THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK CASTLE.
My readings with Mr. Carmel totally ceased; in fact, there was no time
for any but that one worship which now absorbed me altogether. Every now
and then, however, he was in London, and mamma, in the drawing-room,
used at times to converse with him, in so low a tone, so earnestly and
so long, that I used to half suspect her of making a shrift, and
receiving a whispered absolution. Mamma, indeed, stood as it were with
just one foot upon the very topmost point of our "high church," ready to
spread her wings, and to float to the still more exalted level of the
cross on the dome of St. Peter's. But she always hesitated when the
moment for making the aerial ascent arrived, and was still trembling in
her old attitude on her old pedestal.
I don't think mamma's theological vagaries troubled papa. Upon all such
matters he talked like a good-natured Sadducee; and if religion could
have been carried on without priests, I don't think he would have
objected to any of its many forms.
Mamma had Mr. Carmel to luncheon often, during his stay in town.
Whenever he could find an opportunity, he talked with me. He struggled
hard to maintain his hold upon me. Mamma seemed pleased that he should;
yet I don't think that she had made up her mind even upon my case. I
daresay, had I then declared myself a "Catholic," she would have been in
hysterics. Her own religious state, just then, I could not perfectly
understand. I don't think she did. She was very uncomfortable about once
a fortnight. Her tremors returned when a cold or any other accident had
given her a dull day.
When the season was over, I went with papa and mamma to some country
houses, and while they completed their circuit of visits Miss Pounden
and I were despatched to Malory. The new world which had dazzled me for
a time had not changed me. I had acquired a second self; but my old self
was still living. It had not touched my heart, nor changed my simple
tastes. I enjoyed the quiet of Malory, and its rural ways, and should
have been as happy there as ever, if I could only have recovered the
beloved companions whom I missed.
My loneliness was very agreeably relieved one day, as I was walking home
from Penruthyn Priory, by meeting Mr. Carmel. He joined me, and we
sauntered towards home in very friendly talk. He was to make a little
stay at the steward's house. We agreed to read _I Promessi Sposi_
together. Malory was recovering its old looks. I asked him all the news
that he was likely to know and I cared to hear.
"Where was Lady Lorrimer?" I inquired.
Travelling, he told me, on the Continent, he could not say where. "We
must not talk of her," he said, with a shrug and a laugh. "I think, Miss
Ware, we were never so near quarrelling upon any subject as upon Lady
Lorrimer, and I then resolved never again to approach that irritating
topic."
So with common consent we talked of other things, among which I asked
him:
"Do you remember Mr. Marston?"
"You mean the shipwrecked man who was quartered for some days at the
steward's house?" he asked. "Yes--I remember him very well." He seemed
to grow rather pale as he looked at me, and added, "Why do you ask?"
"Because," I answered, "you told me that he was in good society, and I
have not seen him anywhere--not once."
"He was in society; but he's not in London, nor in England now, I
believe. I once knew him pretty well, and I know only too much of him. I
know him for a villain; and had he been still in England I should have
warned you again, Miss Ethel, and warned your mamma, also, against
permitting him to claim your acquaintance. But I don't think he will be
seen again in this part of the world--not, at all events, until after
the death of a person who is likely to live a long time."
"But what has he done?" I asked.
"I can't tell you--I can't tell you how cruelly he has wounded me," he
answered. "I have told you in substance all I know, when I say he is a
villain."
"I do believe, Mr. Carmel, your mission on earth is to mortify my
curiosity. You won't tell me anything of any one I'm the least curious
to hear about."
"He is a person I hate to talk of, or even to think of. He is a
villain--he is incorrigible--and, happen what may, a villain, I think,
he will be to the end."
I was obliged to be satisfied with this, for I had learned that it was a
mere waste of time trying to extract from Mr. Carmel any secret which he
chose to keep.
Here, then, in the old scenes, our quiet life began for awhile once
more. I did not see more of Mr. Carmel now than formerly, and there
continued the slightly altered tone, in talk and manner, which had
secretly so sorely vexed me in town, and which at times I almost
ascribed to my fancy.
Mr. Carmel's stay at Malory was desultory, too, as before; he was often
absent for two or three days together. During one of these short
absences, there occurred a very trifling incident, which, however, I
must mention.
The castle of Cardyllion is a vast ruin, a military fortress of the
feudal times, built on a great scale, and with prodigious strength. Its
ponderous walls and towers are covered thick with ivy. It is so vast
that the few visitors who are to be found there when the summer is over,
hardly disquiet its wide solitudes and its silence. For a time I induced
Miss Pounden to come down there nearly every afternoon, and we used to
bring our novels, and she, sometimes her work; and we sat in the old
castle, feeling, in the quiet autumn, as if we had it all to ourselves.
The inner court is nearly two hundred feet square, and, ascending a
circular stair in the angle next the great gate, you find yourself at
the end of a very dark stone-floored corridor, running the entire
length of the building. This long passage is lighted at intervals by
narrow loop-holes placed at the left; and in the wall to the right,
after having passed several doors, you come, about mid-way, to one
admitting to the chapel. It is a small stone-floored chamber, with a
lofty groined roof, very gracefully proportioned; a tall stone-shafted
window admits a scanty light from the east, over the site of the
dismantled altar; deep shadow prevails everywhere else in this pretty
chapel, which is so dark in most parts that, in order to read or work,
one must get directly under the streak of light that enters through the
window, necessarily so narrow as not to compromise the jealous rules of
mediaeval fortification. A small arch, at each side of the door, opens a
view of this chamber from two small rooms, or galleries, reached by
steps from this corridor.
We had placed our camp-stools nearly under this window, and were both
reading; when I raised my eyes they encountered those of a very
remarkable-looking old man, whom I instantly recognised, with a start.
It was the man whom we used, long ago, to call the Knight of the Black
Castle. His well-formed, bronzed face and features were little changed,
except for those lines that time deepens or produces. His dark, fierce
eyes were not dimmed by the years that had passed, but his long black
hair, which was uncovered, as tall men in those low passages were
obliged to remove their hats, was streaked now with grey. This stern old
man was gazing fixedly on me, from the arch beside the door, to my left,
as I looked at him, and he did not remove his eyes as mine met his.
Sullen, gloomy, stern was the face that remained inflexibly fixed in the
deep shadow which enhanced its pallor. I turned with an effort to my
companion, and said:
"Suppose we come out, and take a turn in the grounds."
To which, as indeed to everything I proposed, Miss Pounden assented.
I walked for a minute or two about the chapel before I stole a glance
backward at the place where I had seen the apparition. He was gone. The
arch, and the void space behind, were all that remained; there was
nothing but deep shadow where that face had loomed. I asked Miss
Pounden if she had seen the old man looking in; she had not.
Well, we left the chapel, and retraced our steps through the long
corridor, I watching through the successive loop-holes for the figure of
the old man pacing the grass beneath; but I did not see him. Down the
stairs we came, I peeping into every narrow doorway we passed, and so
out upon the grassy level of the inner court. I looked in all directions
there, but nowhere could I see him. Under the arched gateway, where the
portcullis used to clang, we passed into the outer court, and there I
peeped about, also in vain.
I dare say Miss Pounden, if she could wonder at anything, wondered what
I could be in pursuit of; but that most convenient of women never
troubled me with a question.
Through the outer gate, in turn, we passed, and to Richard Pritchard's
lodge, at the side of the gate admitting visitors from Castle Street to
the castle grounds. Tall Richard Pritchard, with his thin stoop, his
wide-awake hat, brown face, lantern jaws, and perpetual smirk, listened
to my questions, and answered that he had let in such a gentleman, about
ten minutes before, as I described. This gentleman had given his horse
to hold to a donkey-boy outside the gate, and Richard Pritchard went on
to say, with his usual volubility, and his curious interpolation of
phrases of politeness, without the slightest regard to their connection
with the context, but simply to heighten the amiability and polish of
his discourse:
"And he asked a deal, miss, about the family down at Malory, I beg your
pardon; and when he heard you were there, miss, he asked if you ever
came down to the town--yes, indeed. So when I told him you were in the
castle now--very well, I thank you, miss--he asked whereabout in the
castle you were likely to be--yes, indeed, miss, very true--and he gave
me a shilling--he did, indeed--and I showed him the way to the chapel--I
beg your pardon, miss--where you very often go--very true indeed, miss;
and so I left him at the top of the stairs. Ah, ha! yes, indeed, miss;
and he came back just two or three minutes, and took his horse and
rode down towards the water gate--very well, I thank you, miss."
This was the substance of Richard Pritchard's information. So, then, he
had ridden down Castle Street and out of the town. It was odd his caring
to have that look at me. What could he mean by it? His was a countenance
ominous of nothing good. After so long an interval, it was not pleasant
to see it again, especially associated with inquiries about Malory and
its owners, and the sinister attraction which had drawn him to the
chapel to gaze upon me, and, as I plainly perceived, by no means with
eyes of liking. The years that had immediately followed his last visit,
I knew had proved years of great loss and peril to papa. May heaven
avert the omen! I silently prayed. I knew that old Rebecca Torkill could
not help to identify, him, for I had been curious on the point before.
She could not bring to her recollection the particular scene that had so
fixed itself upon my memory; for, as she said, in those evil years there
was hardly a day that did not bring down some bawling creditor from
London to Malory in search of papa.