"No, not the least. I fancy he had followed that line in his younger days, more because his father and his brother were brigands, than from any inclination of his own. One of the stories he told us struck Middleton and myself in a very different manner."

"What was it?" I asked, unable to restrain my anxious curiosity.

"I am afraid you may think it long," said. Sir Edmund; "but if you are to decide the point in question you must have patience to hear the story:--

"Lorenzo, that was our friend's name, had been engaged in several skirmishes with the gendarmerie, that had been sent into the mountains to arrest the gang to which he belonged; he was known by sight, and had once or twice narrowly escaped being seized. He had a personal enemy among the gendarmes--a man called Giacomo, whose jealousy he had excited some years previously at a country fair. They had quarrelled about a girl whom both were making love to. Lorenzo had struck him, and Giacomo had not returned the blow before they were separated, and his rival safe in the mountains beyond the reach of his vengeance. He brooded over this recollection for several years; and when he found himself, at last, officially in pursuit of his enemy, he followed him as a hungry beast tracks his prey. One evening, with two or three of his men, he had dodged him for several hours. Lorenzo had made with incredible speed for a spot where, between the fissures of the rock, he knew of a secret pa.s.sage by which he could elude the pursuit, and place himself in safety. He strained every nerve to turn the corner before his pursuers could be upon him, and mark the place where he disappeared. Between him and that comer, there was now nothing left but a slight wooden bridge thrown over a precipice. As he was rushing across it, Giacomo, with the instinctive feeling that his enemy was escaping him, by one tremendous leap from the top of the rock which overhung the bridge, reached it at the same moment. The shock broke to pieces the frail support; the hand-rail alone did not give way, and to this, by their hands alone, the two men clung.

They were close to each other--they looked into each other's faces--neither could move. Lorenzo's eyes were glazed with terror; Giacomo's glared with fury; he was nearest the edge, his men were in sight, and he called to them hoa.r.s.ely. Lorenzo gave himself up for lost. At that moment, above their heads, on the edge of the rock, something moved--both looked up. A blow, a tremendous blow, fell on Giacomo's head; his features grew distorted, they quivered in agony--a yell of torture escaped him: another blow, and his brains flew upon the face and hands of his foe. A mist seemed to cover Lorenzo's eyes; but he felt something stretched out to him--he clung to it instinctively, he scrambled, he darted into the cavern, he fainted, but he was safe."

"And who had saved him?" we all exclaimed.

"Amina, a girl whom he was courting, and by whom he was beloved. She was carrying home to her father a large sledge-hammer which he had lent to a neighbour. Pa.s.sing alone through that wild region, she saw the desperate situation of the two men, recognised her lover struggling with the gendarme, heard the shouts of the latter to his comrades, and rushed to the spot."

"A brave girl," exclaimed Henry.

"How did the _romance_ end?" asked Mrs. Ernsley.

"Ah! there's the point," said Sir Edmund. "I asked Lorenzo if he did not love the girl twice as much since her gallant conduct. 'I was very grateful to her,' he answered, 'but I was no longer in love with her.' I exclaimed in astonishment, but he persisted; it was very odd certainly, she had saved his life, and he would have done anything to serve her; 'But you know, gentlemen,' he added, 'one cannot help being in love, or not being in love; and when I looked at Amina's black eyes, I could not help shuddering, for I remembered the look they had, when she gave Giacomo that last blow, and it was not pleasant, and in short I could not be in love with her, and there was an end of it.'"

"And is it possible," exclaimed Mrs. Ernsley, "that he was so ungrateful as to forsake her?"

"No; he told me he would have married her, if she had wished it, but she did not; 'Perhaps,' he said, 'she saw I was no longer in love with her; but she did not seem to care much, and there was an end of it,' as he said before. Now I own I cannot understand the fellow's feeling; if anybody had saved my life, as Amina saved his, I really believe I should have fallen in love with her, had she been old and ugly; but a handsome girl, whom he was in love with before, that she should lose his heart, in consequence of the very act for which he should have adored her, pa.s.ses, I confess, my comprehension. But Edward Middleton disagreed with me; he thought it perfectly natural. 'It was hard upon her,' he said, 'and could no be defended on the ground of reason; but there were instincts, impulses, more powerful than reason itself; and unjust and cruel as it might seem, he could not wonder at the change in Lorenzo's feelings.'"

"How strange!" said Henry Lovell; "how like Edward, too; though not quite so moral and just, as he generally piques himself upon being."

"Ay," said Sir Edmund, "I must do him the justice to say, that he added, 'Had I been Lorenzo, I should have felt myself bound to devote my life to Amina, to have made her happy at the expense of my own happiness; but there is, to me, something so dreadful in life destroyed, in death dealt by the hand of a woman, under any circ.u.mstances whatever.'"--

As Sir Edmund was saying these last words, I felt the sick faint sensation that had been coming over me during the last few minutes, suddenly increase, and he was interrupted by Mrs.

Ernsley exclaiming, "Good Heavens, Miss Middleton, how pale you look! are you ill?"

Mrs. Brandon, who heard her, rushed to me; by a strong effort, I recovered myself, swallowed the gla.s.s of water she brought, and walked to the piano-forte, where Rosa Moore was singing.

I laid my head on the comer of the instrument, and as my tears fell fast, I breathed more freely. When, later, Sir Edmund apologised to me for having made me ill with his horrid story, and Henry whispered to me, "Mrs. Ernsley has just announced that you are of the same species as Miss Farnley, who cannot hear of death, or of wounds, without swooing, but that you are only a somewhat better actress," I was able to smile, and speak gaily. Soon after, I went to bed; as I undressed, I thought of these lines of Scott:--

"O I many a shaft at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant And many a word, at random spoken.

May soothe or wound a heart nigh broken."

That night I had little sleep, and when I woke in the morning, my pillow was still wet with tears.

CHAPTER VI.

"Yes, deep within and deeper yet The rankling shaft of conscience hide; Quick let the melting eye forget The tears that in the heart abide.

Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart Tempts him to hide his grief and die; Too feeble for confession's smart-- Too proud to bear a pitying eye."

CHRISTIAN YEAR.

The following day was Sunday, and some of us drove, some of us walked, to the village church. It was about two miles distant from the house by the carriage road, but the path that led thither by a short cut across the park, through a small wood, down a steep hill, and up another still steeper, and then by a gentle descent into the village, was not much more than a mile in length. It was a beautiful walk, and the view from the top of that last hill was enough to repay the fatigue of scrambling up that winding path, exposed to the burning heat of the sun, and that is not saying a little. As the last bell had not begun to ring, we sat down on the stile on the brow of the hill, to wait for it, and in the meantime I looked with delight on the picture before my eyes. The little footpath wound down through the daisy-enamelled gra.s.s to the edge of a pond of clear water, that lay between the field and the road, and was shaded by half a dozen magnificent oaks, elms, and horse-chesnuts, beyond the little village, which did not seem to contain more than seven or eight cottages, each half-buried in trees, or overgrown with creepers, except one red brick house, that flared in all the pride of newness, and of the gaudy flowers in its spruce little garden. In the middle of the irregular square, or rather of the wide part of the village road, for it could not be called a street, stood a tall May-pole, still adorned with two or three faded remnants of the streamers which had decorated it a month before. On an eminence beyond the village stood the church; one of those small old beautiful parish churches, with one square gray tower, and two wide porches; around it grew yews and thorn trees, of various shapes and sizes, intermingling their white flowers and dark foliage in graceful contrast.

After a few moments' rest we walked on to the churchyard, and sat down upon a tombstone close to the princ.i.p.al porch. All the people of the village were a.s.sembled, sitting, or standing in groups, waiting for the clergyman's arrival. Mr. Brandon was just telling me, in answer to my expressions of admiration for a picturesque, ivy-grown old wall and house, which formed one of the boundaries of the churchyard, that they were part of the ruins of an ancient palace of King John's, when the carriage arrived, and we all went into church. It looked smaller still within than without, but its rude architecture had something religious as well as rustic about it, and the simple singing of the morning hymn by the school children seemed in accordance with it. As usual my mind wandered during the whole of the service, and though I knelt when others knelt, and stood when they stood, and though my lips mechanically repeated the responses, I never prayed except when occasionally some words in the Liturgy or in the Bible struck upon the secret feeling of my heart, and drew from it a mental e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, a pa.s.sionate appeal to Heaven, which was rather the cry of a wounded spirit than a direct address to the G.o.d between whom and my soul I felt as if the link of communion was broken. That day, however, little as I regularly attended to the service it had a soothing effect upon me.

There was an old monument exactly opposite our seat, to which my eyes were continually reverting. It was that of a knight crusader and of his wife; their statues were lying side by side, in that rigid repose which unites the appearance of sleep and of death. There was peace in each line of those sculptured figures--an intensity of repose, the more striking from its a.s.sociation with some of the emblems of war. As I looked upon them I longed to be resting too.

The clergyman was reading the morning lesson at that moment, and these words attracted my attention, "And they all fell seven together, and were put to death in the days of harvest; in the first days in the beginning of barley-harvest; and Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest, until water dropped upon them out of Heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night."

These words seemed to answer my thoughts; why I cannot tell, perhaps no one but myself could understand what that connection was, and yet it struck me so powerfully that I felt as if a c.h.i.n.k had suddenly opened, and given me a glimpse into another world. There was quietness and confidence and strength, in the midst of torture, agony, and despair. The mother, who had lost all her sons, and that by an ignominious death, sat upon the rock days and nights, and she spread sackcloth upon it, and she slept not by night, and she rested not by day, but drove away the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, and verily she had her reward; their bones were gathered together by the King's command, and they buried them there. She had her meed, I might have mine at last; I could weep and pray, fast by day and watch by night, give up the joys of life, the hopes of youth; cease to banish the remembrance of the past, but in quiet penitence, in humbled contemplation bear it ever in mind, and carry about with me, through a long life perhaps, the dagger in the wound, till at last the day might come when my own heart would absolve me, and Edward Middleton would pity me.

After the service the clergyman announced his intention of administering the holy sacrament on the following Sunday, to all such as should be religiously and devoutly disposed. For the last year I had always listened to this address either with a feeling of dogged indifference, or, if my heart was less hardened than usual, with a pang of shame and grief; but always with a determination to remain banished from the altar, ex-communicated by my own conscience. Now for the first time, I listened with a somewhat different feeling; I longed to kneel there, and as I looked at the clergyman while he preached, and marked his white hair, his venerable countenance, and the benevolence of his manner, a sudden resolution occurred to me; I would open my heart to him; I would tell him all; I would, for once, pour out the secret anguish of my soul to one who neither loved nor hated me; to one who would tell me what my guilt had been,--who would promise me its pardon, and point out the path of duty to my blinded sight. I felt feverishly impatient to accomplish this determination; and when we came out of church, and Mrs. Brandon asked me if I would walk or drive home, I said I would drive, so as to make the walkers set out without me; and then I drew Mrs. Brandon aside, and told her, that as I had heard that the afternoon service was at half-past two o'clock, I should wait for it, and in the mean time walk about the churchyard and the village. She made some objections to my remaining alone, which was inevitable if I stayed, as all the men had walked on, and the women would none of them be inclined to miss their luncheon; but at last yielding to my earnest wish, she said she would herself come to afternoon church, in order to fetch me back.

I saw them all drive off, and the village people slowly leave the churchyard in different directions, and sat myself down on the same tombstone as in the morning to watch for Mr. Leslie.

It was some time before he came out of church, and when he did he remained for several minutes in conversation with the clerk at the door of the porch. At last he dismissed him, and walked my way; he seemed doubtful whether he should stop or not, as he pa.s.sed me, but I got up, and this decided him.

He smiled, and asked me if I had been forgotten and left behind?

"No," I said, "I am only waiting here, as there is hardly time to go to the house and come back before afternoon church; and this is a pleasant place to spend an hour in."

"I am glad you like our old churchyard," said Mr. Leslie; and then he began talking of the views, of the neighbouring scenery, of the ruined palace now transformed into a farm, of all the subjects he thought would interest me, little thinking that at that moment the secret of a life of anguish, the confession of an over-burthened conscience, was trembling on my lips. The more he talked, too (although there was nothing unsuitable to his sacred office in anything he said), the morel felt to lose sight of the priest of G.o.d--of the messenger of Heaven, in the amiable, conversible, gentlemanlike man before me; however, when he pulled out his watch, and apologised for leaving me, pleading a promise he had made to visit a sick parishioner, I made a desperate effort, and said: "May I ask you, Mr. Leslie, to allow me a few moments of conversation with you before the hour of afternoon service, if you can spare time?"

He looked surprised, but bowed a.s.sent, and said he would return in half an hour. During that half hour I sat with my face buried in my hands, feeling as if able to count every pulsation of my heart. The excitement under which I had acted was past; I trembled at the idea of what my lips were going to utter; I felt as if I had escaped a great danger; I was astonished at myself for ever having formed such a resolution; and when Mr. Leslie stood before me again, and asked me, with a smile, what my business with him was, I could as soon have destroyed myself in his presence, as have p.r.o.nounced the words of self-accusation, which had appeared to me so natural and so easy when he was in the pulpit and I on my knees in church.

But he was there, and he was waiting for my answer, and my cheeks were flushing, and I knew that the next moment I should burst into tears. With a desperate confusion I drew my purse, which contained several sovereigns, from my pocket, and asked him to distribute it among the poor of the village. He seemed puzzled, but thanked me, and said he should be happy to be the dispenser of such a liberal donation: and I darted away from him, unable to bear the shame and the misery I was enduring; for now it seemed to me that I had added hypocrisy to my guilt; that I had hardened my heart against the best impulse I had yet experienced, and that I had deceived the minister of G.o.d, whose praises sounded like curses in my ears.

I attended the afternoon service in a more reckless mood than ever; and that day at dinner, and during all the evening, was more feverishly gay, more wildly excited than usual; and Henry Lovell, who seemed struck with the strangeness of my manner, for the first time made love to me without reserve. The language of pa.s.sion was new to my ears; his words made my heart throb and my cheeks b.u.m; but even while he spoke, and while under the influence of a bewildering excitement, which made me feel, for the time, as if I shared his sentiments, I once thought of the crusader. I saw a pale, calm face, with its well known features, under the warrior's helmet; and I felt that to lie down and die by his side would be happiness compared to such a life as mine.

A few days after this, we were all sitting in the drawing-room at about twelve o'clock; the day was not tempting, and instead of going out, we had settled to work, while Sir Edmund and Henry alternately read out loud to us; but Rosa Moore, when she heard the plan proposed, screwed up her lips into a decided expression of disapprobation, and slipt out of the room with the look of a child who has escaped its lesson. Two hours after she came in again, and sat down quietly in a chair opposite me; she looked red and out of breath, but a look of mischief and amus.e.m.e.nt was sparkling in her eyes. She listened patiently to the conclusion of the tragedy, which Sir Edmund was reading well, though rather too theatrically for the occasion; and when the different remarks upon it had subsided, she turned to Henry, and with perfect gravity, but a most mischievous look in her eyes, said to him, "Mr. Lovell, I am sorry to have to break it to you, but, upon pain of death, we must marry immediately."

"I never dreamt of such an honour," said Henry, laughing; "but if there is no other alternative, I can resign myself. But who lays down this law?"

"A gentleman who shortened my walk this morning, for I had no intention of coming home before the end of the tragedy."

"Who can you mean?"

"Somebody who must be either your best friend or your worst enemy, by the interest he seems to take in you."

"What _do_ you mean?" said Mrs. Brandon.

"Only that as I was exploring the thicket near East Common, I heard a rustling in the hedge, and suddenly stood face to face with an individual of not very prepossessing appearance."

"What kind of man, my love? you frighten me to death."

"Why he was not like a gentleman, nor yet like a countryman; not like anything good in its way. He opened our interview by laying hold of my arm."

"How dreadful!" "What did he say?" "What did you do?" "How shocking!" "How did you get away?" "I should have died on the spot;" was echoed with different sorts of emphasis round the table.

"Why, I told him I had five shillings and sixpence in my purse, in case it was agreeable to him to take them."

"Did he?"