revels, but now, as if desirous of delaying it, she did not for some minutes even approach the table around which they had been wont to congregate; and when at length she did open the gor- geous portfolio which contained the few drawings \<t to be illustrated, it was with a sigh that she commenced the task — for on this occasion she evidently felt it one — of indicating the course of this last evening's entertainments. She took up a design depicting the descent of a moun- tain cataract into the rugged vale below, and handing it to the accomplished writer, who had promised, on the previous evening, to illustrate it by a poem, she be- sought him, with almost a starting tear — more difficult to be resisted than the sunniest smile — not to disappoiu her. The result of this petition was, — THE ASSAULT OF THE DEVIL's BRIDGE. 365 THE ASSAULT OF THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE. [In 1799, the French army under Moreau, making their retreat, on the advance of the Russian troops under Suwarrow, from the valley of Schollenen, broke down the bridge over the River Reuss. The attack was one of the most memorable of the Mountain War. The French fought gallantly, but were overwhelmed, and the pass was won at the point of the bayonet. — September 24.] I wound my way down Schollenen ; In purple lay the solemn glen. Night hastened ; yet the western blaze Oft turned my step, oft fixed my gaze ; A shaft of flame, each pinnacle Shot upward from the forest dell ; Along the hill the heather dun Lay crimsoned in the full-orbed sun ; And every rill that down it rolled, Threaded the crimson web with gold. All loveliness, and calm around ; No cloud in heaven, on earth no sound, Save tinklings of the Alpine fold, Save where some distant convent tolled, Or when some mountain falcon's cry Touched on the sense, and then swept by •, All dewy freshness, earth and air ; (The hour, by Nature made for prayer !) All pure, as if those scenes sublime Had never echoed woe or crime ! But glance upon the rocky ridge, Where spans the chasm that slender bridgj"?, So light, so lofty, and so lone, As if by spells across it thrown — Where, seen between us and the sky, Stands the chamois with fearless eye ; Where, by his fawn, the fallow deer, Scarce to the breezes bends his ear ; And the rock-eagle feeds his brood, King of the n: »untain solitude ! 306 EVENINGS AT HAD DON II ALL. Yet, once beneath this golden sun, The sternest work of war was done. 'Twas autumn-eve, and all was still — A trumpet sounded from the hill ! 'Twas answ< red from the covert green, That darkens down yon rich ravine 'Twas answered from yon oak-crowned deU ~ 'Twas answered from yon marble cell, Where by old Time, or tempest reft, Bursts the bright river from its cleft, 'Twas answered from the mountain snow . War was around, above, below ! Anon was filled the valley wide, Anon was filled the mountain's side ; "\\ ith tossing flag and trumpet clang From slope to slope the squadrons sprang, And still, to shout and war-horn wild, Battalion on battalion filed — Still bayonet-point and sabre-blade Swelled upwards from the valley's shade. There, as they rose, the eye might trace The deathless marks of tribe and race : Harnessed with sabre, mace, and bow, The Bashkir, son of storm and snow ; Fierce as the wolf upon the track, Winding his steed, the brown Cossack ; There, silver-sheathed, from neck to knee, The Georgian's knightly panoply ; There, rider of the Desert sand, With turbaned brow, and lance in hand, The fiery warriors of the Khan, Who steeped in blood thy shores, Japan— Who stormed thy giant wall, Cathay — Then, wild as panthers in their play, Rushed where the towery Kremlin flings Its shadow on the tombs of kings — Then, homeward swept, an ebbing flood, Leaving behind but wrecks and blood, Waiting till some new Tamerlane Shall loose the living tide again. THE ASSAULT OI< THE DEVIL* S BRIDGE 367 But, charge for charge, an J blow for blow, Was thy bold tactic, brave Moreau 1 Along the river's rocky edge, Along the Griinsel's lofty ledge, Beneath the forest's twilight shade, Ploughing the host, his cannon played. And still the Russian answered well. Thick poured his storm of shot and shell ; Yet vain his toil to storm the ridge — Crushed in the torrent, lay the bridge. Across that chasm, alone might spring The mountain goat, or eagle's wing — Still flowed the gore, and pealed the gun, Nor yet the mortal Pass was won. Night fell. Beneath the cloud of night Still thundered, raved, and bled, the fight. But hark ! — a warning horn is blown, And see ! — a rocket upward thrown ! Bagrathion, bravest of the brave, Has climbed the rock and stemmed the wave, Where, bounding from its snowy tract, Plunged in the vale the Cataract. Torn by his fire from flank to flank, The Frenchmen fell in rank on rank — On Russia's banner rose the sun, Fixed on the ridge — the Pass was won ! At the close of this poem, there was a nutter in a part of the room where a young gentleman, recently from college, was deprecating, with the most candid air in the world, the solicitations of a group of ladies who had clus- tered about him. It appeared that he had betrayed to one of them, quite unintentionally, during the animated recita- tion just concluded, the interesting fact, that this poem on Moreau had called to his recollection a statelier piece of versification which he had himself composed on a famous hero, equally brave and energetic. 308 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. Such a discovery, at such a moment, was not to be suffered to escape,. It was rapidly whispered from one to another, and so reached Lady Eva at last, who, with that sunny and most arbitrary wilfulness which was not to be denied, resolved upon putting the gallantry of the detected poet to the test of her persuasive appeal — as yet, invari- ably successful. And that young poet came of a race distinguished alike by gallantry and genius, and had given abundant promise that, at no remote day, he would vindicate its fair reputa- tion proudly in his own person; for he had already won high collegiate honours, and obtained applause for fugitive productions displaying a lively imagination and cultivated taste. But these effusions were only the graceful fruits of leisure moments, snatched from the severer studies to which the loftier ambition of his intellect was steadily directed. It was not possible that the Lady Eva could fail in urging her request in this quarter, and after some playful hesita- tion, the Collegian commenced his heroic lay. CHARLES THE TWELFTH. Ask ye what meet reward remains to grace The hero-monarch's last sad resting-place ? "W hat lingering trophy of his proud career, When Death's stern arm breaks down the strong man's spear. Is left, his memory from reproach to save, And wipe the stain of carnage from his grave ? 'Tis the bright hope of glory, that afar Shine > through the mists of time, his leading star, And still delusive lights o'er field and flood His onward course to untried scenes of blood. W hen on some hard-fought field the victor's eye Views one vast scene of hopeless misery — When from their wasted horr.es, in suppliant prayer, A nation's voice sounds mournful on his ear, CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 369 And Conscience speaks within his breast once more — " Behold thy works, and tremble, Conqueror !" 'Tis then that Glory tempts his wavering mind ; " One aim be thine I" she cries — " to rule mankind ; Let not a few weak tears thy course delay, Once shed, then past, mere evils of a day, While in all future time thy brow shall be Wreathed with the crown of Immortality, Thy name in paeans chanted, and enroll'd With storied chiefs and demigods of old." False Syren ! in an angel's radiant guise Thy form first charm'd young Charles of Sweden's eyes When from beleaguer'd town and tented field, East, West, and South, the hostile trumpet peal'd. Robed ashis-country's genius didst thou stand, The sword of Vasa gleaming in thy hand. Shall then the Dane resume his hated sway, The scourge of Sweden in her evil day ? Shall the rude Russ and wolfish Polack hold Proud Mora's stones, where kings were crown'd of old, And heroes worshipp'd, and pollute the home That rear'd the conquerors of imperial Rome ? " Sleeps Balder's spirit ? from its mystic fire Starts not the buried sword of Angantyr ? Wake, Thor and Odin, fathers of the strong ! Sound from your clouds Valhalla's battle-song, Inspiring, like the loud Orthian strain, That fired embattled hosts on Ilion's plain, The scorn of coward ease and fleeting breath, The joy of battle, and the thirst of death." They heed not, — by deep fiord and pine-clad steep The fabled gods of Runic legend sleep ; Nor needs the call ; in living strength and wraiiv. Heirs to the glory of the unconquer'd Goth, Their home the camp, their breath the battle-cry, Forth pours the might of Swedish chivalry. Train'd from their hardy youth in fight to dare The ravening wolf or grisly mountain-bear, To brave the Northern Ocean's wildest wrath, Or scale, mid storms, the dizzy glacier's path, They burn with Lutzen's fame their name to twine, And cleanse in blood the wrongs of Vasa's line. 370 BVENIN08 AT BADDON HiTla Exalt, young monarch ; but ere shadowy night Shuts out the beauteous vision from thy sight. Let one last -1 ince <>t' fond remembrance fall On the rich beauties of thy capital The setting sun hath thrown its latest ray On each fair isle and undulating bay, Yet casts one golden beam of lingering light Where thy proud palace rears its massive height. Far to the right, in all a monarch's pride, The mighty Baltic rolls its gladsome tide ; There, in calm beauty, Malais waters lie, The cradled mirror of the northern sky. Reflecting rock and wood, and castled steep, And park and pleasance in its bosom deep. Ere darkness o'er the lovely landscape roll, Gaze, till that scene be graven on thy soul, A nd let each treasured memory of the \ > Be centred in that look — for 'tis thy hist ! — Last to the martial thousands muster'd there, Who, as the deep drum beats for vesper prayer, Raised loud the hymn that n.ll'd o'er Lutzen's field. " God is our fortress ! God our sword and shield :" — Weep for thy humbled crown, thy purple torn, For thy proud boastings, Denmark, only mourn ; In the first chafings of his mighty wrath The Swede hath swept thee headlong from his path. Bow down thy vanquish'd head, and, stooping low, Proud Frederic, crave existence of thy foe ; Nor bootless plead ; o'er realms unwasted reign. And live, despised and spared, to plot again. On to fresh victory with lightning speed ! East calls to West, in her exiremest need : Mark, where their wary chief arrays for E In strong-fenced camp, the hardy Muscovite, And strives by skill and vantage-ground to meet The fiery onset that knows no retreat — Such onset as of yore, on land and wave, Sires of the Swede, the bold Berserkir gave. Headlong they close ; in vain, with murderous a;m. The battery opes its countless mouths of flame : First in the breach, as foremost in the field. Advancing still where valour's self mi^ht yield, CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 371 The warrior monarch cheers his vanguard on 'GaList tenfold odds, and Narva's field is won. Speed on thy course, brave King ; what need to tell The tale of daring deeds recorded well, That swell'd the spring-tide of thy young renown. And hurl'd in turn each leagued aggressor down ? Yet, nobler, worthier of immortal lays, The kingly virtues of thy better days ; To give to Poland's best and bravest son Her sceptre, from an alien despot won ; To hear the peasant's prayer ; with liberal hand To heal war's waste amid a conquer'd land ; Release the captive soldier, free to roam Back to his native fields and scatheless home, And bid the voice of veteran thousands yield To God the glory of each stricken field — These are the deeds which die not : Time may raze. To dust old thrones and kingdoms ; but such praise Outlives e'en Time, and radiant mounts on high, A living wreath to meet Eternity ! Hadst thou then known, that He, whose mighty word Can raise the weak, and break the conqueror's sword J Whose will the instinctive universe obeys, Had mark'd the narrow circle of thy days ; Hadst thou then paused on that prophetic thought, Then had the sword (thy country's battles fought) Been sheathed in honour ; and thy name alone Had proved the bulwark of thy realm and throne. Yet ere the tide of ruin o'er thee roll, Tear the dread lust of conquest from thy soul : It may not be ! Hard were the miser's part To ope the dried-up fountains of his heart ; Hard for the desperate gamester's gloating eye To shun the hazard of the fatal die ; But harder yet, when Victory has shed Her lustre on some youthful monarch's head, For bis proud heart to bow its cherish'd will, And spurn her fading chaplet, and be still. Alas ! how changed from all the knightly ruth, And free, bold courtesy of earlier youth ! Caress'd and fear'd by Europe's mightiest powers. On Liitzen's plain his conquering banner towere ; 372 EVENTXns AT BADDON BAIL Bat vain Mir boast, to match his inner name, Whose glorious death gave yon rude stone its fame. Pride prompts to wreak on Dresden's vanquished lori. Insults more bitter than the headsman's sword: Pride, rising in his guardian-spirit's room, With hand yet red from Patkul's felon doom, Waves high the torch of war, and calls— " Arise ! On, great of soul ! fulfil thy destinies. On ; crown again thy Stanislaus' brow ; Kings be thy liegemen, and their monarch thou. Let Russia's humbled eagle northward fly To her rude eyrie in the Polar sky, And Fame inscribe thee on her shield of gold, ' Stay of the weak, and tamer of the bold.' Away ! though howling deserts round thee rave, Though to thine eye one vast unbounded grave Is spread, though hostile elements arise To stay thy course, and bar thee from thy prize. Away ! thine ancient foe at length must feel The full outpourings of thy wrath ; thy heel Shall crush his suppliant neck ; thy word must give ' The last poor boon that bids the vanquish'd live.' ' How fond the boast ! the cherish'd hope how vain ! The stern Czar waits him on Pultowa's plain, With strength matured, and purpose firm and cool. And learning conquest in reverse's school. No backward look, no quailing heart, was there; All skdl could prompt, or reckless valour dare, That day did Sweden's kins;, with soul that rose, In combat or retreat, o'er Nature's throes. But who the God of battles may withstand ? Pall'n is thy star ; a feeble, faithful band \1 me of all thy veteran host is left, To guard thee still, of all hut hope bereft ; Aping the empty mockery of -tate, \ -a,, pliant at the generous Moslem's gate. Again he comes; let wondering Europe tell, H,,\v ih strife ere Streisand fell I Still burning for some deed of high emprise, He call- t>> ■.in.- ; at once aew legions rise: His home unvisited, he put- again, To strike to earth once more the traitor Dare CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 373 In his own den to tame him, as of yore, Return with honour, or return no more. Why sudden pause upon the rampart's height, Yon thunders, volleying through the dead of night ? And hark, what stifled murmur fills the air ? No sound of onset or retreat is there ; No, 'tis the muffled drum, whose requiem-tone Proclaims a mighty spirit quench' d and gone. Peace to thy shade ! in such majestic mould, Heaven forms the master-souls who win and hold Man's free unbought allegiance : those who guide, For weal or woe, Time's ever-moving tide. Shall the strong heart's indomitable lire ; The Spartan mastery of each gross desire ; The friendship firm and true ; the courage high In life and death ; the unshaken constancy ; The mind that left its impress on an age ; Serve but as themes to Mockery's pedant page, Marr'd though they were, and warp'd to purpose vain, By the mad pride that work'd the angels' bane ? No ! turn we to that Isle of knightly name, Sacred to Valour, Loyalty, and Fame, Where mingling with the dust of chivalry, By great Gustavus' side his ashes lie. The sword his cold hand grasp'd in death's embrace, Finds on his tomb its well-won resting-place ; High o'er his head, a martial nation rears The banner'd trophies of a thousand years : Around, each warrior-knight, each patriot king, The heroes of the North, are slumbering. And may not Fancy deem, nor deem in vain, That still their spirits haunt yon sacred fane ? And, as we view each chief's time-hallowed bier, Should some far trumpet steal upon the ear, Or the faint breeze, or hour of even- song, Rustle one banner's drooping folds among ; Let fond Imagination catch the sound, And paint each warrior -spirit hovering round ; While the rapt pilgrim owns with pleasing dread^ The viewless presence of the mighty dead. 374 EVENINGS AT HADDON BALL. After the foregoing poem, there remained of the twenty-four beautiful drawings but three nnillnstrated ; these three the Lady Eva took up, examined, and admired separately. "There is a person present/' said she, "to whom I would wish to confide the illustration of thea three designs. They are each beautiful in their concep- tion, finished in their execution, and, in the hands I desire to place them, cannot fail to elicit a spirited and dramatic tale." The eyes of the company involuntarily followed the direction in which the Lady Eva's were turned. Not an nstant's doubt prevailed as to the accomplished author to .rhorn she intended to appeal. Could her choice have alien more happily than on a refined Critic, able Histo- rian, and admired Dramatist? Every one present thought of his "History of Russia," bis "Lives of the Poets," except those who more immediately recollected "Marri and " Mothers and Daughters." A murmur of applause ran through the assembled group, as the Lady Eva ap- proached, and gracefully proffered the three drawings. " But," remarked the gentleman thus silently invoked — " but, Lady Eva, this is to be your last tale, and surely " "True," she interposed, with a heavy sigh, "it is to be my last tale, .and then fore do I beseech you to make it, what indeed you can scarcely fail to do, one which shall render my Birthday Revels long remembered by all our Friends." While the Lady Eva was speaking, the gentleman she addressed had taken the drawings from her hand, and, after a careful examination of each, and a few minutes' reflection, related ;he following tale, which he entitled — LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 375 LOVE TO THE RESCUE. PrcfaBe.— 1656. A rich autumnal sun was setting over the scanty waters of the Vesle. The broad plain through which they rippled, monotonous and dreary enough in ordinary cir- cumstances, acquired a sort of tender beauty under the influence of the mellow light, which invested the whole scene with a touching and melancholy interest. The sombre colouring of the season and the hour heightened the peculiarly mournful character of that dismal stretch of country, in the midst of which stands the ancient city of Rheims, whose tall spires, and low, fantastic roofs, could be discerned by the rays which sparkled on their points and angles, long after the faint twilight had deep- ened into dusk on the surrounding level. Upon the highroad which crosses this plain, leading in a direct line to one of the principal gates of the city, a solitary traveller was laboriously pressing onwards towards his destination. His costume was not that of France. The broad-leafed, conical hat, the short cloak, slashed doublet, and falling- band, indicated not only the country whence he came, but the party to which he belonged. English royalists, however, were at that time so well known on the continent, through exile and misfortune, that their dress provoked little curiosity. The traveller bore evident marks of suf- fering and fatigue ; and, although the urgency of his jour- ney was apparent, in the impatient anxiety with which he every now and then quickened his pace, he frequently paused for momentary rest; — perhaps, also, to indulge 376 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. in the contemplations suggested by ;i Locality where tlie chivalry of England had formerly won many a brilliant triumph. He was scarcely move than twenty-five years of age ; but mental affliction, while it could not wholly disguise his youth, had stamped a painful gravity on it, which made him appear much older. A hardy frame, capable of bearing up manfully against toil and privation, was well associated with the earnest spirit which imparted so serious an interest to his face; certainly not the interest of a tine outline, or handsome features, for he possessed neither — but that sort of interest which grows upon the visible signs of a strong and faithful nature battling again -4 adversity. The traveller had now reached the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre, at a short distance outside the walls of the toy, n. Utter darkness had supervened upon the last gleam of sunset, which palpitated for a moment on the edge of the horizon, and vanished; and the mass of houses, ram- parts, and spires before him, would have been {indistin- guishable in the common gloom, which obscured all objects alike, but for the reflexion of the city lights diuily suffused on the sky. Guided by this beacon, he hurried forward, and at last gained the triple archway of the Porte de .Mars. It happened to be high holy-day at Rheims — the day of the patron, St. Remi. Hundreds of people, in their gayest attire, were crowded into the streets, especially round the old, unsightly church, which has nothing to commend it to the admiration of the inhabitants, but the tradition of a fabulous antiquity, and a pious catalogue of miracles. Sedan-chairs, heralded by flambeaux, wen: in movement in all directions, conveying beaux and old LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 377 ladies to supper-parties or vespers ; and the more commo- dious avenues of the town were thrown into an absolute uproar of delight by itinerant mummers, dancers, show- men, and ballad-singers. A huge model of the tomb of the Consul Jovinus (for Rheims boasts of having given a consul to Rome in the fourth century) occupied a con- spicuous position in the Place Royale, illuminated inside with candles, and containing some wonderful reliques, which the populace were invited to inspect, on payment of a trifling douceur. Bands of music struggled hard to be heard above the miscellaneous din, and everybody seemed to be fiercely intent upon extracting the utmost possible hilarity from the saintly festival. The stranger hustled his way as w r ell as he could through the tumult ; nor did he altogether escape some broad witticisms upon the dinginess of his garments, and the shape of his hat. The people seemed to think that one who made so grotesque a contrast to their merriment had no business amongst them ; a fact which was still more poignantly impressed upon him by his own bitter thoughts. It w r as by no slight exertion that he succeeded at length in effecting his escape into a quiet alley under the ramparts, disturbed only occasionally by stragglers from the main streets, or idlers hastening to join the revel. Pursuing this narrow track to the end, he emerged into a small open space, dotted with a few skeleton poplars. Here he paused for an instant to make sure of his route. The monastic repose of the spot assured him that he was in the ecclesiastical quarter of the town. In the opposite angle a massive building stood out darkly against the sky, and the stone cross which surmounted an antique fountain in the centre of the place, satisfied him that he had 378 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. fortunately hit upon the right point, without exposing himself to the delay of an inquiry. Rapidly crossing over, he struck into a paved passage under the shadow of the houses, and stood before a low- door deeply sunk in the building. The echoes of the carnival he had just left behind floated down into the stillness, and were little calculated to strengthen his reso- lution, now faltering on the threshold of the very place he had sought so eagerly — the object of his long and weary travail. His hand trembled as he touched the handle of the bell, and the agitation which he in vain endeavoured to subdue, was not likely to ensure the most favourable reception from the sacristan, who opened the door. " The archbishop V* inquired the stranger; " I would see the archbishop." "An unseasonable request/' returned the sacristan. "But my business is urgent — I have come a long dis- tance to see him — travelled night and day — I am ex- hausted by fatigue and indifferent entertainment by the way — but that's nothing, nothing ! The reverend father will not be offended when he knows my business." " Your name ?" demanded the sacristan. " It would be of no avail. A stranger craves audience — 'tis business of life and death — 1 entreat you — my need presses." "To-morrow — to-morrow," replied the other; "his grace is at prayers." " The better for my hopes," responded the stranger, "for mine is an affair that pleads to Heaven for help. Oh, God! what may no1 happen before to-morrow!" The intense anguish with which these words were uttered, softened the habitual indifference of the sacristan. "Well," he replied, scrutinizing the stranger, at the same LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 379 time, from head to foot, "come in, at all events. His reverence will scarcely see you to-night — but as you say your business is so urgent, I must see what can be done. Come in — come in." The stranger grasped his hand with a look of fervent gratitude, and followed him into the house, or, as it was then called, the Archiepiscopal Palace. The venerable archbishop, a descendant of the famous Sir Peter de Craon, was not so difficult of access as the sacristan would have had the stranger believe. The au- dience was granted at once; and the stranger was received with an encouraging condescension, which greatly puzzled the more ceremonious notions of the sacristan. " From England, my son ?" inquired the prelate, whose benignant manner at once gave assurance to the visitor. " Yes, reverend father ; nor have I pressed couch since I left Southampton." " To what end, my son, have you undertaken so toilful a journey ? Speak freely. Yoa will find friends here, and countrymen." "Thank God for that," replied the stranger; "for I left none but wolves and oppressors behind. Pardon me, your grace, for begging audience at this late lour ; but my heart is racked with fears for one who is — perhaps was " His voice sunk as he approached the inquiry upon which all his anxieties were concentrated. " The Prince Charles ?" demanded the archbishop. " No, reverend father ; he is safe in Paris. But one who perilled and lost all in his righteous cause. I believe there are English monks under this sacred roof ? " " Several." " And amongst them — Father Jacques ? Does he still live ? " And his eyes had already gleaned the answer 380 EVENINGS AT II\ltlMi\ BALL. before the archbishop bad time to shape it into utterance. " Blessed be the Lord, for all his mercies \" " He still lives, my son. 5 ' "But broken in health — feeble — worn out with sor- row? I have heard as much, and my only hope was to be with him in his last hours. 1 am in time for that V " He is ill, indeed — very ill," resumed the prelate. "If you bring good tidings " " I bring none — none. In England, we have aban- doned all hope. The adherents of the royal party are scattered and disheartened. No man dare avow his faith there. Nothing remains to us but prayer and death. Our kingdom in this world is gone for ever." " Such despondency at your age, my son," replied the archbishop, "is an offence against the justice of Heaven. The time will come when the rights of the throne and the church shall be vindicated in full ; but England must look for restitution to its young blood, animated by the memory of hoarded wrongs, and years of tyranny. And when that time comes " " I will do my duty," returned the cavalier, " should I survive to witness the glorious issue of our sufferings. But your grace will forgive my present impatience. I have endured much in the hope I had scarcely ventured to indulge, of seeing Father Jacques " " Not to-night. You need repose and refreshment ; nor would it be wise to risk an interview without some preparation. We must postpone the meeting till morning; and in the meanwhile confide fully in me. I must not conceal from you, that, in his precarious state of health, any sudden communication might be attended with the worst results." The stranger was too much impressed with the neces- LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 381 sity of acting upon this prudent advice, not to obey the archbishop's injunctions implicitly. The sacristan, who still felt some uneasy doubts about a visitor whose business was so importunate and mysterious, could scarcely contain his astonishment when he found that supper was ordered in the closet for his grace and the cavalier; but all his speculations, fertile and ingenious as they were, suffered total shipwreck upon afterwards discovering that his lord- ship and the stranger had remained in close council until a late hour of the night. The worthy sacristan could not for the life of him comprehend it ; nor was he much en- lightened the next morning when he was required by his grace to conduct the stranger, by a private passage under the cloisters, into the choir of the cathedral. The cathedral of Kheims is one of the oldest and most magnificent in Europe. Its clustering columns, rich arches, statues, and monuments, scarcely require that additional appeal to the imagination which it derives from its remote historical associations; and it is impossible to tread its stately nave and noble transepts, to gaze upon its ponderous towers flanking the entrance, or to listen to the chimes of its mighty bells, smiting the roof and walls like peals of thunder, without being filled with awe. The solemn emotions which the majesty of the scene stirred in the mind of the stranger, lifted him for a brief interval out of the thoughts which had hitherto absorbed all his facul- ties. He stood close to the font where Clovis is said to have been baptized — upon the spot where a long succession of kings had received their crowns, under the sacred re- sponsibility of a religious trust ; he was surrounded by costly tombs and sculptured effigies, wonders of art and mementos of eternity, peculiarly impressive in the hush of the sombre light that fell upon them from the painted 382 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. windows; and as the Bwelling notes of the distant organ soared through the lofty pile, he was profoundly moved, and, sinking upon his knees, surrendered up his spirit to silent prayer. lie was Dot alone in the cathedral. A few solitary communicants might be Been in some of the side chapels, where the service of the mass was performing; and upon the steps leading to the choir, at the back of which the stranger had taken up his station, an aged monk was en- gaged in offices of devotion. Through illness and infirmity his limbs were incapable of long sustaining the painful attitude of supplication in which he first addressed the throne of grace, and he sat down exhausted upon the steps. But his mind was still abstracted in pious meditations, and absorbed by the outspread volume of divine truth over which he reverently bent his head. The action was carefully noted by two of the brother- hood, who loitered in the transept, apparently for the pur- pose of observing the motions of the monk. When he had concluded his orison, they drew near. The stranger had by this time become a dumb spectator of the scene, the issue of which he watched with intense interest. A brief salutation, in the customary form of a blessing, apprised the monk that he was addressed by the affectionate greeting of his spiritual superior. "Thanks for your holy care/' he replied; " I need it all. I feel more and more every day how swiftly the vain shows of this world are gliding from my eyes. The sha- dows of the grave are thickly gathering round me." " Not so, Father Jacques," mildly responded the arch- bishop ; " we must be hopeful in our reliance on the divine mercy." " I trust 1 am so," answered the monk ; " and if a con- LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 383 trite spirit, chastised by much suffering, and bowed to the dust by bereavements, may hope to be acceptable, I have hope, reverend father, of rest and comfort — hereafter !" " And why not of a tranquil passage to a future life ? There are manifold blessings in store for us all — human sympathies, which it is our duty to nourish." Father Jacques raised his eyes, and looked inquiringly at the archbishop. He felt that there was a meaning in the words beyond the mere expression of general conso- lation they seemed to convey. " It is not well, father," continued the archbishop, " to abandon wholly our interest in worldly ties. We forsake the world's pleasures, its pomps and its vices; but our hearts are human, and must vearn with human love to the last." " You speak strangely," returned the monk. " Yet not without reason," resumed the prelate. " The world you have renounced must contain some objects of interest for you." The monk grasped the speaker's arm convulsively. " To the purpose, I entreat your grace/' he exclaimed. " You never spoke thus before. Pardon this weakness — but I am very feeble." " Well — well — be composed/' said his grace ; " I have received some intelligence, which, under Divine Providence, will bring comfort and happiness to you. But you must be calm, and shew me that you can bear joy as patiently as you have borne affliction." " Calm — calm — calm !" And he added, with a wan- dering look, as if the communication had bewildered his senses — "Joy forme? — for me — a shattered creature!" " Let us retire from the nave," said the archbish jp, " and you shall hear the good news." 3K4 EVENINGS AT IIADDON BALL. Conducting the old man between them, the venerable prelate and his coadjutor led him to a stone bench dose to the choir, within hearing of the Btranger, who still re- mained concealed behind a pillar. " I received some information from England last night/' observed the archbishop. " Ah ! the regicide is dead ?" inquired the monk. " No — Cromwell still lives, more confirmed in his power than ever." " That is ill news, my lord," responded the monk, drawing a deep and heavy sigh. " Yes — ill news for England. But you have relin- quished all interest in such concerns. It was not of that I desired to speak," he continued, cautiously. " You put me on the rack. What is the news that touches me ? I am as one dead to the world, and nothing in the world can affect me." " You have kindred, Father Jacques \ " A shudder ran through the frame of the old monk, but with a violent effort he commanded his emotions. " Kin- dred ? Not one — not one ! Distant relatives, perhaps strangers to my heart. But kindred is something more than blood. No, no; I have no kindred ! " "My information, Father Jacques," observed the arch- bishop, " says otherwise; and I am disposed to credit it on many accounts." •■ Unless the grave can give back its tenants, reverend father, vour information must be wrong." "We shall presently see," returned the other, at the same time motioning the stranger to draw near. "There, came to me here la-t night," he continued, " a young man from England; one who has still, even to his very habit, maintained his allegiance to the sacred cause of the Stuarts. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 385 Your family was known to him ; their history through the war, their sacrifices in defence of the king. He knows all that has happened, to the very hour when he left the shore. And he tells me " "God of mercy, have pity upon me!" ejaculated the monk, clasping his hands, and gazing into the arch- bishop's eyes, as if he would read the sequel in their depths. " He tells me that one still lives whom you have believed to be dead — one close to your affections." "Where is he?" demanded the monk. "Let me question him." " He is here," returned the archbishop, as the stranger, with hesitating step, approached and stood before Father Jacques. The old man rose from his seat, and peered into the face of the stranger, but could recognise nothing there to assist his conjectures. " Speak !" he cried. " Your blessing, father !" exclaimed the stranger, in a broken voice, as he flung himself on his knees before the monk. A bubbling cry escaped the monk, as he raised the supplicant totteringly from the ground, and looking again intently into his features, went on, in a low and almost inarticulate tone : " You are a stranger to me ; you bring back old times and old faces. Your garb is like that of my youth. It gladdens me to look upon it ! And you have suffered, too ? You look so harassed ! And tears — tears for me ! 'Tis a blessed sign in one so* young ! And you bring tidings to me ? No, no ! But you come from England; that is something. To breathe the air with you is like home again. I am foolish to talk so. Your name — your mission? Will you not speak to me?" c c 38(5 EVENINGS \i iiAnnoN hall. The Btranger was too much overcome by the piteotu aspect of the monk to trust himself with words, and, turn- ing away Ins head, tried to conceal his agitation. The monk reiterated his question. " No matter, for the present," said the stranger; "we shall have time to talk by-and-by. I bring you joyful news, which I shall relate in full — news that I can vouch for. You are no longer friendless — vour name is not ex- tinct. There lives one who may yet revive it with honour in the old place." This intimation, although it might be dark to others, si enied to be perfectly intelligible to the monk. But it produced a fearful effect upon him. The expression of wonder and incredulity which spread over his features as the stranger uttered the last words, was rapidly succeeded Dy a sudden pallor. He was stricken with paralysis, and must have fallen to the earth, had not the Btranger clasped him strenuously in his arms. He was conveyed to his chamber in a state of insensi- bility. For three days the stranger, refusing all rest, bed by his bedside. And during that agonising in- terval, the monk gathered strength enough to listen to the voice of him who watched, and to reward his care with blessings. At the end of three days, the stranger, wan and hag- gard, and with the wretched aspect of one upon whom a brief period of concentrated grief had done the work of Mais of common misery, was led out of that chamber of mourni The monk was dead. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 38" I.— A HAWKING PARTY. 1GG1. Two milk-white palfreys and three horses, all richly caparisoned, stood in front of the entrance to Lynton Hall. It was precisely the sort of morning that old Latham would have chosen to try a flight of falcons. The sky was slightly overcast by a light fleece of snowy clouds, which prevented the eyes of birds or sportsmen from being per- plexed by the sun, and there was just wind enough abroad to give freshness to the atmosphere without presenting much resistance to the plumage of hawk or heron. The falconer had gone forward in advance with his stage of hawks, making an accompaniment to the music of their bells, by trolling the words of a ditty, which was at that time in the zenith of its popularity : — " The soaring hawk from fist that flies, Her falconer doth constrain Sometimes to range the ground unknown, To find her out again ; And if by sight, or sound of bell, His falcon he may see, ' Wo ho ! ' he cries, with cheerful voice — The gladdest man is he ! " The falconer knew as well as the writer of the ballad how to prize his falcons, and he broke in, every now and then, upon the ditty, to cry, " Wo ho ! " to his birds, and in especial to stroke with a feather the dark plumage of a stately peregrine, upon whose execution in the approaching sport he evidently laid great stress. The track lay through one of the wildest and most romantic valleys of Devonshire ; and when the falconer had gained a particular spot, where the rendezvous was ap- pointed, he scaled a rock to ascertain whether the party 388 EVENINGS AT HADD0N IIALL. were in motion. A flutter of bright colours through the trees announced their rapid approach. Presently a noble greyhound, swifter than the fleetest steed, swept past, and in a few moments more, the whole valley was animated by the presence of the equestrians, who, unable to restrain the high spirits of their horses in the clear morning air, came scampering and bounding over the sward. The ladies of the party were Lucy Montagu, the heiress of Lynton Hall, and her light-hearted cousin, the Lady Catherine Gower, a maid of honour, who had ventured upon an exile of a few weeks from Whitehall, in the hope of retrieving her complexion in the breezes of Devonshire. They were attended by the young Lord New), whose estates lay close by, and two gentlemen who were then visiting at Lynton. From the skill with which Lucy Montagu and Lord Nevyl applied themselves to the ex- citing preparations for the sport, it was manifest that they were thoroughly familiar with its mysteries; which was more than could be said for the rest of the party, who merely looked on, with a vague and indulgent curiosity, while the merry falconer began to unloose his birds. " The peregrine first, Hugh Clark," exclaimed Lucy Montagu, as she touched the falcon with her glove ; "and see that her jesses are safe/' The falconer was hardly pleased to risk his favourite's reputation on the first flight, and would fain have substi- tuted a fussy little hobby, which, with the impetuosity characteristic of its species, was impatient to be on the wing. But the lady was anxious to show the best of the sport first, before the attention of her guests was ex- hausted. The whole party had now dismounted; and Lord Nevyl was busy helping with the birds. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 389 " Shall I take the peregrine, Miss Montagu ?" he in- quired. " If you please, my lord," returned the lady ; " and I will second you with my own ger-falcon. Give her to my hand, Hugh. There — gently. Wo ho, pretty bird!" And stretching our her closed hand, carefully protected by a richly-embroidered glove, the well- accustomed hawk stept upon it with an air of gentle dignity, that excited the admiration even of Lady Catherine. " It is wondrously beautiful," she exclaimed, " and seems quite familiar with you." " So she should be, Catherine; for I may almost say I trained her with my own hand. Is it not so, Hugh ?" " Ha," replied Hugh, " your ladyship will train a hawk with any falconer in England. Your ladyship took this bird in hand from an eyas. I remember the first time your ladyship hooded the beauty. There is such an art in that ! " " But can the creature see ?" inquired Lady Catherine. " Of course not, Catherine," returned Lucy ; " we should have no control over them if we did not keep them blinded till we start the prey. Don't you admire my rufter, and its handsome crest of pheasant feathers ? You shall learn presently how to fly a falcon from the hood ; — only keep silence, and watch ! " Lord Nevyl, who was prepared with the peregrine on his fist, with the leather end of the jesses wound tightly round his hand — for it was a bird of enormous height and power — listened with evident delight to the pleasant lore of Lucy Montagu. Even the two gentlemen, Piers Ever- ington and his brother Charles, both members of the new parliament, seemed to grow interested in these preliminary details. 390 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. The whole party now moved noiselessly towards the river which brawled through the rugged bed of the valley, expanding at this place into a sort of basin, with a broad strand at the opposite side. A few straggling tall trees on the margin indicated the heronry, to which all eyes »rere now anxiously turned. "Which way is the wind, Hugh?" inquired Lord Nevyl. "Down the river, my lord," returned Hugh ; and si- lently motioning to leeward of the heronry, he led them down through the bushes for a considerable distance. Piers Everington was grievously perplexed by this trouble Borne manoeuvre, and inquired the reason of it. ""Why, simply," said Lucy, to whom all these device- were nun- matters of course, "because the heron on its return must fly against the wind, which gives an obvious advantage to tin: falcon." "Very curious, indeed I" returned Piers Everington, not a whit enlightened by the explanation. "You sec how accomplished .Miss .Montagu is in this royal pastime," said Lord Nevyl. " She might boast, with Spencer's Sir Tristram, — ' Ne is there hawk which mantlrth on her perch, Whether high towering or a<roasting low, But I tin- measure of her rlighte doe search, And all her prey and all their habits know.'" " Hush !" interrupted Lucy, " there is a heron on the wing." Hugh Clark shaded his r yes with his hand, to note the action of the distant bird, and, after a moment's ob- servation, continued the announcement. " Down, down in the bushes!" whispered Hugh; and the whole party iv" S»--H C . LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 391 to the great reluctance of some of them, crept under the shadows of the brushwood as well as they could. Lord Nevyl, having measured his distance with a prac- tised eye, let fly the peregrine, who, the moment she was releasee!, discovered her prey, and, fluttering her head, ascended in a series of spiral gyrations into the air. The instinct of the heron was no less rapid. She saw her danger, and strained her whole muscular power to ascend higher and higher, disgorging her food at the same instant to lighten her weight. She was considerably above the peregrine, whose circular flight, however, gradually lessened the distance ; but the heron still soared, and kept the as- cendancy. Now was the time for the ger-falcon to come into play. With a single touch of surpassing dexterity, Lucy slipped the jesses, and snatched off the hood, and the stately bird shot into the air, taking still wider circles, the peculiar action of which had the effect, to the unskilful spectators, of making it appear that the pursuers and the pursued all took different directions. But presently, as the hawks gained upon their prey, the artifice by which they thus diminished the atmospheric resistance, became perfectly intelligible, and it was soon evident that their apparently divergent flight was directed steadily to one point. The peregrine is now close upon the heron; another grand sweep in the air, and she is above her. The spec- tators become as agitated for the issue as the plumed com- batants themselves. The peregrine mounts higher and mgher, to secure a more effectual stoop ; the heron, with unerring instinct, feels that life or death depends on the next half second of time, and, lowering her wing, watches with fearful interest the motions of her enemy. The stoop is taken ; as swift as light the peregrine makes her blow, 392 EVE XI NO S AT FJADDON IIAI.L. but the heron has evaded it by shifting her station; and the hawk has no sooner shot past her than she takes tc her wing again, and scars upwards with increasing energy, but it is only to encounter the ger-falcon, who has all this tune been ascending upon her track. The. powerful wing of the gerfalcon leaves her no chance of escape. Higher and higher they mount, until at last they fade into specks hardly distinguishable from each other ; but the falcon is still to be detected by her gyrations, and the superior speed of her flight. The interest of the struggle deepens in intensity as the falcon ascends far above the heron, who now, liercc in her agony, and seeing all hope of escape in that direction at an end, comes precipitately down, pre- pared to transfix the pursuer upon her up-turned beak. But luckily the peregrine diverts her from her purpose by a sudden lurch, and the ger-falcon drops upon her prey, which she seizes with fatal velocity, the peregrine binding to its fellow at the same time. The three birds, now twined and convulsed in a fearful contest, descend together rapidly to the earth. "To horse!" cries Hugh Clark, dashing into the river, towards the place where the birds were likely to drop. Lucy and Lord Nevyl were already in their saddles, and across the river before the astonished lookers-on had reco- vered their surprise at the suddenness of the challenge. Of course Lady Catherine, and the two members of par- liament, were left far behind, while the sport carried their friends into a remote part of the valley. Hugh ('lark had secured the heron just as Lucy and Lord Nevyl came up; and as they were now approaching a closer part of the valley where pheasants were to be found, they determined upon trying a kestrel, or wind- hover, which was then much used for pheasant hawking. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 393 Dismounting again, Lord Nevyl and Lucy walked for- ward, while Hugh Clark selected a favourable spot for the flight. It was a gorge in the steep rocks, out of which issued a waterfall, the river tumbling and foaming through the dark ravine below. The pheasants, who kept the open country, were often to be found here on the summits, and sometimes lower down, tempted into occasional excursions by the stillness and solitude of the place. The young lord was not sorry to be left alone with the beautiful heiress of Lynton Hall, and her beauty never appeared so resplendent in his eyes as amidst such scenes as these; her singularly picturesque dress setting off to the greatest advantage that pure colour and charming frank- ness of expression, which had never yet been deteriorated by the fashionable excesses of a town life. The proximity of his residence had gradually rendered him an intimate at Lynton Hall, and the refinement of his tastes enabled him to discover intellectual merits in Lucy Montagu, which he esteemed even beyond her beauty. It was not surprising that Lord Nevyl should be in love with Lucy Montagu ; but it was very surprising that he did not know it. There is a curious sophistry in certain minds, by which they contrive to mystify themselves into pro- longed delight through this season of ambiguous passion, still loitering dreamily on the confines of self-confession, which they continue to evade as long as they can, by one deception or another, as if they were afraid it would all of a sudden put an end to their delicious doubts. But con- fessions must come at last ; and they often come at very unexpected moments. Sophists of this class are generally surprised, when they least expect it, into the full sense of fcVeir own happiness. " How charming is the solitude of this place ! " ex- 394 EVENIN08 \T BADDON BALL. claimed Lord Nevyl. "Your fair cousin scarcely appro, ciatcs our wild semen." "How can Bhe?" replied Lucy, "she has lived in London all her life; yet she is not spoilt by it. She has such delightful spirits, and is so natural, in spite of her courtly tastes." " I can understand her character ; but she would never be happy out of the sphere in which she moves." "Y<m are greatly mistaken. Lady Catherine is the most unselfish of all persons. She delights in conferring happiness on others. But bow can you know anything about it ? We are all enigmas, and must be found out, like other puzzles." " Not all, Miss Montagu," said Lord Nevyl, with a tone of earnestness, which appeared rather unusual to Lucy Montagu. "At least," he continued, "one fancies once in one's life that one has found " "Oh! one fancies a thousand tilings," interrupted Lucy; " but character is not to be solved by fancy." "Then what is the key to this exquisite mystery?" " Whv, I suppose," rejoined Lucy, laughing at tin- odd conceit, "keys to mysteries are something like keys to locks, and every mystery must be opened by its own key." " But there is a master-key, to which they all yield alike." "You absolutely make me curious, Lord Nevyl; pray what may that be ?" "Sympathy, Miss Montagu; before which hearts are laid open, as it were, by a touch of enchantment." Ik ought to have said "love," for undeniably that was what he meant; but Lord Nevyl did not yet exactly know what he meant. LOVE TO THK RESCUE. 395 " Oh, people may have sympathy in common pursuits, and yet make great mistakes in extending their inferences," returned Lucy ; " but the argument is a little too subtle for me. And see, Hugh is starting a pheasant." Lord Nevyl was grievously vexed at the interruption. He secretly wished all the pheasants in England safe under cover. But there was no time for refining upon lost opportunities. Lucy was already at the entrance of the gorge, with a kestrel clambering on her hand, while Hugh was directing her attention to a distant spot, to which he thought he had traced the flight of the pheasant. " It will presently rise," said Hugh ; " be wary." The bird rose almost at the moment, and it was not until Lucy had released the kestrel, which mounted with that singularly graceful flight, for which this tiny species is so remarkable, that they discovered the prey to be a heron, and not a pheasant. The disadvantage was great between the pursuer and the pursued : and it was curious to observe how swiftly and courageously the kestrel as- cended, and distanced its prey, which, hoping to elude the pursuit, kept beating about in the brown shadow of the rocks. The hurried cry in the air of pli, pli, pli, evinced the eagerness of the hawk, until it attained its greatest altitude at a vast height above the affrighted heron, when the sound ceased. Lord Nevyl, apprehensive of losing the bird, notwithstanding that he still heard the tingle of its bells, hurried upon a rock in the middle of the stream to lure it back, while Lucy prepared a second kestrel to be in readiness in case of need. But these pi-ecautions were unnecessary. The kestrel was suspended apparently mo- tionless in the air, although a steady observer, accustomed to this peculiarity, might detect a slight, tremulous quiver- ing of the wings, by which it sustained itself. They held 896 EVENINGS AT HADDON II \ I.L. tin ii- breath to watch the issue. Like a flash from the sun, the kestrel darted down, and struck its prey. The execution of this movement was perfect. IStrth tin 1 birda were now struggling in the water, from whence they were quickly rescued by Hugh Clark, who, to do him justice, understood his part of the science quite as well as the kestrel herself. " We have lost our friends," said Lucy, who, very pro vokingly, seemed to become aware of the fact now for the first time. Lord Nevyl wished all tin; friends as a moment before he had wished all the pheasants, safely under cover — anywhere but in his way. " We had better rejoin them," she added, making a signal for the horses, which were in charge of a servitor at a little distance. A spectator seeing these two young people riding hastily back to come up with their party, might have supposed that they were very anxious to escape from each other's company. A part of the way there was not a word spoken, and when they did risk a little conversation it was reserved and constrained. There might be no great difficulty in guessing at the thoughts that were passing through Lord Xcvyl's mind, taking sundry contradictory shapes, uncon- sciously moulded by his wayward and poetical tempera- ment. 35 1 it it was not quite so easy to speculate on Mi^s .Montagu's thoughts. There was DOthing to be gathered from her manner, which was most tantalizingly insouciant. The enigma to which she compared her ses was never more irexatiously represented than it was by Miss Montagu her- self during that short ride; at least Lord Nevyl was of that opinion. They found their friends higher up the valley, trying some hopeless experiments with two or three hawks which had been left with them by the falconer. Mr. Piers LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 397 Everington had been cruelly lacerated by a little merlin, which he had incautiously unhooded, out of sheer curiosity, without liberating its jesses ; and Mr. Charles Everington was in no little consternation at having lost a hobby, which he had suffered to go in quest of game on its own account, and which had disappeared amongst the trees. Whether Hugh Clark ever recovered the hobby we know not, but it is certain that he muttered an infinite variety of hard words as he went, swinging his lure, in search of the fugitive. These little contretemps brought the hawking to a stand-still ; and as there was no concealing the ennui of the visitors from London, it was agreed on all hands to suspend the sport for that day, and return to the Hall. The gallop home was cheering enough. Lady Catherine was in florid spirits, and threw everybody, except Lord Nevyl, into ecstasies with her brilliant wit and sinister repartees. Even his lordship felt grateful to her for sparing him the necessity of talking. It was twelve o'clock — a clear hour before dinner — when they arrived at Lynton Hall. Little time enough for maids of honour and courtiers to make their toilets. But Lord Nevyl required less preparation ; nor was he in a mood to fret himself over details of that kind. He dressed quickly, with an uneasy nervousness, and descended to the drawing-room. To his utter astonishment, Lucy Montagu was there before him. She was as calm as ever — as frank, as lively, and even more lovely than usual. The enigma became mere and more perplexing to Lord Nevyl, who was never so em- barrassed before in the whole course of his life. The inexplicable self-possession of women ! Lucy bantered him upon the celerity of his toilet 398 BVEN1NGS AT H ADDON HALL. She was unconscious of I he greater despatch with which she had dismissed her own. But he was too abstracted to perceive the advantage which this slight oversight threw open to him. "I am afraid 1 have interrupted you, Miss Montagu," he managed to say, at last, as awkwardly as he could say it. Lucy had been reading a large folio, bound in vellum, with ponderous clasps. " What have you been reading ? " " Drayton," she replied—" my favourite Drayton. They say he is only a bad geographer, with just enough of ima- gination to lead him astray ; but I love his fantastic style, and the sweet glimpses he gives us of pastoral romance." " Your unerring taste is sure to detect the beautiful and the true, even in the tangled wilderness of the Polyolbion. Drayton has always been one of my household divinities, but I shall prize him for the future more highly than ever." " I suppose I ought to be obliged by so delicate a compliment," replied Lucy, with a very sunny smile; "but it is quite useless to attempt to flatter me into the notion that my taste is a criterion in such matters. I dare say Drayton is an indifferent poet enough." "But it is possible Miss Montagu," said Lord Nevyl, who was now beginning to recover his composure — "it is possible, even if your taste werein error, which it cannot be, that still I might like Drayton the more, because " There was a tremulous pause on the wind. « Because ? — well ?" And in a mischievous spirit of badinage she was half inclined to laugh. "I mean," he resumed, "that one cannot help loving everything that interests those who " Miss Montagu histilv turned over half-a-dozen leaves all at once. "I don't like his Barons' Wars," she interposed, "nor LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 399 his " She tried to flutter over a few more leaves, when Lord Nevyl gently arrested her hand. It ti-embled for an instant in his. " You will banish ms, perhaps, from your presence for ever, Miss Montagu, for my presumption ; but — " he released her hand — " I cannot, I dare not any longer dissemble my feelings." " My Lord Nevyl ! " she exclaimed, slightly averting her head, "I beg " "It is in vain !" cried Lord Nevyl, passionately — "in vain ! My long pent-up secret has found utterance at last. Pardon me that I have dared to love you. It was not your beauty, spiritual and radiant as it is, for which alone I loved you ; but that which is more beautiful than beauty — that intellectual grace which raised you nearer to the divine nature/' " I cannot hear this," replied Lucy ; " it is so strange — so unexpected " " Yet to me so long familiar ! And I fancied, too, that you must have seen it — that love could speak tongue-tied. How often in the summer nights, when you used to sing some of those broken lyrics of the old troubadours, I fancied, in the tones of your voice, a sweet spirit re- sponding to my silent heart. How I have dreamed of the future — the felicity of realising the mission of the affections. This thought has consumed me day and night. Pardon — forgive the passionate devotion you have in- spired. One word — one little word of hope!" And flinging himself on his knees, he clasped the powerless hand of Lucy Montagu. In that brief moment she has passed into a new state of existence. Her imperial will, her happy caprices, the bright heedlessness of youth — what have become of them ? 4-00 EVKXINGS AT HADDON HALL. Absorbed in the one new image of life — mw, startling confounding. It is the first time the thought lias taken an actual form in her imagination. Her sense of things becomes dazzled and bewildered. She will neither desire him to hope, nor despair. She needs help and direction more herself. She cannot answer; she will think — think of what ? Everything is changed. She is no longer the being of fugitive trifles — on a sudden the half-formed fantasies of all her timid wishes assume vital shapes, to which she must give grave audience; her fairy Ideal has become disenchanted into the Real. What is to come of this ? Does she love any one else ? No ! Does she love at all ? It is the crisis of her life — this perilous second of time ! Fortunately for the trembler, a step, light, quick, and buoyant, echoes on the staircase. " My cousin !" exclaims Lucy, trying to disengage her hand, but not until Lord Nevyl has impressed it with a fervent kiss. The door is flung open, and Lady Catherine bounds into the room. II.— ARRIVALS AND AUGURIES. Lyxton Hall was a sumptuous pile, which might be traced back from small beginnings to the age of Elizabeth. Enlarged and embellished from time to time by different hands, it presented a singular and fantastic specimen of thai wilful confusion of styles which prevailed in England down to a much later day. Moorish arches and Gothic windows, richly crusted with ornaments, were picturesquely heaped upon the fiat surfaces and quaint zig-zags of the LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 401 old Saxon architecture; while Italian terraces, stepped parterres, embroidered with flowers, and transpicuous alleys, through which the sun played at gambols with the dancing shadows, completed the heterogeneous but costly ensemble. During the Interregnum, Lynton Hall, in common with all other country mansions, yielded to the dreary influence of the time. It was kept in solid repair, but that was all. The fine arts had nothing to do but stand still ; there were no accessions to the picture gallery ; no new statues, fountains, or garden luxuries ; no improve- ments, interior or exterior. All was cold and lifeless. The same policy that abolished fans, feathers, and girdle- glasses, and shut up the play-houses, had also spell-bound the residences of the gentry in a long and dismal lethargy. The Restoration acted like enchantment upon the sleepers. It was the signal of a universal release from the hypocritical dulness, which sat like a nightmare upon the spirits of the young and hopeful. The whole population started up to enjoy the national holiday, like children sud- denly released from the stupefaction of the conventicle. Lynton Hall participated in the general rejoicing. Sir Edmund Montagu was a puritan — firm, inflexible, and sincere. The nobler and the graver elements of the character belonged to him. Lady Montagu, inheriting royalist principles from her family, had sufficient good sense to suppress their manifestation under the Protec- torate ; but the death of Cromwell dissolved all obligations of that kind, and rendered the resumption of the splendour and the gaieties proper to her station a matter of policy, as much as it was, on her part, a matter of choice and feeling. The chambers of the Hall rang with the clamour of DD 402 EVENINfiS AT II ADDON HALL. changes befitting the altered spirit of the period. Artists from London, anticipating the advent of the meretricioua VerriOj had already, with exuberant fancy, poured out a whole mythology of gods and goddesses upon the ceilings and walls of the principal rooms, galleries, and staircases ; and the poetry of invention was tortured into endless deformities to find out new devices for emblems and por- traits cut in pyramidal yews and bosky shrubs. The long walks were buttoned up with rows of pots of la Beine Marguerite, every verdant niche had its stone nymph or dryad assigned to it, and every vista was closed with a sparkling fountain or a classical group. Day after day heaps of new things arrived from London, and the ladies' apartments were literally strewn over with flirting hats, martial gloves, Colambor fans, angel-water, May-dew, and French petticoats. Sir Edmund did not consent to this revolution; he submitted to it, or, rather, he tried to endure it. Guests were come, and more were coming, and it was in vain to resist the overwhelming tide of change. Christmas, too, was coming — the traditional season of English hospitality and merry-making. The tranquillity he loved was shaken to its centre. There was no repose tor him in the remotest corners of the house. The echoes of the turmoil followed him everywhere. On the morning succeeding the incident just related, he penetrated through a levee of foreign artists to the chamber of Lady Montagu, and found her busily occupied inspecting a fresh consignment of perfumes, salves, and washes. " A rare tumult this morning, madam/' he exclaimed ; " when may I look for peace?" " Well, well," replied Lady Montagu, " it is nearly LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 403 over; but positively we did require a little improvement, it is so long since the place was touched. Besides/' she added, trying the effect of a good-natured appeal to his pride, " you would not have us give a mean reception to my niece, Lady Catherine, and Sir Dudley Perrot, and the other court people who are to spend the Christmas with us?" "And so," retorted Sir Edmund — "and so, because your niece, a maid of honour — save the mark ! — and some jackdaw courtiers are about to make profligate revel in our house in the solemn Christmas time, I must be scared in my retirement by a hurricane of feet and tongues, as if Tartarus had disgorged its demons at my gate ! " " Nay," exclaimed her ladyship, " you must be just. I never murmured at the painful suppression of my own feelings, through the long and bitter years during which the friends of my youth were banished from their homes, confiscated, and hunted like dogs. Nor do I triumph now in the deliverance that has come to pass ; I only ask that we may be allowed to resume our natural position. And not even this for my own sake, but for the sake of others." "Others?" said Sir Edmund. " We have a daughter," returned Lady Montagu ; " you would not sacrifice her ?" " I would have her in all things worthy of my name." " And of our rank and wealth," added Lady Montagu. " Rank and wealth !" he reiterated ; " by what signs do you judge of our rank and wealth ?" " By the ample dowry I brought you," she replied, in a tone of surprise, " and these broad lands." The gloom darkened on his features, while he de- manded, " To what does this lead ? " 404 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. " Have you not observed of late," she answered, hesi« tatingly, " the frequent visits of Lord Nevyl?" " Lord Nevyl ! " cried Sir Edmund, in a tone of crush- mi: contempt. " It is scarcely just," returned the fair advocate, " to quarrel with his title. You received honours yourself from the hand of the Protector. But, in truth, it is only my own suspicion, — although I confess I think such an alliance " " Because he is a lord ! " " No, not that; but because he is every way worthy of Lucy, and because his estates lie close to our own." " And you would prudently consolidate them. Keep within your own province, good housewife. It is a wise and needful caution. I would have my blood spread — healthily drawn out in distant air, not bound up in close deeds and tenures. Has Lucy spoken to you of this?" he inquired, with a searching look. " Never !" replied Lady Montagu. " Nor you to her?" he demanded. " Never ! " " Then keep your counsel locked up m your own breast. We must have speech again upon this clever sus- picion of yours. Hearken to the din of footsteps — more victors — more lords and peacocks!" It was as he anticipated. More visitors were arriving, and their approach was announced by a bevy of bedizened lacqueys, whose clamorous entry made a greater uproar than that of their masters. Lady Catherine, through whose introduction or invitation most of the court people were attracted to the tranquil shades of Lynton, entered the room to communicate the intelligence, just as Sir Edmund had uttered his imprecation against the peacocks. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 405 She saw he was angry, but her brilliant spirits and high breeding were not to be put out by other people's ill temper. " They are coming, dear Lady Montagu ! " she ex- claimed, running over, caressingly, to her aunt. "Who?" inquired Sir Edmund, in a freezing tone of discouragement ; but his sour reproof was thrown away upon the lively maid of honour. " Who ? Some of the choicest beaux and gallants, of course ; gentlemen of the privy chamber " "And ladies of the privy chamber?" interrupted the questioner. "No— no ladies." " Well, there's some grace in that," resumed Sir Ed- mund ; " but if I must receive these people, pray, Lady Catherine, enlighten me upon their names and qualities." " Well, there is Mr. Giles Moreton, a poet, who has written verses on his majesty's restoration, a great favourite with the king ; and Mr. Plympton, remarkable for nothing but his chocolate coat, lined with rose-coloured silk, and his lisp ; Pettingal, a beau of the first water, who is said to consume more carnation wash and Spanish paper than the whole four women actors, boarded by Davenant, in Lincoln's Inn; and — and — Sir Dudley Perrot." " A goodly company ! " exclaimed Sir Edmund, with a groan. " And who may this Dudley Perrot be?" " Sir Dudley ! My court fool. You shall be my con- fessor," she added, with a malice prepense, eliciting a still deeper groan from Sir Edmund, at the ghostly office she assigned him. " Sir Dudley is a lover of mine, poor mot- ley ! He is a sort of country squire — as ignorant of town life as one of his own great Flemish horses, yet aping it at all points, like a monkey. His father, who was in some 40G BVJBNIN08 AT HaddoN HALL. kind of trade, expended a fortune in the service of the king — and so, by way of a set-off, his majesty knighted the fool." "A royal way of paying his majesty's debts!" ejacu- lated Sir Edmund. " But you must not suppose," continued Lady Cath- erine, " that I invited Sir Dudley. The truth is, he fol- lowed me. He follows me everywhere, like my shadow. One wants a motley, you know, to play off one's humours — so we must be civil to the poor, harmless popinjay. But, dear Lady Montagu, you and Sir Edmund must hasten to receive them;" and she ran on, with a vivacity that fairly overthrew the gravity of Sir Edmund, until she hurried them both out of the room, to meet the approach- ing guests at the door. The three first-mentioned gentlemen made their appear- ance in succession, and were received with a ceremonious formality, in which the true courtesy of the host was no less apparent than his puritan coldness. Sir Dudley remained behind. He hung back in the avenue to adjust In- sword and ruffles, and to put on an elaborate periwig, which his valet carried in a bandbox.* Having satisfied himself, by a careful review of his person in a pocket-glass, that his costume was perfect, he advanced to the house with an awkward sidling air which produced infinite merri- ment amongst the people assembled within. Even Sir Edmund could hardly suppress a smile at the first gUmpse of the attitudes into which he managed to distort his grotesque figure. * In the county of Berks there is an approach to one of the old mansions which is still called Wig Avenue, from the circumstance of bong the spot where the gallants used to put on their flowing wigs, before the) presented themselves at the house. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 407 The guests had already gone forward, and Sir Edmund and Lady Montagu still lingered at the entrance, when their attention was attracted by the person of an aged man who stood at the extremity of the terrace, apparently soliciting their notice by strenuous gesticulations. Hugh Clark, who happened at the moment to be bestowing a philosophical lesson on one of his hounds, ordered the ill- clad supplicant to be gone about his business ; when Sir Edmund, rebuking the falconer's harshness, advanced, with Lady Montagu on his arm, to inquire into the old man's necessities. There was, at least, that one vital vir- tue in his republican creed, that it recognised the claims of manhood in the poor, as well as in the rich. The man was an ancient pensioner who had long sub- sisted on the bounty of the family, and who enjoyed a sort of reputation amongst the common people for his skill in casting nativities and telling fortunes — practices which were at that time in high estimation even amongst the educated classes. " One word in your ears," hoarsely whispered the mendicant. " As many as you will," cried Sir Edmund, who, with- out being what is called superstitious, desired rather to conciliate than to provoke people of his stamp — " what fortune is in the wind to-day, good Master Sachell V " 111 fortune. I came to warn you. Beware — be- ware ! " " Tut — tut. You must not alarm Lady Montagu." " I tell you to beware, Edmund Montagu. Danger and evil, and woe hover over your house." " What means this ?" demanded Lady Montagu, flushed, and not a little terrified at the strange intelli- gence. 408 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. •' Mere fantasy/' replied Sir Edmund, hastily, BOOwIing at the same time upon the prophet. "No — a living truth," uttered the mendicant, in a still deeper voice. "You will heed my words hereafter. Beware who comes into your house, and who goes out. Beware, Edmund Montagu!" " No more of this," cried Sir Edmund. " As I have eyes to see, and ears to hear," persisted the mendicant, " I saw and heard — not in a vision — but the living " " The beggar's brain is crazed," exclaimed Sir Ed- mund, fiercely, drawing Lady Montagu at the same mo- ment towards the house. " Begone, knave ! and practise your sorceries elsewhere." The mendicant turned and moved slowly away. Lady Montague was fascinated to the spot, and continued to gaze after him, while at every step he looked back with haggard emotion to reiterate the terrible warning. His receding figure, tall and macilent, and clad in ominous black, presented to her affrighted imagination the aspect of a messenger of fate; and as she passed the threshold of the door, the one appalling word, " Beware !" struck like a knell upon her heart. III.— A DRAWING-ROOM AFTER THE RESTORATION. There is a great movement in Lynton Hall : a gather- ing of company, a dazzling concourse of guests. Pages in rich liveries fill the vestibule; and a cavalcade of coaches, most of them drawn by six barbs, make a brave stir in the old avenue. There is a grand reception at Lynton Hall to-night, including, in addition to the visitors from court, the principal gentry of the surrounding country. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 409 The drawing-room, voluptuously decorated, and hung at either extremity with purple serge, bound with gilt leather, is like a scene of enchantment. A flood of light streams down on all sides from innumerable painted lamps, multiplied every instant into ten thousand flashing rays, scintillating from the jewelled costumes of the crowd. The vast extent of the apartment affords ample space for the various amusement of all. Groups of dancers occupy one end, and small parties are scattered over the other, engrossed in a variety of pastimes. In one place there is a constellation of bright faces gathered round a table, enjoying, to their hearts' content, the merry fright of a little linnet, Ringing Whittington (as it was called) — the poor bird being imprisoned for the purpose in a cage, on the top of which were arranged a number of bells, which rang Whittington as he sprang about trying to escape from the tingling music produced by his own motions. In other places, gentlemen are engaged in lansquenet and ombre ; some are employed in the fashion- able relaxation of building houses with cards ; and sundry little cncles are deep in lively games of forfeits, so much in vogue at court, especially that ingenious perplexity, " I love my love with an A," which yields so many excuses for the wit and gallantry of the beaux ; and that artful romp, called " Hunt the Slipper." The Lady Catherine and her fair cousin have drawn round them a crowd of gallants. Lucy Montagu is dressed simply, but richly, in white satin, looped up with pearls, her bright brown ringlets, without any ornaments, flowing in profusion over her shoulders. The maid of honour is somewhat more elaborately attired in a peach-coloured bodice, lavishly brocaded, fitted tightly to the shape, open down the front, and fastened with brilliants, a delicate lace 410 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. tucker peeping over its snowy round above. She seems perfectly conscious of the costliness of that sweep of lustrous silk, short, full, and lavishly plaited, and those pulled sleeves, gathered high up in front with clusters of diamonds, showing, under a fall of the finest cambric, trimmed with lace, one of the daintiest arms in the world. Her dark hair floats in long tresses over her bosom, and is further enhanced by a garniture of diamonds, and a dazzling flut- ter of " heart-breakers,'' disposed with consummate art. Mr. Giles Moreton was paying a thousand unmeaning compliments to Lady Catherine. He said that Crashaw must have seen her in a vision, w r hen he spoke of — " Tresses that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are !" " Nonsense I" exclaimed Lady Catherine ; " never quote poets to me. There is not a lurking flattery in one stanza that I will not match with a piece of downright insolence in another. Suckling settles the question at once with a most honourable candour — ' There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cozenage all.' What think you of that, Pettingal ?" she added, as the fop advanced with a mincing air. Beau Pettingal was one of the most distinguished butterflies of his day, and came out on this occasion with surpassing absurdity, in a slashed suit of amber-coloured velvet, and gigantic silver buttons, an enormous peruke, an immense laced steinkerk, a huge sword-knot, and a profusion of ribands of various colours, streaming from all available points on his breast, knees, and shoulders. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 411 " Odds life \" quoth he, aping the favourite exclama- tion of his Majesty — "your ladyship is right. There is no faith to be placed in poets; the only true exponents of beauty are the painters." " The alternative is questionable, Mr. Pettingal," cried Lucy, " for the painter too frequently runs into the extremes of grossness or affectation. He rarely ventures on the ideal, without exposing his want of true taste by some ludicrous exaggeration." A simper ran through the group. Lely and Kneller were the most popular of all the court flatterers — the former from the luscious redundancies of his pencil, and the latter from the refinement of his wit, which added a personal interest to his reputation as an artist. The courtiers evidently thought this judgment of Miss Mon- tagu's somewhat dangerous, but Lord Nevyl, who was close at her side, came gallantly to the rescue. " Miss Montagu's criticism is unanswerable," he ob- served ; " take Lely for example — he is not merely wanton but fantastical. He has a marvellous hand for draperies, but then he seldom knows what to do with them ; and his most charming nymphs are to be found reposing in brocade on green hillocks, or trailing their embroidery through swamps or sheep-walks." The justice of the remark was irresistible, and elicited an universal titter. While desultory conversations of this kind were going forward in different parts of the room, servants were moving about amongst the guests with trays of agreeable beverages ; and even the most delicate of the ruffled gal- lants paused in their badinage to sip rosa solis, usquebaugh, or flip, or to linger gracefully over a tart and whipt sylla- bub. The progress of these delectable luxuries broke up, for an interval, all the little knots of talkers, and gave a 412 EVENINGS AT II ADDON BALL. temporary diversion to the gentlemen, whe speedily became scattered over the room. Tin- group round Lucy and Lady Catherine \\a> gradually dispersed, even Lord Xevyl being carried away by the general movement. While the cousins, thus left together, were freely discussing between themselves the topics suggested by the scene, they were surprised by the appearance of a person whom they had not noticed before, passing slowly through the crowd, apparently to- wards the place where they were seated. His deportment was stern and severe, whilst his dark and faded attire con- trasted strangely with the gay colours and sumptuous apparel of the rest of the guests. The cousins observed his motions with curiosity. " Do you know him V* inquired Lady Catherine. "No," answered Lucy; "he is certainly unbidden, whoever he may be, or he would never make his appear- ance in such a costume." " Yet he has the air of a gentleman," cried Lady Catherine ; " a likely fellow, well-formed, almost hand- some ; somewhat soiled, to be sure — a little the worse for the wear, and, perhaps, for want of a change — but still a gentleman." " He comes towards us," said Lucy; "he is absolutely going to speak to us." The strange visitor approached, and making an obei- sance to Lady Catherine, addressed her in a tone of per- fect good breeding. " A gallant scene, fair mistress." " For gallants, truly," replied the Lady Catherine, with a slightly haughty curl of her pretty lip. " I scarcely expected to see so rich a company m Lvnton," observed the stranger, after a pause, taking nc notice of the gentle repulse. LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 413 11 You did not ? And why not, may I ask V " Why ? Because/' said the stranger, with a faint effort at vivacity, " I thought you were all puritans here." " He evidently thinks he is addressing you," whispered Lady Catheriue to her cousin ; " leave him to me." And she raised her voice, and continued : " Puritans ? You are mistaken. I am a stanch royalist." " You are ? Amazement !" " I see nothing very amazing in it," she replied ; " you are a royalist, too, I presume ?" " Yes, an unfortunate one. I have lost my estate, or, at least, been kept out of it by my loyalty, while you " " While I have been preserved by my loyalty in mine," she interrupted ; adding, in her own thoughts, that if it would help her to a holier estate she should be still more obliged to it. The visitor gazed earnestly upon the beautiful form before him. Lady Catherine was not easily subdued by earnest looks, but she felt that she had never before encountered an expression so thrilling as that which filled his eyes while he gazed upon her. The silence that suc- ceeded perplexed her excessively, but she was opportunely relieved by her court fool, Sir Dudley Perrot, who came up with a jaunty leer on his face, just in time to enable her to recover her composure. Sir Dudley's figure was a caricature in itself ; his glittering buckles, and pink stock- ings, his flirting glass, and his forest of curls, and the excess of tawdry jewellery and rich tissues which he had contrived to collect about his person, betrayed the vulgarity of his low ambition, which took delight in transcending the worst taste of the tavern braggart and box-lobby fop. To drown the stench of the tobacco, in which fte indulged 414 EVENINGS AT HADDON HAI.L. to the height of the fashionable vice, he was drenched in perfumes, and scented the room like a civet cat. Interposing between the unknown visitor and Lady Catherine, he stooped down to speak to her, with a familiarity which was instantly punished by the uplifted fan, with which she sheltered herself from his rudeness. The stranger measured him from head to foot with a glance of ineffable scorn, without altering his position, until Sir Dudley, dismayed by so unexpected a reception, slunk back into the crowd. At this instant Sir Edmund Montagu approached. He had not observed his new visitor before, and the sudden apparition of a stranger so unceremoniously garbed, excited his astonishment. Lady Catherine, with instinctive tact, softened the reception which she anticipated Sir Edmund would have given a decayed royalist under such unpro- pitious circumstances, by volunteering to introduce him. " A stranger, Sir Edmund — Sir Edmund Montagu." The visitor turned full upon the host. His face had undergone a sensible change. The colour forsook his cheeks, and then returned, and fled again. His eyes dilated, and his lips trembled. " I bid you welcome, sir/' said Sir Edmund. "Welcome to Lynton ! Thank you — thank you!" replied the visitor, in a low, agitated voice. " Your name, sir ?" inquired Sir Edmund. " I believe I have not the honour " " You forget me V s "Forget you!" echoed Sir Edmund. " I am not surprised at that," continued the stranger : "stranger things hive happened, and stranger still may happen yet " LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 415 <l Do you know this gentleman ?" said Sir Edmund, turning to his niece. " I do not remember," she replied, •' having seen him before." The stranger moved a few paces away, out of hearing of the ladies. Sir Edmund followed him, like one under the influence of a spell. " Sir Edmund Montagu," said he, " this is not a place for explanations. Give me a private audience, where we shall be free from interruption. Alone — we must be alone." The warning which had been so mysteriously conveyed to him by the old mendicant, now, for the first time, flashed across Sir Edmund's memory. Could this intruder be concerned in it ? " What is your business with me, that I should grant this meeting ? " he inquired, scanning the person of the stranger ; " I know you not." " I am unarmed," replied the other, calmly, " you perceive — a civilian, and by no means in condition to do you personal mischief," he added, while a cold smile rippled over his features. "Do you threaten me, sir, in my own house?" de- manded Sir Edmund, betraying the apprehensions he was bo anxious to conceal. " Threaten you in your own house ! " repeated the other ; " surrounded by your well-furnished guests and retainers — a single man, without arms ! You mock me, Sir Edmund Montagu. Do you refuse this interview?" "Suppose I do?" " Then you must abide the consequences. I demand a private meeting for your sake, not for my own. Fox 416 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. your sake, Sir Edmund," he repeated, laying increased emphasis on the expression. " For my sake ! The proceeding is strange — inexpli- cable. I will trust you, sir, but — " and he still hesitated — " you must clear up this mystery. Follow me ! " and Sir Edmund went towards the door. The stranger turned to the cousins, who were consider- ably interested in the dumb show of the abrupt dialogue, and making a graceful bow, followed Sir Edmund out of the room. Lady Catherine's wonder at this sudden retreat was heightened, rather than abated, by Lucy's declaration that she never saw her father look so agitated before. Her ladyship's curiosity was tantalized to the utmost stretch of endurance, and she resolved to sift the mystery as soon as the stranger returned. The gorgeous revel did not break up until long past midnight. Lady Catherine looked in vain through the assembly for Sir Edmund or the stranger; neither of them re-appeared for the remainder of the night. IV.— THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. "You forget me?" said the stranger, as he strode into the old library after Sir Edmund, who, carefully closing the door, motioned him to a seat. Sir Edmund pushed aside a cresset lamp which burned on the table between them, and gazed earnestly into his face. " As I look at you, dim remembrances come back upon me," he observed. " Be brief. AVe are out of the reach of mtewuruion here — your name? — your business c <" LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 417 " They are one," returned the other. " My name is Walter Stanley." " Walter Stanley ! " ejaculated Sir Edmund, with a wild and incredulous glare. " You have not seen me since I was a boy, and I have passed through a life of hardship since. It is not very astonishing, after all, that you should forget me." " I recognise some resemblance in your lineaments," said Sir Edmund, " but it is such as might be common to many men. I will treat you with no discourtesy. Your name may be Walter Stanley — there are, doubtless, a hundred Walter Stanleys; but the boy of whom you speak is dead." " Yet was he identified only a few days past by one of your own pensioners." " Sachell ! " exclaimed Sir Edward ; " he identified you? A conspiracy — a base imposition. Have a care, sir, how you proceed any farther in this business ! " " It was not my desire," said Stanley, " to be recog- nised by any person in this neighbourhood until I had first communicated with you ; but some men have quicker wits than others. The mendicant knew me at a glance." " And upon this evidence " " No, I stand here upon legal proof. Listen to me calmly. You have flung a vile imputation upon me. No more of that, for my blood, long fevered by wrongs, is hot, and may master my discretion, Command your passion, and hear me." " You sue for hearing fairly," said Sir Edmund ; " but still be cautious in your utterance." " For upwards of a century, Sir Edmund Montagu, Lynton Hall was the seat of the Stanleys. The armorial eagle still looks down from its mural escutcheon. It i» E E 418 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. now twelve years since they were expelled from their home, from their country, and reduced to beggary." " The hand of Heaven," interposed Sir Edmund, " smote them down for their sacrilegious defence of an impious tyranny." "And the hand of Heaven," said Stanley, " has raised them up again to re-assert their rights. Be patient, and listen. My father, devoted to that cause which you denounce, raised three regiments for the king ; his house, this house, was thrown open to the cavaliers during the horrors of the civil war; he would have poured out hie heart's blood as freely as he expended his treasure in that sacred service. But it was not to be. When regicide crowned the last demoniac triumph of a godless rebellion, my father's name was proclaimed, and his estates were confiscated. He shared that destiny with others, and he bore it with what resignation he might. The prolonged misery of siege, and battle, and privation, had already destroyed my mother; there was nothing left to him in this world but his only son, Walter Stanley, who now " Overcome by strong emotion, the speaker covered his face with his hands. Sir Edmund awaited the sequel in profound silence. He continued: "My father left England. He was compelled ; his friends were numerous, but as powerless and helpless as himself. It was his earnest desire that I should receive au English education, and he left me behind, under the guardian-hip of one who was bound to him by many tics of gratitude; and while you, Sir Edmund Montagu, were in the enjoyment of my rightful inheritance, conferred upon you by the Usurper, I, the heir of Lynton, was doomed to the penury of a humble roof, gathering such niggard knowledge as my scanty LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 419 opportunities afforded, and eking out the crust of bitter poverty under a false name, as if I were the son of a criminal. That was the justice — that was the mercy, of Cromwell." " It was the public necessity," exclaimed Sir Edmund, " which demanded such sacrifices. You blame Cromwell for cruelties which were forced upon him by the universal cry of the people. Blame, rather, the tyranny of which Cromwell was but the retributive avenger." " We shall apply the argument presently/' returned Stanley ; " for so surely as Cromwell avenged what you call the tyranny of Charles, so surely will the second Charles avenge the iniquities of Cromwell. But to return to my story. My guardian was poor, timid, oppressed — a man of peaceful life, and unfit for the difficulties of the trust which was reposed in him. Three months had scarcely elapsed after the usurpation, when my guardian, scared by frightful rumours on all sides, spi'ead a report of my death. He hoped to secure my safety by this cunning stratagem, little calculating on the consequences it was destined to produce. The report reached my father before it was possible to communicate the explanation. The blow nearly killed him. The last link of his affec- tions was snapped, and he retired from the world to bury his miseries under the ascetic offices of the priesthood. Years passed away : he had not seen me since my child- hood. All inquiries after his retreat were fruitless, for he had resolved, upon entering the church, to close up every avenue by which he could be traced to his seclusion. At last the secret was discovered through the agency of a monk, who had undertaken, on behalf of the royalists, to collect the names of English exiles who had taken refuge in the religious establishments of F-ance. He was living, 420 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. but on the threshold of the grave. I lost not an hour on that melancholy journey. The shock was too much for his enfeebled spirit ; aud he died in my arms at Rheims, but not," he concluded, " till he had placed in my hands the evidences of my birth, and documentary proofs of my inheritance." This communication, to which, circumstantial as it w;t-, Sir Edmund had listened with painful interest, was fol- lowed by a long pause. Sir Edmund rose from his chair and paced the room in silence. At last, Stanley broke in upon his gloomy reverie : " This was my business, Sir Edmund. Shall it be quietly, and if you will permit me to say so, amicably adjusted, or must I seek other means of restitution ? I come here to claim my right — to enforce it, if need be." " Mr. Stanley," replied Sir Edmund, " it was by no intrigue — by no subterfuge or treachery, I came into pos- session of Lynton. I served the Protector — he rewarded my services by a grant — an honourable, open grant. I am not prepared to admit that such a grant would be reversed by the sovereign under any circumstances; but I wave that — I bow to the decrees of a higher tribunal, who, in its inscrutable wisdom, seems to have brought us thus face to face together under this roof. Satisfy me that your claim is just. I am ready to take that course which my obligations as a Christian gentleman point out, without exposing you to the waste or the delays of law." " Nobly spoken," responded Stanley, deeply affected by a display of magnanimity which his habitual sense of oppression hardly led him to anticipate. " You see me moved," observed Sir Edmund, " but do not mistake me. To mvself such a sacrifice, so un- expectedly demanded, so wholly unlocked for, would LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 421 signify little. My own desires are few and simple, and enough remains behind to satisfy even larger wants than mine. But this touches me deeply on account of others rather than myself." " Your daughter ? " said Stanley. " My daughter ! " repeated Sir Edmund, in a voice choked by emotion. " Who shall break this news to her ? It will crush her for ever ; reared in the lap of ease, and so unfit to struggle against reverses ! " Walter Stanley's features relapsed into a suddenly grave expression while Sir Edmund spoke. It had never occurred to him that the recognition of his established right would doom the daughter of Sir Edmund perhaps to penury. " My position is hard," he said ; " I never contem- plated the issue you place before me ; nor would I wil- lingly be the cause of inflicting sorrow upon that bright and joyous spirit. Is there no middle course — no com- promise ?" "Compromise!" rejoined Sir Edmund, proudly; "none. Justice is whole and entire, and must not be paltered with." " Pardon me," said Stanley, " if the strange events of this night, so fraught with import to my future life, should make me bold. I have seen your daughter. Her frankness, her kindness to me, have inspired me with an interest which I dare not disregard." " The feeling is creditable, Mr. Stanley ; but you must see how impossible it is to consider such feelings. I can accept no boon on her account." " Nor would I have you. I offer none. I would rather ask a boon at your hands and at hers." Sir Edmund smiled at the youthful generosity of the speaker 422 EVENINGS AT HADDOX HALL. " Forgive the earnestness with which I urge my plea," continued Stanley. " Your daughter has always con- sidered Lynton as her inheritance ; let her still do so." Sir Edmund was so utterly amazed at this proposition, that he almost doubted whether he had heard it correctly. Stanley continued : " I have seen her gracing with her beauty her place of pride and power. I came with dark thoughts and heavy misgivings into the bright assembly, of which she was the brightest star. While fops and fribbles looked contemptu- ously upon my worn doublet, she — she alone spoke freely and encouragingly. Her words fell upon me like sweet music. Can I, dare I, for my own advantage, even for my own right, fill the heart of that gracious being with sorrow ? " " Yet, Mr. Stanley," said Sir Edmund, " to that issue it must come at last." " No, no," cried Stanley, with increasing animation; " I know not how to shape my thought into language But it is possible we might reconcile the difficulty with honour on both sides. I offer Lynton to your daughter, but," hesitating for a moment, " not unencumbered." "Do I understand you rightly?" demanded Sir Edmund. "If Miss Montagu be free in heart, as — till this night — I have been, allow me only the opportunity, grant me the happiness above price, of laying my inheritance at her feet. How could it be else so worthily disposed? — and God speed the wooing ! If it b<* otherwise — Lynton, so newlv won, after years of suffering, will have few charms for Walter Stanley!" It was impossible to doubt the depth and purity of the ^ling which suggested this proposal; and Sn LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 423 Edmund, alarmed in his pride at so unexpected a suit from one whom he now saw, for the first time, under the most unfavourable influences, could not but secretly respect the disinterestedness of his conduct. The plan certainly offered an available escape from a very serious calamity, and there was little in Stanley's personal bearing, and still less in his character, so far as this interview had searched and developed it, to which, under such circumstances, he could fairly take exception. "You consent?" demanded Stanley, who saw that Sir Edmund was revolving all these considerations in his mind. "I make no promise for my daughter," replied the other — "I can make none. But you must feel that a declaration of this nature demands some pause. If my daughter — but I can depend nothing on such a con- tingency. Give me a little time for reflection, and be assured, Mr. Stanley, that whatever may be the result, I am not insensible to the generosity and candour with which you have acted. I am harassed and exhausted. No more — but good night!" " When may I trespass on you again, Sir Edmund I" inquired Stanley. " To-morrow," said Sir Edmund. Stanley retired; and when he closed the door, Sir Edmund flung himself into a chair, and gave way to the distracting conflict of feelings which, up to that moment, he had successfully struggled to suppress. V.— A GLIMPSE OF ORANGE FLOWERS. The next morning Lucy Montagu received a summons to attend her father in the library. He looked wan and 42,4 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. dishevelled. The mental agony of the night had wrought a visible change. But his manner was more collected] and even kinder than usual. She saw that something extraordinary had happened, little suspecting to what purpose it tended. Sir Edmund opened the communication cautiously, preparing her slowly for the final announcement that Lynton — the scene of her happiest years — was about to pass into the hands of another. She received this intelligence with a degree of fortitude that extorted his admiration. Women are the best philosophers on such occasions. They submit to reverses with less resistance than men ; perhaps from the passive resignation of their nature, perhaps from that happy unconsciousness of the greater evils of life to which the larger ambition of the other sex is so sensitive. Instead of murmuring at the impending misfortune, Lucy Montagu had the wisdom and the tender courage to point out many sources of consolation in the coining time. The conversation naturally reverted from Lynton to its new possessor. " A man of honourable mind and generous impulses," observed Sir Edmund. " I rejoice to hear," said Lucy, " that he is so worthy of his inheritance." " And this youth," resumed Sir Edmund, " trained up in adversity, with a noble heart and enlightened tastes, enters upon his possessions almost as sorrowfully as we shall relinquish them. His joy is turned to bitterness, from the painful reflection that in claiming his own rights he inflicts unhappiness upon us — upon you." " Upon me!" repented Lucy. " I am not surprised at the interest he takes in you," he continued ; " and that, for your sake, he even hesitates U the fulfilment of the duty he owes to himself." LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 425 "Dear father," exclaimed Lucy, "you speak in riddles !" "He saw you last night — you received him with kindness. The sudden contrast between your position and his, and the thought that he had come like evil destiny upon you to destroy that happiness which you wore so graciously, have touched him deeply." " Did he say this to you, father ?" she inquired. " Oh, yes ! " he returned, " and a great deal more, not so readily syllabled by the sullen lips of an old man like me. Lucy," he added, taking her hand, and gravely watching the growing flush on her cheeks, "there is a way by which you can secure Lynton. This young enthu- siast, Walter Stanley, has spoken frankly on the subject." " You lay a fearful responsibility upon me, father," she answered. # " I cannot recall," said Sir Edmund, " a single instance in which you have forgotten your duty to me. You will not forget it now. Walter Stanley would make you mis- tress of Lynton." Poor Lucy was stunned by this terrible news, and the tone in which it was delivered clearly implied that her father expected her full acquiescence in the proposal. If she ever had any intelligible doubts as to the state of her feelings towards Lord Nevyl, they were now dispelled on the instant. She tried to speak, but the attempt only rendered her confusion the more apparent. " I know what you would say," interrupted Sir Ed- mund ; " the proposal is sudden, and Mr. Stanley is a stranger. I know the plea you would make — your tender age ; and, perhaps, some pent-up feeling hitherto concealed in the modest secrecy of youth. I feel all that — under- stand it : but time will soften all, and reconcile you to my wishes." 426 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. "Oh, father!" exclaimed Lucy, "what can time do but prolong the misery of such a union ?" " It is at least unjust to assume so much before you have given Mr. Stanley an opportunity of making himself known to you. How if you misjudge him ? — if hereafter you should discover that you had formed a false estimate of one who at least deserves a more grateful reception at your hands? You must consider these things. I will not take your answer now. See Mr. Stanley; know him — then let me have your resolve." " It cannot be!" uttered Lucy, in a voice of involun- tary agony. " It must be ! " rejoined her father, sternly. " You fancy I cannot detect the mystery that lies coiled under aU this reluctance. Shall Ij-efer the question to Lord Nevyl?" The abruptness of this appeal to a feeling which Lucy innocently believed the whole world to be ignorant of — that delusion, so natural, so precious to the young — over- whelmed her. Tears started into her eyes, and she made some foolish excuse about her dress to conceal the tremor of her hands. Her secret wa3 betrayed as plainly as if she had confessed it in so many words. " We will talk no more of this at present," said Sir Edmund. " We shall have ample time for reflection on all s'des. But take with you my parting words — that if this be a sacrifice, it is made for those who are best entitled to your self-devotion ; for those who have nursed and tended your childhood, who love you, Lucy — God alone knows how fondly ! Bless my child ! No tears, no tears ; but prayer — prayer for strength to do our duty !" And, kissing her forehead, he led her to the door. Poor Lucy fled to her chamber, with a heart almost LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 427 broken by her first, strange grief; and when she had wept until her eyes ached again with their unaccustomed anguish, she ran to seek her cousin. It was a difficult confidence, too ; for it involved the necessity of a confes- sion which she could hardly prevail upon herself to make, even to that faithful friend. The Lady Catherine was shocked at the discovery — especially shocked, at finding that the visitor of the night before, about whose business she felt so much womanly curiosity, should have turned out such an exorbitant monopolist of the chattels of Lynton ; not content with the estate, but demanding in addition the living spirit of the place. She tried to banter Lucy about Lord Nevyl, and about Walter Stanley, and invented a little romance about the gallant rivalry for her hand, between Lynton Hall and Nevylswood. But her sunny mirth was at fault for once. It was the saddest mirth she had ever volun- teered ; and she felt how idly her gaiety played round the drooping head that rested on her bosom. Yet, in the midst of all, she persisted in asserting that, come what might, Sir Edmund Montagu should not coerce her sweet cousin's affections. She was ready to answer for the firm- ness of Lord Nevyl, at all events. Walter Stanley was punctual to his appointment. Sir Edmund received him in the library, having previously requested the presence of the ladies in the drawing-room. The meeting was constrained on both sides ; but it was clear that Sir Edmund had kept his pledge, so far as it rested with himself. It was no less clear to Walter Stanley that Miss Montagu had given an unfavourable reception to his suit. He had anticipated this. How could she otherwise treat the presumption of a stranger ? 428 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. Still he cherished the forlorn hope that time raight subdue all objections. Sir Edmund was perfectly candid upon all these points. He told him that he had communicated with his daughter, but that, in the surprise of so startling a proposal, it was not to be expected she should be prepared with an answer. His suit was at least unprejudiced; beyond that, he could say nothing for the present. The presentation in the draw r ing-room of this stranger, who had come to dispossess the whole family of the Mon- tagues, was embarrassing enough. Stanley, whose part on the occasion was, perhaps, the most difficult of all, went through the trial with excellent • self-possession ; and he certainly looked to considerable advantage in a more cava- lierly costume than that which he had displayed on the preceding evening. His fine person and manly bearing disarmed much of the hostility which must have been involuntarily betrayed towards one of a less imposing presence. He was first presented to Lady Montagu, then to I\ I i -^ Montagu, then to Lady Catherine. At the last intro- duction, he changed colour, and could hardly control the dismay produced upon him by the announcement of her name. He had committed an irretrievable error — he had mistaken Lady Catherine Grower for her cousin. The mistake was so obvious in the altered expression of his looks, and in the hesitating words which faltered on his lips, that Lady Catherine, with her quick instinct, saw in a glance what was passing through his mind ; and, overruling all frigid forms of etiquette on the sudden impulse of more generous thoughts, sprang forward, and, placing her hand upon his arm, exclaimed, "Mr. Stanley, LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 429 you mistook me for my cousin ! It is so ! You mistook me for Miss Montagu V Stanley could hardly answer that it was so, with a thousand flurried apologies, fluttering from his heart into sundry broken phrases, when Lady Catherine threw her- self into the arms of her cousin, hiding the tears that gushed for joy from her bright eyes. It was so — and the trouble passed from the heart of Lucy. But it was only a transfer of the new embar- rassment, for Walter Stanley did not love that gracious being less because she happened to be only the cousin of Lucy Montagu. Nor did Lady Catherine's interest in the stranger cease because he had shown so noble a spirit in the first hour of his regenerated fortune. And time did in this case, what time usually does when young hearts are left free to the discovery of mutual feelings — love grew upon love, and was crowned in the end with its pure and enduring reward. And how ran the course of wooing with Lord Nevyl and the fair Lucy ? To say the truth, Lord Nevyl had very romantic inspirations on the subject, and — if that were possible — became more devoted than ever to the disinherited heiress of Lynton. There is some perplexity in this wilfulness of the universal passion, which the world may never be able to unravel ; but it is not less certain, on that account, that there are some natures which prefer love for its own sake above all human bless- ings, and which take delight in manifesting the singleness of their devotion. Lord Nevyfs heart was moulded in this graceful shape, and he dowered his happy bride with all the more lavish tenderness, that she might never feel the loss of that fortune which he neither needed nor desired. 430 EVENINGS AT HADDOX IIALL. And Lynton Hall and Nevylswood were once more restored to prosperous friendship and close neighbourhood of the affections, revived in younger spirits and sustained with cheerier usages. Sir Edmund and Lady Montagu retired upon an estate they possessed in Wales — enough for their ambition, which now reposed, not in their own future, but in that of their child. Welcome visitors were they in the joyous Christmas time to their old haunts in Devonshire ! For the rest of the personages who have flitted through this narrative, nothing need be said, for nobody can care to trace their useless destinies. But we must add, that old Sachell, the mendicant seer, was handsomely pensioned by Lady Catherine Stanley, for his delightfully dismal warn- ing ; that Sir Dudley Perrot fell in a duel, which he sought for the sole purpose of helping up his reputation at court; and that Pettingal, the beau, expired of a carouse with Buckhurst and Sedley, at the Rose Tavern, in Drury- lane. The voice of the narrator ceased, and as he turned to make obeisance to the Lady Eva, he found that she had crept close to his side, where, on a low ottoman, she had silently taken up a position of fixed attention. A few bright tears trembled in her long lashes. She seemed hardly conscious that the story was done — the last story ! The whole group had insensibly drawn round her. Their interest was divided between the incidents of the tale and the fluctuating emotions so eloquently expressed in that sweet face. // teas the last story ! The portfolio was exhausted, and there was no further excuse fcr drawing on the LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 431 imagination of the assembly. Even the elastic spirits of youth, — so prompt with ready resources, so unconscious of difficulties, — failed at this trying moment. There was a slight movement on the ottoman; Lady Eva had slowly unclasped her hands, and thrown back the rich curls which fell in graceful negligence over her fair shoulders. She looked as if she were about to speak ; her lips stirred, but she was still silent. Everybody understood her thoughts; — the Birthday Revels were over! The happy circle that had been so long spell-bound under the enchantment of these pleasant legends, now gradually broke up the silence, and gathering about the fair girl, overwhelmed her with thanks aud congratula- tions. It had been a week of pure enjoyment, to be set apart amongst their most delightful memories ; and they assured her, that when they should have separated, as they were too soon about to do. upon their several engagements of duty or amusement, tne recollection of the intellectual pleasures of which she had been the creative spirit would linger with them gratefully through many a future year. This was some consolation to the Lady Eva, at the close of her Birthday Festival; but she -was for exacting a sort of promise, that, when the time came round to celebrate the same event again, they would re-assemble to enact a similar round of votive gaieties. She would have had it a life-long holiday, if she could have had her own way, little dreaming of the changes that might happen in the interval to others and to herself ; the new ties that might be formed, the new interests that might grow up, the blanks that might fall in, the sympathies that might be weaned from fiction to reality, from the regions of poetry and romance to that world of living struggle, whose stern experiences too often extinguish both heart and fancy ! V)2 E\ ENINGS AT IIADUON HALL. Still she was not to be denied ; and so they promised oer, with such conditions as might be reasonably allowed on all hands, that they would cheerfully attend her next sum- mons, and dedicate their best efforts to renew the charms which had shed such a refined fascination over these six happy Evenings at Haddon Hall. THE l.M). LONDON: PRINTED PV WILLIAM CLOWES AND «ONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARINl", CROSS. CATALOGUE OF BONN'S LIBRARIES. 740 Volumes, £i$S 14.J. 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