THE ANCHORAGE.
Some, indeed, have said that creeping,
Lightly to the casement leaping,
Slily through the window peeping,
They a ghostly maid have seen.
To the oaken sill she clingeth,
And her wanlike hands she wringeth,
Then in garments white she wingeth
O’er the grassy plain so green.—_E. P. Lee._
About three miles west of Allworth Abbey, upon a commanding hight near
the sea-coast stood the Anchorage, the seat of Admiral Sir Ira Brunton.
The park extended to the sea, and its western wall rose directly from
the edge of the cliff, which formed a natural boundary to this extensive
domain.
Immediately under this cliff nestled the little fishing village of
Abbeyport, with its single street of cottages facing the sea, its small
fleet of fishing-smacks drawn up to the shore, and its one humble
tavern, called the Flagship, kept by Mr. Tom Tows, a retired boatswain,
and patronized liberally by the kitchen cabinet of Admiral Sir Ira
Brunton.
The Anchorage, was a large, square, gray edifice, three stories high,
with two great halls crossing each other at right angles, and dividing
each floor into four separate suites of apartments.
The numerous windows of the mansion commanded from all points the most
magnificent prospect perhaps to be found in the three kingdoms.
The front windows facing the west looked over the grand slope of hills
towards the edge of the cliff, and down upon the picturesque village at
its foot and out upon the boundless ocean.
The back, or east windows, looked inland down into the deep valley and
thick woods in which was hidden the old Abbey and the dark pool which
lay before it.
The north windows looked out upon a rolling country of sterile heaths,
dotted here and there with an oasis in the form of a farm or a hamlet.
And lastly, the south windows looked down over a smiling landscape of
wooded hills surrounding a green valley, in the midst of which lay a
lovely lake, upon whose farthest bank stood the elegant villa of
Edenlawn, the seat of the Honorable Mrs. Elverton.
Admiral Sir Ira Brunton, the proprietor of the Anchorage, was originally
a man of the people. By talent, courage, and good fortune, he had risen
from the humblest post in the navy to his present high position.
He shared, however, that too common weakness of self-made men—an
exaggerated respect for hereditary rank.
At the mature age of forty, when he had attained the rank of
post-captain, and was flushed with his recent success, he attempted to
marry into the peerage by proposing for the hand of the titled but
dowerless daughter of an earl.
But failing in this enterprise, he wedded the only child and heiress of
a wealthy city banker, who brought him as her portion a half million of
pounds sterling, the beauty of a Venus, and the temper of a Xantippe.
With a part of the money he bought the magnificent estate of the
Anchorage, and with the lady he lived a tempestuous life of twelve
years, at the end of which she stormed herself to death, leaving him as
a legacy one fair daughter, ten years of age, named after her mother,
Anna Eleanora.
Admiral Sir Ira—then Captain Brunton—did not again venture on the
dangerous sea of matrimony, but brought home his widowed mother to take
charge of the young lady, and engaged a French governess to superintend
her education. But a simple-minded, old-fashioned dame, and an
unprincipled French adventuress, were not exactly the best guides for a
self-willed girl.
And so it happened that when Miss Anna Eleanora was about sixteen years
of age, while her father was at sea, and herself with her grandmother
and governess at Brighton, she accidentally formed the acquaintance of a
young lieutenant of Hussars, whose regiment was stationed at the
neighboring barracks. With the connivance of the French governess, who
was heavily feed for the purpose, the young officer frequently met the
little heiress, with whom he finally eloped to Gretna Green, where they
were married.
If, instead of that romantic love which had misled both the young
creatures, fortune had been the object of the lieutenant, he must have
been wofully disappointed, for when the captain returned from the coast
of Africa, and heard of the runaway marriage, he discarded his daughter
and son-in-law, and forbade the names of either ever to be mentioned in
his presence.
As the commands of Captain Brunton were as absolute as the laws of the
Medes and Persians, the name of his only child and her young husband
dropped from conversation and from memory, and thus their offence, and
even their very existence, became an old and forgotten story.
The captain rose from post to post in the navy, until, finally, at the
advanced age of seventy-five, he retired from active service with the
well-earned rank of an admiral and the well-merited title of a baronet.
His household at this late period of his life was a very remarkable
illustration of family longevity.
It consisted of his grandmother, a hale old dame of one hundred and
eight years; his mother, a healthy old woman of ninety-two; himself, a
hearty veteran of seventy-five; and his grand-nephew and adopted heir,
Midshipman Valerius Brightwell, a young gentleman of nineteen.
The antique grandmother of this strong family was commonly called “old
mistress,” “the old madam,” or “old Mrs. Stilton.” The ancient mother
was termed “young mistress,” “the young madam,” or “young Mrs. Brunton.”
The veteran admiral was denominated by his venerable ancestresses “that
thoughtless boy,” and by the household, “the young master.” And the
midshipman was called by the old ladies, “the dear baby,” by the
admiral, “the lad,” and by the servants, “little Master Vally.”
At the venerable age of seventy-five, with an emaciated form, a withered
face, and a grey head, the veteran did not even suspect that he was
growing old, far less know that he was really an aged man, who had
already exceeded the average duration of a human life.
The truth was that the existence and the vigorous health of the two
ancient ladies, his mother and his grandmother, kept the admiral in his
prime. How could any man feel old, while his mother and his grandmother
still lived in a green old age—and while they still thought of him and
spoke of him as a gay young man, who had not yet sowed all his wild
oats, but who required the constant supervision and guidance of his
elders to keep him out of temptation and danger?
And thus, while the whole family honestly united in keeping up this
delusion, could the admiral be blamed for sharing it?
Among the domestic servants of the Anchorage two deserve mention—Mr.
Jessup, late of Her Majesty’s Service, now in that of Admiral Sir Ira
Brunton, to whom he filled the relation of confidential attendant, and
Mistress Barbara Broadsides, the housekeeper.
Jessup was tall, thin, pale-faced, and grey-haired in person; and
narrow, prejudiced and authoritative in mind.
Mrs. Broadsides was short, fat, rosy, and fair-haired in person; and
liberal, merciful, and yielding in disposition. As might be expected,
there was a strong attraction of antagonism between these two opposite
natures that led to a matrimonial engagement that was to be consummated
after the death of the admiral and his mother and grandmother; but as
the sibyls and their descendant had fallen into “a confirmed malady of
living on for ever,” Jessup and Mrs. Broadsides were growing old as
betrothed lovers.
Such, with the necessary number of men and maid servants, was the
household of Admiral Sir Ira Brunton at the time he invited the Italian
princess to honor his mansion with her presence.
The admiral had gallantly given up his coach for the accommodation of
the princess and her attendant, while he himself escorted them on
horseback.
It was a lovely summer afternoon, and when they emerged from the dark,
wooded vale, and ascended the high grounds lying between it and the
sea-coast, nothing could be more animated than the sudden change of
scene from deep shadow and circumscribed view to open sunshine and a
boundless landscape. The princess and her attendant enjoyed it
exceedingly, and despite all adverse circumstances, felt their spirits
rise accordingly.
The admiral frequently rode up to the side of the carriage to point out
some object of interest in the landscape, such as the bright little
lake, Eden, lying like a clear mirror in the bosom of its green valley,
and reflecting in its deep waters its lovely, embracing hills, and its
crowning villa of Edenlawn.
And upon these occasions the admiral ever addressed his illustrious
guest with the profoundest respect as “your highness,” until at length
the princess, with a sweet and mournful look and tone, said:
“Do not mock me with that title, best friend. I am a widow and a
fugitive, dependent on your bounty for the roof that shelters my head
and the bread that maintains my life. Do not mock me, therefore, with
any titles of honor. I am poor Gentilescha Pezzilini; no more than that.
I do not even permit my servants to address me by any other title than
the simple one of madame, that a matron of any rank may bear.”
“Madame, I am the humblest of your servants, and must obey you,” said
the admiral, bowing deeply as he fell behind the carriage.
“A deused fine woman! I’m glad that she is a widow, and a fugitive, and
the rest of it. I wonder—humph—” thought the admiral, falling into a
day-dream, in which the fair person of Madame Pezzilini formed the
principal figure.
Clearly, “that thoughtless boy” was in danger of forming an indiscreet
attachment!
While they passed slowly over the beautiful downs, the bright sky became
gradually overcast, and low mutterings of thunder reverberated around
the horizon.
Once more the admiral approached the carriage-window to say:
“We shall have a storm, madame. Shall I order your coachman to drive
faster?”
“Certainly, Sir Ira. I only desired to be driven slowly that we might
enjoy the lovely afternoon, but since it grows dark and stormy, let us
get on by all means, especially as you are exposed to the weather. Had
you not better get into the carriage, and let my servant Antonio take
your horse?” inquired the princess.
“I thank you, madame; and should the storm really overtake us, I will
gladly avail myself of your permission to do so; but I hope that we
shall get under shelter before it breaks upon us,” replied the admiral;
and then calling to the coachman, “Drive like the deuse, Ned,” he again
fell behind.
The sky grew darker and darker, the thunder rolled louder and nearer,
and though Ned really drove his horses as if the Evil One were in chase
of him, he had only made the half circuit of the park wall, and turned
into the circular avenue of elms leading to the house, before the black,
overhanging canopy of clouds was suddenly broken by a blinding flash of
lightning, followed by a stunning crash of thunder and falling deluge of
rain.
The admiral spurred his steed, the coachman whipped his horses, and in
two minutes they reached the house. The admiral sprang from his horse,
assisted the princess to alight from the carriage, and led her into the
house, just in time to escape another flash of lightning, peal of
thunder, and whirl of rain.
They were met by the two old ladies, who had come out into the hall to
do honor to their guest. They were two fine old dames, tall, thin,
fair-faced, and grey-haired like their descendant, the admiral. They
were both dressed similarly in black satin gowns with white muslin
neckerchiefs, and white lace caps; and looked very much alike, except
that the elder had more flesh and less hair than the younger. They stood
smiling and courtesying with pleasing, old-fashioned affability.
“Madame Pezzilini,” said the admiral, with formal courtesy, “will your
highness permit me to present to you my grandmother, Mrs. Stilton, and
my mother, Mrs. Brunton, who both feel highly honored to receive you?”
“That we do,” said the elder.
“Yes, I’m sure,” added the other.
“Ladies, kind friends,” said the Italian, “you see before you no
princess, but a poor widow, a stranger and a fugitive, who seeks only a
temporary asylum under your hospitable roof.”
“You are kindly welcome, madame, either as one or the other,” said Mrs.
Stilton, heartily, offering her hand.
“Ah, that indeed you are!” chimed in Mrs. Brunton, extending hers.
The princess received and pressed those venerable hands, and was about
to express her thanks, when a broad glare of lightning, accompanied by a
deafening roll of thunder, and a shock of wind and rain that seemed to
shake the house, made them spring apart. The effect of this burst of the
tempest was felt with the more force from the fact that all the window
shutters were still open.
“Good gracious, Iry!” said the oldest lady, as soon as she had recovered
from the shock; “surely you’ll have the shutters closed on such an awful
night as this?”
“No, ma’am, not this night, of all nights in the year. The harder the
storm the greater the need of a beacon-light to guide any wayfaring
traveller to the house,” said the admiral, decidedly.
Then turning to the princess, he added:
“Madame, I have a custom of which I hope you will not disapprove; it is
to leave my window-shutters open every night up to the latest hour of
retiring, so that the lights may shine far out over the downs, to guide
any weary and benighted traveller to one house, at least, where he is
sure to find welcome and succor. And especially on tempestuous nights, I
light up the whole house from top to bottom, to invite any poor,
storm-beaten wayfarer to its shelter. I hope you approve of the custom?”
“I think it a grand and beautiful instance of benevolence!” said the
princess, in a fervent tone.
“I am rewarded,” replied the admiral, “that is, if I had deserved
reward; but the fact is, that in doing this, I only pay a debt.
Providence having guided me through a very stormy existence into this
safe port at last, the least I can do is to open the harbor freely to
all other tempest-tost barques. That is the reason I call it the
Anchorage; for any storm-driven craft is free to enter and drop anchor
here.”
“It is nobly said—” began the princess; but the words were interrupted
by another burst of the tempest that rattled all the windows, and seemed
to shake the firm building to its foundation.
“Iry, I must say that you are clean mad. Every pane of glass in the
house will be shattered, and cost no end of money to replace, besides
the inconvenience!” cried Mrs. Stilton, as soon as she could recover her
breath after the last shaking.
“No danger, grandmother; these old windows have stood harder storms than
this,” replied the admiral, laughing.
Then turning to the princess, he said, in a low voice:
“Madame Pezzilini, my grandmother and mother are old-fashioned dames,
and so I hope that you will make allowance for their ways.”
The quick ears of the old lady caught this disparaging apology, and she
was prompt to reply.
“Don’t you mind that boy, madame; like all young people, he thinks
himself wiser than his elders; but time will teach him better, and show
him that old-fashioned ways are the best ways after all.”
The princess opened her large blue eyes in astonishment at hearing this
grey-haired veteran spoken of as an inexperienced youth, but remembering
that it was his grandmother who spoke thus, she merely bowed and smiled
in reply—the bow and smile being, in this case, a non-committal answer.
“And now, my dear grandmother, old fashions and new fashions both agree
in suggesting that Madame Pezzilini be shown to her apartment before
tea,” said the admiral.
“Certainly, certainly! I beg your pardon, madame, but the thunder and
the lightning and the wind do so confuse my poor head. Oh!” she
exclaimed, as another burst of the tempest shook the house.
When the deafening noise subsided, the old lady turned, and said:
“Come here, Broadsides, and show this lady and her maid to the suite of
rooms on the second floor front, right side. And when you have made her
comfortable, show her into the drawing-room to the tea-table—the Lord
have mercy upon us!”
This latter exclamation was called forth by a terrible glare of
lightning that filled the whole house like a conflagration, accompanied
by a rolling, crashing, stunning peal of thunder, and a rushing shock of
wind that seemed about to batter down the walls over their heads. It was
some minutes before this furious blast subsided.
And then Mrs. Broadsides, who had been waiting behind her old mistress,
came forward, courtesied, and led the way up the grand staircase to the
splendid suite of apartments that had been fitted up for the reception
of the illustrious Italian.
Jessup at the same moment advanced from some obscure retreat where he
had been lurking, took possession of his master, and marshaled him off
to his chamber to change his wet riding-coat for a dry-evening-dress.
And the two old ladies retreated to the drawing-room to await the return
of the admiral and his guest.
When they were seated side by side in their comfortable arm-chairs on
the right of the fire-place:
“What do you think of her, Abby, my dear?” said the antique lady to the
ancient one.
“I think she is a very charming woman, and I pity her misfortunes.”
“And so do I. But see here, Abby, my dear, you must really look after
that boy of yours, or he will be making love to this Italian lady.”
“Yes, mother; I see that.”
“And you know, Abby, that you would not like the lad to marry a
foreigner.”
“No, mother.”
“So, though we must be as kind as possible to this unfortunate princess,
whose story reminds me of all the fairy tales I ever read in my life,
_still_ we must keep an eye on that boy, and see that he does not make a
fool of himself, Abby.”
“Certainly, mother—Lord bless our souls!” she broke off, as their
conversation was again interrupted by another rapid onslaught of the
tempest that cannonaded the walls as if it did not mean to leave one
stone upon another.
The two old ladies sat crushed in a silence of deep awe for nearly an
hour, until the furious storm had raged itself into a temporary rest.
Then Mrs. Stilton spoke:
“I do not know how anybody can have the spirits to drink tea on such a
night as this, but I suppose it will be wanted all the same; for Iry
never turns aside from his way for any storm that ever falls, and as for
the princess, she looks like just such another. So, Abby, child, you may
ring for the tea.”
Mrs. Brunton, who sat nearest the chimney-corner bell-pull, complied,
and the tea-service was brought in and arranged upon the table.
And soon after they were joined by the admiral, who, “despite the storm
that howled along the sky,” had made a very careful evening toilet, and
by his nephew, Midshipman Valerius Brightwell, a fine, tall, dark-haired
young man, who, when not on active service, was at home at the
Anchorage.
These had scarcely taken their seats when the door opened, and the
Princess Pezzilini entered, her golden hair and fair face radiant in
contrast to the rich black velvet dress that was her usual costume.
Way was immediately made for her, the young midshipman was presented in
due form, and the whole party sat down to tea.
The storm had spent its fury, and now only revived at intervals in
inoffensive blasts of wind, faint flashes of lightning, and low
mutterings of thunder.
And the conversation at the tea-table became animated, even upon a
gloomy subject.
They talked of the tragedy at Allworth Abbey, and of the flight of
Eudora.
Opinion was divided upon the subject of the accused girl’s guilt or
innocence.
The two old ladies and the admiral agreed in pronouncing the evidence
against her to be too convincing to admit a doubt upon the subject.
The young midshipman, who had seen Miss Leaton several times at church,
and judging as a young man will by the face, declared his absolute faith
in her innocence, in despite of all the testimony that might be brought
against her.
The Princess Pezzilini held a neutral position between the
controversialists, affirming that the whole affair seemed to her a
horrible mystery, to which she could find no clue.
We will leave the drawing-room circle canvassing this question, and look
into the housekeeper’s room upon another party, with whom we have a
little business.