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(Harvard University)
THE CONVICT.
A Tale.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES
LONDON: SIMMS AND M'INTYRE,
PATERNOSTER ROW; AND DONEGALL ST. BELFAST.
1851.
THE CONVICT.
CHAPTER I.
It may be very well in most cases to plunge, according to the rule of the Latin poet, into the middle of things. It may be very well even, according to the recommendation of Count Antoine Hamilton, to 'begin with the beginning.' But there are other cases where there may be antecedents to the actual story, which require to be known before the tale itself is rightly comprehended. With this view, then, I will give one short scene not strictly attached to that which is to follow, ere I proceed with my history.
In a small high room of the oldest part of St. John's College, Cambridge, in a warm and glowing day of the early spring, and at about seven o'clock in the morning, there sat a young man with his cheek leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed upon the page of an open book. There were many others closed and unclosed upon the table around him, as well as various pieces of paper, traced with every sort of curious figure which geometrical science ever discovered or measured. The page, too, on which his eyes were bent, was well nigh as full of ciphers as of words, and it was evident, from everything around, that the studies of the tenant of that chamber were of a very abstruse character.
And yet to gaze at him as he sits there, and to consider attentively the lines of the face, and the development of the organs of the head, the physiognomist or phrenologist would, at once pronounce that, although by no means wanting in any of the powers of mind, that young man was by nature disposed to seek the pleasures of imagination rather than the dry and less exciting, though more satisfactory, results of science. There were some slight indications, too, about his room, of such tastes and propensities. In a wine-glass, half filled with water, were some early flowers, so arranged that every hue gained additional beauty from that with which it was contrasted; a flute and some music lay upon a distant table; one window, which looked towards the gardens, and through which came the song of birds and the fragrant breath of the fresh fields, was thrown wide open; while another, which looked towards courts and buildings, was closed, and had the curtains drawn. Nevertheless, had any eye watched him since he rose, it would have found that from the hour of five he had remained intent upon the problems before him, suffering not a thought to wander, neither rising from the table, nor turning his eyes even for a moment to the worshipped beauty of external nature. The air came in gently from without, and fanned his cheek, and waved the curls of his dark hair; the smell of the flowers was wafted to the sense; the song of the bird sounded melodious in his ear; but not the breeze, nor the odour, nor the lay called off his attention from the dry and heavy task before him. His cheek was pale with thought, his fine eyes looked oppressed with study, though still bright; and the broad expansive brow ached with the weary labours of many a day and night: labours to which he saw no end, from which he hardly hoped to obtain any very great result. Tall and manly in person, with limbs apparently formed for robust exercises, and a mind fitted for the enjoyment of every refined and graceful pleasure, he had chained down the body and, I may almost add, the spirit, to the hard captivity of intense study, in the hope some day of making himself a great name, and recovering from the grasp of fortune that wealth and station which had been the inheritance of his ancestors.
Still he felt weary and sick at heart; still hopeless despondency would hold him enthralled; and though, with, an unflinching perseverance, for many a long year he had pursued the same weary round, he felt that he was fitted for other things, and regretted that the energies of his nature were doomed to struggle with objects the most repulsive to his tastes.
There was a knock at the door; not a light and timid tap, but strong and familiar. Without raising his eyes, however, he said, "Come in," and the next instant a gentleman entered, in a black gown and cap. He was an elderly man, with a somewhat florid and jovial, but upon the whole, benevolent countenance. His forehead was high, and very broad over the brows, and there were lines of thought upon it which mingled somewhat curiously with the cheerful and almost jocular expression of the lips and eyes. Indeed, he was a man of great eminence in science and in literature, who, having in early life conquered all the difficulties of very arduous pursuits, found no longer any trouble in those tasks which would have startled or overpowered many another man. and who consequently walked lightly under burdens which had become familiar, and which had in reality no weight for him, because he had become accustomed to bear them.
"Well, Edward," he said--the young man was a distant relation of his own--"still poring and plodding! My dear lad, you must not carry this too far. You have already done much, very much, and you must take some thought of health."
The young man rose with a faint smile, and placed a chair for his old relation. "I have both your example and your precept, my dear sir," he replied, "for pursuing the course before me without relaxation. You told me, some four years ago, that before you were as old as I was then, you had taken high honours at this university. I could only do so last year; and you have often said that unremitting study in youth is the only means of winning a title in after years to repose and enjoyment. Besides, I must study hard to recover lost time, and to fit myself for the course before me."
"True, true, very true!" rejoined the elder man; "but you have studied hard for nearly six years now. There was the great fault. You did not begin early enough; your father should have sent you here full two years before you came. Let me see: you are now six-and-twenty, and for any man destined to fight his way in one of the learned professions, it is never too early to begin to labour."
"But neither my poor father nor myself," replied the young gentleman, "were at all aware that I should ever have, as you so justly call it, to fight my way in one of the learned professions, I was then the heir of six or seven thousand a year; I have now only the income of a fellowship; and that I could not have obtained had I not been supported here by your bounty."
"Say nothing of that Edward," replied the other; "neither let us look back. You have done enough for the present. You have distinguished yourself here; after the long vacation you will be called to the bar, and eminence, doubtless, is before you; but still there are a few hard steps to be taken, which require strength of body as well as powers of mind, and in your case both mind and body will suffer if you pursue this course any farther. Come, I have something to propose which I think will be gratifying to you, and which I know will be good for you. The friends of a young nobleman, whose father I knew well, have written to request that I would recommend to them some competent person to accompany their relation upon a short tour which he is about immediately to make upon the continent. The terms they propose are very liberal; the expedition will be a pleasant one; and if you choose to undertake the task, it will refresh and invigorate you, both mentally and corporeally. The young man will be of age in the autumn, and will return about the very time when you are to be called to the bar. The connexion is a very good one, and few men get on in life without powerful friends. By both information and character you are fitted to do justice to the trust reposed in you, and my advice is to accept the offer without hesitation. You know I would not recommend anything to you without due consideration of all the circumstances."
The young man paused thoughtfully ere he replied. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. At the time when all his prospects in life were blighted he had been preparing to set out, with all the resources of wealth at his command, upon such a tour as that in which he was now desired to share. Very different were the circumstances, it is true, but still the pleasures which he had then anticipated had nought to do with wealth, except as a means. He had formed no schemes of display, of luxury, or splendour: he had only thought of visiting scenes rich in natural beauty and historic recollections; of treading where great men had trod; of dwelling for a time where great deeds had been performed; of seeing the face of earth in its most beautiful and its grandest aspects; and all that was now before him. But yet there was a certain repugnance to the idea of dependence, to the thought of linking himself, even for a time, to a being of whose character, conduct, and views, he knew nothing, and his first reply was doubtful.
"Who is this young lord, my dear sir?" he asked. "I should be very willing to go, as you judge it right, for, to say the truth, I am very weary of this life, which only the strong impulse of necessity has made me follow; but you can easily conceive I should not like the task of guiding every young man through Europe;" and he added, with a melancholy smile, "I am not fitted for bear-leading, as you know, and in this world there are many bears in high places."
"True," replied his relation, with a slightly sarcastic smile, and a touch of that unextinguishable jealousy which exists between St. John's and another great college--"true; we see that every day at Trinity; but this young man is not a bear, nor a bear's cub; or, at all events, he is well licked. It is young Lord Hadley, whom you must have seen."
"Oh! I know him well," replied the student, with a well-satisfied look. "Though not perfection, he is very much better than most young men of the present day; a little rash, a little given to dissipation, perhaps, but right at heart, kind and well feeling; too easily led, but yet, I do believe, always preferring right to wrong."
"As to rashness," replied his companion, "you are rash enough, Ned, yourself; and as to his being easily led, that will be an advantage while he is with you. You have that decision of character which he wants; and will, I am sure, have power to restrain his habits of dissipation, and supply that firmness, for the time at least, of which he is destitute. I can see by your face that you are willing to undertake the task, and, therefore, I shall write in that sense."
Thus saying, he was turning towards the door; but he stopped, after taking a step or two, and coming back to the table, laid down upon it a piece of paper, which, with one of those curious tricks whereof most men have some, he had been twisting first round one finger and then round another, during the whole time that the conversation lasted. "You will want a supply for your preparations, my dear lad," he said; "there is a cheque for a couple of hundred pounds. You can repay me when you are a judge."
"Indeed I do not want it," answered the other, with a slight glow coming into his face; "I have quite enough."
"Pooh! nonsense," said the old man; "if you have enough without it, buy oranges with it." And without waiting for farther discussion, he left the room.
CHAPTER II.
It was a dark autumnal night, the wind was strong and very fierce, sweeping along over fields and downs, tearing the branches and the withering leaves from the trees, and screaming along the rocks and tall precipitous cliffs upon a high and iron-bound part of the coast of England. There was no moon in the sky, but from time to time the sudden glance and disappearance of a star showed how rapidly the dull gray clouds were hurried over the face of the heavens; and the moaning of the trees and shrubs, added to the wild whistling of the gale, showed how it vexed the still, reposing, rooted things of creation in its harsh fury as it swept through them.
On the summit of one of the most elevated points upon the coast there was a little indentation, extending from the highest point of the downs to the edge of the cliff, where it was somewhat lower than at other places. This little hollow was sheltered from most of the winds that blew, except when a gale came very nearly due west; and in consequence of this protection some low scrubby trees had gathered themselves together, as in a place of refuge, never venturing to raise their heads above the neighbouring slopes, but spreading out broad and tolerably strong in the lower part of the dell. From them there was a footpath extending on either side; on the one, leading to the top of the precipice, on the other, to the high road, which lay at about half a mile's distance. The path was little frequented, and the short mountain grass encroaching upon it here and there, almost obliterated the track, but in passing towards the top of the cliff it wound in and out amongst some large stones and rocks, with here and there a scattered tree overshadowing it as it ran on.
By the side of one of those rocks, on the night of which I speak, and guarded by it from the direct course of the blast, were seated three powerful men, each of whom had reached what is called the middle age. They had a lantern with them; and between the lantern and the road one of them was seated with his back to the latter, his left shoulder touching the rock, and his face towards the sea. Thus, no one coming from the eastward could see the light itself, although, perhaps, a faint general glimmer could be perceived; but at the same time the lantern could be distinguished by any one on the sea at the distance of half a mile or more. Within that distance, the interposing cliff must have cut it off from the eyes of wanderers upon the wave.
The men were evidently watching for something, and as usually happens in such moments of expectation, their conversation was broken and desultory. None of them seemed to be armed, and two of them were clothed in sailors' jackets, while the third wore a large shaggy great coat, such as was commonly at that time used by pilots. He was a tall, strong, good-looking man enough, with a dark complexion, and a skin apparently well accustomed to exposure in all sorts of weathers, being rough and florid, and appearing, perhaps, more so than was really the case, from the glare of the lantern and the contrast of his own gray hair, as its long curls waved about in the night wind. The others were ordinary, hard-featured men, with that sort of grave, self-composed aspect, which is not at all unusual in sailors of all classes: men of few words and vigorous action, who can perhaps troll a song or crack a jest with their boon companions, but who are the most opposite creatures in the world to the sailor of drama or romance. But he in the rough coat had something about him which could not well be passed without attention by any one who had even ordinary powers of observation; and yet it is very difficult to describe what it was, for as he sat there perfectly still and tranquil, there was nothing, to all appearance, likely to call for remark. Yet it would have been difficult for any one to watch him at that moment without feeling that there was a something impressive in his figure, a dignity of aspect it may be called, for there is such a thing even in the rudest and least cultivated.
The wind whistled loud and strong; it was heard rushing and roaring farther down, and hissing and screaming high above over the bleak tops of the hills. There was a cheerless, desolate sound about it: a sound of warning and of woe. Well might the traveller hasten towards his journey's end, and the weary, houseless wanderer seek the shelter of shed or out-house, or the warm side, of the farmer's stack. But still those three men sat there almost motionless. The rock protected them to a certain degree, but the blast would whirl round the point and sweep chilling in amongst them. They were very silent, too, and not a word had been spoken for some ten minutes, when one said to the other, "It won't do; the wind's getting to the southward, and if it shifts but one point she can't lay her course."
"We must wait and see," said the man in the rough coat. "I hope they won't try, if the wind does shift."
"It has shifted already," said the third; "it is coming right over from the great house."
No reply was made, and they all fell into silence again.
"I hope your people are keeping a good look-out, Master Clive," said one of the two sailor-looking men, after another long pause. "Didn't I hear that you had sent your two young men away over to Dorchester?"
"I did it on purpose," replied the other; "but do not you be afraid of the look-out. It is trusted to one who won't be found wanting."
"It would be awkward if any of them were to pounce upon us," rejoined the other.
"They might rue it," replied the man in the pilot's coat; and again the conversation stopped.
About three minutes after, there was heard a loud halloo from the side of the high-road, and one of the men started up; but the voice of him they called Clive was heard saying, in a low tone, "Lie close, lie close! I don't know the tongue; some drunken fool, perhaps, who has lost his way; but we shall soon see." And at the same time, drawing the lantern nearer to him, he put his hand into one of the large pockets of his coat, and pulled out a pistol, which he looked at by the dull light. The next instant the halloo was repeated, and the cock of the pistol was heard to click.
"They are coming this way," said one of the sailors; "hadn't we better dowse the glim, Master Clive?"
"No," replied the other, sternly; "would you have me endanger the boat and our friends in her, to save myself from a little risk?"
As he spoke, steps were heard coming along the side of the hill, and the moment after, a voice called aloud, "Is there a person of the name of Clive there?"
The tone was that of a gentleman: there was no country accent, no broad pronunciation; and Clive instantly started up, replying, "Yes; what do you want with me?"
"I am sorry to tell you," said the voice they had heard, "that an accident has happened to your daughter;" and at the same time a tall, powerful, and handsome young man advanced towards the light. "It is not, I trust, very serious," he added, in a kindly tone, as if anxious to allay the apprehensions which his first words must have produced. "I am afraid her right arm is broken, but she complains of no other injury."
The old man put the pistol he had in his hand to the half-cock, and replaced the weapon in his pocket, gazing in the stranger's face with a look of apprehension and inquiry, but without making any reply for some moments.
"Are you telling me the truth, sir?" he said at length.
"I am, indeed," replied the stranger; "I would not deceive you for the world. A gentleman, with whom I have been travelling, and myself, got out of the carriage to walk up the hill, and just at the top I saw something lying near the road, and heard, as I thought, a groan. On going nearer, I found a girl, partly covered with stones and dirt, and apparently unable to extricate herself. She said she was not much hurt, but could not shake off the mass that had fallen upon her, being unable to use her right arm."
"It's that devil of a wall has fallen upon her," said one of the sailors. "I knew it would come down some day in the first gale, for it was all bulging out, and nothing but loose stones at the best."
"Exactly so," said the stranger; "such was the account of the accident she herself gave; but it would seem that the wall brought part of the bank with it, which probably prevented the stones from injuring her more severely."
"Where is she?" demanded Clive, abruptly.
"She is in the carriage, just where the path joins the high road. We were taking her home as fast as possible, when she asked me to come down hither, and give you information of what had happened, for she said it was necessary you should know."
"Ay! she is a dear good girl," said the man, in reply; "she always thinks of those things; but I must think of her. I will go up with you, sir. You stay here, lads, and keep a good look out till after the tide has made; it will be no use staying any longer." And with a quick step he led the way along the edge of the little basin in the hills, taking a much shorter path than that which had been followed by his visitor while seeking him. As he went, he asked a few questions, brief and abrupt, but to the point; and after every answer, fell back into thought again. It is probable that apprehension for his child occupied his mind in those silent pauses, for the heart of affection is never satisfied with any tale, however true, however circumstantial, when a beloved object has been injured. We always ask ourselves, 'Is there not something more?'
At length, as they mounted over the slope, the lighted lamps of a carriage could be seen on the high road, at a little distance, and in a moment after--for he now sprang forward eagerly--Clive was by the side of the vehicle. Two servants, one of whom was dressed in the costume of a courier, with a gold band round his cap, and a good deal of black silk braid on his coat, were standing by the side of the carriage, and one of them immediately threw open the door.
"I am not hurt, dearest father," said a sweet mellow voice, from within; "that is to say, I am very little hurt. These two gentlemen have been very kind to me, and would insist upon taking me home, otherwise I would not have gone away, indeed."
"You would have done very wrong to stay, my child," answered Clive; "and I thank the gentlemen much for their kindness. Can you walk now, Helen?"
"She shall not walk a step to night, Mr. Clive," said a young gentleman, who was sitting in the farther corner of the carriage; "she is not fit for it; and we will not suffer such a thing. Nay more, I think it would be very much better for you to get in and take her home. I and my friend can follow on foot very well. It is but a short distance, and she has been telling me the way. Here, MÜller, open this door." And before any one could stop him he was out of the carriage.
Clive made some opposition, but he suffered it to be overruled by the persuasions of the two gentlemen, and in a minute or two was seated by the side of his daughter, in the handsome travelling carriage which had brought her thither, and was rolling away towards his own house, the road to which the postillions seemed to know well. The two young gentlemen sauntered slowly after on foot, conversing over the accident which had diversified their journey.
"She seems to me to be exceedingly pretty," said the younger one, who had been left with her in the carriage, while the other went to seek Clive.
"Her language and manners, too," rejoined the other, "are very much superior to her father's apparent station. What in heaven's name could she be doing out there at this time of night?"
"Perhaps looking for her lover," replied the younger, with a laugh.
"No, no," said his companion; "her own words and her father's will not admit of such a supposition. I have some doubt as to the trade of the parties; but she certainly seems very little fitted to take part in it, if it be what I suspect. Are you sure you know the way?"
"Oh! quite sure," answered the other; "we are to go on till we come to a finger-post, and then to turn down the lane to the left. That will lead us to the house, and she says there is no other there."
"The moon is getting up, I think, to guide us," said the elder of the two young men; and then, after a moment's silence, during which his thoughts wandered wide, he added, "I dare say we shall be able to get some information at the house as to this good Master Clive's avocations. He had a cocked pistol in his hand when I came up, and did not seem at all well pleased at being disturbed."
In such sort of chat they walked on, the moon rising slowly, and spreading her silvery light over the scene. Sometimes she was hidden for a moment by the rushing clouds; but, with the peculiar power of the soft planet, her beams seemed to absorb the vapours that sought to obscure them; as calm truth, shining on and growing brighter as it rises, devours the mists of prejudice and error, with which men's passions and follies attempt to veil it.
In about a quarter of an hour they reached the finger-post which had been mentioned, and there found one of the servants waiting to guide them on the way. By him they were informed that the house was not more than a quarter of a mile distant; and although one of the young gentlemen said that it might have been as well to order the carriage to come back to the high road as soon as it had set the poor girl and her father down, the other replied that it would be much better to go and see how she was, as there might be no surgeon in the neighbourhood, and they might be able to render some assistance.
A minute or two after, the road led them to the brink of a little dell, narrow, and well wooded, on the other side of which, rising high above the trees, appeared a tall house, flat, and not very picturesque, except from its accessories, although the moon was now shining bright on the only side which the travellers saw. The road, winding about to avoid the dell, carried them round to the other side of the building, where they had to pass through a large farm-yard, the dogs in which recorded in very loud tones their protest against the admission of any strangers, although an old woman-servant, with a light shaded by her apron, was waiting at the door to receive the expected guests.
The place into which they were admitted, was evidently a large farm-house of a very comfortable description. It might have been in former times, indeed, the seat of some country gentleman of small fortune, for the room on the left of the passage in which they entered, was handsomely wainscoted with oak, each panel of which was surrounded by a very respectable garland of flowers carved in the woodwork. There, too, was a little sideboard, partly covered with china and glass, rather heterogeneous in its parts, and which might almost have furnished a history of glass ware from the time of the middle ages downwards. There were tall Venice glasses, cut and gilt like attar-of-rose bottles. There was the pleasant large claret glass, so light that it added nothing to the weight of the wine within, with a white spiral in the stalk, and sundry little stars ground upon the delicate sides. There was the large goblet, somewhat yellowish in tinge, rudely and bluntly cut and polished, looking almost like a cup of rock crystal; and in the centre was an exceedingly beautiful large chalice, richly gilt and ornamented, very delicate in form. But these were mingled with things of more common use, some handsome enough in their kind, but others of a sort usually to be seen in the basket of an itinerant vender of crockery and decanters.
I might go on farther, describing many other curious little things which that room contained, for there was a number of them; but I have gone far enough to give some idea of the place, and have done so not without thought; for, rightly read, I know few things that give a more correct indication of the character of particular persons, if they have any character at all, which is not always the case, than the objects with which they surround themselves in their familiar dwellings.
However, the two young gentlemen had hardly time to observe much, before a door, different from that by which they had entered, opened, and Clive himself came in. He had laid aside his heavy coat, and now appeared in the dress of a wealthy farmer; and certainly a powerful, well-looking, dignified man he was. There was no want of ease in his manners, though they were not in the least familiar or self-sufficient. There seemed, indeed, a consciousness of powers mental and corporeal about him; a reliance upon his own nature, which left not the slightest touch of embarrassment in his demeanour. He never seemed to doubt that what he was doing and what he was saying was right, though without thinking it at all extraordinary or excellent.
"I am deeply obliged to you, gentlemen, both," he said; "and to you, sir, in particular;" and he turned to the elder of the two. "My daughter, thank God! is not much hurt; for though her arm is broken, I trust we shall get that set speedily."
"I hope you have some surgeon here," said the younger gentleman; "for whatever is to be done, had better be done at once."
"None nearer than the town, and that is seven miles," replied Clive; "most unfortunately, too, I have sent both my men to some distance, but I have ordered one of the girls to go and call up the herd, and bid him bring the doctor directly."
"Why not send one of the post-boys?" said the young gentleman; "he is already mounted, and two horses will carry us easily on, for we cannot have more than two or three miles to go."
The proposal was adopted with many thanks, and the post-boy accordingly sent on, after which the farmer, for so we must call him, refrained, with a native sense of propriety, from loading the two strangers with any further expressions of gratitude; but told them that his daughter would be glad to see them before they went, to thank them personally for the service they had rendered her.
"She is in the next room," he said, "and will not be satisfied unless I bring you there."
There was no great resistance made, for the younger man had a strong inclination to see whether, in the full light, she was as pretty as she had seemed; and his companion felt that sort of interest in her which a fine mind always takes in those on whom some benefit has been conferred. The room in which she was, adjoined that which they had first entered, and was fitted up very neatly, though plainly, as a little sort of drawing-room. The girl herself was seated on a small chintz-covered sofa, with her right arm supported by a cushion, and one small foot resting on a stool. She was certainly exceedingly beautiful, with large dark devoted-looking eyes, and dark eyebrows and eyelashes, but with hair of a light brown, and an exceedingly fair skin. A mixture of races seemed apparent in her; for the hair and complexion of the fair Saxon were blended, yet not inharmoniously, with the dark eyes of more southern lands. Her hand was small and delicate, and her form fine, though slight; her dress, too, though plain, was very good and ladylike; and everything that they saw was calculated to raise greater surprise in the minds of her visitors that she should be out alone, apparently watching for something upon the high road, in a cold autumnal night.
Gracefully, and with much feeling, she thanked the two gentlemen, and especially the elder, for extricating her from her dangerous and painful situation, and for the kindness and tenderness which they had afterwards shown her. The colour varied a good deal in her cheek as she did so; and having received, in answer to their questions, an assurance that she suffered very little--and that, from the fact of the mass of earth which came down with the wall having diminished the force of the stones, she was uninjured, except inasmuch as her arm was broken, and her left foot somewhat bruised--they took their leave, and departed to resume their journey.
CHAPTER III.
There was a small party assembled at a large country house not above three miles, by the high road, from the spot where the last events which I have recorded took place. It was a very extensive and very old-fashioned brick building. Old-fashioned! It is a curious term. The house was little more than a century old; a father might have seen it built, and a son might have heard it called old-fashioned, for the savour of earthly things passes away so rapidly, that what our parents considered the perfection of skill and convenience, we hold to be but a rude effort towards our own excellence. Yet they were very convenient buildings, those old houses of the reigns of George the First and George the Second; solid in their walls, large and yet secure in their windows, high in their ceilings, broad and low in their staircases, many in their rooms, and strong in their partitions. There was little lath and plaster about them, little tinsel and bright colouring; but there was a sober and a solid grandeur, a looking for comfort rather than finery, of durability rather than cheapness, which made them pleasant to live in, and makes them so even to the present day.
Nothing that tended to comfort was wanting in that house; its solidity seemed to set at defiance wind, and storm, and time; and its wide grates laughed in the face of frost and cold, and bade them get forth, for they could have no abiding there. Turkey carpets covered most of the floors, even of those rooms which, by a law of the Draco-like dictator, Fashion, are condemned to bear that sort of carpet called Brussels, although the town which has given it name probably never in the world's history produced a rood thereof. The Turks, when they made them, must have marvelled much at what the Christian dogs could want with such large carpets; for the one in the room where the party was assembled--which was called the drawing-room, although it was lined with books--could not have been less than forty feet in length, by thirty in breadth, and yet there was a margin between it and the book-cases. There were four windows on one side of the room, as one looked towards which there was a door on the right hand leading into the library, a door on the left leading into the dining-room, and opposite the windows was another door, which opened into a large vestibule, separated from a stone hall by a screen filled up with glass.
In one of the two fire-places which the room contained was a large blazing fire of wood, and near it was seated in an arm-chair, reading a book, a very gentlemanly and well-dressed man, a good deal past the middle age, with his feet, warming themselves at the blaze, crossed and elevated upon a low stool. The other fire-place was not so well attended to, but, nevertheless, it was glowing with a tolerable degree of brightness, and near it were seated two young people, amusing themselves, as best they might, during an evening which expectation had rendered somewhat tedious. Sometimes they played at chess together, and laughed and wrangled good-humouredly enough; sometimes the one read and the other wrote; sometimes the one drew and the other read; sometimes they talked in low tones, and laughed gaily as they conversed. They were very nearly of an age, that is to say, there was not quite two years' difference between them, but those two years had been so allotted, as, considering their sexes, to make the difference of five or six. The lady was the elder of the two. She was very nearly approaching one-and-twenty, while the young man was a few months beyond nineteen. They seemed fond of each other, but it was with a fraternal sort of fondness, although they were not brother and sister; and yet, for the young man at least, their near propinquity, and constant communication, had it not been for other circumstances, might have proved dangerous, for certainly a lovelier or more engaging creature has seldom been seen than her with whom he then sat in the unchecked familiarity of near relationship. She was the very opposite, in personal appearance at least, of the girl we have lately spoken of. Her hair could hardly be called black, for in certain lights there was a gleam of rich brown in it, but her eyebrows and eyelashes were as dark as night, and her complexion, though by no means brown in itself, and tinged in the cheeks with the rose, was of that shade which usually accompanies black hair; but her blue eyes were blue; deep blue, it is true; so much so, that what with the jetty fringe that surrounded them, and their own depth of hue, many a person thought that they were black. Yet they were blue--very blue; of the colour of an Italian sky when the sun has just gone down beyond the highest hill, and left it full of depth and lustre. In height she was certainly taller than the Venus de Medici; but yet she did not strike one as tall, whether it was from the great symmetry of her figure or some peculiarity in the proportions. But that which most attracted an observer, and especially those who knew her well, was a sparkling variety in the expression of her countenance, and a similar variety in the grace of her movements. When she was reading, or thinking, or writing, or singing, there was an earnestness, a deep tranquillity in her aspect, which would have made one suppose her a being of a very meditative and almost grave disposition; but in conversation, and on all ordinary occasions, the look was quite different; gay, sparkling, flashing with cheerfulness and spirit. When she sat still, the lines of her form fell with such easy grace, and seemed so full of tranquil beauty, that any one might have thought that the predominant character was calm repose; but when she moved, especially under any immediate excitement, the light elasticity of every motion changed her at once into a different creature.
Her young companion was very different in every respect. Of a fair and almost feminine complexion, his light hair waved gracefully over a fine high brow, his blue eyes were soft and kindly-looking, and his lips and nose, chiselled with the utmost delicacy, would have suited a woman's face better than a man's. No beard or whiskers as yet gave anything masculine to his countenance, and his slight figure and soft satiny skin made him look still younger than he really was. To look upon him, one would not have supposed that he had seen more than sixteen years of age; and yet under that fair and delicate form there were many strong and generous impulses, firm and resolute purposes, and even a daring spirit, mingled strangely enough with a tenderness and devotedness seldom found in the grown and experienced man, and a degree of simplicity not at all approaching weakness, but depending upon youth and inexperience.
"I care nothing about it, Edgar," said the lady, in a low tone, in answer to something which the other had said; "he may come and go whenever he pleases, without my ever giving the matter two thoughts. You cannot tease me, cousin, for it is a matter of no interest to me, I can assure you."
"I know better, little heretic," replied her young companion; "you would fain have me believe, Eda, that you are as cold as ice, but I know better. We shall see the fire kindled some day."
"Very likely," said the lady, with a smile; "but you know, Edgar, that even that curious black stone, which seems to have been especially given to England for the purpose of drying and warming our damp, cold climate, smoking our ceilings and dirtying our hands, is as cold as ice, too, till it is kindled."
"But there may be such things as concealed fires, fair cousin," retorted the young man, with a laugh.
The lady's cheek coloured a little, but she instantly changed the defence into an attack, saying, almost in a whisper, and with a glance to the gentleman reading by the fire, "I know there are, Edgar. Take care, you bold boy, take care; for if you make war upon me, I shall carry it into your own country."
The young man glanced hastily round him, in the same direction which her eyes had before taken, and his cheek blushed like that of a young girl at the first kiss of love. The lady saw that she had not missed her mark, and maliciously sent another shaft after the first. "Where were you this morning at eight o'clock?" she said, in the same subdued tone; "and yesterday, and the morning before? Ah, Master Edgar! do not jest with edged tools, or at least, learn how to use them better, or you will cut your fingers, dear boy!"
"Hush, hush!" said the young man, in a low voice, and evidently a good deal agitated; "let us make peace, Eda."
"You began hostilities," replied the lady, satisfied that she had got that command of her young companion which ladies do not at all dislike, and by that very means which they are fondest of employing--the possession of a secret.
Almost at the same moment in which she spoke, the older gentleman by the fire laid his book upon his knee, and pulled his watch out of his pocket. "Very extraordinary!" he said, turning round his head; "it is nearly ten o'clock; I am glad we dined. You see, Eda, there is no counting upon the motions of young men."
"Especially, my dear uncle," replied the lady, "when combined with bad roads, bad horses, and high hills. I will answer for it, when Lord Hadley does come, you will have long tales of broken-down hacks, together with abuse of lazy postillions and slow ostlers. But hark! here he comes, or some carriage, at least, for carts are quiet at this time of night."
"And don't dash along the avenue at such a rate," said her cousin Edgar; "it is certainly the ship in sight, and we shall soon see the freight."
The two gentlemen looked towards the door and listened, the lady calmly pursued the task which occupied her, copying some music from a sheet of embossed and pink-edged paper; and one of those little intervals succeeded which take place between the arrival at the door and the appearance in the drawing-room of an expected guest. It lasted a minute, or a minute and a half, for there seemed to be some orders to be given in the passage, and some questions to be asked; and then the door of the room opened, and a servant, in a well-laced jacket, announced "Lord Hadley," and "Mr. Dudley."
Had any eye watched the lady's countenance, they would certainly have thought that some strong emotion was busy in her heart at that moment, for her cheek first turned very pale, and then glowed warmly; but it might also have been remarked that it was not at the first name that the varying hue became apparent. The second name produced the change, and, at the same time, the pen in her hand dropped upon the music-paper, and blotted out the note she had just been tracing.
At the name of Mr. Dudley, too, an alteration of aspect took place in her uncle, but it was momentary; his brow contracted, his face turned pale, but immediately a placable look returned, and with a courteous smile he advanced to meet the two gentlemen who entered. They were the same whom we have seen upon the road, and in the house of Mr. Clive. The second of the two, also, I must remark, not to give the reader the trouble of turning back, was the student to whose room at Cambridge I first introduced him.
Lord Hadley, a young, slight, fashionable man, with a good deal of light hair always in high gloss and beautiful order, and a profusion of whisker nicely curled, advanced at once towards the elder gentleman, and shook him heartily by the hand, calling him Sir Arthur Adelon. He then extended his hand to the young gentleman, whom he seemed to know well also, giving as he did so, a glance, but not one of recognition, towards the face of the lady. Sir Arthur instantly touched his arm gently, and led him up to her, saying, "Eda, my dear, let me introduce to you my friend, Lord Hadley--Lord Hadley, my niece, Miss Brandon."
Lord Hadley bowed, and the lady curtsied gravely; but there was evidently no emotion upon her part, at the introduction. In the mean time, Mr. Dudley had remained in the most unpleasant occupation in the world, that of doing nothing while other people are taken notice of. A moment after, however, Sir Arthur Adelon turned towards him, and with a courteous though somewhat formal how, said, "I am very happy to see you, Mr. Dudley; allow me to introduce you to my son and my niece."
"I have already the pleasure of Miss Brandon's acquaintance," said the tutor; and advancing towards her, he shook hands with her warmly. If she really felt any strong emotions at that moment, she concealed them well; and Mr. Dudley, turning again towards the baronet, finished with graceful ease what he had been saying. "I was not at all aware, Sir Arthur, that Miss Brandon was your niece, or it would have added greatly to the pleasure I had in accompanying Lord Hadley, which pleasure is more than perhaps you know, for it affords me the opportunity of expressing my gratitude to an old friend and benefactor of my poor father."
The gentleman to whom he spoke was evidently embarrassed from some cause, though what that was did not fully appear. His face again turned somewhat pale, and he hesitated in his reply. "Oh! really!" he said; "then you are the son of Mr. Dudley of St. Austin's? Well, I am very happy, indeed, to see you;" and he shook hands with him, but it was not warmly, adding, as he did so, "but you are late, gentlemen. We waited dinner for you an hour, and had even given up the hope of seeing you to-night."
"I am really very sorry we detained you," replied Lord Hadley; "but we have had two adventures, or rather, one impediment and one adventure. First, at Dorchester, we found all the post-horses gone to some review, or races, or archery-meeting, or one of those many tiresome things, I don't well know what, which take post-horses away from the places where they ought to be; and then, not far from this place, we found a young lady who had contrived to get herself nearly crushed to death under a wall, which had fallen, and carried a whole bank of earth along with it."
Instant exclamations of surprise and interest followed; and the young nobleman, who did not dislike attracting a little attention, proceeded with his tale. After describing the spot where they discovered the poor girl, he proceeded, in a frank, dashing way, to say, "She owes her life, in truth, to my friend Dudley; for I, with my usual thoughtlessness, was going to draw her from under the rubbish that had fallen upon her as fast as I could; but he stopped me, showing me that if I attempted it, I should bring down the whole of the rest of the stones; and then he set to work, as if he had been bred an engineer, and secured her against any fresh accident in the first place. She was not so much hurt as might have been expected, though, I am sorry to say, her poor little arm was broken."
On the old gentleman the tale had produced little impression; in Eda Brandon it had excited feelings of compassion and interest; but it had affected young Edgar Adelon very much more perceptibly. Luckily, no one was looking at him; and he had not voice to attract any attention towards himself by asking even a single question, though there was one he would have given worlds to put.
"But what did you do with her?" demanded Eda Brandon, eagerly. "You should have brought her on here, if the place was not far distant; we could easily have sent for a surgeon, and we would have taken good care of her."
"We knew neither the way nor the distance, Miss Brandon," said Mr. Dudley; "but we did what was probably the best under any circumstances. We took her to her father's house, and Lord Hadley kindly sent on one of the post-boys to seek for some one to set her arm."
"It is doubtless Helen Clive he speaks of," said a voice just behind Mr. Dudley; so peculiar in its tones, so low, so distinct, so silvery, that no one who heard it once could ever forget it.
Dudley turned quickly round, and beheld a middle-aged man, dressed in a long, straight-cut black coat, with a black handkerchief round his neck, and no shirt-collar apparent. His beard was closely shaved, and looked blue through the pale skin. His eyes were fine, the brow large and fully developed, but the mouth small and pinched, as if that feature, which, together with the eyebrow, is more treacherous in its expression of the passions than any other, was under strong and habitual command. He stooped a little from the shoulders, either from weakness or custom, and indeed he seemed by no means a strong man in frame; but yet there was something firm and resolute in his aspect; a look of conscious power, as if he had been seldom frustrated in life. The gray eyebrow, too, hanging over the dark eye, and seeming to veil its fire, gave an expression of inquiring perspicacity to the whole face, which impressed one more with the idea of intelligence than of sincerity. No one had seen or heard him enter, except, indeed, Sir Arthur Adelon, whose face was towards the door, but yet he had been standing close to the rest of the party for two or three minutes before attention was attracted to himself by the words he uttered.
Lord Hadley turned, as well as his tutor, and looked at the new-comer with some curiosity. "Yes," he replied, "her name was Clive, and I think the old gentleman called her Helen."
"If her name was Clive," rejoined the man whom he had addressed, "it was assuredly Helen Clive; for there is but one Mr. Clive in this neighbourhood, and he has but one child."
"Really, sir, I am delighted to find you know so much about him," said Lord Hadley; "for both he and his daughter, to tell you the truth, have excited in me a good deal of interest and curiosity."
"Why?" was the stranger's brief question; and it was put in a somewhat dry and unpleasant tone.
"Oh! simply because we found that she had been out upon the high road at nine o'clock at night, sitting under an uncemented stone wall, watching for something or somebody," was the first part of Lord Hadley's reply, for he thought the stranger's tone rather impertinent. "So much for my curiosity," he continued. "Then, as for my interest: in the first place, my dear sir, she was exceedingly pretty; in the next place, wonderfully ladylike, considering the circumstances in which we found her; then, she had broken her arm, which, though perhaps not as poetical as some other accidents, was enough to create some sympathy, surely; and moreover, Dudley found her father sitting upon the top of the cliff, looking over the sea, with a cocked pistol in his hand."
"As to her beauty," replied the stranger, "with that I have nothing to do. The interest you feel is undoubtedly worthy and well-deserved; and as to the wonder, sir, you may depend upon it, that whatever Helen Clive was doing, she had good reason for doing, and motives which, if she chose to explain them, would quiet your surprise very speedily."
Mr. Dudley, who had taken no part in the conversation, smiled slightly to hear a perfect stranger to Lord Hadley assume at once that tone of calm superiority which he knew was likely to be most impressive with his pupil.
The young nobleman was about to reply, however, when Sir Arthur Adelon interposed, saying, "My lord, I should have introduced to you before now our friend, the Reverend Mr. Filmer--Mr. Filmer, Lord Hadley." The young lord bowed, and the other gentleman advanced a step, when, as he passed, Mr. Dudley perceived that a small spot, about the size of a crown piece, on the top of his head, was shaved, and recognising at once the Roman Catholic priest, he gained with rapid combination some insight into several things which had before been obscure.
The priest's manner softened. In a few moments he, with Lord Hadley and their host, were in full conversation. With timid hesitation young Edgar Adelon drew near and joined them; and Dudley, approaching the table near which Miss Brandon was still standing, spoke a few words with her in perhaps a lower tone than is quite customary on ordinary occasions. They neither of them knew that they were speaking low; but the emotions of the heart have immense mastery over the tones of the voice; and though the words that they uttered were little more than commonplace sentences of surprise and pleasure at their unexpected meeting, of question and explanation of what had occurred to each since they had last seen each other, they were certainly both a good deal moved by the unspoken eloquence of the heart. In a short time, just as Lord Hadley was about to retire to his room to put his dress in order, supper was announced, and postponing his toilet, he offered his arm to Miss Brandon, and led her into the adjacent room. Sir Arthur Adelon and Mr. Dudley followed, and the priest lingered for a moment or two behind, speaking to the baronet's son, and then entered the supper-room with a quick step. He then blessed the meal with every appearance of devotion; and Dudley's eye, which was marking much, perceived that Sir Arthur and his son made the sign of the cross, but that Eda Brandon forbore; and he was glad to see it.
The meal became very cheerful: as it went on, the first strangeness of new arrival wore off with the two guests. Jest and gaiety succeeded to more serious discourse, and topic after topic was brought forward and cast away again with that easy lightness which gives a great charm to conversation. The master of the house was somewhat stiff and stately, it is true; but the three young men did not suffer his dignified air to chill them. The priest was a man of great and very various information, had seen, studied, and penetrated not only all the ordinary aspects of society, but the hearts and spirits of thousands of individuals. There was not a subject that he could not talk upon, whether gay or grave; from the green-room of the theatre or opera-house, to the cabinets of statesmen and the saloons of monarchs. His conversation was graceful, easy, flowing, and becoming; and although there was a point of sarcastic wit in it which gave it, in the opinion of Dudley, almost too great a piquancy, yet when that gentleman recollected what had been said, he could not find one word that was unfitted to the character of a well-bred man and a priest. It was all so quietly done too: the stinging gibe, the light and flashing jest, that the young tutor sometimes thought the whole must have received point and peculiar application from the manner; but yet he could not recollect emphasis laid upon any word; and he carried away from that table, when he retired to rest at night, much matter for thought upon all that he had seen, and many a deep feeling re-awakened in his heart, which he had hoped and trusted had been laid asleep by the power of reason, and the struggle of a strong mind against a warm and enthusiastic heart.
CHAPTER IV.
The wind had blown away the clouds which lay so heavy on the sky the night before. The morning rose bright and sparkling, with a brisk gale stirring the air, and a clear, fresh, frosty look over the whole earth. At an early hour--for matutinal habits had become inveterate--Mr. Dudley rose, and going to the window, gazed out upon a scene of which he had been able to discover little at the dark hour of his arrival.
I will not pause to describe all that he beheld, for the public taste is as capricious in matters of composition as in regard to mere dress; and the detailed description of scenery, the pictures with the pen, which please much at one time, weary at another. It is a railroad age, too: all the world is anxious to get on, and we hurry past remorselessly all the finer traits of mind and character which were objects of thought and study to our ancestors, just as the traveller, in the long screaming, groaning, smoking train, is hurried past those sweet and beautiful spots in which the contemplative man of former days was accustomed to pause and ponder.
On one small portion of the landscape, however, I must dwell, for I shall have to speak of it presently, and must recur to it more than once hereafter. The house was situated in an extensive park; and a long avenue of beech trees, not perfectly straight, but sweeping with a graceful curve over the undulations of the ground, led down to the park gates and to the lodge. At a short distance from that lodge, a little thicket of wood joined on to the avenue, and ran along in irregular masses till it reached the park wall: and these objects, the avenue, the wavy green slopes of the park, the thicket beyond, and the top of the park wall, were those upon which Mr. Dudley's eye first rested. Beyond the limits of the park, again, in the same direction, he caught a glimpse of a varied country, apparently tolerably fertile and well-cultivated, close to the park, but growing rapidly wilder and more rude, as it extended into some high and towering downs, which Dudley conceived to be those he had traversed the night before.
As the reader well knows, some kinds of beech tree retain their leaves longer than almost any other tree or shrub, except the tribe of evergreens; and even through frost, and wind, and rain, they hang yellow upon the wintry boughs, till the coming of the new green buds, like ambitious children, forces their predecessors down to the earth. The avenue was thus thickly covered, so that any one might have walked there long unseen from most parts of the house or park. But when Lord Hadley, on his way back to London from the Continent, had accepted a kind, though not altogether disinterested invitation to Brandon--for so the place was called--he had merely mentioned that his tutor was with him, and to the tutor had been assigned a room considerably higher in the house than the apartments of more lordly guests. Dudley did not feel at all displeased that it should be so; and now as he looked forth, he had a bird's-eye view, as it were, of the avenue, and a fine prospect over the distant country. Thus he was well contented; and as he had been informed that the family did not meet at breakfast till half-past nine, and it was then little more than six, he determined to dress himself at once, and roam for an hour or two through the park, and perhaps extend his excursion somewhat beyond its walls.
One of the first operations in a man's toilet--I say it for the benefit of ladies, who cannot be supposed to know the mysteries thereof--is to shave himself; and an exceedingly disagreeable operation it is. I know not by what barbarous crotchet it has happened that men have tried to render their faces effeminate, by taking off an ornament and a distinction with which nature decorated them; but so it is, that men every morning doom themselves to a quarter of an hour's torture, for the express purpose of making their chins look smug, and as unlike the grown man of God's creation as possible. Dudley's beard was thick and black, and required a good deal of shaving. He therefore opened a very handsome dressing-case--it was one which had been a gift to him in his days of prosperity; and taking out a small finely-polished mirror, he fastened it--for the sake of more light than he could obtain at the looking-glass on the toilet-table--against the left-hand window of the room; then with a little Naples soap, brought by himself from the city of the syren, a soft badger's-hair brush and cold water--for he did not choose to ring the servants up at that early hour of the morning--he set to work upon as handsome a face as probably had ever been seen. The brush and the soap both being good, he produced a strong lather, notwithstanding the cold water; and turning to put down the brush and take up the razor, which he had laid down on a little table in the window, his eyes naturally fell upon that part of the park grounds beneath him, where the avenue terminated close to the house. As they did so, they rested upon a human figure passing rapidly from the mansion to the shade of the beech trees; and Dudley instantly recognised Edgar Adelon, the son of his host. There was nothing very extraordinary in the sight; but Dudley was a meditative man by habit, and while he reaped the sturdy harvest of his chin, he went on thinking of Edgar Adelon, his appearance, his character, his conversation; and then his mind turned from the youth to another subject, near which it had been fluttering a great deal both that morning and the night before, and settled upon Eda Brandon. Whatever was the course of his meditations, it produced a sigh, which is sometimes like a barrier across a dangerous road, giving warning not to proceed any further in that direction.
He then gazed out of the window again, and following with his eyes the course of the avenue, he once more caught sight of the young gentleman, he had just seen, hurrying on as fast as he could go. He had no gun with him, no dogs; and a slight degree of curiosity was excited in the tutor's mind, which he would have laughed at had it been anything but very slight. Shortly after, he lost sight of the figure, which, as it seemed to him, entered the thicket on the right hand of the avenue; and Dudley thought to himself, "Poor youth! he seemed, last night, though brilliant and imaginative enough at times, sadly absent, and even sad at others. He is gone, perhaps, to meditate over his love; ay, he knows not how many more pangs may be in store for him, or what may be the dark turn of fate near at hand. I was once as prosperous and as fair-fortuned as himself, and now--"
He would not go on, for it was a part of his philosophy--and it was a high-minded one--never to repine. As he passed to and fro, however, in the room, he looked from time to time out of the window again; and just as he was putting on his coat, he suddenly saw a figure emerge from the thicket where it approached closest to the park wall, beheld it climb easily over the boundary, as if by a stile or ladder, and disappear. At that distance, he could not distinguish whether the person he saw was Edgar Adelon or not; but he thought the whole man[oe]uvre strange, and was meditating over it, with his face turned to the window, when he heard a knock at his door, and saying, "Come in," was visited by the Reverend Mr. Filmer.
The priest advanced with a calm, gentlemanly smile and quiet step, saying, "I heard you moving in your room, Mr. Dudley, which adjoins mine, and came in to wish you good morning, and to say that if I can be of any service in pointing out to you the objects of interest in this neighbourhood, of which there are several, I shall be most happy. Also in my room I have a very good, though not very extensive, collection of books, some of great rarity; and though I suppose we are priests of different churches, you are too much a man of the world, I am sure, to suffer that circumstance to cause any estrangement between us."
"It could cause none, my dear sir," replied Dudley, "even if your supposition were correct; but I am not an ecclesiastic, and I can assure you I view your church with anything but feelings of bigotry; and, indeed, regret much that the somewhat too strict definitions of the Council of Trent have placed a barrier between the two churches which cannot be overleaped."
"Strict definitions are very bad things," said the priest; "they are even contrary to the order of nature. In it there are no harsh lines of division, but every class of beings in existence, all objects, all tones, glide gradually into each other, softened off, as if to show us that there is no harshness in God's own works. It is man makes divisions, and bars himself out from his fellow men."
Dudley did not dislike the illustration of his new acquaintance's views; but he remarked that he did not touch upon any definite point, but kept to generals; and having no inclination himself for religious discussions, he thanked Mr. Filmer again for his kindness, and asked him if there were any objects of particular interest within the limits of a walk before breakfast.
"One which for me has much interest," replied the priest: "the ruins of a priory, and of the church once attached to it, which lie just beyond the park walls. I am ready to be your conductor this moment, if you please."
Dudley expressed his willingness to go; Mr. Filmer got his hat, and in a few minutes they issued forth into the fresh air.
Taking their way to the right, they left the avenue of trees upon the other hand; and, by a well-worn path over the grassy slopes of the park, they soon reached the wall, over which they passed by a stone style, and then descended a few hundred yards into a little wooded dell, with a very bright but narrow stream running through it. A well-trimmed path, through the copse brought them, at the end of five minutes more to an open space bosomed in the wood, where stood the ruin. It was a fine specimen, though much decayed, of that style of architecture which is called Norman; a number of round arches, and deep, exquisitely chiselled mouldings, were still in good preservation; and pausing from time to time to look and admire, Dudley was led on by his companion to what had been the principal door of the church, the tympanum over which was quite perfect. It was highly enriched with rude figures; and the tutor gazed at it for some time in silence, trying to make out what the different personages represented could be about. Mr. Filmer suffered him, with a slight smile, to contemplate it uninterruptedly for some time; but at length he said, "It is a very curious piece of sculpture that. If you remark, on the right-hand side there is represented a hunt, with the deer flying before the hounds, and a number of armed men on horseback following. Then in the next compartment you see dogs and men again, and a man lying transfixed by a javelin."
"But the third is quite a different subject," said Dudley: "a woman, seemingly singing and playing on a harp, with a number of cherubim round her, and an angel holding a phial; and the fourth compartment is different also, showing two principal figures embracing in the midst of several others, apparently mere spectators."
"It is, nevertheless, all one story," said the priest; "and is, in fact, the history of the foundation of this church and priory, though connected with a curious legend attached to three families in this neighbourhood, of each of which you know something. I will tell it to you as we return; but first let us go round to the other side, where there is a fragment of a very beautiful window."
Dudley was not content without exploring the whole of the ruin; but when that was done they turned back towards the park again, and Mr. Filmer began his tale:--
"Nearly where the existing house stands," he said, "stood formerly Brandon Castle, the lord of which, it would appear, was a rash, impetuous man, given much to those rude sports which, in the intervals of war, were the chief occupations of our old nobility. In the neighbourhood there was a family of knightly rank, of the name of Clive, the head of which, in the wars of Stephen and Matilda, had saved the life of the neighbouring baron, and became his dearest, though comparatively humble friend. The lord of Brandon, though not altogether what may be called an irreligious man, was notorious for scoffing at the church and somewhat maltreating ecclesiastics. He had conceived a passion for a lady named Eda Adelon, the heiress of some large estates at the distance of about thirty miles from this place, and had obtained a promise of her hand; but upon one occasion, he gave her so great offence in regard to an abbey which she had aided principally in founding, that she refused to ratify the engagement, and entered into the sisterhood herself, telling him that the time would come when he, too, would found monasteries, and perhaps have recourse to her prayers. Five or six years passed afterwards, and the baron himself, always irascible and vehement, became more so from the disappointment he had undergone. The only person who seemed to have any power over him, and that was the power which a gentle mind sometimes exercises upon a violent one, was his companion, the young Sir William Clive. Hunting was, as I have said, his favourite amusement; and on one occasion he had pursued a stag for miles through the country, always baffled by the swiftness and cunning of the beast. He had thrown a number of javelins at it, always believing he was sure of his mark; but still the beast reappeared unwounded, till at length it took its way down the very glen where Brandon Priory stands, and then entered the thicket, just as the baron was close upon its track. Fearing to lose it again, he threw another spear with angry vehemence, exclaiming, with a fearful oath, 'I will kill something this time!' A faint cry immediately followed, and the next instant Sir William Clive staggered forth from the wood, transfixed by his friend's javelin, and fell, to all appearance dying, at the feet of the baron's horse. You have now the explanation of the first two compartments; I will proceed to give you that of the two others. The great lord was half frantic at the deed that he had done; the wounded man was taken up and carried to the castle; skilful leeches were sent for, but employed their art in vain; the young knight lay speechless, senseless, with no sign of life but an occasional deep-drawn breath and a slight fluttering of the heart. At length one of the chirurgeons, who was an ecclesiastic, ventured to say, 'I know no one who can save him, if it be not the Abbess Eda.' Now, Eda Adelon had by this time acquired the reputation of the highest sanctity, and she was even reported to have worked miracles in the cure of the sick and the infirm. Filled with anguish for his friend, and remorse for what he had done, the baron instantly mounted his horse, and rode, without drawing a rein, to the abbey, where he was admitted to the presence of the abbess, and casting himself upon his knees before her, told the tale of his misadventure. 'Kneel to God, and not to me, Lord Brandon,' said the abbess; 'humble your heart, and pray to the Almighty. Perchance he will have compassion on you.'
"'Pray for me,' said the baron; 'and if your prayers are successful, Eda, I vow by Our Lady and all the saints, to lead a new and altered life for the future, and to found a priory where my poor friend fell, and there twelve holy men shall day and night say masses in commemoration of the mercy shown to me.'
"'I will pray for you,' replied the abbess; 'wait here awhile; perchance I may return with good tidings.'
"While left alone the baron heard a strain of the most beautiful and solemn music, and the exquisite voice of the Abbess Eda singing an anthem; and at the end of about an hour she returned to him, carrying a phial of precious medicine, which she directed him to give to his friend as soon as he reached his castle. The legend goes that the phial had been brought down to her by an angel, in answer to her prayers; but certain it is, the moment the medicine was administered to the wounded man his recovery commenced, and he was soon quite restored to health. The baron did not forget his vow, but built the priory where you have seen the ruins; and in commemoration of the event caused the tympanum you have examined to be chiselled by a skilful mason. We find, moreover, that he bestowed the hand of his only sister upon the young Sir William Clive; and the malicious folks of the day did not scruple to affirm that the young lady had been walking in the wood with the gallant knight at the very moment when he received the wound."
