"Can you do this? Can you do this?" cried the baron, with his whole

face brightening.

"Ay, my cousin, I can," I replied, "and will this moment; and, if he

dare but sneer, I will lash him from that look like an unruly hound."

"That is needless! that is needless!" replied the baron, a look of

triumph coming over his face. "He will be my debtor, I not his; that

will be sufficient. But oh, Henry," he added, while his look fell

again and his cheek became pale, "oh, Henry! there is another! there

is another! Perdition is on either hand; and if I snatch at the aid

you so nobly and generously offer, I fall into another abyss, perhaps

worse than that from which you snatch me; and yet, if the sale do not

take place, it is double destruction. What can I do? what ought I to

do! Tell me! tell me, if you pity me!"

"I will tell you, sir, if you will listen to my advice," I replied;

"but you must decide speedily, for time wears. The most pressing evil

is the one before you. The president Des Chappes will instantly forbid

the sale if it be proclaimed. The cause of the prohibition must then

be put on record. Nothing can ever erase that. Then comes upon you

this Lord of Blaye; and, unprincipled libertine as he is, think you he

will spare in any shape! At all events, sweep this away, and let us

meet whatever other risk or difficulty may be in store as best we may.

Will you consent, sir?"

"You know not, Henry de Cerons, you know not what those difficulties

are. But what you ask must be done. She shall be yours; but you

promise to aid me--to save me if you can?"

"To the very utmost of my power," I answered; "but I know or guess

more than you suppose, sir. You are threatened with danger if you give

your child to any but this libertine"--he bowed his head in token of

assent--"and it is the baroness you fear?" I went on, but he

interrupted me, exclaiming, "Not her! not her!"

"But the secrets she possesses," I rejoined, and he turned deadly

pale.

"The only way," he said, after a pause of some minutes, "The only way

will be for you to conceal your marriage."

"No, my lord," I replied, "that cannot be; but I will conceal your

consent. Hear me!" I continued, seeing him about to grasp at it

eagerly without any conditions, "hear me out. I will conceal your

consent during your whole life, unless compelled by any process of law

to reveal it, or driven by any attempts to annul our union. If you

agree to that, draw up at once, in your own hand, your formal

approbation of our union upon those conditions, so, if ever I produce

that paper without need, the dishonour will fall on me. I will assign

this bond to you; and, walking forth together from this room, we will

at once forbid the sale, and set yon braggart boy at defiance. There

are paper and pens upon that desk."

"Be it so, be it so!" cried the baron, seeming to revive from the tone

of confidence with which I spoke; and, taking the pen, he wrote the

words I put into his mouth. He read it over, and then gave it to me,

and imagination can scarcely do justice to the feelings with which I

received it.

I then assigned to him the bond; and, while I wrote, he remained with

his eyes fixed musingly upon the ground.

"Henry," he said, taking it when I had done, but scarcely looking at

the signature, "you think that I am rather weak to be so swayed by a

woman so criminal that I should fear her. But believe me when I swear

to you, that she holds her power over me by a gross falsehood. A few

unfortunate words, written thoughtlessly, and seeming, as she has

turned them, to countenance a deed that I abhorred, has bound me to

misery and slavery."

"I grieve, sir, most truly," I replied; "but I hope the time will

come when you will trust me more fully, and I doubt not then to be

able----"

At that moment, however, one of the huissiers opened the door, saying,

"Monsieur le Baron, the sale is about to be proclaimed." We both

hurried to the house where it was to take place; but, ere we reached

it, the proclamation was made, and the President des Chappes was in

the act of saying, "I prohibit the sale in the name of Henry Count de

Cerons and Des Bois."

"Speak! speak, sir!" I whispered to the baron; "forbid it also, that

no cause may be entered on my part."

"I prohibit the sale also," he said, raising his voice aloud; and then

added, in an ordinary tone, "I have just received intelligence which

alters altogether my intentions."

"You have, sir?" exclaimed the Seigneur de Blaye, advancing with a

menacing air. "Then you are, as I trust you remember, my debtor to the

amount of forty thousand livres."

"Pardon me, sir!" said the baron, in that cold, bitter tone which I

had more than once heard him use towards myself in former days, "I

think, if I read this paper right, that it is you who are my debtor to

the amount of twenty thousand. We will settle our accounts whenever

you think fit."

The young man looked at the paper, and evidently recognised it well;

then turned his eyes upon me, saying, "I understand to whom I am most

a debtor, and will take occasion to settle my accounts with him before

a week be over."

"I trust you will be punctual, Monsieur de Blaye," I replied; but the

President des Chappes interfered, saying, "Young men! young men! many

words like that uttered here will send you to the châtelet. I beseech

you, sir," he continued, speaking to De Blaye, "as it seems to me that

you have nothing to do with this cause, to leave the hall first."

De Blaye was about to reply, but one or two of the gentlemen who had

accompanied him and the baron thither took him by the arm and drew him

away. We remained in the hall some ten minutes longer, the baron

speaking to Monsieur des Chappes in as unconcerned a tone as he could

employ; but, the moment we had issued forth into the street, he spoke

to me eagerly and long upon the subject whereon my own thoughts were

most earnestly bent. He urged my immediate marriage and departure with

Louise, and he promised himself to speak with her and prepare her mind

for it.

"If you are long," he said, "The matter will be discovered, and I

shall be forced either to sanction your union at once, or to oppose

it. The latter," he continued, "of course, must not be done; but as

you have promised to spare me, Henry, as far as possible, I trust

that, by the utmost secrecy and expedition, you will let the whole

assume the appearance of being done without my consent."

My answer may easily be conceived; but the baron's fears were not less

eager than a lover's hopes, and he turned instantly from me to Martin

Vern, who stood upon the steps of the Palais just behind us. Their

conversation tended all to the same object; for the baron, from

various matters that had been discussed, comprehended at once that the

greater part of my information had been derived from the merchant. I

did not hear their exact words, however, for at that moment a gay

train passed along, and, before I was well aware, my hand was in that

of the prince dauphin. The first expression of his countenance was

pleasure at seeing me; but the next was shaded by some other feelings,

and, after a few rapid questions, he asked me to come to Champigny the

next day, and spend the following night there. There was a hope in my

bosom, however, which prevented me from saying yes; and I replied,

with a smile, that perhaps I might be obliged to quit Paris ere that.

He smiled again, but seemed puzzled by my reply, saying, "Well, well,

let it be so;" but, ere he left me, he came closer, and said in a low

tone, "Promise me, upon your honour, De Cerons, to come to me at

Champigny to-morrow night, if you do not quit Paris to go elsewhere. I

have something important to say to you."

I promised without hesitation; and, grasping my hand warmly, he left

me and went on. "Now," said the baron, as I turned towards him again,

"I have settled it all with this good merchant, at whose house you

lodge. Come with me, Henry, for Charles, poor boy, cries eagerly to

see you; and to-night I will visit you, and tell you, I trust, that

all is prepared."

Bidding adieu to Martin Vern for the time, with many thanks for all

that he had done, I mounted my horse and accompanied the baron to his

house, saying, as we rode along, "May I not hope to see Louise also?

If we are to be so soon united, it were but needful that I should

speak with her myself."

"Nay, Henry, nay," replied my cousin, with the blood mantling up in

his cheek: "press it not if the baroness be there. If she be not, for

a moment you can speak with the dear child, to tell her that, to save

all farther pain on either part, your union is to take place in her

chamber to-morrow night. Good old La Tour shall be brought from

Montmorency to speak a blessing on you: the contract shall be duly

drawn, and Albert shall be present, though I must not. One staircase

shall be put in the hands of your people, to ensure your passing

unopposed; the merchant engages that a gate of the city shall be kept

open to give you exit; and then, as soon as she is yours, fly with her

into the south without delay."

"To-morrow night, did you say?" I exclaimed, in some surprise: "can

all be arranged by that time?"

"All, all," replied the baron; "and oh, Henry! when she is your wife,

tell her that, towards her at least, her father was not made harsh by

nature; tell, Henry--tell her, in one word, that she is like her

mother; ay, and that, whatever she may think, I love her for that

likeness."

"Oh! Monsieur de Blancford," I cried, moved by those words, "Why, why

will you not shake off the yoke that presses on you? why do you not

treat threats with scorn?"

"Because, Henry--because I have sold myself to a fiend," he answered.

"Speak not of it now: one day I will tell you more."

We rode on; and I saw Charles de Blancford--terribly changed, indeed,

in the space of two short days--I saw Louise, too, though it was but

for a few short minutes; but that was enough to tell her that our fate

was changed, and to ask her if she would consent to be mine so

suddenly, so secretly, so unprepared. She replied not at first, but

her looks left all other answer needless; and, ere she could reply, we

heard the arrival of the baroness in the courtyard, and we parted.

With Charles I sat for some hours; and all I had to tell him of the

transactions between his father and myself seemed to afford him better

medicines than the druggist's shop could supply. I saw not the

baroness: but, after my return to the house of Martin Vern, the baron

came, and we passed nearly three hours in making every arrangement.

The good merchant sat by and listened gravely, even sadly. Once I saw

him bury his eyes in his hands, and he sighed often and deeply; but he

promised all that we required in regard to his own aid; and, when the

baron asked him if he thought not that our plan must certainly

succeed, he replied, with a smile that I afterward understood better,

"I will stake my life upon it."

CHAPTER IX.

It was two o'clock in the morning of Sunday, the 24th of August, 1573,

when I reached the _porte-cochère_ of the Baron de Blancford. The

whole town was still, and the soft, balmy air of the summer night

fanned my cheek like the breath of love. The wicket was, as I had

expected, open, and behind it was Moric Endem, armed only with the

usual weapons of daily defence, with the addition of a pistol in case

of need. He was masked, however, as it was agreed that we all should

be; and, pointing to a small door on the other side of the court, he

whispered, "By that door and up the stairs, sir, you will find Andriot

and two others."

I looked towards the porter's room, fearing lest the least noise

should disturb those we wished to slumber. All was quiet, however;

and, passing across the court, I found the door held open by Andriot.

On the first landing-place of the stairs there was another of my men,

and higher up a third. On the third landing there appeared a light

shining through a door ajar, and I gently pushed it open and entered.

It admitted me to a small anteroom, and watching on the opposite side

was Albert of Blancford. The noble boy embraced me gladly; and, with a

whispered word or two of joyful congratulation, led me into the room

beyond. There stood Louise, somewhat pale and agitated; but the dear

girl suffered not such feelings to veil or check her affection for the

man she loved; and, starting forward from the side of old La Tour, she

cast herself into my arms. I soothed and caressed her for a moment,

while the good old pastor came forward and grasped me eagerly by the

hand. The contract of our marriage lay upon the table; but we had many

words to say to each other, and had not yet signed it, when the door

behind us opened, and the baron himself entered.

"Is it done?" he asked, anxiously: "has it taken place? Be quick,

Henry! be quick!" he added, seeing that the contract was still

unsigned. "I fear, and shall fear for your happiness, my children,

till the act is irrevocable."

Oh! happy interruption to words, every one of which occupied those

moments that bore Fate upon their wings! Gladly we signed the paper;

gladly we pronounced the vow that bound us to each other; gladly I

placed the mystic symbol of eternal union on the hand of her I loved.

"Now!" cried the baron, as soon as the whole was completed, "Now

depart at once! You will find good Dame Marguelette without the walls

at the spot where your horses wait. Bless thee, my Louise! bless thee!

Be kind to her, Henry, and love none but her: be warned--be warned by

what you have seen and know. Get thee to bed, Albert, and let all now

be quiet in the house."

Louise trembled a good deal, but I led her on; and gradually, as the

severing from her father's house seemed more complete, she clung to me

more closely. The baron, with his own hand, shut the door behind us,

and, step by step, we descended the dark stairs.

"I have thought it better, dear Louise," I said, as we reached the

bottom of the stairs, "That we should both be screened from notice as

far as possible; and I have here a nun's gown, if you can throw it

over your other clothes. Where is the gown, Andriot?"

He gave it me, and Louise covered her white dress with the gray serge;

but, as she was in the very act of putting it on, to my surprise I

heard the great and remarkable-toned bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois

begin to ring loudly, as if for matins; and, scarcely had I hurried

Louise across the court into the street, when loud shouts were heard

from different parts of the town; the bells of the churches were heard

ringing; the light of torches and flambeaux was seen advancing from

the side of the Louvre; and it was evident that, notwithstanding the

profound stillness which had reigned in the city as I passed along,

one part, at least, of the population was up and watchful.

A moment after we heard a loud and piercing shriek in the distance,

and Louise, trembling in every limb, clung to my arm. At first she

seemed to think that all this referred to ourselves; that we were

discovered, and about to be dragged back; but the cries from every

part of the town soon undeceived her: and, as I remembered the various

little incidents of the last three days; the warning of young Martin

Vern; the eager and pressing invitation of the prince dauphin, I

doubted not that some dark and horrible scheme for the destruction of

the Protestants was upon the eve of execution.

Moric Endem closed the door behind us, and, with the other men, sprung

to my side; and, remembering the caution of the young merchant, I drew

Louise on, with scarcely a word, towards his dwelling.

The street in which we were was still nearly vacant, with the

exception of the people bearing torches, who were coming from the

farther end; but, just as we quitted the shadow of the Hôtel de

Blancford, a man darted forth from a doorway on the other side,

crying, "Help! help! Here are Protestants escaping!" and, at the same

time, he seized me by the arm and aimed a blow at my head. He was

masked, but the voice was that of De Blaye; and he certainly would,

have cut me down, had not Moric Endem, always prompt and cool,

levelled his pistol at his head and fired. He fell dead upon the spot;

but the cry had brought a number of the torch-men down at full speed,

and I certainly thought that our hour was come.

Moric's wit, however, now saved us, as his ready courage had done. He

seemed to comprehend the whole in a moment; and, as his religion never

stood in the way of his proceedings, he burst out into a loud laugh as

the men came up, crying, "That Maheutre of a Huguenot will need no

more. By the mass, if I had not had my pistol, he would have murdered

some of us. There, drag him along by the heels to Montfaucon. So

perish all enemies of the true church!"

"Bravo! bravo!" cried the torchmen, taking us for zealous Catholics;

and on we hurried after them as close as we could come. But the house

of Martin Vern was far off. The streets were beginning to swarm with

people; we saw two doors burst open, to pillage the houses and

massacre the inhabitants, before we reached the end of the street; and

Louise could not keep up with the men, whose mistake might still have

saved us if we could have gone on in their company. Nothing, then, but

certain death seemed to surround us on every side; the only chance was

in putting Moric Endem at the head of our troop; but he was known to

so many Catholics as well as Protestants, that the first order to

unmask would have betrayed all.

As we were following the other party at some distance, five or six

people came up from the opposite direction, and spoke a moment to

those before us. There was a woman with these new-comers; but they

stopped, and one man advanced, saying, "Unmask!"

Moric was about to cut him down, but I stopped him, and replied,

"Unmask yourself."

"Ha!" cried the other, "I was seeking you, Monsieur des Bois. We shall

save you still. Miriam, link yourself with the lady; my men, mingle

with their men. Let none of your party," he added, in a low tone,

"unmask; we will do that if need should be. Now, shout, my men, and

wave your torches. Up with the Catholic church, down with the

Maheutres!"

"Oh, my father! my father!" said Louise to me, in a low voice; "can we

not save my father! Oh, Henry! Henry! think of him!"

I spoke a word upon the subject to the young merchant, but he stopped

me sharply ere I could finish my sentence. "I am risking my life by

what I am doing even now. Speak not of it! He has a Catholic wife; she

will save his house. Come on! come on! You will see such sights as

will make you glad of your own lives!"

I whispered to Louise the hope that he gave me, scanty as it was; and,

alas! as we hastened onward, the sights we saw did fully justify that

which the young merchant had said.

Before we had gone half a mile, the streets of Paris were one scene of

massacre and horror. The whole place was blazing with torches; large

parties of armed men, on foot and on horseback, were scouring the

streets, killing every one even suspected of Protestantism; and many a

Catholic, too, was slain in the anarchy of the time, who stood between

fair estates and greedy relations. Six or seven we saw slain before

our eyes; and thrice, while the echoing screams of new victims were

heard within the houses, a dead body was cast forth from the upper

windows into the streets as we were passing. Instantly a crowd of the

dark and sallow villains that crowd the lanes and alleys of every

great metropolis, gathered round, like vultures over the dead, to

strip it of its clothing; and often was heard the low groan or faint

cry which followed the dagger-stroke that ended what the assassins

above had left unfinished.

As we approached the banks of the river, however, the scene became

still more terrible and still more confused; thousands of figures, all

bent on the same bloody business, whirled round us in every direction;

the cries of the victims; the shouts of their butchers; the breaking

in of doors and windows; the occasional discharge of firearms; the

incessant ringing of the bells, the beating of drums, and the sounding

of trumpets, made a noise perfectly deafening; while the sights that

were now presented, as clearly as if it had been day, made the heart

sick with horror, and agony, and indignant grief. In one gateway alone

I saw piled up so many human bodies, among which were two women, that

the gate could not be shut; and, as I kept my eyes upon the ground, I

saw that the gutters flowed red with blood. A little farther on, a boy

of thirteen or fourteen years of age was seen dragging along a naked

body by the heels; and farther still, a fiend of a woman pressing out

the last breath from the body of a creature like herself, while she

tore the rich clothes from her dying limbs.

All those that appeared active in the massacre, of a better class, at

least, all I saw were masked; but much happened even close to me that

I beheld not at all; for my whole thoughts were taken up with the

situation of the dear girl by my side, and I feared every moment that

her strength would fail through terror, horror, and agitation. She

hung heavily upon my arm, it is true, but still she did not give way.

With her eyes bent down upon the ground, she hurried on, while the

kind girl Miriam, though evidently terribly agitated herself, poured

strengthening and consoling words into her ear, and supported her on

the other side.

Three times we had been stopped and commanded to unmask; but either a

single word from young Martin Vern, or Moric Endem's well-imitated

shout of "Down with the Huguenots!" obtained us a free passage without

uncovering our faces.

At length, the long-wished-for sight of the street in which the

merchant lived presented itself; but at that very spot we were stopped

by a crowd of wild rabble whom no words would pacify; and even when

the young merchant and two of those who were with him pulled their

vizards off, a furious man, brandishing a sword, swore that he gave a

false name, and was calling out to kill him, when Moric Endem,

starting forward, exclaimed, "Ha! Gouquant! Huguenot! Maheutre that

you are! Knock his brains out, Martin! Knock his brains out! He was

Coligne's horseboy at Moncontour, and was taken. Knock his brains out!

knock his brains out! He is a Huguenot shamming Catholic."

With his drawn sword in his hand he rushed forward, and, before he

could be stopped, cut the man down. "By the mass, there are more

Huguenots among them!" he cried, springing at another man. "Kill them

all! kill them all! Down with the Huguenots!" but the men fled in

every direction, and left the street clear.

Young Martin Vern, however, paused and looked angrily upon Moric

Endem, saying, "This must be answered."

"It is answered in six words," replied Moric. "The man is what I said.

He is Gouquant, who was horseboy to the admiral, and has since, I

hear, been cutthroat for any one that wanted one here in Paris."

Nobody could contradict him, and the young merchant hurried on.

Oh! with what joy and satisfaction did I see the great doors of the

merchant's courtyard close behind us, and held my poor half-fainting

Louise to my heart in a momentary dream of safety! But that dream was

soon dispelled, for I heard one of the men, as pale as death, telling

the good youth who had protected us that the whole place had been

twice searched for me and my followers already. The next moment there

was a low rap at the gate, and, on looking through the grating, we saw

the two elder merchants, with a footboy, and immediately gave them

admission. Martin Vern's face was sad and pale, however.

"They refuse me to open the city gates on any account," he said, as

soon as the door was closed. "Nay, cheer up, sweet lady, we will find

means to save you. Miriam, what says your quick wit? To-morrow the

search will be stricter and more orderly--not less fatal, though. How

can we get them out of the city?"

"By the river!" said the girl, eagerly, "by the river! My father's

barge, that brought all the gold plate from Rouen, is just at the back

of our garden."

"But, to get to the top of your house, Miriam," said the merchant,

"They must pass round through that awful street where the blood is now

flowing like water."

"Over the tops of the houses!" cried the girl; "over the roof! I know

there is a way. You, dear Martin, run round and tell my father to open

the door above. I will guide them thither."

The young merchant paused not a moment, and his uncles as eagerly and

rapidly led us out upon the tops of their warehouses. Tremendous was

the lurid glare that rose up from the streets below; tremendous the

mingled roar of terrific sounds that reached us as we hurried along

the narrow and giddy way; it was like walking along the precipice

verge of hell itself; and I do not think that Louise could have borne

it long, had not good Martin Vern soon led us into a sort of alley

between the double roofs of the houses. It was with some difficulty

that we found out which was the roof of the good Jew's house; but at

length Miriam fixed upon it, and knocked at a small door in the side.

For several moments there was no answer, and she knocked again. Then,

however, came the sound of steps hurrying up, and hands unsteady, it

seemed, with age or fear, unlocked the door on the other side. As soon

as it was opened the head of Solomon Ahar appeared, his limbs shaking,

and his face pale.

"Blessed be God!" he cried. "Blessed be God! Come in, my children!

come in! All is safe here. I always make my house doubly strong. Ah!

bless your sweet face, lady, you look pale, and well you may; but the

boat will save you. It is close to the shore; in the little creek I

had made to unload my merchandise. I owe my life to the good lord,

your lover, there!"

"My husband!" said Louise, in a tone that I shall never forget; and,

casting herself upon my bosom, she wept. Her tears were soon dried,

however, and we hurried down to the bank.

As it was probable that we might be fired upon, some large piles of

fagots were given us to make a sort of screen on either side, and also

to give the barge the appearance of merely a wood-boat. A large bag of

money was placed in my hands by Martin Vern; Miriam brought down some

rich cushions for Louise to lie upon; the Jew himself added wine and

provisions; and Moric Endem, doing his best to assume the appearance

of a common boatman, aided another of the men to push away from the

shore and get into the middle of the river.

As we slowly made our way along, the horrid sounds from the centre of

the town began to decrease; but, just in passing near the walls, the

guards first called out to stop, and then fired upon us. But their

shot did us no harm, and, ere they could load and fire again, we were

out of reach. We passed the suburb, too, in safety; and oh! how

strange was the sensation, when we felt the boat gliding on through

the calm, noiseless scenes of the country, and saw the calm morning

light glowing warmly in the east!

Our horses and the rest of my followers, with good Dame Marguelette,

had been stationed at a little cabaret not a hundred yards from the

river, and Moric, who knew the spot, engaged to land us, and lead us

thither at once. He was not one to mistake, and we put ourselves

entirely under his guidance. When the boat touched the shore, however,

I thought I heard many persons talking at a distance, and landed first

to see.

As I approached the rendezvous, I saw, by the gray dawn, a much larger

body of horse than that which I expected, and, pausing, I was on the

eve of returning to the barge, when I perceived a young man

dismounted, and pacing eagerly backward and forward, but every now and

then pausing to look up the road. I thought that I could not be

mistaken in the figure, and, advancing a little nearer, the face of

the prince dauphin became more distinct. At the same moment he caught

a sight of me, and, darting forward, he caught me by the hand,

saying, "Thank God! but oh, De Cerons, you are surely not alone!"

I told him briefly what had happened, and he replied, "Lose not a

moment! Bring them all here. There is a letter for the lady, and an

escort of my own men, with a safe conduct from my father. But you must

put twenty leagues between you and Paris ere you sleep; for here, at

this moment, no man could be certain of saving his own brother from

hour to hour. No words, De Cerons, but away! To Geneva! to Geneva! if

you would have safety."

No words, indeed, were spent in vain. Louise and the rest were brought

up from the boat, and, ere twenty minutes had passed, we were on the

road to Switzerland.

It was not till we had passed the French frontier that I could believe

that the beloved being, now my own, was in safety; but there my joy

was mingled with deep grief; for there we learned, for the first time,

the extent of our loss, and found that the Barony of Blancford, as

well as the Lordship of Cerons, had fallen to one who wept to receive

them. Good old La Tour, too, was among the gone; and the Baroness de

Blancford had not been suffered, by the wild beasts that were let

loose upon the Protestants of France, to escape that fate which she

made no effort to avert from her husband.

EVA ST. CLAIR.

A TALE.

EVA ST. CLAIR.

--------------

CHAPTER I.

'Twas a bright day in the autumn; the brown leaves were still upon the

trees, the moss was springing up rich and green round the old roots

and upon the sloping banks, and the sun, peeping in wherever the hand

of Time had cast down their green garmenture from the earlier shrubs,

checkered the ground every here and there with bright glances of

yellow light, which, while the wind moved the branches gently above,

waved slowly backward and forward, as if well pleased at the velvety

cushion on which it rested. The scene was as still and solitary as it

was possible to conceive; for those were days in which civil wars and

angry strife had diminished by one half the population of merry

England. No forester took his way through the wood; no guard of the

king's chase or baron's huntsman watched to see whether some churl or

yeoman was not aiming the shaft at the royal deer, or entangling the

roebuck in a concealed snare. Stephen, pressed on all sides, had been

forced to abandon rights for the sake of popularity; and many a wide

track, deserted by its lord, and destitute of inhabitants, remained

open to any one that chose to hunt within its precincts.

A low wind sighed through the tops of the trees, and made the dry

leaves whisper as if telling each other some solemn tale. The sun

shone, as I have said; but with great silence and in the midst of

solitude, there is something solemn even in sunshine. At length a

woodpecker came down upon the green moss, ran up a neighbouring tree,

knocked it with its bill where it seemed hollow, and then either came

down again upon the ground, or flew on again to another tree, with the

wild, melancholy sort of laugh to which that bird gives utterance

while upon the wing.

He had gone on this way for nearly an hour, confining his excursions

to the limits of a few hundred yards, when suddenly he started up from

a green cushion of moss on which he had settled for a moment, and flew

away from the open spot, where the trees stood far apart, into the

depths of the thicker wood beyond.

What was it started the wild bird from the moss! It was a step that

fell lightly, and scarcely left a print behind it; but it was quick

and hurried, and the small foot that made it was somewhat weary with

the length of way it had come.

In a moment after, in the midst of the tall trees where the woodpecker

had been disporting himself, there stood the form of a girl of some

nineteen or twenty years of age. Over her other clothes she wore a

dark brown cloak, such as in those days was very commonly worn by

women of the lower orders, and the hood, which formed the principal

part of the garment, was brought far over the head. This mantle, rough

and rude in itself, seemed also somewhat too large for the person that

wore it; but, nevertheless, it could not conceal entirely the grace of

the form it covered, nor the movement of each well-turned limb.

The young lady--for no one who saw her could doubt that she was

so--paused as she came up to the spot we have mentioned, and gazed

round about her somewhat inquiringly, as if she expected to find there

something she did not behold.

"It is strange," she said at length, speaking low, in a sweet,

melodious voice, like the musical murmuring of a stream, "it is very

strange that the old woman is not here. Perhaps I am before the time.

I will wait and see," and, seating herself on the mossy bank in the

sunshine, she bent down her head upon her hand, and soon fell into a

deep fit of meditation. The expression of her countenance grew

something more than thoughtful--it grew even melancholy; and so busy

did she become with her own thoughts, that her tongue betrayed, from

time to time, the ideas that were passing within. "It is very long,"

she said, "very long since I heard from him. Old Maude has forgotten

such feelings, or she would not keep me so long from the letter. I

wonder if I shall ever forget them? Oh, I hope not!" And again she

fell into silent thought, with her eyes fixed upon the rich green

stems of the moss which carpeted the ground beneath her feet. A minute

or two after, however, borne upon the light wind came the sound of a

distant bell, and, looking up and listening with a smile, she again

murmured, "I was too soon! There is the bell of the convent sounding

the Angelus."

Scarcely had the last tone died away when another sound met her

ear--the sound of a full, clear voice singing a gay country ditty; one

of the many for which old England has been famous at all times. The

words were In the old Saxon tongue, but they may very nearly be

rendered as follows in the English of our own day.

SONG.

Shut the window, close the door;

See, the brown leaves strew the floor;

Chilling winds are in the sky,

Autumn's gone and spring is nigh,

But winter lies between.

Oh, the brown leaves! oh, the brown,

Best of hues for fields or town,

It outlives the good-by of the green.

Hark, the curfew! Hide the fire;

Let no flame rise like a spire,

But leave enough of ashes bright

To see my Maude's eyes by the light

That the gray embers lend.

Oh, the gray! night's sober gray!

Gold light and blue sky for the day,

But gray on all in the end.

The lady had started up at the very first sounds, and looked in the

direction whence they came with some degree of apprehension. As she

listened, however, she said, with a more assured countenance, "She has

sent her son, the good woodman; yet that does not sound like his voice

either. I will creep behind those bushes and watch; but it must be

him."

Silently drawing back, and keeping the tree still between her and the

path by which the singer seemed to be approaching, she placed herself

behind some bushes at the distance of between twenty or thirty yards

of the spot where she had been seated. As she there stood, the person

whose voice she had heard came forward from the thicker part of the

wood, looking, as he advanced, towards the westward, which, it must be

remarked, was the quarter from which the lady herself had first

appeared. He slackened his pace, too, as he came up, so that there

could be but little doubt that it was for her he looked. His dress,

too, reassured her; for it consisted of the yellow untanned leather

coat of the woodman, which, from the green ochrey earth that was

employed to clean it, received a tint very much like that of the young

leaves of the trees. The coat, indeed, was not in the very best

condition, being a good deal worn, and somewhat ragged at the spot

where the heavy axe, thrust through the broad belt, had chafed the

thick leather for many a day. There was a large gap, too, and a patch

upon the right arm; and the fair girl, who was now advancing, with a

heart naturally kindly and expanding, at that moment more

particularly, from the happy expectation of receiving tidings, thought

that she would give the good woodman wherewithal to renew his leathern

coat as a reward for bearing her the letter.

The woodman, unconscious of her presence, was looking the other way;

but, though her step was light, his ears soon caught it, and he turned

quickly towards her as she came forward.

There might be seen, the instant that he turned, a sudden change in

the lady's look. She stopped, gazed at him with a look of

astonishment, and then, uttering a cry of surprise and joy, sprang

forward to his arms. In her eagerness, the hood and mantle fell off,

disclosing the graceful person, the lovely face, and the rich apparel

below; and it was a strange sight, certainly, to see so fair and

delicate a creature, habited as might become the daughter of a prince,

clasped in the arms of one clothed in such rude attire. It wanted,

however, but one glance at his countenance to show that he upon whose

bosom the lady hung so fondly was not what he seemed; and every moment

spoke of long training to graceful exercises and to courtly demeanour,

though each limb was well fitted to wield the heavy sword or couch the

tough ash spear. He was tall and powerfully made, but his countenance

was mild and kind, and his eye, as it rested upon the fair girl whom

he now held to his heart, was full of tenderness and affection as well

as joy--joy rising out of grief, and not entirely freed from some

portion thereof, like a flower opening out after a shower, but with

its head still bent down, and its leaves encumbered with the drops

that had fallen heavily upon it. All that the young gentleman said for

some time was, "Eva, my beloved Eva;" and all that the lady replied

was, "Oh, Richard, how long it is since we have met!"

Then succeeded words of joy, and tenderness, and love; but upon these

we will not dwell, for to pause and fix our eyes upon moments of such

bright happiness is like gazing upon the sun, which, for long after,

prevents us from seeing all other things less bright. They had much to

say, however, that was not joyful; they had much to tell that was

painful to hear; for, though Eva St. Clair assured him again and again

that she would never love any one but him; that, sooner than wed any

other, she would take that fatal vow by which many a young, a kind,

and affectionate heart bound itself, in those days, to cold solitude

for ever, she had yet to tell him that she saw no prospect of her

father, the well-known Hubert of St. Clair, changing in any degree his

determination of refusing her hand to him whom he had once permitted

to expect it as a certain treasure; with whom all her years had been

passed, and to whom her young affection had been given. The dissension

between their fathers, which, as was so often the case in those days,

had been permitted to break through the happiness of their children,

seemed, she said, of a character rather to be aggravated than

diminished by time, at least in the mind of her father, who, though

generous to all, and especially kind to her, would not yield on a

point where he conceived his honour was concerned. He, too, had to

tell much that was painful. He had to inform her that his father was

more than ever attached to the cause of the usurper Stephen, and that

he, his son, was still bound to fight upon a side where his heart told

him that the cause was unjust, and where his own observation showed

him that injustice was upheld by tyranny and wrong; a side in defence

of which his arm was weak and his sword fell powerless; where he felt

that he could never win renown, because his heart was deprived of all

those enthusiasms that lead on to high destinies in whatever cause

they are enlisted.

Still, however, while they told each other all these sad things, the

joy of this meeting again mingled with the sorrow, and many a look of

love, and many a fond caress was added, which softened their grief,

and made the anticipated evils look far off while hope was born of

joy.

Though their meeting, even in the wild chase of the Lords of St.

Clair, was a rash and dangerous act, yet they promised to meet again:

and still they talked, and still they lingered; nor would they

probably have separated for many a moment longer, had not the sound of

a horn, echoing through the glades of the green wood, told them that

some one was rapidly approaching.

"Fly, Richard, fly!" exclaimed the fair girl; "it is my father; most

likely it is my father; and oh, if he were to find you here, how

terrible might be the result."

Richard de Lacy pressed her once more to his heart, once more kissed

the sweet lips of her who loved him, and then plunged into the deepest

part of the wood; while Eva, snatching up the dark mantle she had

dropped, gathered it round her, and, with a quick step, bent her way

homeward.

CHAPTER II.

We must now change the scene for a time; for, in so brief a history as

this the reader's imagination must aid the writer, and supply all

those links in the chain which would occupy much time to detail.

On the top of a high wooded hill in the county of Buckingham, which

was in those days covered with great forests of beech-trees, rose

heavily from amid the green boughs the square, heavy keep of an old

Norman castle. This was all that could be seen of the dwelling of the

Lords of St. Clair from the lower country which it commanded; but,

upon approaching through the chase, vast ranges of walls, and

battlements, and outbuildings were seen; moats and ditches covering a

great extent of ground, with the turreted gate and barbican thrown

forward in front. Though no artillery, in those days, looked down from

the battlements, with mouths ready to pour forth fire and destruction

upon those who advanced to attack them, yet the aspect of those walls

was no less imposing; and bold would have been the man who, without an

overwhelming force, would have marched to the assault of the Castle of

St. Clair.

Such was not likely to be the case on the day of which we speak. But,

nevertheless, there was an imposing display of strength upon the

walls--archers, and slingers, and men-at-arms; and, though the gates

were thrown open and the drawbridge was down, yet the archway was

lined with soldiers, and the great court was half filled with men in

complete arms. Often did it happen in those days, that the appearance

of reverence covered preparations for defence or resistance; and while

Hubert of St. Clair stood a few steps beyond the gateway of his own

castle, clad in the long and flowing robes which were then much

affected in times of peace by the Norman nobles, he looked round upon

the iron-clad forms and bristling spears of his men-at-arms with pride

and pleasure, while he watched the advance of a small train of

horsemen who came slowly up the long road cut down the edge of the

wooded hill.

The person who approached at the head of that party was Stephen, king

of England; and ever and anon, as he rode up the ascent, he rolled his

eyes over the well-manned walls of the castle he was approaching, and

murmured some words to himself in a tone of displeasure, perhaps of

scorn. When he came near to St. Clair, indeed, his face assumed a

softer aspect, and he tried hard to smooth his tone and manner when he

returned the salutation of the baron. The effort was very

unsuccessful, however; and a heavy frown still sat upon his brow as he

dismounted from his horse and entered the hall, where everything had

been prepared as far to receive him as the shortness of the notice he

had given would permit.

"Well, my good lord, well," he said, as he advanced into the hall,

still glancing his eye, as he spoke, over every object that the place

contained, "I have come all this way from my army to see if I cannot

persuade you to give your fair daughter to the son of my noble friend

De Lacy."

The baron heard him with a calm, cold countenance, but replied nothing

directly, merely saying, "Let me beseech you, my liege, to taste some

refreshment, such as my place can afford. Had I known of your coming

sooner, I would have been better provided."

"But give me an answer, give me an answer, my good lord," replied the

king, "and a fair answer, too, I beseech you."

"I seek not to marry my daughter, sire," replied the baron, in the

same cold tone; "perhaps, before I do, she may be a ward of the

crown."

Stephen bit his lip, but smothered every inclination to make a sharp

reply, saying, in a jesting tone, "But where is the fair lady? where

is your daughter, my good lord! Let us have her to council; her voice,

surely, will have some weight in the matter."

"Not knowing of your coming, my liege," replied the baron, "she is

gone forth, I understand, either to visit the good nuns of Grace Dieu,

or to see her old foster-mother Maude, who lives near the small town

on the other side of the chase. But where is your noble son, my liege?

Your messengers informed me he came with you."

"He follows hard after," answered the king; "perhaps he may have gone

to strike a hart in your forest, my good lord. You will not grudge the

king's son a head of venison?"

"Heaven forbid!" replied the baron. "But there seems some disturbance

without there, as if they were bringing in some one who is hurt.

Heaven forbid that your son, my liege, should have met any one of my

rough foresters."

Stephen looked instantly towards the court; but, seeing his son,

Prince Eustace, on horseback, and apparently safe, he turned again

towards the baron, whose attention had been called in another

direction.

During the brief time the king's eyes had been turned towards the

court, some other persons had been added to the group in the hall;

but, ere we proceed to say what brought them thither, we must once

more take the wings of imagination, and fly back to the glades of the

forest, and to the scenes which had just taken place under their green

canopy.

Eva, as we have said, had hastened rapidly homeward; and, though the

horns sounded hither and thither at no great distance from her, the

path she pursued was for some way quite solitary; till at length,

secure from being found in the midst of the wild chase with Richard de

Lacy, she slackened her pace and walked more slowly, stopping at last

entirely, to take breath and gaze around her, at a spot where the

road, rounding an angle at the hill, exposed a deep wooded valley

below, with a wide, sloping upland on the other side, rising gradually

towards her father's castle, the tall keep of which was discernible

above the woody scene before her eyes.

Along the side of the opposite hill the hunt was sweeping merrily;

horsemen and hounds were seen from time to time bursting forth for an

instant, and then plunging again among the bushes; and still the

cheerful echo of the horns and eager cry of the dogs told which way

the chase went, as the quarry led them through a long, mazy course

amid its native woods. Eva gazed, and saw them take their way in a

direction opposite to that in which her own steps were bent; but, the

moment after, she started with surprise, and uttered a faint cry, as

two gayly-dressed horsemen dashed forth from the wood close beside

her, and one of them, springing from his horse, caught the edge of her

mantle with rude familiarity.

"Ha! my pretty maiden," he cried, "We have been hunting the hart and

caught the hind, ha? Back with your hood! back with your hood! We

three foresters let no deer escape us. On my soul, Eustace, this is no

pitiful prize! Thank my lucky stars, that gave you the first choice

and the miller's maiden, and threw this pretty creature as the prize

of the second chance."

The person who spoke was a young man of some nineteen or twenty years

of age, rather effeminate than otherwise in his appearance, and with a

great quantity of long black hair,[1] beautifully curled and parted in

front. As he spoke he pulled back violently the hood from Eva's face,

and al the same moment cast his arm round her slender waist. She

struggled to free herself, entreated, threatened her father's wrath;

but he heard not or heeded not; those were days of unbridled license,

when even churches and monasteries did not give security; and the

walls of the castle were woman place of safety against insult and

brutal violence. Terror took possession of the daughter of St. Clair,

and she screamed loudly again and again.

Ere the second cry had issued from her lips, however, some one darted

from the wood, and in a moment another followed him. Both were dressed

as woodmen, and again Eva screamed loudly, holding forth her arms

towards the one who first appeared.

"Get thee back, churl," cried the man who held her, still detaining

her with his left arm while he drew his sword with his right; "get

thee back, or, by Heaven, I will send thy soul to the place appointed

for the serfs in the other world;" and he laughed aloud at his own

jest.

His laughter was soon over, however, for the stranger was upon him in

a moment with a broad axe drawn from his belt and glittering in his

hand. The proud noble struck at him with his sword; but, to his

surprise, the axe met the blow and parried it, as a weapon in the hand

of a skilful swordsman. With a bitter curse he let go his hold of Eva,

and rushed forward upon his adversary; but he had scarcely time to

strike another blow, when his opponent, turning the back of the axe,

struck him first on the shoulder a blow that brought him on his knee,

and then another on the forehead, which, though lighter than the

first, laid him stunned and bleeding on the earth.

"Lie there, Earl of Northampton," said his adversary: and then, giving

one glance to Eva, who had fled to some distance, he turned towards

the other horseman, who had likewise drawn his sword, and, with

furious and blasphemous invectives, was pressing fiercely upon the

second person who had come to Eva's rescue. That other horseman was

even younger than the first; but pride, and violence were stamped on

every feature, and vice had written early marks of its blighting

effects upon his countenance.

"Walter, Walter," cried the voice of him who had so soon terminated

the contest with the Earl of Northampton, "leave him, Walter; it is

the king's son! The lady is safe. Leave him, I say."

"He shall not leave me till I have cleft his scull," cried the prince.

"Richard de Lacy, I know you; and, if you dare to interfere, I will

treat you as I would a hound;" and, as he spoke, he spurred his horse

upon the woodman Walter, aiming a furious blow at his head; but

Richard de Lacy thrust himself between, turned aside the stroke, and,

catching the bridle of the horse, reined it sharply back upon its

haunches, so that it slipped and wellnigh rolled down the hill.

"Fy, prince, for shame," said De Lacy; "some day such acts will cost

you a crown. You can do no more mischief here, however; get some of

your attendants to carry away the carrion of yonder vile perverter of

your youth."

"Hark ye, De Lacy, hark ye," cried the prince, bending over his

saddle-bow, and dropping the point of his sword; and, as the young

baron approached nearer to hear, the prince struck him a blow with his

clinched fist in the face, saying, "Take that, hound, and learn your

duty."

De Lacy suddenly raised the axe in his hand, but instantly suffered it

to fall again without doing the deed he had meditated. "The time for

answering this will come," he said; "it shall not be said of me that I

killed the king's son in a wood, with no one by, or broke the neck of

a stripling who deserves the rod of a pedagogue."

Thus saying, he cast free the rein, and, making the woodman go before

him, he followed Eva on her way. He overtook her soon; for, though

fright carried her fast, her strength soon failed; and, taking a small

path which all of them well knew through the depth of the wood, he led

her to one of the postern gates of the castle, and there left her in

safety. When he had done so he went back to the woodman's cottage,

cast off the dress under which he had concealed his rank, and mounted

the horse which was waiting there for his return.

At the neighbouring town a large and splendid train had been ordered

to remain till he came back; but Richard de Lacy waited only for those

who were ready to spring into the saddle, and, spurring onward without

the loss of an hour, he reached his father's castle on the following

morning just as high mass was over. His father was still in the

chapel, speaking with old friends and affectionate retainers ere he

returned to the hall; but Richard advanced at once up the aisle, and,

to the astonishment of his father, he strode without a pause to the

high altar, on which, after kissing the cross upon its hilt, he laid

down his sheathed sword, saying, "That sword shall never be drawn

again in the service of an usurper, or for the race of one who has

dared to strike the son of Reginald de Lacy."

The old man frowned upon him, but made no reply.

CHAPTER III.

These were busy and eager movements seen through the lands of Hubert

St. Clair. Horsemen galloping hither and thither, the German catching

up his bow, the men-at-arms buckling on sword and helmet, and troops

flocking to the castle from every part of the domain. These signs and

symptoms of some sudden change in the views and the prospects of the

Lord of St. Clair were followed by the marching of forces towards

Oxford; and in the midst of one of the strongest bands was a fair

lady, with a train of matrons and damsels attending upon her, and

several old squires and grooms, who had seen her grow up among them

from infancy to womanhood.

In the good town of Oxford there stood at that time a large palace and

a strong castle, both of which have been long swept away, if not

entirely, yet so far as to leave scarcely a trace of the original

forms behind. At the gates of the palace Eva St. Clair dismounted from

her horse, and was led on by some attendants who met her, into a

chamber where sat a lady of tall and commanding person and imposing

aspect. Eva advanced somewhat agitated, but still gracefully, and

knelt at the feet of the Empress Matilda; for such was the person to

whom she now came. The empress suffered her to kneel, gazing on her as

she did so with a look of some surprise and admiration; but at length,

seeming suddenly to recollect her, she exclaimed, "Oh! the daughter of

St. Clair! He has, indeed, kept his word with me, and sooner than he

promised;" and, bending down her head, she kissed the fair brow that

was raised towards her, and asked what news the lady had brought.

"I bring you, madam," said Eva, "a small band of three hundred chosen

men, with tidings from my father, that with the same number he has

gone to join your majesty's brother, the noble Earl of Gloucester.

Besides this, he holds three castles strongly garrisoned for your

majesty's service, and he hopes, ere long, to join you with the earl,

with such a force as will make your enemies tremble."

Such tidings were very consolatory to the empress queen, and the aid

she so suddenly received was indeed most needful, for her party had

been reduced to little better than a name. Stephen's power was every

day increasing; her brother, the Earl of Gloucester, had gone to seek

aid in Normandy and Anjou, and she was left with a very scanty force

to keep alive the struggle till his return. That return, however, was

delayed much longer than any one expected, by the hesitation and

uncertainty of her own husband, who left her to fight for the crown,

which was hers by hereditary right, with scarcely an effort to assist

or support her. Taking advantage of the great Earl of Gloucester's

absence, Stephen exerted every energy to crush the cause of his rival

while the hand of adversity was upon her. The last troops which found

their way into Oxford were those which accompanied Eva St. Clair; and

although, for two days more, the army of Stephen did not appear

beneath the walls of the city, the supply of provisions which had been

eagerly demanded from the country round, in order to enable the place

to support a long siege, became more and more scanty every day. At

length appeared the armies of the enemy. One body led by Stephen in

person, one by the murderous and bloody William of Ipres, and one by

Prince Eustace, in whose camp was the young Earl of Northampton,

slowly recovering from the severe blow which he had received.

At first nothing was seen but the tents and pavilions of the enemy

crowning every distant eminence, while dark bodies of horse and foot,

the numbers of which could scarcely be distinguished, were seen moving

about over the low hills, and through the meadows around. Day by day,

however, the besieging force drew closer and closer round the city.

The numbers could be counted, the arms could be distinguished, the

groups of leaders could be told, the shouts and commands could be

heard, and at length many a face could be recognised, and every piece

of armour plainly seen from the beleaguered walls.

Eva's heart sunk when she gazed forth and saw nothing but the iron

ranks of the enemy surrounding her on every side; it seemed as if

deliverance could never come, and hope were at an end.

Still, however, the gallant defenders of the place knew no fear and

relaxed no effort. By many a sally and feat of arms, they proved their

prowess upon the assailants, and not one tower or outwork was lost.

Still the garrison thought the good Earl of Gloucester must soon be

here. Still they gazed from the highest turret, to see if they could

discover the lances of their deliverers coming through the distant

woods.

No aid, however, appeared: the provisions in the place became scanty,

autumn gave way to winter, and intense cold was added to their other

evils. Regulations were made in regard to the quantity of food and

firing to be allowed to each person; and the table of the empress and

her attendants was, by her own order, reduced to no more than would

supply the demands of nature. In the town the scarcity was, of course,

felt more than in the castle; for there were many poor, and many

improvident there, who had not been able, or had not thought fit, to

lay in sufficient stores against the hour of need; and, after the

siege had lasted about two months, one could not walk through the

streets without seeing pale and haggard faces, and sunken eyes turned

eagerly towards the countenance of every one they met, as if asking,

"Is there any hope of relief?"

No relief appeared; and the eyes that watched the distant country saw

the low winter sun slowly rise and early set without one sign of

coming deliverance. At length a heavy fog fell over the whole land,

and lasted nearly a week: so dense that nothing could be seen the

distance of twenty yards. During the first and second day, under the

cover of the mist, the besieging force attempted at various points to

force its way into the town; but it was in vain that they did so; and,

repelled at every point, again reduced their efforts to a strict

blockade.

After that busy period was over, the garrison had nothing more to

occupy them than hope and fear. The stores were often examined, and

found to have dwindled down to a mere pittance: but then, again,

people thought they heard distant trumpets and shouts from a spot far

beyond the lines of the besiegers. Every one augured that the Earl of

Gloucester was coming up, and that, as soon as the mist cleared away,

he would attack the army of the enemy. At length, however, after one

night of more intense frost than ever, the fog did clear away, and the

half-famished garrison ran up to the highest towers, alas! but to see

their hopes blasted. There was the country beyond all bright and

glittering in the frostwork, but neither spear, nor pennon, nor

banner, nor hauberk, but those in the camp of the enemy. All hearts

fell; and, although they endeavoured not to suffer despair to show

itself in their looks, Matilda, wherever she turned her eyes, found

nothing but an echo to the apprehensions that were in her own heart.

The only one who even tried to console her was Eva of St. Clair, who

had become very dear to the empress; and though, when the siege first

began, her heart, unaccustomed to such scenes, had entertained none of

the proud confidence which had animated others, she now displayed more

fortitude than all, and in the midst of sorrow spoke of better days.

She was thus sitting at the feet of the empress, trying to cheer her,

when the governor of the castle entered the chamber where they were

alone, without other witnesses, and, approaching the empress with a

calm but sad countenance, "I have come, madam," he said, "to bring

your majesty very sad news. On examining the stores this day, I find

that there is but food left of any kind for three days. By killing all

the horses that we have left, we may, indeed, make it outlast a fourth

day, but that is all; and, moreover, I grieve to say, that a

pestilential distemper has broken out in the town for the want of

food; a hundred and ten souls took flight last night between midnight

and matins."

Matilda clasped her hands and looked up towards Heaven; but, instantly

resuming her native courage, she said, "Something must be done, my

lord, something must be done; have you anything to propose? Please

God, we will never surrender."

"Were your majesty not here," he replied, "we could obtain easy terms

enough; but the usurper has sworn that you shall yield to him without

conditions. As that cannot be, however, all that I have to propose is

this: Wallingford is full of your friends, strong, and well provided

with all things; 'tis but a short distance; we are still here six

hundred men-at-arms; and, though we have but thirty horses left, that

number may well do all that is needful. Let your majesty, and such

knights as can find horses, mount a little before daybreak to-morrow

morning; let us take one good meal before we set out, and then,

throwing open the gates towards Wallingford, all issue forth suddenly

together, horse and foot, and cut our way through. The moment you and

your guard have passed, I will form those that are on foot across the

road, which is between steep banks, you know, and I will wager my head

to maintain it for nearly half an hour against all they can bring to

fight me. It will take them as long to go round by either of the other

roads, so that you can get to Wallingford in safety."

"And you, my good friend, and you," said the empress, "you, and all

the brave men who are with you, you will remain but to die in my

defence. Well, well, say no more. I will think of it till midnight,

and then give you my answer after consulting my fair counsellor here."

The baron shook his head, as if not approving of such counsel; but,

before he went, he bent down his head to Eva, saying, "May thee be

resolute; there is but one way to save your sovereign." When he was

gone, the empress, who had hitherto suffered no emotion to appear,

bent down her head upon her hands, and the tears rolled from her eyes.

Eva stood by in silence, for she knew that as yet it was in vain to

speak; and thus the sun went down, leaving the chamber in the gray

shadow of the twilight. At that instant there was the sound of a

footstep in the anteroom; and, in a moment after, the door opened,

showing the tall, dark form of a monk, in his long gray gown and cowl.

The empress started up, exclaiming, "Who are you! Who is it you seek!"

"Peace be with you, my daughter," replied the monk; "it is you I seek,

and I bear you some tidings of moment. See you this letter?"

The empress snatched it from his hand, and darted eagerly to the

window to catch the last faint light that was in the sky. As soon as

her eyes were fixed upon the letter, she exclaimed, "Robert of

Gloucester's hand, as I live." Then, as she tore it, she added, "Six

days! he will be here in six days! Alas! he will come too late!"

"So indeed I find, my daughter," said the monk. "Since I made my way

in here, I see that your situation would be hopeless if you could not

escape."

"Escape!" exclaimed the empress; "Would that I could escape! But how

came you hither yourself? How found you your way through the enemy's

lines?"

"By a path that is open to you, my daughter," replied the monk, "if

you will be contented to trust to my guidance, and to take but few

persons with you."

"But who are you that I should trust?" demanded the empress. "What is

your name? How shall I know that you are faithful?"

"Did I not bring that letter?" said the Monk. "But if you want farther

proof, let me speak a word to this lady in yonder chamber, and she

shall be my surety." He took Eva's hand in his and led her towards the

anteroom; and, as he did so, that fair hand trembled and her whole

frame thrilled. They were absent some minutes; but, when they

returned, Eva cast herself at the empress's feet, exclaiming, "Oh,

trust him, madam, trust him. I will pledge my life and soul for his

faith."

CHAPTER IV.

The clock was striking twelve, the moon was bright and high, but a

thin mist had come back upon the earth, and lay lightly over all the

slopes, and the lower parts of the ground in the neighbourhood of

Oxford, when a train, which might have scared the peasant or schoolboy

had he beheld it, so like was it to what imagination has pictured a

train of ghosts, took its way down a small turret staircase at the

castle of Oxford. That train consisted of three ladies and two men,

and all, with the exception of one, who wore a monk's gray gown, were

covered from head to foot in white. When they had descended to the

bottom of the stairs, the empress turned to the monk, demanding,

"Through the vaults, say you? How came you to discover the way?"

"I discovered it," replied the monk, "when I was mere boy, and studied

sciences under a clerk of this place." The empress looked down as if

apprehensive and doubtful, but still followed on; and, leading the

way, the monk opened the door which led into some vaults below the

castle, and thence down another narrow flight of steps, which made the

way seem to Matilda as if they were descending into a well. "Lord

Brian," she said, in a low voice to her other male attendant, "if you

find that he deceives us, cleave him down with your battle-axe."

"Fear not, lady," replied the gentleman to whom she spoke; "I know

him, although he does not know me, and you may trust to him in all

faith."

Again they proceeded in silence; and at the bottom of the steps they

found another door, which led them into a long vaulted passage. At

first it was cased with masonry, and a pavement was beneath their

feet; but at the end of twenty or thirty yards the masonry ceased, and

the torch carried by Lord Brian Fitzwalter showed that they were

passing under the arch of a sort of rude cave, occasionally supported

by brickwork, but not sufficiently so to prevent large masses of the

earth and stones from falling down and obstructing the way. At the end

of near two hundred yards more the monk turned towards the baron,

saying, "Here you must put out the light, but lead her majesty gently

forward, for the road is rough and dangerous." Lord Brian obeyed at

once, and extinguished the torch against the wall of the vault, if

wall it could indeed be called. He then led on the empress by the

hand, while the monk went before, directing them upon their way; and

presently after the faint blue light of the moonbeams were seen

glimmering at some distance before them.

"Now be silent as death," said the monk; "for, when we issue forth

from this place, we are within a hundred yards of the tent of William

of Ipres. When we are among the bushes at the mouth, stop, and let me

go on first. You will see exactly the course that I take, and, if I am

not seen in this gray gown, you, covered entirely in white, may well

escape."

A few steps more brought the whole party to a spot where a number of

dry hawthorn bushes had gathered themselves into a hollow in the

ground, completely concealing the mouth of the cavern or vault by

which they had issued forth from the Castle of Oxford. That hollow had

been part of some ancient Saxon, or, perhaps, Roman camp; and it

extended some way in the form of a narrow ravine. The depth, indeed,

except where the hawthorn bushes were, was very little; but it still

afforded some shelter from the eyes of any of the enemy's soldiers who

might have been near; nor was some shelter unnecessary; for at that

moment the empress and her attendants had already passed the outer

guards of Stephen's army, and were, in fact, half way through his

camp.

Gliding through the hawthorns, the monk advanced calmly on his way;

and, too impatient to wait long, the empress, with the hand of Eva St.

Clair clasped in hers, followed the distance of some twenty or thirty

paces. After a few minutes of ascent the whole scene around burst upon

them, and fearful it must have been to persons in their situation. The

camp of Stephen was before and around them; not indeed close, for that

was a spot of open ground which served as a sort of division between

the quarters of the different leaders, and the space of about two

hundred yards lay between tent and tent. That space, indeed, was

usually well watched by sentinels; but the night was intensely cold,

the wind was high, and the men gladly got behind the shelter of the

tents, or warmed themselves by the blazing watch-fires. On the right,

as the empress and her party then stood, was a large pavilion, with

torches burning before it, while a light could be seen through the

canvass walls, and the voice of merriment and revelry made itself

heard upon the calm ear of night. Between that tent and those on the

left the monk took his straightforward course, and the rest followed

with silent but beating hearts. There was no one opposed them,

however; they passed that tent, and another, and another; they crossed

over some slight defences which had been cast up in the rear of the

army, and they saw before them a long row of osiers, forming a sort of

hedge, and looking black amid the white of the wintry scene around

them. Towards these the monk bent his steps, but paused when he

reached them; and the rest of the party found him waiting for them at

the angle of a little lane.

"We are safe, lady, we are safe," said Lord Brian Fitzwalter; "This

lane leads down to the Thames; it is firmly frozen over, and you can

pass across direct to Wallingford."

"We are safe; thank God, we are safe," cried Eva; but at that moment

there was a blast of a trumpet behind them, and galloping horse were

seen coming down with furious speed.

"Look to the lady, Brian," cried the monk, in a voice of command;

"lead them quick across the stream; once on the other side, you are

safe, for the horses dare not follow you. Give me your battle-axe; on

my life I will detain these horsemen here till you are safe; they

cannot pass me here; fly, lady, fly, for they are coming fast;" and,

snatching the battle-axe from Lord Brian's hand, he cast himself into

the middle of the road.

Matilda would have spoken, but all voices cried, "Fly, lady, fly;" and

she was hurried onward, while the horsemen came down like lightning

There was one considerably ahead of the rest, the captain of the guard

for the night; and, seeing himself opposed in the middle of the lane,

he couched his lance at the monk, and spurred eagerly upon him. One

stroke of the battle-axe, however, parried the lance and shivered it

to atoms; and, rushing on the monk caught the rein of the horse, and

prepared to dash the rider from his seat. But the captain of the

guard, an experienced soldier, wheeled his horse with his heel to keep

himself from the foe while he drew his heavy sword, and with a thrust

which it was difficult for an axe to parry, he lunged straight at the

breast of his opponent. At the same time that he did so, he shouted

his old accustomed battle-cry, "A Lacy! A Lacy! Reginald to the

rescue! A Lacy! A Lacy!"

The axe dropped from the monk's hand; the thrust of old Reginald de

Lacy was true and strong; his adversary fell, dying the snow with his

gore; and the baron, spurring his horse on over the body, led his

followers fiercely forward in pursuit of Matilda. When he reached the

bank of the Thames, however, he could see nothing but some moving

objects on the other side; and, eager in the cause he had undertaken,

he urged his horse vehemently upon the ice. The animal felt it shake

beneath him, trembled, resisted, fell. The whole mass gave way, and

man and horse, with their heavy armour, were plunged to the bottom of

the stream. It was in vain that the followers of old Reginald de Lacy

endeavoured to extricate him from the water before life was extinct.

Near two hours elapsed before they could recover his body, and then

they bore it by another path to his tent. They spent the rest of the

night in lamenting their lord; and it was not till the morning that

one of them thought to tell a priest, whom Stephen had sent to offer

prayers for the soul of De Lacy, that a few minutes before his death,

old Reginald with the red hand had killed some one like a monk, who

had attempted to stop his progress.

The priest took others with him, and instantly set out for the place

they described; but there they found a sight that made even the hearts

of men accustomed to seek voluntarily every scene of human suffering,

ache for the fate that was now past recall. There, indeed, lay the

fair and powerful form of one in the earliest years of manhood, with

the gray gown of a monk, indeed, cast over his shoulders, but beneath

it the rich garments of a Norman noble, dyed with the flood of gore

which had streamed from the death-wound in his breast. There, indeed,

lay Richard de Lacy, slain by the hand of his own father; but he was

not alone in death; for, cast upon his bosom, with her rich brown hair

all dishevelled and unbound--with her garments, too, drenched in the

blood that flowed from the heart of him she loved, lay the still,

cold, but yet beautiful form of Eva de St. Clair. None could tell how

she died; whether the intense cold of the night had aided, or whether

grief had been alone enough to extinguish the warm spark of life

within her bosom. All that was ever learned was the fact that, when

the empress reached the bank of the river, Eva was not with her; and

the fierceness of the pursuit compelled the rest of the party to go on

without seeking the unhappy daughter of St. Clair.

ANNIE DEER.

ANNIE DEER.

----------

There is a little town on the coast of England, which at the present

day is not exactly a seaport, though in former times, when the

chivalrous race of Plantagenet held sway within these realms, it was

not only reckoned as such, but sent its ships to the fleet under the

command of a Mohun, a Grey, a De Lisle, or a Clinton. There is as

little connexion, however, between the former state of the town and

the present, as there is between those days and the time at which the

events which I am about to relate took place. All that remains of its

former splendour, indeed, is the ruin of an old castle, picturesquely

perched on the extremity of a little slope, which, like the ambitious

aspirations of youth that have no result, runs out, promontory

fashion, into the sea, towering up as it goes, till, cut short in its

career, it ends in a chalky cliff of no very great height.

Upon the brow of that cliff is the castle we have mentioned, standing

like the scull and cross-bones upon a nun's table, a memento of the

transitory nature of all things, though the eyes once familiar with it

seldom draw any moral from that memorial of the dead.

Along the slope of the hill, towards the west, is built the little

modern town, or, rather, the village, a congregation of small white

houses looking over the ever-changing sea. Manifold are the gardens.

Though Flora loves not to be fanned with the wings of Zephyr when his

pen-feathers are dipped in brine, yet we are obliged to confess that

the flowers there grown are sweet and beautiful; the shrubs, though

rather diminutive in size, green and luxuriant.

There are one or two pretty houses in the place, the best being the

rectory, which stands near the church, and which, though large, is not

very convenient. The neatest, the most commodious, is one which,

situated just below the castle, takes in part of the ancient vallum as

a portion of the garden, and is built in the purest style of cottage

architecture, as if to contrast the more strongly in its trim and

flourishing youngness with the old walls which, in the pride of

decayed nobility, tower up above it, raising battlement and

watch-tower high in air, as if turning up the nose at the little

upstart at their feet.

In this house dwelt a personage by no means uncommon in England, and

combining in his own nature a great many of the faults and good

qualities of our national character. But we must give a sketch of his

history, which, though as brief as possible, will explain his

character without any long details. The son of a well-doing man in the

neighbouring county town, he had early been put apprentice to a large

dealer in various commodities; gradually made his way in the world;

entered into partnership with his old master; rendered the business

doubly flourishing by care, activity, and exactness; increased in

wealth and honour; married, at forty-five, the daughter of a poor

clergyman--the only thing he ever did in his life without the

cash-book in his hand; and was duly presented with one fair daughter,

whom he loved passing well.

Through life he was the most exact of men, prompt, punctual,

authoritative: and, having really considerable talents in a particular

line, very good taste in many things, an easy and increasing fortune,

and a very comfortable notion of his own value, he became one of the

most important men of the town, gave law to the common council, and

tone to a considerable class in society. He was a little dogmatic,

somewhat pompous, and loved not contradiction; and his wife, who was

as meek as a lamb, took care that he should experience none in his own

dwelling. But, with all these little faults, he had contrived to make

himself loved as well as respected. For though, in putting two and two

together, he was as accurate as our great mathematician's calculating

machine, yet, in reality and in truth, there was not a more liberal

man upon the face of the earth. If anybody applied to him for

pecuniary assistance, he would sit down, and, gathering together all

the facts, calculate, with the most clear-headed precision, whether a

loan would be really useful to the person who asked it. If that were

made clear, he had no hesitation whatever; and, even if it were not

made clear, and there was something like an even chance that his

assistance might be serviceable or might not, he only hesitated for a

minute and a half; and the good spirit unloosed the purse-strings ere

the bad spirit could get them into a run knot.

As, however, he was upon extremely good terms with a lady who is one

of the pleasantest companions that we can have in life, and whose name

is Dame Fortune, those instances in which the chances were equally

balanced generally turned out as he could have wished, and he both

served his friend and regained his money, with the proper addition of

interest, both in bank-notes and friendship.

He never met with but one great misfortune in his life up to the time

of our commencing his history; but that misfortune drove him from the

county town, and caused him to settle underneath the old castle by the

seaside. He lost neither his wife nor his daughter, his health, his

spirits, nor his fortune. No! it was an addition, not a loss, that cut

him to the heart.

One of the members of the common council, it seems, had a brother who

was a silversmith in London, and who, having made a comfortable

competence, wisely retired from trade, came down to the town of which

he was a native and a freeman, and was soon admitted into the

municipal body. Now, whether he had frequented a debating society or

the reporters' gallery of St. Stephen's, whether he had studied under

Cobbett or Hunt, Burdett or Hume, or any of those gentlemen--we do not

mean either to be personal or political--any of those gentlemen, we

say, famed for opposition, it would seem as if, from the moment he

came down, he had determined to overthrow the supremacy of our worthy

friend, and to worry him as though he had been a bishop, a baited

bull, or a prime-minister. Moreover, he was oratorical; he would speak

you a speech by the hour, in which he would confound all that the

straightforward good sense of our friend had made clear; he would pour

upon the simplest point a torrent of fine words, not always pronounced

with the utmost purity; he would render the most pellucid position

opaque by the turbid stream of eloquence, and would add a few words of

Latin, with very little reverence for the terminations of the nouns or

the tenses of the verbs, but still with sufficient volubility to

astound and overawe the ignorant ears around him.

Our friend was resolved not to die without a struggle; and, at the

close of any of these triumphant orations, he would rise, feeling

morally convinced--seeing, knowing, believing--that all his adversary

said was idle, absurd, and stupid, but yet labouring under a

consciousness of his own incapability to disentangle the subject which

had been twisted up into a Gordian knot, or even to find out the thin,

feeble, and insignificant thread of his foe's argumentation amid the

crystals of sugar candy with which his eloquence had invested it. He

would rise, as we have said, and gasp, and struggle, and sit down

again, impotent of reply.

There was no help for it; he felt himself worsted; and, after the

agony of a couple of months, he retreated from a field which he no

longer could maintain. He resigned his post in the town council; made

the necessary arrangements with his partner in business to give up his

active share, and retired, a man well to do, to spend the rest of his

days in peace at the little coast-town, about ten miles from his

former dwelling, the localities of which we have already described.

There, then, he settled with his wife and only daughter; there he

embellished, improved, did good, and enjoyed his doings, and passed

his time in that busy and important usefulness which was so well

suited to his disposition.

But we forgot all this time to make the reader acquainted with his

name. It was one which, though not uncommon, was in some degree

remarkable, being neither more nor less than John Deer. Now he

certainly was not so lightfooted as a roe, nor so timid as a stag, nor

possessed of any of the distinctive qualities of the cervine creation.

He was much too consequential a person also for any one--not even

excepting his own wife--to venture to play upon his name, and turn

John Deer into Dear John: so that the name of Deer could come to no

harm in his hands. But, alack and well-a-day! he had, as we have

before said, one fair daughter, whom he loved passing well; and she

was beautiful as a rose, gentle as a dove, timid as a young fawn, and

her name was Ann; so that it very naturally happened that when anybody

spoke of her as Annie Deer, there was an expression about the lips and

a meaning in the eyes which gave the last _e_ in her name very much

the effect of an _a_; and Annie Deer from her father's and her

mother's lips--and one other pair besides--was Annie dear whenever she

was mentioned.

Now it was natural for her father to call her so, and very natural for

her mother to call her so, and still more natural than all for one

other person in the village to call her so also; but who that person

was remains to be shown. We will not keep the reader a moment in

suspense. Suspense is wrong, unjust, wicked: persons who have been

condemned by a competent jury, and judged by a competent judge, are

the only ones to whom suspense should be applied; and very seldom, if

ever, even then. The person who pronounced the name of Annie Deer with

such a tone shall be disclosed to the reader immediately.

There was a poor widow in the village, who had seen better days, but

whose whole remaining fortune was a hundred and fifty pounds per

annum, and more than one half of that was on annuity. Yet out of this

sum she had contrived both to live with great respectability, and to

give her son, whom she loved far better than herself, an education

equal to the station in which his father had moved. When Mr. Deer and

his family had first come to live at the little town of Saltham, as we

shall call the place, William Stanhope was absent with his ship, for

he had by this time become a mate in an East Indiaman, and Mr. and

Mrs. Deer did everything they could to be kind and civil to Mrs.

Stanhope, and make her time pass cheerfully till her son's return.

When at length he did come back, they welcomed him as an old friend,

pouring upon him all those civilities and festivities with which we

greet the long-absent and long-expected. He was a very handsome young

man; brave, gay, and happy in his disposition; gentlemanly and well

educated, but, withal, touched with the frank straightforwardness of a

sailor; but the quality which, joined with others, pleased Mr. Deer

the most, was a prudent and economical calculation of expenses, which

taught him what was just to others and what was just to himself. Mr.

Deer liked him very much; and, though Annie Deer was at that time only

fourteen, and no great chance existed of her falling in love with

anybody, yet Mr. Deer, being famed for foresight, resolved that he

would examine young Stanhope's character thoroughly, and watch him

well.

That year William Stanhope had brought home no great wealth, having

scarcely any capital to trade upon; but he brought some very pretty

presents for his mother, which showed him to be a very kind and

dutiful young man. The next year, having increased his capital, his

gains were increased; and, besides bringing home more money, he

brought home not only presents for his mother, but presents for Annie

Deer, which he gave straightforwardly to her father, expressing his

gratitude for all the kindness which had been shown to his mother

during his absence.

Mr. Deer took the presents, and inquired, with looks of much personal

interest, into the speculations of the young sailor and their success.

William Stanhope was frank and candid; and though the sum that he had

made was not very brilliant, yet, compared with his means of making

it, it promised so well, that Mr. Doer began to calculate, and found

that liberal assistance might without risk enable young Stanhope to

advance his fortune rapidly, and he made the offer at once. It was

embraced with thanks, and the next voyage ensured to William Stanhope

competence as a single man.

He had a higher ambition, however. He was now competent to take the

command of a ship. He was respected and esteemed by all who knew him;

and a favourable offer was made to him, but the sum of ready money

required was very large; and, though he mentioned the offer to his

mother, with all its advantages, and all the difficulties that

interposed, he spoke of it to no one else. His mother went that

evening to drink tea with the family under the castle, but William

Stanhope remained at home musing, alleging that he had letters of

business to write; and the next morning, instead of taking his way to

the house of Mr. Deer, as was his common practice, he wandered along

solitary upon the sands round the bay, seeming to count every pebble

that studded the shore. He had not gone very far, however, before a

friendly hand was laid upon his arm, and Mr. Deer, joining him in his

walk, entered at once upon business. He told him that Mrs. Stanhope

had related to them the evening before the offer which had been made

concerning the command of a ship, and then went on to ask his young

friend why he had not applied to him, John Deer, for the money.

"I did not know, my dear sir," replied the youth, "that you would be

willing to lend so large a sum."

"Not willing to everybody," replied Mr. Deer, "but quite willing to

you, who in all your transactions are as correct as my cash-book."

Still William Stanhope paused; and then, after letting two sailors,

who were loitering along the shore, pass them by, he turned directly

towards his companion, and, raising his head, he said, "There is

another reason, Mr. Deer, why I have not asked you: I am in love with

your daughter Annie, and, if I get on in the world, I am determined to

seek her hand. I did not wish to mention this at present, because I

have but little to offer her, except in hopes and expectations, and I

could not think of asking you to lend me so large a sum of money

without telling you what were my feelings towards your daughter."

"Sir, you are an honest man," replied Mr. Deer, "and keep, I see, both

sides of the account clear. But I will strike a balance with you, and

begin a new account. Thus, then, we stand, William: I will lend you

ten thousand pounds to buy your ship, and, when you think you have

made enough to afford a wife, I will give you the ten thousand pounds

as my daughter's fortune, and be glad to receive you as my son-in-law."

"This is beginning a new account, indeed, my dear sir, for it leaves

me your debtor in every way."

"Pay it off in kindness to my child," replied Mr. Deer; and the matter

was thus finally settled with the father. As to the daughter, William

Stanhope sat with her for an hour and a half before dinner; and at a

little party which was given that night at the clergyman's house,

everybody declared that the beautiful eyes of Annie Deer looked like

two stars.

The two months that followed were filled up with that thrilling joy in

which present pleasure is mingled with and heightened by the

expectation of something not exactly sorrowful, nor painful, nor

melancholy, but perhaps we should call it sad. Thus Annie Deer

enjoyed, to the full, the society of him she loved, though the

expectation of his departure, upon his first voyage as captain of a

China vessel, sometimes brought a cloud over the bright sky of their

happiness. Time, that rapid old postillion, who goes jogging on in the

saddle faster and faster every day, without at all minding the six

thousand years that have elapsed since first he began to beat the

road--Time, we say, whipped his horses into the full gallop, and

carried William Stanhope and Annie Deer with wonderful rapidity to the

point of parting. Annie Deer cried very bitterly; and, as they were

among the first tears she had ever shed in her life, they were, of

course, the more painful. William Stanhope would not suffer himself to

weep, but he felt little less than she did. They parted, however. He

took the command of his vessel; and, shortly afterward, she, within

one hour, saw in the newspaper, and read in his own handwriting, that

the Honourable Company's ship the Earl Spencer, Captain Stanhope,

commander, had cleared out and dropped down the river.

It was the month of March, and the weather somewhat boisterous; and

Mr. Deer, when he heard the wind whistle and roar down the chimney,

thanked God that some man had been struck with the very provident idea

of ensuring vessels risking themselves upon that treacherous ocean.

Annie Deer's mind ran in the same way, but it went no farther than

wishing that there was really some meaning in the name by which Life

Assurance Societies designate themselves. But she felt too bitterly,

poor girl, that there is no ensuring that fragile thing, human life,

especially when trusted to the mercy of the winds and waves. Her daily

walk was upon the edge of the little promontory looking over the vast,

melancholy sea: and at length, a few days after the ship had dropped

down the river, she beheld a gallant vessel coming on with a furious

and not very favourable gale; and, watching it with deep interest, saw

it take refuge in their little bay, and come to anchor to let pass the

storm. About four in the afternoon, the wind lulled, but shifted more

to the southwest, so that no ship was likely to get out of the

Channel. About half past four, as she was looking out of the

drawing-room windows of her father's house, she saw something like a

boat tossed up from time to time by the bounding waves, which the

tempest had left behind it. In half an hour after, she was pressed in

the arms of William Stanhope, and two or three hours more of pure

happiness were added to the few which they had known through life. At

ten o'clock he took his departure; but, at that hour, the moon, though

she was shining was red and dim, announcing that the presence of the

commander might soon be wanted on board his vessel.

Annie Deer retired to her chamber immediately afterward. She retired

not to repose, however, but, on the contrary, to pay for the happiness

which she had that night experienced by many a tear. She prayed, too,

and prayed fervently, not without hope in the efficacy of prayer, but

with that trembling timidity, that doubt of our own worthiness, under

the weight of which the footsteps of the apostle, though miraculously

upheld, sunk through the surface of the yielding waters. All remained

calm; and, towards eleven o'clock, she remarked the clouds passing

over the moon, taking a different direction from that which they had

done in the morning: and she thought, with mixed hope and

apprehension, that, ere the morning, perhaps, he whom she loved might

be far away upon that voyage, which was destined either to give them

comfort and independence, or to separate them for ever. She lay down

to rest; but, towards twelve o'clock, the wind began to rise,

increased in violence every moment, and swelled at length into a

hurricane. The casements rattled; the wainscot shook and creaked; the

house itself seemed shaken. Loudly roaring round and round, the spirit

of the storm appeared clamouring at the gates for admittance. It could

be heard as it whistled through the branches of the trees. It could be

distinguished as it rushed and raved amid the ruins of the castle up

above. It could be felt as it swept, with sighing and a melancholy

sound, over the level sands of the bay, interrupted only by the sudden

plunge of the waves, as they poured headlong upon the resounding

shore. Annie Deer rose from her bed, and listened, and wept, and

prayed through the livelong night.

But what boots it to tell a long and a sad story, when a very few

words will serve our purpose! With the morning light Annie Deer gazed

from her window, but the ship was gone, and the storm continued; and,

as she looked, without making any particular effort to hear, the sound

of a few distant guns caught her ear, and made her heart sink low. The

tempest lasted the whole day. During the night it decreased, and the

next morning there were found on various points of the coast the spars

and timbers of a gallant vessel, on some of which were painted "The

Earl Spencer!" The gentlemen of Lloyd's announced the loss of an

outward-bound Chinaman. The owners of the Earl Spencer cursed the luck

which had lost them a good voyage, and applied to the underwriters.

The underwriters cursed their luck still more furiously, but paid the

money. Mr. Deer thanked God that he had ensured to the full amount of

his loan, and Annie Deer sat down, with widowed heart, to pass the

rest of her life with very little interest in the things thereof. Her

mother marked the varying colour of her cheek, the langour of her

look, and the frequent tearfulness of her eye; and, kissing her

tenderly, let fall a drop on the pale forehead of her only child.

Annie Deer met with sympathy from one kindred being in her melancholy

path, and it was all she hoped for, all she asked in life.

Such was the first part of the story of Annie Deer. Now all stories,

into whatsoever imaginary divisions they may be separated by the

brains of the teller, have at least two parts; there is no getting rid

of the beginning and the end. Having told the former, we must now turn

to the latter, which is destined to be shorter still. Mr. Deer went to

London, and was indemnified by the underwriters for the money he had

advanced; and he returned to his dwelling, looking really sad for the

loss of poor William Stanhope. He called upon the childless widow, and

tried to comfort her; but she was not to be comforted. He spoke some

soothing words to Annie, but Annie only wept the more; and Mr. Deer

himself had a kind of perception that they had all suffered a loss

which money could never repair. As the house was dull, and the village

was dull, and everything about the place looked more or less gloomy

since the loss of the Earl Spencer and poor William Stanhope, Mr. Deer

betook himself one day, merely for the sake of relaxation, to the

county town, purposing, as the pleasantest and most habitual way of

amusing his thoughts, to look into all the accounts and proceedings of

the very respectable firm in which the greater part of his fortune was

still embarked. His partner was out, however, when he arrived; and Mr.

Deer, strolling out into the town, was met by Mr. Pocock, the

silversmith, and Mr. Pocock's retired brother John, the common

councilman and orator.

Now Mr. Deer and Mr. John Pocock were severally sixty-three years of

age and upward, and the enmities of sixty-three years are pertinacious

things. Mr. Deer, therefore, would willingly have avoided Mr. John

Pocock; but that gentleman, on the contrary, put his arm through his,

talked to him very civilly, and, leading the conversation to the

affairs of Mr. Deer's house, gave him a hint, with perfect kindness of

intent and manner, that his partner might be getting on too fast. Mr.

Deer was agitated, alarmed, and irritated; and, if he had done what

his heart bade him, he would have told his companion to mind his own

business, and to meddle with nobody else's affairs, for that he, John

Deer, was rich enough to buy out him, John Pocock, and all his

relations. He refrained, however, and answered as civilly as the

nature of the case would allow; but returned to his partner's house,

and instantly set to work to investigate the matter thoroughly.

Sad and alarming was the result of his inquiries. He found that,

during the five or six years of his absence, his partner, although he

had contrived to make a fair show in their half-yearly accounts, had,

in fact, addicted himself to banking, farming, and such vices. Immense

sums were risked at that moment in hazardous speculations, and Mr.

Deer saw himself inextricably implicated in transactions which he

would not have meddled with for the world of his own free-will.

The matter went on as simply as it is possible to conceive. His

partner, seeing that Mr. Deer was now convinced that he had trusted

once too far, grew angry, resisted the interference which might have

saved him, hurried recklessly on in the wrong course, and, ere four

months were out, the house of Deer and Co. were bankrupts to the

amount of more than a hundred thousand pounds. By the wise and

strenuous efforts which Mr. Deer had made during those unhappy four

months to retrieve the affairs of his firm, they were enabled to pay

very nearly twenty shillings in the pound. But the beautiful house

under the castle was advertised for sale; the rich furniture and plate

were disposed of by auction; and Mr. Deer retired to a small cottage

next to that of the widow Stanhope.

Amid all this distress, no one was so kind as Mr. John Pocock, Though

at his period of life much locomotion was not agreeable, he drove over

two or three times a week to console, advise, and expostulate with Mr.

Deer, whose mind had fallen into a painful state of despair, and who

in body had sunk at once into an old man. He wished Mr. Deer to rouse

his spirits, and to resume business at once upon his own account, and

he offered most liberally to advance him any sum of money for that

purpose; but Mr. Deer felt, and Mr. John Pocock was soon convinced,

that such a course was impracticable. The bankrupt's health gave way

more and more each day. He became fretful and impatient. A very small

pittance, which belonged to his wife, supported him and his family in

penury for some months, but he saw it drawing to a close with agony of

heart. Pity pained him, consolation seemed an insult; and he would

gaze upon his daughter by the hour together, as she sat painting

little screens, working little purses, or busying herself in any of

those employments which she fancied and hoped might prove the means of

supporting her father and mother in their old age. At length the money

came to an end, and on that very night Mr. Deer was struck with palsy,

which fixed him to the marble seat of impotent age all the rest of his

days.

Annie Deer then found how little could be procured by those means to

which she had trusted for support. Mrs. Deer bore all patiently, and

she and her daughter consulted and deliberated long with Mr. John

Pocock as to what they could do in the terrible strait to which they

were reduced. His kindness was unfailing. He looked at the afflicted

wife, he looked at the beautiful but destitute girl till the tears

rose in his eyes; and, insisting upon their taking a small sum as a

loan till he could devise some plan for their future life, he left

them, promising to return on the following day, and declaring that he

would not come back without some feasible scheme for their support. It

was night on the promised day before he made his appearance; but then

he came in his own chariot, and then there was a briskness in his look

and a smartness in his whole aspect, which led Mrs. Deer and her

daughter to believe that his meditations on their behalf had not been

without result. His hair was nicely powdered and adjusted to a line,

his pigtail was tied up with a new piece of riband, and his best blue

coat and white waistcoat shone without a speck. Mr. Deer was somewhat

better, and sitting in a chair by the fire. Poor Mrs. Stanhope had

come in to cheer them as far as her sad heart would allow; and the

sight of Mr. John Pocock with a gayer air, blew up the last spark of

hope that lingered in their hearts. Mr. Pocock looked at Mrs. Stanhope

as if he could have wished her away; but he was full of what he had to

say, and would not delay it.

"My dear Mr. Deer," he said, advancing into their little circle, "and

you, Mrs. Deer, and _you_, my dear young lady, must give me your

attention more than all. Misfortunes may happen to every one, and very

sharp misfortunes have happened to you. Now I see but one way on earth

of remedying them, and making us all again happy and comfortable. I am

an old man, Miss Annie, sixty-four years of age in April, which will

be next month; but, if you will accept the hand of an honest man, who

loves you dearly and respects you much, he will do all he can to make

you and yours happy. His fortune is of his own making, and he may well

do with it what he likes; he will be not only proud to have you for

his wife, but proud to have a wife who will devote herself to make her

_parents_ as well as her _husband_ comfortable."

Annie Deer had turned as pale as death; Mrs. Deer threw her arms

around her child's neck and wept bitterly; her father said not a word,

but, like the parent in the most beautiful song we possess, he looked

in her face till her heart was like to break. Her eyes did not

overflow, but they turned towards Mrs. Stanhope, and her lips

muttered, "Oh, William, William! Sir," she continued, turning to Mr.

Pocock, "I have loved, deeply loved another, and I love his memory

still, and ever must love it."

"I will not be jealous of that, my dear young lady," he replied; "your

love for the dead will never interfere with your duty towards the

living. Nor do I expect you to love me otherwise than as a young woman

may love an old man who is kind to her. Believe me, Miss Annie," he

continued, taking her hand, "I am not a selfish man; and I do not make

this proposal altogether for my own gratification."

"I know it is not, I know it is not," replied Annie Deer, and she

wept.

"Oh, Annie," cried Mrs. Stanhope, "do not let the thoughts of our lost

William prevent you from doing your duty towards your parents in such

a terrible situation as this!"

The tears streamed from Mr. Deer's eyes, and he cried in a feeble

voice, "Annie! Annie, my child, do not make yourself miserable for

me!" That tone and that look were worth all the persuasions in the

world; and the fatal consent hung upon the lips of Annie Deer, when

the door behind her opened, and Mrs. Stanhope, who sat with her face

towards it, started from her seat, and with one loud scream fell

senseless on the floor. Annie turned to see what was the matter, and

she, too, would have fallen, had she not been caught in the arms and

held to the heart of William Stanhope.

"Good God! what is the cause of all this?" he exclaimed: "everybody

seems frightened at me; the servants run away; my mother faints! Have

you not received my letter?"

The scene of confusion that ensued, explanations, histories,

inquiries, replies, fresh mistakes, and fresh _eclaircissements_,

though they were all comprised in the space of about an hour, would

occupy a great many hours in the detail. At the end of that time,

there were only two things which wanted explanation; the first of

which was, what had become of two letters, one of which William

Stanhope had sent from St. Helena on his way to India, telling that he

had been shipwrecked; that when his vessel went down he had been saved

in the last boat, and had been picked up by an outward-bound Indiaman;

that he had preserved the bills in which all his little capital was

invested; and that he intended to employ them in India, in the hope of

recovering, in some degree, the terrible loss he had sustained. The

second letter had been written from London three days before his

reappearance; and went to inform Mr. Deer that the loss of his vessel

had proved, as far as he was concerned, the most fortunate chance that

could have befallen him; that he had arrived in India at a happy

moment; had made one of those successful speculations which were then

not uncommon, and which the good name he had acquired while a mate in

the service had now enabled him to extend far more than his own

limited capital would have permitted; that, contented with one happy

chance and a moderate fortune, he had returned to England, and was

coming down to claim the hand of his fair bride, a far richer man than

his most sanguine hopes had ever led him to anticipate. The loss of

the first of these letters William himself easily accounted for, by

acknowledging that he had intrusted it to a private hand; and every

one who has had anything to do with private hands must be well aware

that they are in general furnished with very slippery fingers. The

loss of the second was justly accounted for by a surmise of Mr. John

Pocock's, who suggested that, as postmasters--whether legally or not

we do not know--take upon themselves the infamous task of handing over

the letters of bankrupts, public and private alike, to the assignees;

exposing to the cold eyes of mercantile inquisitors all the secrets of

domestic life; the anguish of the child's heart for the parent's

misfortune; the agony of the parent for the downfall of his child; the

sweet communings and consolings of kindred affection; the counsel and

the comfort, the care and the apprehension--as this evil and

iniquitous practice, we say, is or was tolerated in the land, Mr.

Pocock suggested that the letter of William Stanhope had very likely

been sent to the assignees. And so it was. The letter had been so

sent. The assignees were absent. And thus, for three long days, the

letter was withheld from the only eye that should have seen it.

All that remained was the explanation between Mr. Pocock and William

Stanhope, and that might have been very well omitted if the former

gentleman had pleased; for William had remarked nothing farther than

that he was a good-looking old gentleman, and seemed to take a great

interest in Mr. Deer's affairs. But Mr. Pocock, who had at first felt

a little uneasy at the reappearance of the young sailor, had soon made

up his mind, like a sensible man as he really was, to make the best of

what he could not avoid, and rejoice in the renewed happiness of

others, though it brought a little disappointment to himself. He was

resolved, however, to extract the satisfaction of a speech from the

matter, and therefore, as soon as everything else was settled, he got

upon his legs, and proceeded: "Captain Stanhope," he said, "you have

come just in time to prevent the completion of what, perhaps, might

have been a very bad bargain on all parts. The fact is, that I saw no

earthly way of arranging the affairs of our good friend Mr. Deer but

by marrying his daughter. I had just made a bargain with her not to

oppose her thinking of you with regret when we all believed you dead;

and, God knows, I shall as little oppose her thinking of you with

affection now that we see you are living. As you deprive me of the

title of a husband, Captain Stanhope, I shall only demand that you

grant me the name of a friend; and, though I am a tolerably spruce old

gentleman," he added, twitching his pigtail, "Yet, as you have not

found me a dangerous rival, you will doubtless not fear me as a

dangerous acquaintance."

Captain Stanhope shook him by the hand, and willingly ratified the

treaty he proposed. The days of Mr. Deer passed happily thenceforward

to their close, and his daughter became the wife of Captain William

Stanhope. Restored to affluence and comfort, she was the same gentle,

unassuming, affectionate being she had ever been; and--though the good

people of the little town where she continued to live called her, with

great reverence, Mrs. Captain Stanhope--to her husband and her family

she never changed her name, but remained _Annie dear_ to the last day

of her life.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES

(HENRY DE CERONS)

[Footnote 1: It was, in fact, exorbitant; for we find that the Duke of

Montpensier, himself holding the government of all these provinces,

only gave a hundred crowns to each captain for raising a company of

foot, and three hundred crowns only to the Maître de Camp of eight or

ten companies thus raised.]

[Footnote 2: He was also called the Prince Dauphin and the Prince

d'Auvergne.]

[Footnote 3: This curious trait of the famous D'Andelot is recorded by

all the other persons present as well as by Monsieur de Cerons. The

person who was thus killed, is said to have been the Marquis de

Monsalez, but there is every reason to think that this is a mistake.]

[Footnote 4: He was called the Prince Dauphin on account of his being

the Dauphin of Auvergne; but we have given him the title of prince

only for fear of confusion. It has been attempted in these pages to

display his character as it really was, we give a few traits and

anecdotes of his conduct in situations in which he was actually

placed.]

(EVA ST. CLAIRE)

[Footnote 1: This was an effeminate custom, against which the good

Archbishop Anselm preached in vain. Some, indeed, of the Norman nobles

cut off the long ringlets which were the objects of his aversion, but

many retained them, and few gave up the vices that accompanied them.]