It was a bright and soft spring morning: the dewy vistas of Cherbury
sparkled in the sun, the cooing of the pigeons sounded around, the
peacocks strutted about the terrace and spread their tails with
infinite enjoyment and conscious pride, and Lady Annabel came forth
with her little daughter, to breathe the renovating odours of the
season. The air was scented with the violet, tufts of daffodils were
scattered all about, and though the snowdrop had vanished, and the
primroses were fast disappearing, their wild and shaggy leaves still
looked picturesque and glad.
'Mamma,' said the little Venetia, 'is this spring?'
'This is spring, my child,' replied Lady Annabel, 'beautiful spring!
The year is young and happy, like my little girl.'
'If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is like the summer!' replied the
child; and the mother smiled. 'And is not the summer young and happy?'
resumed Venetia.
'It is not quite so young as the spring,' said Lady Annabel, looking
down with fondness on her little companion, 'and, I fear, not quite so
happy.'
'But it is as beautiful,' said Venetia.
'It is not beauty that makes us happy,' said Lady Annabel; 'to be
happy, my love, we must be good.'
'Am I good?' said Venetia.
'Very good,' said Lady Annabel
'I am very happy,' said Venetia; 'I wonder whether, if I be always
good, I shall always be happy?'
'You cannot be happy without being good, my love; but happiness
depends upon the will of God. If you be good he will guard over you.'
'What can make me unhappy, mamma?' inquired Venetia.
'An evil conscience, my love.'
'Conscience!' said Venetia: 'what is conscience?'
'You are not yet quite old enough to understand,' said Lady Annabel,
'but some day I will teach you. Mamma is now going to take a long
walk, and Venetia shall walk with her.'
So saying, the Lady Annabel summoned Mistress Pauncefort, a
gentlewoman of not more discreet years than might have been expected
in the attendant of so young a mistress; but one well qualified for
her office, very zealous and devoted, somewhat consequential, full of
energy and decision, capable of directing, fond of giving advice, and
habituated to command. The Lady Annabel, leading her daughter, and
accompanied by her faithful bloodhound, Marmion, ascended one of those
sloping vistas that we have noticed, Mistress Pauncefort following
them about a pace behind, and after her a groom, at a respectful
distance, leading Miss Herbert's donkey.
They soon entered a winding path through the wood which was the
background of their dwelling. Lady Annabel was silent, and lost in her
reflections; Venetia plucked the beautiful wild hyacinths that then
abounded in the wood in such profusion, that their beds spread like
patches of blue enamel, and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, as
the collection increased, handed them over to the groom; who, in turn,
deposited them in the wicker seat prepared for his young mistress. The
bright sun bursting through the tender foliage of the year, the clear
and genial air, the singing of the birds, and the wild and joyous
exclamations of Venetia, as she gathered her flowers, made it a
cheerful party, notwithstanding the silence of its mistress.
When they emerged from the wood, they found themselves on the brow
of the hill, a small down, over which Venetia ran, exulting in the
healthy breeze which, at this exposed height, was strong and fresh.
As they advanced to the opposite declivity to that which they had
ascended, a wide and peculiar landscape opened before them. The
extreme distance was formed by an undulating ridge of lofty and savage
hills; nearer than these were gentler elevations, partially wooded;
and at their base was a rich valley, its green meads fed by a clear
and rapid stream, which glittered in the sun as it coursed on, losing
itself at length in a wild and sedgy lake that formed the furthest
limit of a widely-spreading park. In the centre of this park, and
not very remote from the banks of the rivulet, was an ancient gothic
building, that had once been an abbey of great repute and wealth, and
had not much suffered in its external character, by having served for
nearly two centuries and a half as the principal dwelling of an old
baronial family.
Descending the downy hill, that here and there was studded with fine
old trees, enriching by their presence the view from the abbey, Lady
Annabel and her party entered the meads, and, skirting the lake,
approached the venerable walls without crossing the stream.
It was difficult to conceive a scene more silent and more desolate.
There was no sign of life, and not a sound save the occasional
cawing of a rook. Advancing towards the abbey, they passed a pile of
buildings that, in the summer, might be screened from sight by the
foliage of a group of elms, too scanty at present to veil their
desolation. Wide gaps in the roof proved that the vast and dreary
stables were no longer used; there were empty granaries, whose doors
had fallen from their hinges; the gate of the courtyard was prostrate
on the ground; and the silent clock that once adorned the cupola over
the noble entrance arch, had long lost its index. Even the litter of
the yard appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human foot
could have disturbed it for years. At the back of these buildings were
nailed the trophies of the gamekeeper: hundreds of wild cats, dried to
blackness, stretched their downward heads and legs from the mouldering
wall; hawks, magpies, and jays hung in tattered remnants! but all
grey, and even green, with age; and the heads of birds in plenteous
rows, nailed beak upward, and so dried and shrivelled by the suns and
winds and frosts of many seasons, that their distinctive characters
were lost.
'Do you know, my good Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel, 'that I have
an odd fancy to-day to force an entrance into the old abbey. It is
strange, fond as I am of this walk, that we have never yet entered it.
Do you recollect our last vain efforts? Shall we be more fortunate
this time, think you?'
Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, advancing to the old
gloomy porch, gave a determined ring at the bell. Its sound might
be heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a considerable time
elapsed without any other effect being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabel
would have now given up the attempt, but the little Venetia expressed
so much regret at the disappointment, that her mother directed the
groom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and see if it were possible
to discover any person connected with the mansion.
'I doubt our luck, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 'for they do
say that the abbey is quite uninhabited.'
''Tis a pity,' said Lady Annabel, 'for, with all its desolation, there
is something about this spot which ever greatly interests me.'
'Mamma, why does no one live here?' said Venetia.
'The master of the abbey lives abroad, my child.'
'Why does he, mamma?'
'Never ask questions, Miss Venetia,' said Mistress Pauncefort, in a
hushed and solemn tone; 'it is not pretty.' Lady Annabel had moved
away.
The groom returned, and said he had met an old man, picking
water-cresses, and he was the only person who lived in the abbey,
except his wife, and she was bedridden. The old man had promised to
admit them when he had completed his task, but not before, and the
groom feared it would be some time before he arrived.
'Come, Pauncefort, rest yourself on this bench,' said Lady Annabel,
seating herself in the porch; 'and Venetia, my child, come hither to
me.'
'Mamma,' said Venetia, 'what is the name of the gentleman to whom this
abbey belongs?'
'Lord Cadurcis, love.'
'I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis lives abroad?' said Venetia,
musingly.
'There are many reasons why persons may choose to quit their native
country, and dwell in another, my love,' said Lady Annabel, very
quietly; 'some change the climate for their health.'
'Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma?' asked Venetia.
'I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or anything of him, except that he
is a very old man, and has no family.'
At this moment there was a sound of bars and bolts withdrawn, and the
falling of a chain, and at length the massy door slowly opened, and
the old man appeared and beckoned to them to enter.
''Tis eight years, come Martinmas, since I opened this door,' said the
old man, 'and it sticks a bit. You must walk about by yourselves, for
I have no breath, and my mistress is bedridden. There, straight down
the cloister, you can't miss your way; there is not much to see.'
The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, surrounded by the
cloisters, and in this inner court was a curious fountain, carved with
exquisite skill by some gothic artist in one of those capricious moods
of sportive invention that produced those grotesque medleys for which
the feudal sculptor was celebrated. Not a sound was heard except the
fall of the fountain and the light echoes that its voice called up.
The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through several small
rooms, scantily garnished with ancient furniture, in some of which
were portraits of the family, until they at length entered a noble
saloon, once the refectory of the abbey, and not deficient in
splendour, though sadly soiled and worm-eaten. It was hung with
tapestry representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and their still vivid
colours contrasted with the faded hangings and the dingy damask of the
chairs and sofas. A mass of Cromwellian armour was huddled together in
a corner of a long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted with
dust, and a couple of old drums, one broken. From one of the windows
they had a good view of the old walled garden, which did not
tempt them to enter it; it was a wilderness, the walks no longer
distinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once cultivated lawns;
the terraces choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and here and
there a leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and covered
with moss and lichen.
'It makes me melancholy,' said Lady Annabel; 'let us return.'
'Mamma,' said Venetia, 'are there any ghosts in this abbey?'
'You may well ask me, love,' replied Lady Annabel; 'it seems a
spell-bound place. But, Venetia, I have often told you there are no
such things as ghosts.'
'Is it naughty to believe in ghosts, mamma, for I cannot help
believing in them?'
'When you are older, and have more knowledge, you will not believe in
them, Venetia,' replied Lady Annabel.
Our friends left Cadurcis Abbey. Venetia mounted her donkey, her
mother walked by her side; the sun was beginning to decline when they
again reached Cherbury, and the air was brisk. Lady Annabel was glad
to find herself by her fireside in her little terrace-room, and
Venetia fetching her book, read to her mother until their dinner hour.