In a large and handsome room; in a splendid building of ancient
date--one of the few which, either in consequence of the political or
religious opinions of the owners, escaped ruin during the civil
wars--situated upon a gentle eminence on the confines of Nottingham
and Lincolnshire, with green turf sloping away to a wood of old trees,
to have wandered among which would have rejoiced the heart of Evelyn,
sat a lady considerably past the prime of life, yet with all the fire
of youth in her jet black eyes. She was not very tall, and yet there
was something commanding in her figure and her carriage which gave a
beholder the idea of greater height than she really possessed. The
figure, indeed, had suffered little from the ravages of time; and
although youthful grace might be gone--the supple, easy undulation of
unstiffened muscles--all the native dignity remained, rendered harsher
but not less remarkable by a certain degree of rigidity.
No one could deny that the features of the face were handsome, but yet
they did not possess that outline which is generally pleasing, and
there was something peculiarly repulsive in the expression--perhaps it
might be its unfeminineness (to coin a word); to this the general cast
of the features lent themselves greatly, now that the plump roundness
of early life had departed. The nose was aquiline, and strongly
marked, though beautifully cut; the eyebrows were thick, and still
quite dark; the eyes, as I have said, were black as jet, but no small
twinkling orbs, as is very frequently the case with very black eyes.
On the contrary, they were large and oval. The chin had probably been
very beautiful, though somewhat prominent, but now it had that
tendency to turn up which age generally gives to this feature when the
nose is aquiline. The hair, as white as silver, was turned back from
the forehead, just suffering two or three little snowy curls to escape
above the temples. Her dress was gorgeous, and even at that hour--it
was before noon--she wore a number of costly jewels.
To look upon her, one felt that there was a person of a strong will
and powerful intellect, but no one could imagine that any of the
tender weaknesses of woman's heart had ever found place in that bosom.
She had before her, at the moment I have chosen to present her to the
reader, a number of papers--stewards' accounts, household books,
statements of building expenses, and estimates; but with these she
seemed to have done, for though her jeweled fingers rested upon them,
her head was lifted, and her eyes turned toward the casement, though
the sun was shining through it fiercely; and on her face there was a
look of stern desolation--of melancholy, not gentle, but hard, which
might well picture disappointed expectation from those worldly goods,
which always, in the words of the poet, "turn to ashes on the lips."
As she thus sat, a servant entered and approached quietly within a
respectful distance, and then stood waiting for her notice. For a
moment she pursued her revery, whatever was its subject; but then,
seeming to become by degrees conscious of the man's presence, she
slightly turned her head and inclined her ear. Well versed in all her
ways, the man immediately announced his errand, saying, "Mr. Ralph
Woodhall, my lady, is below, and desires admittance to you."
"Who? who?" cried the lady, almost starting from her chair, while her
face grew alternately white and red, and her eye flashed with angry
brightness.
"Mr. Ralph Woodhall, the gentleman said," replied the servant.
"Let the beggar's son ride off!" said his mistress, fiercely; "he
shall not--no, he shall not--yet stay--give him admittance, but not at
once--not at once; keep him five minutes or so, then bring him in."
The servant bowed low and retired, not at all surprised by bursts of
strong feeling, to which he was apparently well accustomed.
As soon as he was gone, the lady rose and walked up and down the room.
"Ralph Woodhall," she said aloud, "Ralph Woodhall! what can bring him
here at the end of seven or eight years? I thought I had freed this
house of him and his miserable inert father--come to beg, perhaps.
Well, no matter, they can do no great harm, now that my good lord is
dead; or perhaps--but no, that can not be--Ralph Woodhall. But hark!
they are coming;" and she resumed her seat, smoothing her brow, and
affecting to look quickly over the papers before her.
The next instant young Ralph Woodhall was ushered into the room, and
his name pompously announced; but the lady took no notice, and still
turned over the papers, comparing one page with another. Ralph was
well dressed, and the glow of youth and exercise were upon as fine and
manly a face as eye could look upon. He observed at once the studied
negligence of his reception, and his first impulse was to turn upon
his heel and quit the room; but he thought that by so doing he would
give the proud woman the advantage, and, doubting not that it was her
intention to keep him standing like a dependant till she chose to
notice him, he advanced, with wonderful tranquillity of air, and
seated himself in one of the green velvet chairs exactly opposite to
her, throwing himself back, and letting his eye run quietly over the
decorations of the room.
Her eye was instantly upon him, and a bright red glow came into her
cheek. "Young man," she said, after a moment or two of bitter silence,
"nobody seats himself in my presence till he is asked to do so. You
are unmannerly."
"Pardon me, Lady Coldenham," replied the young man, boldly, "I seat
myself in the presence of any one but my king, and the more readily
where I see there are not manners enough to prevent my doing so
unasked." The lady gazed at him for an instant with flashing eyes; but
then something seemed to give a turn to her motions, and she burst
into a laugh, crying, "This is too good! you are a scholar, I think,
young man. Pray, under what professor did you study manners?"
"Under one, madam, who taught me that riches are not superior to
gentle blood," replied Ralph; "that rank is to be respected only where
it is combined with higher qualities, and that high station should
meet with reverence when it is ornamented with courtesy, but not
otherwise, except from fools and sycophants."
"By the book!" said the lady, "by the book! marvelous well remembered
and recited; and now what brings you here, Sir Scholar? To what do I
owe your polite attention? You come not here without cause--without
motive, I suppose."
"I have been over-persuaded, Lady Coldenham," replied the young man,
"to ride over, before I set out upon a somewhat long excursion, in
order to make a formal call at the house of my father's cousin's
widow, the only title by which you can be known to me--the only title
which justifies or gives occasion for my visiting you."
Instead of a violent burst of passion, which he certainly expected,
Lady Coldenham sat perfectly silent, leaned her head upon her hand,
and repeated to herself once or twice the words "The only title!" She
recovered herself soon, however, and replied, with a knitted brow,
fiery eye, and stern bitterness of tone, "You are an insolent
coxcomb--you always were."
The old man's words recurred to Ralph's mind at that moment, and he
replied, as he had been prompted, though not with perfect accuracy,
"Lady Coldenham," he said, "you have not done justice to me and mine,
but the time will come when you must do us justice. I came not here to
quarrel with you, or to bandy angry words, but with some hope that
time might have made a change in you, or, at all events, might have
banished bitter memories. I find it is not so, and therefore I will
take my leave."
Thus saying, he rose, and was about to depart, but the lady exclaimed
vehemently, "Sit down! I wish to speak with you."
He did as she desired, and for several minutes the old lady remained
in thought, apparently struggling with some strong emotions in her own
breast. At length she raised her eyes, which had been fixed vacantly
on the table, and said, with a quivering lip, "You are bold and harsh,
young man; but that I can forgive; I am not timid or tender myself. We
are about to part for long, perhaps forever. Tell me, what can I do
for you? If I can do aught, I will. That I owe to the memory of
others."
"You can do nothing for me, madam, that I will accept," the young man
replied; "a man must be base indeed to receive favors from one who
grants them unwillingly. Happily, I need nothing, and certainly I
would accept nothing at your hands even if I did. I am glad, however,
that you have made the offer, as it suffers us to part with less angry
words upon our lips than passed before. I thank you for your offer,
and now will take my leave."
Thus saying, he arose and left the room, where the lady remained
musing without uttering a word. On descending to the hall, he was met,
in crossing it, by a young gentleman gayly attired, the eldest son of
Lady Coldenham, and the actual possessor of the family title and
estates. He might be two or three-and-twenty of age; but such had been
the dominion exercised by Lady Coldenham over her husband during his
life, that he had left, on dying, immense and unusual control over his
whole property to his widow, besides a large jointure. Whispers,
indeed, had gone abroad that the death-bed of the old lord had
presented a painful and unsatisfactory scene, not only because he had
died without faith and hope, but because the domineering spirit of his
wife had been exercised, at that last fearful moment, with more
violence and eagerness than even during his lifetime; and that she had
watched his bedside night and day, not with the purpose of soothing
and consoling, but, as the servants judged, from her never suffering
him to be alone for a moment with any one, for the purpose of keeping
him her slave to the last.
The young man looked for a moment at Ralph Woodhall as a stranger, but
then suddenly recollecting him, he held out his hand frankly, saying,
"Ah, Ralph, how is it we never see you now? Why, your face had
well-nigh passed from my recollection, it is so long since you were
here."
"When last I was here, my lord," answered Ralph, "I had no great
encouragement to come back again."
"Oh, you mean my mother's conduct," answered the young lord; "you
should never mind her. She bullies every one. She always did; and if
every one she maltreats were to fly from her, she would have no
companions but the family portraits. Come along with me; I have a
famous mew of hawks to show you, which I have had trained after the
fashion of the olden time."
Ralph, however, pleaded want of time, and, after a few minutes more
spent in kindly conversation, the two young men separated; it must be
owned, with some regret upon Ralph's part at least. Lord Coldenham had
been the only one of the family who had shown him any kindness in his
younger days. He knew him to be like what his father had been,
placable, good-humored, and generous, full of honorable impulses,
though too easily governed, and he could well have made him a friend,
perhaps to the advantage of the young lord himself.
At the great door he found his horse fastened to a ring, the servants,
who always take their tone from the leading spirit of the house,
having judged it not worth their while to take the beast into the
stable, or to hold him till its master descended. Ralph tried to
banish all angry feelings, but a deep and indignant sense of ill
treatment remained which he could not master; and, mounting without
delay, he rode off toward the village, which lay at the distance of
about two miles. His beast was weary and wanted food, so that his
first care was to seek out the little public house, which he
remembered well. He there gave the horse into the charge of the
hostler, and then set out for the house which had been indicated to
him as the place where he would find a servant. As he strolled along
through the village, he could not help remarking the increased
appearance of decay which was manifest in all the houses, the
buildings, and the little gardens. Though never very prosperous,
Coldenham, when last he saw it, had appeared at least neat and
comfortable; but now the broken thatches, covered, but not concealed,
by houseleek; the windows patched, or very often without glass; the
railings and fences dilapidated, and insufficient to keep out the pigs
and cattle, and the gardens half cultivated and full of weeds,
presented a sad change. The only building which had remained much as
he had seen it was the old church, standing upon a piece of ground
raised a good deal above the road, with its grave-yard surrounded with
a low stone wall. Ralph paused for a moment, and gazed up at the tall,
thin, graceful spire, which he remembered having contemplated often in
former years, wondering how it had been built to such a height. All
was as he had seen it then. The tooth of time had fed upon it largely
in years long past, crumbling down the rich cut ornaments, corbels,
and gargoyles; but, as if the destroying monster could sometimes weary
of his diet, there was no appearance of his having touched the
building since Ralph stood before it last. Nor had any thing been done
to improve it; the same green, mossy look, which had been given to the
stone by the damp air sweeping through the fens, was still there; and
one of the coping stones of the little cemetery wall which had fallen
off, and which he had often seen lying within the fence, was lying
there still unreplaced.
The door was open, and, walking through the cemetery, the young man
went in. The tombs of his ancestors were there, and he wished to take
another look at them before he went afar. Walking up the aisle, he
soon stood before the spot where stood the monument of Sir Robert
Woodhall, who was considered the founder of the family. A gorgeous
monument it was, richly carved and ornamented; and the gratitude of.
the old knight's posterity had recorded, upon a tablet on one side,
the numerous virtues, real or imaginary, of the dead: how he had
fought for his sovereign in the field; how he had aided him with his
wisdom in the council; and how he had left two sons, both of whom he
had lived to see become peers of the realm. Then came the tombs of the
two sons, Robert, Lord Coldenham, and Ralph, Lord Woodhall; and then
the tombs of two more, another Robert, the grandfather of his own
father and of the late Lord Coldenham, and another Ralph, the
progenitor of the present Lord Woodhall. They were all Roberts and
Ralphs, with the exception of here and there a Henry, like a graft
upon an old stock. Every one has felt the eternally-speaking moral of
old monuments; the comment they are ever reading upon the vanity of
all the struggles, passions, and hopes of earth--upon the vanity of
vanities, ambition. I will not, therefore, dwell upon it, except as it
affected the young man who there stood and gazed. He might feel that
he came there with overeager expectations, with strong desires and
aspirations after worldly greatness--after things which, whether as a
means or an end, are but as a part of that great strife which ends in
emptiness. There lay around him, gathered into one small space not a
dozen yards square, a multitude of his own kin, who had struggled, and
toiled, and hoped, and desired like himself; who had even succeeded,
and had yet inherited nothing, for all their pains, but six feet of
earth and that piece of moldering marble; while the very deeds which
had gained them luster and renown their hopes, fears, and exertions,
occupied but a point far less in the vast waste of time than their
grave upon the surface of the earth. Feeling sad and reproved, he was
turning away, when a voice near him said, "Would not the best epitaph
of all be, 'He lived and died?' It is all that can be said with
certainty of any man."
On looking round, Ralph perceived standing near him and looking over
his shoulder an elderly man in the dress of a peasant well to do. He
had put off his shoes and laid down his hat somewhere about the
church, and by these indications Ralph concluded rightly that he was
the sexton. He asked him whether it was so, however, and the old man
replied, "Yea, truly, I am the sexton."
"You were not here when I was last in Coldenham," said Ralph; "what
has become of Harrison, who was sexton here before you?"
The old man pointed with his finger to the pavement, saying, "Down
there--he is as good as a lord now, and occupies just as much room.
When he died, I was sent for by the old lady; for I come from a
distance out of Dorsetshire, her own county."
"Then of course you are a great friend of hers," replied Ralph.
"Nay, why should you think so?" asked the old man.
"Because she put you in this good office," said Ralph.
"That is no reason," replied the sexton; "gifts do not always come
from favor, nor fortune either. I take what I get, and am thankful. I
ask not whence it comes, nor why. I can not be the friend of a great
lady nor the friend of a proud lady. Good office call you it? Marry!
the dead often do good to the living, and so it is with me; but the
living do no good to the dead, and so in one sense the office is not a
good one. It is like that of the hangman, who is said to do the last
offices to a culprit; but mine go beyond his, and are the only true
last offices; for I give back to the earth what the earth gave to the
light, and there is no hand between mine and eternity."
The conversation had a somber hue, and Ralph sought to turn it,
saying, "It seems to me that the village is much decayed since I last
saw it. The people do not seem so comfortable--so much at ease, as
when I was here before."
"How should they be so?" asked the sexton. "The many are always more
or less dependent upon the few; and in a country village of this land,
they derive their prosperity from the great folks near them. Mind,
young master, I speak of prosperity--not alone of wealth--of the
happiness that cheers labor, of the protection which prompts it, of
the example which leads in the right way, and of the generosity which
rewards those who follow it. How would you have the people prosperous
here, with no one of wealth and station near them but an old woman all
pride and diamonds, whose only object is to maintain her state and her
two sons; and their only bounties are the riding over our fields and
gardens, and the debauching of our wives and daughters? Marry! well
may the fences go to decay, the thatch go to decay, and the roof-tree
fall in. There is a good receipt for rendering a place desolate, and
these people have found it."
"I fear so, my good man," replied Ralph; "but you speak freely
dangerous things."
"I fear not, master," replied the old man, with a quiet smile;
"although, to say truth, I might not speak such things if you were not
a traveling stranger in the place."
"I am nearer akin to those you mention than you are aware of," replied
Ralph, turning toward the door; "but be not afraid, I will not betray
you, for I think much as you do."
"I am not the least afraid," replied the sexton, following him slowly,
and taking up his shoes and hat as he went; "I shall do very well,
whatever is said of me."
Ralph walked on, and took the little path branching to the right from
the church porch, which led in the direction of the house that Moraber
had described. It was at no great distance beyond, so that you could
see it from the little gate of the church-yard; and Ralph was
surprised, as he advanced through the old elms that shaded the little
graves, at the neatness and air of comfort which the dwelling
presented. It was larger and more roomy, too, than most of the other
houses near; for the doctor and the lawyer had not yet sprung up in
every village in the land, and the parsonage was the only good-looking
edifice in Coldenham, except the church.
Before the door, on a little patch of green which separated it from
the road, stood a fine old oak greatly decayed in the heart, but
having a bench underneath its shattered branches, where the cool air
might be enjoyed of a summer's evening; and pausing for a moment
beside the tree, the young gentleman looked up at the dwelling with
some doubts as to whether he was right or not.
The persevering old sexton was upon him the next moment, asking, in
his ordinary quaint tone, "Seek you any one there, young gentleman?"
"Yes, I do," replied Ralph, "if I am right in the house. I am seeking
a young man named Stilling."
"An old man named Stilling is talking to you," replied the sexton;
"but what is the Christian name of the man you seek?"
"Gaunt Stilling, I was told to ask for," replied Ralph. "Are you his
father?"
"So it is supposed," replied the old man, "but he is not within. Will
you come in and wait till he returns?"
"I must needs see him," replied Ralph, thoughtfully; and at the same
moment the old man opened the door which led into the house. As he did
so, a female figure with a beautiful face, of which Ralph had but one
glance, passed quickly across the passage, giving a look round, and
then disappearing instantly.
The young man made no remark, but he thought he saw traces of tears
upon the bright face that glanced by him. The sexton's countenance
fell a little, but he bated not his courtesy to the stranger, leading
him into a neat sanded parlor, and pressing him to take some
refreshment. With his own hands he brought in some cheese and bread,
and excellent butter, and then went out and fetched a foaming brown
jug of good strong ale.
"Homely fare for a young gentleman of the house of Woodhall," he said;
and he continued to talk and moralize for some ten minutes, while
Ralph, to say the truth, enjoyed his viands amazingly. At the end of
that time the young man began to reply and ask questions in return;
but their further conversation was interrupted by the dashing up of a
splendid horse to the door. To Ralph's surprise, the old sexton
started up from his seat, ran to the outer door, and turned the key in
it. Then, after looking at it for a moment with a grim smile, he
returned to the little parlor, saying to himself, "Nay, nay, not so."
He had hardly seated himself when a hand was laid upon the latch of
the outer door, and some one pushed hard. The lock, however, barred
all entrance, and the visitor knocked once or twice, saying, "Kate!
Kate, let me in!"
"Thou wilt soon have some one to deal with thee," said the old man, in
a low tone; and a moment after another horse was heard coming quickly
along the road, and then followed the sound of angry voices.
"Get home with you!" cried one; "I warned you before; and be you
lord's son or beggar's son, if I see you within a hundred yards of
that house, I will give you such a hiding as will take some of the
rankness out of you."
"Insolent scoundrel!" replied another voice, in the tones of which
Ralph thought he recognized those of Robert Woodhall; "I have a great
mind to send my sword through you, and if it were not for Kate's sake,
I would. But you shall be punished for your insolence notwithstanding
Lady Coldenham will soon send you and your old puritanical father
packing back to Dorsetshire."
"As for your sword," replied the other, in a scornful tone, "you dare
not draw it out of its sheath, and if you did, I would break it over
your back. As for your mother, you had better go and ask her what she
will do before you announce it. I have seen her since you have, and
proud as she is, she will not back you in your rascality. Get you gone
speedily, for my fingers itch to seize you by the throat and grind
your face into the mud. But you are a coward as well as a scoundrel,
and not worth punishing. You have done harm enough already, and you
shall do no more harm here."
After these words there was a momentary pause, sufficient for any one
to have mounted on horseback, and then the prancing of a horse's feet,
while Robert Woodhall's voice uttered some words, apparently of a very
offensive nature; for, although Ralph could not hear them distinctly,
they were followed by a loud and angry exclamation from the other
person, who added, "If you boast truly, I will have the best blood in
your heart."
Some one then cantered away from the house, and the old sexton rose
and unlocked the door, giving admission to a youth of three or
four-and-twenty years of age, whose form at first sight appeared so
lithe and spare as to be fitted only for great agility, but which,
when examined with a more careful eye, showed all the indications of
great strength in the sinewy muscles and exact proportions. His face
was heated, and he entered the room with a hurried step, but stopped
short on perceiving a stranger.
"Calm thyself, calm thyself," said his father; "thou art too hot and
rash, my son. Hast thou said to the old woman what I told thee?"
The son nodded his assent, and the father added, "Not a word more or
less."
"Not a word!" replied the son.
"Then he will come here no more," said the father; "but yet, as it is
impossible to put bridles upon young men bred up in luxury and vice,
it were well to follow the course we have determined, and we must set
about it quickly. Here is a gentleman, my son, who has come hither
asking for thee. Hear what it is he seeks."
"What is it you would with me, sir?" asked the young man, in a civil
tone.
"I have but a message to give you," replied Ralph; "Moraber says that
you are to be at Halling's corner at nine o'clock of the morning on
Thursday next, to go through the world with me."
"That gives but two clear days," exclaimed the young man, looking at
his father; "it can not be."
"Yes, yes, it can," cried the old man, eagerly; "you must not deny
him, boy."
"But I will not have her stay here," replied the younger Stilling;
"come what will, that shall not be."
"I will go with her myself," replied the old man; "you can remain here
till Thursday morning; by that time I shall be on my way back, and at
home by Friday night. He shall come, sir, he shall come. Tell our
friend that he will not fail."
"If you mean by that the person calling himself Moraber," replied
Ralph, "I shall not see him again before I depart; but doubtless he
will know of your son's compliance with his wishes."
"Oh yes, he will not fail to know," answered the sexton; "but why do
you say 'calling himself Moraber?' Think you that is not his real
name?"
"That is clearly a foreign name," replied the young gentleman, "and
his tongue bespeaks the Englishman."
"Oh! he knows many things that you little dream of," answered the old
man, "and can speak in one tongue as well as in another; however, my
son shall be with you at the time and place."
"I would fain know first whom I am going with," said Gaunt Stilling
"My name is Ralph Woodhall," replied the young gentleman, "the son of
Mr. Woodhall of The Grange."
The other paused and mused for a moment or two, after which he said,
"Well, sir, I will go with you; I have heard you spoken well of--the
only one of your name."
"Nay, nay," replied Ralph, "my cousin Henry, Lord Woodhall's son, is
surely an exception to your censure."
"He is well enough," replied the other; "not so bad as the worst, nor
so good as the best; but he may pass among young blades for a
ph[oe]nix, perhaps."
"Well, but his sister Margaret," said Ralph, the color slightly
deepening in his cheek, "surely you have no ill word to say of her."
"Oh ho! sits the wind so?" cried Gaunt Stilling, with a laugh; but the
moment after he added, in a grave and earnest tone, "No, sir, I have
no word to say against her; she is ever named as a good and sweet
young lady, gentle to every one, kind and generous to the poor. She is
very beautiful, too; that I can testify, for I once saw her. He who
wins her will be a rich man, for she is a treasure. However, sir, I
will be at the place appointed on Thursday morning, and ready to serve
you to the best of my power, and all the more willingly because you
are hated by those whom I hate. It is a good sign to have such men's
enmity."
After this engagement Ralph waited no longer, but taking leave of the
old sexton and his son, and thanking the former for his hospitality,
he returned for his horse to the little alehouse, mounted, and rode
away.