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. 
 
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 t'i the article on " Cross." By the use of the little numbered diagrams we are 
 spared what would have become a treatise, and not a very clear one. . . . 
 recommend the new Webster to every man of business, every father of a 
 family, every teacher, and almost every student — to everybody, in fact, who is 
 likely to be posed at an unfamiliar or half-understood word or phrase.' — 
 Si. /ames's Gazette. 
 
 Prospectuses, with Specimen Pages, on application. 
 
 London : GEORGE BELL & SONS, York Street, Covent Garden. 
 
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