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 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 A TALE OF 
 
 THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
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 “ A tale of the times of old- 
 
 •*-The deeds of days of other years.” 
 
 Ossian. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY A. PARK, LEONARD STREET, 
 
 FINSBURY. 
 
 1842. 
 
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 A. PARK, PRINTER, LEONARD-STREET, TABERNACLE WALK, 
 
 FINSBURY. 
 
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THE HEIRESS, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 TIME though strong is swift in flight, and year after year passes quickly by, 
 the young, the beautiful, the brave, the noble and the rich, the prince and the 
 peasant are alike borne down the stream of life, and pass away to that bourne 
 trom whence n6 traveller returns, the sun which rises in the morning, inspiring 
 with its rays of warmth and splendour thousands of human beings ; as it throws 
 its last beams upon the world, sets upon hundreds of mourners over those who 
 saw his rising, but whose eyes have'in those few short hours been sealed in death ; 
 these reflections, have emenated from the subjects of the following tale, a tale 
 of olden times, when the feudal Baron possessed unlimited povver, and was a 
 petty sovereign in his own right, when he ruled with a rod of iron the submis¬ 
 sive serf, and the tenants of his lands were abject slaves, when murder stalked 
 abroad unpunished, save when heaven itself became the avenger and hurl’d its 
 thunderbolt at the head of the assassin; these days are past, the Baron and the 
 Serf both moulder in their graves alike forgotten and unknown ; save, where 
 \ No. 1. u 
 
 < 
 
2 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 from unusual sorrow, or crimes of dreadful note, the woes and wrongs of the 
 one, and the villainy and misdeeds of the other, have been written and handed 
 down to posterity, as a consolation to the afflicted and a warning to the guilty, 
 proclaiming, that there is mercy for the bruised heart and judgment for the evil 
 doer; such is our tale, founded on da} 7 s and deeds long past, drawn from authen¬ 
 tic sources although blended with fiction. A tale which forcibly shews the sure 
 destruction of the vicious, and the ultimate reward of virtue. We will no longer 
 moralize, but at once commence our interesting history. 
 
 The sun had long sunk in the west beneath a stormy sky, the wind began to 
 howl, thunder was heard in the distance, and the rain began to descend heavily 
 and in huge drops, as the carriage of Sir Godfrey Brandon descended a lofty hill 
 towards the immense and gloomy forests of St. Moreton ; from amidst the tall 
 and agitated trees might be seen rising in gothic grandeur, the towers of Brandon. 
 Impatiently leaning trom the carriage window, he bade his attendants use more 
 speed, then taking the hand of the lovely Bertha who sat by his side trembling 
 at the storm, he kindly asked, 
 
 “ Sees’t thou yonder forest, dearest Bertha ?” 
 
 “ I do deal father” she replied “ also those distant dismal looking turrets ris¬ 
 ing from its bosom,” you have before told me that our future residence was in 
 the forests of St. Moreton, “ but surely dear father that dreary pile is not des¬ 
 tined for our future residence ?” 
 
 “ Alas! my poor child” exclaimed Sir Godfrey in great agitation, “ We have 
 now no other left.” 
 
 The carriage now began to enter the precincts of the gloomy forest, whose 
 spreading branches extended in dangerous obstructions along the only road the 
 driver was able to discover, rendering their progress slow, dangerous, and diffi¬ 
 cult. The fatigued and weary travellers, though anxious to arrive at a place of 
 rest and security, were compelled to continue their perilous and weary way with 
 what patience they could muster; the tract they were now in, had been un¬ 
 trodden by living being for many a long year, the underwood, branches, and 
 projecting clumps of trees had become so luxuriant in their wildness, that they 
 not only proved dangerous, but occasionally obstructed the progress of the tra¬ 
 vellers entirely; Sir Godfrey at length impatient from continual delay, again 
 leaned from the window, and in an angry tone demanded of Oswell why he ad¬ 
 vanced no faster? 
 
 “ Alas! and alack-a-day,” said Oswell “ please your worship the poor beasts 
 are w 7 orn out with fatigue, and they can’t get on faster, they have come a weary 
 wa}, the night is dark, the road (a murrain on such roads say I, and they who 
 made ’em) is choaked up with bushes, and as uneven as a ploughed field, and 
 hilly to boot, I much question if w r e shall be able to proceed fifty yards further, 
 besides I begin to fear we have taken the wrong path, Alas! and alack-a-day, 
 would w 7 e were at our journeys end,—” 
 
 “Silence!” exclaimed Sir Godfrey, “Hear you not the sound of a bell,” 
 
 listen! the clear but melancholy notes of a distant bell were at that moment 
 heard to chime irregularly, “ Sir Godfrey with some emphasis and in a voice 
 of trembling agitation” exclaimed “ It is,—it is the fatal bell, its j unhallowed 
 notes strike horror to my soul,—Oh ! torturing remembrance of what I once 
 was—cease—cease thy harrowing cries, distract not mv brain for ever, drive 
 me not by thy tones to perpetual madness.” 
 
 These frantic exclamations were interrupted by Oswell, “ Your worship” 
 said he, “ w ill you give directions what path w r e shall choose next, though a-lack 
 arid alas, and well a-day, they seem pretty w r ell all alike, but perhaps your 
 honour may be acquainted with these dismal parts, and can tell where the sound 
 of that bell comes from.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey heaved a heavy sigh and answered, “ Thou sayest right good 
 Oswell, it is the great turret clock of the towers of Brandon Abbey.” Remount 
 the carriage and let Ralph guide the horses ; pursue the direction of the sound. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 3 
 
 and continue your course to the right, the end of our journey is now near at 
 hand. Os well did as he was ordered, internally praying to all the saints in the 
 calender for a safe deliverance from his perilous situation; lashing pretty smartly 
 his worn out cattle, the carriage proceeded on its way once more. The clouds 
 had by this time dispersed, and the storm having ceased, the opening in the trees 
 here and there admitted the partial reflections of an autumnal moon, cheering 
 for a short interval the drooping spirits of the travellers, and aiding for a time 
 »their imperfect knowledge of the road ; but its welcome rays were not of long 
 duration, for as they advanced, the trees became more thickly interwoven, render¬ 
 ing obscurity more obscure, and after a few more paces, the travellers found 
 themselves again involved in total darkness. Phcebe and Ruth, Bertha’s atten¬ 
 dants clung closely to each other, and nought but the dread of Sir Godfrey’s 
 anger prevented their giving vent to expressions of terror which momentarily in¬ 
 creased. The lovely Bertha had for a short time reclined in peaceful slumbers 
 upon the breast of her father, till aw r oke by the scalding tears, the bitter drops 
 of a broken heart, which fell from the pallid countenance of Sir Godfrey as he 
 muttered to himself, “ sleep, sleep on sweet child of injury, and balmy be thy 
 slumbers, peace and innocence possess thy bosom unruffled by |the storms and 
 cares of lite ;—sweet Bertha, unconscious of the miseries that aw r ait thee, thy re¬ 
 pose is calm and undisturbed, thy dreams are the imaginary emblems of antici¬ 
 pated happiness—Ah God,—Ah God ! once like thee poor offspring of suffering 
 thy heart broken parent knew the blessing of peaceful repose, and the days of 
 his youth promised felicity and joy, but now bitter and sad reverse, I no more 
 look forward to days of delight and happiness, my smiling prospects of promised 
 bliss are blasted, and the sun of my happiness clouded and set for ever;” Alas, 
 how low has sorrow in a few short months laid prostrate my strength and energy, 
 revered, idolized Emily, worshiped of my soul, now lost to me for ever, buried 
 deep—deep in the cold, damp, silent tomb, no more shall thy angelic form 
 break like morning’s sun beams on my sight, no more shalt thou writhe in agony 
 beneath the blasting powers and tyranny which not even a husband’s sacred 
 rights could guard thee from, accursed fate, barbarous savage, remorseless 
 Hubert—Oh, heavenly pow'ers ! ye who watch o’er the innocent, sleeping or 
 awake, ye from w T hom the treachery and wiles of guilt are not concealed; hear, 
 oh ! hear my prayer—strike—oh, strike the fell destroyer in his pride of power, 
 hurl on him thy avenging retribution; bare thy red arm of thunder, exterminate 
 him and his detested race for ever, assert thine own power and justice, and 
 avenge thy suppliants injuries, “ Alas, alas ! my brain wanders and maddened 
 by fatal recollections forgets the voice of instinct!” “ No, I will not curse thee 
 Hubert, the call of nature still must be obeyed, I cannot be deaf to its appeal 
 for though a villain, thou art still my brother ; yet can I not forget ’tw r as thy 
 cursed ambition that plunged me for ever in a gulphof woe, robbed me of all my 
 hopes of bliss, and only left me days of misery and horror, nights of madness and 
 distraction, yet, for all this I will not curse *hee, nor call heaven’s wrath upon 
 thy guilty head, I w r ill leave thee to its searching anger, and in the deep recesses 
 of my grief swoln soul, closed from all eyes save one, will I for ever bury the 
 fatal secret of my wrongs, and when those wrongs recur to my distracted mind, 
 
 I will strive to remember, the blow that seared up for ever my lost felicity and 
 peace, was the work of a brother’s hand whom I once loved and trusted; I w r ill 
 restrain those bitter maledictions wdiich long pent grief and agony concealed, 
 would fain heap upon fraternal villainy and ingratitude.” “ A dreadful mystery 
 evidently hung over Sir Godfrey Brandon, and which he was unw illing should 
 ever be questioned;” It was strange that at scarcely a moments warning he should 
 leave his former habitation in the dead of the night, dismissing all his established 
 household save the very few attendants that now accompanied him on his pre¬ 
 sent journey without assigning any other reason for so unexpected a change, but 
 that he was no longer entitled to the tenure of his late Demesne which w as situ¬ 
 ated in one of the most romantic w ilds of Scotland. 
 
4 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 The domestics in wonder declared their willingness to obey the orders, and 
 follow the fortunes of their master to the gloomy forests of St. Moreton, where 
 amid the ruins of Brandon Abbey he was compelled in future to seek a last and 
 only remaining residence. 
 
 Sir Godfrey was highly pleased at the readiness of his domestics to perform 
 their duty, and enjoining them all to strict secresy, he quitted his late hospitable 
 mansion to commence a long and tedious journey through the mountainous wilds 
 ot Scotland, and across more than half the kingdom of England. 
 
 It was on the close of the sixth evening when (as we have already described) 
 they gained a distant view of the forest of St. Moreton, and the towers of 
 .Brandon Abbey ; whose gothic and turreted ruins were almost lost in indistin¬ 
 guishable distance. It had once been famous for its riches and grandeur, and 
 as a monastery was dedicated to Saint Moreton, but the subsequent irregularity 
 of its order, together with the despotic tyranny of one of its ancient lords, had 
 stripped it of all its former wealth and consequence, insomuch, that the haughty 
 Baron of Brandon had under unjust pretence, demanded heavy contributions to 
 assist m carrying on the war between the first Edward, and the nearly subdued 
 hcots ; his only excuse for such open violation of ecclesiastic rights was grounded 
 on a discovery it was pretended he had made of one of the Nuns, having broken 
 the sacred rules and stained her purity by a disregard to her vows of vestal celi¬ 
 bacy. 1 he haughty tyrant greedily seized upon this circumstance, as the means 
 of succeeding in his ambitious designs, he entered the abbey, demanded from 
 the superiors not only an acknowledgment of their obeisance, but a large sum of 
 money; and to cover bis injustice pretended it was designed for the further pro¬ 
 secution of the holy wars. The superiors proudly refused compliance, but the 
 Baron knew the surety of his proceedings, and exposed the apostate crimes of 
 
 ■ ister Agatha, relating every proof of her lapse from that sacred vow which for 
 ever enjoined the community of a monastery to celibacy. The sum demanded 
 was however eventually produced and sent to the Baron as an act of indemnity, 
 but the wily Baron made such continual and large demands, that the once proud 
 Monastery stripped of its shrines, its coffers, and its wealth, became entirely de¬ 
 pendant on his caprice, till at length the king unknowingly rewarded his tyranny 
 (me Baron having assisted him with large sums of gold)' by granting him heredi¬ 
 tary possession of the Abbey with all its tenures, revenues, and riches ; the 
 , Karo ? then took undisputed possession of his new acquisition which he speedily 
 transiormed into a splendid and princely mansioh. 
 
 The Abbey was in itself an immense pile of superb gothic structure, and bv 
 tne wealth oi its own coffers was soon transformed into a most magnificient and 
 lega* abode. A tradition has been handed down, which states, that the Baron 
 cud not (though possessing a mine of wealth) enjoy that happiness which his 
 m ishes led him to hope for; he was ever after, subject to the most gloomy pas¬ 
 sions and melancholy abstractions of mind, which often ended in violent para- 
 
 WaS alS ? J kl that the s P ectre of Agatha the unhappy 
 i f 118 ^ruction, had repeatedly appeared to the Baron to warn 
 >l his heinous offences, and even accuse him as the cause of her ruin and 
 subsequent punishment by death. The Baron lived not long to enjoy the splen¬ 
 dour of Ins ill gotten wealth, he was heard to confess that "peace of mindwas 
 
 andTaTti^alUhPhr h “ he “ rt ’ a,ld ‘hough lying on the downy couch of luxury, 
 and tasting all the blessings that immense wealth could bestow, yet,did he never 
 
 horror and »i “V u " dls f turbed conscience, his death was the departure of guilty 
 c n inns 1 f" n m ‘ ' e fu ‘ Ure ; and he ‘he world with curses and exe- 
 
 > lit umself, leaving no child to inherit the domains of Brandon, which 
 
 S" place S/’ft Wh0 !f ng !" CTCT >- " a > ”■«*> his uncle, rehised to 
 “ F -!m this • n o d , been .° btai ' ,ed b >' tra,ld > violence, and injustice. 
 
 led id severM T,rdf h,‘,r J f ° r IT a centurv and half had “know- 
 
 ^ l severe loids, but was very rarely honoured for any length of time bv 
 
 ■ be presence ol its possessors, who we. in general eager to shun a place 
 
5 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 % A 
 
 traditional history teemed with dark and mysterious records. The Abbey had 
 not been inhabited for any length of time since the first Baron became its pos¬ 
 sessor, the last owner deceased was (so it was believed) a distant relation of the 
 present inheritor Sir Godfrey Brandon, who now driven by a mysterious destiny 
 was seeking its long deserted ruins, to hide himself and family from the dread¬ 
 ful consequences of an overruling fate no human wisdom could avert, but in the 
 hoped lor security of this long forgotten and remote retreat. 
 
 The real cause of Sir Godfrey’s sudden removal to this last and unhappy re¬ 
 source was unknown ; his servants had indeed vainly endeavoured to conjecture 
 it, and had in their own minds formed a vast many chimerical conclusions, but 
 they never attained to the truth ; even his much confidential attendant old Oswell, 
 could obtain no clue to guide his search into the mystery of his masters conduct. 
 Satisfied, however, with the high wrought honor of Sir Godfrey’s temper and 
 character, he had on so sudden an occasion exerted all his influence with the 
 rest of his companions that were elected to attend Sir Godfrey, and to his kind 
 offices his master was indebted for the otherwise unwilling obedience that was 
 exacted; yet the suddeness of their journey, its long and fatiguing continuance, 
 together with the gloomy remote and even terrific habitation they were speedily 
 approaching, began to raise fears and doubts if not uneasy suspicions, in the 
 minds of the domestics, particularly as the carriage at length emerging from a 
 narrow path, entered upon an opening admitting the moonbeams which shone 
 upon the towers of a ruined fabric, the dismal and gloomy mansion w r hich they 
 were in search of. 
 
 Fear, doubt and suspense, filled the minds of Oswell and Ralph, as they caught 
 tlie first glimpse of the time worn tow ers of the abbey, whilst the females Phoebe 
 and Ruth shrunk back in the carriage vowing that they could never possibly 
 make up their minds to venture into so horrible and ruinous looking a place. 
 
 Sir Godfrey who for some time had been deeply plunged in meditation, which 
 had banished from his notice all passing events, w as now roused and startled by 
 the united exclamations of his alarmed domestics, and rising his head suddenly, 
 caught a full view of the southern angle of the Abbey. Years had passed since 
 he had seen it, and even he shuddered as he again viewed the frowuiing exterior 
 of the dreary pile, and half repented that his haste had led him to select so deso¬ 
 late and ruinous a place for his future residence. The carriage now suddenly 
 stopped at a little distance from an open avenue which led immediately to the 
 abbey. 
 
 “Your worship,” said Oswell (opening the door of the vehicle) his voice 
 tremulous with fright, “ shall we proceed further or shall we turn into another 
 path and seek the shortest w ay out of this dismal forest, for surely, your excellency 
 w ill never think of entering yon frightful old ruin, which alas, and alack-a-day, 
 looks for all the world as if it would fall and bury us all alive beneath its crum¬ 
 bling battlements ; or, perhaps we shall have to encounter a battle with an army 
 of ghosts and hobgoblins, who w r ill dispute our right to take possession of their 
 gloomy apartments.” 
 
 “ Peace, I command you,” angrily interrupted Sir Godfrey with a raised tone 
 of voice, and a dignity of manner that proved to old Oswell, he had better say 
 no more upon the subject, “ I did think Osw r ell, continued Sir Godfrey, that you 
 at least possessed more courage, than to admit the impressions of such idle fears, 
 as even your female companions w r ould blush to express ; the seat of my ances¬ 
 tors though long deserted, and now perhaps destitute of every comfort, has, I 
 w ill answer for it> nothing that can justly alarm or excite cow ardice in the minds 
 of my servants, if however, yourself or any of your companions fear to enter with 
 your master the building he has chosen for his future abode, you shall have my 
 free permission to remain with the carriage till daylight, whilst I and my daughter 
 w ill alone seek admission within a mansion that hereafter will become our chief 
 residence.” 
 
 “ Alack, alas, and well a-da{ ’ exclaimed Oswell, {,( only to think of this 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 G 
 
 now !” that your worship should doubt the courage and fidelity of your poor old 
 servant, your honor knows but little of your poor servant’s heart, if you doubt his 
 attachment to his master and his house ; I only mean’t to propose leaving the 
 Abbey for some more hospitable shelter till morning dawned, instead of seeking 
 admission at midnight to so dismal aud dreary a,place. 
 
 Sir Godfrey accepted this weak apology, and desired the domestics to pursue 
 their way, for the storm which had for a time abated, began to rage with re¬ 
 doubled violence, rendering it absolutely necessary for them to seek a refuge 
 within the Abbey walls, from the fast descending torreifts of rain to which they 
 were exposed, and the terrific sheets of vivid fire which incessantly flashed around 
 them. Phoebe and Ruth flattered by the trifling compliment Sir Godfrey had 
 paid them, stifled their feelings, and concealed their inward terrors. 
 
 With much difficulty a passage for the carriage was forced through the thick 
 underwood over a rugged pathway, and at length halted beneath the battlement 
 ramparts of the Abbey. Sir Godfrey descending from the vehicle, walked with 
 a cautious step and scrutinizing gaze, a considerable distance beneath the walls, 
 before he arrived at the heavy gates of entrance. These he found securely closed, 
 and resisting every effort to force them, with an obstinacy that surprised him; 
 calling loudly to his people, who were trembling with fright and terror from, head 
 to foot, he commanded them to approach and combine their strength with his. 
 But the gates proved the security of their interior holds, for not a single fasten¬ 
 ing would yield one atom to their united attack ; Sir Godfrey paused in astonish¬ 
 ment at such unexpected resistance, when suddenly the idea flashed upon his 
 mind, that the Abbey might be inhabited, although well aware that no living 
 being had his permission to enter its precincts, and he imagined that the tradi¬ 
 tional terrors of the place were a sufficient guard against all unknown intruders ; 
 yet if inhabited, ’twas not improbable but it might be the dreadful haunt of 
 banditti, to whom its lonely situation and the extensive dimensions of the forest, 
 might render it a most excellent place of concealment for their daring purposes 
 of plunder, and of murder. For a! short t^me these terrible thoughts occupied 
 the mind of Sir Godfrey, and rendered hife Irresolute in purpose. How to pro¬ 
 ceed became now matter of doubt, lest he should expose his family to more im¬ 
 minent and real dangers, than the imaginary ones of poor old Oswell. At length 
 a violent flash of lightning determined him as it glanced along the w alls of the 
 Abbey, and gave to instant view’ its tottering turrets and broken gothic case¬ 
 ments, still magnificent in ruins, as in its proudest days of towering splendour; 
 it showed also at no great distance, a small angle postern, whose weak and de- 
 lapidated state seemed to promise more success to the w r anderers, who deter- 
 . mined to try if they could not find more ready admission here ; the postern was 
 extremely old and ruinous, and seemed only held by the bolt of the lock, which 
 soon gave w ay to the attack of the domestics, and crossing beneath a heavy gothic 
 arch, they found themselves within the area of the first court; Sir Godfrey followed 
 by his terror stricken and trembling attendants, w r as hurrying onward, till remem¬ 
 bering that the females were left unguarded in the carriage, and might suffer in¬ 
 creased alarm from the violence of the storm, and the absence of their compa¬ 
 nions, he ordered one of the men to return instantly, and await with them the 
 event of his bold attempt to gain a shelter within the ruined Abbey. 
 
 Oswell, ashamed of the late deserved rebuke which his former cow r ardice 
 had drawn down upon him, summoned up a sort of desperate courage, and 
 avowed his determination of attending his noble master, “alack, alas! and well- 
 day,” said he “ what need have we to fear, our noble master is with us, we are 
 all good men and true —“ Mercy on me what’s that!” the wind—only the wind.” 
 Then bringing materials from the carriage, he lighted a torch and followed with 
 pale and trembling apprehension, his calm undaunted conductor who with cau¬ 
 tious steps now r advanced through the w r ide area of a second court, which being 
 strewed with crumbling fragments of the ruins, rendered his advances slow, dif¬ 
 ficult, and dangerous. At length by dint of perseverance, he reached a flight 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 <?f steps which seemed to lead up to the grand portal of entrance, but the stormy 
 darkness of the night, and the feeble glare of the torch, as it flashed on the black 
 and frowning walls, admitted but of a very imperfect certainty; Sir Godfrey 
 however resolved to ascend, and poor old Oswell faltering beneath the combined 
 weight of his own corporeal frame and his increasing terrors, dared not a°ain 
 interpose his resistance ; his legs had got St. Vitus’s dance, his teeth chattered 
 though he mired not speak, and his hand was palsied by fear, as he attempted to 
 hold the torch steadily to the great folding doors of Dutch like form. Sir Godfrey 
 after some forcible efforts burst them open, and entered what appeared to be an 
 immense hall of indistinguishable size, and terminated in the distance in vista’s 
 of huge pillars, whose lofty heads like the roof they supported, were impervious 
 to the joint rays of a single torch, and were enveloped in an awful and misty 
 gloom, impressive beyond expression, and productive of solemn and astonishing 
 sensations to the startled beholder. 
 
 Poor Oswell in spite of his assumed bravery, began to wish as he found him¬ 
 self in this damp cold awe inspiring hall, that seemed to conjure up ten thousand 
 superstitious horrors, and terrific imaginary appearances, that he had not been so 
 prodigal of his services, nor can it be said that the simple trepidation of Oswell 
 was without foundation, when it is considered, that unlettered and ignorant as 
 he was, and eagerly catching at every outward appearance pertaining to the mar¬ 
 vellous, the solemnity of a scene so entirely favourable to the most extravagant 
 ideas of superstition, was sufficient to powerfully excite in his mind the greatest 
 terror. Respect, however, for his master, and the fear of receiving a second re¬ 
 buke held him silent, but he failed not to address himself inwardly to every saint 
 his memory could think of, for their protection against the spells and enthral¬ 
 ments of all the dark inhabitants that he doubted not were legioned in invisible 
 tribes beneath the roof of this terrific fabric. At length their further progress 
 was barred by some steps which led up to a gothic door, which after much diffi¬ 
 culty was forced back, and entering its dark precincts, Sir Godfrey found him¬ 
 self within what appeared to have been an anti-chamber to an opposite apart¬ 
 ment, the folding doors of which he hastened to open ; and its interior displayed 
 a large antique room, with the forms of several crumbling pieces of furniture, 
 which, from the number of its raised couches, now covered with a thick coat of 
 mildew, and blackness seemed evidently the remnants of a chamber, that had 
 once been stately, and magnificent. Sir Godfrey scrupulously surveyed it; the 
 walls although dripping with damps, seemed tolerably entire, and appeared to 
 promise them security against the dangers of the night. 
 
 Tired and exhausted as he was, he resolved for the present to seek no further, 
 but to content himself with this resting place, till returning daylight should enable 
 him to judge how far it was possible to put his design in force, of making the 
 Abbey habitable ; and since he had as yet seen nothing to excite alarm or dread, 
 he hastened to the carriage and declared to its inmates his resolution. 
 
 The females knowing that to recede or return was now an impossibility, obeyed 
 with trembling and reluctant steps, and advanced very slowly supported by their 
 male companions, whose courage was very little better than their own ; whilst 
 Sir Godfrey taking Bertha in his arms, conveyed her to the Abbey. Bertha was 
 yet too young to catch the infectious terrors of her attendants, but refrained not 
 from expressing her wonder, that her father should leave their happy home, for 
 such a drear? frightful place as that they were advancing to. Sir Godfrey kissed 
 the cheek of his darling daughter, who had embraced his neck ; but sighing 
 deeply, he remained silent to her innocent interrogatory; and the little party 
 gained in safety the interior of the hall. Upon minute inspection, the great 
 gates were found to possess many strong bolts and chains, remaining as thevhad 
 been left for many a year unhooked to their fastenings; these were now after a 
 loss of time carefully placed in their holds for the night, and followed by his pale 
 and trembling attendants, who all clung closely to each other, Sir Godfrey once 
 more passed into the interior of the chamber he had discovered. 
 
s 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 Oswell and Ralph, who had by command of their master, cut down several 
 branches from the forest, now set them alight within the wide spreading hearth 
 whose brisk and crackling blaze soon dispelled the damp and gloominess of the 
 dreary chambers, and at length compelled even the long and woe begone visages 
 of the timid women, to relax into something bearing the appearance of a smile, 
 which together with the kindness and condescension ot Sir Godfrey and the 
 remembered fatigues and dangers of their perilous journey through the lorest, 
 when compared with their present shelter, and the coinlorts ot a welcome and 
 plentiful meal, succeeded at last in making a very palpable alteration, although 
 the dreaded apprehensions of the forlorn place they had entered still harassed 
 their thoughts, and ever and anon, they would cast a terrified glance round every 
 part of the desolate chamber, in momentary expectation of witnessing some hor¬ 
 rific spectacle, which their wild alarms and conjectures failed not to conjure up 
 in their bewildered senses. Tlieir repast ended, Sir Godfrey commanded Oswell 
 to place before the fire some of the strongest couches, and cover them with the 
 packages in his charge, and not disdaining under existing circumstances to re¬ 
 pose himself in the same chamber with his humble dependents, he ordered each 
 to take a wrapper and compose themselves to rest. The servants were grateful 
 and delighted for this considerate permission, and soon forgot the terrors and 
 dangers they had felt and became alike insensible to their gloomy and forlorn 
 situation; and the storm which howled without, and now shook the trembling 
 fabric with each fresh gust of wind that swept over its ruined towers; Sir God¬ 
 frey having previously committed Bertha to the care of her female attendants. 
 Sunk on his knees in prayer to him who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb, 
 and earnestly, but humbly having entreated protection for himself and family 
 (from weariness and exhaustion) calmly sunk into sweet and tranquil sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EARLY in the morning, after a time spent in vain attempts to sleep for any 
 lengthened period, Sir Godfrey arose. It was a delicious morning, the storm 
 had passed away, and nature had once more resumed her calm and beautiful 
 appearance ; having removed a broken window shutter, a rich and exhilarating 
 perfume filled the chamber; he looked with a melancholy feeling over the tall 
 trees of the forest, rising and throwing their taller shadows over the dewy turf, 
 and the last mists now beginning to clear away, and blending with the bright 
 blue sky ; every thing was silent,—silent as the grave; save indeed, the carol of 
 the birds. Sir Godfrey pondered deeply o’er his situation, his child’s forlorn 
 state—she, the beloved of his heart—of his new views in life,—of her he had 
 once doated on ; he could not but feel, that a great and fearful change had come 
 over him since the days of his earlier manhood. In this frame of mind, Sir 
 Godfrey knelt down to express his thanks where they were most due, for his slight 
 oblivion from misery during the past night, and for the health and safety himself 
 and family had experienced. 
 
 He then arose, and paused upon those fatally unknown occurrences that had 
 caused himself and family to take refuge in a place so remote, dreary and inhos¬ 
 pitable, as was the Abbey of Brandon, to which, cut off from all human hope 
 (the only solace of the wretched and heart broken) the victim of crueltv— 
 treachery, and injustice, exposed to all the vicissitudes of a life passed in a place 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 lacking every comfort and even shelter as did Brandon Abbey, were added the 
 mysterious sorrows of a fate none could avert; the sweet sympathy of friendship 
 denied him, increase of anguish alone presented itself, and his once happy but 
 now broken heart, looked forward to repose in the termination of life alone. Sir 
 Godfrey sought the couch of his child, she who alone bound him to the earth, 
 and for whose sake he stood like the scathed oak against the blast of adversity; 
 his child, the sweet slumbering innocent Bertha, smiled as she lay before him 
 wrapped in dreams of the scenes of her early and happy days, when all was joy, 
 and hope, and sun-light, ere the storm had come, and blight had fallen upon 
 the vivacity of virgin youth, she was the dear and only pledge of his worshipped 
 Emily’s love, the only tie that bound him to existence, the tender orphan who 
 from the thorns and precipices of a deceitful world, sought a secure barrier in 
 her only parent; tears bedimmed Sir Godfrey’s eyes, as his whole soul yearned 
 with unutterable tenderness for his unconscious child calmly reposing in balmy 
 peaceful sleep. c< Selfish being,” exclaimed he, “ am I to wish my days of 
 misery shortened, whilst thou sweet Bertha, the counterpart of the idol ol my 
 soul, demandest that protection which by nature and paternal loye, I am bound 
 to yield thee ; no, dear, beloved Bertha, thou shalt never be deserted ; thy 
 lather who would willingly face the grim tyrant death in all his terrors, and 
 end a life of wretchedness unparalleled, who loathes the world and all its 
 hollow vanities for thy sake, will even pray that his days may be prolonged, 
 and—oh, omnipotent providence! thou who searchest and knowest the inmost 
 recesses of all hearts, hear, and deign to answer thy humble creatures fervent 
 supplications, in the unspeakable plenitude of thy goodness, may the days ol 
 No. 2. c 
 
10 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 the heart broken father, though weary of his sojourn in the vale ol tears, be 
 lengthened for the protection and prosperity of his child, and oh 1 thou who let- 
 test not a sparrow fall to the ground without thy knowledge, and hast mercy 
 upon the meanest of thy creatures, even upon the worm which crawleth at our 
 feet) endue her with superior fortitude, lest, without thy all sufficient arm she 
 sink unresigned and abject beneath a subdued spirit, and a broken heart.” Sir 
 Godfrey overcome by the intensity of his paternal feeling, wiped the perspiration 
 from his brow, and brushing the tear from his eye kissed the cheek of his still 
 sleeping child, and approached the door of the chamber, for feeling w T ell assured 
 that sleep would no more visit his couch, were he to make the effort; he resolved 
 to allow his Bertha and the weary domestics to take their rest unbroken, and use 
 the present time in exploring the various apartments of the Abbey. In crossing 
 the antichamber, Sir Godfrey saw nothing to engage his immediate attention ; 
 the walls were damp and mildewed, and the lofty windows covered with slime 
 and blackened dust, and cased thickly without with an almost impenetrable coat 
 of luxuriant ivy, descending the steps of the outward door, he entered the grand 
 hall, whose extensive dimensions and immense long vistas, even by daylight 
 w r ere scarcely rendered visible through tiie solemn gloom that hung over this 
 heavy structure ; its roof was very curiously wrought with black arched rafters 
 of massy oak, on which were carved many emblematic descriptions of holy writ, 
 every appearance fully indicated that this building had been the superior church 
 of the Abbey, in its conventual state ; on either side were several large case¬ 
 ments, and at the east end rose in a magnificent point, the grand altar window 
 richly stained and emblazoned with various arms and devices ; but, yet the inte¬ 
 rior of the design of the church was totally destroyed, and the dinginess of its 
 immense pillars, with the delapidated black sides of its bare walls, would have 
 had a tendency to conjure up ideas even in the stoutest heart of a superstitious 
 nature. Approaching one of the south windows, which seemed less encumbered 
 with ivy than the rest, Sir Godfrey discovered an extensive square, terminated at 
 a distance by the battlement walls of the Abbey; he perceived also to the left, 
 the outward enclosure of the cloisters now become nearly a heap of ruins, a sad 
 memento of their former splendour. 
 
 Sir Godfrey, as he gazed upon them in melancholy meditation, could not for¬ 
 bear comparing them with the fallen fortunes of his own house; large masses of 
 stone lay scattered in the square, which here and there displayed the tops of 
 monumental tombs, the only sad and mouldering records which now remained 
 to mark the spot, where reposed in silence the ashes of those, who in their days 
 had been beloved by their kindred, respected by the world, and honoured by 
 their sovereign. Sir Godfrey with a deep drawn sigh, moralized on the vanity 
 of all earthly grandeur, when he reflected that the mouldering forms long since 
 buried beneath these perishable memorials, were perhaps no more remembered 
 by weeping posterity, and of whom not even their monuments would retain a 
 vestige to tell who once was he, who in this world now is nothing. A spot so me¬ 
 lancholy and forbidden he well knew, could never have been selected for the 
 brilliant residence of his great predecessors, and casting his eyes around in search 
 of some other outlet to the more entire parts of the building, he beheld on the 
 opposite side, the frame of a gothic porch, towards which he hastily bent his 
 steps ; but startled, when on his approach to the interior passage, he found the 
 door at its extremity half unclosed, and from its aperture admitting a stream of 
 light. This circumstance greatly alarmed and disconcerted Sir Godfrey, since 
 it seemed to confirm those suspicions he had entertained on the preceding even¬ 
 ing, and he began to feel almost positive conviction, that the Abbey was the ren¬ 
 dezvous of a band of robbers, to whom he had recklessly exposed the lives and 
 liberty of his child, himself, and. domestics. 
 
 Though borne down the rough stream of adversity, Sir Godfrey was a man 
 whose heart knew no fear; and upon whose dauntless bravery and courage, no 
 slur had ever been thrown ; nevertheless, due precaution was necessary for the 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 U 
 
 real security of his family, he therefore silently advanced along the passage, and 
 eagerly listened for the sound of human voices ; nothing broke upon the solitary 
 and death like silence that reigned around, he then boldly threw back the half 
 opened door, confident that no human being even though a bandit, would do vio¬ 
 lence to a single and a defenceless man; the place he now entered appeared to 
 have been the lesser chapel of the monastery, though it was apparent from the 
 difference of the style, in the alterations it had undergone, that it had been con¬ 
 verted to the grand hall, belonging to that wing of the building, which the first 
 lord had repaired and beautified in a superior style of magnificence for his own 
 residence ; the pillars that ran round it, supported the grand gallery that led to 
 the higher apartments, two immensely wide flights of stairs, led to the different 
 corridors that evidently conducted to the superior apartments above ; he now pro¬ 
 ceeded to a large folding gate in the west side, which from its ponderous bars, 
 and the strength of its fastenings, he concluded must formerly have been the 
 grand entrance to the Abbey, but wishing more particularly to test the conve¬ 
 nience of the apartments within the building, he, for the present declined any 
 further examination of the exterior, and turning to his left, entered to his utter 
 amazement, into a long suit of rooms, w hich notw ithstanding their silent, de¬ 
 serted and ruinous state, he was overjoyed to find might not only be again ren¬ 
 dered habitable, but in a little time convenient and even comfortable. As¬ 
 tonished at finding these rooms in a condition so far superior to his warmest ex¬ 
 pectation, Sir Godfrey proceeded more minutely in his examination, and forcing 
 back the old and w orm-eaten window shutters ; as he scrutinized each separate 
 apartment, lie found that though now in a state of decay and ruin, they still bore 
 strong testimony of their former elegance, and grandeur. The whole suite of 
 rooms w T ere eight in number, and (though from age covered with mildew and 
 dust, and crumbling to tatters) still retained many remnants of furniture, which 
 evidently witnessed the splendour of their former owners ; the arras though fallen 
 in many places from the w T alls, w r ould still have showed marks of its pristine 
 beauty, had not the moths and the despoiler old father time, have done their 
 work upon it; many mirrors of vast magnitude remained entire, whilst others 
 situated in the more exposed positions, had fallen from their splendidly carved 
 frames, and lay shatter’d on the ground. Satisfied that these chambers w r ould 
 amply answ er his present w ants, and rejoiced to find them in such a state of pre¬ 
 servation, as to make their repairs not only possible, but easy; Sir Godfrey re¬ 
 turned to the hall, perfectly satisfied that no one had for years entered these 
 melancholy chambers, and that all fears for himself and family from banditti 
 were absurd and groundless. He now resolved to ascend the grand staircase, 
 wdiere landing on the first corridor he found it, though much of its lustre w r as 
 faded and past, richly bedecked w r ith gilded carved work of most beautiful and 
 superior workmanship, and every appointment in all the sumptuous magnificence 
 of the thirteenth century. The walls were but very slightly scathed by time, 
 except from the loss of some of the perforated fret work, or the fall of a broken 
 pillar of the ballistrades that surrounded the open galleries, and here and there, 
 lay scattered on the ground ; the gallery was supported by the pillars of the half 
 which showrnd the magnificent taste of the first lord, and from the symmetry and 
 elegance of their shape, had doubtless undergone their present altered appear¬ 
 ance from those of the church, by the orders of Sir Godfrey’s great ancestor, 
 who he felt now convinced, had added that whig of the Abbey, to the ancient 
 site which already he had viewed. 
 
 This gallery still retained (though much broken) its noble windows, placed 
 at the east and wmst extremity, from the latter of w r hich was to be obtained a 
 fine, though solitary prospect of the principal avenues leading from the forest to 
 the shores of the sea, the casement of which Sir Godfrey with difficulty opened, 
 and was agreeably surprised to behold a broad piece of water gently mean¬ 
 dering through the overhanging arches of the trees, that thickly lined the sides 
 of either bank, and rushing impetuously beneath the very w alls of the Abbev, it 
 
12 
 
 THK HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 was lost in a number of wild irregular turnings, till receding towards the left, 
 it w as distinguished at a distance glittering through the openings of the trees as 
 the sun pierced their gloomy shades, and sparkled in reflected brilliance on the 
 bosom of the stream. Leaving this pleasing and tranquil view, Sir Godfrey 
 tollowed the turnings of the gallery, till an arched porch led him into a long suite 
 of ruinous apartments, which from the plainness of their decorat ions proved them 
 to be the offices of the inferior domestics of the household of his ancestors. 
 
 Retracing his way back to the gallery, Sir Godfrey kept on his course till 
 another portal of heavy gilded fretwork attracted his attention, and opening a 
 richly carved gothic door, he found himself in the interior of another suite, whose 
 lofty walls and faded remains of rich velvet furniture, still bore testimony of these 
 having in times past been the state apartments of Brandon Abbey, though now 7 
 sunk in desolation and ruin beneath time, the rude leveller of elegance and 
 beauty, the destroyer of all things, scarcely an emblem of their former splendeur 
 and magnificence was remaining. Sir Godfrey viewed each object of faded 
 grandeur with silent resignation and contentment, seeing with pleasure that these 
 apartments might once more be restored to comparative comfort and convenience, 
 whilst the sombre shaded turn ot his pensive mind, received with glad welcome 
 the certainty that he need seek no further for an asylum which the possessions of 
 his ancestors had bequeathed to him in the melancholy and forgotten ruins of 
 Brandon Abbey. 
 
 “ Yes/’ exclaimed Sir Godfrey, “ retirement and seclusion from the busy 
 haunts oi deceptive man, is all that now remains for me to wish, and here is 
 the spot to gratify my desires to the utmost; these long deserted tow 7 ers, these 
 crumbling ruins, these awe inspiring recesses, are indeed congenial with the 
 temper ol my soul, they will atford indulgence to my melancholy and sorrow, 
 here,—alone, undisturbed by all—unwitnessed by mortal eye, I may give free 
 vent to all my feelings ; these romantic though gloomy scenes, will prove a peaceful 
 refuge to my wounded mind.—Nay, he even paused in wonder at his thoughts 
 lessness, that he had not on a former occasion (when some years back a dreadful 
 change in his life had taken place) chosen this sequestered spot as a secure retreat 
 bom all the storms ol a perilous and troubled destiny.” Sir Godfrey now 7 felt 
 that every former surmise of robbers was at an end, and thought of hasten¬ 
 ing to his family, thinking should they have awoke ‘and discovered his absence 
 iow r gieat would be their consternation and alarm, when he perceived in an ob- 
 sime angle ol the apartment a small door, to w hich he proceeded determining 
 to satisfy his every doubt; with much labour he drew back the rusty bolts, and 
 discovered a long distant gallery, a number of antique doors lit but by one gloomy 
 window met Ins sight, these he resolved should remain unexplored till some future 
 opportunity, ascending a broken flight of spiral stone steps, he entered a small 
 vaulted chamber, lined and paved with stones; the turret in which this chamber 
 was situated was of a circular form, and jutting out considerably from the main 
 bunding, had consequently received greater damage than the rest, he approached 
 one o! the angular window spaces, which commanded a fine bold prospect, and 
 .1 °m ) he extreme height of the turret rising above the tall tops of the neighbour¬ 
 ing pines, an unconfined view was obtained of all the surrounding scenery, rich 
 in varied beauty, and romantic wildness ; the vast spreading bosom of the im¬ 
 mense wooded iorest was a principal object, bounded only bv the distant mouiir 
 tarns ot the north, wffiose lolty tops reached to the clouds, whilst other of the 
 
 w!L°Ti Sp ^ SeiVe : 1(1 ^ is P la y unconfined, the extensive track of ground, 
 
 , / If. . ^ covered ; to the east w r ere seen its ruined cloisters, co*? 
 
 ie wi i mi c s nubs, and ivy entwining itself amidst its arched roof, whilst 
 many oi its hanging turrets had forsaken their ponderous and lofty towers, which 
 i (the former, lay levelled to the ground in almost indistinguishable heaps of 
 ubbish, columns, fallen pillars, and broken arches, with here and there a half 
 r e extended space, that once had contained the sculptured frame 
 
 e exa t<. window, bounding and increasing the romantic beauty of the 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 13 
 
 scene, by confining the eye, as it gazed through the empty arcades, with a rich 
 luxuriant glow of shaded ether, backed by the summits of the hills, covered by 
 the forest pine, as it waved majestically to the influence of the winds, and 
 affording a picture of beauty and solemnity beyond the powers of description. 
 
 Sir Godfrey now descended for the purpose of trying if there were no nearer 
 means of his reaching his sleeping family, than retracing the great distance which 
 had led him to his present station ; having reached the third flight of the turret 
 stairs, he found himself in a long narrow gallery, passing forwards, he opened 
 several old doors in hopes they would lead him to the great hall, or church, but 
 they only held to view a number of mouldering recesses, perhaps in former times 
 cells of a monastery, whose flooring was so much decayed, and in some places 
 so fallen in, asjo render any further attempts at progress equal dangerous and 
 impossible. Tired of this fruitless search, he proceeded to the extreme end, 
 where he met with a stronger door, which occasioned him no small difficulty to 
 unclose, when to his amazement a violent scream rung in his ears, and as he 
 threw open the arched door, he beheld his terrified party, who aw akened by the 
 noise of forcing the panel, had arisen and regardless of all false delicacy in such 
 a moment of horror, the females had rushed into the arms of the men, to whom 
 they clung shrieking for protection, against nothing less than a legend of hideous 
 and armed spectres, whom their affrighted fancies had in an instant conjured 
 from their graves as coming to punish the rash adventurers for their presump¬ 
 tuous intrusion. . 
 
 As the door fell back with a harsh sounding and tremendous crash, which 
 reverberated along, and shook the vacant gallery, the whole party distilled to a 
 jelly by fear, fell prostrate on their knees, both men and women closing their 
 eyes, and uttering half suppressed groans, and fervent ejeculations to St. Thomas, 
 St. Cuthbert, and every saint in the calendar they could remember for mercy, 
 expecting nothing less than to be murdered, or carried away in a flash af fire, 
 they fell flat on their faces, uttering their Ave Marias with such rapidity, that 
 one word seemed as though it w r ould break the others neck, and as they endea¬ 
 voured to repeat them, they began afresh at the latter end, and rendered it a 
 scene so truly rediculous, that even Sir Godfrey though exceedingly angry at their 
 folly, could not refrain foom smiling, and whenever he attempted to raise his 
 voice and bid them rise from^heir ludicrous postures, they rendered his speech 
 completely inaudible by cries and shrieks, which made the room resound, and 
 bears a strong affinity to the noises of a mad-house, at length in a pause of silence, 
 Bertha perceiving her father, rushed joyfully into his arms, repeatedly and bois¬ 
 terously exclaiming— 
 
 “ ’Tis Papa 1” ’tis my own dear papa returned, Oh ! how glad I am to see 
 you come back again my dear papa !” 
 
 The servants befog now convinced of their lord’s appearance, ventured to lift 
 up their faces, which displayed a most w himsical contrast of pallid fear and 
 shame ; but guessing that Sir Godfrey had been to examine the ruins, they all 
 fixed on him an anxious enquiring look, in hopes to read the welcome and wished 
 for information that they were all immediately to return to the carriage, and 
 quit the Abbey for ever, but, alas! no such joyful confirmation could they distin¬ 
 guish, and each cast disappointed glances at the other. 
 
 Poor old Oswell exclaiming in an under tone “ Alack, alas, and well-a-day, 
 our business is settled; I see by my lords stern look, that his mind’s made up to 
 stay in this house of ghosts and hobgoblins;—Gad a mercy !—well, I must be 
 mum, an I would escape another lecture,—you cannot put old heads upon young 
 shoulders.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey having by his authority restored them to some degree of ol der, 
 thus seriously addressed them;—I have explored the chief parts of the Abbey, 
 and rejoice to find many of the apartments every way beyond my expectation. 
 I need not therefore inform you, that here ends our journey. Workmen and 
 other necessary persons shall be instantly engaged tor the repair of this ancient 
 
14 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 and too long neglected mansion ; which, as I mean to make it perfectly habitable, 
 I have now only to assure all present, that the seat of my family has nothing in 
 it to excite just terror, or to encourage misconceptions relating to unnatural and 
 spectral beings, which never had an existence but in the overwrought imaginations 
 of a heated and disordered brain. If however, there be any here present, who 
 feel an unconquerable dislike to remaining here with me, you have only now to 
 declare it, and I will supply the means of your immediate departure ; but should 
 your love and fidelity for your lord induce you to stay, I must command that 
 from this moment, you suppress these rediculous and unfounded alarms, if you 
 wish to be retained in my service. 
 
 I am content myself to make this the future abode of the lady Bertha, and her 
 father, but I will not suffer any one to remain with me, who shall dare presume 
 to break the order and tranquility of my house by their absurd fears, and ground¬ 
 less apprehensions. 
 
 There was a degree of dignity and resolution in the manner of his delivery 
 that Sir Godfrey was glad to perceive had not failed of its intended effect; the 
 domestics were awed into silence and obedience; and as they really loved their 
 lord, whose whole deportment without being forbidding or haughty, still retained 
 that dignified reserve that claimed unhesitating respect, and never failed of pro¬ 
 ducing that implicit reverence, of which his people had always most powerfully 
 felt the impulse, they were now eager to suppress all murmuring regrets, and 
 disguising as well as they could their too apparent terrors, bowed their resolu¬ 
 tion in silence, though none of them dared to speak, lest the trembling hesita¬ 
 tion of their manner should deny the consent of their tongues to await his plea¬ 
 sure. 
 
 Sir Godfrey an able reader of the human mind, soon deciphered the sentiments 
 that passed in their hearts, and determined to accept this silent acquiscence to 
 his command; reasoning with them he put to flight their groundless alarms, his 
 kindness and condecension soothed, and finally subdued them to submissive obe¬ 
 dience ; and the first meal of the day passed over with tolerable composure, com¬ 
 fort, and satisfaction. 
 
 As soon as their small and unostentatious repast was ended, Sir Godfrey rose 
 and desired Oswell to take one of the horses from the shelter they had found in 
 the interior court, and follow him to the gates of the Abbey, for the purpose of 
 discovering the nearest way out of the forest to the town of Etherwold, from 
 whence a supply of food was now become absolutely necessary. As Sir Godfrey 
 proceeded round the circuitous walls of the Abbey, remarking to old Oswell the 
 vast extent of this once magnificent pile, which was sometimes lost in distance 
 amid the trees, and then seen again beyond the space of a mile, peeping through 
 the open glades of the forest; he could not help remarking, the varied and pic¬ 
 turesque effect produced, thus softened and shaded by the uncertain light which 
 the sombre gloom of the woods threw upon the grey mouldering stones of this 
 once splendid, and now ancient fabric. Turning towards the west, Sir Godfrey 
 gained a full display of the grand front of the building, or rather that part of it 
 which the first Baron had added to the original site; Sir Godfrey pointed it out 
 to Oswell, bidding him remark, that it was free from that ruinous and dreary 
 aspect so prevalent and characteristic of other parts of the Abbey. 
 
 “ Alas, alack and a-well-a-day,” said Oswell rather slowly, and hesitating as 
 if fearful of again incurring the anger of his master, “ to be sure, though bad 
 is the best, it certainly does carry a more civil face with it than the horrible, 
 ghastly ruins we have left, and I think my lord that if indeed workmen could 
 possibly be prevailed upon to enter such a terrible dismal place, it might be 
 rendered decent and habitable, since your honour seems resolved to live in it; 
 that is, said he to himself in an under tone, if they didn’t have St. Vitus’s dance 
 with fright, and their hands shake so with terror, that they couldn’t make use of 
 their tools to work with.” “ For my poor part my Lord,” continued he “ I will 
 do all my endeavours to add what little comfort and conveniences my poor old 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 15 
 
 brain can think on, to oblige your lordship, and my kind beloved young mis¬ 
 tress—” 
 
 “ That’s my good Oswell” interrupted Sir Godfrey <c who perceiving the gar¬ 
 rulous old gentleman inclined to enter upon one of his long harangues, thought 
 it necessary to cut it short in the beginning, remount your horse, and proceed 
 without further loss of time, to the town I have already mentioned ; I have con¬ 
 sulted the geography of the forest, and find that the town of Etherwold lies to 
 the west, and is not more than four or five miles distant from the Abbey; yonder 
 avenue will conduct you to it, where if still living, you must search out Adam 
 Blake, who was purveyor and steward to these estates, explain to him my pre¬ 
 sent situation, and resolution to restore the Abbey to a habitable condition, in¬ 
 form him that I require his attendance, and give him full commission to engage 
 such workmen and others as shall be needful for its immediate repairs ; Sir God¬ 
 frey then depositing a well filled purse in the hand of Oswell, for the purchase 
 of such articles of support as were requisite for immediate use, gave him a strict 
 injunction to return before the fall of evening. 
 
 The old man immediately obeyed, and lasting his favorite steed into a hist trot, 
 Sir Godfrey watched his motions till distance and the dark foliage of the trees 
 soon rendered him invisible. 
 
 Turning from the avenue, Sir Godfrey continued his melancholy perambula¬ 
 tions round the venerable pile; the north west angle presented to his sight an 
 undulating stream, almost hidden beneath the thick umbrageous shades of the 
 overhanging woods. Sir Godfrey saw w T ith pensive gladness, that the Abbey 
 would soon afford him a peaceful though solitary home from all the scenes and 
 bustle of tumultuous life, and the plans he now formed for its improvement, and 
 repairs would afford ample employment to his mind, and render him a source of 
 pleasing amusement for a time, from the effects ol those carroding sorrows, 
 which dwelt but too painfully on the afflictive remembrances of unknown, or 
 rather unrevealed occurrences* 
 
 A stranger on his first beholding the pale, melancholy Sir Godfrey, would 
 have been tempted to view him with astonishment, and suspicion, and conjectured 
 that guilt alone could have driven a man, yet, in the prime and vigour of his 
 days, to the gloomy recesses of such a place as Brandon Abbey. But it the dis¬ 
 criminating observer looked a second time in his expressive countenance, he would 
 feel the blush of shame mantle his cheek, for a conclusion so unjust, whilst his 
 heart would not fail to upbraid him with cruelty, and inhumanity for the hastiness 
 of his decision. Sir Godfrey Brandon was not older in life than three or four 
 and thirty years, his stature was tall, majestic, and finelv proportioned, his 
 countenance commanding and open,and from tlie pensive melancholy that was so 
 visibly cast over the whole of his features, he seemed irresistablv to engage the 
 reverence and respect not only of his own people, but of all who addressed him ; 
 though pallid, and clouded with an immoveable grief, his face still retained the 
 traces of manly beauty, whilst his lull, fine dark eyes, were more interesting 
 from the deprivation of that vivid fire retained only by the happy few as yet un¬ 
 tried in the bitter schools of adversity, affliction, grief, and long suffering. 
 
 Bertha, the only fruit of his marriage, was a beautiful and interesting child, 
 and at the period this history commenced, had reached her eighth year. She 
 was of a sweet and amiable disposition, and promised a rich maturity of excel¬ 
 lence ; Sir Godfrey loved her with more than even paternal fondness, for she was 
 the only liv ing treasure leit him ot an adored lamented partner, and he would 
 <r aze upon her lor hours, dwell on each opening grace ot mind and peison, ti.l 
 the tears of unavailing regret, yet delighted affection stood trembling in his eyes, 
 and were kissed aw ay by the sweet affectionate Bertha. Her strong resem- 
 bance to his lost Emily was at once his ecstacy and torment. In miniature he 
 traced alive each well remembered feature of the dear companion he had lost, 
 and watched each movement of her form with eager attention, that lie might 
 strain still nearer to his memory, the living image of his worshipped Emily. 
 
16 
 
 THE HEIRESS. OR THE 
 
 “ Alas !” exclaimed he, “as he wandered on, and brooded o’er the days that 
 were gone, vainly I strive to think, one subject only engrosses all iny soul, one word 
 only engages all my thoughts, that word is Emily; where’er I wander, her form is still 
 before me, all else is chaos, in happier days oft in the calmness of the summer’s eve, 
 with Emily fondly leaning on my arm, We have Wandered together, and gazed upon 
 the scene softly lit up by silvery moonbeams, till the world and all its toils and cares 
 have seemed to fade away, and we were left the sole possessors of the earth, 
 living but for each other ; my prospects then hoW flattering, beloved and loving, 
 all was joy and sunshine, then at the summit of my happiness came the rude 
 storm, and all around was scathe and ruin; my hopes for ever blasted—Where 
 is she now ?—mouldering in the grave, lost!—lost for ever. We will now leave 
 Sir Godfrey to his melancholy meditations, and pursue the faithful Oswell through 
 the shades of the dreary forest.” 
 
 Oswell, as he proceeded down the avenue, often cast back an anxious glance 
 to see if he was still in sight of Sir Godfrey, who, though every step he took 
 removed him further from his view, was yet a kind of protection to his appre« 
 liensive alarms so long as he could obtain the slightest glimpse of him, but when 
 at length tlie turning of the avenue closed him entirely from his sight, poor 
 Oswell’s heart beat a kind of tattoo to his fears, and the idea that he was now 
 travelling alone through a wide desert forest, which might too possibly be the 
 resort of robbers, or the ghosts of their murdered victims, the latter suggestion 
 even more terrible than the former, made him set spurs to his steed, in hopes 
 that the celerity of his motions, and the noise they occasioned would drown the 
 sense of his fears, or at least outspeed his horrible imaginings, he tried once or 
 twice to hum a stave of an old English ballad:— 
 
 The corpse it lay upon its bier, 
 
 Sir Hubert at the foot stood near, 
 
 When up it rose—all in the shroud 
 
 Here he paused—and looked around as though he expected to see Sir Hubert, 
 and the sheeted corpse before him ; once more he essayed to shake off his terrors, 
 and to w ile away the dreary monotony of his journey and sung:— 
 
 As on his bed the murderer lay, 
 
 His guilty conscience nought could stay; 
 
 It was not I, (in sleep he cried) 
 
 By her own hand the maiden died ; 
 
 Then came a flash,—the thunder’s roar, 
 
 In stalked the spectre at the door. 
 
 Here at the ideas his own brain had conjured up, his voice ceased, his heart 
 appeared bursting through his ribs, his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, 
 and his tremor was so great, that his hair lifted his hat from his head, and the 
 poor old domestic could scarcely preserve his perpendicular upon his saddle ; all 
 liis efforts to inspire a false sort of courage failed, and he continued unmercifully 
 to goad forward his poor beast, who sensitive to the whip and spur of his rider, 
 flew r with a swiftness that might well defy a legion of spectres, or a host of ban¬ 
 ditti. 
 
 At length the cloudless view of a Welcome sunshine, peeped through a distant 
 opening and promised a speedy termination to Oswell’s terrors and adventures, 
 and soon after, both horse and man foaming with heat and perspiration, the one 
 from fatigue, and the other from fright, arrived at the borders of the forest, and 
 to the sight of a poor but neat looking cottage, embowered in trees and shrub- 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 17 
 
 berv. Oswell, thought it was now quite necessary to curb the velocity of his 
 horse, but a venerable looking old man who had been sitting beneath a spreading 
 oak near the cottage, rose from his seat with surprise and fear strongly marked 
 in his face, was hastening to avoid the sight of a visitor so uncommon and indeed 
 so unwelcome, considering the place whence he came; when Oswell, having taken 
 respiration and feeling his own fears subside as he beheld the dismay ot the 
 stranger, now ventured to call aloud and entreat his assistance. 
 
 The old man, whose appearance denoted him something above the rank ot a 
 peasant, stood irresolute to stay, yet fearful of going, lest his abrupt departure 
 from his unwelcome visitor should provoke him to wrath, tor as this tearful in¬ 
 truder came evidently from the dreaded forests of St. Moreton, to which were 
 annexed horrors and dangers that had long filled the minds ot the simple pea¬ 
 santry with terror and dismay ; He dreaded what might be his purpose, and his 
 fears overcoming his prudence, he was as anxious to get from Oswel , as .^vce 
 was to get from the forest, the latter therefore could obtain no answer till angry 
 and impatient at the old man’s obstinate taciturnity, he again loudly vociferated 
 his demands for assistance and a proper direction to the town of Etherwold. 1 h 
 old man now hoping that by at once answering this last request, he should rid 
 himself of his unmannerly and troublesome inquirer, ventured to reply as he 
 turned round, that it was only one short mile journey irom thence. 
 
 « Can’st thou tell me honest friend,” cried Oswell, not willing to be so eas y 
 dismissed, and at the same time casting a wistful eye on the neat comfortsio HL 
 cottage “ I sav friend, he again repeated after a pause of hesitation, can st thou 
 inform me if there be still one Adam Blake living in this neighbourhood. 
 
 No. 3. c 
 
IS 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 The old man starting back with increased surprise and alarm depicted in his 
 countenance, now lifted his eyes scrutinizingly and doubtfully up to the still ele¬ 
 vated OsVvell, and then after a considerable pause of minute examination, he 
 demanded without giving an answer to the foregoing question, 
 
 “ How I prav thee friend, came’st thou to know of such a person, and what 
 may be thy business with Adam Blake ?” 
 
 “ The simple hearted Oswell, whose ideas never led him beyond the conse¬ 
 quences of the present moment, now without the slightest hesitation entered into 
 a full, true, and particular detail of his mission and the extraordinary occasion of 
 it; adding that if such a person as Adam Blake was living, his master Sir God¬ 
 frey, lord of Brandon Abbey and its broad lands, (here Oswell assumed a pom¬ 
 pous and Consequential manner of delivery) demanded his obedience and forth¬ 
 coming assistance and presence at the above named mansion.” 
 
 “Holy St. Hilda protect me,” cried the old man with a sudden burst of aston¬ 
 ishment, and increased dismay darkening his furrowed countenance as he listened 
 to this wondrous narration, ‘ : does any one live in the old ruined Abbey? now 
 may St. Dominick, St. Gregory, heaven, and all the saints guard and protect 
 them, and amen I say, from the power of satan and all his dark agents, that 
 abide there, and restore them again to their proper senses ; for surely friend, thy 
 master must be possessed to think of living in such a horrible place.” 
 
 “Do I know ancient Adam Blake?” say’st thou, “ Aye—Aye, truly do I,” 
 continued he, suddenly breaking off the string of his exclamations against the 
 Abbey, as he read in the face of Oswell, the fears that his slight account had 
 raised so expressively in the features of the terror-struck domestic, “ heaven be 
 praised and blessed ; old Adam Blake and I have been good friends these tlyee 
 score years and ten, or thereabouts. If thou requirest to be acquainted with him 
 in honest seeming, stranger, thou shalt not further waste thy labour, for truly I 
 am the Adam Blake thou seekest, and since now I find that thou art real flesh 
 and blood, nor art of a robbers calling, thou shalt enter with me my lonely dwell¬ 
 ing and welcome shalt thou be to share its homely fare.” 
 
 Oswell well pleased that this fortunate discovery had rendered the execution 
 of his commission so prosperous, and not a little gratified by the courteous invi¬ 
 tation of his new acquaintance, and the rest and refreshment he should obtain, * 
 alighted joyfully from his panting steed, and entered with his host the cheerfully 
 and neatly arranged cottage. 
 
 “ Here good dame,” exclaimed Adam to his aged partner, with a hearty 
 kindness in his manner that spoke the sincerity of his welcome, “ Here dame 
 have I brought thee a stranger, who coming from the old Abbey yonder, must 
 need lack of something to cheer his spirits ; though St. Thomas knows muttered 
 he between his teeth, there is no lack of spirits there,—come dame, 1 pri’thee 
 bring my best stone flagon of old hock, and what else of our yesterday’s fare 
 thou can’st muster speedily.” 
 
 Dame Mabel with wonder and curiosity stared for a few seconds at the 
 stranger, and anxiously longed previous to fetching out tin; viands first to gratify 
 her own loquacious propensities, till Adam rather impatient at her delay, impera¬ 
 tively repeated his commands for the gratification of the stranger’s hunger ; dame 
 Mabel was thus compelled to desist for the present from satiating a long string 
 of inquiries, her tongue (rarely silent) longed to give vent to, and the table was 
 therefore the sooner spread with all the little dainties the humble cottage could 
 produce. 
 
 Oswell well pleased with the plenteous meal, failed not to recruit himself ad¬ 
 ditionally for the late terrors he had experienced, nor did the fine old hock in the 
 best stone flagon remain unhonoured. Natures wants supplied, Oswell became 
 quite merry and communicative, and dame Mabel sat all attention in eager ex¬ 
 pectation of some very horrible revelation of a mysterious secret. Oswell entered 
 at large upon the whole of his late journey, and its termination at Brandon 
 Abbey. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 19 
 
 « \v hat,” cried the old dame in no very concordant tone of voice, “ what 
 sav’st thou ?—live in such a place as the haunted old Abbey, mercy on us friend, 
 what is thy master mad ! does he not know that it has been uninhabited for more 
 than one hundred years, excepting now and then a month or two, by workmen 
 just to keep the west front in repair, and does he not know besides, that it is all 
 over so full of goblins and spectres that no living soul will ever set a foot near it, 
 and heaven forfend they should, why nobody will even so much as cross the 
 corner of the forest, because the great south tower is seen there when no other 
 part is, and because in one of the high battlement turrets every night— 
 
 “ Peace, peace Mabel,” cried Adam hastily, and hold thy idle prattle, “ If 
 my lord chooses to reside in the old mansion, ’tis not for us to raise reports against 
 it that may offend him, and as for the ghosts and goblins you talk so very foolishly 
 about, (here the poor old man forgot his own previous exclamation to the same 
 effect) that is the least evil to be feared, for in my mind the crazy, tottering old 
 building will never afford shelter to any thing human, except indeed the owls and 
 bats that build in the ivy, if a body may call them human beings, yet truly” con¬ 
 tinued he musing, “ ’tis rather wonderful when one comes to think upon it, that 
 Sir Godfrey should choose such a lonely desolated shattered place to live in, yet 
 ah, well—well, he knows best; we have no business my good dame to pry into 
 our lord’s motives or affairs. There’s one thing I can say, heaven be thanked 
 mine is a clear conscience, for I have been a just steward, and have kept duly 
 and truly an honest account of all the rents I have received, and all the arrears 
 that for these five years past, have been unclaimed by the owner of the Abbey ; 
 the few tenants and vassals that still remain on the estate, would fain have refused 
 payment of their fees, but my lord will find old Adam was trusty even to a single 
 angel;—ave—aye, tomorrow please St. George, I will go once more to the old 
 Abbey, and like a faithful servant, render up to Sir Godfrey my just accounts. 
 
 “ What! goto the Abbey,” screamed Mabel at the utmost pitch of her 
 shrill voice, and dropping from her hand the best stone flagon as she was going 
 to remove it, which falling on the stone floor was broken with a loud crash, that 
 made poor Oswell jump up a yard from his seal, “ what, you Adam, you go to 
 the Abbey,” she again repeated, regardless of the damage she had occasioned 
 bv the fracture of the best stone flagon, and the loss of the old hock, why 
 Adam, man,— Adam Blake ! art thou in thy right senses?—forsooth thou art 
 not, thou art growing as mad as his lordship is, and I fear me hast caught the 
 infection, mercy on us all—the evil spirits have got loose from their bounds, and 
 will destroy us all in our beds at this rate, why Adam, don’t you remember when 
 you went last to the Abbey some years ago, just as you had entered the great 
 gates, what a horrible”— 
 
 (( Nonsense,—nonsense,” interrupted Adam with a wink intended to silence 
 the increasing loquacity of the persevering Mabel, “You see all these idle 
 terrors and superstitions are done away ; did not Sir Godfrey and his family sleep 
 there last night, and is not Mr. Oswell here alive to tell us so ; I pi i thee good 
 dame be more discreet and fill not the mind of our guest with tin ridiculous 
 fears and fancies, but make him welcome with our village news, whilst I and 
 Hugo will go in quest of such supplies as Oswell was commissioned to take baeK 
 with him. 
 
 Adam had no sooner quitted the cottage, than Mabel with distended features 
 and affrighted aspect echoed her husbands words, “ take back with him,” re¬ 
 peated she, “ the virgin be our guard,—surely Mr. Oswell you will never attempt 
 to think of returning to those haunted old ruins again? oh ! I could tell you such 
 tales as would make your hair untwist its locks, and turn grey with fright, if it 
 did not even kill you outright; mercy on us, I only wonder I am alive to repeat 
 them.” Here Mabel forgetting, in defiance of her husbands injunctions, the 
 silence he had commanded, entered into marvellous long details of improbable 
 sights, of bleeding heads flying at midnight over the forest to the Abbey, spectre 
 nuns, blue fire seen from the windows ot the ruin, the old bell tolling of it*e af 
 
20 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 midnight, shrieks and groans, ghosts unnumbered with bleeding wounds, issuing 
 from the cells and cloisters in all the terrific description of the most horrible 
 supernatural appearances. 
 
 Poor Oswell really a coward at heart, sat with his eyes ready to start from 
 their sockets, his knees knocking together, his teeth chattering and trembling in 
 every joint. 
 
 Poor Oswell listened to the monstrous extravagant stories of dame Mabel, 
 (the palpable nonsense of which any person but the most timid and bigoted must 
 have discovered) and gave implicit belief to all the wild incoherences she uttered 
 whilst his new increased terrors of the forest and the Abbey, rendered him more 
 than half irresolute, and he anxiously wished for some plausible excuse to delay 
 his return till tomorrow, for though Oswell was tender-hearted, yet he was also 
 a complete believer in the existence of supernatural beings, and would not have 
 doubted the power of a ghost to enter his chamber through the keyhole, or even 
 through the solid wall itself, and his mind long labouring under superstitious pre¬ 
 judices, rendered the internal struggle of fear and duty a terrible trial; fidelity 
 however conquered, and he determined upon returning to his master, though he 
 greedily drank in with an attentive ear the horrifying exaggerations of the gar¬ 
 rulous old dame Mabel, who finishing her long stories with the history of the 
 old Baron of Brandon, and the unfortunate but beautiful sister Agatha thus con¬ 
 cluded, and more than all, the spirit of sister Agatha is seen every night, that is 
 if any body had the courage to go and see it, walking up and down the great 
 long aisles of the church, then advancing to the altar, where it kneels till the 
 next hour of the clock strikes twelve, it then stalks out of the great doors, which 
 fly open at its approach, and walks to the great south tower, where she utters 
 three loud shrieks, when the ghost of the wicked old Baron is forced to come, 
 (and serve him right, heaven guard us,) and the ghost of Agatha drives him with 
 a firebrand in one hand, and a dead child in the other all over the ruins, till they 
 arrive at the very chamber where the Baron used to sleep after he in so trea¬ 
 cherous a manner got possession of the Abbey. Dismal yells, dying shrieks and 
 groans are then heard to echo through all the apartments, and blazing lights 
 thrown about the great north bedchamber till the great turret clock which has 
 never for many a weary long year been touched by mortal hands, heavily [tolls, 
 two and sometimes three strokes upon the bell. 
 
 Cold perspiration dropped from every pore of old Oswell’s frame as he failed 
 not to remember the sounds of the bell, that he and the whole party had heard 
 echo through the dismal forest as on the preceding evening, they drew near to 
 the conclusion of their journey ; “ and moreover” added the prating old woman, 
 with an exalted tone and an assumed importance of manner, “ the late possessor 
 of the Abbey who was a lady, came some few years ago to our cottage, she 
 seemed rather haughty and imperious, and demanded the keys of the old build¬ 
 ing, she went with only one attendant, (a strange, ugly, gruff looking sort of 
 man, in spite of all I could do to persuade her), to the dismal old place, 
 promising to return the keys to Adam the next day, after they should have 
 discovered some papers which they came in search of, but mark the end of 
 their self will and perverseness good Mr. Oswell, the next day came in its 
 due time and so did the following, but as might very naturally have l>cen ex¬ 
 pected, brought with them neither lady nor attendant; at length Adam think¬ 
 ing some mishap had attended them, went with a good strong party of the 
 tenants in search of my lady to offer his dutiful attentions; but would you believe 
 it Mr. Oswell, (drawing herself closer to him in mysterious whispered confi¬ 
 dence) no lady was to be found, the great gates of the church stood wide open 
 and they searched through every part of the old Abbey, even some of the 
 vaults were examined but to no purpose, my lady was never seen or heard of 
 afterwards ; the tenants were so frightened that they ran away and left Adam 
 by himself to fasten as well as lie could the gates and entrances, and from that 
 time to this he has kept the keys; the Abbey is grown more frightful, and doubt- 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 24 
 
 less my lady was carried off by the ghosts for her boldness in disturbing them 
 in their gloomy habitation.” 
 
 Fortunately for Oswell, Adam loaded with purchases that instant entered the 
 cottage and put an end to Mabel’s wonderful relations. Adam saw plainly 
 from the pallid looks of his guest, the manner in which Mabel had enter¬ 
 tained him, he very angrily reproved her for her garrulous folly as he termed 
 it, and became as anxious to do away with the impressions they had occasioned 
 as Mabel had been lavish in exciting them. 
 
 At length, aided by another flagon, he in part succeeded, which being soon 
 finished in such willing hands, produced the desired effect of inspiring Oswell 
 with something like resolution once more to brave the terrific dangers of the 
 Abbey, who notwithstanding the exclamations and cries of Mabel, to entreat 
 him not to provoke the anger of the saints by disregarding what she had told 
 him, and rashly running into sure destruction, persisted in his design and mount¬ 
 ing his horse (now well stored with many comforts which the foresight of Adam 
 had provided) he took a hearty leave of his kind and hospitable host and 
 hostess, and galloped once more down the avenue towards the Abbey. 
 
 The sun was fast declining, and as its last beams faintly tipped the horizon 
 and tremblingly faded from the sky, the woods assumed a browner shade, whose 
 dark foliage excluded the light and really conveyed an idea of desolate gloomy 
 wildness that might well fill a stronger mind than Owell’s with fearful sensa¬ 
 tions, when added to such objects was the increase of terror which the tales of 
 Mabel could not fail to impress his mind with. Poor old Oswell as he pro¬ 
 ceeded on his journey, fancied every bush a ghost, and expected every moment 
 to see some dismal apparition flit athwart his path with all the appalling and hor¬ 
 rible concomitants of Mabel’s outrageous and imprudent stories. 
 
 The shades of night were fast descending before he arrived in sight of the 
 western front of the Abbey, where he joyfully recognized his master, who had 
 for some time been pacing the lawn in front of the building, impatiently waiting 
 the approach of his servant. 
 
 Sir Godfrey’s attention was too much engaged in attending to the answers he 
 received to his questions, to notice the death-like paleness spread over the whole 
 countenance of Oswell, and his satisfaction was considerably augmented to learn 
 that Adam Blake still lived and would be at the Abbey on the ensuing day; a 
 brisk fire with the addition of plenty of light and the stores Oswell had brought 
 made the evening pass off better than might have been expected in so desolate a 
 situation, and the doors of the chambers being tolerably well secured, the whole 
 party at an early hour resigned themselves to sleep. 
 
 Poor old Oswell however remembering the terrible account of sister Agatha’s 
 spectre passing through the great church doors, could not so easily enjoy the 
 comforts of repose ; he remembered also that there was only the antichamber 
 between him and this tremendous chapel, and his terror as it approached near 
 the time he supposed the spectre usually took its midnight walks was extreme; 
 he laid attentively listening to every sound till the very bed shook under him, 
 nor did the cry of the screech owl among the outward battlements, or the hum¬ 
 ming of the wall beetle and the cricket, serve much to allay the terrors he 
 laboured under. At length he allowed his imagination so far to obtain the as¬ 
 cendency of his reason, that he fancied he actually heard the great church gates 
 fly back and close again with a loud crash ; a kind of lethargic stupor now 
 seized his senses, and tired nature claimed her rights in spite of the imaginary 
 horrors he had created to himself, sleep overtook his bewildered brain, and the 
 rest of the night passed away tranquilly and undisturbed. 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER lit. 
 
 The morning’s repast ended, Sir Godfrey repaired through the north gallery 
 to the western hall, where, as he with much difficulty unfastened the gates, he' 
 beheld several persons slowly winding their way up the tangled mazes of a 
 different avenue; among the foremost he distinguished according to Os well’s 
 description the venerable old Adam Blake whose grey hairs and unembarrassed 
 countenance gave an honorary dignity to his whole person. The great gates 
 of the outward court were beyond Sir Godfrey’s strength to open, he .therefore* 
 walked round to the south angle, where also Adam had directed his party to- 
 follow him, and entering the court, the old steward no sooner beheld his master 
 than bending his knee he welcomed in due form and with ancient ceremony, the 
 lord of the Abbey to his rightful inheritance. 
 
 Sir Godfrey then entered into such details as were sufficient to satisfy Adam 
 of the legitimacy of his claim to the domain of Brandon ; the latter had by dint 
 of great persuasion, prevailed on some hardy labourers, bribed by the promise 
 of a good reward to accompany him to the Abbey for the purpose of repairing 
 the interior. The honest old steward also brought with him all his papers, 
 accounts and money, the latter being the produce of the rents of the estate, which 
 had been faithfully gathered and hoarded up for the lord of the demesne, when-* 
 ever he thought proper to claim it, and which he now respectfully delivered to 
 Sir Godfrey who highly commended his long tried honesty, and made minute en¬ 
 quiries into the state of his remaining vassals, 
 
 Adam’s mind though greatly tinctured with all the superstition so prevalent in 
 the fourteenth century contained nevertheless a great store of worldly knowledge, 
 which when his ideas were called forth, and directed by a strong judgment to 
 laudable ends, gave proof of the goodness of his heart and understanding; and. 
 Sir Godfrey found that in Adam he should possess a valuable acquisition, and a 
 promoter of the improvements he now scrupled not to explain to him. Adam was 
 himself most agreeably disappointed to find that the Abbey would admit of such 
 beneficial alterations, and tha* the inquisitiveness of his own mind would receive 
 ample gratification by the resc lution of his lord, to make it for the future a place 
 of residence and of course increase the good old steward’s consequence among the 
 tenants who of late indeed had shown evident symptoms of opposition. 
 
 For truly “ continued Adam bringing to a conclusion a long harangue relative 
 to the affairs of the estate,” “ Truly so please your excellence the lands have been 
 so long forsaken, and are of late years so overgrown by the devouring inroads of 
 the forest, that a great number of your lordships tenants have deserted their cot^ 
 tage, and settled themselves on the domain of my lord the Baron of Etherwold.” 
 
 “ Sir Godfrey starting,” ejaculated, “ of Etherwold ! what said’st thou Adam ? 
 the Baron of Etherwold?” 
 
 “ Ay, so, please your worship,” responded the steward, lfis lordship’s castle 
 is hard by, it is not at most more than three miles distant from the Abbey ; if 
 this confounded forest was not so thick and impenetrable, you might behold its 
 great huge towers from the northern prospect where we stand ; and might arrive 
 at it a much nearer way than by the village, if you knew the beaten track that 
 formerly used to run through the tangled mazes of the woods from the ruins to 
 the castle itself.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey became much agitated and his open and manly brow became 
 suddenly clouded at the unexpected mention of a name that evidently had given 
 some severe shock to his feelings, a deep thoughtfulness pervaded his features, and 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 23 
 
 Iris mind became so abstracted as to render him insensible to all around, nor did 
 Adam Blake’s loquacity receive the slightest attention or reprimand. 
 
 “ But my lord the Baron,” continued Adam, “ is truly a very haughty noble, 
 Juid a hard imperious master, and many of your tenants (so please you Sir God- 
 trey) will with joyful alacrity and light hearts, return to their fealty when they 
 bear that their own chief is coming to settle among them. The Baron they sav 
 is gone to the wars with the Duke of Northumberland, but my lady the baroness 
 and her two sons are shortly expected at the castle, so your lordship will not lack 
 of society while they remain in those parts ; report does say, that her ladyship is 
 not quite so happy as she deserves to be, and that the Baron being much given to 
 the terrible passions of jealousy, has commanded the Baroness to leave the court 
 during his absence. But heaven preserve the poor dear lady, she is too good for 
 him I fear, and though sweet lady she brought him great riches and the Barony of 
 Etherwold to boot, yet the dear soul is as weak and humble to all his wishes, as if 
 she had only been a poor peasant’s child rear’d in obscurity, instead of being of 
 noble blood and every way the Baron’s superior. 
 
 Ah, well-a*-day, well-a-day, it is not always the good that fare the best in this 
 bad world, for the wicked often bear down all in their mad career but then,— 
 l say nothing—but in the end they have their reward ; he had a former Baroness 
 indeed when he was only the poor lord of Wilden, who had so daring a spirit 
 that she held his tyrannical passions in complete control, but the submissive humi¬ 
 lity of the lady Elvina Etherwold endures all his overbearing tempers with un¬ 
 complaining patience. 
 
 Sir Godfrey who had been deeply buried in meditation upon the deeds of days 
 long past, heard but very little of Adam’s long speech, who as he concluded drew 
 himself up with an air of no small importance, but the mention of names, doubt¬ 
 less not unfamiliar to his ear, made him start and forcibly recalled his attention 
 to present circumstances, for suddenly turning to the garrulous Adam, he demanded 
 if tfie present Baroness was his lordship’s second wife. 
 
 “ Adam replied in the affirmative.” 
 
 “ And she is then the heiress of Etherwold,” he quickly rejoined, “ Doubtless 
 my lord of Etherwold, her father, is not living?” 
 
 “ No my lord,” answered Adam, “ he died some years ago, bequeathing to 
 his only child Elvina the whole of his possessions, in trust for her son the present 
 young heir *of Etherwold and its rich domains.” 
 
 The countenance of Sir Godfrey before, stern, rloomy and overcast suddenly 
 underwent a change, his melancholy dispersed 4 : 1 after reiterating his direc¬ 
 tions to Adam, he proceeded himself to overlook me workmen already employed 
 in the necessary repairs. Sir Godfrey’s mind, now deeply engaged and insensibly 
 withdrawn from the contemplation of those corroding evils that had so long dis¬ 
 turbed his peace, was imperceptibly recovering its proper tone, whilst the active 
 part he was compelled to take, permitted him no leisure to dwell over those 
 dreadful and secret sorrows, that had ultimately robbed his cheeks of nature’s 
 bloom, and his weary eyes of the balm of rest. 
 
 Oswell and Ralph had no time to spare, for any further expression of their 
 doubts and terrors, whilst even the house keeper, and Ruth found such ample 
 occupation for their abilities, and began to feel such satisfaction in assisting and 
 observing the improved state of the Abbey that their fears for a time found no 
 room for employment. In less than a fortnight the interior of the Abbey began 
 to wear a very different aspect to the delapidated condition it at first presented ; 
 t he west front Was soon made not only habitable but comfortable, the chief apart¬ 
 ments were stripped of their melancholy remnants of tattered furniture, which 
 being cleaned and mended, (such as would bear the operation) with the addition 
 of some auxiliary purchases were soon put in tolerable order for present use, and 
 Phoebe and Ruth when they took possession of their respective chambers, could 
 not help confessing their surprise and pleasure at the wonderlul alterations that 
 had so rapidly taken place , one half of the range of the west front in little more 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 24 
 
 than one month’s time was rendered perfectly safe, and having undergone complete 
 repair, the apartments very soon began to lose much of their desolate and forlorn 
 appearance, three chambers were fitted up at the north east angle of the pile for 
 the future residence of the steward, they were very remote from the more inhabited 
 phrts, and it was a work of long entreaty before Sir Godfrey could prevail on the 
 venerable old Adam to take possession of them. 
 
 Dame Mabel in fact had been the chief cause of his long resistance, but at 
 length Adam, whose whole energy of character lay in his justly deserved merit 
 of respectful reverence and obedience to his lord’s commands, assumed also the 
 authority of a husband and at last by threats, persuasions and entreaties, compelled 
 the poor horror stricken old dame much against her will, to partake of the real 
 and solid comforts of' their gloomy but magnificient change, who rather than stay 
 alone in the cottage, the sole alternative left her, consented to venture into the 
 Abbey though not until she had received a most strict and positive injunction from 
 Adam, never to let her tongue outrun her discretion by relating to the domestics 
 any of her terrific stories so calculated to operate upon the weak minds of the 
 timid, and fright the household from its propriety on pain of his, Os well’s and Sir 
 Godfrey’s eternal displeasure. 
 
 The domestics very soon became reconciled to a situation it was not in their 
 power to alter, the improving appearance of the A bbey began imperceptibly to 
 decrease their former terrors, and although it certainly still retained its original 
 sombre gloom, yet the comfort that had succeeded their first entrance into the 
 dreary pile, so discouraging and awe inspiring in every respect, at length began 
 to banish some of those vague and idle terrors, which the uncommon change that 
 had taken place, inspired in their minds ; the doors and avenues leading to the 
 conventual side of the building, vvere all strongly barricadoed and secured, and 
 even the great gates of the church opening into the western hall were nightly 
 locked and bolted with warlike security, a concession Sir Godfrey willingly made 
 to his people, to quiet their fears and secure them as they hoped from the ghosts 
 that frequented the north, east, and south ruins, whose chambers and recesses 
 (such as liad not yet fallen) were suffered to remain in their latest state, and were 
 committed to that sure and gradual fate, whose mouldering hand had long since 
 seized their aged forms and needed only one rude blast to whelm them into no¬ 
 thing ; the entire part of the western front of the Abbey was now nearly restored 
 to a slight degree of its former splendour ; the outward battlement walls were 
 strengthened and every breach repaired, and every postern and gate was rendered 
 impregnable against the attacks of unwelcome intruders. 
 
 Sir Godfrey now began to feel in these awfully wild recesses, more internal 
 satisfaction than he had experienced for many years. This remote and forgotten 
 retreat would exclude him for ever from mixing with the fawning sycophants and 
 hypocrites of a detested world, and here unchecked and unrestrained by the un¬ 
 welcome and grating voice of intruding curiosity, he might give free scope and in¬ 
 dulgence to his secret sorrows ; in these venerable towers and gloomy sequestred 
 groves, he could shut out the busy scenes of life and all its vanities, its bickerings 
 its enmities, its storms and dangers, where there’s no hope, no trust, where all is 
 transient, hollow and deceitful as the sea, which one moment bears you up in 
 sport upon its billowy bosom, and the next ingulfs you in its foaming tomb of 
 waters. 
 
 The effects of such dangerous indulgences as Sir Godfrey allowed to his feelings 
 in these sequestered shades, were never expressed when in the society of his family, 
 before whom he ever appeared with a satisfied and even a cheerful countenance ; 
 and with such an example before them his servants dared not breathe in their 
 lord’s hearing, a dread of their gloomy and deserted abode. 
 
 Mabel indeed who loved any body’s society better than her own, would often 
 in the long evening’s quit her remote apartments, and steal to the servants hall, 
 where, listening to the wind as in hoarse murmurs it shook the weakened turrets 
 and fancying every gust that caused the old wainscot to crack, was the cry of a 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 25 
 
 ghost or a death warning, she would draw her chair with that of her companions, 
 m a close circle round the cheerful blaze of the wide hearth, and haying streng¬ 
 thened her memory with a few additions of her own, would relate at full, the 
 stores ol old traditions, the Abbey being chiefly the seat of action, whose haunted 
 chambers had each a particular fate ot dreadful note and legendary apparition, 
 till at length the cheeks of the terrified listeners became blanched with fear and 
 horror, who creeping still closer to each other, dared neither speak, look, nor stir 
 on one side, lest a ghastly spectre should start from the gloom of their wide and 
 spacious dimly lighted chamber, and punish them with some terrible infliction of 
 supernatural power, whilst the gentler winds as they whistled moanfully among 
 the branches and falling leaves ol the trees ; Mabel would obstinately and 
 roundly assert, were the sighings of sister Agatha, the murdered nun, whose 
 spirit driven from its former abode by the rude intruders upon its favorite haunts, 
 was now wandering round the exterior of the Abbey, dissatisfied and lamenting 
 in dismal bewailings its unhappy state. 
 
 One evening when the domestics had sat up to an unusual late hour—thus fear- 
 lully employed, dame Mabel was hardly pressed to sing them the legend of the 
 murdered nun, which after much persuasion and old Adam being engaged with 
 Oswell upon business and not likely to interrupt them, she consented to do; the door 
 was cautiously closed, the lamp trimmed, and every seat drawn as close to the 
 other as possible, every faee was pale as marble from horrible anticipation and 
 
 No. 4. E 
 
26 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 scarcely a breath was heard, the 
 timidly began:— 
 
 dame after fearfully gazing round the chamber 
 
 Young maidens all, of low degree, 
 List awhile to my minstrelsy, 
 
 ’Tis of a damsel young and fair. 
 Who fell into the spoiler’s snare ; 
 On her, the sire he did prevail, 
 
 All in her youth to take the veil, 
 She loved a knight of low degree, 
 A gallant brave, as fair was she; 
 So list unto my minstrelsy ! 
 
 Her sire, he was a Baron bold, 
 
 Who’d acres broad—and store of gold ; 
 A noble lord—he saw the maid, 
 
 To gain her love in vain essayed— 
 
 The Convent gate her lover scaled 
 And on the damsel soon prevailed 
 To leave her dungeon and be free 
 And o’er the borders with him flee ; 
 
 So listen to my minstrelsy! 
 
 The cruel Baron watch did keep, 
 
 And on the noble youth did leap, 
 
 With strong nerved arm and phrenzied brain. 
 He clave his helm and skull in twain; 
 
 From his black steed he fell and died 
 Ere he could call his Agatha bride, 
 
 Dragged to the Convent then was she, 
 Imprisoned in a cell to be ; 
 
 So listen to my minstrelsy ! 
 
 Next night the Abbess Mas arrayed 
 In all her pomp, to try the maid, 
 Who Mas condemned, ah, tale to tell. 
 Alive, to be Mailed in her cell; 
 
 In narrow space she was confined, 
 Bricked up—but patiently resigned ; 
 By the stern Abbess’s decree, 
 
 Who did m ith joy her anguish see ; 
 
 So listen to my minstrelsy. 
 
 By violence the Baron died, 
 
 < And fiends sat gibbering by his side, 
 
 The Abbess M T as in sackcloth clad, 
 
 And died a maniac raving inad; 
 
 The spectre of the murdered Nun 
 Nightly appears—at toll of one, 
 
 In grave clothes clad,—sad sight to see, 
 
 Praying her bones may buried be ; 
 
 Here endeth noM r my minstrelsy. 
 
 As the old dame concluded, the alarmed domestics all huddled as close to each 
 other as possible, M r hen a heavy sounding footstep broke upon their startled ears, 
 they M’ere immediately terrified into the belief that it was the ghost of the great 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 27 
 
 wicked Baron or of sister Agatha herself, till being manually convinced by a pinch 
 of the ear from Adam Blake, (who came to chide Mabel for her long stay) and 
 which proved they had to deal with real flesh and blood, the panic stricken party 
 recovered from their fears and hurried in a body through the halls and long winch* 
 ing galleries, nor fancied themselves in security till sleep rendered them alike 
 insensible to their terror or the cause of it. 
 
 Sir Godfrey during some of his researches into the distant upper stories of the 
 Abbey, had passed through a long range of rooms that led by a panel door from 
 his cabinet to the south west angle, whose fast decaying chambers presented no¬ 
 thing to engage a more minute inspection ; at the end of the gallery however, he 
 discovered a small ancient door, which on opening led him into a light closet or 
 antfchamber, his curiosity was aroused to see more, and he resolved to continue the 
 search, after much time he discovered a well concealed door, which having forced 
 Open, he was astonished to find himself in the interior of a large, old, dreary 
 chamber, lined and filled with innumerable quantities of books, which had doubt¬ 
 less from their dates and the gloomy antiquity of the place been the library of the 
 fathers of the Abbey of Brandon; upon opening some of the volumes that were 
 not yet totally defaced by age and mildew, Sir Godfrey foimd much subject for 
 future amusement; among others Sir Godfrey found some traditional manuscripts 
 that really appeared to be valuable, nor were there wanting some curious volumes 
 of old English poetry and history; the room itself was of a very gothic and 
 dreary appearance, its narrow pointed windows were covered with a thick coat 
 of ivy, which, as Sir Godfrey attempted to break away, gave him a slight view of 
 the south east ruins and the great heavy battlements of the southern tower ; Sir 
 Godfrey resolved to have this chamber cleaned and aired, and after great persua¬ 
 sion his commands were at length obeyed, the most useless of the books were 
 cleared away, while from the rest he made a pleasing and even a valuable selec¬ 
 tion which were removed to the west oaken parlour, for the use of himself and 
 Bertha ; the windows of this ancient chamber were stripped of some of their luxu¬ 
 riant furniture and air being admitted, many of the remaining books were reco¬ 
 vered from the total extinction which their characters had long been threatened 
 with. But the library was too near the dreaded ruins, to be often troubled with 
 the unwilling entrance of the domestics, whom, nothing but the absolute presence 
 and commands of their lord, could induce at any time to approach it; at length, 
 even Berlha caught the general panic its dreary aspect occasioned, and Sir God¬ 
 frey M as often for hours shut up alone in its rude solitude, where, alas ! he gave 
 but too unrestrained an indulgence to his sorrows, in retracing in living characters, 
 those unknown woes he so carefully concealed from every beholder. 
 
 Winter with its frosts and snow was now approaching with rapid strides, the 
 trees were stripped of their foliage, the scolding wind sung wildly through the 
 bare branches, and all around served but to make desolation more desolate. Sir 
 Godfrey nevertheless still continued his accustomed evening rambles through the 
 recesses of the woods; one evening as his mental meditations had cast an unusual 
 thoughtfulness over his mind and rendered him insensible to all nearer objects, he 
 wandered from the banks of the stream and lost himself in an unknown dingle of 
 the forest; night was approaching and only a second light was admitted through 
 these gloomy groves, when the cry of a female as if calling for assistance, struck 
 on his ears. Surprised and startled at a circumstance so unusual, Sir Godfrey 
 hastened to follow the sounds, anxious to render assistance to whoever might stand 
 in need of it, and as he hastily continued to traverse the different avenues, he be¬ 
 held a slight opening in the trees, that admitted still some shades of daylight, and 
 displayed at no great distance a lady richly habited, but whose dress seemed 
 slightly disordered, sitting as if in pain, beneath the shaded bowers of an ash tree. 
 Sir Godfrey respectfully approached to offer his assistance. 
 
 Their eyes encountered each other, and in an instant were rivetted as if by en¬ 
 chantment to the mutual glance; Sir Godfrey starting back a few paces, as Am 
 doubtful amazement, at length exclaimed to the no less evidently astonished lady, 
 
TI1E HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 “ Either my eyes deceive me, or my reason has failed me, or both ; yet if I 
 trust the belief of my senses, I again behold the lady Elvina Etherwold !” 
 
 “ Gracious heaven” cried the lady, (sinking on the arm of Sir Godfrey which 
 he had extended for her support) “ Art thou then indeed still living?—is this 
 reality, or do I dream,—say quickly my Lord ! art thou indeed my once beloved 
 friend ? art thou”— 
 
 “ I am Sir Godfrey Brandon,” vehemently and hastily interrupted he, prevent¬ 
 ing the conclusion of the lady’s speech, which he pronounced with a wild expres¬ 
 sion in his eyes, and an increased agitation of manner, that in a moment repelled 
 the pleasurable sensations the lady Elvina’s heart had felt at an encounter so won¬ 
 derful and incomprehensible, and that now filled her eyes with tears of pity and 
 amazement, for the countess had once known the all accomplished and unrivalled 
 Sir Godfrey Brandon, whose impression not even his changed and altered state 
 could erase from her mind; for whom indeed she had felt the tenderest regards of 
 interest and friendship, “Sir Godfrey of Brandon!” she repeated in a tone of 
 astonishment, doubt and anxiety, “ Sir Godfrey of Brandon said’st thou my 
 lord ?” 
 
 “ Yes lady,” quickly answered Sir Godfrey, with a terrific expression of coun¬ 
 tenance, and an increasing agony of manner, “ wherefore ask you thus my name ? 
 or, why seek you to know the horrors it engenders, is it not Godfrey Brandon?” 
 
 Whether the Countess felt offended, or what in reality was passing within 
 her mind is unknown, but she seemed evidently struggling to colleet herself, and 
 taking from Sir Godfrey her hand which he had retained, she moved slowly but 
 with dignified firmness a few paces from him and thus addressed him,— 
 
 I know my Lord that the title of Brandon is yours, but you will forgive me the 
 former doubts I expressed, when you remember it is but lately that it became so, 
 and you must recollect I once had the honor to call you by another, more suitable 
 to your station ; but, I pray you pardon this unwelcome intrusion, I feel I have 
 been too long an intruder on your privacy. Passing through these remote forests 
 to the castle of Etherwold, my Palfrey suddenly took alarm and separated me 
 from my attendants ; In attempting to alight, I slightly hurt my foot, but the 
 pain is now allayed, I beseech you sir, to accept my thanks for your timely aid 
 which the approach ot my servants no longer renders it necessary that I should 
 trespass further on— 
 
 Here the quick trampling of numerous horses through the avenues, proclaimed 
 the arrival of the lady Elvina’s servants, and in some degree recalled the recol¬ 
 lection of Sir Godfrey, the wildness of his eyes became softened to a more impres¬ 
 sive and sorrowing character, and the blood once more circulated over his before 
 pallid countenance; fixing on the lady Elvina a look of entreaty, he besought her 
 permission to accompany her to the verge of the forest; and the latter feeling the 
 strongest emotions of pity, as she cast a timid but expressive glance on the face of 
 Sir Godfrey, from the knowledge that he had laboured under a slight fit of insanity, 
 now motioned to her people to keep behind ; and addressing herself to Sir God¬ 
 frey with a mild yet dignified reserve becoming her high rank in society, she 
 thus energetically exclaimed— 
 
 “My Lord of Brandon, that I have beheld you with astonishment unrepressed, 
 I fear from my ill timed questions, you cannot but have perceived, neither can I 
 now suppress that womanish curiosity, which, while I entreat your forgiveness of, 
 I also implore by the memory of her we have both so loved, and who now sleeps 
 in peace with the silent dead, according to report, but who I hope may still be 
 living, that you will deign to gratify ; if indeed, I ever did possess the honoured 
 title of friend, let me conjure you to explain the mystery of your re-existence ; for 
 since report has for more than five years asserted your decease, how must the 
 heart of tender sympathy rejoice to find, though strange and wonderful the dis¬ 
 covery, that you are still living, still mindful of those you once esteemed; and still 
 more strange thai in a place so unfrequented as the wild mazes of this gloomy 
 forest, I should again behold my so long regretted friend, under circumstances that 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 29 
 
 whilst they agitate my soul with nameless conjectures, yet bear the stamp of mys¬ 
 tery and concealment.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey, who had taken the arm of the Countess within his own, (and which 
 indeed a number of agitating emotions that, internally beat in the heart of the 
 latter, rendered now necessary for her support) leading her considerably from 
 the attendants, after a deep drawn sigh had a little relieved the excess of his 
 feelings, thus spake:— 
 
 Lady Elvina, in me you behold the miserable victim of treachery and black in¬ 
 gratitude, a solemn vow—deep sworn—deep witnessed, irrevocably binds me to 
 secrecy, not even death can dissolve the accursed act, which dared I to reveal, my 
 life and that of my child (more dear to me than all) must pay the forfeiture; the 
 abhored and accursed mystery must never be explained, the chains of injustice 
 that have rivetted my disastrous destiny in this world can never be unlinked ; yet. 
 such parts of my unhappy tale as relate not to my dreadful engagements, and those 
 only, I will hereafter inform you of; but gentle lady, seek to know no further 
 than the limits I prescribe you ; at present, be content to know, that these gloomy 
 woods, and yonder dismantled towers are the residences I now inhabit; its 
 melancholy retired situation will afford me a secure shelter from the destroyer 
 of my peace ; if therefore your long tried friendship can still outlive the wreck of 
 what I was, you will rely on the honor of Sir Godfrey, and though you may dis¬ 
 approve the dreadful secrecy my fate imposes, yet will you learn to pity, when 
 you are made acquainted with such parts of my wretched life, as under the solemn 
 seal of secrecy, I will to you and to you only reveal. In the meantime (he added 
 with a sudden degree of dignity in his voice, and a flush of indignant anger cross¬ 
 ing for a moment his pallid cheeks) be content to learn that though I suffer unjustly 
 all the oppression and misery of such a fate, yet, is the soul of Godfrey incapable 
 of dishonour, however, he may feel the increased affliction of being suspected. 
 
 “Oh ! heavens,” exclaimed the Countess in extreme perturbation) “what may 
 the import of this dreadful mystery be ? Oh, my friend, forgive these doubts and 
 confused expressions of a too anxious heart; but did I not know you for the pos¬ 
 sessor of unblemished nobility of mind, the dark sentences you have just uttered 
 would raise conjectures, and, (forgive me) excite suspicions that ill agree with the 
 high wrought temperament of your disposition. Ah me ! some dreadful ideas rush 
 on my fancy,—yes, ’tis impossible—but it must be so, my fears are but too true, 
 and this deep hidden injury has its source in—say my lord—is not”— 
 
 “ Oh ! forbear—forbear,” exclaimed Sir Godfrey in agony, name not the horrid 
 title, wring not my heart strings with sounds so jarringly hateful to my soul,—oh, 
 lady Elvina, whatever your conjectures are, let them I conjure you, be buried for 
 ever in silence and security on the tablets of your soul; but seek not to draw from 
 me a disclosure of that I am forbidden to reveal; at present I am only the sacri¬ 
 ficed victim of inhuman ambition, do not then open afresh, those as yet scarce 
 closed woimds; do not draw my sad heart to the comparative recollection of the 
 happiness I have for ever lost, to scenes of extatic reality, which once had an 
 existence, lest I forget myself, my child, and those horrid vows that bind me 
 alas ! to submission and silence, and rushing on the murderous destroyer of my 
 peace and honor, at once immolate both myself and him, to the just vengeance of 
 a heart bleeding at every pore with injuries, too keen for weak mortality to endure 
 with resignation.” 
 
 With dreadful and phrensied wildness and disordered mien, Sir Godfrey uttered 
 these incoherent sentences, yet there was an innate air of conscious injured inno¬ 
 cence in his whole aspect and manner, that forcibly and with dignity impressed 
 belief’ 
 
 The Countess unable to suppress the tears Sir Godfrey had excited, was grieved 
 almost, that she had without intention, expressed a doubt of the integrity of one 
 for whom she had ever felt no common warmth of friendship; she felt perhaps 
 more keenly the pang she had added to the heart of the sufferer than he himself 
 did ; her desire however, to learn some account of lady Brandon, made her repress 
 
30 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 the increased astonishment she laboured under, and with a faltering voice she in 
 a low tone asked,—may I not inquire tor the dear companion of my happiest hours l 
 Ah, my lord do not disappoint my hopes, but conduct me instantly to the Abbey 
 of Brandon, let me once more clasp the friend ot my youth to my bosom. Since 
 providence has so wonderfully preserved yours ; no doubt the life of my Emily has 
 also been his care, you do not answer me—it cannot be—is she then— 
 
 A convulsive exclamation of “ Oh God ! Oh God !” was the only confirming 
 negative the Countess received, “ Sir Godfrey hid his face in his sable cloak, and 
 the distressed Elvina needed no stronger confirmation of the loss Sir Godfrey and 
 herself had sustained. ^ 
 
 A long and dreadful interval succeeded before either recovered outward compo¬ 
 sure sufficient to again encounter the afflicting expressions of each others looks; 
 Sir Godfrey first spoke a few' slight words of encouragement, and the lady Elvina 
 though deeply affected at the solemn confirmation of her friend’s death, yet res¬ 
 pected too much the sacred sorrow of Sir Godfrey to offer vain and ill timed con¬ 
 solations, she therefore as soon as she could trust her voice, thus addressed him *— 
 
 It was reported my noble friend, that both yourself and child had been wrecked 
 with the vessel you embarked in, on the shores ot France ; I will not venture to 
 request the knowledge of the means of your providential escape ; but say, is the 
 sweet girl also an inhabitant of the Abbey ? 
 
 Sir Godfrey was glad to be thus gratefully recalled from mournful contempla¬ 
 tions, to the only bright side of his dreary prospects of ruined happiness, and 
 replied,—We never reached the distant port you are misinformed ot, the only 
 hope and solace of Brandon’s weary pilgrimage, yet lives to cheer the melancholy 
 hopelessness of a sorrowing destiny, my child—my beloved Emily, now only known 
 by the assumed name of Bertha, yet exists to claim acquaintance with her amiable 
 sponsor, if the lady Elvina will still deign to admit that claim to her pity for my 
 friendless orphan. 
 
 “Oh! Sir Godfrey,” softly rejoined the lady Elvina, in a tone of expressive 
 tenderness and commiseration, “ Oh my dear injured lord, can you for one moment 
 doubt the constancy of that friendship, whose bond was mutually sealed and pledged 
 even to heaven itself; at least then let me here again renew it; and though I know 
 not the occasion of your present mysterious sufferings, yet is my reliance (believe 
 me Sir Godfrey) so firm on the honour of my brother, for so (though nature’s 
 claims forbid the relationship) I have ever considered you, I do from this moment 
 solemnly transfer that larger share of my perfect love, from the sacred memory of 
 her who is now no more, to her yet living representative whose second maternal 
 parent I will never (if permitted) cease to prove myself; corroborating circum¬ 
 stances now rush powerfully on my mind, and convince me,' my lord, that you have 
 too surely fallen beneath the ambitious machinations of some powerful villain ; my 
 heart bleeds at the recollection of the injuries I too fearfully suspect you have 
 endured ; but it is enough to know and to lament that you are unhappy, without 
 rudely oppressing by useless inquiry the stricken heart; to the lordship of Ether- 
 wold, the claims of Elvina are not of a slight nature, nor am I destitute of friends 
 whose powerful interests may be of service; command then all my resources, and 
 remember my dear lord that the heart of Elvina must remain in anxious suspense, 
 till the cloud that so long has obscured your peace shall be removed. The night 
 is rapidly advancing and seems to threaten with portenteous aspect a heavy storm, 
 here then so please you my dear Sir Godfrey we will end our interview. Remember 
 your promised communication ; farewell,—may heaven protect you.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey raised the hand of Elvina to his lips, their former habits of strict 
 friendship, seemed to admit of the unrestrained freedom of long tried fidelity, and 
 the countess was herself too much agitated to think on any subject clearly. 
 
 “ Sir Godfrey then, with a faltering accent,” exclaiming “ the saints and angels 
 have thee in their care, bowed trembling over her hand, which he resigned as they 
 had now arrived at the verge of the woods, and hastily retreated back the way he 
 had come; whilst the Countess whose heart was the seat of every female virtue. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. SI 
 
 and lender sentiment, stood for a fen* moments contemplating his receeding form, 
 till the gloom ot the woods soon shut him from her sight; when wiping from her 
 eve a tear given to the memory of past felicity, she proceeded towards '‘the castle, 
 deeply wrapped in meditative contemplations on the miraculous encounter with a 
 once loved being, who she had long lamented as dead. 
 
 W hatever were the Countess’s internal thoughts on the foregoing scene, she gave 
 them no utterance, and for a time she was not permitted to dwell on their afflic¬ 
 tive source ; for as she passed the boundary of the forest, and began to enter the 
 vale which ran at the bottom ot the steep acclivities that overhung the sea shore, 
 the towers of her ancient inheritance burst magnificently on her sight, seated on a 
 huge rocky promontory, whose alpine steeps rendered this immense pile a fortress 
 of impregnable security. The lady Elvina, as the first outline of the castle (which 
 for many years she had never seen) caught her eye, felt all those thrilling sensa¬ 
 tions ol delight, which can only be truly understood by those affectionate disposi¬ 
 tions, who after a long absence from a beloved home, revisit once more a place that 
 has long been endeared to the heart by a thousand sweet and tender recollections 
 of past fidelity; where each little circumstance rises with renewed life, as in a 
 mirror that faithfully reflects the images of things such as they were, and such as 
 memory, constant to their actions, will often represent them ; and passing over the 
 tedium of a lapse of time that had succeeded, fancy, thus recalled, busily presents 
 them fresh and nearly entire to the mind’s eye, with all their attendant pains and 
 pleasurable sensations. It was a work of no small labour to climb the steep 
 mountain defiles which led up to the platform of the great tower gates ; when 
 arrived there, the Countess’s page sounded a shrill blast on the horn; the great 
 and ponderous portcullis was unchained, and the castellan unbarring the massy 
 fastenings, the lady Elvina passed beneath the deep arches bowing to the salute of 
 the armed soldiery, who were posted on the ramparts, passed quickly to the grand 
 hall of entrance, where after graciously receiving the glad welcome of her numer¬ 
 ous people, she proceeded with Ursula the old housekeeper of the castle to the 
 great oak parlour, who now waited in respectful silence for her lady’s orders. 
 The parlour appeared more than usually dingy and gloomy to the Countess, who 
 sighed inwardly at the coldness of her reception, having no other welcome to the 
 mansion of her great ancestors, than such as the loyal attachment of her vassals 
 dictated, and which, in the present uneasy temper of her mind, she had no anxious 
 wish to have repeated. 
 
 The Countess having remained some time deeply wrapped in private meditation, 
 at length observing that the room felt damp and cold, exclaimed in a mild, but 
 evidently agitated tone of voice, “ add more fuel to the fire, good Ursula, the 
 night is stormy, and the forlorn aspect of this chamber needs a cheerful blaze to 
 dispel the surrounding gloom.” 
 
 The good old housekeeper obeyed the Countess’s orders, and then respectfully 
 bowing, said, with a tone of reverence; “ Ah, my lady, I fear you will find this 
 castle but a sad and dismal place to reside in ; the frequent storms from the sea 
 will create melancholy reflections, and oppress your spirits with regret for the 
 splendid circles your ladyship has quitted.” 
 
 “ Not so mv kind considerate Ursula,” graciously returned the Countess, with 
 a half suppressed sigh, i( the enlivening intercourse of my children will be an anti¬ 
 dote to solitude.” 
 
 “ Ah, that is true, so please your ladyship, but you will find the castle very 
 dreary I fear, without other society.” Here Ursula perceiving that her lady 
 wished to be alone, bowed lowly, retired and closed after her the folding doors of 
 the chamber. 
 
 “ As Ursula quitted the apartment, the Countess heaved a deep and lengthened 
 sigh,” exclaiming “ thy remark I feel is but alas too true ; but my lord wills that 
 during his absence this castle should be my residence, and although these gloomy 
 and deserted turrets seem to frown upon me, increasing my depression of spirit and 
 exciting forebodings of some impending evil yet unknown, and thoughts and fears 
 
22 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 that freeze my very blood, yet w ill I most scrupulously obey the wishes of my lord 
 and husband, and trust that my obedience will reeompence me for the sacrifice re¬ 
 quired.” The accidental interview with her long lost and long regretted friend 
 Sir Godfrey Brandon in the forest w as very deeply impressed upon the mind of the 
 Countess, and often would she start in agitation and amazement at the suggestions 
 of her internal meditations; now and then her eyes would survey with timid glance 
 the dark sides of her antique apartment, now strongly illuminated by the addi¬ 
 tional glare of light that came from the hospitable and cheering hearth, nor could 
 she at times help shuddering when she thought on the situation of the castle, situated 
 on the pinnacle of a high and lofty rock, exposed to the dreadful tempest and fury 
 of the elements, which now howled around and hoarsely murmured through the 
 long sounding galleries, through whose empty spaces the wind rushed in fitful and 
 moanful echoes, whilst sulphureous clouds pregnant with combustion, now blackened 
 all the horizon, shutting in night with additional horrors, soon the thunder rolled 
 along heaven’s vaulted concave in awful grandeur, the blue torked lightning poured 
 its vivid streams of liquid fire across the murky atmosphere, withering in its ruth¬ 
 less career the pine and the majestic oak ; even the castle shook beneath its firm 
 basis and rocked as though each moment, tower and battlement would be crushed 
 in chaotic confusion. The terrors of such a night, her lonely and isolated situation, 
 the saddened reverse of the destiny of her long loved and valued friends, all rushed 
 at once upon her over charged mind. The fortitude of the Countess entirely for¬ 
 sook her, and she melted into tears of sorrow and regret; at length, overcome by 
 grief and fatigue, she retired to her apartments for the night. 
 
 The morning rose serenely beautiful, every vestige ot the late storm w r as dis¬ 
 solved ; the castle which stood proudly and loftily exalted over the vast waters of 
 the ocean, seemed to repose in solemn frowning majesty, the monarch of the sur¬ 
 rounding scenes, rearing high its ponderous and gigantic towers. This castle had 
 in former days been a fief of the crown of England, and ancient story records its 
 towers as having been the witnesses of many a bloody, dark and fearful act; often 
 had its proud battlements sheltered alternately the monarch, and the rebellious 
 subject who dared to oppose his sway, many were the former seiges it had known, 
 but its strong and impregnable buhvarks had as often resisted the attack by sea 
 and land, and successfully resisted every manoeuvre of force and stratagem to effect 
 its overthrow. This ancient fortress was famed in days of yore, as having sheltered 
 King Jolm from the fury of his disaffected barons, and in after times many of its 
 successive lords had proudly and triumphantly withstood the fiercest attacks of an 
 invading enemy. An imperfect account ot some dark deed still remains ; and alas, 
 the tale to be now recorded affords but too many proofs of the terrible events and 
 dangerous superstitions of the fourteenth century. 
 
 The late lord of Ethemold was a noble of extreme severe disposition, but still 
 of unblemished honor; the death of an only and dearly beloved son, heir to his 
 rank and riches, had deeply dwelt on the inind of the stern and proud Baron, and 
 not even the gentle and submissive behaviour of his only remaining child, could 
 sometimes soften the growing austerity of his manners. A fter the death of his parents, 
 illustrious for their noble virtues as well as the grandeur of their rank, the mag¬ 
 nificent possessions of her great progenitors, w ere vested solely in the person of 
 the lady Elvina Etherwold, who was the only living child of the late Baron, and 
 in whom alone the baronial titles, as well as the demesne were invested. The 
 castle was of immense extent and evidently built for purposes of greater import 
 than an old English noble’s residence ; its high raised towers and heavy overhang¬ 
 ing battlements conveyed an idea of a place at once designed for a fortress and 
 a prison. 
 
 The naturally strong situation of the building, rendered it secure against the 
 attacks of any sudden invader, and now 7 that all England was in arms, and fathers, 
 • sons and brothers, had enlisted themselves beneath the banners of a bloody civil 
 war, this castle like many others, was armed for the security of its lord in case 
 of danger. It was supposed that at her lord’s request, the Countess had retired 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 33 
 
 from court to avoid the consequences of those cruel and dreadlul contentions that- 
 had already begun to agitate the minds ot men. 1 he Countess was still in the 
 prime of life, and her beauty unrivalled by the fairest dames ot the Biitish 
 court; but even the unblemished honour of her character and conduct could not 
 shield her from the busy tongues of blasting calumny, or stay the unfounded suspi¬ 
 cions of her zealous lord. 
 
 Accompanied by her train and the eldest son of the Baron, with his brother, 
 the heir of Etherwold, she quitted the splendour of the royal palace, and arrived 
 at the confines of the forest of St. Moreton, whose trackless and long unbeaten 
 roads had led her outriders astray, and been the means of introducing to hei pre¬ 
 sence in so strange and singular a manner a being she had long mourned as dead. 
 
 The young lord Harrold of Wilden, eldest son of the Baron by his former lady, 
 had arrived at the age of adolescence, this heart naturally bad and inclined to 
 evil deeds became hardened, and in his youthful days betrayed traits ot apioud 
 vindictive and ambitious spirit, the imbibed dangerous notions of the greatness of 
 his birth and his infinite superiority over those less nobly bom, and being surrounded 
 onlyjby a set of dishonest fawning sychophants and flatterers, he became at once 
 an'object of future dread to those who were unhappy enough to excite either his 
 regard or hatred, and the conduct of his boyhood plainly displayed tfi£ evils that 
 
 would accompany his maturity. „. x . , , 
 
 The illustrious Elvina, had sometimes argued with him m the mildest terms, but 
 Harrold scarcely restraining the unjust dislike lie had ever conceivec 01 t a ,,ur> " 
 less from terms of open expression, haughtily reminded.hei thato.ci 1,1,1 - H 
 no title to exert the least authority or controul. The Countess was alas, too soon 
 
 No. 5 . 
 
 F 
 
34 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 fatally convinced how fruitless and*unprofitable were her efforts, and she found 
 that the mind of Harrold had unfortunately received that unhappy bias, whose 
 dangerous tenets had taken too deep root to hope for the sligh'est amendment, she 
 therefore confined herself solely to the instruction of Alfred, whose mind and heart 
 (fortunately the very reverse of his haughty brother’s) easily and pliantly submitted 
 to her every wish. Between the ages of the brothers, there was a difference of 
 four or five years. As Alfred grew older, his mind appeared to have imbibed a 
 love for deep reflection, whilst the goodness of his heart, the uncommon beauty of 
 his person, and the mildness and sweetness of his disposition, rendered him loved 
 by all; whilst Harrold’s overbearing, haughty, cruel and tyrannic temper excited 
 dislike, disgust and fear. 
 
 Two beings of such opposite dispositions could have no relish for the society of 
 each other, whilst in the heart of Harrold a deep but concealed aversion had long 
 been smothered. He despised and hated Alfred, nor could his mildness and for¬ 
 bearing good nature remove or conquer the bitter animosity of Harrold. 
 
 A lfred had made many attempts to win his affection, but had been constantly 
 •repulsed by his brother. Alfred was the heir of the demesne of Etherwold in 
 right of the Countess, his mother, he never assumed to himself that superiority 
 which his birth and greater inheritance entitled him too. The cause of his want 
 of affection and aversion to the youthful Alfred cannot be so well explained as in 
 his own words; For after leaving the presence of the Baron (whom alone he 
 feared to offend, and whose w ill only could keep his violent temper within bounds) 
 with well dissembled love towards his brother; he w ould rush furiously to his 
 own apartments, and in the rage of his distempered passion, utter some dark ami 
 dreadful threats against the unoffending object, w ho had been unknow 7 ingly the 
 cause of many a degradation. 
 
 “ My curses wither the hated intruder,” he would exclaim aloud “Oh, that I 
 could annihilate the viper that thus crawls before me at every turn, he possesses his 
 father’s affection, his hated mother’s riches.—What! shall a puny, whining boy, 
 a stripling, a younger brother lord it over Harrold,—what! shall he inherit these 
 proud and lofty towers, shall he enjoy the vast and inexhaustible wealth of Ether¬ 
 wold—whilst only the petty and sterile barony of Wilden remains to me ? never!— 
 sooner would I stab him to the heart and doom my own soul to eternal perdition 
 by the accursed act, than he shall lord it over Harrold—than the brave peasantry 
 shall call him master;—The thought alone is horror, the reality would be mad¬ 
 ness. 
 
 This fortunate brother was undisputed heir to the illustrious titles and domains of 
 Etherwold. A possession that Harrold’s ambitious soul had yearned lor and aspi¬ 
 red too from his infancy; but his cunning taught him the necessity of disguising his 
 aversion and its cause, and guilt made him cautious, secret and wary; the hatred 
 that he felt for Alfred, was the disregard and open disapprobation with which he 
 was considered by the vassals and retainers of Etherwold. 
 
 Several years glided imperceptibly away at the castle, and these two noble 
 youths grew up towards manhood, in all tile various exercises suited to the in¬ 
 structions ol tliat age of barbarism and bloodshed. Each had a strong desire 
 for martial enterprise and w arlike glory; and Harrold, who, as being consider¬ 
 ably older than Altred, had reached his years of emancipation from adolescence, 
 had given ample proof of the restless hardihood of his ambitious spirit. 
 
 Allred rose gradually to the perfection of every manly virtue, and the prac¬ 
 tice ol those honourable pursuits that marked his character; the delight of his 
 adoring mother, and the favorite of all his numerous tenantry and vassals. 
 
 The person ol Harrold was large and muscula'r, but w 7 ell proportioned; his 
 features were dark and expressively handsome, but his black eye-brows were 
 ever knit with a frowning harshness; whilst the mild, open, fine formed counte¬ 
 nance and pleasing conciliatory manners of Alfred, rendered obedience a task 
 light and easy to his gratelul and adoring attendants. Such were the different 
 characters ol these young brothers of a noble house, and as they arrived to the 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 3- 
 
 a £ e of manhood, Alfred though he vainly tried to succeed in allaying the erow- 
 mg enmity, which, with pain, he beheld in his brother Harrold, was too ^enerouc 
 to disclose the many proofs of the deceptive cruelty he in secret bore from him" 
 w hose mind was plainly filled with a settled, deep and unconquerable hatred 
 which no effort could remove. Often indeed had Hhrrold in the presence of the 
 Baron, assumed a shew of regard for his brother, and deceived him with the vain 
 hope that his stern, proud heart relented, and that lie should enjoy a friend in 
 him. But he soon discovered his hopes were futile* 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A SPACE of some years had passed since the arrival of Sir Godfrey at the 
 Abbey. The beautiful and amiable Bertha had at this period arrived at the 
 age of sixteen. Her form was delicately proportioned and her chief amusement 
 was to wander through the woods, exploring fresh scenes. 
 
 The good old Adam Blake, and his wife were often honoured by a visit from 
 their mistress, and seating herself by the cheerful and brisk wood fire, listen 
 attentively to the talkative Mabel’s terrible narratives, and spectres and superna¬ 
 tural appearances. The tales of Mabel were terrific and horrifying in the ex¬ 
 treme, and mostly ended with the history of the old Baron and Agatha. 
 
 The story had made a deep impression upon Bertha, and having often wished 
 for a true account of what really was the end of that unfortunate nun, she had 
 repeatedly entreated Sir Godfrey’s permission to search among the ruins, in 
 hopes that some discoveries might be made, that would lead to a developement 
 of her death. One evening she in a playful humour declared to Sir Godfrey her 
 intention of examining the ruins. 
 
 Sir Godfrey starting at the idea, he asked “ have you courage my dear Bertha 
 for such an undertaking ?” 
 
 “ Dear Father” replied she, “ are you serious in suspecting me of want of 
 courage, or, rather let me ask, do you think it will be put to the test by terrible 
 spectres that busy fame reports, have so long haunted the Abbey.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey turned pale, became much agitated, and with a solemnity that 
 Bertha thought unnecessary, forbade her ever again to renew the subject. 
 
 “ Mistake me not,” said he “ I mean not to inspire in your mind a groundless 
 apprehension ; but on this subject I am silent, let it as you regard my peace, be 
 never more renewed.” 
 
 As she retired, she reflected that his words implied, if not exactly, a belief in 
 supernatural beings, at least a doubt of their now existence. 
 
 But as her enterprise could not ^be so well performed alone, she made Ruth 
 her confident, who readily promised obedience, though not without an inward 
 reluctance. 
 
 Adam as soon as dinner was over, brought in the keys of all the entrances to 
 the ruins; and Bertha calling Ruth, for her promised attendance, the latter. 
 
06 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 trembling, prepared to follow. Her courage indeed was now put to the proof, 
 for she saw her lady was resolute in her design ; but. her affection prevailed and 
 she determined to accompany her lady, though she hastened up to her own cham¬ 
 ber that she might arm herself with an Ave Marie against the incantations of the 
 troubled ground she was about to visit. 
 
 Bertha as she entered the hall from the grand saloon, was surprised to find all 
 the servants and ratainers assembled there, witli faces distorted with fear and 
 wonder; foremost of the throng stood Mabel, in whose countenance was displayed 
 a degree of fear and doubt, that seemed to express her apprehension for the sound 
 sense of her young mistress, for after having performed her well meaning unpolished 
 obeisance, she stepped a few paces from her companions, and placing herself in 
 an attitude that seemed to demand attention, she thus with great eagerness began:— 
 
 Surely, my dear young lady, some evil being has inspired you with this unac¬ 
 countable whim ot visiting the frightful old ruins. Does your ladyship forget 
 all the tales and terrible accounts of apparitions that I have so often warned you 
 against. 
 
 Here Bertha could not refrain from a smile, which the whimsical gesticulations 
 and distortion ot countenance that Mabel in her eagerness to excite attention, 
 had thrown on her aged features, caused. 
 
 Ah, well, I see you w ill not believe me my lady, so pray Mr. Oswell, declare 
 you what it was you beheld last night that caused you so much alarm, 
 
 Bertha smiled but was not at all intimidated. “ Good Oswell,” said she 
 “ pray be speedy in vour narration, or you will oblige me to postpone my intended 
 visit till to-morrow,” 
 
 “ Alack, alas, and well-a-day, so please you my lady, I can’t tell how it w as ; 
 but, somehow or other last night, as the moon w as shining very bright, I could 
 not help looking at it from my casement window before I went to rest; so mv 
 thoughts just then being employed in thinking about past times, When my lord 
 used to live a very different kind of a life to his present, it occurred to me that 
 just under that bright star, (you know the north star my lady) w'ell just under 
 that same star, or near to that way, w as his lordship’s former residence ; ay, and 
 many a good dance my lady have I had in bonny old Stuart Castle hall.' But 
 alack, alas, and well-a-day, I can’t help reflecting upon the sad and melancholy 
 life we lead nows to which we did then. Well just as the old turret clock 
 struck twelve, I by chance turned my eyes into the south corner of the ruins 
 as I was closing my casement, (for you must understand my chamber window 
 looks lull among tlie old parts) when alack and alas, (heaven pardon my sins) 
 but there as sure as I breathe, I saw a tall figure glide among the. cloisters and 
 then suddenly vanish in a terrible vapour of flame and sulphur. Mercy upon 
 me—my knees knock together—my teeth chatter in my head as if I had a tertian 
 Ague, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth to think of it even now'.” 
 
 “ Bertha felt a slight alarm across her thoughts, but not choosing her attendants 
 to perceive it,” she replied “ your fears my good Oswell, it is very clear, have 
 deceived you ; and the idle and superstitious tales of the old Abbey, together 
 with the lateness ol the hour, made you fancy, what could only be the imaginary 
 delusions of a terrified mind. 
 
 “ Alack alas, and well-a-day” said Osw'ell evidently piqued at the observation 
 ol Bertha, “ I am, so please you my lady quite positive and certain of what I 
 saw ; I had not been so much as even thinking of the ghosts at the time, and 
 the moon shone so bright, that 1 saw the spectre as it passed along beneath my 
 window, it was the ghost of the nun, poor murdered sister Agatha, and I watched 
 it till it disappeared.” 
 
 “ ^ hy then” replied Bertha,” since you were so near did you not speak lo 
 it—and question it as to the cause of its appearance, for perhaps it w as nothing 
 more alter all, than some unfortunate and benighted traveller who had climbed 
 over the battlements in hopes of obtaining a shelter in the Abbey during the 
 night.” 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 37 
 
 “ Me speak to a ghost! my lady,” interrupted the terrified Oswellin trembling 
 .iaste, (i the holy St. Thomas guard me from such a conference and from their 
 most horrible clutches. Why lord my lady, how can you be so hardv as to pre¬ 
 tend (pardon an old servant’s freedom) to disbelieve such things ; Ah, if vour 
 ladyship had ever been at the shrine of the tomb of St. Thomas a Becket,'and 
 seen the wonderful miracles wrought there, you would not be so difficult to con¬ 
 vince. Heaven and all good angels guard and be with you, I pray that no 
 dreadful judgment may unexpectedly visit you and fall upon you for this irreverent 
 obstinacy.” 
 
 Bertha could not again refrain from another smile, and dame Mabel (equal 
 with Oswell in her belief of supernatural appearances) seizing this pause in 
 Osweli’s speech as a fair opportunity, thus concluded his unfinished sentence; 
 besides my lady Bertha, how should it be possible that any human being could 
 scale the great high walls, when my lord your father has had every breach 
 mended, and every gate and gap securely aud strongly closed up. No, no, it was 
 no living creature—nor the spirit of sis'ter Agatha, but the wicked old Baron 
 that Osvvell saw ; your ladyship knows very well, that his ghost walks in the ruins 
 every night, the moment the clock strikes the hour of midnight. 
 
 “ My good Mabel, according to your account he does,” replied Bertha, “ but 
 the reality of his so doing I am not only still inclined to question, but doubt en¬ 
 tirely, and as far as examination will allow, I am resolved on being convinced ; 
 good Adam proceed if you please without further delay to unfasten the entrance 
 door that leads to the great Abbey church.” 
 
 “ Since your ladyship is not to be dissuaded from seeing the ruins,” said 
 Adam “ which indeed spite of all their terrors, are well worthy viewing, I will 
 do as you command me. But my dear young lady, I entreat you be not too dar¬ 
 ing and venturesome, for though I do not approve of the nation of spectres and 
 such like absurd and ridiculous fantasies, yet, it is as well to take a proper pre¬ 
 caution against danger, therefore I advise, that Mr. Oswell should attend you in 
 your walk ; the grounds are overgrown with weeds and broken pieces of ruins, 
 and he will be able in case of need to defend your ladyship if you will grant him 
 that honour.” 
 
 Hey, friend Oswell, what say’st thou, turning to the latter whose pale terror 
 stricken countenance and evident confusion seemed to be enjoyed by the old 
 steward; for poor Oswell, little thinking what a severe punishment his love of 
 the marvellous would draw upon him, and being naturally a coward, did but ill 
 accord with this malicious turn of the stewards, who thought it but a fair rebuke 
 for the fears he had helped to implant in the minds of the whole household. 
 
 Oswell’s countenance suddenly fell, he cast his eyes upon Adam with no slight 
 degree of dissatisfaction, then fixed them with a look of fear and entreaty on the 
 lady Bertha, in hopes that she might not accept the proposal of the mischievous 
 old steward. 
 
 Bertha knew the particular failings in Oswell’s temper, and could not bear to 
 give a moment’s pain in exacting a repugnant obedience to what she considered 
 the gratification of a whim that might prove painful to another, whatever it did 
 to herself, and to the great joy of Oswell, she declined his unwilling attendance, 
 saying, that as it was yet early in the evening, she was devoid of all fear for 
 personal safety, and being so near the Abbey, should there be any appearance of 
 danger, ample protection might be easily obtained. 
 
 At this moment Ruth made her appearance from the gallery, and having 
 fortunately been absent during the long parley, Bertha commanded the others 
 present to be silent on the subject of their fears and apprehensions. Adam 
 cipproaching the doors with some difficulty, unbolted them ; and they were no 
 sooner thrown open than a view of the gloomy and dark vaulted passages was 
 distinguished, at sight of which the whole of the vassals run affrighted from the 
 hall. 
 
 At first the Lady Bertha felt a little palpitation, and something like fear 
 
3S 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 stole over her senses as she caught a view of the dismal and dreary looking 
 interior ; but youthful curiosity very soon dispelled these unpleasant sensations. 
 
 Poor old Adam, the steward, felt a little ashamed for himself and his 
 followers as he eyed his young lady, and beheld not a trace of fear depicted 
 upon her countenance. Bertha, considering his advanced years, now, out of a 
 kindly feeling, declined his further attendance, and would thus have dismissed 
 him, but Adam, old as he was, feeling thus both his services and gallantry 
 called upon, determined to accompany his lady to the church and cloisters, 
 and therefore preceding Bertha down the passage, which was feebly lit by a 
 distant window, they arrived at the last door, which opened into the great 
 church. Ruth, with increasing dread, clung to the side of her lady, as the 
 folding doors opened on their grating hinges, with a loud harsh noise, echoed 
 through the church, that startled for a moment the little party. 
 
 When they descended the steps to the marble pavement of the church, and 
 Bertha with amazement beheld its ponderous massy pillars and high raised 
 windows, the scene to Bertha was new r and wonderful; but the silent and 
 awful gloom of the place excited in her mind mingled sensations which she 
 had never before experienced. At the extreme end of the middle aisle stood the 
 holy table; it now remained a mere skeleton-of departed greatness. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 One evening, when all w T ere assembled in the great hall, round a blazing fire, 
 save Adam Blake, who, as steward, was occupied in arranging his accounts 
 in his own room, Dame Mabel, who never was so happy as when relating tales 
 of the marvellous, proposed, as their lord and young lady were busily oc¬ 
 cupied in the old oak parlour, and Adam was too busy to interrupt them, to 
 relate a legend of former times very horrible, but true, told to her by her 
 mother, who had heard it related by her mother’s mother scores of times. 
 
 The domestics huddled themselves together in aw ful anticipation—poor old 
 Oswell using his common exclamation “ alack and alas and well-a-day,” and 
 his face looking as pale as a sheet even before the tale commenced, drew his 
 chair closer to the fire, and seated himself between Ruth and Phoebe in 
 anxious expectation. All being silent and attentive Mabel began ;— 
 
 THE LEGEND. 
 
 “ You must know that, in the twelfth century, there lived in the north of 
 Germany, a very wicked and cruel Baron, dreaded by his equals on account of 
 his well-known prowess in [arms; feared from his daring deeds by his vassals, 
 and detested and abhorred by the whole principality. His cruelty was only 
 equalled by his ambition ; his insatiate thirst for gold induced him to commit 
 the most detestable crimes. His elder brother, who stood in the way of his 
 inheritance to the barony,- had, on attaining his majority, suddenly disap¬ 
 peared, and dark rumours were spread abroad that he met his death by his 
 brother’s hand. Upon his accession to the title and the domain, his pride, 
 cruelty, and ambition knew no bounds. One night, sitting in his library, 
 counting his ill-gotten gains, and brooding over his stores of gold, he exclaimed, 
 “ I have heard of spirits ; could I have obtained an interview w ith one of them. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 30 
 
 I might, by this time, have revelled in mines of wealth. ’Tis said that there 
 is at this moment an immense treasure buried near the ruins of the old castle, 
 near mine ; might I not become possessed of it; why should I not ? Let me 
 see if I can remember how' the old legion runs, and under the care of what 
 demon spirit it used to be.” He buried his face in his hands, and tried to 
 remember every'particular that he had heard concerning it. After consi¬ 
 derable doubts and fears his mind was firmly bent upon attempting an interview 
 with the fiend. It was fast verging towards midnight as he began ascending 
 the mountain leading to the castle ruins. The town was still as death, not even 
 the last chorus of a student’s convivial meeting broke upon his ear, nor was 
 there a solitary wanderer to watch his footsteps as he cautiously and stealthily 
 trod along the road. Daring and ambitious as he was, the stillness con¬ 
 siderably damped his courage, and he felt half inclined to retrace his steps, 
 but the demon of his soul, gold, was too prominent for any better feeling to 
 give place to avarice, and in desperation he pursued his w T ay. An awful 
 silence reigned around; there w as not a breath of wind to move the over¬ 
 hanging boughs, or even to cause the slightest rustling of their leaves ; nothing 
 was heard but the sound of his ow r n footsteps. He tried every now and then 
 to hum a verse of some favourite air, but failing in the attempt, it rather 
 increased than diminished his fears, and he left off in despair. As he reached 
 one of the terraces he paused, and gazed for a short time upon the scene before 
 him. The moon had just emerged from behind a cloud, showing every thing 
 almost as clear as at noon-day: near at his feet \y^s Heidelberg, looking like 
 an unpopulated and deserted city; in the distance WfeVe the frowning and 
 dismal Hartz Mountains, and on his right hand were the river and the valley 
 of the Neckar, intensely beautiful as he would at any other time have thought 
 this f view r , he turned from it with a troubled mind, and began in depressed 
 spirits to ascend farther the mountain height, until he readied the spot he had 
 fixed upon. It was close by the immense tower which the deadly art of man, 
 and not the course of time, had rent in twain; and which, though divided, 
 still stands upright in defiance of its destroyers. The moon shone through the 
 chasm, showing the massy thickness of the walls, and the immense disjointed 
 body, threatening every instant to fall and crush him beneath it. He threw 
 down the implements for digging, wdiich he had brought with him, and com¬ 
 menced drawing a circle, into which he stepped, and then began the recitations 
 and workings of the spell, w hich he had read, would raise the fiend to point out 
 to him where the treasure lay concealed. At this moment a dense thick cloud 
 travelled across the moon, leaving all, save the circle which the Baron had 
 drawn, in perfect darkness, which was irradiated by his having placed the 
 lanthorn he bore in its centre. His terror (spite of his hardy daring,) mo¬ 
 mentarily increased, so that he could hardly utter. The cloud passed away, 
 and he looked up to see what effect hat! been produced by the w orking of his 
 diabolical incantation, when he beheld standing without the circle, the figure of 
 a man clothed in a huntsman’s dress, but black as the blackest sable; he was 
 leaning on a long javelin of the same colour as his dress, whilst at his feet 
 crouched a large black dog, of a breed used centuries before for hunting 
 
40 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 The huntsman fixed a stern and piercing gaze upon the Baron, who quailed 
 beneath it. A thousand voices, as if in mockery, uttered shouts of unearthly 
 laughter, till they appeared to die away in the distance. The huntsman tlien 
 broke his silenee in an awful tone, hit moved not from his first position. 
 
 “ Why am I,” said he, “ after the lapse of years that I have been suffered to 
 remain undisturbed, again dragged forth by potent spells, to which, however, 
 against my inclination, I must yield obedience: I thought that I should have 
 now been suffered to remain in peace, and that I should have been rid of such as 
 you for ever. Mortal! who darest to intrude thus upon my privacy, what 
 woulds’t thou with me?—speak and be brief—w r as it but to satisfy your idle 
 curiosity that I am here?—if so, rash fool, you are in my power, and shall most 
 dearly pay for your temerity.” 
 
 The Baron now began to assume his usual haughty bearing :—“ Whate’er 
 thou art, huntsman or demon,” replied he, “ hear me: it was not idle curiosity 
 brought me here at this lone hour of night; but I came to seek the treasure of 
 the tower, and by my spell wished to raise some token to show me where it 
 was deposited.” 
 
 “ What! you covet riches,” replied the huntsman, changing his position', and 
 looking at his large black dog, which at that moment rose from the ground, 
 ‘ To your duty, sirrah.’ The hound gave a loud bay, and began slowly 
 walking around the circle, which having thrice performed, lie stopped and 
 began scratching the earth. 
 
 “ Rig there, my Lord Baron,” cried the huntsman with a demoniac grin. 
 
 The Baron essayed as he was directed ; the earth was soft, and gave way 
 without the least effort: the pick-axe struck against an immense chest—one 
 more blow, and the lid flew open, and to his admiring gaze, exhibited gold 
 coin of enormous size, with which it was filled. 
 
 “ Thanks, thanks,” exclaimed the Baron ; “ the utmost I have ever wished 
 is now in my possession ; this will make me truly happy.” 
 
 “ Are you now content,” cried the huntsman. 
 
 “ I am,” he replied. 
 
 “ And this, you say, is the summit of your wishes ?” 
 
 “ It is.” 
 
 “ Of course you will not then object to the price.” 
 
 “ The price, no ; though it were to murder all mankind and sacrifice my 
 own soul.” 
 
 “ ’Tis well,” replied the huntsman: “ as to your soul, ’tis mine already; the 
 moment you began your hellish incantation it was mine—I must have blood.” 
 
 “ Be it so,” exclaimed he in desperation, “ sooner than part with gold— 
 gold which is more precious in my sight than the lives of ten thousand.” 
 
 “ I must have the blood of thy wife.” 
 
 “ My wife ?” 
 
 “ Av ; do vou hesitate ?” 
 
 “ No—’tis done—she dies—ever on the anniversary of this day a fresh 
 victim must be supplied. Obey me, arid you live. Fail not, and at the hour of 
 twelve, on the appointed night, you will see me again—remember.” 
 
“ The figure was gone before the Baron could reply. Night after night did 
 he visit the spot, and remove his ill-gotten treasure. In the meantime his 
 young and beautiful wife fell (by poison) a victim to his avarice. Several years 
 passed, and the monster failed not to fulfil his contract. 
 
 At length, feared and hated by all, rich and powerful as he was, not even 
 the poorest peasant would wed with him. The anniversary of the dreaded 
 day arrived. Night came on with rapid pace, and the Baron strode up and 
 down his princely hall in despair and horror. The bell struck the hour of 
 midnight; loud yells of laughter re-echoed through the building ; the terrified 
 domestics fled in every direction. 
 
 The huntsman appeared before the Baron in all his demoniac horrors. 
 “ Mercy ! mercy !” exclaimed he in all the agony of terror. His words w r ere 
 echoed by a thousand deriding voices. % 
 
 et Ha—ha—ha,” replied the fiend; “ thou art mine here and hereafter, 
 Fool, dost thou think I confer benefits for nought ? Away ! away.” 
 
 At that instant a tremendous explosion was heard; the foundation of the 
 castle was shaken to its centre, and hurled in fragments into the air: sul¬ 
 phurous flames burst forth in every direction, and upon one of the falling 
 turrets were seen the demon Baron struggling w r ith the fiend. His long fingers 
 No. 6. 
 
 G 
 
42 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 grasped the Baron’s throat, till having strangled him, he gave a wild laugh, 
 and shouting “ mine—mine!” disappeared among the blazing ruins bearing 
 with him the mangled body of the demon Baron. The spot has ever since been 
 shunned by human being, and called “ The Devil’s Grip.” 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE opening of a distant door echoing through the church, recalled the 
 attention of Bertha; she followed the direction of the sound, and arrived at the 
 postern which Adam Blake had unfastened for her admission to the cloisters. 
 
 The sudden return to more perfect light, and the exhalations of the parting 
 sunbeams, had a most welcome effect on the spirits of Bertha, and she soon felt 
 revived by the enlivening change. She thanked Adam Blake for his attendance, 
 who promised to wait at the gate for her return, and with Ruth, proceeded to 
 explore the fresh scenes of wonder and admiration which the ruins presented. 
 
 As they continued to proceed from the Abbey, Bertha failed not to enter 
 every nook and arch that crossed her way, sometimes she even ventured up the 
 broken steps of a ruined tow r er, whose lofty battlements no longer reared their 
 proud heads, but lay extended in the area; and, tempted by the beauty of the 
 evening, she ascended to the first story, and through the heavy arch of the 
 open space; where formerly the fretted jambs of the windows had been placed, 
 she obtained a still better view of the surrounding romantic scenery; it was 
 through this open space she had a full view of the south angle tower, one of 
 whose entire sides had fallen away, and all the upper stories were exposed. 
 
 Bertha bade Ruth observe it, and asked if she had courage to enter it.— 
 Ruth shrunk back. 
 
 “ Indeed, my lady, I never behold that tower,” she replied, “ but it makes 
 me tremble. It w r as there, they say, that poor Agatha was confined, and 
 Mabel has so often told me to beware of it, that—I—I hardly dare look at it. 
 Surely, madam, you don’t intend to make the trial?” 
 
 “ as you say, that w^as the prison of Agatha,” pointing to the south tower 
 ' “ it is there only I hope to find some documents relative to her fate; I am 
 therefore resolved to proceed. But for you, Ruth, stay where you are ; I shall 
 not require a further attendance than your remaining within hearing.” 
 
 Bertha descended the broken steps, and proceeded towards the tow'er, wdiilst 
 Ruth, not daring to advance, stood trembling, entreating her young lady to 
 forego the dangerous enterprize; but Bertha having as yet found nothing to 
 gratify her search, or terrify her from pursuing it, resolved not to yield to the 
 light fears ol Ruth ; she therefore proceeded, after having obtained the keys 
 
V 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 43 
 
 from the latter, and arrived at the full sight of the south tower:—its black and 
 frowning aspect, together with its weak, tottering situation, at first aroused a 
 momentary feeling of terror ; but youthful hope encouraged her to venture, and 
 she aj>proached the old gothic door, which, from its rotten appearance, she 
 hoped to have pushed open with ease, but it resisted her, and she was obliged 
 to have recourse to the rusty old keys ; after a considerable loss of time, she 
 found one that turned in the lock, and the portal giving way, admitted her into 
 a narrow passage, which gave her a sight of an iron grate that was fixed in the 
 arch of the opposite wall. 
 
 To the left she beheld a flight of stairs that led to the upper stories; but 
 these were too weak to admit her ascent in safety to the top; she therefore gave 
 over the design, and turned again to the iron grating. A s she caught the first 
 view of the alarming objects within, her mind, unprepared for the sudden 
 shock, endured a momentary suspension, and she fell, nearly fainting, against 
 the wall; the power of calling for aid was gone, and, for a few seconds, she 
 was unable to support herself. 
 
 The terrific spectacle that had so powerfully affected Bertha, as she caught a 
 view of the interior of this forlorn ruin, was a deep narrow cell, whose walls 
 were hung with mouldering trappings of black ; the only light that was admitted 
 within, proceeded from an iron grate fixed deep in the amazing thickness of the 
 small embrasure of the w r all. Around this gloomy place w r ere fixed in all 
 directions the horrific emblems of death ; and which ever way the desolate 
 inhabitant of this dreary cell turned, images of horror shocking to nature 
 met the tortured view, in the terrific stare and eyeless sockets of the ghastly 
 skull bones, that hung in grim appalling array. In the middle of the cell, upon 
 a raised pedestal, stood the mouldering relics of a eoffin, which had once been 
 covered with a velvet pall, but which now hung in tatters down the sides. 
 
 At one corner was a small hillock, that conjecture might form as being 
 once, perhaps, the sad resting-place of the distracted penitent; for that, this was 
 the severe prison of penance and contrition, every superstitious emblem of 
 monkish torture that surrounded the walls plainly bore testimony of; a crucifix 
 and broken hour-glass still remained, covered with dust, upon a small altar, 
 beneath an arched recess, whilst the floor w as strewed with skulls and human 
 bones. 
 
 Poor Bertha now sincerely regretted her bold attempt; ten thousand melan¬ 
 choly dreads and apprehensions seized her thoughts, with fears never before 
 experienced; this place indeed, she thought, seemed the very spot for cruelty 
 and murder, and here it was but too possible the injured spirit of Agatha 
 might certainly resort. She shuddered at the thought; she almost shrieked as 
 her fancy presented visionary forms ; but all around was still. 
 
 After the first momentary shock had subsided, Bertha arose, and stood 
 irresolute to proceed in her researches. 
 
 “ I have surely seen the worst,” she inwardly ruminated, “ wherefore then 
 should I now fear to enter, since no sight, more appalling than what I now 
 see, can create greater alarm? Perhaps this was indeed the final end of the 
 unhappy sister ;” she added, sighing; alas! poor unfortunate, this too surely 
 
 i 
 
41 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 was alike your prison, and the cause of your lingering death. Yet wherefore 
 am I thus anxious to solve the mystery of her destiny ? Dare I lift the pall 
 from that horrific spectacle? What if my spirits fail me, and I sink, overcome 
 with dread, in this charnel-house of death, may not my senses forsake me in the 
 trial; or is it not very likely that terror may bereave me of my reason ? Shall 
 1 enter ?” As the last word dropped from her lips, she started, and heard it 
 feebly repeated by an unknown voice, which slowly pronounced, “ Enter!” 
 
 Bertha trembled, and not exactly aware of her intentions, unfastened the 
 giate, and threw back the rattling massy chains that were hooked on the staples 
 without the cell; the grate opened with ease, and swung on its hinges with 
 little or no resistance ; and Bertha, with an imagination distempered, and misled 
 by the hopes ol discovering something she came in search of, that would repay 
 her fears, descended the indented declivity, and with trembling steps staggered 
 t wo or three paces from the grating; but again becoming irresolute, and terrified 
 from her purpose, she stopped. 
 
 “ Dare I,” she faintly ejaculated ‘‘dare I raise the mysterious lid of that 
 horrific coffin.” 
 
 “ Dare to do so!” replied a voice, that sounded hollow along the dreaded 
 Vault; and Bertha, whose terror now had suspended the faculty of feeling, 
 though not ol life, actually moved towards the coffin, as if performing some 
 dreadful rite, that she found she had not power to resist. Impelled with a 
 notion of that superior agency which she dared not disobey, and not exactly 
 sensible of what she did, she fearfully cast aside the lid, which, as she touched, 
 fell crumbling to the ground ; and turning aside her head, her hand (over 
 which, as well as herself, she had lost all power) fell mechanically within the 
 cofiin ; and in her tright she grasped something moist and clammy ; at that in¬ 
 stant a sudden light illuminated the cell, and, at the same moment a spectral 
 form arose enveloped in a pallid flame of blue, clad in the sacred vestments of a 
 ^Nun. Shrieking wildly, she rushed from the scene of terror, and precipitating 
 liersell through the tower gate, fell fainting into the arms of Ruth ; who, pale 
 and terrified, called loudly for aid, as she supported her now insensible lady. 
 
 Adam Blake, who had long been impatient at the stay of his mistress, and 
 alarmed for her safety, w T as hastening down the ruins, when the cries of Ruth 
 assailed his ear, and had arrived at the scene of terror as Bertha began to open 
 her eyes. 
 
 Holy \ iigin protect thee. Lady!” he exclaimed, as he assisted to recover her ; 
 
 what has thus terrified thee ? Hast thou seen any thing, or do these pale 
 affrighted looks proceed from some fall, which, unmindful of my caution, may 
 have bruised thy tender form among the hillocks of the ruins ?” 
 
 Oh no, good Adam, not so,” feebly and wild ly ejaculated Bertha; “the 
 tower—the dreadful tower!” 
 
 “ 1 he tower, say st thou, my lady ?—mercy on me !—Have you been so hardy 
 as to \ enture into that dismal place ?—Dear heart! dear heart! I’ll warrant 
 now thou hast seen something.—Where are the keys?” 
 
 I know not, unless they remain still in the gates of the tower,” replied 
 Bertha. 
 
45 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 " Heaven forbid it, I say!” angrily interrupted Adam; “ now were it not 
 that the ruins would be left open all night, I would as soon cut off one of my 
 lingers as go near the forlorn dungeon. ” 
 
 The old gentleman, however, hastily advanced to the tower, but with evident 
 fear and trepidation in his manner, and not a little angry at the cause that com¬ 
 pelled him on an errand so unwelcome. 
 
 Bertha, as she gradually/ecovered, felt a perfect recollection of the late horrid 
 scene; and recalling the awful voice she had heard, she no sooner beheld Adam 
 advance to the place of her late terrors, than with the swiftness of the wind, she 
 darted trom the melancholy ruins, totally regardless of the pettish exclamation 
 of Adam, who loudly called on her to wait his arrival; but she stopped not 
 till a heap of rubbish lay widely spread in her path, and obstructed her further 
 progress. 
 
 At length the dreary aisles were passed, and Adam fastening the great gothic 
 doors of the church, they arrived once more in the vaulted passage. 
 
 The lamps that illuminated the hall, recalled the scattered ideas of Bertha 
 sufficiently to enable her to enjoin Ruth and Adam, on pain of her lasting dis¬ 
 pleasure, to be secret on the sudden illness she had suffered. Adam, however, 
 bowed in silence his obedience to her commands ; but Ruth no sooner entered 
 the hall, and found herself once more in safety, than she related all that had 
 passed, with many exaggerated additions, sufficient to confirm her companions 
 in the certain belief that their young lady had seen the ghost. 
 
 Bertha entered the grand saloon ; but Sir Godfrey was not there, so she 
 retired immediately to her own apartments. 
 
 As soon as she entered her room, she drew from the folds of her robe the 
 relics she had unknowingly grasped from the coffin. On examination, it seemed 
 to be some folded papers ; but, in so damp and decaying a condition, as to 
 threaten to drop to pieces with the touch. But Bertha felt too much agitated at 
 present to compose her spirits sufficiently for their minute investigation. 
 
 Her mind, ever the seat of peace, content, and harmony, now became agitated 
 and unhappy; a number of unpleasing emotions corroded her heart, and for 
 some time she paced the chamber with a hasty, disordered step. The perturbed 
 state of her spirits being at length exhausted, she became more composed ; and 
 resolving to examine the papers, she took them up once more, and drawing her 
 chair close to the table, and retrimming her lamp,''she tremblingly cast her eyes 
 over them. The characters were perfectly legible, and easy to decipher; with 
 amazement she read the first line, which was thus expressed :— 
 
 “ TO THE HEIR OR HEIRESS OF THESE DOMAINS. 
 
 * If curiosity, or some over-ruling chance should hereafter lead any of the 
 house of Brandon to this lonely tower, let them not disregard the advice con-* 
 
46 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 tained in this paper. Strange as it may seem, the latest inheritor of this Abbey 
 is the being to whom these lines are addressed. 
 
 ‘ There is a mystery pertaining to these towers, which the slow moving hand 
 of time can alone unfold. The family of Brandon possesses a deadly foe, and 
 impending sorrow awaits its latest representatives. Should the last heirs ever 
 enter this melancholy ruin, this record will remind them to shun the possessors 
 of Neville castle.—The hand that traces these characters is solemnly withheld 
 from explanations; but as thou regardest thy future happiness, so regard thou 
 this secret warning !—Remember should’st thou presume to reveal to any creature 
 existing its contents, thou wilt incur a fate as terrible as unexpected, and render 
 useless this effort to save thee from irrevocable misery, if not death itself! 
 
 ‘ Beneath the deep foundations of the ruins the recorded mystery of the house 
 of Brandon lies securely buried from all mortal discovery ; and only chance, or 
 a merciful providence, can restore it to its rightful owners.—Be cautious! re¬ 
 member my injunction—obey its mandates, so may thou yet escape those terrible 
 evils that threaten, without a remedy, the heirs of these once proud turrets.’ ” 
 
 With amazement Bertha perused this incomprehensible paper ; she had glanced 
 her eyes over the others, but found them to be the history of Agatha. It was 
 evident that this scroll, from the difference of the vellum and the writing, had 
 no relation whatever to the manuscript of the nun. There was no date prefixed 
 nor the slightest clue apparent to guide her conjectures as to the means by which 
 it had been placed in so extraordinary a situation. 
 
 Bertha again perused it, and trembled as she finished this passage--^ To save 
 you from irrevocable misery, if not death itself!” 
 
 ‘‘ What may this mean?” she fearfully ejaculated; “what dreadful import 
 is contained in these terrible expressions ?—Can it be possible they should apper¬ 
 tain to my dear father ?” 
 
 She again looked at the first line, and her emotions, if possible, became 
 stronger as she read, “ To the heir, or heiress of these domains.” 
 
 Bertha was her father’s heir, his only heir; was it probable these awe¬ 
 inspiring words could be addressed to herself? Conjecture thickened, her 
 thoughts became wild and disordered, and at length a sudden gush of tears 
 relieving the confusion of her ideas, her first design was to fly to Sir Godfrey’s 
 chamber, and unveil the mystery to him, from whom alone she could hope for 
 consolation in her present agitation ; but casting accidentally her eyes once more 
 on the paper, she saw another paragraph that she had not at first observed. 
 Eagerly she perused the characters ; they were to this effect;— 
 
 “ Trifle not with the solemn injunction contained in this warning, but be 
 silent on its contents, as you value the future happiness or misery of your days 
 to come.” 
 
 ***** 
 
 These words arrested her intention, they appeared as if indeed addressed 
 personally to herself, and she shuddered as if convinced they really were so. 
 Her spirits failed her ; the late terrors of her mind, and the confused, and even 
 
47 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 dreadful import of the manuscript occasioned a faintness that compelled her to 
 suspend all further attempts to elucidate this mysterious paper. 
 
 The lateness of the hour, for it was now past midnight, together with the still 
 agitating remembrance of the transactions of the south ruin, impressed her mind 
 with a superstitious dread unfelt before; and hurrying off her dress, she en¬ 
 deavoured to lose the recollection of the foregoing scene in the arms'of sleep 
 But her dreams were alarming and terrific; at one moment she found herself 
 following the corpse of some dear connection, for whose loss she was in extreme 
 griet. But soon she lost sight of this melancholy object, and found herself 
 compelled by a superior power to enter some forlorn and gloomy chambers, 
 which appeared to belong to the south wing of the monastery. As she here 
 awaited, a tall majestic female, whose haughty step and stern countenance 
 seemed to awe her into fear and apprehension, stood before her, and with a 
 dagger in one hand, and a goblet of liquor in the other, bade her, in a voice 
 hollow and dreadful, choose her fate ; as she presented, with threatening aspect, 
 
 the poisoned cup, she raised her dagger, and bade her drink it, for that was the' 
 last hour of her existence. 
 
 A burst of agony awoke her from these disordered visions, and Bertha found 
 her pillow wet with tears ; but she rejoiced that she awoke before the horrid 
 conclusion of her disordered fancy had been accomplished. Sleep soon again 
 lightly weighed on her eyelids, and for a short time she enjoyed undisturbed 
 repose; but before the lark had raised his extolling notes to the heavens, she 
 again awoke, and finding the restlessness of her thoughts would not permit her 
 to sleep, she arose from her couch, and approaching the casement, felt her spirits 
 revive as she inhaled the freshness of the morning air. 
 
 Casting her eyes on the table, she beheld again the subject of her last night’s 
 agitation, which now being somewhat subsided, she found her mind better able 
 to deliberate on the mystery of their contents. How the papers came in such a 
 place, and by whom deposited, was a conjecture that no mental effort could be 
 certain of; at one moment she felt inclined to think they related to a former lord 
 of the Abbey. 
 
 “ If it really pertains to my father,” she said, “ he is implicated in this 
 intricate warning more deeply than myself; and should there be indeed an 
 unknown danger, which this paper may teach him how to avoid, it is my duty 
 to make him acquainted with the contents, and the discovery I have made.” 
 
 But still those emphatic words, which so peremptorily forbade, whoever was 
 the finder, their revealing the contents of the manuscript, caused her to waver, and 
 again she became irresolute; she considered how infinitely more superior were 
 his prior claims, than the injunctions of a strange unknown warning, whose 
 suspicious contents might contain some dark meaning, which, in the end, would 
 prove dangerous to the peace of Sir Godfrey ii suffered to remain unrevealed. 
 
 1 his last consideration, w r ith many others of equal weight, at once determined 
 her, and be the evil of whatever nature it might to herself, she resolved to 
 incur it by making Sir Godfrey her confidant of the whole circumstance. 
 
 With the papers in her hand, Bertha descended to the saloon, but her father 
 was not there, and she impatiently waited his appearance near an hour, when 
 
48 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 Os well entered to inform his lady, that Sir Godfrey, being rather indisposed, 
 desired her presence in his own apartments. 
 
 Bertha hastened to obey, but was shocked at beholding the alteration that had 
 taken place, since the preceding day, in his features and countenance. An 
 unfolded letter lay upon the pillow of the couch, which Bertha conjectured as 
 beinjr the cause of the sudden illness, that with grief she saw too legibly depic- 
 tured in the whole appearance of Sir Godfrey ; she perceived also that his mind 
 was deeply affected, and regardless of her own peace, but only anxious for that 
 of her dear father’s, she concealed the paper she had intended for his perusal, 
 thinking at some future period to produce it. 
 
 A sealed packet lay upon the table, which Sir Godfrey delivered to Oswell, 
 and dismissed him with it to the Countess of Etherwold ; then turning his eyes 
 tenderly on Bertha, he said:—* 
 
 t( My child, I feel that I have too long immured you in the cheerless glooms 
 of these solitary ruins. The kind friend of my happier days has long importuned 
 me for the society of my Bertha. Would you not be happy, my Bertha, to quit 
 for a time, these melancholy recesses, for the brilliant circles that now court 
 your acceptance in a visit to the Countess of Etherwold ?” 
 
 “ When l see my dear father happy, and recovered from his indisposition, I 
 may, under his sanction, take advantage of my lady Etherwoid’s goodness; but 
 if allowed my choice, believe me, dear father, I can taste no peace whilst absent 
 from you ; grant me permission to defer, till some more convenient opportunity, 
 the honour intended me.” 
 
 Bertha, as she finished her request, drew' her seat near to the couch ; and Sir 
 Godfrey seeing she was resolved not to leave him, no longer attempted to oppose 
 her desire. As he viewed her, the tears trickled dow'n his face, which were 
 kissed away by his beauteous daughter, who, taking Sir Godfrey’s hand, said, 
 with all the angelic persuasive looks and manner of a ministering cherub— 
 
 “ My dear father, forgive the questions of your child, if she has too long ob¬ 
 served w r ith pain the woes of a parent whom she loves!—May I,” she tremu¬ 
 lously added, “ not know' the source?—Who know's, but perhaps the confidence 
 of your ow n Bertha would alleviate their inflictions.—Sorrow, when confided in 
 the bosom of affection and duty, loses its sharp envenomed poignancy.—Ah ! 
 then unfold to your child this overwhelming, this mysterious cause of affliction. 
 My father, you may trust your child—indeed—indeed you may!” 
 
 Sir Godfrey appeared evidently moved ;—some deep inward feelings struggled 
 in the breast of Sir Godfrey, who laying his hand on his heart, as if to restrain 
 the labouring secret, said :—- 
 
 “ O God !—Oh my child ! sole pledge of an adored wife, how trying is the 
 anguish of this bitter moment!—I must not, great God of justice ! dare not 
 reveal the horrid secret!”—A kind of solemn horror, accompanied with looks 
 of wildness, darkened the fine expressive features of Sir Godfrey, as he thus 
 continued .—“ An oath, the most binding, forces me to a hateful silence. Seek 
 not, therefore, as you regard my peace of conscience as w'ell as mind, to draw 
 from me a forbidden confidence !—Alas! poor innocent, I w r ould preserve thee 
 from a similar fate; for already I foresee there are woes in store that will but 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 4.0 
 
 too severely afflict thy susceptible nature* 
 
 Shouldst thou, my Bertha, become acquainted 
 with unknown evils, they can answer no pur¬ 
 pose but to involve thee in a labyrinth of sor¬ 
 row, which no clue but death could unravel. 
 
 Thou art a blooming flower, my child, to 
 weak for this rude habitation, and fain would I 
 transplant thee to a more congenial clime; but 
 
 here only thou art-safe—in these remote solitudes none will seek for him who 
 once was—What am I about ?” 
 
 Sir Godfrey suddenly stopped short; Bertha listened with the utmost atten " 
 tion, and for a moment|hoped to have gathered something from this unfinished 
 sentence, that might lead her amazed ideas to a train of probabilities; but Sir 
 Godfrey, deeply sighing, only added— 
 
 My Beitha, I feel that I am incoherent, and indeed mysterious; but never 
 question me again. Of this, however, be assured, that while in these gloomy 
 woods we find a home, w r e have no near evils to dread ; yet should thy un¬ 
 conscious footsteps pass the boundaries of this forest, remember the agitation 
 thou hast so often witnessed in me, and when youfc reflect on their source, think 
 of them as a kind of warning that must instinctively guide thy conduct. I have 
 
 w r ell observed the temper ot thy mind, and rejoice to find it possessed of that 
 No. 7 
 
 H 
 
50 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 fortitude which will, I hope, preserve thee from the enervating tyranny of 
 those ungovernable feelings. I feel myself exhausted, and wish for repose; 
 retire, my love, and in the evening we will again renew our usual occupa¬ 
 tions.” 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DEEPLY musing on her father’s words, Bertha retired for the rest of the 
 time to the forest, where she pondered on each sentence he had uttered ; but 
 she found the more she attempted to give the semblance of truth to the vague 
 conjectures of fancy, the farther she involved herselt in an inextricable labyrinth 
 of doubt and uncertainty; she therefore gave over the useless research; but 
 one or two expressions that fell from Sir Godlrey’s lips, seemed to throw a 
 faint light on the extraordinary occurrence of the former evening. Was it 
 possible, she thought, that her father was acquainted with the mysterious 
 paper; or, if so, for what inscrutable purpose had he taken so alarming a 
 method of cautioning her against unknown danger, as to hinder him from ex¬ 
 plaining openly what she had found so mysteriously ? 
 
 Some part of Sir Godfrey’s speech seemed connected with the paper, and she 
 now tried to conjoin the sense of each in such a meaning, as to place beyond 
 doubt her conjectures of the truth. She remembered he had laid great stress 
 on the word, “ warning;” and she now, on this review, felt almost convinced 
 of the certainty of her surmises. 
 
 In pensive ruminations she passed along, unheeding the hours, till she found 
 herself in a gloomy unfrequented avenue she had never before remembered to have 
 seen. She looked around to discover some brake or footpath, but none appear¬ 
 ing, she resolved to regain, if possible, the intricate maze she had passed. 
 
 Turning to retrace her path, she was alarmed by the sounds of strange 
 voices, and saw at no great distance two tall figures, cloathed with long 
 folding cloaks, pass down the avenue, who by the earnestness of their conver¬ 
 sation, seemed not to have noticed her. 
 
 Dreading some unknown danger, she hastily sprung through an adjoining 
 glade, and concealing herself behind an embowing thicket, remained in breath¬ 
 less suspense till they should have departed. 
 
 As they approached near her hiding-place, their converse was too loud to 
 remain unheard ; and Bertha, whom fear and curiosity made attentive, caught 
 some of their extraordinary words, as they slowly passed along. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 5I 
 
 “ B ' lt s,lrelv ’ m y lord,” exclaimed a harsh voice, “ wealth and honours are 
 amply in your power, in an union with the heiress of Neville.” 
 
 “ Heavens ! do my senses not deceive me?” tremblingly ejaculated Bertha.” 
 A full-toned voice, replying in answer to his companion, said— 
 
 “ The haughty Alice scorns my advances; and thou knowest my soul is 
 devoted to the too charming unknown forestress.” 
 
 / It is evident, my lord, from her situation,” replied the other, “ she would 1 
 think herself honoured, and gladly accept the terms of the Baron of Wilden ; 
 
 nor need she prevent the long designed union between you and the ladv 
 Alice.” ' ' J 
 
 “ Mention her no more,” replied the former voice in a tone of anger; “ she 
 has cast her eyes on the bastard of Etherwold, and 1 all my efforts to procure a 
 smile, she treats with silent scorn and contempt. But vengeance—’ ’ Here a. 
 gust of wind carried away the succeeding words, and Bertha was unable to 
 distinguish the conclusion; but in an another instant she heard—“ The eastern 
 towers will suit our purpose well; the idle reports of spectres render our 
 operations secure from discovery and intrusion.” 
 
 “ Is then your lordship resolved? Gan no other alternative than blood give 
 you possession of your wishes ?” 
 
 “ None;—has he not provoked my vengeance, and foiled me in every wish 
 of my heart? Has he not blasted my golden harvests, and crashed my infant 
 love ere it had time to blossom ? By the Eternal, my soul loathes the serpent’s 
 sight not more than his! Thinkest thou weak and futile ties of blood shall 
 restrain my just revenge ? Hast thou yet to learn how immoveable are my 
 decrees, when once determined on ? But of this enough at present. He shall 
 enjoy his fancied triumph. Let us learn the seeming semblance of a fair out¬ 
 side, and lull him to his ruin by our dissembled show of friendship and good¬ 
 will. As yet my project is but green in ripeness. Prepare thou as I command 
 thee, and at our next meeting I will speak further on this business.” 
 
 The voices now sunk into distance, and the terrified Bertha ventured from 
 her concealment. She had, through the interstices of the boughs of the trees, 
 obtained a slight view of their persons; the one nearest, seemed tall and 
 majestic of stature and deportment; and the side glance she had been enabled 
 to obtain of his features, displayed a noble, fine, dark countenance, though 
 his cloak and the feathers of his hat so much disguised it, that she had only a 
 partial view. 
 
 The lovely Bertha, educated in seclusion and retirement, shuddered as her 
 ears were involuntarily pierced with sounds so new to her. Terrified for her 
 own safety, she hurried down the avenue at the very moment that the quick 
 bounding of an animal’s feet was heard in the hollow woods, and in an instant 
 she beheld her favourite little fawn, which, rushing, affrighted and panting 
 down the path, sprung into the arms of Bertha, and, by the piteous glances 
 that shot from its eyes, seemed to entreat protection from the furious pursuit 
 of a boar, which Bertha saw darting in savage eagerness upon his helpless 
 prey. Her own safety now became endangered, for the savage beast rushed 
 madly on his spoil, and had nearly reached the spot she stood upon, when at that 
 
52 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 instant a young stranger, with his hunting spear, rescued Bertha from impending 
 destruction. He saw the danger of Bertha, and with a swift motion winged 
 his barbed arrow to its destined aim ; it entered the side of the enraged and 
 hungry monster, and laid him prostrate on the earth. 
 
 Bertha, in the pure joy of her feelings, fell on her knees before the stranger, 
 in whose fine, open, manly form and countenance she was pleased to recognize 
 neither of the two beings she had so lately seen. 
 
 The gallant stranger, as he hastened to raise the object of his care, viewed 
 her with evident marks of admiration, whilst the beauteous Bertha, unconscious 
 of the influence of her native perfections, returned, in a strain of artless 
 language, her thanks for his timely aid. 
 
 “ Heavens and earth !” cried the stranger, charmed as much with the melt¬ 
 ing harmony of her voice and manner, as by the uncommon loveliness of her 
 face and person, “ whence could such matchless beauties spring, and where so 
 long remain concealed ?” 
 
 Bertha, confused and disconcerted by the ardent gaze and language of the 
 stranger, averted her eyes, and with a modest dignity, said— 
 
 “ Brandon Abbey is the residence of my father. Allow me, courteous 
 stranger, to conduct you to his presence ; he will, I am sure, joyfully acknow¬ 
 ledge the service your timely arm has so generously performed for his daughter.” 
 
 “ I have then the happiness to behold, for the first time, the lady Bertha 
 Brandon. Our parents, charming lady, once lived in the reciprocal bonds of 
 friendship. Surely Sir Godfrey, will not longer refuse his lovely daughter to the 
 entreaties of the Baroness of Etherw T old.” 
 
 From the noble appearance and dignified deportment of the stranger, as well as 
 the latter part of his speech, she was assured this was certainly one of the Baron’s 
 sons. From what cause she knew not, but she evidently felt her cheeks crimson, 
 and her tongue unable to perform its functions. The stranger perceived the 
 ardent gaze of his eyes was painful to the lovely girl; and though they were 
 fixed in w r onder and admiration on her countenance, yet delicacy forbade the 
 indulgence of his too fascinated sight, and with respectful consideration he res¬ 
 trained himself, though with great difficulty, from a too apparent pleasure. 
 
 , Bertha felt relieved, and soon recovered her native ease ; she kindly patted 
 her little favourite, which she still retained in her arms ; whilst the stranger, 
 lost in amazement, appeared to be deeply ruminating on the late occurrences. 
 
 Bertha too had experienced a variety of emotions on this occasion ; she scarcely 
 reflected on the danger she had escaped, but her thoughts were bent on him who 
 had been her preserver. She had once slightly cast her eyes on his face, and 
 there beheld an assemblage of manly beauties that forcibly interested her remarks 
 and attention, and they led to this innocent and inward apostrophe:— 
 
 Bertha had heard a description of the different characters and disposition of 
 the brothers of Etherwold ; but feeling very little interest on the merits of either, 
 had paid but slight attention to the account, although she now remembered 
 sufficient to think on the contrast that existed between them. 
 
 Thus mentally reserved, they reached the Abbey ere their inward reflections 
 w ere finished, where stood Sir Godfrey, who, with surprise and scrutiny, beheld 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 53 
 
 the companion of Bertha ; the latter, gracefully presenting her deliverer to her 
 father, recited in animated language, the dangers from which he had rescued 
 her. Sir Godfrey listened with alarm to the narrow escape she had so fortu¬ 
 nately effected, and with delighted joy pressed his Bertha to his heart; then 
 turning to the stranger, and warmly taking his hand, he said—- 
 
 “ Brave young Sir, accept a parent’s thanks. The pleasure of this moment 
 renders cold all language; but the heart speaks for itself, nor will these tears of 
 gratitude be restrained. My Bertha must also learn to express her acknowledg¬ 
 ments ; for in saving her’s, you have preserved the life of her father.” 
 
 “ My Lord,” replied the youth, “ you over-rate<my trifling service. To suc¬ 
 cour undefended innocence, is the best and greatest privilege of manhood ; and 
 happy shall I esteem myself, if the events of this evening should have afforded 
 me the real felicity of rendering the smallest aid to the daughter of Sir Godfrey 
 Brandon. I shall be greatly repaid, if allowed hereafter to claim the honour of 
 his friendship, and sometimes the pleasure of his society.” 
 
 He bowed low, and finishing this sentence, was retiring, when Sir Godfrey, 
 as much by his looks as his words, expressing his thanks, said— 
 
 “ If I be not deceived, it is to my Lord Alfred that I am indebted for the 
 signal service he has so generously exerted in my child’s defence. Most honoured, 
 must I ever esteem myself in the favour of his visits. 
 
 Lord Alfred with modest diffidence, replied —“ Thus permitted to renew my 
 fortunate acquaintance, I shall I fear, my Lord, become too often an intruder.”. 
 
 He said no more, but casting a speaking glance on the attentive Bertha, 
 gracefully took his leave, and bent his way through the thickest mazes of the 
 woods. 
 
 Bertha watched his receding form, till the deep foliage of the trees closed 
 him from her sight. Unconsciously a sigh escaped her bosom. Shut from all 
 society but the inmates of the Abbey, the fine person and noble countenance of 
 Alfred had left a soft impression on her memory, that made her for a moment 
 regret the secluded life she had never till this hour thought of but with indif¬ 
 ference. 
 
 Retired to the privacy of her own chamber, she eagerly began to review 
 the many uncommon occurrences of the preceding day. The gloomy tower, and 
 the scene there witnessed; the unfathomable mystery of her father’s life, and 
 lastly, the events of this evening, all crowded on her tumultuous thoughts, and 
 each demanded a separate notice. Who could be the strangers that, with such 
 threatening aspects and dreadful expression, had mentioned secrets evidently 
 designed lor no third hearing. The heiress of Neville was mentioned. 
 
 Bertha started at the recollection of the name, and hastily approaching the 
 table, drew forth the papers, and again eagerly perused them. The names were 
 alike beyond the power of misconception or error in their sound and pronuncia¬ 
 tion; yet, why she should feel dread towards the possessors of Neville castle 
 was a mystery no effort of conjecture could possibly elucidate. But that she 
 might divert her thoughts from this source, since she found it was yet impossible 
 to sleep, Bertha determined to devote the present time, late as it was, to a 
 perusal of the story of the Nun. 
 
54 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 The papers she had found in the coffin, relative to the sister, were many of 
 them obscured by mildew; many of the lines were totally extinct and onlv here 
 and there a few, of the first parcel she began to examine, could be at all distin¬ 
 guished. 
 
 Some of the papers were written in a different hand, and apparently served to 
 connect the moving and affecting exclamations of the forlorn sufferer; many of 
 them indeed were entirely lost and destroyed. 
 
 At length, in another packet, Bertha discovered a more perfect copy of the 
 preceding ones, which, from the style of its writing, and the dhte to the other 
 papers, evidently proved them to be the labour of some of the monks of the 
 monastery. 
 
 These records being easier to decipher than those which the Nun had left, 
 Bertha laid the latter 4 aside ; and retrimming her lamp, and seating herself nearer 
 to the table, she took up the monk’s copy, and began, not without infinite diffi¬ 
 culty, to read the melancholy story of the Nun of St. Moreton. 
 
 THE STORY OF AGATHA. 
 
 “ It was in the reign of Edward the First, that, in an old dilapidated man¬ 
 sion, depending on the barony of Brandon, lived the poor, but proud Sir 
 Edmund j descended of an illustrious house, whose noble progenitors had, with 
 the Conqueror, settled in England, upon the prodigal establishment of their 
 royal master. 
 
 “ 1° the two, succeeding centuries, however, great changes had taken place,, 
 and many events, not here related, had reduced the once powerful and splendid 
 ancestors of Sir Edmund to little more than a military dependence. The proud 
 nature of the knight shrunk from the consequences of the total ruin of the gran¬ 
 deur of his house; and, indignant at the disgraceful and humiliating change of 
 his circumstances, he hastily quitted the gay triumphs of the British court, be¬ 
 cause his fallen fortunes and wasted patrimony no longer enabled him to vie in 
 the splendour of his appearance and expenditure with the rest of the nobles of 
 the kingdom. In the gloomy shades of his forsaken mansion, he buried himself 
 from all the joys of social intercourse ; nor was his melancholy habitation ever 
 after disturbed by the sounds of festive cheerfulness, or the smile of content¬ 
 ment. Morose in temper, from his disappointments in fortune, and too proud to 
 stoop to such honourable resources as might have in time procured for him the 
 re-establishment of his decayed house, he disdained all pecuniary acquirements, 
 and determined to build his hopes of future greatness on an alliance of his only 
 child with the splendid and noble lord of Cuthbert. 
 
 “ the lovely Agatha, brought up in total seclusion, and unacquainted with 
 the manners of the world, happily free from the ambitious and haughty passions 
 of her stern sire, had unconsciously rendered obedience to his commands impos¬ 
 sible, and shrunk in horror from the dreaded proposal of an union with lord 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 Cuthbert; for, alas! she had not a heart to bestow, nor a hand to give away. 
 Agatha, the beautiful Agatha, whose years scarce numbered seventeen, had 
 known the exquisite pains and pleasures of a secret love ; and, in the simple 
 
 innocence ol an unsuspecting, unsophisticated mind, liad given her heart, her 
 soul, her all to a— sfranger. 
 
 From earliest infancy she had been abandoned by her father; who, till the 
 destruction of his fortunes compelled him to remember that he had a child, had 
 ceased even to think such a being was in existence: he now, however, resolved 
 to make her subservient to his purposes; and by her projected alliance with lord 
 Cuthbert, restore the ancient grandeur of his house. 
 
 Agatha had never known a mother’s tenderness, or experienced a father’s 
 sheltering protection; the artless dictates of her too susceptible heart were her 
 only guides and monitors; and during the long absence of her sire, her soul 
 first felt the pleasing emotions ot love for the unknown but graceful stranger, 
 whom she had first beheld in the shades of the vast forests of St. More ton’s 
 monastery, where she had often been accustomed to roam at large in search of 
 health and exercise, and where she had first met the fascinating Arnold. 
 
 Unacquainted with the world’s deceits, poor Agatha listened to his fervent 
 vows with downcast blushing timidity and pleased acceptance. 
 
 ^ ith an entire, an artless confidence she owned a mutual love, and with joy 
 anticipated the moment of happiness, when she was to become the bride of him 
 for whom alone life was valuable. 
 
 Each secret meeting more firmly linked her chains ; her very soul was 
 devoted to the stranger, whom, as yet, she knew not by any other title than the 
 simple name of Arnold. In a moment fatally destructive to her repose, when 
 love had blinded reason, and the artless character of Agatlia but too success¬ 
 fully aided the purposes of the stranger, he obtained not only complete posses¬ 
 sion ol her affections, but of her person also. 
 
 “ midnight, in the ruined chapel of Sir Edmund’s gloomy edifice, the 
 stranger had prevailed on the innocent Agatha to meet him, and ratify his 
 wishes. A monk of a distant convent waited in the cliapel, and the inauspici¬ 
 ous nuptials were performed, and Agatha became a bride, without knowing by 
 what title she must in future call herself. 
 
 “ Scarcely had three months of happiness and love passed over her head 
 when a storm, dreadful and unexpected, threatened for ever to annihilate the 
 bright prospect of felicity. The sudden arrival of a hasty messenger from the 
 knight alarmed the trembling Agatha ; and scarce had she perused the purport 
 of his arrival, than with a laint shriek, and stifled cry of agony, she fell to the 
 ground, and she feebly exclaimed— 
 
 “ ‘ Lost, undone, and wretched Agatha ! destruction and death await 
 thee!” ’ 
 
 “ Recovered by the tender assiduities of the stranger, she wildly bade him, 
 if still lie loved her, to protect and bear her from her stern father’s relentless 
 rage, and her lover’s detested arms. The stranger read the fatal paper that 
 contained the harsh mandate of his Agatha’s father ; his brow became con¬ 
 tracted, and his countenance overcast with apparent gloom and sorrow, as he 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 perused the unwelcome information of the knight’s arrival, on the morrow, at 
 his castle, to celebrate the nuptials of his daughter with the lord of Cutbbert, 
 who accompanied him. 
 
 “ For sometime a gloomy silence pervaded his lips, and Agatha vainly cast her 
 tearful imploring eyes for succour and protection on the stranger. At length start¬ 
 ing from a deep reverie, he caught her in his arms, as she was sinking to the 
 ground, overcome by terror and surprise, and kissing her cold and quivering lips, 
 bade her take comfort, and abide with patience the arrival of her sire ; adding, as 
 lie reluctantly tore himself from her feeble hold, for Agatha was now nearly 
 insensible, that in three weeks he would return, and openly claim her as his 
 wife, when the mystery that had so long enveloped in secrecy his name and 
 title, should be unravelled, and his adored Agatha be restored to splendour and 
 affluence. Again embracing her, he hurried precipitately from the place, and 
 
 Agatha—the ruined, hapless Agatha never saw him more!” 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here many lines became defaced, and Bertha, who felt herself uncommonly 
 interested in the fate of the once lovely Agatha, could not consent to quit its 
 perusal, though the lateness of the time had already been proclaimed by the 
 turret clock of the Abbey, whose melancholy heavy bell had struck the hour 
 of one. 
 
 At length, however, she was able to continue as follows:— 
 
 i( Ferocious rage filled the soul ot the gloomy knight, and darkened his 
 features, as prostrate at his feet lay, overwhelmed in grief and tears, the 
 imploring Agatha. 
 
 “ < Spare me!’ she cried, ‘ Oh sire ! spare your wretched child—she cannot 
 marry the lord of Cuthbertl’ ” 
 
 “ Fury flashed in the eyes of the stern Sir Edmund, on hearing these words 
 of his daughter; at length the burst of rage found vent; he seized the arm 
 of the trembling Agatha, and placing her hand forcibly in that of lord 
 Cuthbert’s, commanded her to prepare herself in three days, to become his 
 bride, or meet the curses of an angry father, and be driven from his sight 
 for ever. 
 
 “ Driven to despair, and now vainly calling on the mysterious stranger to 
 shield her from the direful fate that awaited her, the hapless Agatha wildly flew 
 to the gloomy wood of cypress, three weeks he had promised to reclaim her ; 
 but, alas! they had already expired, no stranger had appeared.—The fourth 
 week of his absence came—it passed away, but he came not;—and now 
 but three days remained between her and her hateful nuptials. Wildly she 
 wandered through the gloomy w ood, and vainly cast her eyes in hopeless anguish 
 all around her ; no stranger met her sight—lie came not to rescue his forlorn bride 
 from the rude grasp of impending misery and destruction. 
 
 “ Night came on ; yet she quitted not the solemn shades of the dreary grove, 
 The bell of midnight sounded ; she started at the melancholy toll, and fear and 
 awe possessed her sickening fancy. She hurried through the wood, and reached 
 in silence her chamber, but sleep visited not the wretched maid. 
 
 “Again, as the hour of suffering drew still nigher, she threw herself in 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY 
 
 supplication before the gloomy knight, and besought him to spare her but one 
 week longer, ere he linked her to misery and woe. 
 
 Meet lord Cuthbert,” cried her ruthless father, as he, with fury darting from 
 his eyes, seized the wretched maid, “ meet lord Cuthbert at the altar, ere the 
 oixth hour oi the early morrow has chimed upon the bell, or shun for ever the 
 presence of thy offended parent!” 
 
 Poor Agatha shrunk from the angry glances of the enraged knight; despair 
 and anguish seized her soul. The stranger never came ; Whither could she fly ? 
 How was she to avoid the choice of miseries that equally pursued her ? 
 
 “ Up° n the pillow of her tear-bedewed couch she vainly laid her head to seek 
 a momentary oblivion of her sorrows in repose. Something lay upon the pillow'; 
 she started up, and took her lamp to examine it—it was a paper curiously folded ; 
 —with fearful, trembling expectation she hastily opened the envelope, and read ;_ 
 
 ‘ The stranger guards his love and, though unseen, and yet forbidden to reclaim 
 his lovely bride, now watches over her safety, and awaits the precious moment 
 when he shall hasten on the wings of love to restore his Agatha to happiness and 
 liberty. If then she would preserve herself for her unknown friend, let her in¬ 
 stantly fly to the sanctuary of St. Moreton’s Monastery, where she may remain 
 in security, till demanded by her adoring 
 
 ‘Arnold.’ 
 
 No. 8. , 
 
58 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 “ The unhappy maid perused these fatal lines with unsuspecting belief and 
 
 joyful ecstacy, on the prospect of being restored to the unknown.” 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Here again several pages of the manuscript were totally obliterated; only a 
 line here and there, and a half finished sentence remained intelligible, by which 
 it appeared that Agatha, in compliance with the stranger’s mysterious warning, 
 had escaped at midnight from her father’s mansion, and taken refuge in the clois¬ 
 ters of St. Moreton.—The remaining papers thus went on. 
 
 ***** 
 
 “ The haughty Lady Abbess received the forlorn wanderer with cold civility, 
 
 and suspicious scrutiny. The unfortunate Agatha had, confided to the superior 
 
 her mournful tale, nor left one circumstance untold that might excite her pity, 
 
 save her marriage with the stranger.—Another month had glided heavily away at 
 
 the Abbey in secluded retirement, and yet he came not.” 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here another pause in the affecting narrative prevented the discovery of the 
 succeeding passages; The next paper she was at all able to make out, ran 
 thus;— 
 
 * * * / * * 
 
 “ The knight, with dreadful rage, discovered his daughter’s flight; but he 
 vainly sought again to restore her to his power;—he never saw her more, nor 
 knew the sad conclusion of the unhappy Agatha’s destiny ; who, deceived and 
 terrified by the threats, expostulations, and commands of the Lady Abbess, and 
 the Fathers Confessors of the Monastery, was at length betrayed into her own 
 destruction; for the merciless Abbess threatened to return her to her lord, and to 
 her father, if she longer refused to take the vow of a monastic life. 
 
 “ Despair and horror now seized the suffering victim of bigotry and paternal 
 tyranny. Another and another month elapsed, and hope no longer would support 
 her—the cruel stranger never came. At the gates of her prison, she was told, 
 waited her father and her rejected lover, with a powerful band to force her from 
 the Abbey into the arms of a hated husband. In a wild agony of terror, she 
 faintly bade them save her from her father’s pursuits. 
 
 “ That instant the sacred, irrevocable vow was administered, and all its bind¬ 
 ing forms complied with by the lost Agatha; who in her terror of her father, 
 had for a moment forgot her previous engagements with the stranger—forgot that 
 she must, in a little time, become perhaps a wretched mother, and now M as a 
 still more wretched Nun.” 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here again the papers were useless, and their lines completely in obscurity ; 
 but turning over the sides of some that yet remained whole, she continued to read 
 the following sentences;— 
 
 ***** 
 
 “ The Lord of Brandon Abbey M r as the patron of the monastery of St. More- 
 ton, whose great riches had long been the object of his rapacious Mushes. The 
 truly sumptuous style, and princely magnificence of the holy Fathers had given 
 cause of umbrage to the haughty Baron, and raised the censure and speculation 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 59 
 
 of the surrounding country ; nor were the pretended humility and sanctified solem¬ 
 nity of their outward manners, at all calculated to blind the eye of reason and 
 discernment to the real hypocrisy of their characters. 
 
 “ Long continued prosperity, had given to the holy Fathers of St. Moreton a 
 proud superiority over every occurrence in life ; and to the repeated and angry 
 demands of the baron of Brandon, that they should raise for him, as their patron, 
 a subsidy of ten thousand marks, and also acknowledge and pay the homage of 
 vassalage for the lands of the Abbey, which belonged to the domain of the same, 
 given to the Father’s of St. Moreton, as a superstitious expiation of some heinous 
 crimes he was reported to have committed. The Abbot, however, disdained 
 compliance. 
 
 “ The Baron, disregarding the vengeance of the church, forced himself within 
 the very gates of the Abbey, and suddenly appearing before the astonished com¬ 
 munity, he accused the members of the monastery with sacrilege and profanation ; 
 that since he well knew that one or more of the sisters had sullied her vow of 
 sanctity, he would expose the whole community to the world’s derision, nor cease 
 his vengeance till the ruin of the place was accomplished; concluding with say¬ 
 ing, as he indignantly retreated from the portal— 
 
 “ Look to it—look to it well; for, by the tremendous powers above, I swear 
 if, within three hours, you send me not thrice ten thousand marks, your house, 
 and all your shameless revelry and riots, shall undergo the terrible exposure and 
 punishment of your insolence and guilt.’ 
 
 “ The terror-struck community awhile stood aghast, and trembling with fearful 
 horror for the consequences of the vindictive Baron’s proceedings, hastily dis¬ 
 patched a Monk with ten thousand marks, to the implacable Baron, till the 
 Fathers could search into the truth of his dreaded calumny. # 
 
 “ He was prevailed upon to suspend his proceedings against the Abbey till 
 the succeeding morrow, whilst the holy sisterhood endured the most persecuting 
 examination from the Lady Abbess. No signs of guilt, however, were found ; 
 and the Fathers rejoicing in their expected security, were debating on an ample 
 defiance to the Baron, when news was brought that sister Agatha had fallen 
 senseless on the steps of the grand altar, and had been removed to her cell. 
 Thither the A bbess instantly hastened ; and as the insensible Nun lay still re¬ 
 clined on her mattress, her outer garment unlaced to admit of respiration, the 
 disfigurement of her person first forcibly struck the holy Mother with suspicion. 
 She started, frowned, then looked again; conviction flashed upon her eyes, she 
 commanded all to quit the cell, and send instantly the Father Abbot to her. 
 
 “ The Father hastily obeyed. The Lady Abbess, in silence, made him a 
 signal to shut the door, and pointing to the still inanimate Nun, she murmured 
 in a hollow voice— 
 
 “ Behold the guilty wretch that, with impious sacrilege, hath defiled our holy 
 sanctuary,—Say, holy Father, how must we dispose of the accursed apostate !’ 
 
 “ Before the Abbot could reply, the unfortunate Agatha awoke from the 
 counterfeit of death’s repose, and beheld the forms of her inveterate destroyers 
 the Abbot withal exclaimed— 
 
CO 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 4 What punishment can await that guilty wretch, who defiles our holy order ? 
 —Say, lost one of God, art thou not guilty V 
 
 “ Sinking on her knees, of every hope in life bereft, the unhappy Agatha 
 feebly exclaimed— 
 
 ‘ I am indeed !—Have mercy, Have mercy, holy Father, on my involuntary 
 crime !’ 
 
 “ S* ie then turned to the frowning Abbess, and piteously added, as she clung 
 around her knees— 
 
 ‘ Spare, Oh gracious Mother, spare a repentant daughter!’ 
 
 “ In the countenances of her judges poor Agatha read her fate; for against 
 the sacred order ol the sisterhood she had signed beyond atonement by any other 
 punishment than death—Vainly then she Jnelt, and clung to the robe of the 
 Abbess; she had slandered with sacrilege the purity of God’s anointed house. 
 
 “To dispose of the unfortunate nun, was now become an event absolutely 
 necessary to the safety and welfare of the order; the claims of mercy, or the 
 melting pleadings of pity were alike disregarded, she was born by the tormentors 
 from her cell to the dungeon of the south tower.” 
 
 Here Bertha, shuddered as the last sentence forcibly struck her; terrific ideas 
 now filled her soul, and she internally exclaimed— 
 
 “ That horrid dungeon then was, alas ! the witness of poor Agatha’s sufferings 
 and death. 
 
 “ At the hour of midnight they dragged the miserable victim from her cell, 
 and deep, in the horrific dungeons of the prison, plunged the distracted Nun;— 
 
 no pity deviated her misery, and in the centre of the place stood the coffin des¬ 
 tined for her. 
 
 Two days of lingering sufferings had passed, and the third was nearly closed. 
 Shut from life, and light, the pangs of hunger seized the frantic sufferer, and the 
 perils of premature childbirth writhed her anguished frame.—Shrieks of despair 
 rang tin ough the building,'and echoed to the vault of heaven. Hark ! inhuman 
 fiends, is mercy dead within you?—And thou too, remorseless betrayer of trust¬ 
 ing innocence, hear ye not yon soul-appalling shriek of her thy fatal love has des¬ 
 troyed ?—She curses thee, and imprecates Heaven’s just vengeance on thy per¬ 
 jured heart 1-Heaven hears the awful appeal-it will avenge thee, suffering 
 maid 1 Now sink to death appeased.—Again she shrieks—sure it is her last 1— 
 The holy sisterhood, appalled, fly wildly from the dreadful tower, but vainly 
 supplicate the mercy of their superiors for its dying inmate.-Nature is exhausted 
 and hark again the groans grow fainter!—Short breathed murmurs proclaim the 
 welcome dissolution of life 1 poor Agatha is at rest-her voice is heard no more ” 
 
 Bertha again shuddered; for now she doubted not that, in bringing away 
 these appalling documents of misery, she had touched the long-forgotten form, 
 whose shrinking dust had once inherited existence and animation, and alas! but 
 too much of sorrow and affliction for a fault so involuntary. But little of the 
 melancholy tale remained to be perused. Bertha, found little to interest her at¬ 
 tention, till towards their conclusion the following passage struck her, and she 
 thus proceeded:— 
 
 “ The vengeance of Heaven hung heavily over the conscience of the wicked 
 
MYSTERIES BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 61 
 
 Baron, he tried in the arms of sleep to lose the remembrance of his crimes, and 
 the terrible vengeance they inflicted on his guilty soul. 
 
 “ The sullen bell had tolled the hour of midnight ere he could compose his 
 mind to repose. On this night, however, unusual restlessness pervaded his frame; 
 at length a kind of unwilling stupor lulled for a moment his tortured spirits, and 
 he slept. Not long did the balmy deity await him ;—starting in horror, he wildly 
 raised himself, half-bent, on his couch, and drew aside its draperies. The 
 chamber was in total darkness, and every taper seemed suddenly to have been 
 extinguished (for the Baron of late had never slept without a blaze of light in 
 his chamber.) 
 
 “At that moment the heavy bell of the Abbey clock struck one ;—he in vain 
 attempted to call his attendants, but speech was denied him,—his blood ran cold 
 to its native source, his hair stood erect, and his.countenance was distorted ; for, 
 as his eyes turned wildly, he beheld, standing close to the side of his bed, the 
 pale figure of a female form, thinly clothed in the habiliments of a Nun, and 
 bearing in one hand a taper, whilst the other arm supported the ghastly form of 
 a dead infant reclining on her breast. The coimtenance of the figure was pale, 
 wan, and horrible to behold ; for from its motionless eyes no spark of life pro¬ 
 ceeded, but they were fixed in unmoving terrific expression on the appalled 
 Baron. At length a hollow sounding voice pronounced through the closed lips 
 of the spectre— 
 
 ‘ Oh false, false Arnold! accursed and rejected of thy maker! knowest thou 
 not the shadowy form that stands before thee ?—knowest thou not thy wretched 
 bride ?—seest thou not the murdered infant thou hast destroyed.—The spirit of 
 Agatha comes to call for vengeance and retribution; for know, the curses of 
 her latest moments, when wreathing beneath the agonies, the torments of death, 
 and devouring hunger, that she then called upon thy head, were heard, and 
 never shalt thou, guilty wretch ! enjoy one quiet moment more.—My mangled 
 form, as now thou seest me, and dreams for ever of affright and terror, shall 
 all haunt thy thoughts with horror ; nor shall the grave even rescue thee from 
 the tortures I await to inflict—Farewell—farewell till next we meet! In the 
 cypress grove, where first thy perjured soul won on my happy, unsuspecting 
 nature and drew my youthful heart from parental duty and obedience, there shall 
 thou again behold me!’ 
 
 “ Suddenly the eyes of the spectre became animated—Oh ! then what flashes 
 of appalling anger darted from their hollow orbits on the horror-struck Arnold ; 
 three dreadful shrieks rung pealing though the chamber, now filled with a blaze 
 of sulphureous light;—the spectre suddenly became invisible, and the Baron fell 
 senseless on the couch.” 
 
 Here Bertha threw down the papers in fearful expectation of she knew not what; 
 precipitately casting off her dress, she hurried into bed, as the Abbey clock struck 
 three, and covering herself completely with clothes, tried to lose in sleep the 
 dreadful picture her fancy had created; nor was it long before a sweet slumber 
 overtook her agitated spirits, which not even the horrors of the tale could prevent 
 the soft visions of delight from visiting her dreams, in the pleasing form of Alfred. 
 
 These sweet delusions of visionary slumbers had held their influence over the 
 
62 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 senses of Bertha for some hours after the sun had shed his powerful beams on 
 the earth ; pleased with her dreams, she sprung from her couch with the lightness 
 of unburthened youthful expectation. Her every feature was indeed a rich per¬ 
 fection of irresistible loveliness, that involuntary claimed superior homage and 
 adoration. 
 
 Her delighted parent beheld her, as she this morning entered the sitting-room, 
 with emotion of mixed pain and pleasure ; he sighed inwardly as he reflected that 
 this all-fascinating creature might shortly be deprived of her only protector; it 
 was now for the first time that these reflections convinced him of the ill conse¬ 
 quences that might ensue from so long secluding his Bertha from the world, and 
 resolved no longer to refuse the earnest and pressing entreaties of the Countess of 
 Etherwold for her removal to the castle. 
 
 The morning’s repast had scarcely ended, when, Bertha beheld the stranger 
 approach; she pointed him out to her father, whilst an additional glow spread 
 over her lovely features. 
 
 Lord Alfred entered; and the morning salutations being ended, they conversed 
 with that freedom that marks so amply the character of politeness and good 
 breeding. 
 
 Sir Godfrey in the mind of his guest found every emblem of a noble nature, 
 and a superior excellence of heart and understanding; they parted mutually 
 pleased, and mutually regretting each other. 
 
 Days and even weeks passed in calm, unruffled serenity at the Abbey, though 
 not without a constant daily visit from Alfred ; who, indeed had felt the advances 
 of a first love, and now drank deeply of its sweet intoxication. The Abbey 
 became almost a second home; and Sir Godfrey, pleased with the society of a 
 being so every way deserving, became less reserved: and though he never ob¬ 
 served the evident brilliancy that sparkled in the eyes of Alfred at the approach 
 of his daughter, he became so much accustomed to his daily visits, that he even 
 experienced a disappointment if he came not as usual, though no inducement 
 could prevail on himself to pass the forest boundary: and Alfred need but little 
 persuasion to renew the sight of beings that now made the greatest part of his 
 present happiness. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LORD ALFRED was at this period near the age of nineteen. Within the castle 
 lately resided the rich heiress of the earl of Clandale ; her father, recently de¬ 
 ceased, had been by inheritance a baron of the realm; but, having rendered 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 63 
 
 great service to the house of York, in one of those dreadful contentions between 
 the rival princes, he had been dignified with the superior title and possessions of 
 an earldom. He lived, however, but a very short time to enjoy this splendid ac¬ 
 quisition. 
 
 The lord of Wilden and Etherwold was the bosom friend of the earl of Clan- 
 dale ; to him the latter bequeathed the guardianship of his daughter and her 
 great fortunes ; which, by his will, were vested solely in Isabella, on condition 
 she espoused one of the baron’s sons. To this scheme the baron of Wilden 
 readily gave his sanction;—he was indeed anxious for its conclusion, and had 
 long prepared the mind of Harrold for the splendid fortune that awaited him 
 in an union with an heiress of such unbounded wealth as Isabella of Clandale. 
 
 Isabella was introduced to the baroness by no other title than that of Countess 
 of Clandale. The lady Isabella was extremely young; but from the majestic 
 height and fine proportion of her person, carried that womanly appearance that 
 might deceive the most minute scrutiny, and make the observer conclude her at 
 least four years older than she really was. There was a degree of hauteur 
 strongly expressive in her countenance, whilst the firmness of her movements 
 seemed to bear the emblems of a mind conscious of its ow r n superiority, the dif¬ 
 fident mind would tremble at their glances, and even the bold yield to the res¬ 
 traint she had power to enforce. Her manners were a counterpart with her ap¬ 
 pearance—sometimes arrogant, unbending, and commanding ; but when she had 
 any particular whim she wished gratified, she knew how to assume the softest 
 persuasive looks, and the most insinuating method of address. 
 
 Harrold had never seen the rich heiress till the death of her father introduced 
 her to the castle. He well knew his father’s designs; the possession of such a 
 splendid title as Isabella confer, seemed to gratify even his ambition, and which, 
 by the death of the earl of Clandale, he was in a fair way of attaining. But he 
 was here again, as on a former occasion, doomed to disappointment, at least dif¬ 
 ficulty, from the excessive pride of the young Countess, who, sensible of the dig¬ 
 nity of her birth and fortune, seemed to expect more submission and homage 
 than suited the disposition of his mind to stoop to, even as a lover. Yet he re¬ 
 flected the prize, once obtained, was worth the sacrifice, and to dissemble an 
 honourable regard, was to him a task no way afflictive. Thus denied, he assumed 
 the character of a lover the most passionate and tender, but received only looks 
 of coldness, disapprobation, and refusal in return; whilst on the insensible Alfred 
 were lavished those speaking glances which Harrold vainly hoped to excite. 
 
 A bred, knowing that the lady Isabella of Clandale was the destined bride of 
 his brother, had never in the least entered into the character and actions of the 
 young countess;—unconscious of the M ound he had made in her heart, and little 
 dreaming of the storm that hung over his hopes and M'ishes, he still continued 
 his visits to the Abbey. 
 
 Unsuspicious of a conquest so little desired, he had subdued the proud heart of 
 Isabella ; and a passion, sudden as unconquerable, took possession of her senses. 
 His gallant form and manly features fascinated her eyes, and the excellent and 
 rare perfections of his mind rivitted the chain in fetters of adament; and she 
 yielded resistless to the power of almighty love. 
 
01 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 Isabella, the proud, imperious Isabella, was in turn subdued, of her passion 
 nor did she fear a refusal whenever she could reveal, at the Baron’s command, 
 the choice she had made; neither did her vanity ever suffer her to suppose that, 
 on the part of Alfred, she should meet with any opposition to her wishes.—That 
 Alfred never addressed her in the semblance of love, she attributed to his sup¬ 
 position of the union that had been planned between herself and his brother, to 
 whom she neither behaved with encouragement, nor absolutely rejected his suit; 
 but rather submitted to his importunities from vanity, than a serious intention to 
 listen to them with attention or respect. 
 
 But to the great penetration of Harrold, this conduct, and its cause, could not 
 long remain undiscovered ; he saw his hopes of greatness sink for ever beneath 
 the more fortunate power of a rival brother, and he cursed his fate—imprecated 
 maledictions, dreadful and dangerous, on the unsuspecting Alfred. His dark 
 featured countenance became clouded and gloomy, expressing too legibly the 
 secrets of a heart that was distorted by contending passions, rendering life itself 
 an almost insupportable burthen. 
 
 Alfred one evening entering the Abbey, and finding Bertha equipped for their 
 usual evening’s ramble, they pursued their walk down the western avenue ; and 
 Sir Godfrey being too much indisposed to accompany them, Bertha went not un¬ 
 attended, but was followed at a distance by her favourite Ruth. 
 
 Whether it was the rich glow of the setting sun that shone full on his charm¬ 
 ing companion, the azure of her expressive ey^; or whether Bertha was this 
 evening more lovely or more animated than usual, is difficult to determine: but 
 Alfred viewed her, as her light graceful form moved with native elegance—with 
 silent rapture his eyes became so bent upon her sweet countenance, that Bertha 
 she knew not why, felt her face crimson with an unusual glow, especially as 
 Alfred, softly taking her hand, and still with the fascinated gaze of respectful 
 love fixed on her innocent countenance, thus asked, with the most insinuating 
 emphasis of tone and manner— 
 
 “ Has the lady Bertha never felt the soft emotions of love; or is her heart 
 totally insensible to its painfully pleasing sensations ?” 
 
 Alfred sighed deeply as he waited, with eager attention, for a reply ; when 
 Bertha, not knowing what she did or said, unconsciously raised her speaking 
 eyes to the face of Alfred, and their encountering looks scarce needed any other 
 translation of their hearts: but in a moment the lovely girl’s sunk in increased 
 confusion; whilst Alfred, half-doubting, half-certain of his happiness, remained 
 silent , unable to break the confusion of both, his heart one moment rising in hope 
 and ecstacy, and sinking again in tumultuous dread and apprehension ;—at length 
 however, he again repeated, as he pressed'the hand of Bertha to his lips, which 
 she attempted not to withdraw— 
 
 “ Am I then, from this silence, to conclude that my gentle companion is free 
 from the passion of love ; or does she delight in witnessing the sufferings of a 
 lover unrequited?” 
 
 “ I love my father!” hastily replied Bertha, in a soft, low, hesitating tone of 
 voice. 
 
 “ Ah!” quickly interrupted Alfred, but a heart so tender as your’s, charming 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 Bertha, cannot remain unsusceptible of other 
 affections than parental love;—there is a 
 refined, an honourable passion, which heaven 
 has ordained to be the happiness and reward 
 of_earthly goodness—such a passion as I at 
 this moment endure m all its purifybut 
 the object of my adoration is insensible to 
 my unalterable devotion, and I tremble 
 lest the temerity of this confession should be 
 dentil nf iu- , . disapproved and rejected. Forgive the sud- 
 
 7. ’ . ' 1S a,5m P t disclosure of a passion, lasting as life, and pure as your 
 
 om n t oug its when they ascend to the throne of Heaven. Say that I am not the 
 
 o ject o jour aversion ; or, if that be too much in me to ask, Oh ! drive me not 
 ,0 despair by saying that you hate me !” 
 
 Ahred hadsunkonhis knees during this speech, whilst he still retained the 
 ld “ a of Bertha > wllich indeed she had not recollection to withdraw. 
 
 Bertha, though disconcerted by this unexpected confession, found she had no 
 
 a ei native but an absolute necessity to make a suitable answer, such as the feelings 
 of her heart should dictate. 
 
 M\ Lord Alfred,” she replied “ can never be an object of hatred or indiffer¬ 
 ence to the heart of Bertha, when she recollects the generous services he performed 
 J>o. 9 . „ * 
 
66 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 in her rescue from inevitable destruction.—He must now be satisfied with the as¬ 
 surance that lie can ifever be disregarded by the grateful Bertha and her father. 
 
 Alfred listened with eager attention to this speech, which he felt somewhat ai 
 a loss how to translate; it was no acknowledgment—no declaration of a mutual 
 regard, and only dictated from the emotions ot a heart grateful for such trifling 
 aid as he had been fortunate enough to afford her. He would have felt hurt, nay 
 almost certain that his passion was at present hopeless, did not the increasing con¬ 
 fusion of her manner, for Bertha trembled, and feared indeed she had expressed 
 too much, strike conviction to his heart of the concealed meaning of her words, 
 such as his wishes would have anticipated; and catching both her hands, with all 
 the ardour of an accepted lover, he pressed them to his lips as he still remained 
 kneeling before her ; from which position no entreaties ot Bertha could induce 
 him to rise, tiU an unwelcome voice from among the trees, repeating his name, at 
 no great distance, in an instant dissolved the ecstatic charm, and rising hastily, he 
 cast up his eyes, and, in evident vexation, beheld the lady Isabella and Harroid, 
 who stood, with looks of anger and wonder, a witness of the sceqe that had 
 passed. 
 
 Good evening to my lord Alfred,” said the Countess, with a sarcastic tone ot 
 voice, “ the romantic glooms of the forest are certainly very inviting; and your 
 lordship can never be at a loss for amusement whilst they contain such bewitching 
 attractions.” 
 
 Pride, spleen and disappointment had dictated this speech, and Bertha, the 
 most innocent and guileless of Heaven’s earthly creatures, now felt as if over¬ 
 whelmed with shame, and that in the late transaction she had, in listening to the 
 confession of Alfred, committed some heinous trespass, for which the malicious 
 speech of Isabella was but a just punishment. 
 
 Ruth at this moment appearing, she threw herself into her arms, and turned 
 towards the Abbey; but was unable to proceed, from a sudden faintness that 
 seized her spirits, and rendered her motionless, though not insensible. 
 
 Lady Isabella’s passion mastered her reason. A sight, so blasting to the hopes, 
 so unequivocally confirming the impossibility of their gratification, chilled her 
 heart with despair, and roused all the bitter effects of a jealous mind to rage and 
 resentment. With a smile of exquisite contempt, she added— 
 
 c< But I beg forgiveness for my intrusion, which I see has unfortunately inter¬ 
 rupted the harmony of your reciprocal meeting, favour me my lord Harroid with 
 your support, and let us retire from a scene where our society was so little desired 
 and our intrusion so ill-timed.” 
 
 She was departing, when Alfred, with a degree of anger and resentment, 
 exclaimed— 
 
 “ Stop one moment, lady Isabella, and allow me to convince you that your sus¬ 
 picions, to this lady’s prejudice, are as cruel as unfounded ; nor is she a being 
 whose humility of birth would sanction the freedom of your ladyship’s right to 
 scrutinize imperiously her actions, who, in nobility of descent, is little inferior to 
 yourself; the father of lady Bertha is Sir Godfrey Brandon, the well known 
 friend of the Countess of Etherwold.—As my father’s ward, and the betrothed 
 of my lord and brother, you are entitled to my respect; but when the Countess of 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 67 
 
 Clandale stoops to forget herself, and injuriously insults an innocent lady, she 
 should be reminded that she has forfeited all her claims to that politeness and 
 respect she would otherwise be entitled to command.” 
 
 Alfred, shocked at the anguish which this rude intrusion had occasioned in 
 the timed and delicate mind of Bertha, had answered with that degree of resent¬ 
 ment which he could not overcome, he took the arm of Bertha within his own, and 
 gently led her forward. 
 
 Isabella, as Bertha disappeared, started as if some sudden recollection had 
 crossed her thoughts, which in a moment seemed to agitate her with an unknown 
 source of inward meditations ; and uttering something like inward, though indis¬ 
 tinct threatening^, be nt her way towards the castle. 
 
 Harrold seemed not without his internal meditations on the foregoing scene ; 
 and though he had been only a mute observer, his eyes were too deeply engaged 
 on the admirable perfections of Bertha, to render him any other than an inactive 
 spectator. He had seen, for the first time, the surpassing loveliness of Bertha, 
 he envied the more fortunate Alfred, who had first discovered this hidden treasure, 
 and engrossed it so entirely. In a moment the dark project of revenge was 
 formed in his mind ; he aimed at no less than depriving his brother of all that he 
 held most dear, and he expected to ruin him for ever in his father’s love and good 
 opinion, to defeat the growing love of Isabella, who would then gladly accept of 
 himself, and in the end, reward him with the possession of a creature, whose 
 beauties had already excited a flame as impossible to overcome, as it was dan¬ 
 gerous to its object. 
 
 Bertha, the innocent, unconscious Bertha, now felt herself a new-created 
 being ; she rather flew than hastened through the forest, and, for the first time, 
 the voice of Alfred failed in its power to charm her attention. The scene was 
 changed; she who never had received the slightest breath of reproach, was now 
 unable to subdue the agitations of her wounded feelings, and the tender assiduities 
 of Alfred to re-assure her to self-confidence and esteem, were in vain : she silently 
 listened to his arguments, but felt too deeply shocked at the late scene to be able 
 to make any answer. 
 
 Arrived at the Abbey gates, she bade him, in faltering accents, adieu ; and en¬ 
 tering the hall, stopped not till she found herself in her own chamber, where, 
 throwing herself on a couch, she gave vent to a violent flood of tears. 
 
 Dejected and unhappy, she began a review of the late transactions, and severely 
 took herself to task for her want of fortitude in not repelling the confession of 
 Alfred. She now resolved that no event in future, should make her forget the 
 respect due to her own character, or expose her again to the effects of a concealed 
 regard. 
 
 “ Till this moment,” sighed she, as she prepared to resign herself to repose, 
 
 Till this moment, I never conceived that harm could be attached to an intimacy, 
 which, however, innocent in itself, is wrong when indulged at the expense of 
 worldly opinions.—Oh Alfred! noble, beloved—yes, my beloved friend! in whom 
 I have experienced a brother’s chaste affection, we must meet no more—no more 
 renew r those pleasing employments that together we have partaken. 
 
 Alfred had no sooner entered the castle than he received a summons to attend 
 his father in the library. 
 
cs 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 “ Alfred,” said the baron, rising, “ I have sent for you for the purpose of in¬ 
 forming myself truly of some idle reports that fame has been busy in raising to 
 your disadvantage. It is said, my lord, that you have of late bestowed not only 
 your time, but your regard on the charms of a rustic forester ; now, as these are 
 tales I cannot well credit the truth of, I desire to hear a positive affirmation or 
 denial from yourself alone, on whose honour I rely, that so I may judge how best 
 to refute the calumnies of your enemies, and to restore the lustre of your good 
 name.” 
 
 “ My lord,” replied Alfred firmly, determined to pretend ignorance of the 
 baron’s informer, “ whoever may be the persons to deprive me of your good 
 opinion, I can assure you the calumny is unfounded ; and let me also conjure you 
 my lord, to rely on the honour of your son, w ho will never form any connection 
 but such as sanctioned by your approbation.” 
 
 “ There is no necessity, my lord, for these assurances ; I meant only to caution 
 your heart, lest it becomes too fascinated to a present object, to permit the recep- 
 tion of another, who may lay claim to your good w ill and acceptance.—But no 
 more of this ; the baroness and lady Isabella wait our presence.” 
 
 So saying, he took the arm of the wondering Alfred, and led him to the ban-* 
 (jjiet hall, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE warlike state of England, soon after this period, again renewed her bloody 
 battles; again the intrepid Margaret, queen of Henry VI., had conquered the 
 bold aspiring York, and driven him from his short-lived seat of greatness, to rein¬ 
 state her consort on the throne of his fathers. 
 
 The general disaffection of the barons of the realm called for the strongest vigi¬ 
 lance ; and Margaret more particularly fixed her eye upon the suspected conduct 
 of Egbert whose crafty policy she was too well aware of; nor could the utmost 
 management of Egbert avoid the threatened blow, for Margaret had placed her 
 spies over the actions of the Baron, and by their means, had obtained timely inti¬ 
 mation of his secret commerce with the enemy. 
 
 Henry the VI., king of England, but little regardful of the gloomy state of his 
 tottering power, devoted himself to the pleasures of a private and retired life, and 
 without a sigh he quitted the busy trappings of regal pomp and greatness, to the 
 guidance ot his more spirited and enterprising consort. * 
 
 It w r as from this period that the strong towers of Etherwold began to assume a 
 very different, aspect. It was nearly situated to the seat of war, and once more 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 6a 
 
 its large courts and lofty battlements echoed to the sounds of martial warfare ; 
 again the armed sentinel paced the ramparts, the watch-posts were stationed in 
 the highest turrets, and the castle again assumed the formidable appearance of 
 resistance ; its numerous retainers, and those of Wilden, filled its wards, and ac¬ 
 coutred in armour, prepared under their chiefs, the baron and Harrold, to rush to 
 the field of bloody contention. 
 
 Alfred alone remained inactive; the baron had endeavoured to enlist him in the 
 cause of York : but Alfred nobly replied, that though he would ever pay a son’s 
 obedience to his commands, yet, his honour forbade his engaging in opposition to 
 Henry, to whom his allegiance had been guaranteed by the baroness. 
 
 With an army of almost fifteen hundred retainers and vassals, the baron and 
 Harrold quitted the castle for the field of battle ; and joining the forces of Richard 
 of Y r ork, his arrival was welcomed with triumphal shouts by that politic prince. 
 
 The castle was left with a sufficient guard to support it against a siege; the 
 fears of which, were banished by the first battle, in which the York party had 
 been compelled to remove their camp to a more distant quarter. 
 
 It was some few evenings following that in which Bertha had received so deep 
 an humiliation in the forest, that as she sat at the casement of the saloon, she 
 observed a horseman galloping furiously towards the Abbey. Alarmed at a 
 sight so unusual, she pointed to her father the object. 
 
 Sir Godfrey advanced to the window', as the stranger entered through the arch 
 of the great gates ; and starting, wildly exclaimed— 
 
 “ Great God ! what means this unexpected visit ?—Am I at length free ; or 
 is there yet an increase of misery in store for the wretched Godfrey ?” 
 
 Bertha, w'ith amazement, viewed the contending emotions that shook the frame 
 of Sir Godfrey ; she arose alarmed from her seat, and tenderly taking his hand, 
 said— 
 
 “ My father, why are you thus distressed—why thus agitated!—Oh ! wdiy has 
 fate denied me the blessing of parental confidence ?—why is this dreaded—this 
 hidden misery shut within your ow r n bosom solely, and your Bertha, your only 
 cliild, excluded from participating in an evil she might lighten, at least sooth with 
 sympathy if not entirely eradicate.” 
 
 Sir Godfrey fixed his eyes alternatively upon the door, w ith impatient expecta¬ 
 tion of the entrance of the stranger, and angrily on Bertha. At length he said 
 with a sternness that cut her to the very soul— 
 
 “ Bertha, have I not often cautioned you never to enquire into the secret cause 
 of my actions ? Rest satisfied, your father has too deep a motive for that expres¬ 
 sive sorrow which I perceive you have observed. I would shelter you from its 
 effects—but, as you value my blessing or displeasure, never, repeat a question that 
 I am for ever silent upon.”—The door at that moment opened, and a tall figure, 
 habited in black, and his person concealed by a long cloak of the same, entered 
 the chamber .—“ Retire,” continued Sir Godfrey, “ l have some private concerns 
 that demand your absence.”—The tear stood in the eye of Bertha, who felt her 
 heart quite subdued by this unusual severity. It was observed by Sir Godfrey, w ho, 
 felt that he had spoken unkindly ; and now softening his features, took her hand 
 with tenderness, that in a moment cheered the drooping Bertha, and silently lead- 
 
70 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 ing her to the door, kissed her cheek as he closed it upon her; and Bertha, with 
 infinite amazement, heard the door bolted strongly within. Alarmed, and not 
 knowing w r hat to think, she stood listening to the sounds of their voices, which, 
 however, sunk so low as not to be heard, and in an instant all was total silence. 
 
 In any other situation Bertha would have severely upbraided herself for such 
 an act of meanness; she could not help thinking that this was the person who 
 had so long been the cause of his unhappiness. Impressed with this apprehen¬ 
 sion, she placed her eye to the chink of a broken pannel in the door, and heard 
 Sir Godfrey exclaim, “ Follow me!” and in an instant after, she saw him open 
 a small space in the wainscot, through which he entered a dark and empty void, 
 and was followed by the stranger with a lighted taper, who no sooner had passed 
 the entry, than the pannel slid again into its former position. 
 
 Astonishment now succeeded alarm, and her fears of danger to Sir Godfrey 
 gave place to 'other concerns of equal importance. She entered her chamber ; 
 and seating herself in the recess of the turret-window, continued for a length of 
 time to ruminate on the many occurrences that had lately followed in such quick 
 succession. t 
 
 She continued watching the moon, as it rose in unclouded majesty over the dark 
 woods of the forest. More than two hours had elapsed, during which time she 
 continued to remain at the casement, her impatience once more to behold her 
 father, prompted her to rise from her chair, with a design to enter the saloon, when 
 the door was thrown violently open, and Ruth flew into the chamber. The fears 
 of Bertha had but one object, and she eagerly demanded— 
 
 “ "Where is my father? where is Sir Godfrey?—Speak, Ruth, for heaven’s 
 sake, speak the occasion of this uncommon alarm!” / 
 
 “ Oh my lady ! pardon my boldness, but I am almost beside myself with joy.” 
 
 “ But from what cause ?” impatiently demanded Bertha. 
 
 “ Why please you, my lady, there’s a fine to do in the Abbey, occasioned by 
 the arrival of this stranger. My lord has sent me to your ladyship, to desire you 
 will attend him instantly. Oswell is gone to the castle, and my master has given 
 orders to quit the Abbey once more.” 
 
 “ Quit the Abbey!” repeated the lady Bertha, “ I fear, Ruth, your senses are 
 unsettled, as your language and meaning are incoherent and mistaken.” 
 
 “ Mistaken!” replied Ruth, “ nay then, my lady, if you will not believe me, 
 my lord will convince you. He has been giving commands, that all should be 
 ready for departure by midnight.” 
 
 “ Gracious heaven !” exclaimed Bertha, “ to what do these mysterious circum¬ 
 stances relate ?” 
 
 Ruth was endeavouring to explain them ; but Bertha was quickly out of hear¬ 
 ing, and had already reached the door of the saloon her heart beat with un¬ 
 usual emotion, and entering gently, perceived her father alone. 
 
 He was pacing, with quick and hurried steps, the length of the apartment. 
 With the noise of the opening door, Sir Godfrey was roused from his meditations, 
 and raising his eyes they encountered those of Bertha. With a look full of ten¬ 
 derness as she approached, he threw his arms around her, and embraced her with 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 71 
 
 an excess of parental affection and tears, impossible to restrain, fell upon the 
 neck of Bertha, at length he exclaimed— 
 
 “ Bertha, I leave the Abbey this night.” 
 
 “This night, my lord!” repeated Bertha; then after a pause of momentary 
 regret, “ I am ready, mv father, this instant to attend you.” 
 
 “Never, my child, must we pass this forest together!” replied Sir Godfrey, 
 “ you must remain here ; for your own safety alone depends on our present separ¬ 
 ation. Grieve not, my Bertha, the evils that part us are but temporary, and, 
 should I live to return, all these mysterious woes will cease to be.” 
 
 “ Remain here!” feebly ejaculated Bertha,Oh! no, no, you cannot, shall 
 not refuse me to accompany you!—My father loves me too well to deny this only 
 request of his child.” 
 
 “ Bertha,” interrupted Sir Godfrey, “you know how much dearer to me are 
 your security and happiness than my own existence.—You have too often remarked 
 the secret misery that lias so long disturbed my repose, and I have before forbade 
 your enquiry into those sorrows. Should the indispensible cause that calls me from 
 the Abbey, prove fortunate to my wish, I may yet again be restored to those 
 serene enjoyments that I had for ever despaired of recovering in this life ;—I leave 
 you to the protection of strangers, it is true; but remember that Elvina of Ether- 
 wold is your father’s dearest, only living friend, and beneath her fostering roof 
 will my Bertha find security till her father returns.” 
 
 “ Since I am deprived of the dear privilege of attending my father,—without 
 his loved society, all places are alike to me, why may I not be indulged in the 
 only remaining wish left me, by still continuing to inhabit the Abbey till his 
 return V’ 
 
 “ That must not be, my child !” replied Sir Godfrey,—“ that I shall deeply 
 feel the loss of your society, heaven knows is a deprivation I am ill able to combat, 
 with; but I submit to the decrees of destiny.” 
 
 The Abbey clock tolled the dreadful hour of parting, and a deathly sickness 
 almost rendered her insensible, when Bertha beheld the entrance of Oswell, who 
 came to inform his lord that all was ready for departure. 
 
 Sir Godfrey silently waved his hand, and Oswell instantly closed the door. 
 
 Bertha started from her seat in the wild transport of despair, she approached 
 her father, and fell suddenly on her knees before him. 
 
 “ My father!” she exclaimed, trying to stifle the sob that rent her heart, “ my 
 dear, my only parent, Oh! do not leave me for ever!—You are my all—the only 
 being on earth 1 ever loved—I have no other friend existing if you desert me !— 
 A dreadful presentiment fills my mind that I see you for the last time, and never, 
 no never shall my eyes again behold you living, if I do not attend you on this ex¬ 
 pedition.—I will be what you would have me, and endeavour to teach my heart 
 the only lesson difficult from you to learn—submission to this dreadful necessity.” 
 
 “ Do not wrong me, my love,” replied Sir Godfrey, pressing his Bertha to his 
 heart, “ by supposing that I am less grieved than yourself at the bitterness of 
 our separation.—It is the first you have ever known, and its suddenness increases 
 the sorrow you feel;—but moderate these transports of grief, and learn, if possible 
 to subdue such afflictive feelings entirely. The baroness is prepared to receive 
 
72 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 you, that will for a short time, compensate for my absence. A month, or si* 
 weeks are the utmost limits of my stay ; and at the end of that period, I shall 
 again enfold you my child.” 
 
 “ The time is precious,” he hastily exclaimed, “ and one hour lost may des¬ 
 troy all hope for ever ; not only depriving my Bertha ot her birthright, but even 
 this last retreat may be rudely torn from her inheritance*—Should I, Bertha, be 
 restored to those possessions that villany has deprived me of, you shall then know 
 the unhappy story of my woes ; but if I return not at the stated period, this key, 
 which I will send by Oswell, unlocks the cabinet that stands in my private closet, 
 where you will find the documents of your birthright, and such other papers as 
 will insure your welfare.—Adieu, my child! Providence, whose peculiar care is 
 ever over the innocent and the defenceless, will not leave you unprotected 
 Angels guard thee!” 
 
 Sir Godfrey impressed a fervent kiss upon the pale quivering lips of his suffering 
 daughter, and gently placing her in the arms of her attendant, vaulted on his 
 saddle, and, with the speed of lightning, darted down the avenue, and was in an 
 instant beyond the sight or hearing of the unhappy Bertha ; who, uttering only 
 a faint sigh, fell senseless into the arms of Ruth, and was borne to her own 
 apartments. 
 
 Bertha, by the united care of her people, once more opened her eyes ; and when 
 again restored to sensation, beheld the good old Adam, who, bending low his 
 venerable head, thus addressed her— 
 
 “ The ways of providence are wise and unsearchable. My lqrd’s departure 
 from the Abbey being so sudden, is, a yery heavy grievance to you, and to all your 
 poor people ; but, as he will soon return, I hope you will let that remembrance 
 cheer you for the grief of his absence.” 
 
 It was now about the dawn of morning, and Bertha tried to compose her agi¬ 
 tated spirits to repose ; but the restless state of her mind admitted not of sleep, 
 and she continued in a lethargy of sorrow and regret. A long train of reflections 
 and conjectures started on her fancy as she recalled the past, and deeply ruminated 
 on the future. Dejected, forlorn, and miserable, she threw herself on her couch ; 
 and at one moment was tempted to accuse Sir Godfrey of cruelty; till remember¬ 
 ing that he was himself the victim of sorrow and oppression—“ Ah! no, I wrong 
 my noble father,” she sighed forth ; “ he loves me too well needlessly to desert, 
 me. Some unknown cause of deeper consequence than I have power to fathom, 
 alone has impelled me to this regretted expedient.” 
 
 The first day passed away in tears ,—“ In a month,” she frequently repeated, 
 “ my dear father will return.”—The thought had a balmy influence over her mind ; 
 and she never once permitted herself to think, or even imagine, how many circum-* 
 stances might intervene to delay his arrival on the appointed day. 
 
 Whilst busied in these reflections, a courier from the castle arrived at the 
 Abbey with dispatches; and Bertha, breaking their seals, read as follows ; 
 
 “ The baroness of Etherwold waits with the tenderest impatience to embrace 
 the lovely daughter of her friend Sir Godfrey Brandon; and entreats the ladv 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 73 
 
 Bertha will no longer defer her anxiously desired visit. Elvina would herself 
 joyfully have escorted her lovely ward from the Abbey, but is prevented bv the 
 sudden arrival and departure of the Baron. She trusts her young friend will 
 honour the castle with her presence ere the decline of day. 
 
 “ ELVINA ETHERWOLD.” 
 
 “Ah!” sighed Bertha, how gladly would I remain in this dear, venerated 
 spot, were it permitted. 
 
 As if she was parting for ever from a home that had long been dear to her, 
 Bertha took a melancholy walk throughout the Abbey, and to each well-known 
 spot dear to memory; with the sorrow she felt at quitting their beloved haunts 
 was mixed a kind of wonder at the strangeness of so sudden and unexpected a 
 removal* Lastly, she visited the forest and the gardens, and all the plants that 
 had been set by her own, and tiie hand of Alfred. 
 
 Exerting her fortitude, she entered the saloon, in hopes her regret would sub¬ 
 side when removed from these objects of her care and regard. But there stood 
 another group that more powerfully claimed her attention ; among the foremost 
 of the household were Adam and Mabel. 
 
 “ And will you indeed leave us, my lady?” sobbed forth the latter, affected 
 to tears. 
 
 “ ’Tis my father’s command, my good Mabel, that I should remain at the 
 castle during his absence,” replied Bertha. “ But hear is employment for you 
 
 No. 10. 
 
 L 
 
74 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 while I am away,” giving; the latter a heavy purse. “ You know what I mean ; 
 don’t forget toy poor old friends, nor forget my little favourites !” 
 
 “ That I’ll be sworn she won’t, my dear lady,” replied Adam. But pardon 
 your old steward’s freedom,” he continued “ the world will talk, and many 
 strange reports hath it given out to my lord’s prejudice, which it does not become 
 me to relate ;—I could reveal much, but durst not ; ’tis as well I say, my lady, 
 be on your guard against an evil hour !” 
 
 Bertha silently gave her hand to Adam, which the old gentleman respectfully 
 bowing upon, gently again resigned. She entered the covered car that waited 
 to convey her to the castle, and taking one last agonizing look at the Abbey, 
 bade Adrian proceed. 
 
 The sun had set ere they arrived in sight ol the castle. Bertha viewed its 
 lofty battlements and ponderous black towers with a kind of inward dread she 
 was unable to account for: a thousand fears and doubts agitated her thoughts, 
 and, with bitter regret, she wept the hard necessity that had left her no choice, 
 of residence but this. 
 
 As the carriage passed through the courts, and arrived at the great gates of 
 the castle hall, she beheld lord Alfred awaiting beneath the outward corridor 
 her approach. A soft heaving agitated her bosom, and her heart, seemed in¬ 
 clined to leap from its prison ; Alfred, with rapturous joy, welcomed her arrival 
 to the castle to the apartments of the lady Elvina, he again softly whispered— 
 “ Welcome, angelic Bertha, thrice welcome to Etherwold ! Oh may its towers 
 long possess so fair an inmate! 
 
 The opening of a pair of magnificently gilt folding doors saved her from fur¬ 
 ther restraint; and Bertha, for the first time, saw the baroness, in whose open 
 majestic countenance she felt many of her fears vanish, for the lady Elvina, with 
 looks that spoke the sincerity of her possessions, threw her arms around her 
 with all the warmth of regard and friendship thus said— 
 
 “Welcome, most welcome, lovely Bertha! believe me, charming lady, though 
 I sympathize with yourself in the deprivation you have sustained by the absence 
 of Sir Godfrey, I am so selfish as to wish it prolonged, since it will afford me 
 the long-desired gratification of his daughter’s society, whom, I shall love as 
 much as if nature had given me a prior claim to her heart and affections. 
 
 Bertha gratefully returned the friendly pressure said— 
 
 “ You alone, dearest lady, can teach me how to express, as 1 ought, my thanks 
 for a reception, I fear, so unmerited friendly.” 
 
 Bertha, cast her eyes around, and trembled as she, for the second time, en¬ 
 countered the piercing glances of the young Countess of Clandale, whose eyes 
 were rivetted with a peculiar meaning on her face and person, the baroness, 
 apologizing for her momentary remissness, thus said— 
 
 “ I present to your notice and regard, lady Isabella, the daughter of my noble 
 friend, Sir Godfrey, in whose society I trust you will experience the pleasures of 
 a refined friendship.” > 
 
 Lady Isabella, putting aside the hand of Bertha, bowed slightly; said, with 
 an almost inarticulate sound. 
 
 “ Methinks the lady Bertha has somewhat diminished in the beaut? of her 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 75 
 
 looks since I was last honoured with a sight of her person : the lustre of her 
 brig-lit eyes seems faded, and the deep crimson of modest diffidence, that then 
 mantled her cheeks, has given place to the pale blush of the rose. 
 
 The baroness heard not the malicious discourse of Isabella; and Bertha, dis¬ 
 daining an answer, felt her cheeks glow with a shame she could not suppress, 
 and sighing deeply, she suppressed the rising tear that would force its passage to 
 her eyes. 
 
 The baroness entered into an elegant conversation with her guest till the hour 
 of retirement arrived, when they parted mutually pleased with each other. 
 
 On the north side of the castle was a deep paved terrace, that overhung the 
 ocean itself, and had only a low balustrade built at the extreme edge of the ac¬ 
 clivity to secure the too near approach to the dark abyss of waters, and extended 
 far beyond the battlements of the castle over the rocks which hung suspended, 
 as it were, above the deep caverns and excavations that ran along the shores. 
 
 Here Alfred frequently led his adored Bertha; and together they would watch 
 the glorious sublimity of the setting sun, as it sunk beneath the deep, leaving a 
 golden track that darted its dazzling reflections among the glassy waves, in all 
 the splendour of unrivalled brilliance. 
 
 ’Twas one evening that Bertha had retired from the terrace sooner than usual 
 to her own chamber, that the sound of horns and clarions awoke the echoes bf the 
 cliffs, and proclaimed the approach of visitors; and Ruth, soon after entering 
 hastily her lady’s apartments, exclaimed—- 
 
 “ Oh lawks, my lady 1 I am out of my wits with joy!” The baron with a 
 noble train of knights and cavaliers, are coming with the duke of York to par¬ 
 take of a banquet triumph, in honour of their late victory gained over the Lan¬ 
 castrians. Now, my lady, only think how lively such grand company will make 
 the castle. I dare say there will be nothing but jests in the great courts, and 
 dancings and rejoicings in the hall.” 
 
 Oh my lady, I was sent with a message, but the sight of such noble strangers 
 nearly put it out of my head, 1 was in the hall trying to get out of the way, 
 when the lord Harrold bade me hasten to your ladyship, with his earnest respects, 
 that you will allow him the honour of a visit on business of importance. 
 
 Bertha listened with surprise, to this strange request, bade her return to lord 
 Harrold with a positive refusal. Ruth reluctantly obeyed. 
 
 Bertha now opened the door that led to the corridor, as she wished to gain a 
 sight of the Baron ; and approaching the balustrades she looked into the hall 
 below, and saw a croud of knights, clothed in armour, at that moment the lady 
 Elvina entered and was met by a tall figure clothed in steel, evidently the supe¬ 
 rior of the rest, and approaching him, she made a low obeisance as she kissed 
 his hand, and welcomed the Baron to his castle. 
 
 Assured that it was the Baron, Bertha fixed her gaze upon him. His coun¬ 
 tenance was unpossessing, his lordly port and commanding person conveyed the 
 idea of self-importance, his features were large, heavy and muscular. But she 
 was shocked at the coldness with which the Baron received his lady, but to lady 
 Isabella he embraced her with a warm and pleasing regard. 
 
 She was still leaning through the fretwork, that hid her from being seen, when 
 
76 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 the noise of an approaching footstep alarmed her, she turned round and beheld 
 lord Harrold coming towards her; Bertha surprised at seeing him, slightly bowed 
 as she was passing, but Harrold, placing himself against the door of her cham¬ 
 ber, addressed her :— 
 
 “ Forgive this intrusion, lady, the humblest of your admirers stands before you ; 
 and though denied the consent of entering your presence, you will, I trust, pardon 
 the trespass of love,” (sinking on his knees) ££ I love you with a passion ardent 
 and sincere; and that you, and you only, most lovely of women have power to 
 raise a flame in the bosom of Harrold. And at the forthcoming tournament when 
 the brave will be contending, and each knight be decked with the token of love, 
 let me have the triumphant felicity of been the sworn knight of the lady Bertha 
 Brandon, and to bear her token. 1 
 
 Bertha was tilled with terror, as she listened to this wild rhapsody, it rendered 
 her incapable of power to speak or quit him. 
 
 A resistless passion had taken possession of Harrold though he well knew, she 
 was devoted to his brother, yet, did he resolve if possible, to supplant that near 
 relative. He had marked the devoted for his own. And now the silence of 
 Bertha encouraged him, he thus continued:— 
 
 “ Afford me lady one small token of esteem, if but a bracelet or glove.” 
 
 ** My lord,” said Bertha with resentment at such a request ££ you must pardon 
 me, when I declare the demand you have made, suits not the respect due to my¬ 
 self to grant.” 
 
 “ ’Tis well, madam,” interrupted Harrold, ££ I find though cold to Harrold, 
 doubtless, lord Alfred as no cause to complain of the reserve of lady Bertha, 
 but know lady,” he added, seizing her hand, < £ the first moment I beheld you, 
 my soul owned you only as its mistress, I swear I love you ! I will dispute your 
 heart with every competitor ! In vain you tell me you cannot return my love; 
 beware, lady—Alfred never shall be your’s; and if you persist with coldness to 
 slight my love, it may prove fatal to him and you.” 
 
 * £ Unhand me, my lord,” angrily exclaimed Bertha. “ You forget yourself 
 in the respect due to your father’s guest, and the daughter of Sir Godfrey 
 Brandon.” , 
 
 ££ I see,” replied Harrold, ££ the lady Bertha can assume the semblance of in¬ 
 dignant virtue ; Alfred is a fortunate lover no doubt, but let him tremble.” 
 
 Bertha became alarmed, she thought it but prudent to suppress the just indig¬ 
 nation she felt, and in order to soften his present anger, she mildly said— 
 
 ££ My lord, the impropriety of this interview distresses me. I pray you leave 
 me, the hour grows late.” 
 
 ££ I obey your wishes lady, and take shame on me for improper expressions I 
 may have used derogatory to the purity of your perfect self, deign to grant, the 
 required token that shall animate me to victory.” 
 
 Bertha found by his resolute manner, that to refuse the gift would be useless; 
 hastily unclasping a bracelet ot pearls, she was presenting it, when a distant foot¬ 
 step alarmed her, she suddenly started for fear of discovery of her forced situa¬ 
 tion, and from Harrold rushed along the gallery, into a dark passage, continued 
 her speed with rapidity: the distant echo of footsteps, convinced her, she was 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY 
 
 77 
 
 pursued by Harrold, she continued to dart forward, anxious to preserve the token 
 <rnm Harrold. She found the passage branched off to the left, but overcome bv 
 the want of respiration, she sunk fainting against a door, which giving wav, she 
 
 had nearly fallen, but was, supported in the arms of a tnan. Thinking it was 
 her pursuer, she shrieked, and fearfully exclaimed— 
 
 “ 1 command .™u lord Harrold, to desist, I will appeal to the Baron, to pro- 
 tect me from these insults.” 
 
 An unknown voice replied,Y'ou have nothing to dread ladv, nor shall any 
 
 insult pass unregarded by him who is guardian to all, who reside beneath this 
 roof.” 
 
 Bertha raising her eyes, found herself in the arms of the baron, releasing her- 
 self, she bowed*her acknowledgments, when the baron said— 
 
 “ If my conjectures deceive me not, I now address the lady Bertha Brandon 
 It seems” continued the baron, “you have been persecuted by lord Harrold 
 but let me entreat you not to be alarmed, rest satisfied I will be answerable for 
 Ins future respectful behaviour; allow me to see you to your chamber ?” 
 
 Arrived at the door, she thanked the baron, for his attention. Bertha over¬ 
 come by the emotions that agitated her, could not refrain from exclaiming as 
 tears came to her relief—- 
 
 “ Oh my father! where, where are you now wandering? Oh why were your 
 commands so strongly enjoined for my removal from the dear Abbey? Had I 
 there remained, I had at least been freed from the mortifying degradations of 
 this evening,—Oh when will you return to release your Bertha from the cold for¬ 
 bidding looks ot lady Isabella, and the importunate dangers of the darinir pur¬ 
 suits of Harrold?” 1 
 
 As she lay restlessly reflecting on the occurrences of the night, she debated 
 if it were not more prudent for her instantly to return to the Abbey, than to 
 continue in the castle, where she might again be subject to evils of she hardly 
 knew what nature. 
 
 In this disturbed and undeterminate state of mind she passed the two first 
 hours after midnight, when sleep at length closed her eyes in a leaden embrace. 
 
 Her repose was, however, unrefreshing and imbittered by dreams of horror and 
 affright. 
 
 During their continuance, the first object that presented itself, was a tall gaunt 
 figure, whose person was clothed in a long black flowing garment; his face was 
 rendered invisible by a mask, but there seemed a resemblance in his gait and 
 person to the strange mysterious visitor that had occasioned her father’s sudden 
 absence from the forest. The figure beckoned her forward, and fearful and 
 trembling, she found herself irresistibly impelled to follow. Her awful guide 
 silently and slowly passed down the corridor, and opening the door of the east, 
 -chamber, she found herself in a spacious dreary apartment. A track of blood 
 stained the floor; advancing forward, her guide pointed to the ground, on which 
 she beheld the dead corpse of a man, whose features, on examination, bore 
 strong resemblance to those of Alfred. 
 
 Before she had time to express the grief this terrific spectacle occasioned, the 
 figure silently beckoned her from the scene of death, and as she passed through 
 
7» 
 
 the heiress, or the 
 
 the chamber, she found herself, by the unaccountable diversity of visionary fiction, 
 
 in the great church of the Abbey. It appeared to be midnight, and the place 
 more than really gloomy, from two or three tapers that faintly shone from the 
 middle of the grand aisle ;-approaching these, she perceived they were suspended 
 over a new-made open grave, near which was placed a coffin, covered with 
 velvet, and strewed with sable plumes of feathers;—as she cast her eyes into the 
 tomb, the lid of the coffin suddenly fell to the ground, and a voice from within, 
 hollow and piercing, audibly pronounced—'“ Remember the mysterious warning 
 you have received, and beware of the house of Neville.’’—The lid, with 
 no apparent aid, suddenly returned to its former position. She was conveyed 
 again to the castle by her awe-inspiring guide, and with the violence of her terror, 
 
 she awoke. 
 
 It was some time before she could calm the agitation that her dream ha ex¬ 
 cited, and daylight was jovfully welcomed ; her emotion was soon forgotten, for 
 she now for the first time missed the bracelet she was positive she had never 
 yielded to Harrold tlie previous evening. Grieved for its loss, for it had been 
 her mother’s whom she never knew, she had loved and venerated it from the 
 
 reverence her father always inspired toward her memory. 
 
 Bertha was deeply engaged in searching for it, when Ruth entered the room. 
 
 « Dear my lady,” she exclaimed “ what can have made you look so unwell 
 to-day. You seem as though you had had no sleep all night; but my lady—I 
 have news that will surprise you. My lord Alfred, last night encountered his 
 brother in the corridor leading to your apartments, my young lord asked, what 
 business he had at so late an hour near your chamber, Harrold refused to give 
 any satisfaction: and if the baron had not arrived at that critical time, they would 
 have drawn their swords : he took my lord Harrold to task for his rudeness to 
 your ladyship, which so much offended him, that he ordered all his people to 
 follow him from the castle at that late hour. Alfred had overheard a little that 
 had passed between yourself and Harrold, and this was the cause of the quarrel. 
 Bat my lady, there will be no tournament, the duke of York sent to decline his 
 intended visit; the queen is on the march again, and the baron returns to the 
 
 army.” 
 
 Bertha was distressed that the transaction had been made so public, she deter¬ 
 mined to lay open her heart to the baroness, and make her acquainted with the 
 
 first introduction and succeeding interviews with Alfred. 
 
 She proceeded to the apartments of that lady. The baroness sat with her back 
 op}X>site the door, Bertha with surprise beheld her in tears, and she debated 
 whether to retire unnoticed, than seem to wish to be acquainted with sorrow, 
 never intended for her knowledge. 
 
 The baroness sighed deeply. At that moment an interior door opening, Bertha 
 had only time to secrete herself behind the one siie held in her hand, when she 
 heard the voice of the baron, who loudly said,— 
 
 “ Are you, lady, resolved to yield me that, -which, if not freely given, I have 
 power to obtain, or M ill you compel me to have recourse to violence/’ 
 
 The harsh tones, in which tlrese M ords Mere spoken, made her almost doubt 
 
79 
 
 <s 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 who the speaker was, so unlike the courteous manner of the baron the precedin 
 
 evening addressed to herself. Bertha silently retired to her own chamber 
 
 It was this same evening, the baron gained from Isabella the state of her 
 
 heart, and the choice it had made. The Baron sent for Alfred in his private 
 chamber. F - 
 
 „ . T . he 7 m , 0f tl,e iilta earl ol Clandale,” said the baron, addressing Alfred 
 enjoins his heiress to espouse one of the heirs of Egbert. She has refused your 
 brother, ,n favour of you my lord ; I therefore, lay my commands upon your duty 
 
 and have fixed the day of your nuptials within a fortnight of this, joyfully to re¬ 
 ceive the hand of lady Isabella. 
 
 Alfred overcome with grief, was unable to reply. Unprepared for such a de¬ 
 mand, he was surprised into a silent acquiescence, and the politic Egbert hastened 
 out of the chamber to prevent all chance of a refusal. 
 
 . Starting from a deep reverie, Alfred pronounced the name Beitha,”_Ah 
 adored of my soul! shall I resign the hope of one day calling you my own ? Shall 
 I, for the dross of riches for the imperious, and haughty Isabella, forego thy 
 loveliness—Oh no! adored being of my regard, I am thine, only thine. Leav¬ 
 ing the chamber, he went to the north terrace, to determine - on some speedy 
 means to avoid the hated nuptials. 
 
 The result Mas to make known the state of his affection to the baroness, which 
 the latter received with emotions of pleasure mixed with pain; for she felt a 
 warm regard for the lovely object of Alfred’s choice, though she confessed she 
 had no influence to induce the baron to yield to the persuasion of love, for he had 
 that morning insisted on her consenting to the union of Isabella and Alfred. 
 
 The baroness had long resigned all interference in matters that her birth and 
 fortune gave her a privilege of, choice or negative, she even trembled for the 
 small share of felicity she had hitherto enjoyed. With grief she discovered the 
 baron had taken a deep rooted prejudice, for he never addressed her but with 
 harsh and clouded brow. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 In those days of old, when every baronial chief was a prince upon his own 
 domain, and subject to no law but his own will, the passions of a daring mind 
 were not softened by the influence of an enlightened education, and much cruelty 
 and bloodshed were the sad consequence where the power of doing evil was so 
 ill restrained by the strength and potency of the law. 
 
 The heart of Harrold was naturally prone to evil and daring projects ; he had 
 
SO THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 1 
 
 never submitted to controul. Impressed with a liigrli idea oi ins consequence/ 
 and the dignities he should one day inherit, he expected every knee and lip that 
 owned his father for their lord, should prostrate and confess the same superio¬ 
 rity of his will, and pay homage to his future greatness; but fate had in store a 
 powerful humiliation to his growing insolence, and in the superior and manly 
 qualities of a younger brother, raised him a rival to the excessive pride ot his 
 aspiring nature. Ambition, cruelty, and the gratification ol his passions were 
 the ruling principles of his heart; but in the virtues of Allred, he was to receive 
 a check to his haughty mind. 
 
 With tempers such as these, that only waited the long inflamed moment to 
 blaze forth with desolating wildness, and aided by the encouragement of a con¬ 
 fidential slave, he had long vowed the ruin of a brother, w hom from infancy he 
 despised, and for whom he had felt the strongest hatred, on account of the supe¬ 
 riority of his fortunes, and shining qualifications of his mind; to deprive wdiom 
 of the rich possessions he was heir to, he had often formed the darkest plots and 
 most daring designs. 
 
 And no sooner had he beheld Bertha, than she became the object of his ardent 
 admiration, and he resolved to make her the instrument of retaliation on his 
 brother ; for was not Alfred the hated bar that opposed his ambitious hopes, and 
 stepped between him and the possession of the towers of Etherw/old %—- Alfred 
 was the being who had deprived him of the haughty but w ealthy lieivess ; and 
 whilst he in secret invoked curses on this fortunate brother, he resolved to have 
 ample vengeance for these ideal injuries, and destroy for ever his hopes of hap¬ 
 piness, by supplanting him in the affections of the object of his unrevealed choice 
 w r hom he had no doubt of converting by importunate assiduity and entreaty, to 
 his wishes ; or should these, means fail, force was resolved on to accomplish his 
 unnatural thirst of vengeance :—but a very short acquaintance with the fascinat¬ 
 ing powers of Bertha’s mind as well as person served, to inspire a passion as im¬ 
 petuous and real as it was in the end likely to prove dangerous to the object that 
 excited it, and he resolved to take his measures^accordingly. 
 
 For this purpose he had placed Hugo, his confidant, a spy over the actions of 
 the unsuspecting lovers, from w hose vigilance he learned their frequent meetings 
 on the terrace. Unfortunately, Hugo had concealed himself on the very night 
 that Alfred had obtained the proof of his Bertha’s regard ; and though Hugo 
 could not, with safety of remaining undiscovered, hear all that passed, he returned 
 to his employer with sufficient to convince him of a mutual understanding between 
 them. 
 
 Rage and despair at first possessed his mind; but these passions subsiding, he 
 resolved to force himself a way to the presence of the unconscious object of his 
 passion. 
 
 The denial w hich Ruth (whom he had bribed) had brought him, served not ta 
 repel his purpose. He had followed her with his eyes as she passed along the 
 gallery to the chambers ol her lady, whose fortunate (for him) appearance soon 
 after in the corridor, made him resolute to know at once what hopes he might in 
 future entertain ; he acted as has been already related. 
 
 The returns lie met with to his real declarations of love, though slight, were 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 SI 
 
 too decidedly delivered to admit of any hope 
 in his favour hereafter; and burning with 
 increased hatred towards his unoffending 
 brother, and a fixed resolution to possess 
 himself of Bertha, lie scrupled not to deter¬ 
 mine upon violent measures should all others 
 fail, to force her to compliance. 
 
 In his return from the ineffectual pursuit 
 of Bertha, he encountered Alfred, who 
 retiring down the gallery in his approach, to his own apartments had wit¬ 
 nessed some parts of the conversation and transactions that had followed.— 
 Roused to resentment at the indignity offered to the object of his tenderest regards 
 he forgot his usual prudence and forbearance, and sternly reproached his brother 
 for his inhospitable and insulting conduct, acknowdedging in part his prior at¬ 
 tachment for the lady Bertha, and nobly declaring that he w T ould maintain his 
 right, and defend the object of his regard from the insolence of his pretensions. 
 
 Harrold’s reply was too insulting to be submitted to; and Alfred had just drawn 
 his sword, as had also Harrold, when the baron, returning from the door of 
 Bertha, arrived in time to prevent the breach from ending mortallv. 
 
 No. 11. 
 
82 
 
 THK HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 Harrold with impatience submitted to the rebuke of a father, from whom he 
 had neither received an example or precept;—his remonstrances therefore were 
 heard with silent disregard and inward scorn; he retired in apparent anger to a 
 small domain left him by a maternal uncle independent of his father, when he 
 had here leisure to plot, undiscovered, those dark and alarming designs that had 
 too long been encouraged in his guilty soul, for the ruin of those that had power¬ 
 fully aroused his love and hatred. 
 
 In the youug Countess of Clandale, Bertha was fated to find a determined 
 enemy; for deep-rooted jealousy had taken possession of her heart from the mo¬ 
 ment she discovered the bent of Alfred’s inclinations, whom she now watched 
 with a scrutiny unceasing. 
 
 The baroness found little gratification in her society ; the temper of Isabella 
 rendering her incapable of a taste for elegant refinements;—but the baron’s 
 society was more congenial to her wishes, whose courtesy and attention to her 
 rendered his presence pleasing, and his absence regretted. To Bertha she ever 
 maintained a distant reserve that wore the appearance of mystery, from some 
 hitherto unexplained reason. 
 
 Amidst the whirlwind of passions that had assailed her heart on the discovery, 
 despair was the principal; and she resolved to tear from her heart the loved 
 image of Alfred, and avenge herself, by hurling ruin on the object that engrossed 
 those affections she aspired to make her own. At length the proud triumph of 
 destroying the happiness of this hated rival, bore down every feeling, and she 
 resolved to appear ignorant of Alfred’s love for Bertha, that, under the baron’s 
 enforcement, she might at least divide the lovers, though all hope of being the 
 bride of Alfred be for ever at an end. 
 
 With this design she made no scruple of confessing her regard for Alfred, 
 when the baron demanded which of his sons was her choice;—and for this pur¬ 
 pose the baroness was desired, in no very gentle terms, to break to Bertha the 
 resolutions ot the baron, who had discovered the mutual attachment between 
 herself and Alfred. , 
 
 It was on this subject that Bertha had caught some imperfect expressions as 
 she retired Irom the apartments of lady Elvina, who suffered her not long to 
 remain in suspense as to their import; she w ith deep regret made known the will 
 oi the baron, and the destined bride that was fated for her son. 
 
 “ The baron, by means I know r not, has acquainted himself with your mutual 
 regards,” continued the baroness, “ which have, I own, been long known to 
 me. I grieve to add that it is expected you should voluntarily resign the hand 
 of Alfred, should he offer it to your acceptance. Such, Bertha, is my lord’s re¬ 
 quest; with regret I have delivered it, 1 trust you know r my heart too well to 
 misjudge it. I have only to hope that your affections are not so entirely engaged, 
 but tjme may soften the severity of your disappointment.” 
 
 kS It shall do so, madam,” interrupted Bertha, “ with me at least, it shall con¬ 
 quer. From lady Paulina, I have ever received unkindness, the cause is ex- 
 v • and Bertha will never more be the hated obstacle to her happier for- 
 own my heart has been too susceptible of the merits of my lord Alfred, 
 mnobled virtues won my tenderest sentiments ; but Bertha will no more 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY, gt 
 
 interfere with the designs of the baron-she will this evening free him bv lie 
 return to her dearest home.’’ ^ 
 
 “That must not be,” replied the baroness; “do not suppose, my love, tb 
 a.on ,s averse to your union with our son ; had not his honour been pledged, 
 be won d never have urged my lord Alfred against his inclinations. T owe mv 
 
 il Z r ’ 1 n ° W Suffermeto entreat that you will abandon your 
 
 will U IOn , ° qu ! ttmg the castle » an<i to ow e your continuance to your free 
 . '" y l0ve ’ tiU Sir Godfrey’s return ; nor will the lady Isabella presume 
 
 a^am to insult a guest, and my friend under my protection.” 
 
 , ., er ‘ h . a , llstened attentively to this speech, and thus called upon, she no longer 
 hesitated m remaining at the eastle. 
 
 In the evening.she retired early to her own room. Entering the small detached 
 closet that had a north prospect of the sea, and a side view of the eastern 
 towers, she gave free vent to the anguish of her heart, and softly exclaimed- 
 “ t is then determined, and I have freely resigned all pretensions to the affec¬ 
 tions of Allred ! But, ah! can I ever cease to remember how dear is his image 
 to the heart of Bertha ? Why, ah why ! did I ever behold him ! Ah beloved, 
 adored Alfred 1 I shall never cease to esteem thy virtues, but a few days remain 
 to make it criminal in me for ever after to think upon his name; he becomes, not 
 thine, fond Bertha, but the husband of Isabella.” 
 
 While her mind was thus absorbed, her eyes were turned towards the eastern 
 towers. The night was uncommonly dark; but her deep reveries were suddenly 
 broke m upon by beholding a pale glimmer of light, which, for a minute, was 
 seen through the window of the great east tower, as it passed slowly along several 
 of the gothic casements, and then disappeared. 
 
 This extraordinary circumstance, stopped for a moment the current of her me¬ 
 lancholy reflections, and a quick recollection of the repeated mysterious accounts 
 she had received of these towers, raised a superstitious dread to her heart; and 
 she resolved to wait at the casement of her closet, in expectation that this mys¬ 
 terious occurrence would be repeated ; but after a lapse of time spent in anxious 
 watchings, the light did not return, and she sat ruminating on the event, till her 
 thoughts became confused in a vortex of ideas; she was alarmed by a violent 
 shriek: and the bursting open of the door of the antichamber made her rush 
 hastily from the closet, where the pale, affrighted Ruth, who exclaiming, in a 
 tone of horror “ I have seen it, I have seen the spectre sunk upon a chair 
 pointing to the open door. 
 
 Bertna shut the door; and after soothing the strong apparent terror of her 
 attendant, at length obtained an answer of the cause of her alarm. 
 
 *’ Oh my lady,” she said, “ as I was coming to attend your ladyship, and had 
 reached the last step of the gallery stairs, which faces the old door of the eastern 
 end that opens into the hauuted chambers—all of a sudden the door flew open, 
 and a figure, clothed in long black flowing robes, bearing a small taper, stood 
 beneath the arch of the portal. I shrieked, and the ghost starting at the sound 
 lifted up its pale ghastly visage, and fixing its hollow eyes full upon me, pointed 
 for me to be gone. I had, my lady, lost all use of my limbs at first, and could 
 not move ; but terror soon restored me to my senses, and by the blessing of the 
 
84 
 
 THE HEIRESS, Oil THE 
 
 Virgin, I arrived at your ladyship’s chamber just as the spectre vanished into the 
 apartment, and the door was thrown to with a tremendous crash. 1 am sure 1 
 shall never dare to venture alone to the gallery ; and if your ladyship don’t 
 speedily remove from these apartments, 1 fear you will soon have cause to 
 repent.” 
 
 Bertha endeavoured to argue herinto a belief that what she though she had seen, 
 was but the effects of a strong*imagination : but Ruth persisted in affirming the 
 reality that Bertha, who, but a few moments before, had witnessed so extraordi-r 
 nary a phenomenon, now felt there was some dreaded mystery pertaining to this 
 angle of the castle; she resolved to make known to the baroness the appearances 
 she had witnessed, and solicit a change of apartments. 
 
 The baroness, listened to her with some degree of agitation. At length, she 
 said— 
 
 “ There is a degree of mystery relating to the east towers I have never been 
 able to develop. In the life-time of my lord and father, the late baron of Ether- 
 wold, those chambers w r ere ordered to be closed ; and the only cause he assigned 
 was the disgrace in being made the disloyal means of imprisoning a prince of 
 England, here confined under one of the former barons of Etherwold ; but this 
 account is now r entirely obsolete. That these apartments have so long re¬ 
 mained uninhabited, w as occasioned by the superstitious fears of succeeding gene¬ 
 rations. From this cause, together with the gloomy and ruinous aspect ot the 
 towers, they have been suffered to remain in their present delapidated and use¬ 
 less state.” 
 
 “ If I am not misinformed in the account I have gathered from the castle re¬ 
 cords,” interrupted Alfred, who was present during the foregoing remark of 
 lady Elvina, “it is reported that the prince who was here confined, w as one night 
 murdered in the tower chamber of his prison, by order of the governor, it still is 
 the prevailing belief of the tenentry and retainers of the castle, that the spectre 
 of the murdered captive still haunts at midnight the scene of his living sufferings. 
 I cannot say I give much credence to the latter account; yet as I know the honour 
 of our house stands impeached, 1 am determined^ to pass this very evening in 
 them, for the satisfaction of my own curiosity as lrom a desire of silencing tor 
 ever these reports so injurious to the dignity of ourselves, as well as our an-r 
 cestors.” 
 
 The baroness and Bertha turned pale as Alfred finished his bold resolution, 
 and even Isabella trembled. The former w r as about to entreat him to decline so 
 fearful an enterprise, but the speech of the baron compelled her to refrain, who 
 thus said— 
 
 “ I applaud and approve your intentions. It will silence complaint on this 
 subject. I shall anticipate, though I cannot stay to be a witness of your triumph, 
 which will prove a prelude to the more splendid victor you will shortly attain, 
 in the happiness that aw 7 aits you.” 
 
 He cast a glance of meaning first on Allred, then on Isabella, and bowing to 
 the latter, left the banquet table. 
 
 “You are not really serious I hope, my lord,” said the baroness, “in vogi 
 resolution of examining the eastern chambers ?’* 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 So 
 
 Alfred, smiling for this anxiety, gracefully replied— 
 
 I ain unconscious of having done an action that would call courage in question, 
 where I capable of hesitating to perform my promise.” 
 
 The mind of Bertha was absorbed in her own gloomy reflections to bear longer 
 the restraint put upon her feelings. She arose from the banquet, and alone re¬ 
 tired to the north terrace, that she might give vent to the emotions that corroded 
 her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IT was still the meridian of evening, when.Bertha, willing to fly from her own 
 thoughts, soon quitted the terrace by an armed postern that led to the open 
 causeway, which afforded a narrow winding footpath among the cliffs down to 
 the shores of the sea. Across this pass was thrown an antique gale, with a 
 bridge that ran along the arch of its battlements, and communicated by an iron 
 grate to the turret of the postern of the terrace; its opposite end afforded a pas¬ 
 sage to the hisrh acclivities of the rocks, and led to the causeway that was the 
 only means of admission to the shores. 
 
 At no great distance were the remains of a gothic fort, this was the only open¬ 
 ing that for many leagues gave an enemy a possibility of landing, as the shore 
 was securely defended by the steep perpendicular cliffs that rose from the surface 
 of the sea, the guards and safety of the albion coast. 
 
 The fort was now nearly a ruin, but the gate and lower portcullis were still 
 entire ; to these Bertha directed her course, the tide was yet far from the shore, 
 she hesitated not to descend the narrow steep, and after some little difficulty 
 reached the latter; deeply ruminating on her destiny, she proceeded forward. 
 
 Forgetful of the distance she had wandered from the castle, she still pursued 
 her walk, till the beams of the setting sun, suddenly bursting from a heavy enve¬ 
 lope of dark clouds, enlightened the face of nature with its last departing rays, 
 and roused Bertha from the deep absorption of her mental faculties. She cast 
 her eyes back on the road she had traced, and with astonishment beheld the 
 castle at an immense distance. 
 
86 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 The very distance she liad strolled from the castle now reminded her of the 
 necessity of her speedy return. 
 
 As she was proceeding onwards, the turning of an immense jut of rocks pre¬ 
 senting to her view the figures of two men at no great distance ; on their approach 
 she distinguished them by their cloaks to be the same that had once alarmed her 
 in the forest of St. Moreton. 
 
 Alarmed at the danger she might be exposed to, from beings whose former 
 converse she had heard enough to excite no very good opinion of their present 
 designs, she considered how to avoid them. 
 
 Turning around, she perceived a deep and hollow moss-covered cell that was 
 excavated in the rocks, which seemed to promise concealment; and hoping they 
 had not noticed her, she hastily ran down the cell, and secreting herself behind 
 a projection of chalk cliff, awaited their departure. But how great was her 
 terror, when the strangers entered the recess, and the tallest casting aside the 
 outward vesture, discovered to the astonished Bertha, the lord Harrold, who 
 with a look of triumph, bent his full dark eyes upon her too expressive to need 
 interpretation. 
 
 Bertha shrunk within herself; and she turned pale at the idea of what might 
 be the consequences, for it was evident he had watched her to this remote and 
 solitary place. 
 
 Not long was she kept in doubt; for Harrold beckoning his colleague, the 
 latter approached, and proceeding up several rough-hewn steps of rock that were 
 placed at the extremity of the cavern, he threw back a small door artfully con¬ 
 cealed, and discovered a narrow entry beyond it. 
 
 Harrold, taking Bertha nearly in his arms, was led, or rather carried up the 
 steps, and in a moment beheld herself in the interior of a low spacious cavern. 
 The entry was instantly closed, and Hugo disappeared. 
 
 The door so much resembled the form of the rock itself, that not the minutest 
 scrutiny could discover that it w r as otherwise. 
 
 From the roof was suspended a tripod silver lamp, which emitted a bright re¬ 
 flection around. The unevenness of the bottom, was filled up by dry sands, and 
 covered with mats, whilst in various recesses w r ere disposed seats, and moss- 
 covered benches. Beneath a grotto stood a table, covered with every delicacy, 
 fruits, viands, and liquors the most delicious. 
 
 Bertha notwithstanding her alarm, view ed this scene with silent admiration; 
 but terror almost overpowered her senses when the conviction darted across them 
 that she was now beyond the reach of aid or pity. 
 
 Scarcely had Harrold secured his trembling prey, than seizing both her hands, 
 said— 
 
 “ The means, charming Bertha, to procure this uninterrupted interview, 
 though violent, are not so intended; no injury shall be offered, unless provoked 
 by, a denial to the, demand 1 am about to make. I adore you with the most 
 ardent love, 1 will never part from the object I aspire, till, by my tenderest as¬ 
 siduities, I have inspired in that bosom a regard lasting as my own. When the 
 lady Bertha shall bless me with that confession, then shall she be again restored 
 to the world; but till that happy moment arrives, she must be content to honour 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. S7 
 
 this poor grot with her continued presence, and the society of him who exists 
 but. to adore her.” 
 
 “ Mv lord,” replied Bertha firmly, “ your demands are such as nature, and 
 the dictates of reason and virtue must lor ever forbid. Can you expect a return 
 such as you require, whilst you practise cruelty on its object ? or do you think 
 that violence and injustice can enforce a voluntary compliance from a mind con¬ 
 scious of its own integrity and honour,—If your lordship would secure the respect 
 of Bertha, you would do well to remember that the methods you have pursued, 
 are against any expectations you may have entertained of success.” 
 
 ^ ^ I thou £ht that in restoring you to liberty, I should soften your heart in 
 my favour, and weaken its attachment to a hated rival, I would this instant con¬ 
 duct you to the castle. If you will give me a solemn promise that within 
 three days you will here voluntarily meet, and pledge to me your future vows, I 
 will this instant conduct you from this recess.” 
 
 “ Speak !” cried Harrold, impatiently “ Do you consent ?” 
 
 Bertha, with a view ol moving him to forbearance, now answered_ 
 
 My heart is irrevocably engaged and you know the object of its affection. You 
 will admit the justice of my appeal, and cease all further urgings of a suit which 
 I have not power to yield, or you a right to demand ” 
 
 ^ “ I have probed you to the utmost, haughty lady!” replied Harrold, “ and 
 find not even danger can bend your obdurate bosom to my wishes. But since 
 you provoke your fate, hear and tremble ! You urge your regards for the base- 
 born Alfred, he is the object of my hate, on whom shall fall the full punishment 
 of my slighted love. Let him then beware; I swear to avenge the ruin of mv 
 hopes on his accursed head—” 
 
 Bertha, terror-struck at the dreadful imprecations, seized his hand, with a 
 
 look of horror, exclaimed—“ Stop, stop your dreadful oath, remember it is your 
 brother!” 
 
 Accursed be the name!” furiously ejaculated Harrold. “ This night he 
 shall feel my power, and hear my maledictionThen suddenly pausing, he 
 seized her hand, and with calm, deliberate triumph, pronounced—« You will 
 no longer deceive yourself, my charming prize, with a hope of liberty. You will 
 see, by the conveniences here provided,” opening a small door of an interior 
 cell, where Bertha with anguish beheld every thing necessary to make this place 
 a continued abode, “ that I am prepared for resistance. The present moment 
 gives me to your arms. You have disdained a title that might have been your’s ; 
 but since not mine, you shall never be the wife of Alfred. This moment gives 
 me excess of bliss and vengeance.” 
 
 He approached the helpless ensnared victim of his guilty love, and in his looks 
 Bertha saw* not an emblem of pity or hope. Retreating from his grasp, she fell 
 on her knees, ejaculated— 1 “ Have mercy, and spare me ! and at the appointed 
 moment she solemnly sw*ears to become your bride!” 
 
 “ That offer y° u have once rejected” replied Harrold; “ it will not now be ac¬ 
 cepted. Shall the despised Harrold receive an heartless hand, whilst a rival 
 brother possesses that envied treasure? No! by the eternal justice of heaven I 
 have sworn that never, while 1 exist, shall you become the bride of Alfred. 
 
THF. HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 *8 
 
 Resistance were useless, and this blissful period gives ample gratification to my 
 love and vengeance.” 
 
 The soul of Bertha died within her ; all hope was at an end. Floods of tears 
 gushed down from her eyes ; again she sunk meekly on her knees— 
 
 a if pity be not dead within you—if mercy ever had entrance in a heart so 
 cruel, extend it now to the pleadings of a guiltless creature, who supplicates 
 for death, rather than dishonour.—Spare me, as you hope hereafter for mercy 
 and forgiveness 1” 
 
 Vain were her prayers; the demoniac fury of confessed revenge, and his 
 vicious appetite (for Harrold, resolved on retaliation) hurried him to the com¬ 
 mission of a barbarous deed. 
 
 He was advancing towards the lost Bertha, when the latter, urged by despair 
 shrieked aloud, and the caverns echoed with her distracted cries for help. 
 
 Oil God! what sudden exquisite joy revived the hopeless Bertha, when she 
 heard a well known voice call—“ Bertha ! lady Bertha ! speak again, that the 
 
 sound of your voice may direct our search !” 
 
 <( Oh save me, preserve me, save your own poor Bertha!” she exclaimed, in 
 a louder tone; nor could the efforts of Harrold restrain their echoes. 
 
 ‘‘Hell and furies!” he exclaimed, “am I forever foiled? and snatching 
 the fainting Bertha in his arms, secreted her in an adjoining division ; then 
 furiously drawing his sword, placed himself against the entry, which in an instant 
 was burst open, and Alfred, attended by several of his people rushed into the 
 
 cell.” 
 
 “ Approach, and you die !” ejaculated Harrold, making a pass with his sword 
 at Alfred, which the latter turned aside, “ I will retain my prize against the 
 arms of twenty such brothers.” 
 
 Alfred, with concern, was now compelled to defend himself against the des¬ 
 perate attacks of Harrold, whose intentions aimed at his life. But watching his 
 opportunity, he, by a sudden movement, disarmed his antagonist; and giving 
 his sword to Sir Walter, rushed to the interior of the cell, and received in his 
 arms his precious deposit; for Bertha was insensible, and had fainted on hearing 
 the clash of arms:—and, in defiance of the efforts of Harrold, bore her to the 
 
 boat in safety. 
 
 Harrold caught with furious grasp the arm of Aifred, and, in a voice hollow 
 by contending rage and passion, pronounced—“ tremble !” and darted from 
 
 the beach. 
 
 The air had revived Bertha ; and though not yet quite recovered, she heard 
 and saw what had passed. The word “ tremble,” sunk to her heart in chilling 
 coldness. The bark, however, soon launched into the sea, and the dashing of 
 the waters convinced her that she was beyond the reach of danger. 
 
 Alfred, wishing to divert her thoughts, related by what circumstances he had 
 bee 1 the means of her rescue. 
 
 He had been pursuing his evening’s ramble, and was returning home by the 
 sea-sands, when something sparkling attracted his notice, which, on stooping to 
 pick up, he knew to be the bracelet of Bertha; and not doubting but it had 
 

would stoop to supjoliccitc ei-cn the 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 so 
 
 0 
 
 slipped from her arm in their accustomed 
 walk, he hastened forward, in hopes of over¬ 
 taking her. But he arrived at the castle 
 without meeting her ; and entering the north 
 terrace, was encountered by Sir Walter, 
 who informed him that the Lady Bertlia 
 had not yet returned; that as he had ob¬ 
 served her from the watch-tower on the 
 sands, a considerable distance from the 
 castle, she had suddenly disappeared behind 
 rocks, and. was followed to the same spot by two men, who 
 apparent caution, were either foes or smugglers, who often infested the 
 
 coast. 
 
 i( ^ been watching for some time, my lord,” continued Sir Walter, “ but 
 have not yet observed her ladyship.” 
 
 No doubt was entertained but some sudden danger had befallen his Bertha; 
 and the impatience ol Allred scarcely admitted the time for procuring such need¬ 
 ful aid as could assist his search. Attended by his people, lie was rowed to the 
 spot where Sir \\ alter had beheld her sudden disappearance; and landing, they 
 examined the interior cavern, and searched each little creek and hollow, but to 
 no purpose; when the cries o! Bertha through the immense thickness of the 
 
 No 12 N 
 
90 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 rocky bulwarks, aroused their attention ; and being repeated, guided the noble 
 Alfred to the recess, where, with unfeigned transport, he clasped his Bertha 
 safely in his arms. 
 
 Bertha gratefully poured forth her thanks to her deliverer, and to those who 
 accompanied him. With joy she received again the picture of her mother, which 
 she had no doubt Harrold had by some means obtained in the hurry of flying from 
 his pursuit on a former occasion she, however, clasped it again on her arm, 
 resolving not to expose the baseness of Harrold to the anger of his brother. 
 
 The boat was put t(f shore beneath the terrace of the castle ; and Bertha be¬ 
 held^ herself in the embraces of the Baroness, whose joy was too evident to need 
 expression. 
 
 After the timely rescue that Bertha had found in the exertions of Alfred, the 
 latter had endured extreme anxiety ; and shocked at the danger to which she had 
 been exposed from the depravity and cruelty of Harrold, whom as a brother he 
 could not seek to chastise, and dared not lift his arm against, he debated how he 
 might in future guard her from his daring attempts, of which there was too great 
 reason to apprehend the consequences; and the only alternative that offered, was 
 the hope of an immediate alliance with the lady Bertha, w r hieh would at once 
 end all future fears, and give him the long desired claim of calling her for ever 
 his own. With conclusions such as these, he sought the Baroness to insure her 
 influence in his behalf with Bertha; for well .he knew the delicacy of her mind 
 would never admit of his plea, or consent to his entreaties for a secret marriage. 
 
 The lady Elvina heard his persuasive arguments in silent emotion and sorrow'; 
 she sighed deeply at the recollection that she now had not pow r er voluntarily to 
 confer happiness on two beings so worthy her nearest regards; for, acquainted 
 as she was with the favourite projected views of the Baron for the aggrandize¬ 
 ment of his family, she trembled to thwart, by her consent to the wishes of her 
 son, the designs of his father ; and though her heart acknowledged the merits of 
 Bertha, yet, under such forbidden auspicies, her prudence compelled her to op¬ 
 pose their secret union. Alfred, however, pleaded so powerfully the strength of 
 his passion, and the danger to which the object of his affections was exposed, 
 whilst unprotected against the threatened snares of Harrold, that, together with 
 his determined resolution never to become the husband of Isabella and the 
 pleasing innate satisfaction of being the means of preserving a being so every way 
 deserving her tenderest maternal care, she at length resolved to yield to the 
 only method that offered, to give security to the daughter of her friend, and hap¬ 
 piness to her son. It was therefore settled that she should herself be present at 
 their union on this very night; and at the hour of midnight they were to meet 
 separately in the castle chapel, where her own chaplain was to perform the 
 ceremony. 
 
 The last gleams of the declining sun w r ere impatiently watched by Alfred, 
 each moment brought him nearer the bourne of his eager wishes. A streaky red¬ 
 ness only bounded the western horizon, and evening began soon to cast her gloomy 
 mantle on the closing prospects of the expiring day. Evening herself declined 
 gently into the thick embraces of night; and each bosom that was concerned in 
 
91 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 the event of the hour of midnight, was variously employed in ruminations on the 
 
 coming moment, when the shrill horn of the castle proclaimed the approach of 
 strangers. 
 
 A trampling of horses sounded on the hollow pavement of the courts, and in a 
 few seconds the Baron with his knights and attendants entered the castle-hall; 
 Bertha felt relieved from a heavy weight of conscious upbraidings. The arrival 
 of the Baron she thought fortunate, as it must undoubtedly postpone the intended 
 interview and marriage, which if deferred till her father’s arrival, she should no 
 longer (under his tender approbations) hesitate to give her hand, where her heart 
 was already pledged by honour as well as love. 
 
 Alfred, although at first disconcerted and surprised at this unexpected return 
 of the Baron, soon recovered his composure; and softly whispering in the ear of 
 
 Bertha “ Remember twelve,” hastily arose from her side to welcome the 
 Baron. 
 
 The Baroness, not expecting her lord so soon, trembled and looked alarmed, 
 whilst in the countenance of the Baron were displayed strong marks of scrutiny 
 and anger. 
 
 Berths soon took an opportunity to retire unperceived to her own apartments, 
 were she found Ruth, who gave her a folded paper, she read these words— 
 
 u Be courageous, my adored Bertha, nor disappoint the hopes of your expect- 
 ing Alfred. Remember that'he waits with Father Benedine for your promised 
 attendance at the chapel; and as you value his future peace and happiness, fail 
 not to bless him with the wished-for moment that insures you his for ever. 
 
 “ Alfred. 
 
 She laid down the paper with a variety of sensations too indescribable to be 
 explained. Her destiny was then beyond recal; and since it was n^t possible 
 for her to retract, she resolved not to express any outward disapprobation, but to 
 assume as much composure as her agitated feelings would admit of. 
 
 The clock, however, chimed the hour of twelve ere she had reasoned herself 
 into sufficient resolution to enable her not to disappoint the expectations she had 
 raised. At length she arose, and Ruth, covering her with a thick veil, she trem¬ 
 blingly took the arm of her attendant, and entered the gallery. All around was 
 still, and the hall below obscured in total darkness. 
 
 Ruth shook and trembled with terror as they proceeded ; for the only road safe 
 from discovery was down the eastern corridor, and of necessity they must pass 
 the great portal ot the haunted chambers. The eastern towers adjoined the 
 church, divided from the main buildings by a flight of stairs and a vestibule piazza 
 that ran along one side of the ramparts. They were hastily proceeding down 
 the corridor, and had passed the door of the dreaded chamber, when Bertha, 
 impelled by a forgetful curiosity, cast her eyes on the portal, and aghast she 
 viewed its door slowly open, and a face of deadly hue appeared in the half-opened 
 intei space. For a moment it fixed a ghastly, appalling frown on the affrighted 
 Bertha, and vanished within the portal, which as instantly closed with quickness. 
 
 Happily for Bertha, terror had robbed her of all power of speech; and she 
 was on the point of rushing back to her own apartments, when she observed that 
 Ruth had not witnessed the dreadful spectacle. Assuming a desperate courage. 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 1)2 
 
 she flew past the tremendous door, and hurrying'down the stairs, sunk, at length 
 upon the balustrade, fainting and exhausted. 
 
 A distant approaching light, however, aroused her, and soon after the impatient 
 Alfred appeared. His cheering voice were never more gratefully received, nor 
 ever more needed bv Bertha, who, restored to composure, had resolution to 
 avoid informing him of tiie horrid apparition she had witnessed. 
 
 Alfred now supported her through the vestibule, and passing beneath a small 
 open postern, arrived at the chapel gates in silence. Conducted to the foot of the 
 altar, Bertha bowed meekly to the Father, but trembled too much to trust her 
 voice to speak. He blessed her, and she then anxiously cast her eyes around. 
 
 “ Will not the Baroness be present ?” she asked, in a low tremulous tone per¬ 
 ceiving her not in the chapel. 
 
 “ Be not alarmed at her absence,” replied Alfred ; “ the sudden, unexpected 
 return of the Baron might have rendered it dangerous to us all, had she quitted 
 her apartments, and have occasioned suspicions that would have proved detri¬ 
 mental to our little scheme of happiness.” 
 
 Bertha saw the necessity of the Baroness’s absence, and acquiesced in its pro¬ 
 priety, she prepared to receive the solemn vow, and Father Benedine began the 
 marriage ceremony. 
 
 When he reached that passage where the necessary questions are asking, Alfred 
 was answering in the affirmative, when a sudden glare of light flashed along the 
 gothic roof of the church, which in a moment was tilled with several people, and 
 a voice from among them loudly exclaimed,—“ Desist, I command you, or meet 
 a father’s malediction!” 
 
 The appearance of the Baron put an instant stop to the nearly concluded cere¬ 
 mony, and Bertha sunk silently to the earth, insensible to all around her. 
 
 The Baron approached the altar, and sternly commanded his people to take 
 the fainting lady Bertha to her own chamber. Then fixing on lord Alfred a 
 calm, determined look, said— 
 
 “ Degenerate boy! from you I never expected a conduct so opposite to my 
 wishes: be assured, she who has seduced your boyish fancy, and artfully ensnared 
 your affections, shall never be the wife of a son of mine. Retire, my Lord, and 
 in private teach your heart obedience to my wishes. My word you well know is 
 pledged for your alliance with the Countess of Clandale; prepare, therefore to 
 receive, within three days, the hand of Isabella, or meet the eternal displeasure 
 of your father by refusal.” 
 
 “ My lord,” interrupted Alfred, “you are well assured I will not dissemble, 
 nor condescend to deceive you, when I solemnly declare that no command, either 
 of duty or affection, power or anger, shall force me to resign those claims to the 
 lady Bertha, which I have ratified by sacred vows; nor can you hope 1 will 
 basely recal my plighted faith, to become the husband of the lady Isabella. The 
 ceremony which you have interrupted, though not entirely consummated, will by 
 me be held solemn and irrevocable; and in the presence of yourself and this 
 holy Father, swear never to break to her my blighted affections, or permit myself 
 to become the husband of another, on any consideration whatever.” 
 
 Alfred quitted the altar and sought the chamber of Bertha, whom he found 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 recovering her almost fleeting spirits; at the sight of Alfred she sighed as she 
 ejaculated— 
 
 “ Leave me, my lord, do not by your presence increase the painful sensations 
 
 I now endure, but quit me for ever, and forget that such a being as Bertha ever 
 existed.” 
 
 Forget vou! exclaimed Alfred, “ impossible ! you are my wife, more dear 
 to me than life itself, I will never leave you! let us quit this castle, dear Bertha, 
 
 for a place of greater security, where the ceremony may be again repeated, safe 
 irom interruptions. ’* 
 
 I entreat,” ejaculated Bertha. “ Urge me no more, I have been wrong, 
 my reason was blinded by a prospect of attainable happiness ; I will not force 
 my sell on a noble house, whose head has forbidden our union. I conjure yon, 
 leave me, nor by your stay morose the misery of this prohibited interview.” 
 
 Bertha with persuasive arguments, though she felt keenly the sacrifice, con¬ 
 vinced Alfred of the necessity of this parting, to which he unwillingly assented, 
 alter a promise that she would meet him the next evening in the library. 
 
 Dejected and unhappy, she passed a restless night; she spent the succeeding 
 morning preparing for her secret return to the Abbey. She .commissioned Ruth, 
 with instructions to Adrian, to have the horses ready at the postern beneath the 
 terrace that opened among the cliffs. She wrote a few lines to the Baroness, 
 thanking her for her kind protection, and that hey removal from the castle, was 
 indispensable and pressing. Having folded the letter, and placed it on the cabinet 
 she felt she had acted right whatever might be the event. 
 
 Evening had come, and she now grew impatient, but Ruth came not, when the 
 door softly opened, she was hastily throwing her veil over her shoulders to quit 
 the castle, when she beheld not Ruth, but the Baron, overpowered at the sight 
 of a visitor so unexpected: she stood for some moment mute ; but recovering her 
 self respect she coldly demanded, what motive she was to attribute the honour of 
 so unexpected an interview. 
 
 The baron appeared troubled and uneasy, as with profound respect, he thus 
 began— 
 
 “ Will the lovely lady Bertha, forgive the selfish man whom she must view 
 with justly excited aversion and hatred : do not judge too harshly my proceedings ; 
 lor had my son earlier made known to me his choice, I should not have pledged 
 my word to my departed friend for his alliance with his daughter; and though I 
 regret the unhappy event, yet is my honour given, beyond my power of recgl.” 
 
 To have been envied the bride of lord Alfred,” replied Bertha, “ was a pre¬ 
 sumptuous aspiration ; but I have atoned for my error. I shall shortly quit the 
 caStle, with the assurance that under such circumstances, the lord Alfred is free 
 from his engagements to me. I presume your lordship is satisfied.” 
 
 The Baron took his leave. 
 
 Agitated with contending struggles, Bertha descended to the hal|. The 
 Baroness was present, her pale looks, bespoke the anguish of her mind at the 
 dangerous task Alfred had imposed on himself; and when the hour of his retire¬ 
 ment arrived, he arose to quit the hall. The Baroness ejaculated— 
 
 “ Heaven guard my son!” and sunk fearfully into the arms of Eeytha, and 
 "’as borne from the banquet to her own chamber. 
 
94 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ALFRED, as he quitted the hall, recalled to his mind the anguish he [had, 
 during the hour of banquet, observed in the countenance oi his lovely Bertha ; 
 and once he even perceived the tear start to her eye, which, when she found he 
 had noticed, she struggled to suppress; almost resolved him to abandon to some 
 future opportunity, the enterprise he had engaged in. 
 
 But his dread of exciting the ridicule of the Baron conquered this hesitation 
 of love’s alarms! and taking the lamp from one of the trembling attendants, he 
 pursued undauntedly his way to the eastern towers. 
 
 From what uncommon cause Alfred knew not, (for he was incapable of per¬ 
 sonal fear), but as he reached the door, a sudden spasm seized with benumbing 
 coldness his heart, and the quick pulsation of its movements for some instants 
 entirely ceased; lie felt it was not fear, but the sensation was new, and never 
 before experienced. For a moment he slightly felt himself overcome by a supersti¬ 
 tious kind of awe that seemed to forbid his entering these desolated chambers; but 
 after a short debate with his reason and his courage, he shook off the enfeebling 
 presentiment of evil, ashamed of having yielded to a momentary alarm, so weak 
 and unfounded. Drawing his sword, lie inwardly ejaculated— 
 
 If there be a supernatural mystery in those old chambers, it is for the honour 
 of my father’s house that I search into its cause/ Convinced of the rectitude of 
 my intentions, I will proceed cheerfully in the enterprise, remembering that he 
 who suffers not the sparrow’s fall w ithout his special leave, will also guard me in 
 the moment of peril. 
 
 Re-animated by the foregoing reflections, he approached the gothic portal, 
 fixed the key within its rusty holds, and with some little exertion turned it in its 
 wards, w r hen the door slowly grating on its hinges, displayed the glooms of the 
 chamber within, w T hose murky and even terrific aspect seemed to frown upon 
 the bold intruder. 
 
 The first, and the one beyond it, as he examined these desolate ruined apart¬ 
 ments, were spacious, lofty, and extensive; the floors were covered with a thick 
 incrustation of damps and dust, mildewed to a hard substance, which rendered it 
 slippery, and dangerous for the feet to tread upon. 
 
 A few remnants of antique furniture were placed in the recesses, and the 
 windows were nearly stripped of the small girt casements. 
 
 Alfred’s spirits felt] the effect of this gloomy scene; Shuddering, he scarce 
 knew why, he crossed another chamber in like desolation and ruin with the 
 former. Having here found little to engage attention, he proceeded to an opposite 
 door, which stood half open, and after a little hesitation, entered what appeared 
 to have once been a state bed-chamber; but its freezing dampness struck coldly 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 9o 
 
 to the heart of Alfred, whilst its decaying dilapidated state, its shattered and 
 crumbling furniture, together with the narrow pointed vaulted casements, the 
 many recesses of the walls seemed to point it out as a place well calculated to 
 conjure up appalling ideas of dreadful deeds. The small high windows were 
 secured from all access by cross bars of iron, that reached from the ceiling of the 
 chamber to the floor, and seemed the only emblems of strength that were capable 
 of resistance. 
 
 “ In this very apartment,” mentally ejaculated Alfred, “ recorded history 
 relates duke Richard was confined, and in this place according to ancient belief, 
 murdered!” 
 
 He started at the thought; and as he sighed over the fate of the unfortunate 
 prince, fancied his sigh was re-echoed, and for a moment he listened in mute 
 suspended attention, but all was silent as death, and he concluded that it was 
 the desolate forlornness of the place that had raised imaginary fantasies. 
 
 Approaching the heavy canopied bed, and holding his lamp still nearer to its 
 grandeur, he was surprised to find that it was by no means in a corresponding 
 state of ruin with the other parts of the room. 
 
 The hangings and drapery were of dark green velvet, lined with a dingy 
 coloured satin that once had been white, and edged with a deep fringe of gold; 
 the bed itself was covered with what had once been a richly embroidered white 
 velvet coverlid, but the bright beauties of its varied colours were now entirely 
 destroyed, and dust, age, and mildew' had nearly reduced it to disgusting tatters. 
 
 For some time Alfred stood contemplating this w r reck of majesty.—“Once,” 
 he reflected, “ these desolate ruins were the scene of beauty and pleasing tumult; 
 they have glittered in the sunshine of prosperity, and, like their last inhabitant 
 shone bright in the glare of regal pomp and greatness. Alas! how fallen ! 
 Where now is the moving spring that gave life and animation to all around. 
 
 How transitory and short-lived are all the pleasure of this life. Alfred found 
 that these melancholy scenes excited reflections rather opposite to the courage 
 necessary for the occasion ; and to divert his thoughts, he quitted the couch, and 
 proceeded in his examination of the room. 
 
 Spme antique remnants of furniture leaned for support against the w alls of the 
 recesses, and near the black marble fire-place stood a once richly embossed table ; 
 closely adjoining it was placed a high-backed chair of state. It stood in a 
 position that seemed to declare it had never been moved from the exact station 
 that it had been left in by the last solitary inhabitant of this now' gloomy 
 chamber. 
 
 The dark green velvet curtains that hung in fragments against the broken case¬ 
 ments, were agitated by the wind; and the window being lower and larger than 
 the others, Allred made a ladder of the cross iron gratings that extended to the 
 ground, and climbing to the top of the w indow space, had a faint view' of the 
 sky and the distant prospect bounded by the forest tops and the steeps of the 
 northern mountains. 
 
 While thus engaged, he was startled by the faint echoes of a noise like the 
 closing of a door, which sounded as if it proceeded from the rooms beneath. For 
 some time he remained in suspense as to the cause of it, till he concluded that it 
 
9 6 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 was perhaps the wind which being now tremendous had forced itself through 
 some hollow inlet, and blown to tlie door ol some distant rdom that had been 
 left open in the chambers below. 
 
 Satisfied with this very possible'conclusions he suffered not his mind to receive 
 alarm from a circumstance so easily reconciled ; and having closed the door 6* 
 the chamber, began to search the walls, to see if in any of their recesses there 
 were any concealed divisions he had not yet discovered ; when, hording the light 
 beneath a heavy vaulted arch, he perceived a cabinet of ebony, envVrought with 
 ivory and golden fretwork. * , . 
 
 The key still remaining, induced Alfred to turn it in its rusty wards, and the 
 small folding doors opening, discovered several drawers and inner compartments; 
 when touching a small piece of iron, which was a spring-lock, he pressed it for¬ 
 cibly, aiid the lid of the cabinet unfastening, he found it was designed for a shal¬ 
 low deception of the well that it concealed; his curiosity being excited, he deter¬ 
 mined to pursue its gratification; “ for at least,” he reflected, “ here may be some¬ 
 thing to challenge scrutiny.” 
 
 The whole of the interior appeared in high preservation. Pressing his hand 
 upon a sliding panel, it gave way, and he discovered another well, in which he 
 beheld several precious ornaments, jewels, and valuables ; but looking still bli¬ 
 ther, he found a small bundle of papers, which holding nearer to the light, dis¬ 
 played on the outward envelope several legible written characters, 
 
 His curiosity was now strongly engaged to know their contents, he hastitly took 
 possession of the great high-backed chair, and drawing it still nearer the lamp, 
 which he retrimmed, he perused with horror and astonishment, the dark-meaning 
 contents. 
 
 Starting with amazed suspense, he exclaimed, <i Great God ! what mysterious 
 words are here!”—With eager attention he perceived written, in evident uncer¬ 
 tainty, the names of beings whose possessors made him tremble at their guilt- 
 The first sensations of his astonishment subsiding at the dark discovery, now in¬ 
 duced him to begin regularly the perusal of this mystery and dreadful suffering ; 
 and so deeply was his attention engaged, that he forgot his gloomy situation, and 
 even his appointment with his loved Bertha. 
 
 Neither did he hear the noise that disturbed the stillness of all around, nor see 
 the terrific opening of tlie floor in a distant corner of the dreary chamber, and 
 admitted a figure which, as it approached, fixed its eyes full upon the deeply 
 engaged Alfred ; who was not disturbed till the sudden removal of his sword 
 from the table where he had placed it ; but he now found it presented to his own 
 breast, whilst a voice pronounced, in direful and deadly sounds,—“ Tremble?” 
 
 The well remembered tones and never to be forgotten expression were again 
 for the second time repeated, appalled the heart of Alfred. Slowly lifting up 
 his eyes, he beheld no spectre, but a being whose dark intents were for more 
 dreadful than all the imagery of supernatural vision could conceive, for they were 
 fixed on the terrific countenance of a brother, in whose stern features he plainly 
 read his destiny. 
 
 The natural firmness of his heart, did not desert him ; and he was rising 
 with seeming outward composure, when Han-old, presenting the sword to the 
 heart of its master, slowly pronounced— 
 
97 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 44 Stir not! speak not! attempt not to make the slightest noise or movement 
 from this place, for never shall you pass the bourn of these chambers living !” 
 
 Horror ^nd despair now seized the noble Alfred ; he saw his doom. His sword 
 was in the hands of his deadly foe; and at a short distance stood Hugo, armed 
 with a bow and arrow. 
 
 Harrold with savage triumph looked at his brother and said— 44 The hour of 
 thy fate is arrived. From the days of infancy I detested thee, thou wert the 
 bane of my ambition.—But for thee, the heiress of Clandale had been mine ; and 
 the enslaving Bertha given me perfect happiness. Wretch! does not thy soul 
 shrink within thee. Harrold bids thee despair: thyself has wrought the ruin that 
 awaits thee.” 
 
 44 I never injured thee,” cried Alfred. 
 
 “ Ah! never injured me!” interrupted Harrold, 44 Insolent boy behold thy 
 death,” drawing a dagger from his belt. 44 This moment is thy last;,this mo¬ 
 ment gives me vengeance.” 
 
 44 Heaven have mercy on me!” cried Alfred. 
 
 44 Down, down for ever” exclaimed the fratricide, plunging his dagger to 
 the heart of his victim. He threw him to the ground. In that moment a pier¬ 
 cing shriek ran echoing through the chamber. A form clothed in while, rushed 
 into the room and sunk motionless upon the bleeding body. Remorse now seized 
 
 No. 13. 
 
 o 
 
98 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 the soul of Harr old. For a moment he hung over the bodies and in half sup¬ 
 pressed accents exclaimed.—“ Wliat have I done? Whom have I slain? a bro¬ 
 ther ! ’Tis oh God! a brother that never injured me!—Such are the damned 
 curses of avarice and aspiring ambition !” 
 
 To account for the unexpected appearance of Bertha at a time of such liorror, 
 was oppressed by a deep and heavy slumber, the image of a terrific dream dis¬ 
 tracted her sleeping senses, and ste beheld the two strangers who had first 
 alarmed her in the forest, and in her vision were again repeated ; the scene then 
 changed to the interior of the eastern chamber, she saw the dreadful action there 
 performed. A piercing shriek awoke her from ti^e dreadful vision. She flew to 
 the scene of horror, and became at once mercifully insensible to her own misery. 
 
 Tjlie safety of Harrold aroused'him to the necessary consideration that Bertha 
 had been an innocent witness to his guilt, he trembled at the danger of a disco¬ 
 very; there was but one way left, to make all safe : the dead reveals no secrets, 
 and he paused upon the dreadful alternative. 
 
 The day faintly broke, and still found Harrold undetermined. At length, 
 however, the point of his dagger was entering the bosom of Bertlia, when she 
 gave signs of returning animation ; a deep sigh told she breathed, and she slowly 
 raised her dejected frame. 
 
 Raising herself on her knees, but still hanging over the bleeding corpse, she 
 faintly ejaculated,— 
 
 “ It.was your brother, Harrold! Great God ! your o\vn brother,” and she 
 fell again on the body, regardless of all around. 
 
 Harrold now determined on her fate, he shook the arm of Bertha and loudly 
 exclaimed-— 
 
 “ Bertha, awake! awake, I say, and listen to the only alternative to preserve 
 existence, swear, by every tie divine and human, by all the future fears of punish¬ 
 ment, never to betray my fatal secret, this swear, as thou hopest for mercy 
 
 Bertha awoke to consciousness, faintly articulated, “ spare me!” 
 
 “ Take the oath demanded !” furiously exclaimed Harrold. 
 
 “ Will nothing but an oath preserve me?” 
 
 “ Nothing !” he added, with a determined tone of voice. 
 
 An instinctive hope, made her turn her eyes towards the door for succour, then 
 wildly round the room, till she again rested on the murdered Alfred; she would 
 have fallen, but was held in the arms of the murderer whilst the horrid oath 
 was administered, and the words— 
 
 % 
 
 “ I swear !” escaped her lips ; and she became, in an instant after, as motion¬ 
 less as the murdered Alfred. % 
 
 Harrold, commanded Hugo to remove the body, and close up the apartment, 
 then taking the insensible Bertha in his arms to the secret way by which he had 
 entered, bearing bis hapless burthen from the scene of death and murder. 
 
MYSTElilKS OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE next morning all was terror and confusion at the castle. Neither Alfred 
 nor Bertha could be found, the baron concluded they had left together, he flew 
 to the chamber of the latter. But his search was vain: and only the letter ad¬ 
 dressed the preceding day to the baroness, remained to explain the mystery. 
 This he tore open and read,—“ From pressing necessity, she had quitted the 
 castle ; which though now concealed, deserves not to render her less worthy your 
 esteem and love. Adieu! Mother of God protect you t” 
 
 The baron was now confirmed in his suspicions; he had not the least doubt 
 but she was accompanied by Alfred, his son. At length the baron determined 
 on an instant search through the castle, but an attendant entering, presented a 
 folded paper, found in the apartments of Alfred. The baron snatched it eagerly, 
 and thus perused :— 
 
 4 I have flown for ever from your sight! you have deprived your son of all 
 that can make life desirable ; in future we are sundered for eternity. The do¬ 
 mains of Etherwold I bequeath to my Brother Harr old, never will you behold 
 your wretched outcast. 
 
 Alfred.’ 
 
 The baron’s mind was agitated, with the deepest anxiety the whole day, for 
 the return of his son. He hastened to lady Isabella. She met him with emotion 
 of soul though her pride disdained to show her real feeling, at length she severely 
 said— 
 
 “ The meaning of this flight my lord is to avoid a union with the despised, 
 rejected Isabella? The lady Bertha is, ere this, the bride of my lord Alfred.” 
 
 “ My curse light upon them, if it so proves,” furiously ejaculated the baron. 
 
 The lady Isabella was of a temper too imperious to stoop to complaints, she 
 replied majestically “ My lord you must forgive if without your leave, I insist 
 on my departure from the castle. I cannot stoop to sue where I have a right 
 to exact obedience, I have humbled myself in my compliance to your lorship’s 
 wishes to your youngest son. I never will accept the hand of lord Harrold ; I shall 
 seek a retreat in my own possessions, free from that shame, I have endured here!” 
 she then, bowing to the baron quitted the apartment, and shortly after left the 
 castle. 
 
 We now return to Harrold who, bore his insensible burden across the dreary 
 chamber, and descending the secret trap, rested Bertha on a stone seat, till she 
 had recovered from her torpid lethargy. 
 
 At length a deep sigh gave token of returning animation : and, opening her 
 eyes, she found herself supported by Harrold, enclose/! in a dreary vault. 
 
100 
 
 THE HEIRESS; OR THE 
 
 She attempted to liberate herself, impelled by instinctive loathing. She arose 
 with disordered wildness, and darting along the caverned passages of the earth, 
 till she found herself in total darkness, when at the turning of a projection of 
 rocks, the light carried by Harrold flashed through the passage, as he loudly 
 exclaimed—“Stop! or you will plunge to eternal destruction!” Bertha pas¬ 
 sively waited his nearer approach, and became sensible she stood on the brink 
 of a seemingly bottomless abyss. 
 
 Harrold now took the hand of Bertha, regardless of her struggles, and led her 
 down a flight of rude stairs, that were cut in the rocks, every step they took 
 threatened to plunge them into the gulph below. At length they placed their 
 feet upon a narrow platform, raised across the abyss, and again regaining the 
 basis of the solid rock, they in silence continued to trace an immense track of 
 rocky cavities. 
 
 The wretched Bertha, now became nearly unable to move,—“ I can go no 
 further,” she despairingly exclaimed—“ let me here expire in peace !” 
 
 “Remember your oath!” furiously exclaimed Harrold, “ on the subject of 
 this nights’s events be dumb for ever, should a word pass your lips, you shall 
 feel my vengeance.” 
 
 “ I am already your victim,” she faintly replied “ you cannot inflict greater 
 misery than I now suffer.” 
 
 The deep branching recesses of the caverns now began to lesson; and soon 
 after the exhausted Bertha, perceived a small iron grated door near the extremity 
 of the cavern ! which being opened, she found herself in a wide extended place:; 
 and as her eyes glanced round, piles of mouldering coffins met her view. The 
 horrors of this dismal scene, and the ghastly sight of the remains of human 
 skeletons that lay scattered in the pathway, together with the confined human 
 vapours, subdued the last struggling efforts of nature; the spirits of Bertha fled: 
 she fell insensible amidst the appalling objects that surrounded her. The hideous 
 scene was closed from her horror-struck sight, and these regions of death and 
 eternity she no more beheld. 
 
 How long Bertha continued insensible, is uncertain; but on awakening from 
 her trance of terror, she found herself in a purer atmosphere, and the bright 
 illuminations of day had chased the former darkness from her memory. 
 
 As she cast her eyes around, they rested on objects familiar to her sight; she 
 was enabled to distinguish that she was now within the w T alls of the old detached 
 library of Brandon Abbey. Her mind, however, Mas too unsettled to feel 
 either pleasure or astonishment, she arose from the seat on which she had re¬ 
 clined, and moved toward the door of the chamber, which opening, gave her 
 admission to the south-west gallery, that led to the private turret chamber of her 
 father. With forlorn, uneven steps, she ascended the spiral stairs, and found 
 herself once more in the apartment of Sir Godfrey. 
 
 “ Ah, my beloved parent!” she exclaimed aloud in anguish, “ how little did 
 you think I should so soon experience the mournful certainty of your M ords I” 
 
 “ Bertha!” cried a feeble voice, in a tone of enquiry—“ Bertha !” 
 
 A sudden gleam of despairing pleasure illuminated the sad features of Bertha ; 
 the voice was nature’s self speajting in thrilling accents to her aching heart, and 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY 
 
 i 01 
 
 she hastily passed through the open door of the sleeping chamber of Sir Godfrey. 
 
 She cast her eyes around, but saw not what she sought. 
 
 i ‘ Is it delusion,” she eried, impatiently lifting up the hangings that were closed 
 round the lofty canopy of the bed. But ah, miserable child! what complicated 
 increase of woe awaits thy anguished sight! 
 
 Her ear had not deceived her, and she had heard her father’s voice. He lay 
 reclined upon the bed, not in ease and health, but fast sinking to his eternal 
 rest. 
 
 “ Oh God ! Oh God! what new anguish oppresses me !—My father!” she ex¬ 
 claimed, sinking into his dying arms, “ Oh my father, stay and take me with 
 you!’* 
 
 The paleness of his countenance, had struck the agony of conviction to her 
 benumbed senses, that he was past recal. A piercing shriek rung echoing through 
 the chamber. Sir Godfrey was indeed within a few moments of ceasing to exist. 
 
 As soon as the weeping attendants had recovered Bertha, she placed herself 
 upon her knees beside the bed, and listened with silence to the words of her 
 dying parent. 
 
 “ My Child, spare me the excruciating addition of witnessing your unavailing 
 agony. I bless providence that has once more restored you to my sight. I have 
 much to reveal, but speech, I fear, will be denied me. When I shall be no 
 more, open the cabinet in yonder closet, and you will there find the last memorial 
 of my wishes for your welfareyou will there receive the clue that will unfold 
 the mystery of your own and your father’s sorrowing fate. I exact no further 
 surety than your promise to obey implicitly the directions contained in the papers. 
 You are the heiress of this Abbey, and all its lands. Should your title be 
 disputed, then search for the papers which relate to your future rights, according 
 to the directions contained in the memorial you will find in the cabinet: they 
 are concealed with the others in the secret repository beneath the ruined cloisters, 
 
 and will amply repay the search.—Bless thee, my child!—Shun the-the 
 
 house of Nev-Neville: Beware of-Oh !”-With a faint sigh the breath 
 
 of life escaped, and the suffering Sir Godfrey rested in peace for ever.” 
 
 Bertha was carried, insensible and passive, from the chamber of the deceased 
 to her own. 
 
 On the following night Sir Godfrey was committed to the earth. A train of 
 Monks and Choristers from the Abbey of St. Austin, arrived to pay the lost res¬ 
 pectful office to his remains, and he was borne to the Abbey church, where he 
 had particularly desired to be interred. 
 
 Bertha, whom no entreaties could prevent from attending this last solemn duty, 
 supported the painful scene with heroism. The ceremony ended, she sunk beside 
 the grave, and inwardly ejaculating a prayer for the peace of the departed, raised 
 in her hand the earth that had been thrown-upon the coffin, to her lips, which 
 kissing, she again let fall, exclaiming,— 
 
 “ Farewell my father, my friend, my only comforter, farewell forever! We 
 meet no more in this, but in a better world our happiness will be immutable.' 
 
 When time had in a great measure overcome the violence of her sorrow, 
 
102 
 
 THE HEIRESS. OR THE 
 
 Bertha summoned Oswell, to inquire of him her father’s actions during' his absence, 
 and the cause that hurried him back to breath is last sigh, on the morn of his 
 return. 
 
 “ Alas, my lady !” replied Oswell, “ ’tis a sad subject; Sir Godfrey, from his 
 anxiety to arrive at the end of his journey, had exerted himself beyond his shat¬ 
 tered strength. He had nearly accomplished it, when he was overcome with the 
 exertion he had made, and he lay dangerously ill. The delay was death to the 
 success of the cause he had embarked in, and the consequences proved fatal to 
 his life ; for his disappointment in being unable to pursue his journey to the end, 
 so greatly deranged his intellects, that for many days rendered him insensible* 
 In one of his most lucid intervals, the mysterious stranger again appeared, and 
 was shut up with him in private conference;—the subject of their discourse is 
 unknown, but, on his departure, Sir Godfrey commanded their immediate return 
 to the Abbey. The effects of the stranger’s visit had operated dreadfully ; and 
 tvith alarm, he perceived the sudden change it had produced. Sir Godfrey, con¬ 
 scious of his approaching dissolution, increased his malady by the fears and ago¬ 
 nies he endured on his daughter’s account; and anxious to behold her once again, 
 he quickened the last moments of life by the fatigues he underw ent in being 
 carried again to the Abbey : where, by care and attention he was brought and 
 lodged in his own chamber, whilst a messenger, sent to the castle, w r as ordered 
 to hasten the return of Bertha, who arrived there nearly at the time that the un¬ 
 happy sufferer w as conducted through the vaults of the castle, which had a com¬ 
 munication with those of the Abbey ; and hence it was that the dying Sir Godfrey 
 was saved the distress, had he known the dreadful scenes to which his loved 
 child had been exposed. 
 
 With the sudden misfortune of her father’s death, expired every hope of dis¬ 
 covering the mystery of her own and his disastrous fate : the long-hidden secret 
 ended in obscurity, and every vestige of its cause seemed buried in his grave. 
 
 She questioned Osw r ell, if her father had expressed any wish that he might 
 desire to have fulfilled :— 
 
 “ No, my lady,” replied Oswell; t( he indeed one day called me to his bed¬ 
 side, and bade me never desert my young mistress when he was gone ! I could 
 not speak, my lady, but he seemed satisfied and bade me not grieve him by my 
 sorrow. He said that your ladyship should know all if he lived to return to the 
 Abbey ; but if he did not, he charged me to remind you to open the cabinet as 
 soon as he w r as buried.” 
 
 Bertha remembered she had too long delayed this enjoined duty, and she re¬ 
 solved this night to perform it. As soon as the inhabitants of the Abbey had 
 retired, and sleep had closed every eye, she took her lamp, and quitting her 
 apartment, approached that of Sir Godfrey’s. At the door of wdiich she paused, 
 and it was some moments before she could find resolution to open it:—at length 
 she entered. The silent stillness and solemn melancholy that reigned around, 
 increased the sad dejection of her spirits; she shuddered as she cast a fearful 
 glance upon the dark-covered bed; she crossed the now forlorn apartment, and 
 entered the lesser closet, where stood the cabinet. 
 
 Having opened the cabinet, and searched for the papers concealed in the 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 1 03 
 
 drawers, she drew a chair to the table, began to peruse the first, which contained 
 these emphatic words:— 
 
 Be cautioned against the taking of enforced oaths, for they are the sure 
 ministers of dishonour, and lead to misery and destruction.—Such, Oh my child ! 
 are the causes of your own and your father’s ruin!” 
 
 ***** 
 
 Bertha shuddered : and her blood chilled within her veins as she recalled the 
 horrid vow she had been compelled to take. 
 
 “ Merciful God !” she exclaimed, “ for what am I reserved ?—My father was 
 the victim of forced vows, and his wretched child now doubly inherits them!” 
 
 Laying this paper aside, she opened another ; its contents ran thus :— 
 
 ic M y c hild, should I not return alive, those instructions will guide you to the 
 means of recovering, at full, the story of your father’s wrongs, which now lie 
 concealed, with the deeds and writings concerning the Abbey, in an iron chest, 
 of which the key is enclosed.” 
 
 , ***** 
 
 Bertha searched among the papers, but could not find any key, or the instruc¬ 
 tions mentioned by her father, for the sheets seemed to have been torn, for several 
 paragraphs, so that the connexion was destroyed from the preceding parts. 
 She concluded that some person had gained access to the cabinet, whose motives 
 for such proceedings served to convince her that she had an unknown foe, whose 
 dangerous sting she must guard against, and who was doubtless, the cause of her 
 father’s sorrows a»d mysterious actions. She again examined the torn papers, 
 but those that were not destroyed, had no relation to her present search. The 
 only one that claimed her attention, was dated on the night of her father’s depar¬ 
 ture, it ran thus— 
 
 “ My child will only be secure from the designs of the heiress of Neville, in 
 the guardianship and protection of the baron and baroness of Wilden. The 
 latter is acquainted with some part of my concerns, but the seal of secrecy binds 
 her to silence. Give into her possession all the papers you will find in the iron 
 chest, when you have discovered them.” 
 
 ***** 
 
 A deep groan escaped her, at the thoughts of returning to the terrific castle. 
 
 At length, she returned to the perusal of the paper, which finished with in¬ 
 structions where to find her mother’s jewels, and some other valuables, that 
 would be needful witnesses of her claims at a future period. These he advised 
 her to remove to the iron chest as soon as found, which, with a sum of money, 
 were now deposited in the secret drawers of the cabinet. 
 
 Bertha opened the divison described ; she there found her father’s picture, and 
 a very considerable sum of money ; but her most minute search could not enable 
 her to discover the other valuables, which had evidently been removed. 
 
 Bertha sighed at this unexpected destruction of her expectations; the papers 
 she was to search for, were, she well knew, concealed in some recess in the 
 vaults of the Abbey; but in what direction they were situated, or where she was 
 to seek for them, was a difficulty no effort could lead to the hope of overcoming. 
 
 The necessity of her quitting the Abbey for the safer protection of the castle, 
 
10* 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 however, now forcibly struck her ; she considered that, by staying longer, she 
 might expose herself to fresh dangers. 
 
 With a sigh, that expressed her hopeless state ever of obtaining a light upon 
 this mystery, she closed the cabinet, and quitting the chamber, was about to 
 recross the other, when she thought she caught a sight of a gliding form. Con¬ 
 cluding that the state of her mind had worked up her imagination, she was leav¬ 
 ing the apartment, when a deep echoing sigh broke upon her ear, and a deep 
 toned, hollow voice pronounced, in slow and piercing accents— 
 
 “ Shun the dangers which here await you, and quit the Abbey ere you become 
 its prisoner. ” 
 
 Bertha was now convinced that she had not been deceived ; and the terrible 
 certainty that the apartments were the resort of some being, almost overpowered 
 her, and she sunk, over-whelmed with affright, upon the seat once occupied by 
 Sir Godfrey, waiting, in dread expectancy, the appearance of an awful ap¬ 
 parition. 
 
 Some moments passed in fearful suspense, but silence reigned around. A little 
 re-animated, she arose from her seat, and as fast as her terror would permit, left 
 the room; then hastily fastening the door, she glided swiftly across the corridors, 
 and entered once more her own apartments. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IT was some time before Bertha regained composure of mind ; and as she re¬ 
 clined upon her couch, she deeply reflected upon the late terrific scene. The 
 voice she had heard, she felt convinced proceeded from the spirit of her deceased 
 parent! and as this idea gained ground in her mind, it became a melancholy 
 means of comfort and resignation to her speedy departure from the Abbev, 
 
 The baron of Wilden, when informed of Sir Godfrey’s death and Bertha’s 
 flight, though still at a loss to conjecture the cause of her so privately absenting 
 herself from the castle, experienced an unfeigned joy in the certainty that she 
 had flown no further than the Abbey, and really unaccompanied by his son. And 
 now that he found Bertha was bequeathed by her father to the care of the baro¬ 
 ness, and that in the will of the deceased his own name had been slightly men¬ 
 tioned as a mark of respect, he resolved to exert that authority which Sir Godfrey- 
 had only intended to be executed by the baroness, and, investing himself with 
 the usurped guardianship ol his daughter, claim a right over her actions. 
 
 In the name, therefore, of Elvina, he had repeatedly sent to the Abbey, to 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 105 
 
 request her return to the castle: but Bertha shuddering at its mention, had still 
 lingered from week to week, and delayed her unwilling removal: but the super¬ 
 natural warning she had received, made her resolve to depart on the following 
 morning: but on the return of Oswell, (who had been to the castle to signify 
 her intentions) he informed her that it had become the seat of war. Queen 
 Margaret having beat the Yoykists, in a late battle, and who had flown thither 
 for shelter, was preparing to besiege their nearly impregnable fortress. She 
 therefore delayed quitting the Abbey. 
 
 After some few days had passed, and night was far advanced, a loud 
 knocking at the south gates of the Abbey, alarmed the affrighted household. 
 The knocking continuing, Bertha commanded that entrance should be given to 
 the strangers. 
 
 “ Surely you do not mean to open the gates at this time of night my lady,” 
 replied Oswell. “ I dare not do it.” 
 
 li Then I will 1” exclaimed Bertha. 
 
 She was about to open the gates, but with caution she demanded the business 
 of the strangers. 
 
 A female voice replied, “ \Ve are pursued by enemies, and demands, shelter. 
 Quick!” 
 
 Bertha with difficulty drew back the bolts, and she beheld a lady of tall, ma- 
 
 No. 14. p 
 
106 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 r 
 
 jestic person, who held by the hand a blooming boy; she wore silver armour 
 studded, that enclosed her waist and arms, and upon her brow a helmet, whose 
 crest was covered with a plume of feathers : her face seemed clouded by grief, 
 and disappointment. She examined the features of Bertha, “ There is an open 
 sincerity in your aspect, that tells me I may rely on your truth, she said. 
 “ Say can you afford us a shelter from our pursuers.” 
 
 “ Such safety noble lady,” replied Bertha “ as the Abbey affords, you may 
 ■command from the orphan of Brandon. Follow me to the vaulted vestibule. 
 
 At that moment a confused sound of voices was heard in the hall beyond the 
 passage ; and the domestics in affright exclaimed aloud—“ The Abbey is beset 
 by soldiers!” 
 
 “Oh God ;” ejaculated the lady, “ the traitors have discovered us, and we 
 are lost, save us! save your queen—your prince, who now demands your duty 
 and fidelity.” 
 
 “Have faith, royal madam, in your true subject, and rely on her willing obe¬ 
 dience in your service,” softly whispered Bertha. 
 
 She then held the prince by one arm, whilst the queen, his mother, retained 
 the other, she hastily led them across the church ; gained the chamber where 
 Sir Godfrey had found shelter, on the first night of his arrival at the Abbey, and 
 forcing open the door that led to the south-west corridor, passed along the gallery 
 until she reached the saloon, and with haste proceeded to the secret panel, and 
 presenting a taper to the queen, she silently motioned for her visitors to enter: 
 and bowing reverently closed the panel. Almost overcome by her exertions, 
 she threw herself on a chair, at the instant that the door flew open, and the room 
 became filled with armed men. 
 
 “ This is the place I saw them enter,” exclaimed a tall warrior, w r ho seemed 
 the leader of the band—“ Search friends! be not alarmed, lady, we pursued 
 Margaret and her son from yonder gallery to this door: nor could they have 
 passed here without your knowledge.” 
 
 “ Stranger!” replied Bertha, “two such persons as you describe, hastily 
 passed through this chamber, but whither they have gone, I know T not.” In this 
 Bertha erred not, for she had never entered the secret passage. 
 
 “ Search the Abbey,” he exclaimed to his ferocious companions, and seizing 
 the hand of Bertha, was hurrying her out of the chamber, when the baron of 
 Etherwold entered. 
 
 “ Forbear this violence!” he exclaimed, “The lady Bertha is my ward;” 
 then turning to Bertha, he enquired where she had secreted the usurpers: 
 
 I am at this moment, my lord, unacquainted with the steps of the queen and 
 her son, nor can I direct your pursuit.” 
 
 The baron viewed with disappointme nt the firmness of Bertha. He had 
 entered the Abbey a conqueror, insolently triumphing over the unfortunate foe: 
 for Margaret had too prematurely hastened the seige of his impregnable castle, 
 ere the arrival of forces from the king came to strengthen her own army, were 
 rooted and the leader chased from the field of battle, whilst the queen and her 
 son were pursued to the very doors of the Abbey, and but for Bertha, must have 
 fallen into the hands of her enemies. The baron after a pause, said :—• 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 107 
 
 “ ’Tis in vain longer to conceal them from our search. We are well assured 
 the fugitives have here found refuge : should you persist in secreting them the 
 consequences may prove fatal to your interests.” 
 
 “ My lord,” replied Bertha, “ I will cheerfully conduct you through every 
 chamber of the Abbey ; if at the end you find not the objects of your search, you 
 will I trust acquit me of deception.” 
 
 The baron after a pause, dismissing his train from the apartments, took the 
 hand of Bertha, said—“ I will not constrain you to the fulfilment of your own 
 proposal, but as your residence has been invaded, and cannot in future afford 
 you a secure, undisturbed shelter from the ravages of w r ar, permit me to attend 
 you to the castle of Etherwold; the baroness will rejoice to behold her lovely 
 ward’s return. 
 
 A decree so settled, admitted no repeal: and unprepared as Bertha was for 
 so sudden a departure from the Abbey, which might be again exposed to the 
 daring violence of its fierce marauders, whilst the impossibility of affording suc¬ 
 cour to the royal fugitives, almost overwhelmed her with dread and terror 
 for the consequences that might ensue as soon as she had quitted the mansion ; 
 for she found from the resolute manner of the baron, he was not prepared to 
 admit of any plea for her longer denial of his request, and she dared not insist 
 on her stay, lest it should excite suspicions that might prove injurious to the 
 distressed queen, and lead to a secret of yet greater scrutiny: she therefore 
 with much reluctance was led by the baron through the hall, towards the forest, 
 and passed the second court of the Abbey, of which Bertha took a painful look 
 of regret, and was hurried almost immediately from its sight. 
 
 It was too late in the night, ere they arrived at the castle, to expect to see the 
 baroness: she returned the baron’s salute, and hastened to her former chamber. 
 On that dreadful night, so fatal to the life of Alfred, his remorseless brother, 
 returning througli the caverns that led from the castle to the Abbey, entered 
 once more the chambers of guilt, and murder. With gloomy discontent he cast 
 his eyes in fear around ; all was still as the grave. No object met his sight to 
 appal his thoughts; the bleeding corse of a murdered brother met not his view; 
 nor was a trace of blood visible:—but conscience, presented to his mind the 
 dreadful scene afresh. In a state of disorder and short repentant frenzy, he 
 threw himself on the floor, where he remained till his grim attendant once more 
 entered the bloody chamber, and roused him from his short-lived trance of con¬ 
 trition ; starting up and seizing the arm of Hugo he demanded— 
 
 “ Where hast thou placed the body?” 
 
 i( Sunk it to the bottom of the ocean!” replied Hugo. 
 
 “ Slave! dolt!” exclaimed Harrold with passion—“ the sea will wash to the 
 shore again the mangled corse. Wretch ! thou hast undone thyself and me.” 
 
 “ My lord” said Hugo “near the cliffs there is a whirlpool; thither, I con¬ 
 veyed the corpse, clogged and weighed down with stones, that soon dragged 
 the insensible Alfred down; and he instantly sunk beneath the bottomless abyss 
 of waters, never to rise again.” 
 
 “ ’Tis well—I will reward thee,” replied the gloomy fratricide, assured of his 
 security. 
 
108 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 But whither could he now turn his guilty steps?—To enter the presence of 
 his father, or the baroness, was impossible: he feared his features would too 
 legibly display his fatal secret in their murderous characters. He dared not 
 present himself within the castle: but he retained his dread attendant there as 
 a spy upon its passing occurrences. 
 
 It was on the second evening of Bertha’s return, that forlorn and desolate she 
 was sitting near the window of her apartment, when her thoughts was broken 
 by the sudden entrance of the baron; who gently taking her hand said— 
 
 “ The lady Bertha will doubtless be surprised when I declare my confession 
 of a fervent passion that has too long been kept secret from its object. Know 
 then, angelic creature! that I love you to distraction: I do by Heaven !—You 
 would remind me of Elvina,—that she is my wife: she is no longer so. The 
 pope has granted me a divorce, from one who has disgraced a station which you 
 alone can fill.” 
 
 Astonishment, and horror now seized Bertha: after a pause of silence, she 
 said, fixing her pale, anguished countenance and expressive eyes full on Egbert 
 —“ You know my heart was Alfred’s; you have destroyed for ever the happiness 
 of two beings: and to complete your cruelty, now dare to acknowledge an almost 
 incestuous passion for the betrothed w ife of your ruined son, doubly criminal to 
 your alliance with a noble spotless lady, and outrageous to every binding tie, 
 divine or human ; but the degrading insult of this moment demands from me as 
 firm assurance as the heart can give, that Bertha Brandon never can be any thing 
 to the baron of Wilden.” 
 
 She was has lily rushing from the chamber, when the baron caught her hand; 
 and sternly enquired, “ Whither would you go Bertha ?” 
 
 “ To the possessions of my father,” she proudly replied : “ they can secure 
 me from a moment like the present.” 
 
 <( You are mistaken lady,” interrupted the baron, “ you have no possessions; 
 your father usurped the title,—a domain he never had a claim to, nor his daughter 
 the heiress of”— 
 
 Bertha, struggling with the torrent of her feelings, calmly asked:— 
 
 “ Then who is the heir of Brandon, my lord ?” 
 
 <( The daughter of Emily, its former inheritress,” replied the baron, ** your 
 avow r ed and mortal foe, the present baroness of Neville.” 
 
 Bertha felt as if a bolt of thunder had struck her to the earth. That name, 
 so terrible, so often mysteriously mentioned, and the possessor of which she had 
 been taught to shun, that for a moment she was unable to speak, but the tear of 
 anguish started unbidden to her eye: she raised her clasped hands to her bosom 
 as the baron was quitting the apartment, when the baroness suddenly entered. 
 
 Egbert for a moment lost his command of feature: whilst a gleam of fury 
 shot from his eyes, and was cast on Elvina, he left the room. 
 
 The eyes of the baroness were moistened: at length she said— 
 
 “ My Bertha, the storm so long threatened, has at length overtaken me; 
 Heaven is my witness, I know not in thought or action how I have offended my 
 lord, but he seeks my ruin and dishonour. In your gentle bosom I seek a balm 
 for the misery that awaits me. Oh! whither can I look for hope of future 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 I Ob 
 
 peace but in you. Should but my secret emissaries find the retreat of my son, 
 and bring him to my arms, that instant should behold you his.” 
 
 “ Oh never, will that hour arrive that sees me the wife of Alfred,” sighed 
 forth Bertha, with a voice of despair. 
 
 “ Do you no longer love my son ? Do you regard lord Alfred?” said the baro¬ 
 ness in a hurried tone of surprise and disappointment.—“ Oh say, are you not 
 acquainted with the cause of his absence ? or is his wretched mother to experi¬ 
 ence greater sufferings in her fears for him ?” 
 
 “ He is-” Bertha feebly began, and would have added, “ lost to us both 
 
 for ever !” but as the fatal words were escaping her lips, and she had from excess 
 of faintness, thrown herself into a high-backed chair, a hollow voice, in low whis¬ 
 perings, breathed in her appalled ears—“ Remember your oaths, and tremble to 
 betray it.” 
 
 Wildly she started from the seat, and cast her eyes around the dark sides of 
 the gloomy chamber: but twilight had veiled every object from her view, but 
 those near her, and she saw nothing ■ to convince her of the certainty of her 
 auricular organs. She withheld from motives of feeling the shriek of agony that 
 nature would have sent to her relief, and she grieved inwardly. 
 
 At that moment four fierce-looking men entered the apartment. The foremost 
 who seemed their leader, addressing the baroness, said, with an impertinent 
 tone,—“’Tis my lord’s commands that, you instantly retire from these apart¬ 
 ments; we wait to conduct you.” 
 
 The baroness seemed shocked; but after a momentary struggle, recovered her 
 outward composure, and replied— 
 
 “ I follow you.—Droop not my love,” she softly whispered to Bertha ; “ this is 
 but a continuation of the injuries I have too long endured,” then kissing her 
 cheek, left the room, followed by the ruffians. 
 
 Bertha sunk fainting on the couch in an agony of grief: the sleep of innocence 
 soon weighed heavy on her senses, and forgetfulness lulled her harassed spirits : 
 but sharp-panged misery is too watchful to permit a long cessation of pain, and 
 a slight noise that broke upon the stillness of the night, awoke her. As she 
 opened her eyes, the feeble rays of a lamp, held over her, discovered to her 
 horror-struck sight the rusty blood-stained point of a dagger, aimed at her own 
 bosom, ready to give the fatal blow. 
 
 The light shone full upon the murderous countenance of Harrold, for it was 
 himself, and portrayed the purposes of his deadly visit. With a deep toned 
 voice he pronounced— 
 
 “ You have betrayed my secret, and purjured yourself: your life is justly for¬ 
 feited. I come to claim my awarded rights, therefore prepare to die; your fate 
 is inevitable and hope were impossible.” 
 
 The sudden horror of such a moment, and the sight of the gloomy form of 
 her destroyer, had for a moment robbed her sense and respiration: but the near 
 danger of such a scene almost as instantly recalled her faculties, and starting 
 from his murderous grasp, she fell prostrate on her knees, as she ejaculated— 
 
 “ Spare, oh relentless man ! Spare me. 1 never betrayed your secret, or 
 broke my solemn engagement: Heaven is my witness !” 
 
110 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 At that moment of horror, a hollow groan rung echoing through the chamber, 
 w hich sunk to the heart of the appalled Harrold : who casting his eyes around 
 on the repetition of the groan, beheld a pale and bloody form, whose well-re¬ 
 membered features bore the shrunk shadowy resemblance of the murdered Alfred. 
 A cold horror benumbed his senses : the spectre became stationary, and beckoned 
 in angry gestures, for his departure, as it pointed to the turret closet door, which 
 stood open, and by which Harrold had entered. The muscles of the latter 
 swelled with horror and convulsive agony: his eyes glared, and he retreated in 
 haste towards the closet. The form slowly pursued him : and as it reached the 
 portal, it lifted up its hollow sunken countenance, and fixing on Bertha a pitiful 
 look, disappeared in an instant from the chamber. The frenzied Bertha became 
 stunned with terror: and uttering an agonizing shriek, sunk senseless upon the 
 couch. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE castle of Etherwold was now become not only an armed fortress, but a 
 prison; the defeat of the Lancastrians had filled its holds w r ith captives. 
 
 Queen Margaret had escaped the pursuit of her foes; and in the night, ven¬ 
 tured from her secure recess in the Abbey, and once more reared her warlike 
 standard in opposition to the powers of York: and being quickly joined by an 
 increase of friends, soon gave promise to revenge the late defeat she had endured 
 at Etherwold, which was again threatened with an attack. 
 
 The mandate from the court of Rome at length arrived with the documents 
 ot the supreme Pontiff ; but Egbert, was doomed to a disappointment of his 
 wishes, and could not obtain an ecclesiastical repeal of his marriage with the 
 baroness, till the cause of his discontent was duly investigated : nor admit of a 
 divorce till, on full trial, it was evinced that Elvina had proved herself unwor¬ 
 thy of the sanction which the church was resolved to afford her, if innocent of 
 any crime that could provoke the baron’s proceedings. 
 
 A decision so honourable to Elvina had been obtained through the interposing 
 representations of the Abbot of St. Austin’s monastery, and was, by the Bull of 
 the Pope, invested with unlimited power to pronounce sentence according to the 
 justice due to either party. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. U1 
 
 St. Austin’s monastery M as not more than a league from the castle of Ether- 
 M old . and its superior M as a man of such eminent rank and unsullied virtue, 
 that to hope to bribe him to the interest of the baron, was impossible. 
 
 The morning of trial arrived. The hall M^as already filled with the knights 
 and cavaliers ; and the Abbot St. Henry, with a train of venerable fathers from 
 St. Austin’s Monastery, had assembled at the castle. Egbert, proudly secure of 
 success and triumph, entered the hall. 
 
 With an imperious, undaunted step, he took his seat on the chair of state; 
 M'hilst the pages of the monk St. Henry were dispatched to the apartments of 
 the baroness, to summon her presence in the hall. 
 
 Every eye M r as cast to the gallery from M r hence the illustrious Elvina Mas to 
 descend ; who, attended by her confessor, the Father Benedine, Ellen, and 
 Ama, soon after entered the hall. 
 
 The baroness Mas conducted to her seat by the Abbot St. Henry to the court. 
 At length, recovering from a moment emotion that had at first deprived her of 
 her firmness, she arose from her chair, and addressing the baron, she thus said_ 
 
 “ My lord, and husband, in obedience to your pleasure, I have submitted my¬ 
 self thus lowly to your Mill; and M r ith a full conviction upon my mind that you 
 seek my disgrace and shame, though God is my witness you have never had a 
 just cause to suspect my honour, my truth, or my fidelity.” 
 
 “ Of that the court shall judge,” replied the baron, sternly. “ Was it the 
 duties of a wife, in secret to plot against the peace of her husband, and trea¬ 
 cherously to assist in the forbidden union of her son, expressly against the will 
 of his father ?” 
 
 “ In that,” replied the baroness, “ I acted from the dictates of maternal affec¬ 
 tion, and the law of nature.” 
 
 “ But how will the lady EtheiMvold defend her conduct ?” interrupted the 
 baron, “ when informed that her meeting some months back with the stranger 
 in the forest, at midnight, was discovered!” Fury flashed from the eyes of Egbert 
 as he added, “ that stranger M'as the pretended Sir Godfrey Brandon, the 
 secreted object of her criminal love, and my dishonour; and for which I here, in 
 the open court, impeach thee, baroness of Etherwold, and sue for an aM ard due 
 to the injuries a wronged husband has sustained.” 
 
 The baroness became pale; she sunk on her seat, overcome with the cruelty 
 of a blow so dreadful and unexpected. She made no effort to repeal the charge ; 
 and this M as the dark scheme he had formed for the success of his daring enter¬ 
 prise. 
 
 The father Abbot, rising from his seat, pronounced—“If this be true, you 
 are justified, my lord ; and I am no longer empowered to withhold the article of 
 divorcement. Say you, baroness of EtherMold, are you guilty of what he doth 
 accuse you ?” 
 
 The baroness raised her head ; a few tears, expressive of her deep-insulted 
 feelings, came to her relief; but these she soon dashed away, and with audible 
 firmness replied, as she addressed herself to Egbert— 
 
 “ My lord, you have triumphed,—Heaven knoMs 1iom t unjustly—in the ruin 
 of an innocent and guiltless M r ife. You have with most untrue and slanderous 
 
112 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 breath, aspersed my name with the supposition of a crime that 1 will not deign 
 to repeal. But it is enough, and this last remorseless insult has taught me to 
 respect myself. I will no longer be compelled to remain in this disgraceful 
 
 court!” 
 
 She was quitting the hall, when the Father St. Henry requested hei to return. 
 —“ Stay, my daughter,” he mildly exclaimed ; “ if you have been wronged, ’tis 
 your duty to clear your conduct from the aspersions that are thrown upon it; and 
 be assured you shall not need support to justify you.” 
 
 “I thank my reverend father,” the baroness replied ; “ but the justice of my 
 cause I leave to heaven, since he on earth who alone can judge me, knows I am 
 guiltless of the crime he has raised against me.” 
 
 << Did you not meet Sir Godfrey Brandon in the forest?” questioned St. 
 
 Henry. 
 
 Once, and only once,” replied the baroness, “The female attendant who 
 accompanied me, was witness of our interview; and were she still living, could 
 testify the purity of our intentions.” 
 
 “ Explain its purport, lady,” replied the baron sternly ; “ if that accords 
 truly with your report, I am satisfied, and will rather seek your forgiveness than 
 your divorce.” 
 
 The baroness sighed deeply, and after a pause said— 
 
 “ In that I am forbidden by a solemn promise never to explain the trust re¬ 
 posed in me, which not even the disgraceful suspicions I now wrongfully suffer 
 for, can justify my betraying a confidence so sacredly committed to my keeping. 
 I am therefore content to submit to your will, and that your lordship may no 
 longer be restrained by the presence of Elvina, she means to withdraw herself 
 to the sisterhood of St. Austin’s; and for that end, again entreats the holy Father 
 to pronounce an award.” 
 
 The tears were, with an effort of uncommon fortitude, suppressed from flow¬ 
 ing down the cheeks of the unhappy baroness, who, supported by conscious rec¬ 
 titude, had finished her soliquy with a unusual dignity, that powerfully spoke 
 her guiltless of the charge reported by the baron against her. She bowed to 
 the venerable Father St. Henry, and with a majesty of deportment quitted the 
 hall, and unmolested, retired through the upper corridor toiler own apartments. 
 
 As soon as the commotion of her departure subsided, Father St. Henry ex¬ 
 claimed— 
 
 “ The lady Elvina is unjust to herself in this adherence to a promise that 
 might be explained, in part, to the re-establishment of her fame and honour.” 
 
 “She has criminated herself,” sternly interrupted the baron, “ and acknow¬ 
 ledged the truth of my accusation. I am myself satisfied of her guilt, and now 
 demand the just sentence of the pope, and the reversion of her fortunes and those 
 of my son’s, in trust for the lord Alfred.” ' 
 
 The Abbot formally replied, as he delivered one from among many papers he 
 held in his hand to the page of the baron— 
 
 “ This, my lord baron, contains the articles of your separation, but not of 
 your divorce; on slender grounds I cannot, without the leave of the pope, neither 
 are you permitted to claim the fortunes of the baroness, which remain entirely 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 113 
 
 at her own disposal, and descend not to her son till she has departed from this 
 world. St. Henry, addressing himselt to Father Benedine — u Bear to our 
 daughter, holy Friar, the greetings of the lady Abbess of St. Austin’s, in whose 
 sacred mansion she will be joyfully received, till her own residence is again ren¬ 
 dered safe for her return.” 
 
 This speech, tilled the soul of the Baron with rage and disappointment. 
 
 “ B y what authority,” exclaimed the Baron, “ do you presume to dictate in 
 the castle of Etherwold ?” 
 
 k< By that you have forfeited,” replied the Father; “ the baroness of Etherwold 
 is now the ward ot holy Mother Church, and she will protect the persecuted that 
 iiy to her for succour.” 
 
 The Abbot then, with dignity, disdained any further intercourse ; quitted the 
 hall: whilst the Baron, foiled in his schemes, and enraged at their failure, did 
 not dare oppose a power so arbitrary, and from which there was now no appeal. 
 
 The day succeeding the trial, the baroness left the castle, not being able to 
 gain an interview with Bertha, who was closely watched and guarded by order 
 of the Baron, who as guardian had presumed to usurp a power which it was 
 dangerous for Bertha to dispute. 
 
 Some days passed in a listless calm, and Bertha was left to the unbroken pos¬ 
 session of herself and thoughts ; she ventured to open the door of the anti- 
 
 No. 15. Q 
 
114 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 chamber, proceeded to cross to the gallery, and passing the head of tUe grand 
 staircase, when she beheld the baron in a state of inebriation, ascending towards 
 the eorridor. At that moment her dress caught his sight, he loudly called on 
 her name as he staggered more quickly up the stairs, but alarmed, she darted 
 down the western gallery ; till she arrived at the door that opened upon some of 
 the chambers of state, into which she ran, unconscious where she was, till, en¬ 
 tering a magnificently furnished apartment, she beheld the lady Isabella seated, 
 surrounded by her women. 
 
 “ Save me—Oh save me 1” she wildly exclaimed. 
 
 “ Who is it” ejaculated Isabella, “ that presumes to break thus rudely on the 
 hours of my retirement ?” 
 
 “One that sues to you for pity and protection,” replied Bertha faintly. 
 
 Isabella, proudly rising from her seat, harshly pronounced,—“ What pity cans’! 
 thou hope from one whom thou hast robbed of the lord of her affections.” 
 
 “ Such only as common humanity should teach you to afford, one who seeks a 
 shelter from unmerited oppression.” 
 
 Isabella paused; the bent of her thoughts seemed, in a moment to undergo a 
 complete change; the inflexible nature of her proud heart yielded to softer feel¬ 
 ings, for casting a look of soothing kindness on Bertha, she said— 
 
 “ Forgive, lady Bertha, the seeming barbarity of my conduct. I know you 
 are watched by the order of the Baron, whose intentions I have become aquainted 
 with, and ’tis only immediate flight can save you. If you will take my offered 
 friendship, I w ill provide for your escape to a place of security, Julia shall con¬ 
 duct you to the beach ; at the base of the north cliff, there you will find a boat 
 and guides ready to receive and convey you, far from the perils of Etherwold.” 
 
 Bertha overcome with sudden joy, took her leave .of Isabella, and Julia open¬ 
 ing a door that led through a small vaulted passage, to a secret avenue to the north 
 terrace, quickly brought them to the sea side. 
 
 Not daring, to hope she was secure, she flew down the pass that led to the 
 beach, and took a greatful leave of her female companion as soon as she had 
 conducted her to the boat, and the latter returned the way she came, whilst 
 Bertha entered one of the cavities of the rocks, to wait till the tide came up for 
 her guides to put to sea. 
 
 The moon, at intervals piercing through the clouds, cast its beams upon the 
 white cliffs ; and Bertha, by their faint reflections, was enabled to distinguish 
 her guides, whose features, as they conducted her down the beach, inspired her 
 with a slight degree of fear and doubt. 
 
 Bertha with symptoms of terror, allowed the men to place her in their shal¬ 
 low bark, and jumping into it, plied their oars with such celerity, that Bertha, 
 in a few r moments, beheld herself beyond the reach of either friend or enemy. 
 The boat, as it scudded swiftly forward, kept within the distance of half a 
 league of the shore. 
 
 The moon, at times, broke through the clouds, and its beams, playing on the 
 frothy billow r s, produced an appearance sublimely picturesque and beautiful; 
 whilst the vivid lightnings cut the waters, and added an awful variety to this 
 midnight scene. , 
 
115 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 They had passed a considerable time on the ocean, when, as a small bay 
 opened upon her view, Bertha discovered the fanes and turrets of a large pile of 
 buildings. Desirous of being informed to whom it belonged, she made the en- 
 quiry of her guides, and received for answer, that it was the monastery of St. 
 Austin’s Sisterhood. She demanded to be instantly landed, for this was the very 
 haven of her wishes; here she should find her beloved friend: but to her repeated 
 demands for landing her, she received no proof of obedience; and the bay and 
 
 Convent alike receded from her view, without the smallest effort to approach 
 either. 
 
 Alarmed with fears of she scarce knew what, she again repeated her former 
 request, but received a positive denial from Bertrand, who, in a surly tone, an¬ 
 swered that he had his lady’s orders to conduct her to a place of safety. 
 
 “ Whither is it you are instructed to convey me ?” fearfully questioned Bertha. 
 
 “ To a seat of my lady Isabella’s, where you will be nobly provided for,” 
 replied Bertrand. 
 
 This answer had, in its delivery, a tone of insolence and equivocation, and 
 increasing alarm, she again asked— 
 
 “ How far distant are we from the castle of Etherwold.” 
 
 “ About three leagues,” replied Bertrand ; “ and yonder promontory that juts 
 into the sea, is our land-mark; thither we steer our course, and you will again 
 
 toucli safe ground, if the tempest that I see coming on, do not make worms meat 
 of us.” 
 
 “ By St* George, ’twill be a dismal one!” replied the other; “ and this spe¬ 
 cimen is no slight sample of what is to come.” 
 
 Some large drops of rain falling on the neck of Bertha, verified the words of 
 the guides ; and a loud peal ol thunder rung, in awful reverberations, among the 
 cliflTs and rocks ; whilst the lightnings blazing across the murky atmosphere, pre¬ 
 sented a fearful view ol the angry deep, which dashed the little pinnace in a 
 moment to a w hirling gulf of w aters;—and even the stout and fearless guides 
 threw aside their oars, and gave themselves up as lost. Bertha calmly reclined 
 herself on the seat, and resignedly aw r aited, the approach of inevitable death. 
 
 The boat filled with w^ater, and was on the point of sinking. The wind and 
 w a\ es, however, still drove it towards the shore. Bertha, benumbed, and shiver¬ 
 ing with the drenched garments, lay totally senseless.—For some length of time 
 the thunders continued with increase of vehemence, till suddenly they ceased, as 
 did the rain. The tremendous swell of the billows began to abate, and the boat 
 was washed upon the sands. 
 
 Bertha was raised from her dreadful cotich; and the men, taking her in their 
 ai ms, w aded through the w r aters; and she once more opening her wearied eyes, 
 found herself on land again;—She was unable to stand, or even move; and 
 meekly submitting to her fierce conductors, they led her forward. 
 
 A new terror now took possession ol her thoughts, for she had for some time 
 telt doubt and suspicion of the purposes of her guides ; and with a voice that ex¬ 
 pressed her alarmed feelings, she feebly demanded, “ Whither will you lead 
 
 me ? But still she remained unanswered, till suddenly stopping, she again 
 exclaimed— 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 116 
 
 “ Whither do you lead me?” “ I will go no farther !” 
 
 Bertrand, uttering some dreadful imprecations, sternly replied— 
 
 “ Lady, this is no place for explanations. Hasten forward, ere the tempest 
 again beset us.” 
 
 “ Mean you to murder or betray me?” tremblingly enquired Bertha, clinging 
 to the body of a small tree, to support herself. 
 
 “ Resistance will but provoke your danger 1” replied Bertrand, as he unclasped 
 her arm from the tree ; “ you are now a prisoner.” 
 
 “ A prisoner !” repeated the now despairing Bertha. “ Oh God l am I for 
 ever doomed to be the victim of deceit and treachery ? Oh Isabella! false re¬ 
 morseless, cruel woman!” 
 
 She spoke no more ; for this last blow had struck her to the soul. She became 
 passive and unresisting to the will of her stern companions, who led her quickly 
 onward. 
 
 They had wandered for the space of an hour through the dismal darkness of 
 the woods, when she perceived, by the fainter lightnings that flashed, in short 
 intermissions, through the angry clouds, a few ruined and mouldering towers be¬ 
 longing to a building that was as instantly closed from all further examination, 
 and lost in total succeeding darkness. 
 
 The guide now entering a wild shrubbery near the walls of the building, dis¬ 
 covered a small deep entry, completely concealed from all inspection by the un¬ 
 derwood that grew near the portal, which, in its approach, was guarded by 
 several steps, that descended into the earth, and were not discoverable till the 
 layers and bushes were turned forcibly aside. After waiting for a few moments 
 at the small portal, it was at length unfastened, and Bertha was forcibly lifted 
 down the steps, and carried into a cold and dreary passage,'dripping with damps 
 and slippery with mildew and green mould. 
 
 “ Here, mistress,” roughly added Bertrand, to a tall, lank, fierce looking 
 woman ,— (( here have we brought you your promised guest, who, I warrant, 
 needs refreshment; so conduct us to a good fire, that we may dry our wet gar¬ 
 ments, and give us something to keep the cold from benumbing our inside.” 
 
 Bertha cast a fearful glance upon the form and countenance of the woman. 
 Her face seemed once to have been beautiful, but was now deeply lined and 
 wrinkled ; her arms were nearly uncovered, and she wore a robe ot black de¬ 
 sending from the shoulders, fixed to her waist in hardly any form whatever; her 
 skin was shrunk and cadaverously pale ; whilst her long tresses of matted black 
 hair hung in loose dishevelled disorder over her neck and shoulders, and was 
 partly covered on the crown of her head by a thick serge of rusty coloured hue, 
 as w as every part of her habiliments, which in various parts shewed them ol long 
 continued wear. Disgusted, she withdrew her eyes from an object whose coun¬ 
 tenance seemed unaquainted with softness, and whose mind w as insensible to 
 mercy and compassion. 
 
 Every hope of moving her keepers to pity was then in vain; and submissively 
 she allowed them to lead her through the passage to the ruins of wdiat once had 
 been a spacious apartment, the roof of which had fallen, and laid extended over 
 three parts of the floor. The windows, broken and gone, had no other fences 
 
117 
 
 MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 t 
 
 against the storm than some remnants of mouldering shutters, which was here 
 and there nailed in irregular directions across the heavy gothic frame-works. 
 The ceiling was in many places exposed to the elements ; and the only place of 
 safety in this desolate ruin against its fall, was the angle near the fire-place, in 
 which were still remaining a few faint unextinguished embers. 
 
 With a dreadful oath, Bertrand demanded more fire ; Anna, the name of the 
 fearful hostess, sullenly proceeded to replenish the hearth, which in a short space 
 of time, again blazed cheerfully with the crackling fuel. 
 
 A table was soon spread with the scanty fare it afforded ; but Bertha, who 
 had sunk upon a broken bench, was unable jto partake of any kind of refresh¬ 
 ment, and remained wrapped in the anguish of her own sad thoughts. 
 
 “ Hast thou prepared for the lady Bertha the apartment for her use?” de¬ 
 manded Bertrand of Anna. 
 
 “ Aye, truly,” replied Anna, “ ’tis ready to receive a princess.—If lady, your 
 delicate palate cannot relish our homely meal, I wait to conduct you to your 
 future prison—chamber, I mean, correcting herself; but in a manner, as plainly 
 evinced she was aware of her mistake.” 
 
 “ Peace, beldam !” furiously interrupted Bertrand ,—“ Peace, I say, and re¬ 
 member 1” 
 
 The last word, had an instant effect on Anna, who in silence, took a lamp, and 
 retreating to the door, beckoned her prisoner, who, with much difficulty, arose 
 and followed, well convinced that either resistance or entreaty would be equally 
 useless. 
 
 As Bertha followed the steps of her gloomy conductress down the murky shades 
 of the gallery, she observed several ruined doors; and arriving at one less de¬ 
 cayed than those she had passed, it slowly opened to the touch of Anna, and ad¬ 
 mitted her to the interior of an old chamber, of spacious dimensions, and lofty 
 height. 
 
 “ This is your apartment,” said Anna—“ here is your bed, which doubtless you 
 will find very comfortable ; whilst the bootings of the owls, and the hoarse croak- 
 ings of the ravens, will prove a most consoling lullaby, and charm you to sleep.” 
 
 “ Leave me,” mildly interrupted Bertha ; “ I am much fatigued, and wish to 
 gain some respite from the pains and anguish I endure.” 
 
 An angry, fierce glance shot from the eyes of Anna, as she thus exclaimed 
 
 with an insulting triumph in her manner— 
 
 “ You will soon grow used to my society ; and the time will come when you 
 
 will kneel at my feet, and beg me rather to stay than go—when these imperious 
 tones will sink to abject supplications, and you will curse the hour that made 
 you use them.” 
 
 She furiously set down the lamp, and hurried through the door, which she 
 pulled with such violence, that the fabric trembled. The harsh gratings of the 
 key turned in the wards of the lock, and the bolts, as they were shot into their 
 holds, sounded in echoes along the gallery; and the heavy tread of her keeper 
 was heard for some moments, as she receded from the door ot Bertha’s forlorn 
 prison, who as soon as all was again quiet, hurried off her drenched garments; 
 
118 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 and having clothed herself in a coarse plain wrapper, that Anna, in sullen silence 
 had thrown beside her, she cast herself on the tottering couch, and merciful for¬ 
 getfulness for a few hours closed her sorrows in a balmy slumber. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HER sleep, though heavy, was refreshing, and she awoke not till late on the 
 tollowing day. She was for a moment uncertain where she was; but the pain¬ 
 ful conviction soon came to her heart that she was the prisoner of a jealous rival, 
 there was no hope ever to escape—perhaps not even a chance of mercy to soften 
 the melancholy horrors of confinement. 
 
 Dreadful forebodings now agitated her mind. Fearfully clasping her hands 
 upon her bosom, she mentally exclaimed— 
 
 “ Wretched, lost Bertha, child of early sorrow, resign thee to thy fate! The 
 crisis of thy suffering approaches, for thou art the sure victim of an unrelenting 
 rival; prepare thee, for the end of thy woes will soon receive that fiat.” 
 
 She cast her suffused eyes, blinded with tears, around the desolate chamber, 
 which she found enveloped in gloom. A few slanting beams of day, however, 
 were admitted through the crevices of the boards, from the extremest point of 
 the small gothic arch of the frame-work, sufficient to give a gloomy horror to 
 the aspect of all around. 
 
 The place itself was spacious in the extreme, which added to its forlorn and 
 terrific appearance. There was no furniture, except the remains of one broken 
 table, and a high back leather bottomed chair, on which the dejected Bertha 
 passively sunk, hopeless, despairing, and completely miserable. At the further 
 end of the chamber was a large bow window, in a deep vaulted recess, whose ap¬ 
 proach was defended by an ascent of four steps, which rendered it lower than 
 the others, and easier of access. Bertha, had more than once attempted to 
 climb to its frame, that through the unblinded pains of the upper part, she might 
 it possible, gain a view from without, and discover if she was imprisoned near 
 any human habitation. The effort, however, was fruitless; for the panes, that 
 were unboarded, it was impossible for her to reach, and she was, with a deep 
 heaved sigh, compelled to give up the unavailing trial. 
 
 In descending, as her hand clung for support to the image of a saint, placed in 
 a hollow niche of the cumbrous frame-work of the casement, it suddenly 
 touched some object, that as instantly sent forth soft faint sounds of music. 
 
 As soon as the echoes had ceased, and her amazement subsided, again climbed 
 to its height, and from the back ol the niche, brought forth an old and dusty 
 mutilated lute, ol curious antique workmanship. Removing it entirely from its 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 1 If) 
 
 suspended situation, she descended, and though much broken and injured, it still 
 upon trial, was capable of producing harmony. Well the dim light of the 
 chamber would permit, she examined it more closely; and wiping the dust from 
 its disfigured frame, she found something had obstructed the chords, which, on 
 close observing, appeared to be two or three papers, that seemed as if they had 
 been forced in among the fretwork of the handle and the strings. 
 
 It was near the approach of evening, and the light too imperfect and gloomy 
 to admit the possibility of perusing the inferior of these papers, which Bertha 
 perceived were filled with writing. Her curiosity was excited; and for the first 
 time she even felt impatient for the entrance of Anna, that she might, by the 
 more friendly assistance of the lamp, be enabled to decipher the contents. To 
 divert the time till the hour of her keeper’s visit, she again took the lute; struck 
 them with a melancholy wildness, suited to the sadness of her soul; when the 
 harsh gratings of her prison door disturbed the peaceful silence ; and Anna en¬ 
 tering, with angry gesture, approached the table on which Bertha had laid the 
 lute, and casting her eyes upon it, her pallid countenance received a death-like 
 hue, as she vehemently questioned— 
 
 “How came you by this instrument ?—Speak !” 
 
 “ I found it in a niche within the recess of yonder window,” replied Bertha, 
 “ I pray of you, good Anna, allow me the use of this harmless object; it will 
 afiford me a melancholy amusement, and cheer the heavy hours of a wearisome 
 confinement,” 
 
 “ Will it so ?” interrupted the fury, snatching the lute from the table, and 
 with pitiless unconcern tearing off the strings, and dashing it to the ground with 
 violence ; “ thou seest, however, ’tis offensive, and thus I punish it for your inso¬ 
 lence. She, who last played upon its hateful chords, had more prudence than 
 openly to use it in my presence; or had I sooner discovered that the 'baroness 
 Emily of Neville had concealed it in her prison, it had never been thus found 
 by her—” 
 
 Anna here made a quick and sudden stop; whilst Bertha, starting at the 
 sound of a name thus mysteriously mentioned, tremulously enquired— 
 
 “ Are you the agent of the heiress of Neville, as well as the countess of 
 Clandale ?” 
 
 “ How dare you presume to question me ?” replied the woman, in hurried ac¬ 
 cents ; “ you will repent this insolent resistance to my will,” she added, retreating 
 towards the door.—“ The haughty Bertha Brandon shall yet swell the triumph 
 of that ruin 1 have laboured to achieve. Tremble, for thou knowest not thv 
 enemy.” 
 
 With a glance of dreadful expression, she retreated through the door, while, 
 as it closed, Bertha made haste to conceal the papers ; for alarmed at the threats 
 of Anna, she did not dare peruse them, but sat in trembling expectation of she 
 knew not what, and felt a weight upon her heart like a foreboding presentiment 
 of impending evil. 
 
 Several hours elapsed and all was still: she felt no inclination to sleep ; 
 when she heard the bolts of the door slowly unfastened, and a tall figure carrying 
 
120 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 a lamp entered, who as she advanced near, Bertha knew to be the Countess 
 Isabella. 
 
 Isabella fixing a frowning glance upon her victim said ,—“ \ou are at length 
 in my power! Dost thou not tremble at my sight ?” 
 
 Bertha, raising her eyes to the gloomy countenance of Isabella, fearlessly 
 answered— 
 
 “ No, I do not tremble !—Why should I ? You have persecuted a being that 
 never injured you. You have cruelly broke your word and betrayed me after 
 you had plighted your faith for my security.” 
 
 Isabella, with astonishment, beheld the unshaken firmness of her intended 
 victim. Hatred and revenge, now flashed from her eyes as she roughly seized 
 her arm, said— 
 
 “ Bertha, thy fate is sealed, and with thyself it depends to soften or to fix it. 
 One only chance is left, either reveal the place of Alfred’s present asylum, and 
 swear never to see him*, but to resign all hope and claim to his heart and hand, 
 and bury thyself in some remote habitation, never to be heard of more, this 
 sw r ear, or meet the vengeance of a deadly foe.” 
 
 Bertha shuddered with horror at being compelled to take a forced vow ; she 
 remembered also the papers of her father, had so solemnly enjoined her never to 
 sutler herself to be betrayed into engagements of so dangereus a nature, and she 
 now firmly resolved that no power should *ompel her a second time to pledge 
 her faith and mind even to procure life itself: she therefore replied—“ I never 
 will take an oath, which truth and justice w r ould condemn.” 
 
 “ Then behold thy death,” pronounced Isabella as she stamped the floor with 
 her foot: when the door opened and Anna entered, bearing in her hand a goblet 
 w hich she presented to Isabella, who drawing a dagger, held the poisoned draught 
 to Bertha, and fiercely pronounced— 
 
 * ‘ Drink the contents instantly 1” 
 
 Bertha, shrinking from the dreadful instruments of murder, feebly ejaculated— 
 
 “ Is there no other remedy but this can appease thy malice? Oh ruthless 
 woman!” 
 
 “ None but this! your death alone secures me a hope of triumph,” replied 
 Isabella. Then turning to Anna, she pronounced, “ Leave the chamber!” 
 
 The latter, bowing submissively, was quitting, when Bertha rushed past 
 Isabella, and seizing the robe of Anna, sunk prostrate at her feet, exclaiming— 
 
 “ Stay, do not leave me, I conjure you ! But if one spark of pity or remorse 
 finds a place in your bosom, save me from the dreadful death that I see awaits 
 me,” 
 
 “Did I not prophesy aright,” replied the fury “ when I said the haughty 
 Bertha would stoop to supplicate even the pity of the rejected Anna ?” 
 
 “ She does, she does indeed supplicate thy pity,” continued the despairing 
 Bertha, “ she bends before thee in humble prostration. Oh think, ere it be to 
 late, on the future horrors that will avenge this moment of guilt, should you be 
 an accomplish in the pitiless deed !’ 
 
 “ Thy efforts w-ill not avail; 1 know not the touch of nature, nor is pity a guest 
 within the bosom of Anna; for know r thou pleadest at the feet of thy mortal 
 enemy.” 
 
tu the hollow l beheld 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 121 
 
 With a vehement struggle, Anna freed herself from the grasp of Bertha, who 
 as she lost her feeble hold of the merciless woman, fell with violence to the 
 ground, as the latter darted from the chamber. 
 
 Isabella stooping down, rudely seized the arm ot Bertha, which as she shook, 
 ejaculated in a tone of fury—• 
 
 (i Is this the fortitude of the heroic, unshrinking Bertha—this the courage with 
 which she meets a fate, that but a moment since she disdained ? Behold ! make 
 speedily thy election, ere choice is denied thee—the poison or ti e dagger !” 
 
 Bertha had raised herself on her knees, and with a look of firmness, pronounced 
 “ Yes Isabella, the soul of Bertha you cannot conquer, although her life and 
 liberty are at your disposal. I obey the hard decrees of my wayward fate; and 
 even in this present tremendous form will meet the awful king ot terrors with, the 
 confiding trust of my eternal Father’s mercy and for those unatoned errors I 
 have committed. May your contrition for this deed ot guilt and murder be sin¬ 
 cere, and your repentance find that mercy and (orgiveness Irom your Almighty 
 judge, which your earthly victim, now, freely accords you! Give me the fatal 
 draught!” 
 
 Bertha took the cup from the trembling Isabella; who stood with a look ot 
 horror, at the resigned piety displayed by her victim; guilt weakened hei arm 
 No. 16. a 
 
122 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 she dared not finish her bloody purpose, but seizing the cup from Bertha, and 
 throwing it on the floor exclaimed— ^ 
 
 “ I will not be thy executioner!” and rushed from the chamber—- 
 Bertha, amazed at the unexpected reprieve, could scarce believe it real, till she 
 heard the noise of the bolts forced into their holds. She inwardly uttered a 
 prayer of thanksgiving for her escape from death. With tottering steps she ex¬ 
 amined the walls of her prison, hoping to find some yet undiscovered outlet, by 
 which she might free herself, but her search was fruitless. She tried the door 
 but alas ! it Avas too strongly secured. Weared with fatigue at her fruitless 
 search, she stopped before an object that had often engaged her attention. It 
 was a large chest of antique structure, placed o i one end against the wall. 
 The lid was fast secured : and as she tried to force it, a faint rumbling noise 
 within, startled her with surprise, she retired from the object. 
 
 Throwing her wearied frame upon the couch, a heavy slumber sealed her 
 eyes. 
 
 In the visions of her sleep, busy fancy presented terrific forms to her disordered 
 senses. She found herself again trying to force open the lid of the chest, when 
 a deep and hollow groan from within, sounded on her startled ear, and the lid 
 bursting open, a pale and ghastly form stood before her. Its garments were a 
 female shroud; the form, pointed to the chest, and instantly vanished. 
 
 She shrieked aloud, and the dungeon re-echoed with her cries, as still in 
 sleep, she lay for a time in a death-like slumber, when fancy presented the pale 
 benign aspect and form of her deceased father, in the habit he wore when living 
 who slow ly approaching the couch, blessed her: and beckoning her towards the 
 chest, she arose, and approached the latter, as the spectre pointing to it, bade 
 her unclose the lid, w hich, in attempting to perform, it suddenly flew r open of 
 itself, and presented to her sight a skeleton. Shrinking from the object, she was 
 about to leave when the spectre bade her look again, when, to her astonishment 
 the horrific spectacle had vanished ; and on a nearer view r , she perceived there 
 w r as no bottom to the chest. The form of her parent, stooping passed through 
 the cavity: and beckoning her to follow, she did so, and found herself on the 
 landing of a steep flight of steps, w hich as she began to descend, her foot slipped, 
 and fell to the bottom, and, in the effort of rescuing herself, she awoke. 
 
 Her eyes she found, were deluged in tears. The fearful visions of the night 
 for a length of time engaged her attention undividedlv. The faint streaks of 
 daylight show T ed through the scattered enclosures of the casements. Her eyes 
 w ere oftentimes cast on the now awe-inspiring chest. 
 
 She now resolved to make an effort for freedom, or at least, if possible, to 
 discover where she was imprisoned. 
 
 She dragged the antique table and chair beneath the window: and cautiously 
 ascending, found one of the pieces that crossed the frame were rotten, and soon 
 yielded to her exertions. She put her head through the open space ; she started 
 for the object that presented itself to her wondering sight, was the ruin of St. 
 Ann’s tow’ers, backed by the lofty forest trees of Brandon’s domain. 
 
 “ Oh powers supreme !” exclaimed Bertha, “ into whose hands hast thou re¬ 
 signed me—who is Isabella?” Conviction rushed upon her senses.—She is, she 
 must be my mysterious enemy, the dreaded heiress of Neville. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 123 
 
 For some little time she continued to inhale the freshness of the morning air, 
 when her thoughts again rested on the last night’s extraordinary v isions, she ap¬ 
 proached the mysterious chest, and was surprised to find a strong current of air 
 blow from behind it. Convinced there must be some outlet, she resolved to at¬ 
 tempt its removal, which, after two or three attempts, she succeeded in moving 
 it a short distance from the wall, who could express her joy at beholding a large 
 opening, wide enough to admit her whole person through. 
 
 A thousand w ild conjectures filled her agitated mind: she therefore determined 
 to w r ait till darkness enveloped the face of nature, ere she ventured on her en¬ 
 terprise . 
 
 At length, her lamp told her it must be near the hour of midnight, when 
 throwing a thick black veil over her head, passed beneath the cavity, and found 
 herself in a long open passage, and shading her light from the effects of the 
 wind, she passed swiftly down the eastern gallery. Gaining at length the end 
 of this dreary corridor, she found herself at the turning of a narrow flight of 
 spiral stairs, she began to descend, and had gained the third landing, when a 
 small door, attracted her attention, and she would have entered it had not a 
 stream of light showed to her horror-struck sight the hateful form of Anna, who 
 was pacing, with her back towards Bertha the length of the chamber. 
 
 Not an instant longer had she remained, could have saved her from the sigh 
 of Anna, w T ho was on the point of turning, as Bertha darted down the stairs, 
 and with light trembling steps reached the bottom. Pausing to recover breath 
 she listened to discover if she was pursued, but all remained quiet; she resolved 
 to proceed forward. 
 
 Descending an immense quantity of irregular steps, that seemed to have been 
 cut in the bosom of the clay and earth, which convinced Bertha she was beneath 
 the foundation of the Abbey. She at length entered a close low arched passage, 
 that assured her she w as now in some of those branching vaults that led to the 
 cells and subterraneous labyrinths of the fabric: and proceeding forward, entered 
 a small square stone chamber, which she found had no outlet than that by which 
 she had entered. Here then ended her hopes, and in despair, she was leaving 
 the dungeon when her foot struck against a hard substance, and holding the lamp 
 to observe the cause, found it was a small iron ring, let into the stone, which 
 after great exertion, she succeeded in raising a small trap, that had concealed 
 another department of the vaults. 
 
 Bertha hastened to descend, and arriving at the bottom, found herself in the 
 subterraneous caverns of the A bbey. She approached a small recess closed 
 by a door that had no fastenings: but what words can express hey terror when, 
 by the rays of a tripot lamp within the cell, she beheld the figure of Isabella 
 deeply engaged in examining some object which she held in her hand. 
 
 Isabella had been disturbed by the opening of the door; and raising her eyes 
 she fixed them immoveable on Bertha. It was evident, by her actions and looks 
 that she mistook the real person of Bertha, whose face w as hid by her veil, for 
 no sooner did she see her victim than the lamp, as w r ell as what she held, fell to 
 the ground. Her whole frame shook with terror and affright; and with wild 
 and terrific looks, retreated from the vault by a back entry, exclaiming— 
 
124 
 
 THE HEIRESS, Oil THE 
 
 “ It is the shade of Emily !—Oh awful, when wilt thou cease to persecute 
 me?” leaving the amazed Bertha to wonder and rejoice at the escape she had 
 so unexpected affected. 
 
 Not a moment was to be lost. Isabella had deceived herself, and circnrn-* 
 stances had favoured the delusion. It was impossible to go further, without fol-» 
 lowing her footsteps: she was therefore obliged to return the way she came, 
 which she was about to do, when she beheld on the ground a packet of papers, 
 A shriek of joy escaped her as she read— 
 
 “ I he secret rceords of Sir Godfrey Brandon, addressed to his only daughter 
 Bertha.” 
 
 ■' Great God of justice, thou dost not slumber!” cried Bertha, and kissing the 
 papers, put them hastily into her bosom, and was retreating towards the vaults,, 
 when, in a small recess she perceived a trunk, with the lid open. Bertha dis* 
 covered a case of jewels, also several relative to title-deeds of great bulk that 
 seemed lately to have been placed there. A sudden noise alarmed her, and 
 hastily closing the lid and taking the key, which she was assured none had so 
 great a right to, darted through the dreary caverns, and reached the trap. 
 Hastily closing the stone, she turned the ring upon a knotty hold, which effectually 
 secured it from being opened from below, waiting a moment to recover respira¬ 
 tion, she listened and heard the echoes of voices. 
 
 She now hurried up the stairs ; and crossing the corridors, arrived, untno-? 
 Jested at the aperture, and once more found herself in her dreary prison. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IIA A ING drawn her chair close to the table, and retrimmed her lamp, Bertha 
 
 took the beloved records of her father’s labours from her bosom, thus began:— 
 
 ***** 
 
 ^ ^ ien rn } child shall have perused these papers, let not her thoughts be 
 imbittered by the recollection that her father is no longer an inhabitant of this 
 world; let her rather rejoice that he is now at peace for ever. 
 
 Attend, m\ child, to my unhappy narrative, and know thyself truly; for oh 
 Beitha! thou art not what thou seemest, nor is thy sire the lord of Brandon 
 
 domain, \\ hieh, in right of thy angel mother, is alone the inheritance of her 
 daughter.-” 
 
 Gracious God !” exclaimed Bertha, i( what may this mean?” 
 
 The birth and title ot your father, were as illustrious as any of the proudest 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 125 
 
 nobles England had to boast; but now, alas ! stripped of his name, his birth¬ 
 right, and his honour, he is become the unresisting victim of an unnatural bro¬ 
 ther. The undisputed barony of Neville once claimed me for its lord, although 
 it now invests the person of an usurper. 
 
 “ lather was haughty and inflexible. He had never loved me like a parent, 
 but on bis younger son Hubert lavished his entire regards;—whilst I, the heir 
 of his house, was committed, to the guidance of his confessor, a man of bigoted 
 principles, who instilled into my mind the severe and superstitious doctrines of 
 his own faith, with all its fasts, vigils, and mortifications : my mother, the first 
 baroness of Neville, was dead ere I knew the maternal regard; and the influ¬ 
 ence of his second wife succeeded in banishing from his memory the affection he 
 bore t,o his first. To swell the fortunes of my brother, she had bribed my tutor, 
 to her interests; she instructed him to instil into my mind a voluntary love for 
 religious occupations, hoping the choice of my future life would fix itself on the 
 monastic seclusions of a cloister, and secure to her son the inheritance of my 
 birth-right. At the age of eight I was consigned to the care of Vincent, and 
 entirely deprived of the notice or sight of my father. Vincent removed me to 
 one of the baron’s most retired castles. The designs of the baroness succeeded, 
 and I became, by instructions of a bigot, devoted to all the mistaken tenets of 
 such an education. I had reached my twentieth year ; and during the last twelve 
 
 neither the baron nor my brother, who was two years younger than myself, 
 had ever visited me. 
 
 “It was on the eve of my birth-day that a courier arrived at the castle with 
 dispatches for the father, which I frequently observed, caused the colour of his 
 cheeks, to come and go. At length he informed me the lady Gertrude, my step¬ 
 mother, had been some time deceased ; that my father was shortly expected 
 accompanied by the lady Anna, heiress of the house of Kelvin, whom, in future 
 I must consider as my elected bride. 
 
 “ Vincent had no sooner hurried this unwelcome intelligence over to him, 
 than, with all the subtle artifice and sophistry of his character, bade me reflect 
 how serenely my future days would glide away, and what real advantages must 
 attend me in a future state, if, by devoting myself to the service of my creator, 
 
 I were secured from the dangers of prosperous greatness ; uncontaminated by 
 
 the vices which a free communication with the world would unavoidably occa¬ 
 sion. 
 
 Attentively I meditated on the lather’s words: I almost resigned myself to his 
 wishes, w ith a perfcet conviction that he was directing my judgment aright; I 
 even gave him a promise that if I could escape from the union intended, I w T ould 
 yield implicit compliance to his advice. 
 
 “ At length my father and brother arrived. The former received me w r ith a 
 warmth that I was unacquainted with till then. My heart vibrated to the touch 
 of nature and unexpected kindness. My brother, the lord Hubert, received me 
 with reserve and coldness; our meeting was restrained, and damped the plea- 
 sures of my father’s affectionate salute. With a confiding tenderness of manner, 
 he conjured me to resign my w ishes of a monastic life, and meet his own for my 
 he lady A nna Kelvin, with consenting approbation. 
 
126 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 “ I had never beheld iny destined bride, but waited now with impatience and 
 strong curiosity to behold the being that was to govern the choice of my future 
 destiny. 
 
 “ At length, with a train of noble visitors, she arrived at the castle ; but no 
 sooner had I beheld her, than my heart refused to acknowledge her its homage. 
 There was something repugnant in her mien and deportment, that though her 
 beauty might have excused, my election would not. 
 
 “ My father soon demanded in private my determination and opinion, when as 
 freely I told him it was not in mv power to obey him. 
 
 “ He frowned in anger on me, and bade me, as I valued his blessing or his 
 curse, prepare to receive as my wife the heiress of Kelvin, or quit his sight for 
 ever. 
 
 “ Hard task! impossible to perform!—For among the train of illustrious 
 beauties that remained within the castle, was one who had rivetted my attention, 
 and in a short time gained my most empassioned love. 
 
 “ Emily came, accompanied by the lady Elvina of Etherwold, then single, 
 and escorted by the father of the former, Rudolph of Brandon.—Some days 
 passed in the celebration of revelry. I found myself a being so altered, so unlike 
 what I had been, that I ceased not to wonder at the change, and forgot the per¬ 
 nicious maxims of Vincent. Ashamed of the fettered inactive life I had hitherto 
 led, I hastened to shake off many of the gloomy prejudices the father had in¬ 
 stilled. 
 
 “ In the company of Emily, and her amiable friend, the lady Elvina, I passed 
 some of the most blissful moments of my life. 
 
 “ One evening, as I entered the apartments assigned for Emily and her friend, 
 I discovered the latter alone, and weeping.—It was this evening I resolved no 
 longer to defer the confession of my passion, and I hesitated not to make Elvina 
 a confidant of my unalterable attachment to Emily. 
 
 “ Elvina, as she listened to my secret, turned pale, and I observed her tremble. 
 Alarmed, I begged her to make known the cause of her apparent agitation, and 
 after some inward emotions she said they were occasioned by the unhappy destiny 
 of her friend, who, to swell the fortunes of her only brother, was condemned, 
 by the harsh severity of her father, to pass the rest of her days the sad victim of 
 monastic vows. 
 
 “ This was a stroke so unexpected, that, all my youthful hopes of happiness 
 seemed for ever blasted. My despair, and entire devotion to the lovely Emily, 
 engaged the mediating commiseration of Elvina in my behalf. Love lent me 
 strength and wit to use in the pleadings of love’s passion. Emily gave me at 
 length the assurance that she would be mine, and mine only; and could means 
 be found to escape the destiny of her father’s decrees, she would ratify her pro¬ 
 mise at the altar of Hymen. Thus encouraged, I confessed to Sir Rudolph of 
 Brandon my affection for his daughter, but Sir Rudolph was determinedly averse 
 and reminded me that my hand was publicly engaged to the lady Anna, and 
 that honour now forbade my retreat. I still urged all that love could dictate, 
 but he sternly reiused my prayer, on the following morning, I was informed 
 Emily had left the castle, in the night, from her relentless father! nor did any 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 127 
 
 tidings, for a length of time, arrive to ease my racking fears. At length, Elvina 
 received a packet from her lost Emily. Its contents were those of despair.—She 
 had been forced by her father into a monastery, and compelled to take the vow 
 that for ever separated her from her adoring Godfrey. Elvina gave me the fatal 
 epistle, but I read no farther, and for weeks lay an object of pity to all that be¬ 
 held me. It was one night that sense and feeling again began to chase away 
 the delirium of my brain, when father Vincent entered my chamber. 
 
 “ I* wa ; needless to repeat again the false arguments and meek pretended hu¬ 
 mility with which Vincent succeeded in gaining his deceived victim to his pur¬ 
 poses. At the dead of midnight he led me from the castle ; to the eastern bor¬ 
 ders of England, where, on its shore, stood the proud spires of St. Stephen’s 
 A bbey. 
 
 “ In this religious house I fondly imagined I had reached the goal of all my 
 
 sorrows. The lime glided away with a kind of torpid, inanimate serenity._ 
 
 Yes, Bertha, I took the first vows of a monastic life, and became, in part, a 
 monk of the Carthusian Friars. 
 
 “ It was on one memorable morning, that I was early called to officiate at a 
 neighbouring convent of black nuns, where a Novice of the order was this day 
 to take the last vows of a vestal. The intended victim seemed to inspire uni¬ 
 versal pity, for it was reported she had been compelled to make this self-sacri¬ 
 fice. A murmur of sorrow rung echoing through the church, as the Abbot led 
 the trembling vestal towards the altar, and began the sacred rite of initiation. 
 The sister drew aside her veil as I held out my hand to receive it—a duty as¬ 
 signed me to perform ; when, great God ! what was my amazement to find, my 
 loved, my angelic Emily. She saw and knew me as the distracted transport of 
 the moment made me loosen my cowl, which discovered the features of her 
 Godfrev. 
 
 “The last fatal vow had been deferred till this hour; I seized the favourable 
 opportunity to declare that Emily’s vows tfere prohibited. Emily had fainted 
 in the arms of a lay-sister, whose veil falling off, exposed the features of Elvina. 
 In the confusion of the moment, I hastily whispered her to grant me a private 
 interview that evening in the cloisters of the Abbey. She gave me a hurried 
 assent; and, at the hour succeeding vespers, I attended her appointment. 
 
 “ It would be needless to enter into minute details of what alone can be inte¬ 
 resting to my sad heart to remember. It is sufficient to add, that I at length 
 prevailed, and your sainted mother resigned herself to love and me. Aided by 
 the assistance of a monk of St, Stephen’s, whom I had bribed to secrecy, the 
 inaspicious ceremony was performed, the angelic Emily became the bride of 
 your father, and I experienced a happiness never expected. 
 
 “ ’Twas on the night succeeding our nuptials, as I was returning through the 
 garden of the convent, by a secret postern, of which I kept the key, my passage 
 was intercepted, and a sister, as I then thought, of the holy community, ap¬ 
 proached me, and bade me follow her. 
 
 “ She led me to a retired grove in the gardens, and, in accents of anger, de¬ 
 manded if I knew her. The voice was familiar to my ear ; and as the moon 
 
12S 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 shone upon her countenance, I discovered her to be the lady Anna Kelvin. 
 When, seizing my arm, she said, with a determined resolution of mariner— 
 
 i You have slighted me—you have neglected the charms o( Anna to marry 
 Emily ! Tremble; the vengeance of an insulted woman will for ever pursue you. 
 Ruin awaits you, and the thunders of the church, for the outrage you have com¬ 
 mitted on its 'sacred laws, will overwhelm you with destruction. For crimes 
 like these the flames await you, and the voice of Anna is the sure fate of Godfrey. 
 
 <1 listened to this harangue as to a language that had profaned the angelic 
 worth of my adored Emily; and leaving the misguided Anna, hastened to my 
 love. We on the ensuing midnight, quitted our convents, and I received Emily 
 from the gates of her seclusion in safety, and undiscovered. Precipitately cross¬ 
 ing the kingdom in a contrary direction, wejournied night and day till we arrived 
 at the wilds of the Scottish shore, where I had an ancient lordship, the inheri¬ 
 tance of my mother’s brother, so left to me my him, that none could deprive me 
 of it.—Malcolm tower was a romantic old ruin, built many centuries ago, upon 
 the summit of a long chain of lofty mountains near the sea. Thither we hastened 
 from the dangers we had escaped. 
 
 “ If the personal charms of my adored Emily had first fascinated my senses, 
 the surpassing beauties of her mind rivetted the chains of happy love. 
 
 “ A few months after our arrival, our stock of happiness was increased, and 
 Emily became the mother of a lovely boy:—but providence had otherwise pro¬ 
 vided for him. Our first-born lived to be regretted, and then winged his ajrial 
 form to the dwellings of his maker. 
 
 “ In the following year Emily again presented me with another infant, lovely 
 as herself; and you, my Bertha, were ordained to be the happy assuager of our 
 deep regrets for your brother’s loss. The correspondence of our only friend 
 Elvina, informed me of my father’s late decease, and I resolved to restore my 
 Emily and her infant to the splendid birthright they were born to possess. My 
 rank and influence, as a baron of the realm, I knew would soon procure me in¬ 
 terest sufficient to stop the persecutions of the monks of our convents, since nei¬ 
 ther Ein^ly nor myself had taken the last irrevocable oath that must have secluded 
 us for ever from each other. 
 
 44 But to proceed.—Resolved to restore myself to my inheritance, as baron of 
 Neville, 1 dispatched a messenger to my brother, desiring him to prepare for my 
 reception at the castle of my ancestors, where 1 meant first to reside till the ar¬ 
 rival of the pope’s absolution had given us security from persecution. With sincere 
 regret we quitted Malcolm tower, and set forward on our expedition to England. 
 
 44 As we came within sight of Neville, and upon our nearer approach, I pointed 
 to my brother, who stood upon the highest battlements ol the castle, to greet us 
 with welcome to our home; she cast her eyes slightly upon Hubert, trembled 
 and sinking into my arms, prophetically exclaimed— 
 
 4 Would to Heaven we had never seen these towers ! Oh my Godfrey ! I have 
 an ill foreboding mind ; and could your Emily guide your wishes, they should in 
 safety convey us back again to the beloved ruins of Malcolm castle.’ 
 
 44 Alas! I knew not then the dreadful meaning of this exclamation, had I 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 129 
 
 hut followed this only wish of my too yielding Emily, the appalling horrors of 
 our disastrous fate had been averted. My castle proudly withstood its lord, and 
 opened its treacherous portals only to betray, and make him their prisoner. 
 
 “ My brother, the lord Hubert, received us with courtesy and respect. The 
 train of my vassals, awaited in t lie great hall to bid their lord and lady welcome. 
 The domestics who accompanied us from Malcolm, were only four; but in the 
 numerous throng I was surprised to find not one of the old established retainers 
 of my father’s house.—All present wore new faces, and all to me were strangers. 
 I enquired ot Hubert for some whom, in my youth, I had imbibed a value for i 
 he informed me that most of the oldest of my domestics were deceased, and 
 others on my father’s demise, quitted their situation. We partook of the banque' 
 prepared, and at a late hour retired to repose. Unsuspicious of the treason 
 plotted against us, and fatally confident of my security, I slept in peace, nor 
 awoke till the murderous swords were pointed against my breast. A strong 
 glare of light aroused me from my heavy slumbers, 1 startled from my couch, as 
 the flame of light beamed on several dark visaged countenances, whose drawn 
 weapons declared their dreadful purposes. 
 
 “ Betrayed in my own habitation, I snatched my sword from beneath my pil¬ 
 low, and was rushing on my destroyers, when Emily, awakened by tlie sudden 
 clash ol weapons, threw herself into my arm, exclaiming— 
 
 No. 17. 
 
 s 
 
30 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 4 Hh God ! my prophetic tears are verified ! Godfrey my husband, we will die 
 together!’ and fainted on my bosom. The murderer would have torn her from 
 my strong grasp, but I defended her, and with one hand kept them at bay. My 
 Emily received a desperate wound, aimed at her now frantic husband. A 
 deluge of precious blood issued from her side. 
 
 “ Raging with madness, I kissed the quivering lips of my Emily, and laying 
 her on the couch, struck to the earth the monster who had destroyed her.— 
 At first the villains aimed only to deprive me of my liberty ; but enraged to see 
 one man fell to the earth so many of his opponents, they all rushed upon me, 
 arid, with repeated wounds, at length overcame me. Fainting from loss of blood 
 I tell to the ground; the horrid scene was closed upon me, and I knew no 
 more ! 
 
 ee How long I remained in this state I know not; but on my recovery I found 
 myself a prisoner in a gloomy chamber of the dungeon tower. 
 
 “ Some months had rolled away, when the stillness of my dungeon was one 
 night disturbed by the entrance of the detested Hubert. He approached me as 
 I lay chained to the floor, lie drew forth a paper, the damned instrument of my 
 own ruin, and with horror I beheld the characters to be my own. Their fatal 
 contents were the total resignation I had signed of my birthright, and given to 
 the villain Vincent; and in this interview, I discovered that Vincent had been 
 the secret agent of my brother, as well as his mother; whose artful pretended 
 sanctity of manners had deceived my father. 
 
 “ The fatal instrument of my own ruin stood in characters never to be erased, 
 and I now found that this accursed paper had secured my brother the heirdom 
 of my possessions, and that he was, and long had been, the acknowledged lord 
 ot Neville. From the hour that I had first entered the monastery of St. Stephen 
 he had spread the report that I had voluntarily taken the monastic vows. My 
 father lived not long after my disappearance, and at his death Hubert’s claims to 
 my possessions were admitted beyond a doubt. I was then the deceived and 
 wretched dupe of a brother’s ambition ; for presenting his dagger to my defence¬ 
 less breast, lie bade me cliuse my destiny, and either resign for ever the posses¬ 
 sion of Emily, and the heirship of Neville, return to my convent, and finish those 
 vows, which, with triumph, he confessed that he, by secret agency, had been 
 the instrument of; or meet in prison the end of my existence, and his dastard 
 apprehensions. 
 
 “ His heart was filled with an incestuous passion for the wife of his brother, 
 ihe monster triumphed, my wife, my shrieking, horror-struck Emily, was dragged 
 to the arms of her husband’s brother. The double faced villain that had early 
 wrought my ruin, had that very morning profaned the ordination of his God, and 
 over the inanimate form of the insensible Emily performed the sacred ceremony 
 with avowed triumph. The accursed Hubert acknowledged the hell-born deed, 
 and bade me return Emily thanks for the life she had preserved. 
 
 “ The raging fury of my soul gave me almost supernatural power. I tore my 
 galling chains from their fastenings, and with a furious aim, dashed them at the 
 monster.—My oppressor fell beneath the violence of my blow, and sued for mercy 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 131 
 
 I gave him my curses, and was rushing from my prison, when his minions seized, 
 and again enchained me. 
 
 Despair and madness assailed me, and a torpid horror kept me for many 
 months in a gloomy uncertainty between life and death. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SOME time elapsed after my first recovery to the use of reason, when my jailer, 
 one night entering my prison, bade me follow. Grief and despair had subdued 
 my soul. I was indifferent to my fate ; I followed my conductors from my pri¬ 
 son, and being led through many vaulted passages, I once more found myself in 
 the open air. They bade me enter a closed vehicle, that stood beneath the 
 w alls of the castle; and my jailer became my companion within, and four others 
 on horseback, armed, rode beside our caravan. We w r ere driven forward with 
 a speed that succeeded in arousing me to mental action, and I awoke from my 
 lethargy of despair and madness to the recollection of what I once had been. 
 I now remembered that I once had a wife whom I adored, a child whose birth 
 had given increased felicity to her once happy father ; I aw r oke to an interest in 
 their fate, and supplicated to know their end.—With much entreaty I learned 
 that I was going to the place where they were confined. 
 
 “ On the second night we entered the boundaries of a large forest. I saw no 
 more, nor knew I whither they conveyed me ; for they had covered my eyes with 
 a shade, I w r as led between my guides up several stairs, when they unblinded 
 me, and I entered a dreary chamber, where, sat a lady in mourning habiliments, 
 her face w r as concealed by her veil. She rose on my approach, when I discovered 
 not the features of my outraged Emily, but those of the lady Anna Kelvin. 
 
 “ An hectic glow of triumphant malice irradiated her eyes as she threw open 
 the lid of a large iron chest, and pointing to its hollow 7 , I beheld—Oh God ! Oh 
 God of justice, wherefore slept thy avenging thunders ?—not the once blooming 
 Emily, the sw r eet image that even in madness cheered my frantic heart; but the 
 poor, pale, dead form of her who had once been my heaven of happiness ! Emily 
 had ceased from her miseries, and fate and malice had done their worst. 
 
 “ Curses, deep and soul-w 7 rung, were all the sad, poor retributions left me; 
 but w hat could they avail; Could they restore the dead ?—I kissed the cold lips 
 of my angelic love, as she lay cramped in her narrow prison ; for even the com¬ 
 mon ritual of the dead was denied her by the cruel Anna. 
 
 “ As with the stupified gaze of despair. I was still beholding the poor insen- 
 
132 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 sate remains, when the inhuman Anna bade me view the sacrifice of slighted 
 love, the just atonement of her injuries. 
 
 ‘Remember,’ added she, ‘ the oath I took to avenge them ; Emily is my vic¬ 
 tim ; not herself only, but all that she has borne, shall feel my vengeance !’ 
 
 ‘ Away, fiend of hell!’ I franticly cried. ‘ May the keenest punishments and 
 torments be inflicted on thee ; and while thy life continues, be conscience thy 
 tormentor, and thy soul the victim of its severest pangs !’ 
 
 “ Imprinting a last kiss on the cold lips of the poor injured saint, they hurried 
 me from the fatal chamber, and again blinding my eyes, conducted me to the 
 vehicle. Resistance was useless ; and, I was once more conveyed back to my 
 former prison. 
 
 “ The jailer, till lately attended me in silence, at length, he informed me that 
 Emily, on the accursed night that we arrived from Scotland, had been conveyed 
 to other apartments as soon as I was overcome. Her wound was but slight,— 
 and when she recovered from its effects, she was ordered to prepare to receive 
 the monster Hubert for her husband, or behold the death of him, as w 7 ell as her 
 child, whom she must consider as no longer such, since her marriage with my¬ 
 self was unlawful, by the vows I had plighted to the sacred profession of monastic 
 devotion. To save her child and husband, the hapless Emily consented to the 
 sacrifice of herself. 
 
 The usurper triumphed in an angel’s ruin, but guilt converted his incestuous 
 love to hatred and remorse; and resigning the victim of his lust to the pow 7 er of 
 his greatest agent, the ruthless Anna, he left her to the mercy of that dreaded 
 foe, though not till she had borne him a daughter—Isabella so named. 
 
 “ It was about a week succeeding my re-imprisonment, that the monster, fob* 
 low 7 ed by his miscreants, entered my dreary dungeon. The villain again offered 
 me a choice of destiny in the chance of life and death that awaited my election. 
 I drew back from his near approach, as thus I ejaculated— 
 
 “ By what right hast thou assumed a privilege to enter the presence of a bro¬ 
 ther thou has ruined ?—A way! begone! and quit my sight for ever! My soul 
 abhors thy blasting view 7 ! and my curses, the curses of a brother, pursue thee 
 with anguish everlasting. 
 
 “ The usurper trembled ; pale horror sat on his countenance. Precipitately 
 he fled my prison, and I never after beheld his detested person. 
 
 “ But the deeds he himself wanted courage to perform, w r as readily supplied 
 w 7 ith hirelings to execute ; and on the following night, his agents entered my 
 prison with you in their arms, w hom I had not for tw r o years seen.— 
 
 ‘ Give me, Oh give me my child!’ I cried w 7 ith joy, at beholding thee; but 
 they prevented my approach with their swords. The ruffian that withheld thee 
 from my arms, had raised his unsheathed sword over thy little form, whilst his 
 Companion, informed me that liberty and life awaited me, on condition that I 
 took a solemn binding oath to forego for ever my claims and inheritage of Neville, 
 become a stranger to my native country, and swear never, in any degree whatso¬ 
 ever, to make known whom I was, or contradict the report, which w as universally 
 believed, that 1 had become a votary to monastic seclusion. If I consented, 
 guides were already engaged to carry me on board a vessel that was to convey 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 133 
 
 us from the shores of England to those of France: if I refused, the upraised 
 sword against iny child, was to perform its dreadful purpose, and my own life 
 then seal the fears of the tyrant in the murder of his neice and brother. At first 
 I started from the horrid sacrifice, but I had no redress, no alternative allowed 
 me. My soul had lost all zest for worldly splendour; your outstretched arms, 
 as they were expanded towards me, bade me save your harmless innocence from 
 the cruel tyrant’s sword. I obeyed the sweet impulse. An oath, horrible in its 
 nature, and binding as the ties to heaven could make it, was administered ; the 
 fatal vow escaped my lips, and I solemnly swore never to make known to mortal 
 breathing, but particular to thee, the sacrifice I had made, or the dark events 
 that had caused it. This accursed deed performed, the ruffians no longer with¬ 
 held you from my arms, and we were conducted at midnight from our dungeon. 
 As our guides conducted us from prison, Philip, the jailer, from whom of late 
 I had experienced several acts of kindness, put into my hand, unseen by his 
 companions, a slip of paper, and bade me peruse it when alone ; ere the break 
 of day, our guides had conveyed us on board the vessel that still lay at anchor 
 near the shore. 
 
 “ The ruffians, who had conducted us to the ship, gave us in charge to its 
 
 crew; and soon left us. I hastened to the cabin, that by its lighted tapers I 
 
 might decipher the paper of Philip. It ran thus :— 
 
 ***** 
 
 ‘ Trust not your brother’s word; he has deceived you; the vessel you suppose 
 designed to transport you to France, is in reality a pirate, intended to convey you 
 to a Barbary corsair, to whom yourself and child are sold. Be secret, as you 
 value this caution; and should you escape, make known to him, who now risks 
 his life to save you, the place of your residence. 
 
 4 Philip.’ 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 “ My fears were verified, and our tyrant had still in store for me increase of 
 persecution. 
 
 “It was not yet daylight. The apprehensions of a parent for his child, 
 nerved my arms, and quickened my invention. I entreated the captain of the 
 ship to allow me to remain on deck till we sailed. T he request was granted. 
 
 <f The vessel was only a small trader, and lay at anchor upon its side, not far 
 from the shore; for the water was very shallow, and the flow of the tide would 
 not yet permit them to draw their cable. 
 
 The moments were precious; not an instant was to be lost; and unloosing 
 my cloak, I wrapped you safely in it, and fastened you securely round my neck^ 
 I seized a rope at that side of the vessel which leaned towards the water. The 
 pitchy darkness was favourable ; and in silence I let myself down. Gently gain¬ 
 ing the other end of the vessel, I swam, with little noise, towards the shore, 
 whilst the riotous revelry of the crew on board, secured our retreat; and in 
 safety reached the shore. 
 
 “ I hurried through the trackless darkness of night with all the speed my nearly 
 exhausted strength would permit; and as the day began to break, I descried a 
 
134 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 distant cottage on the verge of a wood. Thither I hastened, and beneath its 
 sheltering roof rested my weary limbs in safety from my pursuers. 
 
 “ Some days were spent in this retreat. Oswell, (for he was the master of 
 the cot) was poor; and having lately lost his wife, with gladness consented to 
 become my servant.—We journied at midnight from the cottage, and after several 
 days, arrived in safety at my ancient possession in Scotland. 
 
 “ You had nearly reached your eighth year, when one morning Philip, the 
 rough but honest jailer of my prison, when confined at Neville, entered my 
 apartment. He then declared the greatness of his mission. Hubert had disco¬ 
 vered that myself, and child, had escaped. Philip, at the hazard of his life, 
 had hastened on the friendly office, to warn me of our danger. 
 
 “ Not an instant was to be lost: we hastened from the hospitable retreat of 
 Malcolm tower. 
 
 “ I had assumed the name and title of Brandon from the first moment of my 
 arrival in Scotland, and the mansion that gave the title to its possessor was now 
 the last sad refuge of its hapless heiress. 
 
 “ Here, then, in the Abbey of Brandon I securely rested. Here unseen, I 
 had leisure to reflect on the past occurrences of rny life, and, in the opening 
 graces of my child, to trace the growing resemblance of my beloved Emily. 
 
 “ Philip, the jailer, to whose friendly interference we had twice owed our 
 escape from the fear of death, sometimes related in manuscript the actions of the 
 detested Hubert, that he had never, of late, resigned himself to his golden couches 
 of downy softness, but with the expectation of being dragged from his illegal 
 seat of power by the arrival of his wronged brother, to demand retribution and 
 redress. 
 
 “ In the meantime, you, my Emily, (for that is your real name, Bertha being 
 only a fiction, assumed to deceive all chance of discovery, and which appellation 
 you must in future be known by, when at the bar of justice you will assert your 
 claims to the inheritance of your father), grew up in all the youthful plenitude of 
 your angel mother’s fascinating perfections. 
 
 “ Oh Emily ! will you not think it strange that to preserve you from the myste¬ 
 rious dangers you from me inherited, I, unknown to yourself, had entered St. 
 Agatha’s tower, to warn you secretly of evil which openly I was withheld from. 
 The remote situation of the Abbey I knew was our surest protection ; but, anxious 
 for your future safety, I did not oppose your desire of tempting the supposed 
 dangers of St. Agatha’s ruin. The history of the unfortunate nun, which I had 
 found among some ancient records relating to the Abbey, in the old library, I 
 enclosed in the manuscript my own hand had traced, the better to secure your 
 attraction to the envelope, and continue that delusion which my solemn oath for¬ 
 bade the unfolding of. Bound to eternal silence while living, I had no other al¬ 
 ternate e left me than to alarm your tears, and at least excite curiosity to guard 
 you against their mysterious effects. 
 
 “ The papers of instruction that guide you to the repository of these direful 
 records will inform you how to proceed in the investigation of your rights to the 
 inheritance of your ancestors. The noble Elvina, when you shall have made 
 known to her the contents of these papers, will aid your pious purposes, and 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 135 
 
 guard you from the malice of your foes, my fears for your safety M ill be assuaged, 
 and my child nobly guarded from the ill effects of her orphaned and destitute 
 state. 
 
 I grow weak—my eyesight fails me—I can write no more at present; but 
 to-morrow or, perhaps, on the ensuing midnight I shall have gained more strength, 
 and these racking agonies will have ceased. Farewell ! 
 
 4 ‘ The stranger has left me ; again I resume my sad employment;—perhaps, 
 ah ! too' certainly for the last time I address you. 
 
 “ You are alarmed, Emily, at this sudden journey ; but I go to restore you to 
 yourself. The friendly Philip, informs me the tyrant is no more : his death re¬ 
 leases me from my vow—silence and submission are ended—the hour of retribu¬ 
 tion is at length arrived, and only a girl remains to oppose my legal claims. Helen 
 of Neville is now Isabella of Clandale ; but she inherits her father’s unrelenting 
 nature, and pursues us even with greater rigour than her ruthless sire. 
 
 “To the tribunal of justice I hasten from the Abbey to prove the wrongs L 
 have endured, and accomplish your restoration to your inheritance; but should 
 death arrest, my progress ere I arrive at the destination of my journey, then will 
 these papers, with others of confirming value remaining in the chest prove your 
 undoubted rights.—I cannot say, Farewell for ever ! though my soul assures me 
 that I have enfolded you for the last time in my paternal embraces. May provi¬ 
 dence protect my child. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The agonized Bertha w as proceeding to the end of these dreadful papers, when 
 a noise in a distant corner of the chamber startled her; nothing however appeared 
 to warrant alarm, and she again bent her sorrowful eyes on the manuscript. 
 
 “ Remember the dignity of your birth, and the illustrious rank and title of your 
 name, which is no longer Bertha of Brandon, but Emily, baroness of Neville. 
 These papers are the only proofs of your lawful claims to the inheritance of your 
 forefathers ; respect them, and fulfil the mandates of their contents ; so shall they 
 be enabled to retrieve from oppression and usurpation your long despoiled rights.” 
 
 In pronouncing the last words, her blood suddenly forsook her heart, her joints 
 stiffened in horror ; for her hand was suddenly grasped, and the precious records 
 were wrested from her, when a voice, ejaculated—• 
 
 “ There sink for ever the last testimony of your claims!—Perish in the flames 
 the lying forgei'y of an impostor and a madman, and be the rights of Helen secured 
 beyond dispute!” 
 
 Emily sprung from her seat as, in anguish and despair, she shrieked aloud- 
 
 “ Save them, Oh spare them !”—and rushing towards the hearth, she seized from 
 the before dying embers of the fire, some that had not yet shared in the conflagra¬ 
 tion. Isabella, however, snatching them from her, again consigned them to des¬ 
 truction, whilst, with an uplifted dagger, she guarded the hearth till the whole 
 were entirely consumed. 
 
 Bertha viewed the flames of the precious manuscript, till it became annihilated 
 and not a wreck remained: and those lines, the labour of a suffering parent, as 
 they shone for a moment bright in the crimson glare, expressed in more illumined 
 vived characters their crying wrongs for vengeance and retribution. 
 
136 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 She fell, exhausted and insensible, upon her couch as Isabella closed the door 
 of her dungeon, and remained alike void of feeling for the past, or sensation to 
 the tortures of the present moment. 
 
 . . r : i ; < 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 o : ‘ . ' v ' :•; 
 
 HUBERT the usurping Baron of Neville, in his latter hours of life* felt the stings 
 of an upbraiding conscience; lie was heard to lament the injuries and sorrows lie 
 had inflicted on his brother, whom to redress and restore to his long despoiled 
 inheritance, became the wish of his heart; and strange though it seemed, as the 
 usurper became more penitent, his daughter’s rancorous hatred against her uncle 
 increased. She had, from infancy, been taught to consider herself as born to 
 the splendours of illustrious greatness; and to maintain her power, and secure its 
 continuance, no sacrifice was thought too great; and when in confidence her father 
 informed her how unjust her claims ■were to the inheritance of Neville,"she peremp¬ 
 torily refused to relinquish her right, nor would consent to acknowledge any other 
 than herself as heiress to their possession. 
 
 The soul of Helen Isabella, was aspiring, inflexible, and daring; and her 
 heart was as imperious as the high fortunes of her fate were superior to her 
 merits. But when informed that her father really meant to restore his fraudu¬ 
 lently gained possessions, her rage, though it dared not openly shew itself, M as 
 if possible, more dreadful, because concealed ; and the efforts of the earl to dis¬ 
 cover his brother Mere rendered still more unsuccessful, from her secret counterac¬ 
 tions of his designs. Some unguarded expressions of Philip, who M r as, though 
 faithful to an impious master, a real friend to the oppressed Sir Godfrey, relating 
 to his knowledge of the latter, Isabella was made acquainted with, M ho, on a 
 pretended suspicion of disaffection, succeeded in obtaining his banishment from 
 the castle of Neville; and hence it Mas that Philip Mas deprived of knowing the 
 true designs of the earl of Clandale, which might perhaps have saved Sir Godfrey’s 
 life to a longer period, and secured Bertha from the future persecutions of the 
 remorseless Isabella ; who with unfilial joy, received the news of her father’s ill¬ 
 ness,,and approaching death. 
 
 Hubert, in his latest moments, strongly enjoined Isabella to finish the search he 
 had so unsuccessfully begun, and restore to his M ronged brother the only means 
 of reparation in his power now to make him, solemnly conjuring her, as she valued 
 his future peace, as well as her own, to . enter a house of religious penitents; 
 where, by the pious devotion of herself, the guilt and violent outrage of her own 
 birth might find mercy and forgiveness, 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 137 
 
 Hubert died, agonized by the thoughts of his inhuman cruelty to his brother. 
 
 Lady Isabella became, after her father’s death, reserved and gloomy. Her 
 whole thoughts bent on one object, the retaining possession of an inheritance she 
 was resolved never to resign whilst the power was solely vested in herself. 
 
 For the lovely Emily she had imbibed an implacable hatred ere she saw her; 
 but when in Bertha Brandon she found the object of her fears, and the rival of 
 her love ; the long-smothered passion of deadly aversion, overcame every senti¬ 
 ment of pity or remorse ; and when arrived at the castle of Etherwold, she 
 found the mind of Egbert congenial to her own, she reflected that should she 
 marry either Harrold or Alfred, it would then become the interest of their father 
 to extirpate a rival so dangerous to the hopes, and fortunes of his son, by an 
 alliance with herself. Having well weighed these thoughts in her mind, she 
 acquainted the Baron with her real situation, and her election for the partner of 
 her future life, rested on Alfred. 
 
 The subtle Egbert, listened with inward amazement to this confession. His 
 behaviour, however, to Isabella, suffered no diminution of respect; but when he 
 found that Isabella was the usurper of another’s rights, of which there was a 
 probability she would one day be deprived, he began to waver whether to re¬ 
 ceive her as a daughter. The Baron felt for Bertha a lasting passion, even be¬ 
 fore his knowledge of whom she really was. It is even possible but for that, he 
 
 No. IS. T * 
 
138 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 would (after the discovery of her birth) have accorded his approbation of Alfred’s 
 choice: but Bertha’s fascinating charms, he had reserved for his own possession, 
 regardless of the misery he should entail upon his son, or the injustice of his 
 conduct to an illustrious woman, the Baroness, his equal in birth, and superior 
 in the virtuous perfections of her mind. 
 
 The indignity of Elvina’s trial had proved a check to his growing ambition ; 
 and the disgrace, recoiled on himself, since the purity of the Baroness secured 
 her from the effects of calumny: and the fortunes of Holy Church withheld the 
 fortunes of Elvina, till they became the inheritance of her son. This loss, Egbert 
 knew he should amply supply in his union with the real heiress of Neville. His 
 daring soul, veiled in a deceptive mask, was but too capable of acts of injustice 
 and iniquity : nor was his well concealed artifice, exposed to the view of his des¬ 
 tined victims, till ensnared in his treacherous devices, they were beyond the 
 power of aid, or escape ; nor was it too late that Isabella regretted her misplaced 
 confidence in the Baron :—and tremblingly alarmed for her secret, she hurried 
 back to the castle, upon the receipt of information which her spies gave her, of 
 his intended union with Bertha, hoping that by her presence, she should awe the 
 Baron till some means were found to frustrate them entirely. 
 
 An over-ruling fate, drove the hapless Bertha from the power of one persecutor 
 to the hoped for refuge of the other ; and in her own domains she endured the 
 horrors of a dungeon, where she had a right to expect a home. 
 
 Isabella no sooner became acquainted that Bertha was the heiress -whose pre¬ 
 rogative she usurped, entered the Abbey secretly soon after Sir Godfrey’s death, 
 when all its inmates were buried in sleep, she discovered, by the black trappings, 
 the chamber of her deceased uncle, and opening the cabinet in the turret chamber 
 found sufficient proofs that the supposed Sir Godfrey -was in reality the Baron of 
 Neville. The papers contained matters of the utmost importance to Bertha. 
 One was a particular description of the secret department in the wainscot of the 
 west saloon, and was in reality the approach to the vaults, where was secreted 
 every testimony of Sir Godfrey’s birth, and the history of his wrongs and mis¬ 
 fortunes. 
 
 Isabella perused some few affecting passages, that made her tremble. She. 
 was about to destroy all the papers, but a sudden tremor shook her frame, 
 which, with the lone stillness of the plaee, the lateness of the hour, together 
 witli the upbraiding stings of the heat, pictured to her mental and corporeal 
 sight, a pale white form, whose ghastly countenance, cast in angry glances on 
 her, alarmed her from her purposes, and throwing her unfinished work into the 
 cabinet, hurried from the gloomy chambers, leaving the mutilated papers in the 
 condition they were afterwards found by Bertha. 
 
 Isabella staid in the castle some days after the disappearance of Bertha, that 
 hoi too soon withdrawing herselt might not give the Baron cause of suspicion, 
 whose lage at the loss ot a being he had regarded as his victim, became un¬ 
 bounded and dreadful. At length she took leave of her guardian, with a design, 
 as she expressed ol hastening to Neville castle ; but she went no further than the 
 Abbey, which she took possession of, as a fit place for the execution of her dark 
 designs. ’Death was the allotted portion of her hapless victim, had not some 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 139 
 
 sudden starts of nature, made her fluctuate in their execution, that held her will 
 its captive; and at one moment she almost repented of the dreadful purpose, 
 considering that by imprisoning her victim for life, she might still be the pos¬ 
 sessor of Neville, and save her hands the guilt of having shed the blood ot 
 innocence. 
 
 In an agitated, irresolute state of mind, she resolved to search the vaults for 
 the secret records of Sir Godfrey. For this purpose she entered the recess of 
 their repository, attended bv Anna; and having obtained the papers, was about 
 to destroy them, when the sudden appearance of Bertha, whom she mistook for 
 the apparition of the unfortunate Baroness Emily, overcame her with terror, 
 and she rushed precipitately from the cell, convinced she had seen a spectre ; 
 but Anna, after narrowly searching around, found the veil ot Bertha, that had 
 unknown to her, fallen from her head on the recovery of her father’s papers, 
 sufficiently convinced Anna who in reality the supposed spectre was ; she suc¬ 
 ceeded in allaying the fears of Isabella, who trembling lest her victim should 
 have escaped, she with her companion, hurried through the intricacies of the 
 caverns, and gained the door of her captive’s prison, which softly opening, she 
 found her safe in her chamber, and still i her power. At the sight, she was 
 rushing in to seize the records, when Bertha was disturbed by the noise. She 
 therefore waited, till all was again quiet, when softly stealing to the chair, the 
 vengeful Isabella committed, as has been seen, the only proofs of her rights, for 
 ever in oblivion, and every trace of her claims were destroyed. 
 
 The enraged Isabella, aharmed at the late danger to which her secret had been 
 exposed, determined that this night should finish for ever her bloody purpose. 
 
 The evening set in stormy and comfortless, and all without was in unison with 
 the inward horrors of Isabella’s mind, as with wild impatience, she told the 
 sullen strokes of the Abbey clock, the hour of eleven. 
 
 “ Only eleven,” she gloomily repeated, “ Wherefore should I longer defer 
 
 the settled purpose of my soul.” 
 
 ii ’Tis early yet,” replied the friendlike Anna ,— iC she may not be retired to 
 rest, besides, the fury of the tempest would keep her awake.’' 
 
 Another silent half-hour was past: at length the notes of midnight sounded 
 over the woods, and awoke Isabella to action. Starting up, she grasped the in¬ 
 strument of death; whilst her agent, seizing the lamp, they together stalked to 
 the scene of midnight murder. 
 
 Isabella hurried through the dark passages and vaulted aisles of the Abbey. 
 Her steps became unsteady, and as she walked down the middle aisle of these 
 dreary mansions of the dead, her foot suddenly slipped, and she tell. when as 
 Anna held her lamp still lower, to the lady Isabella to rise, the latter, with 
 shuddering horror read aloud, as her eyes were cast upon a black marble stone— 
 
 Sacred to the memory 
 of 
 
 Godfrey, Lord of Brandon. 
 
 She paused, nor read again ; and if the grave had suddenly opened, and raised 
 to her view the silent, injured dead, to wake her into penitence and lemoise, it 
 
140 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 could not, more powerfully have influenced her:—she trembled, paused, and 
 conscience once more would have triumphed had not Anna been present, who 
 taking the arm of Isabella, and violently shaking it, thus sternly exclaimed.— 
 
 Weak, undermined lady, reflect, should you suffer your rival to exist, Alfred 
 is lost to you for ever, and Egbert will restore the idol of his love to the inherit¬ 
 ance she is heiress of— 
 
 “ Enough !” replied Isabella, “ she dies, and the grave of her father shall soon 
 become her last resting place.” 
 
 Anna now quickly led her from the spot, and by traversing a number of secret 
 passages, known only to herself, entered the south ruins, which led them to the 
 door of the hapless victim’s prison. 
 
 “ Give me the key,” ejaculated Isabella, “ and do you retire, and wait my 
 call in the gallery.” 
 
 When alone, Isabella for a moment paused, she at length silently fixed the 
 key in the door, which slowly creaked on its rusty hinges, and made her start. 
 Fearful that her lamp might awake her victim, she shaded it with her robe, as 
 with gliding steps, she entered the dismal chamber. All within was silent and 
 dark, she approached the couch on which Bertha lay reclined in a deep and 
 heavy slumber. She drew forth the fatal weapon ; no power opposed the blow. 
 Bertha was herself unable to resist the stroke, unconscious of her danger. At 
 length Isabella raised the fatal instrument. A faint cry broke from the lips of 
 the sleeping Bertha, for in her dreams she seemed to portend her danger, then 
 sinking for a moment to an almost deadly stillness, she lay as a being quite de¬ 
 prived of respiration, till again her vision became horrid, she shrieked aloud, 
 and awoke to behold her vision realized, and view the dagger’s point about to 
 enter her bosom.— 114 Oh God!” she despairingly ejaculated, “ my visionary pic¬ 
 ture is fulfilled ! have mercy, and spare me ere it is too late! Think, oh think, 
 whom it is you would destroy, and save yourself the future horrors of unavailing 
 remorse.” 
 
 “ It is a vain effort! replied the vengeful Isabella, “ behold thy fated end !” 
 raising her arm, to strike her prostrate rival, who only exclaimed, as she cast 
 her eyes first on Isabella, then up to her God, to whom she silently appealed—• 
 tx Now I am ready ! short w T ill be my remaining pangs, but thine everlasting ! for 
 remember thy victim is thy sister !” 
 
 Scarcely had the last word escaped the lips of Bertha, than Isabella, started 
 back, and the dagger dropped from her nerveless hand. Without daring to cast 
 her guilty eyes on the suffering Bertha, she was retreating from the chamber, 
 when the demoniac Anna rushed in and seizing the dagger, said_ 
 
 “ Had’st thou resigned this act to me, it had ere this been executed.” 
 
 Then be it so ! replied Isabella — i( Do as thou wilt, so I never behold her 
 more.” 
 
 Sa)ing these words, she darted from the dreadful scene, unable herself toper- 
 form, or witness its conclusion: and Anna seizing her victim exclaimed— 
 
 “ My triumph will at length be complete. Vengeance, though long delayed, 
 is at length arriv ed, and the life of the daughter shall atone for the injuries I 
 have sustained from the father.” 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 141 
 
 At that instant a deep and hollow groan rung through the chamber; Anna 
 wildly cast her eyes towards the iron chest, as if impelled by an irresistable im¬ 
 pulse, when she beheld a form, whose hollow sunken visage was turned in 
 ghastly paleness and frowning anger on herself, it beckoned her to quit the room 
 when not daring to stay longer in the awful presence of a being of another 
 world, she left her bloody work unfinished, and rushed out. 
 
 Bertha no sooner heard the closing door shut, than falling on her knees she 
 returned thanks to the Almighty for her unexpected escape, with a greatful fer¬ 
 vency that only a virtuous mind can truly feel. She felt the blessings of happy 
 conscious innocence. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HER serenity was disturbed by the opening of her prision door, and a harsh 
 voice recalled her to recollection, as the glare of a lamp shone on the dark coun¬ 
 tenance of Bertrand, the villain who had conveyed her from the castle of Ether- 
 wold to her present melancholy prison. With a look of stern ferocity, he bade 
 her follow him. 
 
 “ Whither?” asked Bertha. 
 
 <£ Y'ou will know, ere long,” he roughly replied. 
 
 Bertha, was too well assured resistance was fruitless ; therefore she followed 
 her guide in silence along the winding corridor, and down a distant flight of 
 stairs. 
 
 Arrived at the closed door of a room Bertha heard the faint cries of some person 
 in evident pain, proceeding from the interior. Bertrand, slowly unclosing the 
 door, led her down a few steps ; and Bertha, casting her eyes round, beheld 
 herself in a small recess, where at one corner a female form was stretched upon 
 a low couch, whose groans bespoke the extreme pain and anguish she endured. 
 
 << Are you then so pitiful as to approach a dying sinner !” exclaimed a voice 
 familiar to the ear of Bertha. 
 
 “ The man now quitting the cell, and closing the portal, the anguished person 
 called for Bertha to advance towards her ; who, as she did so, beheld, by the 
 feeble ray of a suspended lamp, the ghastly distorted countenance and form of 
 Anna, now penitent and dying. 
 
 « Approach,” she cried, with an enfeebled tone of voice, “ approach, poor, 
 injured being ! and now behold thy triumph in the fall of thy once mortal onem\ ! 
 cut off from the scene of her iniquities in the unrepented lulness of all her heinous 
 
M2 ' THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 sins. Deeply have I wronged you. Oh may the only atonement I am permitted 
 to make, procure me some slight remission of my crimes ! for oh ! ’tis certain 
 that I now feel the awful conviction of its touch, and know there is a God of 
 justice and punishment.—I cannot die without thy forgiving pardon: in pity to 
 my anguish, pronounce the blissful mercy of thy peace to my benighted soul. 
 
 The astonishment of Bertha at a scene so unexpected, had for a moment sus¬ 
 pended her faculties: but her soul, melting to the touch of pity, at the agonies 
 she saw depictured in the countenance of the expiring wretch, made her charit¬ 
 ably hasten to afford, into the affrighted soul, her entire absolution and pardon 
 of the wrongs she had sustained. 
 
 i ‘ May the supreme being, whom, for my guilty self I dare not importune, 
 reward thy goodness 1” feebly uttered Anna, “ and now, that I may make some 
 atonement, let me provide the means of thy enlargement: this night is fortunate 
 and will befriend thy escape. In yonder chest thou wilt find a suit of male at¬ 
 tire, it will secure thy retreat from the Abbey; and ere I sink to my dreaded 
 oblivion in the arms of death, know that in the last and guilty being before you, 
 you behold the poor remains of the once proud heiress of the noble house of 
 Kelvin.” 
 
 Here the power of speech was withheld, she recovered just strength to groan 
 for mercy at the throne of divine majesty. 
 
 On Anna rushing from the chamber of Bertha, in all the terrific imagery of 
 supernatural apparition, in her extreme haste, she had incautiously placed her 
 foot upon the decayed stairs of the ruined gallery, one of which beneath her 
 weight, escaped its rotten holds, and plunging the miserable Anna down the 
 steep, she was hurled to the stone pavement of the passage below, mangled in 
 the most shocking manner. Her shrieks brought Bertrand to her aid, who bore 
 her to one of the dreary cells, in the most excruciating tortures. She made 
 several efforts to speak, but all attempts were fruitless; till a speedy mortifica¬ 
 tion stopped the writhing agonies she had endured, and the first words she pro¬ 
 nounced were an impatient and eager demand for the presence of Berthe. Ber¬ 
 trand, not entirely devoid of pity, received the instructions of Anna, and hastened 
 as has been seen, to perform them. The astonished Bertha, in mute wonder, 
 beheld the unexpected scene, and with compassion, deigned to ease the last 
 struggles of her once most inveterate foe. She even prayed fervently that the 
 misdeeds of the guilty A nna might find from her late penitence, the mercy of 
 an eternal judge. 
 
 Having equipped herself in the attire pointed out by Anna, Bertha quitted 
 the awful scene of death ; and carefully closing the door, entered the corridor 
 with trembling steps. Proceeding forward, she reached the vestibule, and hurry¬ 
 ing up the steps that led to the door, which now was all that stood between her 
 and liberty, and urged by desperation, unbolted the heavy fastening. The door 
 giving way, she darted up the remaining steps, and in a moment beheld herself 
 in the forest, screened from observation by the darkness of the night, and the 
 close tangled boughs of the concealing woods, along w hose intricate mazes she 
 flew\ At length, however, she became exhausted for w'antof respiration to pro¬ 
 ceed further ;—she seated herself upon a hillock of the roots of a tree. Not ^ 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 143 
 
 sound broke upon the stillness of the night. The death of Anna, and her own 
 escape seemed to her astonished senses rather the work of enchantment than 
 reality. 
 
 For a long time she wandered over trackless paths in hopes to free herself 
 from the dark labyrinths of the woods. At length, wearied and exhausted with 
 the unavailing efforts, she became, from the excess of faintness and fatigue, un¬ 
 able to advance ; and now resigning every hope of succour, sunk upon a green 
 bank, without the power of sustaining her weary frame. 
 
 She had for some time been in a state of torpid forgetfulness, when a loud 
 whistle echoed through the woods, and awoke her from her insensibility. Some 
 persons passed the glade where she lay reclined: Bertha, called fee bly for aid. 
 Some rough looking men at length approached, and discovered the sufferer; one 
 of them drawing from his vest a leathern flask, held it to the lips of Bertha, and 
 in harsh tones bade her drink the contents, who did as he desired, and soon found 
 benefit to her sinking spirits ; whilst the stranger viewing her with wonder and 
 scrutiny said— 
 
 “ By the Virgin, ’tis a tender-hearted youngster, and seems but ill acquainted 
 with the rude blasts of fortunes fiowns. Thou hast I suppose, escaped from 
 some old grey-headed cynic, who has denied thee thy lawful heritage when thy 
 spirit demanded it, but cheer thee, boy ! I will conduct thee to our noble chief; 
 and as thou art but a green and beardless youth, and ill-suited for our glorious 
 enterprising life, thou^shalt. be promoted to the honour of being his page; no 
 doubt, but he will treat thee kindly, and in a few months thou wilt become as 
 able and brave a swordsman as any among our valiant gang.” 
 
 “ Gracious God!” inwardly ejaculated Bertha, “become an associate of 
 robbers ! Oh Providence ! for what am I reserved?” 
 
 Her soul shuddered at the fearful picture of her thoughts, but resistance was 
 useless: and she submitted to be raised from the earth, though the wounds she 
 had received from the thorns and briars rendered her at first nearly unable to 
 stand. 
 
 As they proceeded forward, Oliver the foremost robber, thus continued ad¬ 
 dressing his discourse to the suffering Bertha:— 
 
 “Our captain is noble, and will soon, if he finds thee willing, make thy for¬ 
 tune. He is indeed sometimes given to melancholy moods, and shuns our socie¬ 
 ties ; but he never hinders our mirth. Be sure to avoid provoking him, nor at¬ 
 tempt to pry into the secrets of his actions. We have found him brave, and 
 generous, and therefore have we trusted him, though a stranger, with the com¬ 
 mand of our gallant troop:—as yet he is unknown to any of us: and strange as 
 it may appear, we never yet have seen the entire features of his countenance.” 
 
 Bert ha listened to this account in silence: she reflected that, deeply as she 
 regretted it, yet in a den of robbers, she should be far more safe, than she could 
 have been, had she remained at the Abbey. 
 
 The robbers quitted not the edge of the forest, but led their trembling pri¬ 
 soner in silence to the outside of its skirts, till they arrived at the brink of a 
 deep shaded dell, at whose summit they halted; when Oliver, seizing Bertha 
 by the arm led her down a steep and rugged descent, and raising a moss covered 
 
144 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 trap, discovered a flight of steps, down which she was carefully conducted, and 
 in a few moments found herself in a spacious cavern: when from the glare of a 
 tripod lamp suspended from the roof, Bertha beheld a large mishapen table, and 
 seats on which sat a number of fierce looking men and women. Oliver, now 
 approaching a tall woman of a beautiful but fierce aspect, exclaimed—“ Here 
 Elfrida, I picked up this young trembler in the forest: I have spared his life till 
 our captain resolves whether to keep him, or not; so do thou administer to his 
 needs.” 
 
 She was conducted to the recess assigned for her repose, where she threw her¬ 
 self on a pallet of straw wishing for the morning, when she trusted she should 
 quit her dreary confinement. A gentle slumber, overpowered her care-worn 
 spirits, and she had slept for some time in undisturbed serenity, when a sudden 
 noise, awoke her, and she found herself supported in the arms of the terrifying 
 Oliver, and that the bosom of her apparel had been torn open. Bertha too 
 plainly perceived the discovery he had made of her sex. He fixed a glance of 
 meaning on her face, and bade her lay aside all useless reserve, and expect in 
 him a friend:—then seizing her arms, he would rudely have kissed her neck, 
 had not Bertha, shrieked for help, and with a majesty of manner and voice, 
 proudly commanded liiin to conduct her instantly to his captain. 
 
 Cursing the disappointment of his hopes, he sullenly bade her follow him ; 
 but in half-expressed sentences, he muttered some dark threats. 
 
 As she entered upon a ruined vaulted passage, Oliver, opening a door at the 
 end said in a low tone of voice, as he bade her enter— 
 
 “ Do not hope to escape me ; for, in spite of your favoured captain, you shall 
 be mine!” 
 
 The room was light; and Oliver, following her into it, pointed to a couch on 
 which reclined a black figure. 
 
 “ That is our captain! I leave you together;” and retiring, Oliver shut the 
 door. 
 
 Bertha started as the chief arose, he wore a black visor over the upper part 
 of his face, he approached the trembling Bertha, and seizing her arm, said in 
 a voice of anger and harshness— 
 
 “Hast thou not betrayed me?” 
 
 Bertha, in amazement, hesitated to answer a demand so mysterious and inex¬ 
 plicable ; when the chief withdrawing his mask, discovered, to her sight the 
 countenance of Harrold. A degree of horror overcame her strength, as loudly 
 lie exclaimed— 
 
 “ Do’st thou now not know me ? Has’t thou not betrayed my accursed, fatal 
 secret ?” 
 
 “ Great God !” ejaculated Bertha, “ I do indeed most fearfully recognize 
 thee! Oh, can I ever forget the murderer of-” 
 
 “ Forbear!” interrupted Harrold, with a voice of thunder; “ dare not on your 
 life, recal the hell-incited deed. I know thou viewest me with detestation and 
 abhorrence, as the being who has destroyed thy happiness, as well as that of 
 him who was dear to thee ;—the fatal act is passed beyond recal; and since hell 
 itself has planned our mutual ruin, together we will reap the harvest of our 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. U5 
 
 guilt.—Thou hast betrayed my secret, and perjured thyself, therefore is thy life 
 the just forfeiture of thy broken faith:—but fate, have cast thee securely within 
 my power, wherefore should I longer hesitate to claim thee as mine.” 
 
 With horror Bertha heard the stern fiat of her destiny ; and sinking on her 
 knees, she raised her hands and eyes to heaven, and audibly pronounced—“ To 
 thee, oh Father supreme, I appeal to witness for my truth, that never did I betray 
 the fatal promise I had been compelled to make, nor ever did the knowledge ol 
 that deed of blood and horror, escape my lips to any mortal. Oh then suffer not 
 thy erring, but not guilty creature to fall beneath the afflictions of triumphant 
 vice.” 
 
 Rising from her knees, with a glow of indignation and courage mantling her 
 
 cheeks, she added—• 
 
 ce Harrold, I fear thee not, for my trust is in him who will not desert me.” 
 
 She turned from the hated destroyer of her peace, with that innate assurance 
 which virtue ever feels at the sight of degraded, fallen human nature ; but Har¬ 
 rold was not to be so repulsed. He grasped her hand with violence, as he bade 
 her remember she was in his power, and at his mercy. 
 
 <£ You struggle vainly with your fate,” he added .— u I have too long delayed 
 its completion and my reward; if therefore, life be dear to thee, thou must be¬ 
 come the sharer of my misdeeds, which alone offer the means of preservation, 
 “Knowest thou not,” replied Bertha, “that between thee and me, God has 
 No. 19. u 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 1+G 
 
 placed an impassable gulph that never can be forded ; for thy soul is stained with 
 a crime, that hereafter the spirit of Bertha, when it forsakes its mortal habitation 
 must become thy witness at the judgment seat of eternal justice, to thy confusion 
 and despair. Thou may’st indeed deprive me of life, but my will thou can not. 
 conquer. 
 
 The determined manner in which she delivered her inmost resolutions, awed 
 the cruel Harrold from his purposes. The struggles of conscious guilt subdued 
 his mind, and he paced the chamber, overcome by the horrors of his former 
 deeds of blood and enormity. 
 
 Bertha, perceived the hesitating irresolution that passed in his mind, resolved 
 to pursue her advantages. Sinking on her knees before him, she besought him 
 to spare her an increase of affliction, and suffer her again to pass freely from his 
 power. There was such an almost seraphic look of innocence in her appearance, 
 that Harrold turned aside his eyes, and groaned in the torture of soul, with sen¬ 
 sations ot horror, remorse, and penitence. 
 
 At length, he gently raised her from the ground, as with agitation he said— 
 “ Thou art sacred ; I will not, dare not harm thee !” then retreating from Bertha 
 with a look that spoke the inward horrors of his soul, he drew his sable mantle 
 over his face, whilst the black plumage of his helmet concealed the terrific wild¬ 
 ness that rolled in his large black eyes. Bertha, hoping that he had relented, 
 made another effort to engage his pity, and again entreated to be released from 
 her dreaded prison. 
 
 Suddenly uncovering his face, Harrold, with a voice of terror and anger ex¬ 
 claimed, “ Desist from a vain entreaty, lest I recal the mercy I so lately gave 
 ihee promise of; be content that I spare thy life, and regard thy person with rOs- 
 pect, but beyond these walls expect never to pass!”—opening a small door at the 
 upper end ot the chamber, he added, “ Here is a chamber, you may repose witli 
 security. Within, you will find such habiliments as befit your rank and sex.”— 
 A distant horn at this instant sounding, made him start.—“ I am called to the 
 council of my friends ; some danger threatens our troops. Till my return, fare¬ 
 well.” 
 
 Harrold closed the door after him, and securely fastened it, and Bertha once 
 more found herself a prisoner. 
 
 The discovery of her disguise rendering her present habit no longer of ser¬ 
 vice; she discovered in a large cabinet a drawer filled with female apparel, one 
 the plainest she could discover, she made choice of; having bound her vest with 
 a zone of bl$ck bugles, and confined her auburn tresses with the same, she threw 
 <i sable veil over her head, and looked the living representative of melancholy 
 and sorrow. 
 
 As the night advanced, she felt her heart oppressed with fear and anxiety, and 
 she even wished for the return of Harrold. She also trembled at the threats of 
 Oliver, and the too sure means his lawless course of life afforded for the execu¬ 
 tion of any daring plans he might set on foot for the attaining his detestable pur¬ 
 poses ; lor among the robbers who did not go on this night’s expedition, Bertha 
 had observed through one ol the small coop-holes, Oliver was one; and now, 
 with trembling expectation ol she scarce knew* what, awaited in momentary 
 dread, to behold him rush into the apartment, to fulfil his angry threats. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 147 
 
 CHAPTER XVII* 
 
 the heir ol the noble house of Wilden, was indeed the captain of a 
 band of robbers. It was on the third night after the horrible act which had made 
 him a fratricide, that walking gloomily through the forest, and deliberating of 
 his lost peace, he was suddenly surrounded by a fierce band of men. Having 
 accorded with their demands, lie secretly watched them to their abode, and care¬ 
 fully marked its exact situation. The horrid deed he had committed, appalled 
 his soul; he trembled at the dreadful murder he had perpetrated. To enter 
 again the towers of Etherwold, no consideration could induce him. Secreting 
 himself in the gloomy interior of the eastern tower he awaited the conclusion of 
 his fate. 
 
 From the portal of the eastern chamber, he had frequently beheld Bertha. 
 It was on the night that the Baroness held her last interview with Bertha, that 
 he was about to enter her chamber, but the sound of voices made him pause. 
 He did not hear all that passed ; but what he had gained, was enough to make him 
 tremble for her guilty secret: and his was the voice that had so much alarmed 
 her. Not satisfied with the oath she had taken, he entered at midnight her 
 apartment, to destroy the only living witness of his bloody deeds ; but as he ap¬ 
 proached the couch where she reposed, his full designs of death, had nearly 
 proved fatal to his intended sacrifice, when the supernatural appearance of his 
 injured brother’s violated form, appalled his senses in all the living reality and 
 damning apparition. 
 
 Rushing from his destined prey, and from the chamber to the eastern tower, 
 overwhelmed by his crimes, he threw aside the insignia of his high rank, and 
 muffling himself in a long mantle, and covering his face with a visor, rushed,, 
 in wild disorder to the den of the robbers, demanded admittance, and only en¬ 
 joining them to forbear enquires, offered himself to become a member of their 
 lawless band. 
 
 It so happened that the captain of the band had, on the preceding night, been 
 killed in a fray with some travellers. Oliver was the next in command, but the 
 unexpected appearance of Harrold, whose gigantic figure and commanding supe¬ 
 riority, impressed the robbers with a rude kind of reverence to his person, won 
 the majority of the troop, to elect him their chief. Here guarded by a numerous 
 set of sanguinary beings he knew he should be safe from the consequences of his 
 dark misdeeds, even if they were discovered. 
 
 After the departure of Harrold, upon a plundering expedition; Oliver, who 
 had gained some of his comrades to assist him in recovering, as he stated his 
 captive, whom their chief had insolently robbed him of, proceeded to the door 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 148 t 
 
 of the hapless Bertha, and seizing his trembling prize in his arm, bore her again 
 to the terrific caverns, surrounded by his associates. 
 
 Bertha threw herself on her knees, and besought their pitying mercy and for¬ 
 bearance ; but the brutal Oliver snatching her in his arms, told her he had a 
 priest at hand, who would satisfy her delicate scruples, and bade her resign her¬ 
 self cheerfully to his fidelity and love. 
 
 Bertha shrieked aloud, and the cavern re-echoed her cries, as vainly she cast 
 her eyes around to catch a hope from the presence of the females. It was a 
 scene of wildness that might have appalled the stoutest heart. 
 
 Bertha! hapless Bertha now lay, spent with struggles, when the hollow sounds 
 of footsteps, descending the steps of the cavern was heard, and a figure was seen 
 at a distance, whom, as the full glare of the tapers shone upon his haughty crest, 
 they discovered to be their commander, singly returned from his expedition. 
 
 Harrold, no sooner fixed his eyes on Bertha, than snatching her from the 
 arms of Oliver, drew his sword to defend his lovely prize, from the daring spirit 
 of his associate. His adversary met his strong nerved strokes of death with firm¬ 
 ness, and they fought with the desperate fury of men bent on the destruction ot 
 each other. The combat was long and fierce. The robbers stood calmly by 
 viewing the dreadful strife with mute suspense and divided attention. Oliver 
 fought with the rage of a disappointed villain, and though Harrold had the ad¬ 
 vantage in attitude and command of figure, he was doomed to feel the skill of 
 his opponent’s prowess: for the latter, watching the moment when Harrold 
 raised both his hands to fell by one decisive blow’ his daring foe, w ith agile and 
 vigorous movement, drew from his vest a long dirk, which (as the speedy ruin 
 was falling on his own head, he nimbly avoided) at the instant he plunged 
 beneath the joint of his antagonist’s cuirass, which fatally entering the heart of 
 Harrold, he fell to the earth, gasping in the convulsive struggles of a speedy dis¬ 
 solution, the miserable fratricide of a brother’s life ; and now 7 sinking beneath the 
 horrors of death, inflicted by a midnight ruffian, deluged in blood. 
 
 Harrold cast his blood shot eyes, glazed in death, on the half-recovering 
 Bertha, who with the pity of an angel, rushed to his aid. He articulated as 
 convulsively he turned his dying sight first on her, and then fearfully to heaven— 
 
 “ Forgive, and pray for my departing soul ; forgive me Alfred ! Oh God, 
 forgive ; have mercy !—Oh—” and with a soul-harrowing groan, he sighed forth 
 his guilty spirit to an awful eternity. 
 
 Bertha faintly pronounced a silent inward forgiveness ; and now that he no 
 longer became an object of terror, she could not refuse this last act ol mercy to 
 his sudden terrific end. 
 
 An universal pause of amazement, succeeded the last groan of the prostrate 
 chief. Oliver himself was faint and weak w ith loss of blood. He tore from his 
 robe a binder, with which he staunched the blood; and seizing Bertha, he would 
 have forced her towards a distant recess; but struggling once more for freedom, 
 she released herself from his grasp, and seizing the arm of a robber in whose 
 countenance she fancied she perceived a trace of pity, with a tone of majesty and 
 innate dignity, ejaculated— 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 149 
 
 Respect the daughter of the Baron of Neville ; and if you have mercy, pro¬ 
 tect her from the violence she is threatened with.” 
 
 The Baron ol Neville, thy father! say’st thou lady ?” questioned the robber 
 with surprise, “ Art thou the daughter of Hubert, or Sir Godfrey ?” 
 
 INo sooner had she replied to his questions, than drawing his sword, he loudly 
 pronounced—• 
 
 “ Then Philip shall defend thee, injured lady with his life !” 
 
 At that moment, a shrill whistle reverberated through the cavern, and in a 
 moment after, it. was filled with the robbers who had been absent on a prowling 
 expedition. With wild affrighted looks they rushed into the cave. 
 
 e are betrayed !” shouted a number of voices ; “ our foes pursue us to our 
 last recess, and only arms can save us.” 
 
 These words had scarcely been pronounced,* when a cry of “ No quarter!” 
 eohoed from the cavern’s mouth, and a warrior, followed by a number of sol¬ 
 diers rushed upon the robbers, when a dreadful scene of carnage and massacre 
 ensued. The fight w T as desperate in the extreme. The robbers disdained to 
 yield, well knowing that certain death was the consequence, should they sur¬ 
 render. The scene was horrible to nature, and Bertha feebly staggering from 
 the terrific strife, fell nearly senseless on the ground of a low recess at some 
 little distance. 
 
 At length the numerous band that had been the terror of the hapless Bertha, 
 were now reduced to very few, who, no longer opposing their victors, sued for 
 mercy, and submitted to become prisoners. 
 
 The dangerous Oliver met his end, fighting to the last. 
 
 The calm that succeeded gave the conquerors time to recover their almost 
 spent breath, whilst a warrior approaching Bertha exclaimed, as he gently as¬ 
 sisted her to rise— 
 
 “ Fair stranger, you are free; allow me to conduct you from this abode of 
 infamy.”—As the knight lead her to the light of the larger cave, he started, as 
 thus he added. “ I cannot be deceived, do I not behold the lady Bertha !” 
 
 Bertha, casting her eyes feebly upon the stranger, beheld the countenance of 
 one of the knight’s she had seen with the Baron Egbert. She thanked him, and 
 entreated him to conduct her to the monastery of St. Austin. 
 
 Sir Etheldred assured her of compliance; and informed her, as he conducted 
 her forward, that her fears of the Baron were at an end, since he had been 
 vanquished, and was expected on the morrow, that the castle of Etherwold 
 would surrender to the victorious Margaret, whom he had joined with his troops. 
 Sir Etheldred now conducted his lovely charge along the out-skirts of the wood; 
 and the first dawning of a grey morning displayed to the welcome sight of Ber¬ 
 tha, the spires of the convent of St. Austin, situated on the verge of a high pro¬ 
 montory that overlooked the ocean. A grateful prayer of inward thanks was 
 offered up to heaven for the long-deserved attainment of her hearts wishes; and 
 as the portress admitted her, she took a grateful leave of her protector. 
 
 The superior of the monastery received Bertha with a motherly tenderness, 
 and assured her of protection. The arrival of a long expected stranger soon 
 flew through the community. The baroness had long been in expectation of the 
 
THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 1 50 
 
 coming of Bertha, and scarcely had the latter mentioned her name, than she 
 found herself clasped in the maternal embraces of the only real friend she pos¬ 
 sessed , and tears of tenderness and joy choked for a time the power of utter 
 ance, At length, the Baroness suppressed her own emotions, as attentively she 
 listened to the sad narrations of Bertha’s account of her parent s suffeiings. 
 
 The treasonous resistance of Egbert, rousing the indignant anger of the valiant 
 queen Margaret, she resolved to take vengeance, and scarcely had the second 
 morning of the seige arose, than the signal of battle was given by the intrepid 
 queen, who stood on an eminence at a short distance from the castle ; and soon 
 the battering rams burst the gates of Etherwold asunder. Many ^of its towers 
 and turrets were half levelled with the ground, and the ramparts w r ere soon 
 strewed w ith dead. 
 
 Among the foremost of the victors w r as Sir Etheldred, who with a small paitv 
 began the assault at the only causeway that opened a passage to the sea. Here 
 E>gbert had placed himself with a superior force. The action was long 
 and desperate, and often did Egbert repel his foes half down the steeps, and as 
 often was he in turn drove back again to the very brink of the sea precipice. Sir 
 Etheldred provoked to deeds of desperation by the increasing supplies of foes 
 that every instant came to the aid of Egbert from the fortress, resolved, if pos¬ 
 sible to finish the dreadful strife, and rushing furiously through the hottest fight 
 towards the opposing chief, he loudly called on Egbert to meet him in single 
 combat. 
 
 Their clankling arms resounded to the heavens, and the fury of their dreadful 
 strife lasted for a length of time; neither gained the slightest ground. At length 
 Sir Etheldred cleft in twain the crested helmet of Egbert, who retreating, was 
 as furiously pursued, yet again he made a last effort to vanquish his valiant foe, 
 but w as overcome, and sunk, weakened from loss of blood upon his knees a 
 posture he did not long remain in; for gathering all his strength, he rushed furi¬ 
 ously on his foe, and the battle again raged on either side with dreadful fury. 
 The beseiged at length gave over the contention, and retreated towards the pos¬ 
 tern of the fortification that overhung the sea : but with such rapidity were they 
 pursued, that fighting backwards as they went, and driven in the heat and fury of 
 the fight to the very brink of the shore, many of them fell over and sunk, as did 
 their leader, to instant and watery grave, who nearly vanquished, and sinking 
 with w r ounds, was insensible in death;—such w r as the fate of Egbert. 
 
 The garrison no sooner beheld the fate oi their commander, than they gave 
 over all further resistance, threw open the gates of Etherwold, and easting down 
 their arms, sued for mercy. 
 
 A cessation of hostilities was proclaimed, and having invested the command of 
 the garrison in the hand of one of her warriors, with orders to resign it to the 
 heir of the castle, she quitted the latter to prepare lor her departure towards 
 the capital. 
 
 It was on the decline of this day’s battle, that a stranger, arrived at the con¬ 
 fines of the camp, and besought admission t<» the royal presence. He wore a 
 helmet ornamented and closely drawn over his face. His torm and figure were 
 hid beneath a loose dress, and girded by a steel belt entirely round him. 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 lot 
 
 Margaret had beheld the stranger pass the lines of the camp ; and now, when 
 his request was made known to her, directed her own knight to conduct him to 
 her presence. With grateful deportment, the stranger advanced, and kneeling 
 before the queen, presented to her a folded paper, which humbly he besought 
 her to peruse. Rather surprised, the warlike Margaret cast her eyes on the 
 stranger, then on the paper, and read with earnest attention: then fixing a look 
 more intently on the unknown, she earnestly asked— 
 
 “ Can’st thou prove the truth of what is here deciphered?” 
 
 “ Aye, so please my gracious mistress!” replied the stranger, “ such vouches 
 have I, as cannot be denied.” 
 
 “ Rise,” cried Margaret, “ be thy suit granted: and if what thou here aver, 
 prove good thy word, queen Margaret shall be truly found not regardless of her 
 I>eople’s wrongs; nor shall justice be withheld from the injured, but yourself be 
 witness of the issue. We know the being for whom thou hast petitioned. With¬ 
 in the fourth hour of the succeeding morrow bring thou the parties to our royal 
 presence, and be Sir Etheldred, the guarantee of their’s and your security.” 
 
 The queen, placing the paper in the hand of Sir Etheldred, bade him retire 
 with the unknown to perform the execution of its request.—It specified that there 
 were still in existence indubitable and important testimonies that Bertha of 
 Brandon was the wronged inheritress of the possessions of Neville, and the 
 stranger, at the forfeit of his life, promised to produce such proofs as should 
 establish the truth of his bold assertions, and restore the long injured heiress to 
 her ancient right. 
 
 Fortunately for the cause of Bertha, Sir Etheldred was the chief deputed with 
 royal pow'er to execute the mandates of her will. 
 
 As soon as the latter had read the paper, he turned to the stranger, and de¬ 
 manded how r he was to proceed; adding, “ I am myself well acquainted with 
 the present abode of the lovely Bertha, and shall rejoice in being the instrument 
 of her exaltation.” 
 
 “ Mother of God!” interrupted the stranger, a am I indeed so fortunate to 
 meet in you, Sir Knight, the only being who could perhaps direct my anxious 
 seareh for the hapless wanderer. Oh speak! tell me did she indeed escape 
 alive, the horrid den of the robbers ?” 
 
 Sir Etheldred, amazed at such a question, now turned with increased curio¬ 
 sity, to the mysterious stranger, who he now concluded must either have been 
 a prisoner of the robbers, or else a robber himself, and had found means to escape 
 the cavern by some unknown outlet. He was however, unable to judge truly, 
 for the stranger had closed the visor of his helmet; and when he had answered 
 his last demand, remained totally silent to the questions which Sir Etheldred in 
 turn would have had answered;—only saying, with an impressive tone,— 
 
 “ I am myself fettered, from circumstances unnecessary to be explained, 
 openly to appear the champion of injured virtue; but to thee, Sir Etheldred, I 
 resign that enviable title. As thou regardest the honour of unstained knighthood, 
 I charge thee neglect not the power with which our gracious sovereign has in¬ 
 vested thee, and at the hour appointed, the sound of the trumpet shall be die 
 signal when I will again appear to makegood the truth of what I have deposed. 
 
152 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 With these words, delivered in a slow expressive tone and manner, the stranger 
 slightly bowing, quitted the spot, and suddenly gliding among tl*e tents of the 
 soldiery, was instantly lost to sight. 
 
 Sir Etherldred had listened with attention and wonder, to the foregoing in¬ 
 structions of the stranger, who had directed him to Brandon Abbey, as being the 
 present residence of Isabella of Clandale. 
 
 There was in the soul of Sir Etheldred, a principle of chivalry and love of 
 gallant exploit, and to redress the wrongs of the injured, and destroy wherever 
 he found it, the power of oppression, was one of the chief employments of his 
 life. Having dispatched proper messengers to summon Isabella to appear at the 
 royal tent, he hastened himself to communicate to Bertha the change so likely 
 to take place in her concern, and to conduct her himself to the appointed station 
 of the expected trial. 
 
 The cares of the Baroness had recalled Bertha to animation and feeling.— 
 They were both mutually employed on pleasing and painful retrospection, when 
 their seclusion was broken in upon by the entrance of Sir Etheldred, who hailed 
 Bertha Baroness of Neville, and explained his unexpected visit.—A sudden 
 agitation shot through the heart of lady Bertha, as she listened to this wonderful 
 account; that she sunk unresistingly on the bosom of the Baroness, w T ko, having 
 heard Sir Etlieldred’s relation, now declared her resolution to accompany the 
 Baroness Emily (for such in future she in right must be entitled) to the throne of 
 Margaret, as a sure supporter of the wronged orphan’s claims. But Bertha felt 
 no touch of joy in the opening prospects which promised her a reward for all her 
 past sufferings : she declared her determination never again to expose herself to 
 the horrors and dangers from which she had escaped ; adding, that as she well 
 knew every document of her claims was lost, she never meant again to enter the 
 busy scene, or dispute with Helen Isabella her just inheritance. 
 
 This resolution, however, was soon oyer-ruled by her two friends. Sir Ethel¬ 
 dred declared that the mandate of the queen for her appearance must not be 
 disputed; qnd the lady Elvina reminded her that in this unlooked for turn of her 
 affairs, she was called upon, by duty and affection, to establish the fame and 
 honour of her parents, as well as redress the dreadful injuries they had sustained,. 
 This last argument had its desired effect, and she no longer refused to comply 
 with the wishes of her friend. 
 
 Sir Etheldred, promising on the ensuing morning to be at the Abbey, now 
 took his leave; and Bertha, filled with agitating fears, retired to her pallet, but 
 not to sleep. She lay reflecting on the events of her life, and the consequences 
 of the succeeding morrow. 
 
 She arose early: and descended to the parlour of the Abbey, where awaited 
 the Baroness and Sir Etheldred, who delicately endeavoured to cheer and en¬ 
 courage the lovely orphan for the ensuing scene. 
 
 With a mind inwardly calmed by those aids which virtue lends, the afflicted 
 Bertha once more quitted the Monastery, and accompanied by powerful friends 
 and supporters, pursued her w ? ay to the august presence of the monarch. 
 
 The morning was uncommonly beautiful; and the sun with refulgent glory, 
 shone bright on the smiling scene. All nature wore a face of joy,—all around 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 153 
 
 was harmony and peace; and the thunders of war, that but the day before had 
 shook the forest with its dread rebound, now slept in a calm and dead repose. 
 
 Bertha felt the sweet contrast dilate her sorrowful heart with unusual serenity; 
 and as she proceeded through the beloved woods of her own domain, she expe¬ 
 rienced a pleasing thrill of joy at the appearance of scenes so endeared to her 
 memory and sight, because she never expected again to behold them. 
 
 Here let us leave her on her way to the scene of action, and follow the foot¬ 
 steps of Isabella to the same end. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ISABELLA, oiVthe night she had entered the prison of Bertha, had, in spite 
 of her remorseless nature, felt a degree of horror, that awed her from a deed so 
 dreadful as murder. Enfeebled by guilt, and the monstrous enormity of such an 
 act as the murder of a being who was the daughter of her own mother, sh«fc>^ 
 found herself unequal to the horrid deed ; but quitted the chamber in the full 
 assurance that the work herself had left unfinished, would find a surer conclu¬ 
 sion from the hand of the furious Anna. She waited for several hours, the re¬ 
 turn of her blood-thirsty accomplice, at times half wishing the deed were left 
 undone. She did not dare again to return to the horrible scene, although her sus¬ 
 pense, in the non-appearance of Anna, was almost madness to endure. 
 
 Anna, though late in her penitence, had been sincere; and as soon as the use 
 of speech permitted, had dispatched Bertrand to the countess, with an account 
 of her dying state, and a desire immediately to behold her : but in order to secure 
 the escape which she meant to aid the hapless captive in affecting, she gave Isabella 
 the most solemn assurances that Bertha was no more, and that every lear on her 
 account ended in the death which her own hand had given. Thus was Bertha’s 
 escape never discovered, and Isabella deceived that her fears were for ever at 
 an end. The death of Anna was a circumstance that gave her satisfaction, since 
 she no longer had occasion for this guilty witness of her crimes ; and now consi¬ 
 dering Brandon Abbey as legally her own, she resolved, for a short time, there 
 to remain till her hopes of Alfred should either be confirmed, or totally destroyed ; 
 and should the latter be the event of all her wishes, she then meant to return to 
 her possessions of Neville, to enjoy those treacherously obtained dignities, which 
 to retain, no effort, however cruel and remorseless, were left untried. 
 
 The party, deputed by Sir Etheldred to convey the countess of Clandale to 
 the camp of the queen, found her, as directed, still at the Abbey. 
 
154 
 
 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 She received the royal mandate with haughty, but suspicious scrutiny, and 
 tremblingly demanded its cause: and when the commissioner gave into her hand 
 the paper of the mysterious stranger, she at first peremptorily refused to yield 
 submission to the order: but the royal signet soon convinced her how impossible 
 was resistance, and she was conducted from the Abbey to the camp. W lien ar¬ 
 rived at the latter place, she deliberated on the surest means of counteracting 
 these unknown proofs of her own and her father’s crimes 5 and though she could 
 not fathom their mysterious contents, she felt a degree of horrid triumph in re¬ 
 flecting that the records of Sir Godfrey were the only witnesses she had to fear, 
 and those she well knew her own hands had totally annihilated. but weieit even 
 otherwise, and that in reality there were living testimonies of her guilt, the death 
 of her hated rival was a security that could not be disputed, and would prove a 
 complete silencer of every other claim—Resting on this deceiving certainty, she 
 entered the royal tent of the queen with no outward signs of fear or guilt; and 
 endeavoured to appear ignorant of the real cause for which she was summoned. 
 
 Sir Etheldred, the preceding night, had in a private interview with the baro¬ 
 ness, obtained a full knowledge of the story .of Rertlia, as well as that of her 
 parents.—Returning to the pavilion of the queen, he related, the narration 
 Elvina had given him ; and thus confirming the mystery of the stranger’s suit, 
 the illustrous Margaret resolved herself to sit in judgment on the events of these 
 dark transactions. 
 
 The morning came with all its cheerful attributes. A large open pavilion was 
 pitched in the middle of the plain; and in a regal chair, placed under a canopy 
 of state, sat the august consort of Royal Henry, the judge and decider of the 
 approaching trial. And as she sat upon the seat of judgment, she looked awful 
 in majesty, as she had proved herself great in arms. 
 
 Near to her throne stood the Seneschal of Normandy, the Earl of Clifford, 
 with the duke of Suffolk, and others of her noble warriors: whilst* on the other 
 side, stood the ladies of her suite, with her train-bearers, standards, and w ar 
 trophies. The lines of the pavilion were filled and crowded by the officers, 
 knights, and supporters, that had long fought the battles of their illustrious sove¬ 
 reign. 
 
 Helen, haughty and inflexible, w r as led through the multitude of spectators to 
 the presence of the queen. She bowed humbly to the throne, as the commis¬ 
 sioners conducted her to the small raised gallery appointed for her to sit in. 
 Timidly she cast her eyes around, and, in the extraordinary preparations, she 
 trembled at the reality of approaching danger, and now felt her heart fill with 
 horrid doubts that Anna had deceived her with a false account of Bertha’s death. 
 But how w^as the certainty of those doubts augmented, when at a little distance 
 she perceived the well know r n person of the injured Emily, supported by the baro¬ 
 ness of Etherwold and Father St. Henry, attended by several venerable monks, 
 approach the royal pavilion. 
 
 Emily was indeed advancing. The w ronged orphan of an oppressed and 
 ruined sire, and entering the royal tent w ith the consciousness of unsullied recti¬ 
 tude and purity, she prostrated herself before the throne of the queen, who, w ith 
 a gracious smile, encouraged and raised her.—A reception so flattering gave her 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 155 
 
 additional courage; and bowing low and gracefully to all the court, she was 
 conducted by Sir Henry to the stand appointed for her by the herald of the 
 queen. 
 
 The illustrious Elvina, having paid her homage to the monarch, was graciously 
 received; and after some time conversing with Margaret, she crossed the circle 
 of the pavilion, and joined Emily, who in a moment seemed to liave engaged 
 and won the admiration and pity of every beholder present. 
 
 The intrepid queen Margaret, acquainted with the injuries of Emily, had gra¬ 
 ciously resolved to trace, if possible, the dark deeds of the earl of Clandale to 
 their spring and source. 
 
 No sooner had the applause ceased, which the arrival of Emily in the court 
 had occasioned, than Margaret, making a signal to the herald of arms, the latter 
 demanded aloud of Isabella her name and title. 
 
 Isabella, now trembling, pale, and almost subdued, had supported herself 
 only by an effort of uncommon pride, from sinking to the earth, as she beheld 
 Emily enter. In a faltering, but haughty tone she answered— 
 
 “ Helen Isabella, baroness of Neville, and countess of Clandale.” 
 
 “ You are here cited,” exclaimed the herald, “ to answer to the misdeeds of 
 Hubert, your father, the usurper of his brother’s rights, and also to reply truly 
 to such questions as shall be demanded; say, under what presumption did Hubert 
 assume the baronial lordship of Neville and its dependence ?” 
 
 “From the priority of his birth,” replied Isabella, “since the death of his 
 elder brother rendered his claims of heritage unquestionably his by the law of 
 succession.” 
 
 “ But thou art thyself acquainted that Sir Godfrey Neville died not, but for 
 many years lived in retirement, to escape the persecutions of his brother, thy 
 reputed father ?” 
 
 “ It has, by false report, been so affirmed,” replied Isabella, gaining courage 
 from some inward recollection; “ but were there any truth in such an assertion, 
 he must have forfeited all claims to inheritance by the vows which engaged him 
 to a religious life.” 
 
 “ How art thou sure, that all his vows were passed ere he quitted the monas¬ 
 tery,—Hast thou any such proofs ?” 
 
 “ I have not,” answered Isabella, trembling inwardly.—“ But had I such, 
 they would be unnecessary to the establishment of my father’s rights, since they 
 were secured, by the death of Sir Godfrey, many years past, in his passage from 
 A Ibion to the shores of France ; and in vindication of my sire’s honour, I here 
 pronounce the person that disputes the justice of my inheritance to the possession 
 of Neville, an imposter.” 
 
 “ Let the trumpet sound,” exclaimed the herald aloud; “ if, at its third call, 
 no one appears to confute this last assertion, then shall the words of the countess 
 of Clandale be justified.—Sound !” (The trumpet sounded). “ Again!”—Again 
 the trumpet sounded; but expectation vainly stretched the eye, in eager hope 
 of the stranger’s re-appearance, but he came not; and now the herald, refusing 
 to bid it sound a third time, turned to Emily and said— 
 
156 THE HEIRESS, OR THE 
 
 “ Lady, ere the third blast calls thy champion; declare who and what thou 
 art ?” 
 
 “ My name is Emily,” she replied, “ heiress of my father, Godfrey Baron of 
 Neville.” 
 
 “ Canst thou produce written witnesses, to prove thy claims?” 
 
 << Such documents, I did possess, but they were torn from me, and committed 
 to the flames.” 
 
 Scarcely had the blast of the trumpet sounded the third call, than a figure 
 rushed towards the throne before the queen, and producing a packet of papers he 
 said—“ These will confirm the truth of my assertions.” 
 
 At that moment the Baroness wildly exclaimed, “ My son !—Oh God he lives !’’ 
 throwing her arms around him ; but painful was the excess of joy that filled 
 the soul of Emily, as she fainted on the bosom of the long lost Allred, for it was 
 he himself, who was by the command of the queen, conveyed to a private tent, 
 and the conclusion of the trial was postponed. 
 
 With joy the Baroness and Emily listened to the story of his resurrection as it 
 were from the grave. 
 
 The dagger of Harrold w r as not mortal, and Hugo when left to the disposal 
 of the body, finding some faint breathing of life, resolved to preserve if possible 
 the life of Alfred, and after a few days care, was restored to speech and reason, 
 but Hugo, could not allow him freedom, as his own life would be the forfeiture 
 should Harrold come to the knowledge of his brother’s existence: but touched 
 with compassion, Hugo permitted him to parade at certain hours, through the 
 vaulted caverns of the rocks. Some days from this period passed in listless, 
 torpid sorrow. At length Hugo finding, from the affairs of the castle, that 
 Harrold would never be its owner, (consented after having bound Alfred by solemn 
 oaths, never to discover himself till his brother’s death,) to his re-visiting the 
 forest of St. Moreton, and even the Abbey; where he confined his visits to the 
 eastern chambers and tow r ers. 
 
 It was on the night, the death of Emily w r as attempted, that Alfred, awed the 
 dreadful purposes of Harrold, who never suspected, that in the re-appearance of 
 his brother, that he beheld the reality, and not the shadow’ of a guilty conscience ; 
 and, in a moment of terrible retribution, he had flown as the last resource ot his 
 crimes, to the den of robbers as the only security from avenging justice. 
 
 Hugo was w ell acquainted with the actions of Harrold; and on the night 
 that the banditti received their final punishment and fate ; he had witnessed 
 his master’s death, as we\\ as his associates; and now it w as that he resolved 
 to insure his owrn future safety, by restoring the injured Baron voluntarily to his 
 liberty, he made such terms as Alfred, in the overwhelming joy of recovered 
 freedom, hesitated not to accede to. 
 
 Alfred on the fatal night of his entry into the eastern chambers, had discovered 
 some papers that had deeply engaged his attention ; and wdiatever w 7 ere their 
 contents, he no sooner regained his liberty, than hastening to the royal tent, he 
 acted as has already been seen. 
 
 On the day subsequent to these joyful events, Bertha, or more properly the 
 lady Emily Neville, was again summoned to the royal pavilion, supported by the 
 
MYSTERIES OF BRANDON ABBEY. 
 
 IS 7 
 
 Baroness and Alfred, and took her seat on the queen’s right hand. Isabella, 
 already arrived, stood the pale image of despair and guilt; she awaited with a 
 last forlorn hope, the decrees of her fate. 
 
 The herald producing the papers as soon as silence was proclaimed, read 
 aloud:— 
 
 “These records contain the history of Godfrey lord Baron of Neville, other¬ 
 wise called, Sir Godfrey Brandon, with a full and explicit detail of the wrongs 
 himsell and heiress have sustained. In an iron chest, beneath the secret reposi¬ 
 tory of the vaults of Brandon Abbey, is the original of this manuscript, of which 
 this is an exact copy. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The herald, unfolding the remaining part of the envelope, read at full the 
 secrets contained. Its contents were nearly word for word the same as those 
 which Isabella destroyed. 
 
 A few remaining sentences filled the under side of the lost paper, which were 
 as follows :— 
 
 “ Beneath the surface of the forest there are subterraneous passages from the 
 Abbey to the castle of Etherwold. My mind, fearful of mis-chance attending 
 my child’s future security ; induced me to complete this second copy of my sad 
 story, and placed them in the eastern chamber of the castle, that they may prove 
 
 the means of redress to my orphan child !” 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here the papers ended ; and the queen rTsing gave a silent signal to the herald, 
 who leading Emily before the queen, the latter pronounced aloud— 
 
 “ Welcome to the arms of England’s queen, is she who preserved me, and. 
 her prince. Be the inheritance thou hast so long unjustly been deprived of, 
 restored for ever, not only Baroness of Neville, but Countess of Clandale. We 
 spare the guilty Isabella, but ’tis our award she enters, within ten days of the 
 present time, a house of religious penitents, there to atone, in humility and 
 seclusion, for the crimes of a mis-spent life.” 
 
 The towers of Etherwold, again received their injured mistress, amid the ac¬ 
 clamation of her people’s joy. The body of Egbert had been washed on shore. 
 He was interred with every funeral pomp that could grace his remains. 
 
 Isabella, with sullen haughtiness, submitted to her fate, and was conducted 
 to the destined monastery. No tear of remorse for the wrongs she had done, 
 ever fell from her proud, inflexible soul. 
 
 The castle of Etherwold, on the joyful nuptial morn of its Baron and Baroness 
 shone forth with resplendent gladness. The Baroness Elvina and Emily, were 
 habited in robes of white. The latter was conducted by the former, through a 
 crowd of noble visitors, to the chapel of the castle, where the Baron awaited 
 his destined bride. The ceremony ended, the hall shook with repeated peals of 
 joy from the tenantry and vassals, and Emily became indissolubly the partner of 
 her adoring Alfred. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Here the pen pauses, unable to pursue its task:—The story of olden times are 
 ended, so also ends the weak effort that has traced these imperfect characters. 
 
i if * 
 
 
 FOR PLACING THE PLATES. 
 
 Page 
 
 At the same moment a Spectral form arose, Frontispiece . . . 
 
 When at that instant a young stranger.52 
 
 Did I not prophecy aright . . . ,.120 
 
 She threw open the lid of a large chest.131 
 
 yijjcps 
 
 END. 
 
 r 
 
 4 r 
 
 A. Pare, Printer 47, Leonard Street, Finsbury. 
 
 

 
 . 
 
 
 
E L M 1IIA ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 Dark were his brows, and gloomy to the sight 
 
 Like clouds—his eyes like meteors of the night.—Ossi an. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 The Duke De yalerio gave a splendid entertainment at his 
 palace in Madrid, on occasion of a public exhibition, to which 
 all the nobility and gentry were invited, in the true spirit of 
 Castilian magnificence and hospitality. Madrid scarcely before 
 had witnessed so great an assemblage of beauty, and no person 
 of note w r as absent. 
 
 The night was beautiful and mild, such as spring produces when 
 
ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 warming into summer, and the gentle airs,, that passed over a 
 delightful garden,'wafted a thousand perfumes through the gauze 
 lattices which surrounded the large saloon, where the dancers 
 were performing. The brilliance of dress shone amidst a blaze 
 of tapers; and large Venetian mirrors reflected and multiplied 
 the various groups, animated with ever changing motion, with a 
 sort of magic elegance ; while the lively music of the orchestra 
 awakened joy, and gave birth to pleasure in the coldest heart. 
 
 In the midst of this festivity a stranger entered, conducting a 
 young lady, whose modesty appeared to shrink from the enquiring 
 gaze of so numerous an assembly. The stranger appeared a man 
 of near sixty, unbent by the pressure of time, his features were 
 darkened by a heavy gloom which hung upon his brow. No 
 smile illuminated his countenance as he entered this temple of 
 gaiety; and, while he walked solemnly forward to the upper 
 end, every eye bent upon him, and every tongue enquired Vho 
 he could be. 
 
 The young Marquis De Velos was conversing with the Mar¬ 
 quis Albert De Denia, when these interesting strangers entered. 
 The Marquis of Denia started and turned pale as the strangers 
 advanced; but recovering himself, he attended with a smile to 
 the observations of his friend. 
 
 “ What a charming lady !” said the Marquis De Velos, “do 
 you observe the elegance of her form, the grace of her manner, 
 and the modesty expressed in blushes on her countenance. 5 ' 
 
 “My dear Antonio,” replied the Marquis, “do you pretend to 
 so much skill in female charms, as to form a judgment at this dis¬ 
 tance, and from a side view of the lady ? Her veil half conceals 
 her face; and you can but guess at what remains unseen . 55 
 
 The lady, as if she had overheard this discourse, and was 
 willing to comply with the curiosity of the gentlemen, turned her 
 veil aside, and stealing a timid glance round the company, her 
 eyes rested a moment on the two friends, and a visible con¬ 
 fusion betrayed some secret emotion. 
 
 “Now, my friend , 55 said the Marquis De Velos, “now are 
 you satisfied with my judgment ? What expressive eyes, what 
 sensibility of soul do they betray. Did you mark that charming 
 smile, when her eyes turned upon me ? what tenderness did it 
 not speak!” 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! 55 returned Antonio, laughing, “ you are jealous. 
 Marquis. But observe, I speak first for her favour.” 
 
 “ It is what I shall not dispute with you / 5 replied the Marquis 
 of Denia with a serious air ; “ she is, I believe, already engaged . 55 
 “Engaged, how ! 55 cried Antonio witli emotion “tell me to 
 whom, and I will instantly dispatch him . 55 
 
 “ Your intentions are excellent , 55 replied the Marquis, preserv- 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 3 
 
 Ing his gravity; but your willingness to fight for the lady will 
 not he rewarded:—your rival is infinitely superior to you— his 
 claims are imperious, and undeniable—and no power on earth 
 can resist them .’ 5 
 
 “ You jest, Marquis,” replied Antonio. 
 
 <e I wish I could,” said his friend, with a sigh; “you will find 
 what I say literally true :—it is an intelligence I learned not 
 many hours since.” 
 
 “ Then you know her,” cried Antonio, with impatience; “tell 
 me every thing about her. Who is she ?—who is this rival ? 
 —where am I to find him ? — introduce me to their acquaintance.” 
 
 “ Patience!” cried the Marquis of Denia “ I dare not intro¬ 
 duce myself. Nothing can be more strange to me, than to see 
 that gloomy cavalier in this scene of joy; his countenance is 
 sufficient to damp the evening’s entertainment.” 
 
 “You torture me !” exclaimed Antonio ; “ why do you trifle 
 with me thus ? 
 
 “ I trifle with you !” replied the Marquis ; “ my dear friend 
 you trifle with yourself. Go and select some lively partner, and 
 think no more of a stranger whom you have now seen for the 
 first time, and whom it is more than possible you may never 
 see again*” 
 
 “ Do they leave Madrid then so soon ?—-but I will follow 
 them.” 
 
 “ I think not,” returned the Marquis ; “ she may remain in 
 Madrid, and yet be concealed from your sight.” 
 
 “Ha!” exclaimed Antonio “now I begin to suspect!— 
 they are going to seclude her in a convent, is this the rival of 
 which you told me ?” 
 
 “ You have guessed but too truly,” answered his friend. 
 “ This is what I am but now informed; but I know so well the 
 temper and disposition of Don Tavaro Padilla, that I have no 
 reason to doubt the truth.” 
 
 “ But surely,” said Antonio “were I to offer my hand, my 
 rank, my titles, my domains, they would not be rejected.” 
 
 “ I fear they would,” answered the Marquis, with a deep 
 sigh; “ You know not this man ; his countenance is but a dark 
 reflection of a blacker heart. He is a man, in whose mind some 
 terrible crime is perpetually preying.” 
 
 “ But what is that crime,” demanded Antonio. 
 
 The Marquis startled at the question. “What crime!” re¬ 
 peated he. “ What crime is that which can harrow up the soul 
 of man with fearful visions, that turn tranquillity into warfare, 
 and paint upon the serene brow the deformity of tempests ? But 
 this is no place to speak on a subject such as this. Antonio 
 my dear friend, I have much to say to you, and will appoint a 
 
4 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 time. My introduction would be a drawback upon your welcome : 
 — if theierore, after wliat I liave hinted, you have any further 
 inclination oi forming an acquaintance with this imperious mor¬ 
 tal, go, and trust to your own talents.” 
 
 1 he Marquis of Denia then withdrew precipitantly, leaving 
 Antonio m a state of doubt and perplexity. The "words of his 
 fiiend had been so singular, that his curiosity was much excited, 
 and he desired more than ever to become acquainted with those 
 Persons which had been the subject. “ After all,” thought he, 
 “ ^pre was much of incoherence in his words he seemed like 
 a discarded lover who fears the success of a more fortunate 
 rival. I can but meet a refusal; and surely this beautiful 
 creature is at least worthy the hazard.” 
 
 Ike Marquis De Velos was yet young in life, and not easily 
 checked in his undertakings , he immediately advanced towards 
 the strangers, and, paying his respects to Don Padilla, requested 
 the honour of dancing with the lady. 
 
 “ She does not dance, Senor,” replied Padilla coldly. 
 
 Rut pei haps she might be inclined for once to partake in 
 that amusement,” said Antonio, “ or wherefore attend a place 
 in which every one is expected to share in the entertainment ?” 
 
 <<r That is as I please,” answered Don Padilla frowning; “l 
 hope, Senor, I am not accountable to you for my actions ?” * 
 
 The Marquis attempted to apologise, directing several tender 
 glances towards the lady, who remained silent, without dariim 
 to raise her eyes from the ground. 
 
 “Do you reside in Madrid ?” enquired the Marquis; 
 
 “ I am now in Madrid,” answered Padilla; “ You are very 
 inquisitive young man—Do you know who lam?” 
 
 “I have not at present that honour,” returned De Velos ; 
 ee but it is what I sincerely desire.” 
 
 . f I must tell you,” said Padilla, rather rudely, “that desire 
 is not reciprocal, Senor, this lady will not dance.” 
 
 The Marquis knew not what to reply : he bit his lips with 
 vexation, 'looked at the forbidding countenance of the gloomy 
 stranger, and was inclined to walk away; but when his eye 
 turned upon the lady, the visible distress that touched her lovely 
 face with sadness, rivetted him to the spot; and conjuring up 
 his effrontery, he said :— b , 
 
 I was going to have tendered you my services had you 
 been a new comer to the city; and should have been happy to 
 have introduced you to the court.” 
 
 And who told you that I had any designs of appearing 
 
 there.” answered the unbending cavalier; “ metliinks you are 
 wonderfully familiar.” 
 
 " * am sorry if I intrude,” said the Marquis. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 5 
 
 Cf Then you will be so good as to immediately leave us/’ replied 
 Padilla with a frown; and turning away his lace, he assumed a 
 look of severity which repelled every attempt to reply. Antonio 
 bowed to the lady, and retiring to the opposite side of the saloon, 
 employed himself in contemplating the astonishing contrast the 
 gloominess of the father and the mildness of the daughter ex¬ 
 hibited. 
 
 “ Is it possible,” said he to himself. “ she can indeed be the 
 daughter of this imperious mortal ? the whole cast of her coun¬ 
 tenance is different. His is dark, savage, and inhuman; hers 
 is open, mild, and good; her elevated forehead is a token of the 
 elegance of her thoughts; her arched eyebrows show the play¬ 
 fulness of fancy ; and her eyes are tempered with that sweetness, 
 which dissolves into a smile upon her lips. And is this lady to 
 be condemned to the solitude of a cloister ? is her beauty only to 
 be admired by monks ? is she to be the companion of cold, mise¬ 
 rable and repining nuns ? is she to waste her charms upon 
 withering time, within the walls of an unmerciful prison ? Om¬ 
 nipotent disposer of human events ! counteract so barbarous an 
 injustice!” 
 
 While Antonio t was lost in the reverie'these reflections in¬ 
 spired, the strangers had withdrawn; and, when on looking up 
 he beheld their absence, he started with disappointment and ap¬ 
 prehension that he had lost them for ever. He hastened towards 
 the door, and stopping a gentleman then entering—“ which way 
 did she go ?” said he eagerly ? “ did you see them V’ 
 
 “ Down the middle walk of the garden,” replied the cavalier ; 
 and, immediately the Marquis hurried away, without waiting 
 for further particulars. 
 
 He advanced with hasty steps along the walk, discovering by 
 moon-light a female figure before him, which from the shape he 
 fancied was the lady he sought, though now she appeared with 
 a long veil reaching nearly to the ground; his heart fluttered 
 with delight at this unexpected opportunity, which he determined 
 should not escape. 
 
 “ Lady,” said he, “ this is a favour I had no hopes to receive 
 from the hands of fortune. 1 have been in despair that I had no 
 means of introduction; and now, when I least expected, I find 
 myself for an instant happy in being able to speak to you un¬ 
 observed.” 
 
 “ Oh, Senor,” answered the lady, “ this is too polite, you are 
 so excessively obliging.” 
 
 “ Not so,” replied the Marquis, a little surprised and greatly 
 encouraged; “ you must be aware, lady, that beauty like yours 
 cannot be seen with indifference.” 
 
 “Beauty like mine,” replied the lady in a self complacent tone ; 
 “ really, Senor, you are the gallantest man-.” 
 
6 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 ee Strange !” thought the marquis, “ what a deception is a 
 female face : who would have thought so amiable an appearance 
 should conceal such a character. “ May I he permitted,” con¬ 
 tinued he, in a more free way than he had at first dared to 
 assume; “ may I be permitted again to behold those charms 
 which that odious veil conceals, before they shall be for ever 
 secluded in a gloomy convent. 
 
 “ Heaven forbid !” exclaimed the lady, “ Holy Virgin, how 
 you fright me! a convent, Senor ! No I am not old enough for 
 that I hope. No, no, believe me, I know better.” 
 
 Cf Then I am again deceived,” said Antonio to himself; 
 “ surely my friend would not have betrayed me ! But is this 
 indeed the lady I have been so much enamoured of at first 
 view?—Am I not deceiving myself ?—If,” said he, “you are 
 not bent upon entering a convent, why, lady, do you thus 
 conceal your charms,—or is it in mercy to mankind ?” 
 
 “ Oh, I have a great deal of mercy in my nature,” replied 
 she, “but you gav cavaliers never make half so many com¬ 
 pliments as when our veils hide us from your curiosity. Beauty 
 is alwayg best when it is fancied, Senor.” 
 
 “ But yours is no fancied beauty, lady ; permit me to remove 
 this drapery, and contemplate the reality,—heavens !” involun¬ 
 tarily exclaimed he, on beholding the haggard visage of an old 
 lady, who had long since been the jest of half Madrid, for an 
 affectation of manners and dress to which she had no preten¬ 
 sions. Antonio was too much confounded at his mistake and 
 less of time, to be polite : and the lady turned angrily away, rail¬ 
 ing on the ill-breeding of the present age. 
 
 The Marquis was too much untuned to be in harmony with 
 pleasure. He sauntered along the walks of the garden, musing 
 on the strange character of Hon Padilla: and encouraging a 
 hope, that however singular the behaviour of his friend, he would 
 be able to learn sufficient from him at least to introduce himself 
 at the residence of the strangers. 
 
 He advanced nearer the saloon, where the laugh of hilarity, 
 and the notes of joy sounded upon his ear, producing a sensation 
 which he had never before felt in its full force—the stillness of 
 the gardens increasing the contrast. The pale moon scattered 
 its silver rays upon the foliage, amongst which, scarcely a zephyr 
 was heard to interrupt the silence of nature. The birds had hung 
 their heads beneath their wings, and stillness reigned around, 
 when he was suddenly alarmed by repeated screams, and a burst 
 of confusion mingled with cries of distress. 
 
 He hastened to discover the occasion of the tumult, when he 
 perceived one of the lattices in flames, and at once understood 
 the disaster that had happened. Ever alive to relieve the dis- 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 7 
 
 tressed, he hastened to the saloon, where so much confusion 
 reigned, that every one retarded the other, and themselves by 
 pressing to be first. With a strong arm he tore down one of 
 the window frames which reached to the ground, and forcing his 
 way in, found the mischief not half so extensive as he had feared 
 —the fire having only taken hold of some ornamental scenery 
 and the lattice frame. 
 
 He was surprised to see the Marquis of Denia busily em¬ 
 ployed in extinguishing the flames, while he had supposed him 
 far distant; but as he turned round to speak to him, he dis¬ 
 tinguished the lady he had been seeking, fainting upon a sofa, 
 unregarded by any one ; each being willing in the confusion to 
 take care of themselves, or those more immediately interesting 
 to them. 
 
 Every other consideration gave way to regard for her safety. 
 Her senses were wholly overcome with the terror she had suf¬ 
 fered, and raising her in his arms, he endeavoured to press 
 through the crowd, fearful that every moment might he too late, 
 the heat and smoke being excessive, though the danger of the 
 fire was over. It was impossible to make way through the tumult, 
 many of the ladies being in a similar state, and he had to remain 
 in the most agonizing suspense, till the Marquis of Denia came 
 to his assistance. Between them they supported the unconscious 
 maid into the garden, where the sudden change of air awoke 
 her to recollection. 
 
 “ Ah ! Cavalier,’’ said she, in a tone of deepest softness, as 
 she fixed her eyes upon Denia, “ is it to you I owe this obligation'? 
 But where is my father ?” 
 
 “ Don Padilla,” replied the Marquis, “ was not in the room 
 when the accident happened; be not concerned on his account, 
 Elmira, depend on his safety. But why are you in Madrid, when 
 I had reason to believe you so many leagues distant? And how 
 is your sister ?” 
 
 The Marquis de Velos had till now sat upon a bench, support¬ 
 ing the lady with his arms, and gazing upon her countenance 
 expressive of hope and despair; but suddenly starting at this 
 address of his friend, he felt a pang of jealousy cross his heart. 
 “ How is this, Marquis,” said he, “ do you deal treacherously, 
 are you so well acquainted with the lady ?” 
 
 “ Is this Cavalier your friend ?” said she, turning her fine eyes 
 upon Antonio, and speaking to the Marquis. 
 
 “ That is as he behaves,” answered Denia, with a smile; 
 “ he is apt to be very passionate, Senora, and he is now angry 
 that I should share with him the pleasure of having rescued 
 you from the tumult.” 
 
 “ Confusion!” muttered Antonio, while he looked first upon 
 
3 ' ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 one, and then on the other, unable to determine how much he 
 should believe. 
 
 <c Pardon me, Senor,” said Elmira, turning to him, “ if I omitted 
 you, in my thanks to your friend; but indeed, I am so confused 
 
 that-” Her embarrassment prevented her finishing the 
 
 words she intended, and Albert De Denia to relieve her went on. 
 “ This, lady Elmira, is the Marquis Antonio De Yelos; a Cavalier, 
 who, since he has formed an attachment to a strange lady, has 
 lost the right use of his understanding, and—.” “ Forbear I 
 
 beg,” cried Antonia impatiently, “this is trifling beyond suffer¬ 
 ance.” Then turning to Elmira—“ since,” said he, “ I have been 
 so fortunate as to have again the pleasure of seeing you, when 
 my hopes were almost extinguished, will you have the goodness 
 to say, when and where I may enquire after your health, which 
 I very much fear will suffer by this night’s surprise ?” 
 
 “ At present,” said Elmira, in a low voice, “ I am with my 
 father at the palace of the Count Portenza ; but I feel myself so 
 much recovered, that I hope I shall find no farther ill effects, I 
 confess I was very much terrified when I found the whole saloon 
 in flames.” 
 
 “ What a contrast does the present moment afford,” said An¬ 
 tonio, pointing to the saloon, (where all was silent, and a soli¬ 
 tary taper alone lighted, in place of a thousand that had lately 
 blazed). “Now an hour since, and the whole was a scene of the 
 most splendid brilliance and joy—no mind presaged the sudden 
 event that was to overthrow the entertainment in terror and con¬ 
 fusion. So in real life we enjoy ourselves on the bank of a pre¬ 
 cipice. 
 
 Elmira shuddered—a deep sigh acknowledged the truth, and 
 looking round she perceived the Marquis of Denia had left them. 
 Antonio felt obliged for this action of his friend. He hesitated 
 a moment and then said—“can it be true, lady, that you have 
 chosen to retreat from the world, at an age when you are but 
 scarce entered into it ?” 
 
 “ And should such a choice surprise ?” answered Elmira; is it 
 not necessary, if I would avoid the application of what you have 
 just spoken. I know but little of the world ; yet from that lit¬ 
 tle I have learnt the transcience of human happiness—and have 
 seen, that when we fancied ourselves most certain of pleasure, 
 we have been nearest distress.” 
 
 “ And have you known sorrow?” said Antonio tenderly, and 
 taking her hand. “ Hard must have been the heart that could 
 have given grief to such a subject. But do not forget, that to 
 the world we have some duties that claim us to ourselves, and 
 which are inimical to monastic seclusion.” 
 
 “True, most true,” answered Elmira with a sigh. But the first 
 
 - 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 9 
 
 duty of a daughter is obedience; and I must obey the commands 
 of my father.” 
 
 The last words were scarcely pronounced, when her voice dropt 
 into silence, and the figure of Don Padilla stood before them. 
 
 “ Where have you been ?” said he sternly. iC Ha ! follow me, 
 daughter, 5 ’ then seizing the hand of the trembling maid, he 
 stalked indignantly away, without deigning to notice Antonio. 
 
 “ Strange !’’ thought the Marquis. “ What a monster to use 
 with such severity a lady, whom I would gladly protect in my 
 arms ; and who, if my judgment is clear, is exactly the companion 
 I should wish to share my idle hours, and the bounties which 
 heaven, through the means of my ancestors, has bestowed upon 
 me.” 
 
 The company had some time left the gardens; and finding it 
 late he departed, intending to call upon his friend early in the 
 morning for an explanation of several sentences he could not 
 understand ? and which by turns gave birth to jealousy, curiosi¬ 
 ty and doubt. He imputed much to the incomprehensible 
 character of the Marquis ; who was often remarked by liis friends 
 as inconsistent in his actions and expressions i sometimes over- 
 whelmed with impenetrable sadness, and at others mingling 
 
 with the gayest company. 
 
 No. 2. 
 
10 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 As Antonio passed along the streets which were now solitary 
 and forsaken, he perceived two men in close conversation, stand¬ 
 ing at a corner; he made little doubt of their being robbers, as he 
 could perceive them looking round while they spoke with appa¬ 
 rent anxiety. Being on the dark side of the way, and the moon 
 shining bright, he had opportunity of observing them unseen— 
 he paused to reflect,whether he should watch them, or give the 
 alarm to the guard. While he considered, a third person joined 
 them; and after a few words, they crossed the street, and began 
 to move quickly towards the place where Antonio stood. Anto¬ 
 nio doubted not, but he was discovered ; and, clapping his hand 
 upon his sword, stood upon his guard. 
 
 The first person who came near immediately perceived him, 
 and said in a low voice, “ Antonio De Yelos, follow me.” 
 
 “ For what purpose ?” demanded Antonio ; “ and whither ?” 
 
 For my pleasure, and where I please ;” answered the other, 
 in a rough voice. 
 
 “ That must be as I please too,” said Antonio, drawing. You 
 may perhaps think your numbers will frighten me—come on !” 
 
 “ Ha ! ha! ha !” cried the stranger, laughing ; “ well, you are 
 certainly brave.” And Antonio immediately knew the voice of 
 his friend. 
 
 “ You again!” cried he; “ you are wrapped in mystery to 
 night: hut who are these in your train ?” 
 
 “ Your servants and mine,” replied the Marquis. “When I 
 first quitted the room, I put them upon the scent to find the 
 dwelling of Don Padilla; not having any expectation we should 
 have had an opportunity of discovering it ourselves; and now if 
 you are not inclined to sleep, we will go to my palace.” 
 
 “ You are a clever fellow at intrigue,” said Antonio : “but tell 
 me, Marquis, and on honour, if all this trouble is on mine, or 
 your own account ?” 
 
 “ Can you not be contented with the benefit of the event, 
 without enquiring the motive ?” returned Albert, “ it was both, 
 my dear Antonio; bury your suspicions, and remember I am 
 your friend.” 
 
 They were not long before they arrived at the Marquis of 
 Denia’s, where having taken some refreshment, and provided a 
 couple of bottles of wine, the Marquis, dismissed the servants, and 
 carefully locked the door. 
 
 “ You make use of great precaution,” said Antonio, looking 
 round him ; “ is it treason we are going to debate upon ?” “ No,” 
 answered Albert solemnly, “ it is not treason-^yet it is not fit 
 for every mortal ear; the mysteries of fate are unsearchable; 
 and we know not the manner in which the darkest deeds meet 
 the light.” 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 II 
 
 Deeds of what ?” said Antonio, gazing with surprise upon 
 his friend. 44 What is it you say ?—what has this to do with 
 Elmira ?” 
 
 “ Much, perhaps, too much/ 5 said the Marquis, drawing his 
 chair to the table. 44 But now, Antonio, look at the hand of 
 that clock it is upon the hour of One,—at this dread hour of 
 midnight promise me secrcsy—swear to me— 55 
 
 44 But where, there is no crime, can secresy he necessary ?” 
 observed Antonio, 44 and where there is a crime, secresy becomes 
 a fault. You are strangely altered within these few minutes. 
 Marquis.’ 5 
 
 44 1 am,” replied Albert: 44 my levity is always assumed. 
 I have at my heart a corroding poison that chills the moments 
 of my existence ; and dashes from me the cup of pleasure, when 
 I attempt to raise it to my lips. I once had a friend, the confi¬ 
 dant of my soul—but he is now lost to me, and I would take you 
 in his place.” 
 
 44 You are in love, then !” exclaimed Antonio, with a languid 
 smile. 44 1 see where this will end.” 
 
 44 1 am in love,” replied the Marquis, emphatically, 44 but not 
 as you imagine, with Elmira ; therefore, your heart may rest. Did 
 you ever hear that I could be guilty of a dishonourable act ? 
 The secret I would trust you with, has little relation to any 
 thing your warmest fancy can suggest. Will you promise me 
 then ?” 
 
 44 1 heartily acknowledge, I never knew you guilty of a mean¬ 
 ness,” replied Antonio. 44 To say the truth, could such a 
 suspicion have had being in my mind, you had never called me 
 friend : yet at the same time, this ceremony seems as though 
 you doubted me. But, to humour you, I swear—by the holy 
 mass, never will I, without your own consent, reveal what you 
 shall now disclose !” 
 
 44 ’Tis enough,” said the Marquis, taking his hand, 44 from 
 this moment let there be the most unlimited confidence between 
 us. Prepare yourself to give credit to things which require your 
 faith; and remember, that it is the Marquis Albert De Denia, 
 who relates them.” He paused; and looking solemnly round 
 the room, leaned his arm upon the table, and thus began. 
 
12 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Ye unknown pow’rs which hover round mankind 
 Guard us, when fate sits brooding in the wind. 
 
 The Miniature. 
 
 You must remember Fernando de Coello, who was my parti¬ 
 cular friend from our earliest youth ; his family is noble, and I 
 believe he is a distant relation of yours. 
 
 “ He is my first cousin,” said Antonio, “ and his sudden death 
 gave me considerable grief.” 
 
 “ You surprise me,” cried the Marquis; “ tell me how?— 
 when did you receive this information ;” 
 
 “ I can say nothing for certain,” answered Antonio ; “ my in¬ 
 formation reaches merely to the report, that he was slain in bat¬ 
 tle with the Moors.” 
 
 “ Report is a common liar,” said the Marquis ; “ I am glad to 
 find you are not better informed. I will now pioceed.-” 
 
 “ When we were extremely young we served together in the 
 army, and were rarely asunder but when duty, or our visits to 
 our friends in Madrid required. This companionship in dangers, 
 in romantic adventures, and the variety to which a soldier’s life 
 is ever liable, at once endeared us to each other, and opened our 
 minds to that genial and genuine friendship which, like love, 
 renders trifles of great importance, and gives birth to that com¬ 
 munication of fancy, heroism used to inspire. 
 
 “ The leisure of a camp gave our minds opportunity to trace 
 the histories of preceding times ; and if we were not tinctured 
 with superstition, we at least took delight in romance. Having 
 been to chastise some insurgents in the provinces, we were 
 quartered in the city of Granada. The beauty of that charming 
 country, and the extensive prospects from the mountain of Sierra 
 Nivada, covered with vegetation, and crowned with eternal snow, 
 frequently invited us to ramble. 
 
 “ Sometimes we climbed the heights, and gratified our senses 
 with contemplating a region of enchantment. The hills were 
 overspread with vines and olives ; the vallies were clothed, and 
 odoriferous with a thousand flowering shrubs, of which the edges 
 were formed—sweet basil intermingled with myrtle. Thyme 
 and lavender grew wild upon the wastes; and the golden tinted 
 saffron delighted the eye amidst a profusion of flowers. The 
 Mediterranean closed the distant prospect with its blue waves ; 
 over which, the adventurous bark was frequently seen to glide, 
 like a dark spot on its pellucid surface. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 i 
 
 13 
 
 “ Our duty at the castle of Alkambra was trifling, not being a 
 part of the garrison ; and we consequently had much time upon 
 our hands to indulge our propensity for rambling. 
 
 “ On one of those occasions, we walked beyond the city to a con¬ 
 siderable distance, following the winding banks of the [Douro, 
 amused with the variety of scenery it presented, when we arrived 
 at a grove of tall chesnut trees we had never visited before. The 
 coolness of the shade invited us to rest; and we sat down on the 
 flowery bank, which sloped to the river, regarding the transpa¬ 
 rent current as it passed, and discoursing on those adventures of 
 which, as soldiers, we had many to recoimt. 
 
 While we admired thejbeauty of the fertile country, which now 
 presented to our sight the turrets of several ruined buildings, 
 recalled to us the distress which the Moors had suffered, when 
 driven from the country of their birth, and the lands of their 
 cultivation, by an edict, at 'once cruel and impolitic ; and which 
 had converted in a few months this whole province into an how¬ 
 ling waste, filled it with rapine and slaughter, tom husbands from 
 their wives, and children from their parents, rent asunder the 
 bonds of friendship and civil union, and banished more than 
 nine hundred thousand people to the desarts of Africa. 
 
 “ While we were discoursing on this subject, and expressing our 
 indignation at its folly, we perceived a small boat floating down 
 the stream, apparently without any guide; and, as the eddy of 
 the wave set it towards the shore where we sat, it could not but 
 excite our attention. 
 
 “Now for a famous adventure of knight errantry, said Fer¬ 
 nando, who knows but some redoubtable magician has sent 
 this enchanted boat, to convey us to some terrible castle, where a 
 fair lady waits the event of our prowess, to be delivered from the 
 tyrant of the ironhand. 
 
 (e I smiled at this conceit, and in the thought of the moment 
 replied. Well, Sir Knight, if your courage be undaunted, and 
 you dare brave the perils of the adventure, I require you on the 
 faith of a knight good and true, to accompany me in the achieve¬ 
 ment of tills adventure. 
 
 “ Most willingly. Sir Knight be it unto life or death, I will ac¬ 
 complish the exploit, cried Fernando with humour, leaping into 
 the boat, which the waves had driven close upon the bank. 1 
 did not remain behind— and we put off into the middle of the 
 current. 
 
 “ The vessel of which we had thus taken possession was a 
 small pleasure boat, and seemed to have drifted from its mooring, 
 there being only one oar on board, which served merely to guide, 
 without advancing our progress ; an accident which added to our 
 amusement, as it seemed we were wholly to depend upon chance. 
 
ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 14 
 
 A bottle of excellent brandy, and some Italian sweet-meats stored 
 our bark; which we received as an intimation that modern 
 Knights were not expected to live upon love and air, like ancient 
 heroes. 
 
 “ The day being extremely fine, we took much pleasure in our 
 adventure ; we continued our voyage, slowly winding amongst the 
 romantic scenery, which now appeared level with the water, and 
 now overhung the liquid mirror, which inverted and reflected the 
 foliage in lengthened and darkened groves. 
 
 “ We beheld the ruins of several moorish palaces and castles at 
 a distance, and passed a few vessels laden with grain and oil. 
 Our bark moved insensibly along, gliding beneath the dark 
 cliffs, which were crowned with evergreen laurels. The spires of 
 Granada were lost far behind us; and it was not till towards 
 evening we remembered the necessity of our return. 
 
 <f With some difficulty we put the boat round ;and we then found 
 the truth of that proverb, which tells us —it is easiest to swim 
 with the stream. We were at a considerable distance from the 
 city, and to mend our situation the wind began to blow pretty 
 strong. 
 
 “ It was now we began to repent our adventure. We found it 
 impossible to make way against the stream with only one oar; 
 and we were under the necessity of putting round again, with an 
 intention to land at the first place where there appeared any 
 probability of procuring a conveyance back to Granada. 
 
 f< The sun meanwhile slowly declined in majestic, but sullen 
 grandeur. Deep black clouds heavily rose from the far distant 
 ocean, through which his purple beams seemed to break with 
 difficulty, tinging their borders with flame; the mountains and 
 forests caught the lurid reflection, glowing with a partial and 
 transient lustre. The wind hurried us along, and the waves be¬ 
 gan to rise, with an eddy, that was far from pleasant to such 
 unskilful mariners in an open boat. 
 
 “ This is likely to be no comfortable adventure, said Fernan¬ 
 do ; I would we had remained on known ground and not trusted 
 ourselves we kuow not where. If we should chance^to fall upon any 
 of those straggling parties of insurgents which still remain lurking 
 in secret places, it may not be so pleasant. 
 
 “ I was not more satisfied with our situation; but taking up the 
 brandy, Come my friend, said I, this is an enchanted liquor, 
 furnished by our invisible guide for the banishment of care. 
 Having refreshed ourselves with the remains of the sweetmeats, 
 we sat still, looking out anxiously for some place of shelter, and 
 watching the quick approach of night. 
 
 The sun was not long sunk beneath the horizon, before the 
 rain began in large drops to patter on the surface of the water. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 15 
 
 We would then willingly have put on shore, content with the 
 shelter of the trees, but here it was so broken and rocky, that we 
 durst not venture the slight vessel too near, lest it might be bulged 
 by the force of the wind and stream, which drove us forward at a 
 
 rapid rate. 
 
 “In half an hour we perceived through the gloom that enveloped 
 us, the ruins of a Moorish Castle, which projected boldly to the 
 water’s edge. The main tower which was circular, appeared 
 nearly complete, but the other parts of the building presented 
 only an extensive mass of ruins, spreading over a large space of 
 ground. 
 
 « We were by this time nearly wet through, notwithstanding a 
 piece of old sail-cloth, which we had contrived to spread over us. 
 The storm had not, however, yet arisen to its height—the great 
 body of clouds moving on very heavily, and we endeavoured to 
 incline the boat towards this ruin, which might at least shelter us 
 from its fury. We found ourselves unexpectedly in a strong 
 current, which set forcibly towards the foot of the tower; and we 
 began to be apprehensive it might wreck us on the rocks. 
 
 % This is truly astonishing Marquis, said Fernando, what 
 
 are we now to think of the adventure ? ^ 
 
 44 There wants nothing but a twinkling taper, from some of the 
 loop-holes, a gaurdian dragon, and a drawbridge, returned I, 
 to complete it. But, seriously, I wish we were well over the 
 night. That pile bears upon it the marks of violence—and no 
 doubt its dark recesses are a retreat to some disaffected party. 
 
 44 Of Them I have no fear, replied Fernando ; . we have 
 each of us a sword that has been tried, and done service.—I am 
 resolved to finish the adventure. We have hitherto been con¬ 
 ducted in a very singular way; and though, my friend, we may 
 smile at enchantment, and magic, and spells, yet there are mys¬ 
 teries in nature with which we are unacquainted. I myself He 
 suddenly checked himself at these words i and I could not avoid 
 smiling at his manner, which I imputed to the concurrence of 
 circumstances, such as might have generated superstition in any 
 
 man. . .. 
 
 44 The night, from the blackness of the clouds, was profoundly 
 
 dark; and we remained a few moments in silence. 
 
 44 Now, said he, will you believe the boat has fixed upon 
 the steps which lead from the water-edge up the rock to the castle. 
 —What can this mean ? 
 
 44 Mean ! replied I, it means nothing extraordinary. Do 
 you not perceive, that the current we are fallen into is caused by 
 the water running into the moat which surrounds the building . 
 let us endeavour to make it fast, and try to find a shelter. 
 
 44 Fernando remained silent, gazing upon the tower, which 
 
1G 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 appeared as if blackened by fire, and awfully gloomy through the 
 storm ; being only distinctly visible when the flashes of lightning 
 reflected against its sides. After groping some time with the oar, 
 I discovered a ring, to which we fastened the boat, and ascended 
 the stone steps, cut in the solid rock—a dozen brought us to the 
 landing. The lightning served us for a guide; distinguishing a 
 small porch entire, within which we found the postern gate 
 broken down, leading into the tower. 
 
 “ Within, the deepest darkness prevailed; and it was at the 
 utmost hazard, we ventured to advance, arm in arm, with our 
 swords extended before us, to avoid, if possible, running against 
 any projection, or falling down some flight of steps. In this 
 manner we advanced along a narrow passage, till we were 
 checked by a stair that we judged wound up to the higher apart¬ 
 ments. After a moment’s consideration, we resolved to hazard 
 the event—curiosity impelling us onwards. 
 
 “The place being narrow, I advanced first, cautiously proceed¬ 
 ing, when, on a sudden I found myself violently seized by the 
 arm, and Fernando, in a low voice, demanded if I heard 
 nothing ? 
 
 “ Death I cried I, what do you hear ? what, or who, have 
 you suffered to pass ? At the same time I endeavoured to re¬ 
 lease my arm from the grasp of I knew not what ; but which, to 
 my imagination, seemed to hold me stronger than a dozen men. 
 Nothing has passed, replied Fernando; it is I who have 
 hold on your arm;—Heavens how you tremble ! did not you 
 hear a noise ? 
 
 “ You ! said I, checking my vexation and inclination to laugh, 
 on my word, I thought myself in the paws of some fiend, it is 
 in vain to deny it. But what did you hear ?—Hark! surely I 
 heard a hollow murmuring sound !—we had better retreat and 
 brave the /storm. 
 
 “ No, replied Fernando, no; we will either advance or 
 perish. I felt assured at this confidence, and ashamed of my 
 own fears. 
 
 66 Come on then, said I, my brave fellow ! we have before 
 this entered a breach together, and shall we be afraid because it 
 is dark, and the wind sighs along the passages ? 
 
 “ This flight of stairs led to a landing, which opening wide, we 
 fancied ourselves in some chamber, and paused while the thunder 
 rolled over us, and shook the building to its base. 
 
 “The lightning that flashed through the long narrow loop-holes, 
 allowed us to distinguish a few objects, which were seen for a 
 moment, and then involved in tenfold darkness. No furniture 
 appeared in the room, except a broken bench, the head of a 
 rusty pike, and a Moorish turban. We sat down upon the bench, 
 
leaning upon our swords, and watching more attentively than if 
 surrounded by an hostile camp. Several times we fancied that 
 some voice passed along the wind, which sounded loudly through 
 the avenues ; now howling along the passages, and then dyin<>- 
 away in gentle^ighings. Amidst the intermission of the thun¬ 
 der we heard the lashings of the waves against the shore, and the 
 rain poured down in rushing torrents. 
 
 “ A vivid flash of lightning, which seemed to sleep upon 
 the floor, for a few moments wholly illuminated the chamber ; 
 and the succeeding fla.shcs occurred with such quick succession, 
 that a constant blaze filled the chamber. 
 
 “ What is that? said Fernando in a whisper—where? de¬ 
 manded I. Look in that corner to the right, Albert, said lie. 
 33o you not see that dark bundle ?—It is either a murdered tra¬ 
 veller, or some person wrapped in a cloak.—Most probably some 
 robber, whispered he. 
 
 “ I see it, replied I, and the next instant the lightning again 
 left us in total darkness. Let us plunge our swords into him 
 while lie sleeps, added I, in a low voice; we must prevent him 
 doing us a mischief in the dark. Not so either, whispered Fer¬ 
 nando, it may be some innocent stranger: at most, he is but one 
 to two, let us advance cautiously and examine him before he 
 
 shall awake and alarm hiscomrades, if ha lias anv. 
 
 No. a 
 
IS 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 “ We proceeded gently across the floor, which creaked beneath 
 our feet. I stooped down, and took hold of the dark wrapper—a 
 burst of thunder, which rolled and broke over the roof with a 
 tremendous crash, caused me to start away with involuntary 
 
 horror. . . . . 
 
 “ Perhaps, said Fernando, in a low solemn voice, it is for me 
 
 this strange business is reserved—I will examine the bundle. 
 
 “ He traced cautiously over it, to discover if it owned a hu¬ 
 man shape, and pressing his hand upon it, it made no other re¬ 
 sistance than a bundle of cloth, and he became satisfied it was 
 no human being. It was bound round with a leathern belt, 
 which he cut through with his sword, and shaking it by the 
 middle, something fell heavy upon the ground, and a piece of 
 metal rolled to a distance. 
 
 “ Hush ! said he, I thought I heard a sound !—Very probable, 
 said I; ’tis most likely the robbers to whom this booty belongs, 
 and our curiosity will be rewarded. I stepped a little on one 
 side to prepare for an attack, the wind heing so loud that I fie- 
 quently fancied voices and footsteps were approaching ; my foot 
 hit against something hard, and stooping down, I found it to be 
 a dagger without a case, I drew it through my fingers to judge 
 of its size and shape ; and, from its roughness, fancied it to be 
 
 rusty. _ . 
 
 “ Yes, said Fernando, with a sigh so deep, that it almost 
 
 amounted to a groan; no doubt it is rusty dipped in the blood 
 of some innocent, by the hand of rapine or revenge: give it 
 me—I will preserve it. 
 
 “ I could not but admire the strange alteration he had under¬ 
 gone within these few hours ; and though he appeared moie for¬ 
 ward and hardy than myself, I could not but fancy it was excess 
 of fear, which I had often seen produce the greatest show of 
 bravery. 
 
 “ It was now past midnight, the storm w r as evidently going 
 further, and the lightnings flashed at a distance through the ho- 
 rizon. 
 
 “ I fear, said I, for our little bark, which is most likely dashed 
 into pieces against the rocks, and we shall have some difficulty 
 in returning to Granada. 
 
 i( That same power, replied Fernando, which conducted us 
 
 here, can lead us back. > in 
 
 “ And are you really of opinion, my friend, answered 1, that 
 
 an invisible power did lead us to this ruined castle ? 
 
 “ I am most certain, said he, and paused as if musing on 
 
 some distant thought. # 
 
 “ Then you believe in magic ? you believe that intangible be¬ 
 ings can act on corporeal substance ? 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 19 
 
 “ I do. I have reasons, my friend, reasons that would con¬ 
 vince yourself. 
 
 “ I would then willingly hear them, said I; I have been your 
 companion these five years, in toils, in hardships, and in dan¬ 
 gers, and you never informed me of this. 
 
 “Never, replied he gravely: I endeavoured myself to forget, 
 but this strange adventure returns my memory strong upon me, 
 and harrows up my imagination. I will speak low for I am sa¬ 
 tisfied this place has inhabitants— but whether they be mortal or 
 no, I know not. I had no mind to interrupt him, for his gra¬ 
 vity and the solemnity of the impenetrable darkness conspired to, 
 raise images of horror. 
 
 fif Do you not remember, nine months ago upon this very day, I 
 entered the age of manhood ; and was interrupted in our inten¬ 
 tion of keeping that event with a little feast amongst our com¬ 
 rades, by an order to join a party going out to forage ? Do you 
 not remember, that I returned to you so pale and altered that you 
 hardly knew me ? and that I imputed the cause to a sudden 
 illness which had seized me ? 
 
 “ 1 remember, said I. 
 
 “And so do 1, continued he, I shall "remember it for ever! 
 Our way lay through a deep defile, overhung with gloomy cork 
 trees, and so intricate that we feared every moment falling into 
 an ambuscade. The pass was so gloomy that it appeared like 
 the twilight of evening, and, being the chief in command, I hal¬ 
 ted in the rear, to see that no stragglers remained behind. When 
 the whole party had passed, I followed into the defile; the sound 
 of steps behind me, caused me to turn round, when I perceived 
 another soldier apparently lame; yet I thought he moved for¬ 
 ward amazingly quick for a wounded man. 
 
 “ I was a little surprised, as I had not observed any man be¬ 
 hind, and halted till he came up, intending to reprimand him for 
 his negligence. 
 
 “ What’s the matter, cried I that you hang so far behind your 
 comrades ?—What accident have you met with ? 
 
 “ Fernando Coello, said he in a tone like that of a dying 
 man, I have received a mortal blow ; you alone can relieve me. 
 
 “ How is that to be done friend ? enquired I; where are you 
 hurt ? 
 
 “ Deep, deep, said he ; my hurt is here: laying his hand upon 
 his breast.—Tis you alone can cure me. —Promise me you will, q 
 
 “ Why should I promise you ? said I; I am no surgeon, but 
 I will see you properly taken care of. He shook his head and 
 sighed. 
 
 “ You surely would not have me promise what I cannot per¬ 
 form ? 
 
20 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 ‘'You can, answered he; You alone can—. You must promise 
 me, Fernando Coello; this is your birth day, and you shall promise 
 me. 
 
 “ Ihit why ? who are you ? demanded I, astonished at the fa¬ 
 miliarity of a man dressed like a common soldier. 
 
 “Who I am signifies not, returned he, in an elevated voice: such 
 as I am may you never he. Many are my wrongs, and my wounds 
 are deep. You, you, Fernando Coello, are the man in all the 
 earth who must redress me.—Promise that you will. Swear by 
 the rolling orbs—by the great deeps of earth’s foundations— 
 Lwear- 
 
 “You are mad, said I, alarmed at his manner: you talk 
 strangely. 
 
 “ But I am not therefore mad, replied he ; every thing about 
 me is strange—strange as the grave. But fate, deep and dark, 
 terrible and eternal fate sits over your house, unless you give me 
 this promise. 
 
 “ Tell me quick then, said I, what am I to do, the troops are 
 proceeding and I shall he too late. 
 
 “You will be indeed too late, replied he, if you do not 
 resolve instantly. The fortune of your house depends on the 
 decision oi tins moment—give me your word, or die. I cannot 
 describe to you how strangely I was affected; there was some¬ 
 thing so shockingly solemn in his voice, that it pierced to my 
 inmost soul; and, believing that there could be nothing very 
 particular in promising my aid to a wounded man, I replied, I 
 grant your request; I promise to right your wrongs, if I have the 
 power, and to cure your wounds, if I have the means. 
 
 “ You are mine ! you are mine ! you are mine ! cried he, 
 three times, in a voice of exultation, give me your hand. 
 
 “ I held out my hand and he took hold of it, but his touch 
 was the touch of death, damp, clammy, and cold, it chilled my 
 veins, creeping through them with indescribable horror. At 
 that moment, I heard the trumpet sound to a quick march, and 
 turning round my face, I looked again, and no one stood near 
 me. I was struck with so much astonishment (for had this ap¬ 
 pearance been human, I am certain it could not have escaped 
 me,) that though we had a smart action with the enemy, the 
 impression remains indelible. 
 
 “ Have you never heard or seen any thing since of this strange 
 apparition ? said I, are you certain your imagination was not 
 deluded with chimeras ? 
 
 “ Certain, replied he, till the adventure of this night, I had 
 hoped never to see or hear farther ; but now I fear I shall be 
 called on to the performance of that fatal promise. This dagger 
 ~~what sound is that ? I am certain I heard a step ! 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 9 I 
 
 rv 1 
 
 “ Some one advances, said I, be prepared. We sat still, 
 scarcely venturing to breathe. A slow step advanced up the 
 stairs, and entered the chamber. It passed distinctly across the 
 room, pausing as if to listen between every step till it. went 
 through the opposite avenue. It was not till then, Fernando 
 acquired courage to speak. 
 
 “ Who knows, said he, but this may be the wounded soldier ! 
 yet, what should he do here ? 
 
 “ I rather think, said I, that it is some assassin, or freebooter, 
 in the dark. Who goes there ? said I aloud. 
 
 “ Who goes there / replied a voice in the same tone. Answer me 
 cried I, are you a friend ?—Are you a friend, returned the voice. 
 
 “ This is strange, said Fernando, in a whisper ; then speaking 
 aloud, if you are a friend, advance! advance, returned the voice, 
 
 ' and again all was silent. 
 
 “ This is most singular, observed Fernando, in a whisper, do 
 you hear any sound of footsteps ? 
 
 “ None, answered I ; I did not observe which way the person 
 went, who, I am certain passed us. I will find it out, cried 
 Fernando, aloud. Find it out! replied the voice. 
 
 “ This is a very good-humoured spirit, said I, glancing at 
 once upon the truth ; when you speak above the common tone, 
 the hollow pile re-echoes the sound. We then repeated aloud 
 several sentences, admiring the effect which had so startled us ; 
 but we could not by this means account for the person who had 
 certainly crossed the chamber. 
 
 “ The gay line of dawning day breaking over the distant hills, 
 we began to lose much of our apprehension, and to feel a curio¬ 
 sity to examine the building which had so much excited our 
 fears. Through the narrow loop-hole we watched the distant 
 and gradual increase of light, dispersing the blue mists which 
 curled over the hills ; where yet, no prominent feature could be 
 distinguished. 
 
 “ When the light rendered objects perceptible, we ventured to 
 ascend the winding stairs, which led to the battlements where 
 we were enchanted with the beauty of the prospect. The cool 
 fragrant air of the morning breathed over the reviving plants; 
 whose colours, by the rain of the night, were enlivened and deep¬ 
 ened. The flowers began already to open their leaves to the 
 coming day, and the clear sky assumed the blush, which fore¬ 
 runs the approaching sun. 
 
 “ We beheld at a great distance the turrets of Granada; and 
 whichever way the eye turned, the senses were delighted with 
 a profusion of vegetation. 
 
 “We were not without some apprehension of the person who 
 had passed us in the night, as he probably w r as lurking in some 
 
22 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 secret part of the building, or might have joined his comrades, 
 with intent to fall upon us with a force we should be unable to 
 withstand. Our boat we saw beneath us a wreck upon the 
 landing place, and we descended again to our chamber, to con¬ 
 sult on our mode of proceeding. 
 
 “ The bundle we had half examined in the night, now attract¬ 
 ed our attention. On the floor at some distance, lay a small 
 portrait, which had fallen. Fernando took it up, and holding it 
 to the light, exclaimed— 
 
 “ What an admirable countenance ! what expression ! what 
 tenderness! Ah ! my friend, if the original lives, and I could 
 find her, I would immediately engage for life. 
 
 “ I should smile to see you in love with a picture, said I; but 
 how came it here ? 
 
 “ How ? cried he, with a look of horror. Ah ! Marquis, you 
 have awakened in my breast the most bitter anguish. Surely 
 no ruffian hand could deform so lovely a countenance—a coun¬ 
 tenance that might charm fiends into admiration. 
 
 “ But she is dressed in the Moorish fashion ; she is perhaps 
 one of those who have suffered from the edict of Philip, said I. 
 
 “ Pray do not name it, replied Fernando; the very suspicion 
 kills me.—Look at the mouth—Heavens ! what an inimitable 
 smile ! the very lips seem parting, to speak a sentiment of kind¬ 
 ness ! I advanced, and opening the bundle, found it to consist of 
 a Moorish dress, very much spoiled with damp and time, and 
 stained in several places with blood. 
 
 This is not a lady’s dress, said I, it has most likely belonged 
 to some traveller, and that is the portrait of his mistress. I do 
 not admire this dismal-looking place ; it is more horrible by day 
 than by night—murder seems written upon the walls and vio¬ 
 lence sits upon the battlements ! Let us go. 
 
 “ Fernando still examined the picture, which he could not 
 enough admire; at length his attention turned upon the bundle 
 which I was separating, and he agreed with me, that it could 
 not have lain in so exposed a situation for the time, the fashion 
 distinguished its form, or it would have at least been rotten with 
 damp: it appeared more probable that it had been brought 
 thither by some freebooter; and was not unlikely to belong to 
 the person we were certain had found concealment somewhere, 
 as we had noticed his ascent, but had heard no more of him. 
 
 “ We will endeavour to find him, said Fernando, most likely 
 he can give an account of this picture, and that fatal habit, 
 stained with blood, and pierced most likely with this dagger. 
 From the little corridor two stairs presented—the one narrow 
 and winding, leading immediately to the battlements; the 
 other, the main staircase to the upper rooms. All the doors had 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 23 
 
 been burnt or broken down by violence, presenting a free pas¬ 
 sage over the whole tower. We ascended without difficulty, 
 and entered the higher suite of rooms, consisting of three 
 chambers. We looked round with suspicious care, but not the 
 smallest vestige of an inhabitant appeared. We examined the 
 flooring, that no secret trap-door might escape us -most of these 
 antique structures having very singular concealments. We 
 were upon the point of returning, when Fernando remarked the 
 traces of muddy feet upon the floor, and we followed them into 
 the second chamber, where we suddenly lost them; nor could 
 all our skill discover any possible place of concealment, or way of 
 escape. 
 
 “ Tired with so fruitless a search,, we returned to the first 
 chamber, and thence to the ground floor, cautiously examining 
 every place that promised any information, and carrying with us 
 the garments we had found. 
 
 “ From the extensive pile of ruins, and many fallen columns 
 of marble, it was easy to trace the once magnificent and exten¬ 
 sive structure. The marks of fire were visible on the whole; 
 and it was probably the great solidity of the remaining tower 
 which had rescued it from the general conflagration. 
 
 * s Not being able to make any farther discovery, -we began on 
 foot our journey back to Granada. I knew not what to think of 
 the story Fernando had told me ; because though I was certain of 
 his veracity as though I had been myself witness of the fact, 
 yet so long a time having passed without further intimation, in¬ 
 duced me to fancy there must have been some deception, which 
 the gloominess of the defile had favoured; then on the other 
 hand, our recent adventure bore every mark of superstitious ro- 
 manticity, though it might yet be no more than a curious concur¬ 
 rence of circumstances. 
 
 “ At Granada we made seyeral inquiries concerning the Moor¬ 
 ish castle; but gained no information relating to our adventure. 
 We learnt that it had formerly been a palace belonging to a 
 Moorish prince ; that it had since descended to the family of 
 Ferendez; and had finally been burnt under the edict of Philip 
 as affording shelter to the resisting party.” 
 
24 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Harke ! the ravenne flappes hys wynge 
 In the briere’d delle helowe ; 
 
 Harke ! the dethe-owl loude dothe synge 
 To the nyghte-mares as heie go. 
 
 Chatterton. 
 
 The Fortune Teller. 
 
 “ Fernando became every day more enraptured with the por¬ 
 trait, visiting every place of public resort, from the church down 
 to the lowest public walks, in hopes of meeting, if not the origi¬ 
 nal, at least some figure which might distantly approach. He 
 frequently complained to me of the cruel singularity of his fate, 
 in not so much as knowing whether his mistress were living or 
 dead, young or old. 
 
 “ I constantly ridiculed this singular -whim; and, as our 
 troops were soon to quit Granada, I advised him to throw away 
 the picture, and the dagger, and laugh with me at the whole 
 adventure. He became more reserved in his behaviour; and I 
 was not sorry to be less troubled with his wonders and conjec¬ 
 tures about the origin of the miniature, which he would willing¬ 
 ly have made the constant theme of our discourse. 
 
 “ In about a fortnight we quitted Granada; and after a tedi¬ 
 ous march of some days, entered the province of Andalusia. At 
 the first village on the road, we halted with as many men as the 
 place would receive ; the rest of the party going forward. 
 
 “ As we entered the yard of our inn, we found a travelling 
 fortune teller; one of those men who sell amulets and charms, 
 who vend among country peasants philtres to procure affection, 
 and are a nuisance in every society where they are tolerated He 
 was mounted on a tub in the inn yard, and surrounded with a 
 gaping crowd of villagers and muleteers, who were amused with 
 his grotesque gestures, and eager to buy his drugs. 
 
 “ We took our station a little on one side, admiring the simpli¬ 
 city of the peasants, who believed him first physician to the Em¬ 
 peror of China. 
 
 “ Is it possible, said I to Fernando, the credulity of mankind 
 can be so absurd as to believe a man who, by his own account, is 
 the richest upon earth, and who yet will play more tricks than a 
 baboon, for a maravidie ? 
 
 “ He overheard this observation; for our figures had attracted 
 his attention, and turning suddenly round,—Senors, said he, with 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 25 
 
 a penetrating look, 44 I know that which you want to know. 
 The secrets I possess no other man inherits;” 
 
 Fernando immediately took this speech to himself, which, in 
 fact, was no more than the general cant of these fellows; but 
 the perplexity of his mind made him catch at every thing that 
 inclined towards mystery. 44 Let us now enter,” said he, and 
 “ refresh ourselves, we will examine this man, after the villa¬ 
 gers are gone.” 
 
 44 \fery well,” answered I, 44 we will both have our fortunes 
 told. The rogue has seen by our dress that we are of quality, 
 and will make his guesses accordingly; but in the first place— 
 here, host ! what have you got for supper ?” The host was a 
 jolly dark complexioned fellow, and thrusting his hands into 
 his belt, he replied: — 
 
 44 P4ease you, my senors, it grieves me to say how bare we 
 are at present of provisions. These doctors carry such a train 
 with them, that every thing is sw'ept away where they come. I 
 Verily believe all the pigs and fowls in Andalusia would not stay 
 their stomachs a fortnight; and then, as to saiads, they cleared 
 my whble garden in a night, like a swarm of locusts.” 
 
 * Have you got any eggs ?—Can we have an omelet,” de¬ 
 manded Fernando.—* 44 No, senors,” replied he bowing, 44 I 
 have not an egg, nor any onions, nor garlic ; and beside, it is 
 not a fast-day, so that we have no fish in the whole village.” 
 
 No. 4. 
 
26 
 
 ELMIRA ; OR 
 
 u Do you know us?” cried Fernando impatiently: u Do 
 you know it is at your peril thus to treat the King’s officers ?” 
 
 ce I crave your mercy,” replied the host. ce I am sure such 
 worthy cavaliers cannot expect something from nothing; and 
 if I had the superbist larder nobody should be more heartily 
 welcome.” 
 
 ct Well, well,” cried I impatiently, “ no prating, its easy to 
 see what you are aiming at, you do not expect us to pay you. I 
 promise you we shall not quarter on you for nothing ; only stir 
 yourself, and let us have the conjuror to supper.” 
 
 “ ’Tis done, senors, ’tis done; I always sup myself with the 
 conjuror. I will endeavour to prevail on him to part with his 
 share. Some of his train have been out to forage, and they 
 never return empty. Meanwhile, senors, what do you say to a 
 manehet, and a bottle of the right Barcelona.” 
 
 <£ Fetch it, quickly,” said Fernando, and the host instantly 
 disappeared. We had scarcely entered into the question we 
 proposed to put to the conjuror, when the host returned with 
 wine, and holding it up to the light, 
 
 “ By the mass,” said he, c< but this is the right sort, as clear 
 as fountain water, and as strong as aqua vitee. 1 never uncork 
 a bottle of this, but when some of his Majesty’s officers honour 
 me with a call. I’ll be your taster if you please.” 
 
 We were entertained with his humour, so different from the 
 stiff and grave manner of Castilians, and we diverted ourselves 
 with inquiring about his neighbours, and listening to have a 
 dozen tales of village scandal. “ Now, this,” said he, taking his 
 glass very familiarly, “ is what I like: this tells me, senors, 
 that you have seen the world—so have I, for that matter. The 
 other day, there came here a gruff old Don, proud as a bashaw, 
 and grim as a starving wolf. Marching here and there, and saying 
 nothing to nobody, he looked for all the world like a man going 
 . to be hanged. His servants, indeed, told me, that he goes once 
 a year to Grenada, to do penance for his sins. Sure enough, he 
 looked like a murderer.” 
 
 “ A murderer!” repeated Fernando ; “ Did you say he w 7 as a 
 murderer !” 
 
 “ No, Cavalier,” replied the host, “ I said he looked like 
 one, (and I have seen murderers in Italy;) but a man is not 
 always to be taken by his looks : or else, senor, under favor, we 
 should some of us be in as bad a case as Don Grim.” 
 
 “ You make very free with your guest, I think,” said I. 
 
 u Not more so than I wish them to be with me,” replied he. 
 Ci Why now, senors, can you guess why I took up an inn, and 
 left my dear little native village, in France, where I used to cut 
 hair, and shorten beards ? It was because I loved freedom and 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 27 
 
 variety of character. An inn is more free than a palace ; yon 
 do as you please, come when you choose, and go when you 
 fancy. You meet all characters on a level \ wit has liberty to 
 shew itself, and modesty loses its shame.” 
 
 “ So, indeed, it appears,” cried Fernando with impatience, 
 “ if thou ever hadst any shame, recal a little of it now, and 
 leave us.” 
 
 “ There is a true shame and a false shame,” continued he 
 coolly : “ the true shame is—” 
 
 “ Cease this impertinence,” cried I; “go, and hasten our 
 supper.” 
 
 “ It will be ready before you think of it,” said he. “ Talk¬ 
 ing beguiles the time, and in an inn a man has a right to say what 
 he pleases. An inn the centre of mirth, jollity and good living. 
 Etiquette is left at the door ; and so, senors, let us finish this 
 bottle. Ho ! ho ! by St. Ghristoval, here comes his high mighti¬ 
 ness, first physician to the Emperor of China, corn- cutter to 
 the Cham of Tartary, and paier of nails to the Great Mogul.” 
 
 We could not avoid laughing at the humour of our host; 
 but the doctor coining in, we prepared seriously for supper, 
 which was not bad of the kind. Our host’s wine contributed 
 to raise our spirits, and he began to rally the doctor on his 
 occult pretensions. 
 
 “I beg,” said he, after we had supped, “ that you will 
 now put me to the proof. I have heard all your doubts, and 
 will now endeavour to remove them. In the first place, let 
 us have three candles.” When the host quitted the room to 
 order the lights, “ Send that man away,” said the doctor. 
 66 I will amuse him with some common fancies, and then you 
 may get rid of him.” 
 
 <c What is your name?” inquired Fernando. “It is Almonsor, 
 and my native country is Arabia, where the only pure knowledge 
 of the Caballa is to be acquired. You have said, that magic 
 being contrary to the general laws of nature, it is incredible and 
 impossible; but remember that every accident is a species of 
 magic, with the cause of which we are unacquainted. Were 
 I to take some grains of gunpowder, and kindle them before a 
 company of rude Indians, would they not suppose me a com¬ 
 panion of the infernal spirit. So when we rise to the higher 
 system of the Caballa, or combination of natural principles, the 
 mass of mankind stands upon the level of savages. 
 
 “ Nothing can be fairer,” said I ; “ but here comes De 
 Tonnes.” The candles being brought, Almonsor amused us 
 with several very curious experiments. In particular, he 
 took from his travelling trunk a crystal bason, and placing it 
 upon the table between three candles, ranged in equal angles, 
 
28 
 
 ELMIRA,: OR, 
 
 he poured into a large phial of a mixed liquor, which separated 
 in the bason into different strata, the lowermost taking the ap¬ 
 pearance of granite, above that gravel, and then clay, next 
 slime, and on the surface water. Into this he poured an 
 elixir, and a metallic tree began to arise, expanding gradually 
 into branches, leaves, and flowers. A few drops from a third 
 phial caused the blossoms to fall, the leaves to wither, and 
 the trunk to become in appearance dead. ; 
 
 All this, though curious, seemed within the limits of 
 human comprehension but it considerably raised our 
 opinion of his ability, and having dismissed the host, we began 
 to question him upon his powers of prescience. 
 
 44 I would wish/’ s.iid I, 44 to know what shall happen to 
 me within the next three months ?” 
 
 44 You will learn,” said he gravely, after a few moments 
 pause, 44 news which you do not wish, and you will receive that 
 which all men desire.” 
 
 44 And I,” said Fernando; 44 what will happen to me ?” 
 
 44 Shew me the the palm of your left-hand. You will travel 
 long before you find rest. You will be in danger of perishing 
 by violence, which if you escape you may live to old age.” 
 
 44 But of what sort will be that violence Y* 
 
 “ By the sword,” replied Almonsor, 44 You have some secret 
 which now employs your thoughts—beware of the conse¬ 
 quences.’* 
 
 44 Here,” said Fernando, 44 here is a picture; can yon tell me 
 if that lady lives !” 
 
 Almonsor took the picture, and for some moments gazed 
 upon it with silent surprise. 44 Where,” cried he at length, 
 44 where did you meet this ?” Then starting up, he ex¬ 
 claimed wildly, and with a look of horror, 44 Cold, cold are 
 now those lips,that once swelled as the rose of the spring, and 
 opened as the flower to receive the morning dew. This 
 polished forehead is no longer smooth, Time has printed his 
 fingers upon it. Those eyes, clear as the living lustres of 
 the heavens, are now dim as the star of twilight through the 
 vapours of the evening. These cheeks, blooming with the 
 health of perfect youth,are pale,and hollow,and wan. Oh, Time! 
 savage and remorseless monster ! what has thou left of all that 
 was lovely. The daughter of health, of beauty, of excellence, 
 gone. Fresh victims feed thy pride and thy power. Oh, 
 children of a moment; what are ye ? Visions of the twilight, 
 whither go ye ?” 
 
 While he uttered these words, he strode about the room, with 
 marks of phrensy in his eye ; he paused, stamping with great 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE, 
 
 29 
 
 agitation; he put his hand to his head in agony, and suddenly 
 laying the picture on the table, darted out of the room. 
 
 “ What say you to this map ?”' inquired I; “ do you think 
 him most knave or fool ?” 
 
 “ I think it is very extraordinary,” replied Fernando. “His 
 knowledge is wonderful. Has he not toffi us what will happen ? 
 Did he not guess my secret ?” 
 
 “ And who could not, my friend?” returned I. “ Itis plain, 
 at first sight of your countenance, that something preys upon 
 ypur mind. There is no hazard in that conjecture; and as to 
 hifc predictions, I will interpret them. I am to receive news I 
 do not wish, and to gain that which all men desire. In the 
 first place I do not wish to hear the death of any of my rela¬ 
 tions, yet in so large a family, it may be a great chance if I do 
 not, or how many things are there we do not wish to hear. 
 Then, what does a soldier desire more than honour ? and 
 what is more likely than that I shall receive it, after a suc¬ 
 cessful campaign.” ; j v/ 
 
 “ But then,” said Fernando, “ how does he know that I am 
 to travel ?” 
 
 “Why are you not travelling now? Are soldiers ever at 
 rest ! He has had the goodness to tell you, you are in danger 
 of violence. I hope/ when you are in a field of battle, you 
 do not expeet to die in your bed ? and after you escape all 
 these dangers (mark his sagacity) you may live to be old.” 
 
 “ But this picture,” said my friend —“ what horrors spread 
 over the face when he saw it, and how could he tell whether 
 the original were living or dead.” 
 
 <c You observed, when he took the picture how minutely 
 he examined it ? From the workmanship, the manner of the 
 colouring, and the fashion, he could guess the time it was 
 first painted : the rest was all grimace and stage-trick to 
 astonish the senses, and awaken superstition.” 
 
 The host here made his appearance, and informed us, that 
 the first physician in the world was suddenly taken ill, and had 
 retired to rest. “ And so will we,” replied I: “I see he is 
 master of his trade.” 
 
 In the morning, on inquiring for Almonsor, we learn that 
 he had departed by break of day; a circumstance that staggered 
 even Fernando, who began to feel the absurdity of cherishing 
 an inclination for a person perhaps mouldered into dust. 
 
 We continued our route till we arrived atTolosa; where we were 
 to remain for farther orders. We had made a long day’s march 
 through a barren country, where the heat had much incom¬ 
 moded us, rendering rest very desirable : the duties of our office 
 were therefore no sooner over, and supper finished, than we re 
 
30 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 tirecl to our chamber. Our accommodation being here on a large 
 scale, we preferred separate beds ; and I indulged myself with 
 the prospect of a night’s repose, which rarely falls to a soldier on 
 
 a march. y . 
 
 Fernando prevented my sleeping by frequently exclaiming, 
 
 “ What is it that oppresses my spirits ? I am certain, Albert, 
 some misfortune hangs over me.” Twice he awoke me as I was 
 sinking to sleep, with inquiries if I was well; and expressions of 
 fear that some accident was about to befal us. I was by no 
 means pleased with these interruptions, which to me seemed the 
 offspring of superstition, in a mind that had given way to melan¬ 
 choly forebodings, and desired he would suffer me to sleep. 
 
 About the middle of the night, I was alarmed by a consider¬ 
 able pressure upon my breast, which was so heavy that I could 
 scarcely breathe. On opening my eyes, I perceived, by the light 
 of a lamp which burned in a room, the figure of a man leaning 
 over me, with his left hand upon my breast. 
 
 “ Marquis of Denia,” said he, “ rise.” 
 
 “ I am not the Marquis de Denia,” said I, “ my father is yet 
 alive.” “ He is dead 1” said the person. “ Rise ! rise imme¬ 
 diately, and make no noise.” 
 
 I was astonished, as you may believe, at this address from a 
 person I had never seen before ; and though X was considerably 
 alarmed for my own safety, I began to address the stranger 
 sitting down by the bedside. “ AVhat is it you want,” said I, 
 “at this singular hour?”—“Not more singular,” he replied, 
 “ than the business upon which I am come. Hasten, Marquis— 
 time wears apace—follow me.” 
 
 “Follow you,” repeated I, “to where? May X not awaken 
 my friend?”—“ No,” replied he; “look at me, and obey me.” 
 
 I started with an unknown sensation, when I distinguished by 
 the dim twinkling lamp, that he was dressed as a common 
 soldier—his eyes looked wildly upon me, and. his countenance 
 was the countenance of death. The story of my friend rushed 
 upon me with conviction. “ This,” thought I, “ is the being 
 whom he met in the defile; he announces my father’s death, but 
 wherefore does he visit me.” I felt the dreadful necessity of 
 obeying him, and followed his motions in silence. 
 
 I observed that his steps admitted no sound; and my terror 
 increased when I beheld the doors open before us, and close at 
 the waving of his hand. “ What does this mean?” thought I; 
 “ am I to give credit to my senses, or do I dream ?” 
 
 He led the way without speaking or looking round, till we 
 passed the town, and crossed the bridge at the end of it. I then 
 ventured to inquire where I was to go ? and to what purpose ? 
 
 “ Marquis of Denia, follow me!” was. the only answer I re- 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 31 
 
 ceived; and that in a tone of voice so unusual, that I had not 
 sufficient courage to reply. 
 
 . Wc passed across several bye paths, and over several bridges, 
 tdl I became so tired I knew not how to proceed. We at length 
 entered a thicket that spread along the banks of a river; and 
 after some time came to an high embankment, which was covered 
 with thick and almost impenetrable trees, hanging over the 
 stream, whose cheerless waves emitted a melancholy sound be¬ 
 neath us. No path seemed to lead from this dismal situation, 
 total darkness hung round us, and we stood upon the brink of a 
 precipice. I started at my situation. I had hitherto obeyed 
 implicitly the motions of this strange phantom, and I recoiled at 
 i emembeiing the tales of my childhood, which here seemed re¬ 
 alized in my present uncertain situation, where death seemed to 
 await me, and no human help was nigh. The magnitude of my 
 danger aroused my resolution “I will go no further,” cried I, 
 “ your purpose may surely be as well answered here as at a mile 
 distance. Speak ! tell me what you want ?” 
 
 Do you mark this place ?” said he, “time and you shall bear 
 witness. Fernando Coello is your friend; he is mine—he has 
 given his word.—Attend me!” 
 
 He motioned to a thicker part of the forest; my feet seemed 
 to move against my will; and about fifty paces led to a small 
 circle of trees, thickly surrounded by underwood. As well as I 
 could perceive through the gloom, it appeared one of those close 
 recesses, where robbers might safely lurk to fall upon the lonely 
 traveller. I had acquired greater courage from the success of 
 my last address. I paused again, and turned round to this 
 mysterious bemg. “ For what have you led me here ?” demanded 
 1, in a firm voice. 
 
 “Ascend that tree, Marquis,” pointing with his hand; “hide 
 yourself amidst the foilage; wait for an hour; but, as you value 
 your life, be silent.” 
 
 “Ridiculous!” said I, “ what am I to see there?” 
 
 “ Are you not already satisfied,” said he sternly, “ that my 
 
 words are no jest ? Touch me, and know whether the grave can 
 
 he. 
 
 I stretched out my hand to his, but no ice could have been 
 colder. I shrunk back unable to reply. lie pointed in silence 
 to the tree; and, after such conviction, I could not disobey. I 
 looked down when I had reached the first boughs, where the 
 leaves were sufficiently. thick to conceal me, but he was gone ; 
 &nd I remained some time in a confusion of mind easily accounted 
 for. I became accustomed to my situation; reflecting on the 
 little foresight we possess, with all our boasted sagacity.” Should 
 3 ha\e considered the man as insane, who should have whispered 
 
32 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 me, when I was retiring to rest at Tolosa, that I should pass 
 part of that night in a tree in a forest I knew not where. How 
 many times have we experienced similar circumstances, and yet 
 we boast of our knowledge. 
 
 X had continued at my post about half an hour, when I heard 
 voices advancing. Two men approached, and sat down on the 
 grass beneath me. Their voices were harsh and severe, but the 
 darkness did not allow me to distinguish more. I remained in 
 silence, as X had been cautioned, scarcely daring to think, lest I 
 should betray my situation. One of them, with a rapier, exa¬ 
 mined the bushes; while the other, taking a dark lantern from 
 beneath his black cloak, placed it upon the grass, and spreading 
 a coarse cloth, opened a goat-skin bag, from which he took some 
 pieces of cheese, and bread, and garlic. The other, being satisfied 
 no person was concealed, sat down with his comrade, and began 
 eagerly to eat. 
 
 “ These are hard times, Lopez,” said he; “ this is not the 
 fare w r e used to have in former days, when our services were 
 wanted.” 
 
 “ By the holy virgin!” replied Lopez, “ he shall repent it; his 
 borrowed honours shall be taken away; the secret we know 
 shall blast him to the centre. The Moorish castle——” 
 
 “ Aye, Lopez, that castle might fell a tale; but that is in our 
 own breast, and the very wind shall not hear it till the proper 
 time. Were my suspicions certain; by the blasting lightning, 
 I would make them swallow my rapier!” 
 
 “X have my doubts upon that business, Jacques ; for I heard 
 two voices, or X would then have been satisfied. You know I 
 am no coward, but that chamber unmanned me.” 
 
 “ Had I been there,” said Jacques, “my nerves would not 
 have been so weak, I would have told a better tale : but you 
 was startled at the tempest of the night, and let two simple 
 travellers carry away the only positive proof we could bring. 
 That dagger would of itself have confounded him; and we might 
 have lived like princes.” 
 
 I began to suspect that this Lopez had been the man whom 
 we had heard cross the chamber of the Moorish tower, and I 
 confess I began to tremble at my situation. I listened, scarcely 
 daring to breathe, to the discourse of these wretches, whose 
 horrid features were but partially visible by the dim light of the 
 lantern which burnt between them. They continued to eat and 
 discourse, mingling their words with execrations and oaths. 
 
 “The old Don is not returned,” said . X^opez; “ he pays a 
 regular visit to that ruin. Does he go to examine the wreck he 
 has made, or to visit the dead ?” 
 
 “ Think’st thou, Lopez, that blood hurts his conscience? no, 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 33 
 
 do, he sleeps tranquil upon a bed of carnage—no ghosts trouble 
 his slumbers ; but vve shall start upon him more fearfully than 
 the grave—we shall demand a recompense for our services that 
 will not be easily satisfied. He thought we were secure when 
 the Turks took the galley.” 
 
 44 And yet, Jacques,” replied Loquez, 44 I have heard another 
 story. Every peasant can tell you the moroseness of his beha¬ 
 viour-savage to his daughters, and a tyrant to his servants. 
 Soon thing they sav he has seen, and 1 know not—’ 
 
 44 Away with this folly!” cried Jacques, “ by St. Peter! 
 Lopez, you become an old woman !—You will be useless in the 
 profession, if you lend your ear to all the babbling tales of these 
 idiots.—Seen ! ha ! ha!” 
 
 44 You are merry, comrade,” replied Lopez ; 44 we have no 
 aqua vitae, or I might bear you company, but I have not for¬ 
 got that night*—fearful indeed it was, and near this place 
 too !—I shall never forget how he struggled—” 
 
 44 At it again !” cried Jacques .— 44 Aye, aye,” said Lopez, 
 4y you may jest, Jacques; pity never entered your composition. 
 Indeed, for that matter, I have not much to spare; but, by the 
 Holy Virgin ! i felt some repugnance—the wind whistled about 
 us, and the rain fell. He little dreamed of the journey he was 
 going to take.!’’ 
 
 No. 5 , 
 
34 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 (( I love not these stories,” said Jacques, in a gruff voice ; 
 many a man sets out on a journey, that never comes back 
 again. It seems he has got rid of his second wife as easy as the 
 first! On my soul, I wish we could accommodote matters with 
 him ; he is such a true son of the blade, that my heart feels 
 a friendship for him. Nobody should have served him truer, if 
 he had not so meanly stopped our salary. That galls me, and 
 he shall repent it. 
 
 “ That he shall,” cried Lopez : “ but you remember the hint 
 that I dropped you the other day; if we could bring that to 
 bear, our fortunes would be no more out at the elbows. I have 
 seen the ladies, they are delicate creatures, and no doubt old 
 Lon Padilla will comply to save his neck.” 
 
 46 .1 know but one objection,” said Jacques ; 44 his nephew lias 
 not long been of age—he is only the male heir, and must be 
 first put out of the way. Fernando,” replied Lopez, in a 
 low voice, 44 is now at Tolosa—we will—” 
 
 My rage and horror at these words overcame my reason, 
 and prevented my listening further to a plan which raised me 
 almost to madness. “Villains! Murderers !” exclaimed I. 
 “ We are betrayed !” cried Lopez, shutting the lantern, “ who 
 can have overheard us? but death shall close his mouth from 
 telling tales.” 
 
 One of them immediately fired a pistol into the tree, the 
 ball of which rushed amongst the leaves without hitting me, it 
 being totally dark. 1 was aware of the extent of my im¬ 
 prudence, but it was now too late to regret, and leaping from 
 the tree, sword in hand, the force of my weight brought one 
 of them to the ground, and my sword pierced him through 
 the heart. It was so firmly fixed, passing through him into 
 the earth, that I endeavoured in vain to withdraw it, and I lay 
 upon him at the mercy of his comrade, who instantly struck at 
 me with a dagger, wounding me severely in the arm. In the 
 dark he could not distinguish me from his companion, and re¬ 
 peating his blow, he buried it in the body of his fi •iend : swear¬ 
 ing he had now done my business ; but to make sure, he lifted 
 the pistol he had discharged, and, with a blow, deprived me of 
 sense. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 35 
 
 i 
 
 CHAP T E R I V. 
 
 This bears the mark of more than mortal means. 
 
 When I recovered, I found that it was morning. I attempted 
 to rise, but was so weak with loss of blood, that it was with 
 extreme pain and difficulty 1 crept away from the body of the 
 assassin, which was clotted with gore. 
 
 I sat down on a bank, where I was so much overcome with 
 faintness, that I expected every moment to breathe my last. 
 While I sat thus, with the horrid object of the dead body before 
 me, I reflected upon the death of my father, which, after what 
 had happened, J could no longer doubt; and the awful manner 
 in which I had received the information, added to the melancholy 
 tidings. 
 
 No person approached, and my voice was too feeble to be 
 heard.' I looked round, but the place was wild, and without 
 any path that I could distinguish. In this situation I gave 
 myself up to the expectation of death ; and I cannot say I felt 
 the regret which might have been expected in one so young, 
 and with so many prospects of future pleasures. 
 
 “ At most,” thought I, “ a very few years would have de¬ 
 prived this body of its vigour, and reduced it to its present 
 imbecility—my senses would have gradually decayed—my years 
 would have fleeted by as moments—and my place would, in a 
 very short time, have been no longer known amongst the living. 
 Fearful and tremendous moment ! inconceivable change. But 
 this present moment and my body is animated with various 
 sensations, my mind is endowed with the powers of reflection ; 
 yet how soon, and I shall be like that body before me, a mass 
 of inert and unconscious matter !” 
 
 From these meditations I fell into a reverie, from which I 
 was roused by a slight rustle of th'e branches, and raising my 
 eyes, I perceived something moving along the thicket. I 
 elevated my voice as loud as possible, but my efforts were too 
 feeble to be heard, and I resigned myself again to my fate. A 
 moment after a little dog came barking into the copse, followed 
 by two ladies, who were led by his clamours. 
 
36 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 At sight of the dismal scene which presented to their eyes* 
 they uttered a loud cry of horror; one of them appeared nearly 
 fainting, leaning upon her companion for support, which de¬ 
 layed their flight, and gave me time to arrest their attention. 
 
 44 Ladies,” said I, 44 take some compassion upon a wounded 
 stranger. If it is in your power send me some assistance, or I 
 shall perish.” 
 
 44 Holy Mother !” said one of them, drawing her companion 
 nearer, 44 what a sight is this ! How came you in this terrible 
 situation ? And who is that person before you drenched in 
 blood ?” 
 
 44 That, lady,” replied I, 44 is a robber. Two of them fell 
 upon me—the one you see lies there, and the other has 
 escaped.” 
 
 44 Is he near this place ?” said the other lady, looking 
 round with fearful eye and a changing countenance. 44 Let 
 us hasten, Virginia, to send some assistance. Whence come 
 you, Cavalier ?” 
 
 44 1 am an officer,” replied I, 44 I came from Tolosa, where 
 I have a friend, if you will have the goodness to send for him. 
 
 44 It is fifteen miles from here to- Tolosa, and you must have 
 assistance sooner,” answered the lady. 
 
 u I am certain,” returned I, 44 that I walked from Tolosa 
 to this place in half an hour.” 
 
 ^ 44 Poor Cavalier ! ” said Virginia, 44 let us make haste, 
 Elmira—he is already light-headed, and may die before we can 
 get any assistance.” 
 
 They hastened away, leaving me not knowing what to think, 
 or how it was possible that I could have walked so great a 
 distance in so short a time, unless my senses had been under 
 ome powerful delusion. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour they returned with several 
 servants, who made a litter of boughs, upon which I was 
 placed, after taking a cordial from the fair hands of Virginia ; 
 who seemed to take particular interest in my situation, and 
 charmed me with the sympathising tenderness of her dis¬ 
 position. 
 
 With some difficulty the servants carried me amongst the 
 low underwood of the thicket, which spread and extended into 
 a forest; in the midst of which we arrived at a large got)lie 
 building of considerable magnificence. Its gloomy turrets 
 frowned over the waving landscape, and seemed to nod defiance 
 to the black mountains of Sierra Morena, which arose 
 behind it. 
 
 A chamber was allotted me by the ladies, under the direction 
 of a silver-headed domestic; and a servant dispatched to Tolosa 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 37 
 
 to inform my friend of the accident, and to bring a surgeon to 
 my assistance. 
 
 In the mean time I felt myself considerably relieved, from 
 the prospect 1 had of tranquillity, and the nourishment I had 
 taken. I inquired of the servant that attended me, who was the 
 owner of the castle, and what was its name. 
 
 “ It is called,” answered he, “ the Castle of Montillo, and 
 the name of his Excellenza is Don Tevarro Padilla?” 
 
 “ Don Padilla !” repeated I, in surprise; “ is this the castle 
 of Don Padilla.” 
 
 “Do you doubt it?” said the servant. “ What is there 
 wonderful in that ?” 
 
 <£ O nothing ! I only thought it strange that I should have 
 rambled so far. Is Don Padilla at home ?” 
 
 “ No,” answered he: “ he is gone to take his usual journey 
 to Grenada. Perhaps you might not have been so welcome 
 had he been here.” 
 
 “ Why so, friend ? How soon do you expect him ?” 
 
 “ He usually stays a month; and now he has been gone a 
 fortnight.” 
 
 “ I suppose these ladies are his daughters ?—they are very 
 fine women.” # 
 
 “ Aye, aye, Cavalier,” returned he, with a broad grin, “ ’tis 
 a pity you could not get here without this ugly adventure; I 
 warrant we should have had fine sport now is Excellenza is away. 
 I’m sure the castle is more like a dungeon than any thing else 
 eleven months in the year.” 
 
 “ I suppose you have not many balls and feasts when he is 
 present ?” said I, tc I understand he is very melancholy.” This 
 I had gathered from the description I had of him by our 
 Host De Tonnes ; and 1 made no doubt but this was the man 
 the villains had mentioned. To my interrogation the servant 
 replied : 
 
 “ Melancholy, Cavalier ! why he’s worse than melancholy, 
 he’s stark mad at- times ! then woe to poor Miguel if he comes 
 in the way ! And as to dances, and these sort of things, why 
 we never dare move a foot about the house, but as if we 
 were walking to a funeral; unless when his Excellenza wants 
 any thing, and then we must fly, quick, flash, like lightning, 
 at the turn of his hand. Then if he was to see any of us laugh, 
 he flies into such a plaguy passion, you would think we had 
 robbed him ?” 
 
 “ But can you give no account for this disposition ; it surely 
 cannot be natural ?” 
 
 “ In my opinion it is the most unnatural humour in the world ; 
 but I believe its this old gloomy dungeon of a place.—Do you 
 
38 
 
 ELMIRA 5 OR 
 
 know it puts me quite in the horrors myself; I ain’t like the 
 same as I was when I first came here. Then there are such 
 stories about its dark and winding stairs and passages, empty 
 chambers, gloomy dungeons, and terrible phantoms, that it 
 would make your hair stand an end to hear them. There’s 
 old Gonzalez knows a pretty many of them; but he’s a close 
 dog, hum’s and ha’s for an hour, and then ends with a shrug and 
 a nod.” 
 
 I inquired if he had ever seen any of those phantoms he 
 mentioned ? he replied, 
 
 “ I can’t say that I have; but I have heard groans enough 
 to curdle the blood in my veins. Then they say that the clash¬ 
 ing of swords, and shivering of armour may be frequently heard 
 in the east side of the castle, which has been shut up this twenty 
 years, and not a soul is allowed to enter any of the chambers; 
 though for that, I believe, if the doors were set wide open, 
 nobody would have the least curiosity, unless it were the ladies. 
 They, to be sure, have once or twice asked the keys of his Ex- 
 cellenza, but they might as well have asked for his whiskers!” 
 
 “ Is Don Padilla married ?” enquired I. 
 
 “ No, no,” said Miguel, “ he has been twice married already; 
 but for that matt&r he wanted to be so a third time, but Donna 
 Isabella did not like to venture, after what happened to his for¬ 
 mer wives.” 
 
 « What did happen, Miguel ?” said I, “is not death a common 
 accident ?” 
 
 “ Yes, yes; but then the manner is sometimes different. Now, 
 for my part, I should like to die in my bed; and you, as a 
 soldier, would like to die in a battle, or so—” 
 
 “ Not altogether,” replied I, smiling; “ but what was there 
 particular in the death of Padilla’s wives ?” 
 
 “ Nay, Cavalier, I did not say there was any thing particular— 
 report is never to be believed—or else to be sure if one was. to 
 believe report, things were bad enough. But I do not like 
 talking ; and to say truth, if what I have already said were to 
 come to his Excellenza’s ears, I must troop from the castle. 
 Nobody knows for certain, unless it is old Gonzalez; and he’s 
 almost as silent as my lord. He’ll sit for whole hours, and say 
 nothing to any mother’s soul of us. I would give any thing to 
 know as mueh as he knows.” 
 
 I began to be tired with the loquacity of Miguel, who seemed 
 willing to tell every thing which I had no wish to hear; and 
 finding an inclination to sleep, I desired he would do as he had 
 intimated, and leave me. 
 
 It was some hours before I awoke; when I found myself con¬ 
 siderably revived, and the confusion of my head tranquillized. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 39 
 
 On opening my eyes, I beheld my friend Fernando sitting by 
 me—his countenance pale as death. He would not suffer me to 
 be awakened on his arrival; judging well, that rest was as 
 necessary to me as medicine. 
 
 The surgeon then came in, and having examined my wound, 
 assured me that in a very few days I might leave my chamber. 
 
 “I am very glad of it,” said Fernando, “as his presence at 
 Madrid will be necessary as soon as possible.” 
 
 “What business requires me there?” said I; “have you 
 heard then ?”—“ Heard what ?” demanded he, with an inquiring 
 look. “ Have you received any news from Madrid?” 
 
 “Ah! my dear friend,” answered I, “ you have received 
 an account of my father’s death, and fear to alarm me by 
 an hasty disclosure; but it was known to me some hours 
 since.” 
 
 “ You surprise me,” said he : “ the courier arrived at Tolosa 
 but a moment before we come from thence—I dismounted to break 
 open the packet. When I arrived here, I found you asleep, 
 and was told you had been so near two hours; how then is it 
 possible you could have received these tidings ?” 
 
 “ I knew it last night at Tolosa,” replied I; “ but at a more 
 convenient opportunity I will explain.” He immediately com¬ 
 prehended me, and remained silent. 
 
 In the evening I found myself so much recovered, that I de¬ 
 sired Fernando would come and sit with me; and, under pre¬ 
 tence of family, concerns, we admitted no visitor. I then 
 explained to him the strange circumstances of the preceding 
 night, which increased his melancholy air. 
 
 “ This, my dear Albert,” said he, “ is no common business; 
 but why you and I should be selected as instruments, confounds 
 me. ’Tis true, that this Don Padilla is an uncle of mine, he 
 was my mother’s brother, and if his daughter die without issue, 
 I am his sole heir. I have also a dormant claim upon this very 
 estate; but, as I never heard that my family had received any 
 particular injury from him, I did not wish to enter into any pro¬ 
 cess, which would appear as unnatural on my part. His first 
 wife died suddenly when I was very young—I believe it was 
 from a surfeit at a feast; and then he married again in a shorter 
 time than was decent.” 
 
 “ Do you remember the name of the first lady ? ’ inquired I. 
 
 “ Her name was Elmira: if I remember right, she was daugh¬ 
 ter to the then governor of Lima.” 
 
 “ Indeed !” exclaimed I, “are you certain, my friend, in what 
 you say? If so, she was my mother’s sister. A sister whom 
 she has long lamented as swallowed up in an earthquake, with 
 her husband, after herself, who was the elder sister, returned to 
 
40 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 Spain, and was married to the marquis, my father. But how 
 
 could she have remained unknown in Spain ?” 
 
 “That is very easily accounted for,” answered Fernando. 
 “ Don Padilla never leaves this retreat. My mother was his 
 sister. My father died a few months after his marriage, and my 
 mother at the hour which gave me birth. Thus I was left to 
 the protection of guardians; and was educated at the castle of 
 the Marquis de los Velos, to whose interest, before his death, I 
 owed the commission I now enjoy, till I shall be of age to claim 
 my father’s property. My information relative to Don Padilla 
 is vague. I know only that a little after his sister’s death, after 
 having run through his fortune, he went abroad an extravagant, 
 spendthrift. In our western colonies he contrived to repair his 
 fortune, by means which are unknown ; and when he returned, 
 he disclaimed all connection with his relations, from motives of 
 resentment at their formal refusal to supply his extravagance, 
 and from that moroseness of disposition, which, I am informed, 
 renders his life a burden to himself. He has two daughters, I 
 was told, very tine women; but, ’till this day, I had never the 
 pleasure of seeing them.” 
 
 I inquired, who Was the lady he had made his second wife ? 
 
 “ He married a lady from Grenada, about the time of Philip’s 
 persecution of the Moors,” replied he ; “ but of her I know no 
 more, than that she died in less than a twelvemonth, leaving a 
 daughter, the lady Elmira.” 
 
 “ What you have informed me,” said I, “ opens upon me new 
 scenes. Were you not very much frightened at my singular 
 absence?” 
 
 “ I had more reason to be frightened than you may imagine,” 
 said he. “ You know what strange forebodings hung 
 upon my mind; and when I did sleep, it was oppressive and 
 heavy. Images of unconnected forms filled my mind, and 
 harassed my imagination. Methought that the figure of the 
 wounded soldier stood over me, with anger in.*his countenance, 
 and I heard him pronounce my name. I fancied that I awoke, 
 and he stood beside me. 
 
 “ f Fernando,’ said he, ( what regard do you pay to your pro¬ 
 mises ! My service never interrupts your occupations. Rise ! 
 rise ! your friend is far hence ! If he falls, revenge him, for he 
 is.in my service. Behold me ! mark me ! know me!’ cried he in 
 a louder voice ; and throwing open his soldier’s dress, I beheld 
 beneath it a Moorish robe,'Stained with blood, which appeared 
 even then to trickle down from several wounds. I turned away 
 my eyes with horror, and was so much agitated, that I awoke in 
 reality from this double dream; and, starting from my bed, went 
 immediately to awaken you. My agitation and terror was ex- 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 41 
 
 treme when I found you absent. Then all the warning of the 
 phantom of my mind aiose into reality; I believed that you 
 were certainly murdered; and I uttered a cry of despair, which 
 alarmed the house. 
 
 “ After searching every part of the inn, I dispatched several 
 messengers round the town and its environs with very little 
 hope : for it appeared to me above comprehension, that you 
 should have left your room, and the inn, and yet all the doors 
 remain fastened. From my anxiety 1 was relieved by the 
 arrival of your messenger. I think, however, we may both 
 learn that some event of strange incident hangs over us.” 
 
 66 Fhat admits of no doubt,” replied I ; (( it is not for trifles 
 the usual order of nature is interrupted. If 1 were superstitious 
 I might now fancy Almonser to be a magician ; but, as I said 
 
 before, any man might make the same guesses, with the same 
 certainty of truth—this however is very different. The spirit 
 of the dead, for important reasons may be permitted to appear ; 
 but no man can be supposed to have power to call up an evil 
 spirit, or the soul of a departed human being at his pleasure, 
 to satisfy an idle and impious curiosity : as little probable is it, 
 that any finite creature can be master of future events.” 
 
 “ I am of your opinion,” replied he. “ but what am 1 to 
 do?—Am I to charge Padilla with the murder of I know not 
 who ? - How am I to bring proof of such a charge ?” 
 
 No. 6. 
 
42 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 cc We must wait,’ answered I. u Singular events have 
 brought us to this castle, at a time when admission was alone 
 possible : for I am informed, that his jealousy or h’s conscience 
 prevents him ever opening his gates to a stranger. 1 have .been 
 ' told, very strange reports are circulated about the next range of 
 apartments, at present I am not fully informed ; but if possible 
 we will examine that side of the building. J am now con¬ 
 siderably interested ; as well as from the adventure of the 
 assassins, as by what I have now learnt from yourself, re¬ 
 garding my mother’s sister. 
 
 “ The attention that I received from my friend, and the fair 
 sisters, in a few days restored me so far as to be able to walk 
 about my chamber; but though the wounds of my body were 
 amended, I found that my heart had received an impression not 
 so easily to be remedied ; though I concealed from Virginia 
 that I was the son of her mother’s sister. 
 
 “ My friend encouraged me to hope, by repeating to me 
 many little things Virginia had said in my favour to her sister 
 and himself: ‘ And/ added he, laughing, ‘ { believe f have made 
 some progress in the affection of my cousin Elmira/ ” 
 
 “ I congratulate you,” said I; “ that will be acting li:ke a 
 man—She is a little better than a picture.” 
 
 “ I allow her merit,” answered he ; “ but fancy you know 
 is every thing with a lover; and I do not believe I shall ever 
 sincerely love, till I find a lady resembling this charming 
 picture.” 
 
 At these words he took it from his bosom, where it always 
 hut g, and gazed upon it with pleasure. “ There is certainly 
 some little likeness,” said he, u in the general outline, between 
 this and my cousin Elmira ; but then she is by no means so 
 finished a creature.” 
 
 While he was thus speaking, old Gonzalez had entered the 
 room without our noticing him ; his eye glancing upon the 
 picture, lie smiled ; and putting back his white locks, “ Ah, 
 Cavalier, said he, you are an happy man, you wear your 
 mistress in your bosom : will you favour an old man with the 
 sight of a young beauty ? I have seen many a fair flower bloom 
 and wither : I am now withered myself for that matter, but 
 yet it pleases me to see a pretty face.” 
 
 Look upon this then,” said Fernando, and tell me if you 
 ever saw a prettier.” The old man then took the portrait in 
 his l and, and gazing upon it, stood motionless, while the tears 
 trickled from his eyes in large drops. 
 
 >vhy is this?” said Fernando, somewhat surprised. 
 “ Why do you weep, my friend ?” 
 
 “ Forgive me/’ answered he; “ forgive an old man who is 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 43 
 
 full °f fanciful conceits : that picture brought former times to 
 my recollection, days long ago gone away.” 
 
 , But what circumstance does this picture recal, Gonzalez 
 tnat you weep ? Does it remind you of any one you knew >” 
 
 “ Ah, Cavalier !” said he, shaking his head, “ I could shew 
 you a picture exactly like it in the picture gallery ; it was ac¬ 
 counted an admirable likeness of my late mistress, the mother 
 or Lady Elmira, but it is somewhat older than this portrait re¬ 
 presents. Is this lady alive, Senor ?” 
 
 Fernando, who was sinking fast into reflection was aroused 
 at this question, which he did not expect. 
 
 I know not,” replied he, “ whether she is or no ; but 
 
 could you not oblige me by shewing me the picture gallery ?_ 
 
 Y ou have raised my curiosity: for you know we are always 
 interested by trifles, if they relate to ourselves.” 
 
 Gonzalez looked at Fernando, repeating, “by trifles, Senor !” 
 Yes, trifles,” answered Fernando : “ do you consider it a 
 great favour to shew me these pictures ?” 
 
 “ Aye, that was not what we were saying,” replied Gonzalez. 
 Well, well,” said Fernando, “ never mind what we were 
 saying ; will you lead me thither now, we shall have sufficient 
 time before the sun sets.—I never did see my aunt living, and 
 now I shuold wish to see her resemblance.” 
 
 “Your aunt!” repeated Gonzalez, in apparent surprise; 
 
 “ was Lady Zidana your aunt ? Holy Fathers ! is this pos¬ 
 sible ?” 
 
 “I assure you I speak truth,” replied Fernando.” “ Did 
 you not know that I am of the family of the Coello’s, and that 
 Don Padilla was—•” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, now I remember,” answered he ; “ but it is very 
 singular.—If you will follow me, Senor, and make but little 
 noise, we will go by the back passages. Servants are so 
 curious, and so fond of the marvellous, that any thing in a large 
 gothic building like this excites their wonder.” 
 
 I would willingly have accompanied them, but I feared too 
 much exertion ; and I doubted not but my friend might gain 
 more information alone—this cautious domestic not being 
 easily induced to general confidence. 
 
 Alter traversing several dark and winding passages, they 
 entered a large room very elegantly furnished in the old Spanish 
 style. Antique tapestry covered the walls, along which ranged 
 a number of whole length pictures of generations long since 
 mouldered into dust- At the upper end of the gallery appeared 
 two large gilt frames, and, in place of painting, a curtain of 
 black silk hung down, exactly covering the canvass. 
 
 “ There,” said Gonzalez, “ are the pictures of his Ex- 
 
44 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 cellenza’s two wives. He never can bear to look upon them 
 since they are dead ; and, to prevent his feelings being shocked, 
 be has thus bung them in mourning.—Shall I draw the veil, 
 Senor? This is the Lady Fmira, Don Padilla’s first wife—she 
 is a very fine person - she died very young, Senor.” 
 
 “ That remark,” said Fernando, 44 reminds me also, that she 
 died suddenly.—You knew her, Gonzalez ?” 
 
 The old man replied, “ she did die suddenly, Senor, very 
 suddenly. I was not then at the castle—I have, however, been 
 informed, that she died by a surfeit at a feast.’’ 
 
 •« That was a common report, you know whether it was 
 
 true ? ” 
 
 44 And why should you doubt it, Senor ?” 
 
 “I have my reasons, Gonzalez—they are buried here,” 
 (laying his hand upon his bosom.) “ You know I am Don 
 Padilla’s nephew, the Marquis de Denia is nephew to this 
 lady— can you suppose ours an idle curiosity ?” 
 
 44 Ah, Senor,” replied Gonzalez, mournfully, we must not 
 trust our senses in this world—I hear, and see, and am silent. 
 Of things which we cannot prove, ’tis best to hear, and see, 
 and say nothing.” 
 
 44 But many incidents, which singly are nothing,” said 
 Fernando, “ added together, may bring a volume of proof— 
 proof deep and irresistible 1” 
 
 44 Then eternal truth will appear, and the injured receive 
 atonement,” said Gonzalez. 
 
 44 And murderers,” cried Fernando, cc receive the reward of 
 their black malignity.” 
 
 44 Do you know then,” said Gonzalez, looking round him 
 with fearful apprehension ; 44 do you know then, Senor, any 
 
 thing that can lead you to such a suspicion?—We have got 
 upon a very strange subject.” 
 
 44 I have reason: the reports that I have heard relating to 
 the eastern part of this building—the strange melancholy of 
 Don Padilla—this dagger,” cried he, taking from his dress the 
 dagger he had found in the Moorish ruin, and presenting its 
 rusty point to Gonzalez, who started back affrighted at 
 the sight. 
 
 44 Ah ! Fernando !” said he, “ where did you meet that 
 w r eapon ? the enchasure of gold down the blade is remarkable; 
 it was brought from New Spain.” 
 
 44 I understand you,” replied Fernando, admiring the discre¬ 
 tion of this old man. 44 This dagger was wrapped in a Moorish 
 habit, stained with blood : now dare you trust me, when you 
 have this dreadful credential of confidence ?” 
 
 44 What am I to say ? Of the death of Lady Emira 1 know 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE 
 
 45 
 
 nothing positive. At that time I lived wilh my lady Zidana 
 in Grenada. I had a sister named Teresa, who lived in this 
 castle, and was waiting-maid to Lady Emira. Don Padilla 
 never treated this lady, since their return from New Spain, with 
 that kindness her goodness deserved : he was always pretending 
 to be jealous of her, though Heaven knows how unjustly 1 for 
 she never set her foot out of the castle from the first day she 
 entered it; except perhaps a little walk in the woods. 
 
 u You may easily suppose, Senor, what sort of a life this was 
 for a young and beautiful lady to lead ; and had it not been for 
 the playfulness of her little infant Virginia, it would have been 
 sad indeed.” 
 
 Fernando ventured to remind him, that he was now straying 
 from the point. 
 
 “ You are right,” said he. “ I might dwell for days on 
 these subjects, if I gave loose to the inclinations of my tongue. 
 The jealousies of Don Padilla became every day more in¬ 
 supportable ; and his threats to confine her wholly in the castle 
 rendered her life very unhappy. About this time the persecu¬ 
 tions of Philip broke out, and he was frequently absent for 
 weeks, nobody knew whither. He arrived suddenly one night 
 at the castle in better spirits than usual; and surprised my 
 lady, with requesting she would order a little entertainment, 
 as he intended supping with her that night. They supped by 
 themselves, attended only by my sister Teresa. Lady Emira 
 was in excellent spirits, and Don Padilla in seeming good 
 humour.—Seeming, I call it, because I cannot think these 
 sudden changes natural:—we do not change from bad to good 
 in an hour, Senor.” 
 
 “ Very well, go on,” said Fernando, impatiently. 
 
 t( After supper my lady was suddenly taken ill; Don Padilla 
 would have it, she had overforced her appetite—but whatever 
 
 it was, she died the same night.-Listen, Senor ! did you 
 
 hear any noise ? ” 
 
 “ No,” answered Fernando ; <c what should we hear ?” 
 
 “ I know not,’’ said Gonzalez, listening; “ but for some 
 
 time after the ladies’ death, there were noises, very strange, 
 and very unaccountable heard.” 
 
 u Did no suspicion arise, at the sudden death of Emira?” 
 said Fernando : “ did it create no inquiry ?” 
 
 “ This part of Spain was at that time all in alarm; most 
 men had sufficient business of their own to attend. But you 
 shall hear:—Lady Emira was laid out on a bed of states I 
 could shew it you now if I had the keys of those chambers. 
 Several of the neighbouring people were invited to see her, and 
 Don Padilla made them remark, that she was very little changed 
 
46 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 by death; but this did not silence all suspicion. My sister 
 nearly broke her heart lamenting for her mistress, and was with 
 difficulty kept from constantly remaining in the room till the 
 day of the funeral. The corpse was removed into another 
 chamber, where it lay in state, and Padilla took the key of the 
 chambers where his lady had before resided into his own pos¬ 
 session, and would not permit a thing to be touched. On the 
 fourth day in the evening, the coffin was screwed down, in 
 presence of all the domestics; who, with tears in their eyes 
 took a last look at their mistress. It was interred in the dusk of 
 the evening, in the chapel vaults belonging to the castle, and 
 Don Padilla retired to his own apartments in visible agitation 
 of mind. 
 
 “ Old Pedro,, who was then steward, and had a great affection 
 for his lady, took it into his head that she was not dead, and that 
 Don Padilla had only buried her with a sleeping potion; for 
 which purpose he watched for three successive nights at the 
 entrance of the chapel; but all remained uninterrupted, and he 
 was satisfied of the certainty of his lady’s' death. But now, 
 Senor, I am to relate to you a circumstance to me unaccounta¬ 
 ble, and which I fear will never be explained till the day, when 
 many a foul secret will come to light. My sister, Teresa, who 
 was inconsolable for the loss of her mistress, could not rest in 
 one place, but wandered from room to room as if in search of 
 something she had lost. She had put little Virginia to bed after 
 the funeral, and stole towards the apartments of her late lady. 
 She knew that Don Padilla was in his own room, and she ventured 
 from curiosity perhaps, to try the outer door. It opened, and 
 she entered the rooms, where every thing remained as she had 
 
 left it. lV; # ( 
 
 « The desolate air of the deserted chambers inspired her with 
 
 a superstitious fear. The sun had been some time gone down, 
 and every object was indistinctly seen, so that she almost trem¬ 
 bled as she stepped over the floors; and would have returned 
 had not some unknown impulse urged her on. At last she 
 came to the little bed-chamber, where Elmira used to sleep in 
 the absence of her husband. The door stood ajar, and she 
 ventured to push it open, when she beheld the figure of her late 
 mistress kneeling at the foot of a little table, on which was 
 placed a crucifix. Her lips seemed to move, and her features 
 were paler than death. Teresa stood motionless at the sight, 
 and had neither power to speak or move; when she was suddenly 
 grasped by some person behind her, and fell senseless on the 
 ground. 
 
 « This person was Don Padilla; who carried her himself into 
 the great hall, and commanded the servants to put her to bed. 
 On her recovery she found herself in her own room, with me 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 47 
 
 sitting beside her; for I had that very evening arrived at the 
 castle to take her back to Greneda. When she recovered her 
 senses, sue informed me of these incidents : bat the last appeared 
 to me so strange, that I knew not what to think; especially 
 when I considered the uncertainty of twilight, and the disturbed 
 mind of Teresa.” 
 
 “ She must certainly have been deceived,” said Fernando; 
 “ it could not be her mistress—and it was a singular posture for 
 a ghost.” 
 
 u I know not,” replied Gonzalez, “ my mind is bewildered 
 with the circumstance ; for from that night to this I have never 
 seen my sister.” 
 
 “ You dream surely,” cried Fernando; “ it was not your sis¬ 
 ter, but lady Emira who died.” 
 
 cc I am well aware of that,” replied he. <c After what Teresa 
 had told me, I left hei% to make some inquiries amongst the ser¬ 
 vants. She slept alone; and in the morning her room was 
 found empty; and no account could be learnt of her from that 
 hour to this.” 
 
 “ That is singular indeed,” said Fernando, fixing his eyes 
 steadily upon Gonzalez; “ what do you suspect ?” 
 
 cc Ah, Senor,” said he, shaking his head, “ what can one 
 suspect in such a case ? She must have been spirited away by 
 Don Padilla, to prevent her telling secrets he had no mind 
 should be known.” 
 
 se But what secrets could she tell?—She did not know that, 
 her lady was poisoned.—You say, she saw her buried with her 
 own eyes—and, to say the truth, in this instance I am apt to 
 think her imagination deceived her.” 
 
 “ It might be so,” said the old man, with a doubting air; “ but 
 her absence is no deception.” However, let us now look at 
 the second picture, before the sun is wholly lost behind the 
 black waving forest. There, Fernando, there is a charming 
 creature 1” 
 
 “ Charming indeed !” cried Fernando, starting back with 
 surprise; “ ’tis the very exact resemblance of this portrait— 
 what an heavenly couutenance ! This lady was your mistress, 
 I think ? Did she live long with Padilla ?” 
 
 Only two years, Senor ; she was then lost to us.” 
 
 “ Lost to you ! is she not dead ?” 
 
 I fear she is,” replied Gonzalez, putting his hand to his 
 eyes; “ but in what way nobody knows.” 
 
 “ She did not die of a surfeit ? You know her story, do 
 you not? said Fernando: “ I have particular reasons to wish 
 for some information, as this picture I wear may inform you. 
 Come to the chamber where my friend the Marquis de Denia is 
 
48 
 
 ELMlliA; 041 
 
 confined; on the word of a Spaniard you may depend on our 
 houour.” 
 
 “ I will attend at twelve,” replied Gonzalez, “ the servants 
 will then he at rest.” 
 
 Fernando after gazing some time upon the picture of Lady 
 Zidana, which the rays of the setting sun gilded and en¬ 
 livened ; returned to inform me of this long conversation, and to 
 advance a thousand suspicions. The sudden loss of Teresa, and 
 in so particulara manner, seemed to stamp guilt upon the death of 
 Emira; but it was without trace, and affording no clue to con¬ 
 viction— served only to stimulate our interest. 
 
 We were interrupted by a gentle strain of sweet music, which 
 stole upon the evening breeze. Fernando opened the casement, 
 which overlooked the gardens of the castle, now overshadowed 
 by twilight. We listened to tho music which came upon the 
 wind, and were charmed with the tender expression of the com¬ 
 position, which was a Spanish love song. When the music 
 ceased, we felt disappointed, waiting at the window for a return¬ 
 ing sound. We did not judge wrong in supposing it to be the 
 ladies, who had entertained themselves with this innocent amuse¬ 
 ment, in the pleasant shades of the gardens: and we soon after 
 saw them appear, the one with a lute, the other with a 
 bandola. 
 
 We saluted them from the window, and they returned the 
 compliment ; though it was too late to see their features 
 distinctly. 
 
 This little incident served to make them the subject of our 
 discourse: and the difference of their manners from those 
 of their father, while they had his example before them, and 
 felt the influence of his power, drew forth our praise. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ...Oh! mischief thou art quick 
 
 To enter into the thoughts of desperate man. 
 
 At the appointed time we heard a raj) at our door, and opening 
 it, old Gonzalez entered, looking round him with caution. 
 Having closed the door, “ I have brought us a bottle of wine,” 
 said he; “it will-be a refreshment, and help our spirits at this 
 solemn hour, when the inhabitants of the grave are abroad.” 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 49 
 
 We each took a glass, and being seated, requested him to in¬ 
 form us what he knew of Lady Zidana. 
 
 <£ She is, or was,” said he, “as you may judge by the name, of 
 Moorish lineage; but her ancestors having frequently inter¬ 
 married with the natives of Spain, the flatness of the Moresco 
 features is done away. She was married very early in life to 
 Count Ferandez, by whom she had a daughter. She lived with 
 her lord in the greatest harmony, at their castle upon the banks 
 of the Darro.” 
 
 “I believe,” remarked Fernando, interrupting him, and look¬ 
 ing towards me, “ that castle is now in ruins ?” 
 
 “ Alas ! Senors,” replied the old man, “ well I know it—and 
 Don Paditla knows it. It was, twenty years ago, the most mag¬ 
 nificent in the country. Some of the great rooms were built of 
 marble ; and the fountains of water cooled the heat of the air. 
 Don Padilla had known my lord the Count Ferendez early in 
 life ; for at that time Count Ferendez was as gay and as extrava¬ 
 gant as himself. 
 
 “At the first visit Don Padilla made to our castle, he saw and 
 admired my lady. I had my eves upon him, and was not long 
 in discovering the attention he paid her; but whether my lady 
 gave him a dismissal in private or he acted from deeper policy I 
 know not, but we had little of his company till the edict of 
 Philip destroyed at once all the connections of families and 
 
 friends. All the Moorish families were at once reduced to be<r« 
 
 No. 7. ° 
 
50 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 gary and exile. Nothing but the most dreadful distress was to 
 be seen. Count Ferendez assembled his dependents, with 
 intent to resist the army of the court; but his incapacity of 
 means was every hour more visible; and certain and dreadful 
 destruction hung over him and his household. He would not 
 change his religion, as several persons of rank were ready to do, 
 and he awaited with resignation the threatening storm. 
 
 “ While things were in this state, Don Padilla arrived at mid¬ 
 night, with two soldiers his only attendants. He was a long 
 time closeted with the Count, and I could gather no more of 
 their conversation than by the effects which followed. Count 
 Ferendez the same night set out for the castle of Montillo, 
 carrying with him *a number of jewels, and disguising himself 
 under the dress of one of the soldiers; both of them accom¬ 
 panying him as a guard.” 
 
 Fernando groaned at this observation, but remained silent: 
 Gonzalez continued, 
 
 “ I understood that Padilla had offered him the asylum of this 
 castle till he might procure a purchaser for his estates, or join his 
 brothers in Africa: while my Lady Zidana, and her little daugh¬ 
 ter, should remain at a secret residence in Grenada, till she 
 , could conveniently follow. Be this as it would, my unfortunate 
 master never reached this castle. He was murdered* barba¬ 
 rously murdered on the road; but whether by an accidental ren¬ 
 counter with some straggling party of soldiers, or whether--” 
 
 The clock struck twelve, and Gonzalez paused to dry a tear 
 from his cheek, and compose the perturbation of his mind. 
 
 “ What you have told us,” said I, “ is strange; it forms a 
 ground for terrible suspicions. Did you see those soldiers to 
 whose care Don Padilla delivered your master?” 
 
 “ Not fully,” replied Gonzalez. They were introduced in so 
 cautious a manner, that I caught but a faint glance as they 
 passed; but I have since thought, they had more the appearance 
 of assassins, than of regular soldiers.” 
 
 “ Have these men ever appeared since ?” inquired Fernando. 
 
 “ Never, Senor, to my knowledge,” replied he. i{ It was said 
 they had never been found any more than my lord.” 
 
 “ That is most strange !” said I. <£ What proof then have you 
 beyond suspicion ? or how came this to your knowledge without 
 some witness?” 
 
 66 It was not in the nature of things, that my master should 
 forsake his wife and daughter. He departed at the dead of 
 the night. He has never been seen since. But the soldier’s 
 dress he had on was found in the wood near this castle, torn and 
 bloody. What greater proofs are needful?” 
 
 He had scarcely pronounced the last word, when we were all 
 
51 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 ft 
 
 startled by the great clock again striking twelve. 44 What can 
 this mean ?” said Fernando, turning pale. 
 
 44 Ah, Senor,” replied Gonzalez calmly, 44 that is a supernatural 
 intimation—these omens are frequent- -they stir up recollection, 
 and prevent black actions from slipping over the memory. I 
 have things to relate yet more terrible, and more strange, than a 
 warning like this.” 
 
 44 Go on then,” said I; and he thus continued : 
 
 46 Don Padilla conveyed my lady and her daughter to Gre¬ 
 nada, where he left them; and, giving me directions to secure 
 the most valuable moveables, and bring them to my master at 
 his castle—I obeyed. On my arrival at this place, judge, Se- 
 nora, my surprise; it was then that I learnt all at once the 
 death of Lady Elmira.—The murder of my master, and the 
 loss of my sister quickly followed. It was with difficulty I sup¬ 
 ported myself under so much distress: and had not my mind 
 been hardened by the examples of equal misery which every 
 hour crowded upon me, I should certainly have sunk beneath it. 
 
 64 My suspicions were great and strong ; but prudence locked 
 them in my own bosom. I watched the dark looks of Padilla 
 and thought I could read the fate of my master in his counte¬ 
 nance : but such a suspicion I dared not breathe to myself. 
 
 44 The old steward, Pedro, was a man who had caught much 
 of his master’s gloom, and I suspected knew some of his secrets, 
 which determined me to guard my expressions. I had not been 
 many days in the castle, when passing one evening along a 
 dusky gallery, I heard the sound of voices as in anger. I listen¬ 
 ed, and could distinguish the tones of supplication, and the 
 threats of a person in rage: but the subject I could not at all 
 hear—a word or two being all I could learn in a sentence: from 
 which I judged, that the supplicating person had made some dis¬ 
 covery which was of importance. In about halt an hour they par¬ 
 ted; and 1 concealed myself in a dark corner, that I might not 
 be seen. Pedro came out, his lips pale, his knees trembling, 
 and his eyes staring wildly: he passed on with a quick and hasty 
 step, as if he was pursued by some frightful apparition. 
 
 44 He had not reached the end of the gallery, when 1 adilla 
 came out. This was the first time I had ever seen him enraged, 
 and gloomy as was my situation, his frightful frown^ and glowing 
 eyes struck me with terror. 44 Pedro !” cried he, in a voice of 
 thunder; at which the unhappy wretch started nearly to tailing. 
 44 Pedro, come here !—were you in Peru, villain, I would gnnd 
 you into powder !—obey my words. This is the last night you 
 remain in these walls. I shall send a guide with you to your re¬ 
 lations in Murcia. Haste, and never appear before my sight 
 
ELMIRA; OR 
 
 unless you would that I should strike you dead at my feet!” 
 Pedro threw himself upon the ground, and entreated forgiveness. 
 44 If,” said he, 44 I may be pardoned, never shall my lips—” 
 
 44 No, 5 ’ cried Padilla, changing countenance ; 44 never shall thy 
 lips betray me. —Do you know me ? If you do, arise and pre¬ 
 pare to be gone.” With these words, he strode back to the 
 room, the door of which he jarred to, with a force which resound¬ 
 ed along the gallery. 
 
 44 Pedro appeared confounded with terror. I dared not quit 
 my station ; as I knew not the consequences that might ensue 
 from a discovery of my having been witness to such a scene, in a 
 castle where violence seemed to reign. Pedro withdrew in dis* 
 order, and I quitted my station with caution. 
 
 “I had various conjectures in my own mind on this occasion; 
 and I partly imputed the rage of Don Padilla to the suspicions 
 Pedro had expressed in watching at the entrance into the 
 chapel.—Be that as it would, Pedro left the castle the same 
 night.” 
 
 44 How do you know he left it ?” said Fernando. 
 
 44 Because he was not to be found the next morning.” 
 
 44 That might be,” replied Fernando, with a groan. 44 Merciful 
 Heaven ! what thoughts crowd upon me I-Proceed.” 
 
 44 That next morning Don Padilla called me to his room. 44 You 
 were a faithful servant, Gonzalez, to my lost friend,” said he; 
 “you shall not suffer by his unfortunate death, if you will serve 
 me as you did him. My old steward, Pedro, left me last night to 
 retire into Murcia amongst his relations.” 
 
 44 His relations !” muttered I, before I recollected myself. 
 
 44 Aye, his relations,” repeated he in a lofty voice, and eyeing 
 me with a keen look. 44 Don’t you think, honest Gonzalez, 
 ’tis a comfortable thing to retire in your old age amongst your 
 friends ? If you serve me faithfully I will provide for you in the 
 same way.” 
 
 44 I said nothing, except observing that I did not consider 
 myself as discharged from my duty to my lady.” 
 
 44 Nor I either,” replied he, with a grim smile. “ The fine 
 castle, Gonzalez, is buried in ruins by the king’s troops; your 
 lady is coming to live in my castle, and I will protect her with my 
 life.” 
 
 44 And her little daughter, your Excellenza ?” 
 
 44 Yes, Yes, both : I am the protector of all related to my un¬ 
 fortunate friend the Count. Hear me, Gonzalez K I am in two 
 days going to Grenada, I shall bring your lady hither, and give 
 you in charge to see the chambers of my late wife prepared and 
 decorated —\ ou are, from this time, my steward in place of 
 Pedro.” ■ 
 
53 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 44 It was with a heavy heart I entered on this office; not a 
 little perplexed in my own mind with the direction I had receiv¬ 
 ed,. to fit up the Lady Elmira’s rooms : but yet I had no idea that 
 Padilla would ever prevail on my mistress to marry him. He 
 however knew too well the power he now possessed ; and, as I 
 have learnt, he mingled threats with persuasion ; and, moved at 
 length by the picture he drew of her own poverty, and the misery 
 she would entail upon her little daughter, he prevailed upon her 
 to give a reluctant consent. I received this tidings with sorrow; 
 being obliged to prepare for the solemnization of this unhallowed 
 marriage at this Castle of Montillo. 
 
 “ In about a week my lady arrived: the deepest melancholy 
 was fixed upon her countenance; and.it was easy to see that 
 grief lay heavy at her heart. She retired with her daughter to 
 the apartments prepared, and shutting herself in, gave way to 
 grief. Pity was all I had to bestow, as I had not even an op¬ 
 portunity of speaking. 
 
 Don Padilla hastened the preparations : and, to cover a had 
 action by a blaze of splendor, invited many of the neighbouring 
 nobility to he present at his nuptials. 
 
 44 1 he long gallery was filled with musicians, and the company 
 were invited to dance, before the supper should he served. Lady 
 Zidana was dressed in white, with a plume of black feathers, as 
 a tribute to her late lord. She resisted all the invitations of 
 Don Padilla to dance; who, to say the truth, exerted himself in 
 every point to please her, and drive from her features that grief, 
 which in spite of her efforts was but too visible. 
 
 “ The dances occupied the evening, and it was almost twelve 
 o’clock before the company assembled in the large gothic hall to 
 supper. Several musicians were placed there upon a temporary 
 stage, and such of us who could be spared from attending the 
 company, contrived to witness this elegant assemblage of all that 
 seemed beautiful, rich, and grand. The number of officers 
 dressed in their uniforms, and mingled with the variegated com¬ 
 pany, added much to the sight. They took their seats amidst 
 universal mirth, and a general good humour prevailed.—Little 
 did they think in what way it was to be interrupted ! 
 
 ‘‘ I he tables were heaped with the choicest viands ; and wine 
 of different sorts stood in goblets for the accommodation of the 
 guests. The music played in lively strains, echoing through the 
 lofty fretwork of the gothic hall; and nothing seemed capable 
 of interrupting the general festivity—when the great clock of 
 the castle struck one. 
 
 “ At that moment a fearful cry was heard, as if resounding 
 from every part of the castle, and pervading every ear with in¬ 
 describable fear.—-It seemed like the cry of murder, mingling 
 
54 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 with an eastern blast. The company all started, and gazed upon 
 each other in silent consternation. The tapers which blazed 
 upon the tables, and in branches along tlm walls, suddenly ex¬ 
 pired : and, from a scene of brightness and splendor, arose the 
 deepest darkness and distress. The music suddenly ceased— 
 the company rose in dismay, crowding through the avenues lead¬ 
 ing from the hall in the greatest distress, several of the ladies 
 fainting with affright. 
 
 “ It was impossible to distinguish persons in this general con¬ 
 fusion, and I concealed myseli in the tapestry hangings in the 
 first motions of fear. In a very few minutes no person remained 
 in the banquetting hall, except Don Padilla, his new married 
 lady and myself. The mingling sounds of the flying company 
 were subsided into a death-like silence, and the tapers as sud¬ 
 denly re-lighted as they had been extinguished; but now a more 
 terrible object presented to our eyes. 
 
 The figure of the murdered Count Ferendez stood at the 
 head of the table, facing Lady Zidana and Padilla; he was 
 clothed in the dress of a soldier, as he had quitted his castle; 
 he cast around him a glance of fierce inquiry, darting as a sun¬ 
 beam. My lady immediately fainted; and the bloodless cheeks 
 of Padilla, betrayed his fear. 
 
 “ The spectre gazed upon him a few moments. “ Knowest 
 thou me ?” said he, in a hollow voice. Padilla’s lips trembled, 
 but he returned no answer. “ See,” said the spectre, “ the 
 work of thine hand !—but how long shall these actions prosper ?” 
 
 “ It was not I.—My hand never raised itself against you,” 
 faultered Padilla. 
 
 The spectre frowned. “ Can you deceive me now ?” said he. 
 e ‘ Do I not know thy thoughts and thy actions.—But thy time 
 is not yet—” 
 
 “ Padilla seemed to recover at these words. “ Away!” cried 
 lie, with rising firmness, “ thy threats and thyself are as 
 shades!” 
 
 “ The spectre raised his hand in a threatening posture—the 
 same fearful cry sounded through the hall—the lamps were ex¬ 
 tinguished for a moment, and again re-lighted without hands. 
 
 “ The mixture of passion expressed on the brow of Padilla, 
 made me tremble as I stood. He sat leaning his chin upon the 
 palms of his hands, gazing upon the place where the spectre 
 had been, as though he was yet before him ; while Lady Zidana 
 lay upon the ground unnoticed, and the feast remained on the 
 tables unregarded. 
 
 “ I wished to retreat, for I was sick with various emotions, 
 but I trembled at being discovered. Don Padilla, after musing 
 some time, suddenly started up, and pouring out a large goblet 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 55 
 
 full of aqua vitse, drank it off. It was now I endeavoured to 
 get away; but his alarm had given quickness to his hearing, lie 
 started, and turned suddenly round perceived me stealing along 
 the side of the hall— 
 
 “ Ha !” cried he, drawing his sword, “ thou art no shade— 
 but I will quickly make thee such !” He darted upon me, and 
 dragging me by the throat along the ground to the table, lifted 
 his sword to strike— ” 
 
 Here the old man paused, and looked round, as iPapprehen- 
 sive that Don Padilla was yet standing over him. The castle 
 bell at that period tolled—one. I shuddered at the melancholy 
 sound, which was lengthened through the hollow apartments, 
 and seemed to realize the dreadful scenes Gonzalez had impressed 
 upon our minds. 
 
 For some time an awful silence prevailed, apprehension 
 marked our features, and, taking each a glass of wine, Gonzalez 
 continued. 
 
 “ When Padilla perceived that it was I, he quitted his grasp, 
 still holding his glittering sword to my throat. 
 
 ff Gonzalez,” said he, “ is it you ?—Pedro was dismissed my 
 service for a smaller crime.—But, by my soul! I swear, that a 
 second shall be the forfeit of your life. Is it for such base 
 wretches as thou art, to pry into the secrets of a man like me ? 
 Hear me, villain! this is the term on which 1 now let thee live — 
 conceal what thou hast seen in thy inmost soul—dare not to 
 whisper it to thyself. If I ever learn that thou dost, that day 
 shall be to thee black with vengeance !” 
 
 “ Nor shalt thou escape !” said a voice ; at which we all arose 
 in confusion and amazement. 
 
 “ What can this mean V 9 cried Gonzalez trembling ; “ who 
 can have overheard us?” 
 
 “ It is some servant,” said Fernando, “ whose idle curiosity 
 ha? led them hither.” 
 
 He did not wait for more words, but leaping forward, he 
 hastily opened the door, and ran along the corridor; but he 
 could distinguish no one, nor hear any retreating footstep. 
 66 This is truly astonishing,” said he, returning. “ Had any 
 person been there, I must have heard them.” 
 
 “ What chambers are adjoining to these ?” said I ; “ possibly 
 some person is concealed in them ?” J 
 
 ‘‘No, no,” replied the old man, very much agitated. 
 “ Beyond that wall, where the picture of the black and white 
 knights is hung, are the ranges of the eastern wing, it is im¬ 
 possible any person could have entered there ; and on the other 
 side, are the chambers of this suite; leading to which they must 
 pass your apartment.” 
 
56 
 
 ELM III A • OR 
 
 I endeavoured to impute tlie voice we had heard to our own 
 heated imagination; though at the same time I did not con¬ 
 ceive how it was possible the same delusion should deceive us 
 all. It was with difficulty we prevailed on the old man to pro¬ 
 ceed—pausing every sentence to listen. 
 
 “ After this terrible threat, Don Padilla commanded me to 
 assist him in carrying his new bride to her chamber ; swearing, 
 that all the fiends in hell should not deprive him of his prize, 
 much less the perturbed spirit of a man murdered by robbers. I 
 would have interposed with an observation, that my lady was in 
 no fit state to become a bridal chamber; and that I doubted 
 much if she ever recovered. 
 
 “Fool! driveling idiot !” cried he, knitting his brows, “ I ask 
 thee not advice—living or dead, all the fiends in hell shall not 
 deprive me of her!” 
 
 “ Such, Senors, was the marriage of Lady Zidana, whose pic¬ 
 ture Fernando wears. From that hour she never recovered her 
 spirits ; and Don Padilla, after the birth of Lady Elmira, became 
 disgusted at her reserve, and evidently hated her more than he 
 had ever loved her.” 
 
 “ What became of the daughter of Count Ferendez ?” said 
 Fernando. [ 
 
 “ Don Padilla, after a very little time, found means to place 
 her out at Grenada, and, till my lady’s death, it was believed 
 she was well provided for; but since then, I have never heard 
 other than an uncertain report of her death; but how, heaven 
 alone can tell, or Don Padilla.” 
 
 “Ha! I am certain I heard a noise,” cried Fernando. 
 
 “ Thou shalt not go unrewarded!” said the voice we had 
 before heard, and which threw us into the greatest consternation. 
 
 We sought in vain to discover the mystery: sounding the 
 walls to see where they were hollow, and examining every place 
 where concealment was possible. There remained no longer a 
 doubt but we had been observed and overheard, and that by an 
 enemy ; but who it could possibly be we had no means to dis¬ 
 cover. 
 
 Gonzalez was very much affected, and we had much difficulty 
 to tranquillise his terror by assurances of our protection, let what 
 would happen. 
 
 “ I have,” said he, :c this consolation, that my intentions are 
 just; and I will trust that heaven will not suffer the guilty 
 always to triumph.” 
 
 “ You are very right,” replied I, “virtue, and a right inten¬ 
 tion, will preserve us tranquil amidst danger; nor will Provi¬ 
 dence fail to bring vengeance on the guilty. Go now to rest, 
 my good Gonzalez, your years require the nourishment of sleep ; 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 59 
 
 we are young, and inured to hardship, we will watch—and, if 
 this intruder dares to appear, he will find that though weak, I 
 have yet a soldier’s arm !” 
 
 “ Yes, yes,” said Fernando, “ an arm that has already dis¬ 
 patched one murderer to his grave, and, I trust, would not fail 
 in combating another.” 
 
 After Gonzalez had retired, w r e spent several hours in reflect¬ 
 ing and conversing on the singular and almost incredible events 
 we had heard. 
 
 It appeared clear, that Don Padilla had been an actor in the 
 tragedy of Count Ferendez; it was credible that passion might 
 instigate him to the murder of his friend ; but here were others, 
 which arose in strange and fearful array. The death of Elmira 
 appeared more than suspicious—the sudden disappearance of 
 Pedro and Teresa was equally unaccountable. His cruelty to 
 Lady Zidana and her daughter, of whose fate we were ignorant, 
 raised our detestation. But, though we could easily allow for 
 any extravagance of human passion, our belief was staggered, 
 and our senses confounded, when the wandering spirit of Count 
 Ferendez crossed our thoughts ; and we should have treated the 
 whole as a chimera, had not our owm experience staggered ad the 
 effects of a liberal education. 
 
 No. 8. 
 
60 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 Fernando remained with me during the night, hut it passed 
 without interruption. On the following day the body of the ruf ¬ 
 fian Lopez was buried on the spot where he had fallen ; he hav¬ 
 ing been for several days exposed to the view of visitants, 
 that he might be claimed if known, but no owner could be dis¬ 
 covered, nor any news learnt of his companion ; who had made 
 good his retreat so secretly, that from the imperfect description I 
 could give, no information could be gathered. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'Tis gone. 
 
 ’Twas but my fancy, or perhaps the wind 
 Forcing his entrance thro’ some hollow cavern. 
 
 No matter what—I feel my eyes grow weary. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 On the fifth day of my residence in the castle of Montillo, I 
 found myself so much recovered, that I ventured in the evening 
 to walk in the garden, accompanied by Fernando and the ladies. 
 
 They seemed to take pleasure in leading us over this elegant 
 little place, where a variety of exotic plants, with flowers from 
 Peru and Mexico, flourished as in their native climes. Aromatic 
 shrubs from Arabia were planted in parterres , and filled the air 
 with the most delightful perfume: a clear and winding rill 
 watered the groves; inviting to repose by its murmuring sound, 
 and tempting the feet to rove amidst the freshness of evergreens. 
 At the end of a grove of orange and citron trees, was a small 
 arbour, formed of marble pillars, clear and beautiful as the 
 Parean stone; between these was a curious lattice work of gilt 
 canes, which admitted at once the air and the light. 
 
 Roses and jessamines were entwined in the net work; and 
 Persian geraniums, which yield a musky scent, crept along 
 the base. 
 
 In a beautiful arbour were several fine paintings on fanciful 
 subjects; and cushions of crimson velvet invited to repose. 
 
 “ It is here,” said. Elmira, “that my sister and 1 often pass 
 the evening. How do you approve of our taste, cavaliers ?” 
 
 “ Nothing,” replied I, “ can be more charming !” On the 
 right we see only objects of beauty, flowers interspersed with 
 fruits and shrubs: on the left the mountains of Morena rear 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 61 
 
 up their frowning heads ; and the turrets of the castle gloom over 
 the deep forest. Before us runs the limpid brook, babbling over 
 pebbles it has polished to brightness. 
 
 Elmira then played us the Evening Hymn, while I sat with 
 Virginia, leaning against the lattice frame, and reflecting on the 
 probability, that not many days would part us, and that I knew 
 not if we should ever meet again. I sighed deeply at this 
 reflection. Virginia looked upon me with an expression that 
 penetrated my heart, and spoke more than many sentences. 
 
 <£ Ah, my fair cousin,” said I, taking her hand, when her sister 
 had ceased to play ; “ what a delicious scene w r ould this be, if it 
 were not transitory. My soul feels itself, and would willingly 
 remain here, but how soon must it tear- itself away !” 
 
 “ And must you soon leave us?” said she, with a half sup¬ 
 pressed sigh. “ Yes,” replied I; “I am not ignorant, Virginia, 
 of your father's disposition- -it will be impossible'we should remain 
 after his arrival.” 
 
 “ Most true,” returned she, looking dov/n. “ My father will 
 be very angry that you were ever admitted ; but he did not see you 
 pale, bleeding, and wounded, or his heart might have pitied 
 you.” 
 
 “ And did your heart then pity me, Virginia?” said I, with a 
 feeling 1 had never before experienced, and which now I cannot 
 define. I felt her hand flutter as I held it, but she returned me 
 no answer; and in that moment I formed the determination 
 of making her my wife. 
 
 Elmira endeavoured, by a thousand little arts, to engage 
 Fernando in particular conversation; but he had too much expe¬ 
 rience of the world, not to perceive her partiality, and too much 
 honour to encourage, what he had no inclination to return. The 
 charms he had painted in possessing an original, such as the 
 miniature of Lady Zidana, rendered all other insipid: though he 
 would, at times, join with me in ridiculing such a fancy. Beside, 
 there appeared in his eyes, too much of Don Padilla in the 
 features of Elmira. But I see, my dear marquis, I must be 
 delicate in this point ; and perhaps it is well for you both, Fernando 
 did not see with your eyes. 
 
 I endeavoured during this conversation to strike out some 
 means of corresponding with Virginia when 1 should be in 
 Madrid; but none appeared possible, unless through the hands of 
 Gonzalez, and I much doubted whether he would venture. It 
 was easy to perceive, that the interruption of the last night had 
 sat heavy on his mind; and he no doubt reproached himself with 
 having inadvertently betrayed a secret which for so many years he 
 had carefully guarded, and which, if known, would expose him to 
 
62 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 the worst vengeance of his master. I did not dare mention these 
 suggestions to Virginia, much less the secret that related to her 
 father: for though both sisters wondered and lamented at his 
 melancholy and morose disposition, they were far from enter¬ 
 taining any of those suspicions, which in our eyes appeared 
 certainties. 
 
 It was almost dark before we could think of returning to the 
 castle. Whilst we remained at supper, some dispatches arrived 
 from Tolosa, relative to the troops, which I gave Fernando 
 instructions how to answer; and a private letter from my mother, 
 which I retired to my chamber to read. 
 
 It contained a long detail of my father’s sufferings during his 
 last illness, his frequent wishes for my presence, and many family 
 particulars, which required my speedy return io Madrid. 
 
 I became quite melancholy at the sorrowful sentiments it con¬ 
 tained; and my mind giving itself up to a long series of thinking, 
 I found my spirits become so dejected, that I knew not how 
 to account for it. 
 
 Undoubtedly this imbecility of mind was principally occasioned 
 by love. I know of no passion that more relaxes the mind, 
 its chief pleasure consists in solitude and contemplation : to this I 
 might add, my mother’s letter, which so unmanned me, that 
 a thousand fancies floated in my brain. 
 
 The moon slowly advanced over the dark waving forest, and 
 shed its beams through my casement. I arose from my chair to 
 meditate on the solemn view, when nature enjoyed repose. The 
 dark scenery, which in one huge mass extended before the window, 
 spread oyer me a sensation of awe, and for a time I remained 
 struck with the sublimity of my imagination. A faint and distant 
 light aroused my attention; it moved slowly amongst the trees, 
 and seemed to approach the castle. 
 
 I fancied I could perceive the figure of a man, whose ghastly 
 features were shaded into horror by the dim light w r hich he 
 carried. He bent beneath a load, which seemed to own the 
 human form; and the thought crossed my mind, that it might 
 possibly be the assassin Jacques, carrying away the dead body of 
 his comrade, when he could venture with safety to tear it from 
 the ground. 
 
 Something of fear crept over me at the remembrance of that 
 eventful night, when I had so strangely received warning of my 
 father’s death, and so nearly received my ov\n. I could not 
 wholly avoid apprehension at the distant sight of a man, whose 
 dealings in blood I had so much reason to know: and I watched 
 his motions with anxiety. The distance deprived me of cer¬ 
 tainty, and I lost him in an angle of the garden wall, along 
 which he seemed to have taken his course. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 63 
 
 I was greatly disturbed at this incident, as I knew not but I 
 might run some danger from the revenge of this villain, who 
 could not be ignorant of my residence in the castle. I leaned 
 upon the casement of the window, revolving a thousand ideas : 
 by degrees my mind assumed its tone, from reflecting, that the 
 same power which had hitherto, might continue to protect me. 
 
 4 he gentle sighs of the wind, which scarce waved the tops 
 of the trees, seemed to whisper sad sounds ; and I enjoyed in 
 ecstasy the pleasing sensations that crept over me. “ Now,” 
 thought I, u if some heavenly chor’sters were to tune their instru¬ 
 ments, and in sweet hymning warble some celestial song, could 
 the abodes of Paradise furnish a more pleasing pleasure ? ” 
 
 I listened, as if expecting some strajn would reach me on the 
 breeze —but the wind came, and sighing passed away. A few 
 stars glittered in the firmament, and I gazed upon them with 
 awful satisfaction. “ How magnificent is all this ! ” said I to 
 myself; “ worlds roll upon worlds, and harmony guides their 
 course :—What then is man, little and insignificant man, amidst 
 all the grandeur of creation ? ” 
 
 My heart became heavy at this reflection. I withdrew from 
 the window, and sat down upon a chair, leaning with my arms 
 upon a table—every noise in the castle was hushed into silence. 
 I remained fixed in my situation, having no inclination to sleep, 
 and enjoying the sadness that hung in clouds over me—when the 
 clock struck twelve ; reverberating with solemn sounds through 
 the castle. 
 
 It reminded me of the eventful incidents Gonzalez had re¬ 
 peated, and I looked round with a sort of expectation, that some 
 fearful form would start upon me through the duskiness of my 
 chamber; for I had no other light than the rays of the moon, 
 which scarcely rendered objects visible. 
 
 A. partial ray fell upon an old picture, which hung on the side 
 of the room that faced me. It was an ancient battle piece ; in 
 which a tournament was exhibited before a lady, who stood by 
 herself, in the gallery of an interior court, the sole witness and 
 arbiter of merit. The knights were one of them in black, the 
 other in white armour. T he black knight had driven his lance 
 into the body of his opponent, and the blood trickled down the 
 side of the white horse, on which the white knight rode. The 
 light of the moon but faintly shewed the colouring; and I 
 remained leaning on the table, with my eyes steadily fixed upon 
 the body of the falling knight. 
 
 While I thus continued to gaze, I fancied that the canvass 
 moved, and that the wounded knight retreated backwards from 
 tlie black knight, who pressed upon him. 
 
 The white knight continued slowly to retreat, and the black 
 
64 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 knight moved some paces backwards, as to give velocity to 
 his °next onset. The delusion of my imagination was such, 
 that I did not perceive that the whole canvass slided back, part¬ 
 ing in the centre, till my eyes were struck with the figure of 
 a man standing in the vacancy. He looked into the chamber 
 wdth caution ; while his murderous countenance gleamed with a 
 smile of malice, highly raised by the red glare of a lamp he held 
 in his left hand, his right containing a poniard, on which my 
 fancy (in the moment) observed marks of blood. 
 
 My hair almost stood erect on my head, and my blood ran chill 
 to my heart, as I gazed upon the horrid spectre, without power 
 to move, or to determine whether it were human, or no. 
 
 He looked into my chamber with an inquiring eye, and parti¬ 
 cularly towards the bed; which, standing at the opposite end of 
 the room, prevented his perceiving me, as I sat in the shade. 
 Hearing no sound, and not seeing my lamp burning, he ventured 
 slowly to step out into the room, the opening reaching within 
 two feet of the fioor. He advanced with a slow pace towards 
 the bed, pausing to listen, the dagger raised in his hand. He 
 stood over the bed a minute, while a ghastly grin of satisfaction 
 spread over his livid features, his eyes sparkled, and he raised his 
 arm to plunge the poniard into his fancied victim 
 
 I now clearly understood this was no incorporeal spectre. I 
 was so overcome with the sense of the unexpected dangei I had 
 so narrowly escaped, that I groaned aloud, and starting up with 
 sudden animation, I rushed forward, drawing my sword m 
 an instant. Had I proceeded with more caution, I might have 
 laid him dead at my feet without his having any power to 
 assault me, he being only armed with a short poinard. Alarmed 
 by the noise I made, his countenance changed, and starting 
 round, he beheld my glittering sword within a yard of Ins 
 
 throat. . . , . . . 
 
 He gave a sudden and masterly spring to one side, by w men 
 
 he avoided the sweep of my weapon ; nor did lie stay to hazaid a 
 second stroke, leaping through the aperture, where he narrowly 
 missed being cut in two, the point of my sword dividing the 
 
 leathern belt he had round him. . . 
 
 I did not hesitate about following him through the private 
 passage, along which he ran with surprising swiftness, continuing 
 to carry the lamp. Notwithstanding my arm was not yet per¬ 
 fectly recovered, I sensibly gained upon him, and should have 
 overtaken him had he not extinguished the lamp, involving the 
 
 narrow passage in total darkness. 
 
 I had now every thing to fear, if at that moment I could have 
 been capable of any fear; because nothing was more easy than 
 for this assassin to wait his opportunity in the dark. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 65 
 
 I listened to mark which way his footsteps tended, still follow¬ 
 ing, my sword extended at arm’s length, and parrying from side 
 to side, that he might not slip me, and cut off my retreat. 
 
 I continued to follow till I found myself in a large hall, where 
 the moon-beams faintly shone upon the ponderous furniture, 
 without serving to distinguish particular objects, the window 
 being of stained glass. 
 
 I now paused; for I had lost the sound of his footsteps, and I 
 fancied that the villain had sheltered himself in some corner, or 
 behind the furniture, and might dart upon me, without my 
 having power to ward the unseen stroke of death. 
 
 This hall was at a considerable distance from my chamber ; 
 and now, when the ardour of the chace was over, I felt the full 
 danger of my situation, exposed in a place of which I was 
 wholly ignorant, and having near me a man who had the darkest 
 intentions, and scrupled not at the means of executing them. I 
 wondered that he had not used fire-arms, which he was probably 
 only prevented from by the apprehension of raising the servants. 
 
 I shuddered at retracing the bewildered labyrinth I had just 
 trodden ; and it was almost equally dangerous to remain where I 
 was. From this remote situation it was impossible to alarm the 
 people of the castle, and I stood for some time in a gloomy 
 suspense. 
 
 At length reflecting, that though the moon at present glim¬ 
 mered through the windows and prevented total darkness, it 
 would in a short time sink from that side of the building, and 
 leave me exposed to dangers I should have no means to repel. 
 
 I turned round to seek the passage to my own chamber, when 
 I fancied I could distinguish the obscure figure of the man steal¬ 
 ing along the wall. I started forward, but he eluded my blow, 
 and fled again through an opposite door. I had no doubt that I 
 should now overtake him; and I continued to pursue till his 
 footsteps were again lost, no longer echoing through the winding 
 passages. 
 
 No pale beam of light shone upon the darkness around me, 
 and I turned to retrace my way with caution, every step ex¬ 
 pecting to meet the point of his dagger ; nothing being more 
 easy than for him to fall upon me by surprise. 
 
 I had no means to distinguish whether the way I took was 
 right; and, after winding about through several chambers, in 
 place of returning to the great hall, I found myself at the top of 
 a staircase, which, by the faint light of the moon, I did not re¬ 
 member ever to have seen. I made no doubt but I was now on 
 the eastern side of the castle, from whence it would be impossible 
 to return by any of the great galleries, the terminating doors 
 being always locked. I had now bewildered myself so much. 
 
66 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 that 1 had lost the clue to those secret ways by which I had 
 entered. 
 
 Under these circumstances it becaue indifferent which way I 
 should proceed, and I descended the stairs. I then found 
 myself upon the ground floor, which, as well as I could dis¬ 
 tinguish, was paved with marble. The moon had passed to the 
 other side of the horizon, and left this part of the castle in dark¬ 
 ness. I went on, and found several doors leading into suites of 
 chambers, all of which were fastened. 
 
 About half way along the passage, I found one which stood 
 half open. Without reflecting that it could not possibly lead me 
 to the inhabited part of the castle, I ventured in, but was soon 
 stopped by an opposite door* the key of which was in the lock. 
 I opened it, the hinges grating harshly with the rust they had 
 gathered, and so damp a vapour issued forth, that I remained 
 some minutes before I durst venture to enter. I then found 
 myself in a small chamber, the walls of which I could reach 
 round with my sword extended. I moved slowly forward, and 
 entered another room, which was much larger, and led into a 
 fourth room, the opposite door of which was locked, and, like 
 the second, the key remained. 
 
 I judged from the length of these rooms that I had crossed 
 the base of the eastern wing, and that this door would lead me 
 into the gardens. This circumstance caused me to pause, from 
 a certain reflection which occurred, that the assassin who had 
 entered my chamber, was no other than Jacques; and that 
 through these doors and chambers he had found admission to the 
 castle, locking them after him. 
 
 I was pleased with this idea, and resolving to quit this wing 
 of the building, and secure the entrance, I turned the key and 
 opened the door, when I found myself in another room, instead 
 of the garden I had expected; but this disappointment at that 
 time was absorbed in a greater and more terrible feeling. 
 
 The moon-beams shone full through the opposite window, 
 reflecting on the objects before me. I fixed my eyes for a 
 moment on the most horrible sight I had ever beheld—--a sight 
 which chilled the circling blood in my veins, and overspread my 
 soul with horror. 
 
 I recoiled suddenly back, and drawing the door firmly too, 
 with an impulse of terror, it closed with a thundering sound, 
 that echoed hollow, and ran along the whole pile of building. 
 
 I stood some time in the most cruel agony of suspense; when 
 reasoning myself into better judgment, 1 endeavoured again 
 to open the door, that I might be certain what I had seen was no 
 delusion, and that my mind might not remain with an image 
 upon it, of what was most terrible and detestable in human 
 nature. 
 
67 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 All my efforts were in vain, the door was firmly fastened, and 
 a loud cry within hut too surely convined me that I had witnessed 
 no illusion. 
 
 I returned with an uneven step to the long passage in front of 
 these chambers. The variety of exertion I had undergone ren¬ 
 dered me extremely weary, and the horrific object which my eyes 
 had beheld, exhausted my strength so much, that when I had 
 with difficulty ascended half way up the great stairs, l was obliged 
 to sit down, overcome with weakness. 
 
 In that situation I resolved to await the return of morning ; it 
 being impossible that any one could approach me from above or 
 below, without my hearing the sound of their steps. 
 
 I had not sat long before my mind, weary and agitated, sunk 
 into a disturbed and confused sleep. I dreamed, that I was in 
 bed in my own chamber, and that some one pulled me by the 
 arm, so that I awoke, and perceived Virginia smiling upon me. 
 « Follow me, Albert,” said she; “my sister has already taken 
 the vows, and I am going to receive the veil, come and be wit¬ 
 ness to the ceremony.” 
 
 I thought I started up, very much afflicted at such a summons 
 when I beheld on the other side of me, a person wrapped wholly 
 in long black clothes; so that I could distinguish neither form 
 nor feature, other than that the outline seemed human. 1 looked 
 No. 9. 
 
C6 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 at Virginia, as much as to inquire who it could be ? She smiled 
 upon me with ineffable sweetness—“ Make no inquiries about 
 him,” said she; “ follow me ! and I charge you, as you value 
 your life and my loye, that you do not look behind you.” 
 
 I fancied that I followed as she directed; but by one of those 
 sudden transitions we experience in dreams, I found myself I 
 knew not how in a church-yard, Virginia still before me. I felt 
 a strong inclination to look round, that I might see if the same 
 dark form followed us, but her words checked me. “ This,” said 
 she solemnly, “is my grave.” On a sudden she began to ascend 
 into the air—I found myself rise I knew not how, but it was 
 without exertion on my part. 
 
 Virginia’s robes, which were of white, now seemed to unfold 
 and spread upon the air for many yards, and I perceived round 
 her waist a zone of sparkling diamonds. The vast vault of the 
 heavens seemed of a deeper blue, the earth diminished, and the stars 
 increased in brilliance and magnitude, appearing as so many suns. 
 
 I felt myself ravished at the beauties that surrounded me : 
 “ Surely,” thought I, “ that dark being cannot have followed us 
 to this admirable place ?” Forgetting the injunction I had re¬ 
 ceived, I inadvertently turned round my head, and beheld, with 
 an inexpressible dread which overpowered me, the figure of a 
 skeleton, in appearance glowing like a furnace, with black robes 
 streaming in the wind, and waving round him like clouds. 
 
 I found myself falling, and caught hold of Virginia’s garments 
 to save me ; I dragged her down with myself; but, as we fell, 1 
 fancied that she was suddenly changed into Elmira, and tearing 
 her robes from me, she mounted far from my sight. Loud thun¬ 
 ders broke round me on every side—the beaming suns became 
 black as night—while I was precipitated thousands of miles to 
 the earth; where l fainted away, and believed myself dead. 
 
 When I recovered from this singular dream, which was not for 
 some time after, I actually believed, that what I had experienced 
 was truth. I stretched out my hands, with a doubt of my own 
 existence; my whole body was bedewed with a cold sweat, and 
 opening my eyes, I beheld the day shining around me. 
 
 It was some time before I recovered the perfect use ofjrny rea¬ 
 son ; and then I perceived, that I had in my sleep fallen down 
 the stairs: and I imputed the thunder I had heard, to the noise 
 of my falling, as I rolled from step to step. 
 
 My strength was so much exhausted that I could scarely stand; 
 and I made no doubt, but I had fainted away in my sleep. I was 
 endeavouring to ascend the stairs, when hearing a noise above 
 me, I looked up, and beheld Fernando at the top, whose counte¬ 
 nance expressed his wonder and surprise. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 67 
 
 He flew towards me, alarmed at my apparent weakness and 
 haggard looks ; and inquiring where I was wounded, began to 
 support me up the stairs. 
 
 u My dear friend,” said I, ££ be not apprehensive on that ac¬ 
 count, I am not otherwise hurt than by excessive fright and fa¬ 
 tigue. I have been witness to the most horrible of actions, and 
 dreamed a dream, that has harrowed up my soul, and reduced 
 me to this weakness. —But how came you to follow me hither ?” 
 
 66 1 wenk” said he, ££ to your chamber, to invite you to a 
 morning's walk in the garden; when I was confounded with find¬ 
 ing you not in your own room: and, observing the opening made 
 by the removal of the tournament, I immediately concluded that 
 the intruder of the former night had paid you a visit, and that 
 you had detected him. I saw also that you had not been in bed, 
 which told me you must have been long absent, and I began to 
 fear the worst of accidents. I did not remain long considering 
 what I should do—a soldier, you know, must be prompt in deci¬ 
 sion, and the way was open before me—I took down your pistols, 
 and with one in each hand entered the passage. 
 
 I continued along its obscure and narrow" windings, till it 
 opened behind a chair of state, whose drapery and hangings com 
 cealed the entrance. I then found myself in a large antique 
 hall, the windows of which were of painted glass. In the mid¬ 
 dle of the hall stood the large tables and seats in confusion- -dishes 
 and goblets covered with dust, remained upon the tables, the 
 visible vestiges of a feast—and I cast a suspicious glance around 
 me, at remembering the strange interruption on the wedding 
 night of Don Padilla and Lady Zidana. 
 
 ££ I pictured to myself the scene of gay festivity, the exultation 
 of Padilla, and the joy of his guests—which in one moment must 
 have been converted into utter dismay; and would have unbent 
 the determinations of any other man. I had not much time to 
 bestow on these meditations, as no sound or trace appeared which 
 could point out the way you had taken. A little door at the op¬ 
 posite end standing open invited me to enter; and, after passing 
 through a variety of chambers, where the old furniture remained 
 covered with cobwebs and dust, I at length reached the head of 
 these stairs, and am rejoiced that my fears are not altogether 
 realised.” 
 
 It required almost half an hour to return through the intricate 
 windings, and I found mysell too ill at that time to enter upon 
 particular details. We could have but one opinion of the person 
 who had so clandestinely entered my chamber. Nothing was 
 more probable, than that Jacques, who had wounded me in the 
 wood, knew of some secret entrance into that desolate quarter of 
 
68 
 
 ELM III A; OR 
 
 the castle, where he might best find retreat from the search made 
 after him ; and prompted by revenge for the death of his com¬ 
 rade, mingled with fear for himself, from what I had overheard, 
 was resolved to destroy me. 
 
 We considered whether it would be prudent to mention in the 
 castle what had occurred, and cause that part of the building to 
 be searched: but it struck us, that, strangers as we were, we had 
 no authority for such proceeding; and it would be needlessly 
 alarming the ladies with dismal apprehensions. We therefore 
 judged it better to remain silent, and provide for any attempt 
 that villainy or malice might suggest against us. 
 
 At first we intended imparting to Gonzalez, the real cause of 
 the interruption he had met in his narrative; but his years had 
 weakened his firmness; and his fears of Padilla’s revenge being 
 ever most strong, we determined to hold him in ignorance, and 
 to watch by ourselves, well armed on the following night. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 O now for ever 
 
 Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Having taken some refreshment, I laid down to tranquillize the 
 ferment of my spirits, and if possible to forget the terrific object 
 I had seen in the moonlight chamber, as well as the phantoms of 
 my dream which haunted me. 
 
 Meanwhile Fernando, after replacing the picture and fastening 
 it, so as it should not be opened without-awaking me, went to 
 make my excuses to the ladies, by informing them that the let¬ 
 ters I had received from Madrid, had detained me so far in the 
 night, that I found myself not sufficiently well to rise before noon, 
 when, for the first time, I would join them in the family dining 
 room. 
 
 I arose much refreshed at noon, and joined this agreeable 
 party; but I could not at once shake off the disquiet which 
 preyed upon me. The sight of Virginia seemed even to increa se 
 it; as her looks and actions every instant recalled the visions of 
 my slumbers. 
 
 The afternoon was passed in little entertainment of music and 
 
69 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 smging; for, notwithstanding the heat of the weather, we were 
 too much satisfied with our society to separate ; and some fra¬ 
 grant fruits presented us by Gonzalez, greatly refreshed us. 
 
 Fernando, to be more at ease, had unloosed his waistcoat, and 
 the picture which he always wore, attracted the eye of Elmira. 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! Cavalier,” said she, feigning to laugh, “ that I 
 suppose is the portrait of some favourite lady ?—Will you permit 
 me to see your chioce ?” 
 
 Fernando could not avoid giving the picture into her hands, 
 which she no sooner saw, than she exclaimed—« Holy Virgin ! 
 Senor, how came you to wear the picture of my mother ? * Tell 
 me, did you ever see her?” 
 
 To these questions Fernando replied, “ That he knew not till 
 lately the resemblance, and merely wore it by way of ornament; 
 that he never had had the happiness of seeing the lady her 
 mother. and, that he wondered how she herself should know the 
 likeness, since, to the best of his recollection, she was an infant 
 when her mother died.” 
 
 “ That is very true,” replied she, with a sigh. « Though 
 children of different mothers, neither of us ever knew the bless¬ 
 ings of maternal affection : indeed, so obscure is the death of 
 these dear relations, that we know little more of them than their 
 pictures inform us. You shall visit our gallery of family paint¬ 
 ings, and then you shall compare the likenesses : but I must 
 confess, a miniature softens down the countenance, and makes 
 the face appear handsomer.” 
 
 “ I his lady is exquisitely handsome,” answered Fernando; 
 <6 what think you, cousin ? (turning to Virginia.) See how ad¬ 
 mirably the Moorish habit becomes her ?—In my opinion, were 
 she no relation of mine, the painting merits preservation. 
 
 , “ Come sister,” said Elmira, “ let us shew the Cavaliers the 
 pictures; I know they will be entertained.” 
 
 “ But do you not remember,” said Virginia, £f that our father 
 has forbid us to go there without him ?—When he returns the 
 Cavaliers can attend him, and he can give them the whole 
 history.” 
 
 “ But would he give us the history ?” cried Fernando, his eyes 
 sparkling with meaning, “ Think you that he— ” 
 
 I interrupted him, by expressing a wish to see these pictures, 
 which I had not done belore, and to prevent the ladies from 
 observing any singularity in my friend’s meaning. I observed, 
 that perhaps Don Padilla was so choice of them, that he feared 
 they might be inj ured if visited in his absence. 
 
 I saw that Virginia wavered in her own mind—wishing to 
 oblige us, and yet fearing to disobey her father : but the argu- 
 
70 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 ments of her sister at last overcame her scruples—Gonzalez was 
 sent for to bring the keys. 
 
 The old man was not satisfied at the summons, and he ventur¬ 
 ed to express as much. “ You know, my honoured ladies,” said 
 he, “ that his Excellenza would be displeased, where he to come 
 to the knowledge of your having broken his orders; and I am 
 sure the Cavaliers (looking at us) would not wish that any words 
 should arise from their curiosity.” 
 
 “ Nonsense !” replied Elmira; “ do you not know that my 
 father is many miles distant ? and how should he ever know that 
 we just went into the room, and out again?” 
 
 “Ah, Lady!” replied Gonzalez, ‘‘many an action much more 
 secret than this, has been published by the winds.” 
 
 “ Do not let us go, sister; we had better not,” said Virginia. 
 
 “ Just as you please, my dear,” replied Elmira; “Gonzalez 
 talks as if it was a mighty crime ; but, for my part, if the Cava¬ 
 liers will attend me, I will shew the pictures myself. Give me 
 the keys, Gonzalez; I wonder what harm we shall do to inani¬ 
 mate canvass ?” 
 
 Fernando and myself made some faint opposition ; though we, 
 in fact, could not conceive that any ill could arise from so inno¬ 
 cent a cause. 
 
 “ Well/ 5 ’ said Gonzalez, “ if you are determined to go, there 
 are the keys; but you must not insist upon my attendance—I 
 know my duty better.” 
 
 As he pronounced the last sentence, he looked towards us with 
 an expression of meaning I could not comprehend; and taking 
 the hand of Virginia, she reluctantly accompanied us to the pic¬ 
 ture gallery. 
 
 Elmira drew up the curtains> and engaged our attention by a 
 comparison of the two pictures. I admired the resemblance La¬ 
 dy Elmira bore to Virginia; and though my friend gave the pre¬ 
 ference to Lady Zidana, I could not agree with him—she want¬ 
 ing fne clear carnated complexion, which I always preferred to a 
 brunette. 
 
 We had been about half an hour employed in the gallery, when 
 the door was opened, and Gonzalez entered in haste and pertur¬ 
 bation. 
 
 “ Haste instantly away !” cried he. “ Return this moment, I 
 beseech you, to the dining room.” 
 
 “ But why so much hurry ?” said I. 
 
 “ We are undone ?” cried he : “ the most unforeseen circum¬ 
 stance ?—Hasten away this moment ?” 
 
 We implicitly obeyed him, though ignorant of his reasons; 
 and, locking the door, he hurried down the back stairs, bidding 
 us not tarry till we got to the dining room, 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 71 
 
 “ What do you think of this interruption ?” said I; “ what can 
 possibly have thrown the old man into such a tremor ?” 
 
 “ O ! I know not,” said Virginia; “but I can scarcely breathe 
 with apprehension,” 
 
 Fernando broke out into a laugh. “ Ridiculous, my dear 
 cousin !” said he : “ why should you be so apprehensive ? This 
 old fellow has a mind to punish us for presuming to differ in 
 opinion from himself: depend on it, you will find the whole a 
 trick of his invention.” 
 
 “I fear not,” answered Virginia, “Gonzalez is not of a light 
 disposition,—I never knew him jest in my life.” 
 
 “ Here comes one that does jest,” said Fernando. “ Here, 
 Hugo ! where are you running in such haste ?” 
 
 “ O, tenors ?” cried Hugo, out of breath, “ such a surprise ! 
 —I am all, as one may say, out of sorts—I should as soon have 
 expected to be hanged !” 
 
 “That you are very likely to be,” said Fernando ; “ but you 
 would not be in such haste to the gallows.—Say then where 
 you were running, and what has happened ?” 
 
 “ I only heard it by the way,” said he; “ and ran away di¬ 
 rectly to tell my fellow servants, who are all at sixes and sevens, 
 and no more expected-” 
 
 “ Tedious fellow !” cried Fernando, “ what is it you are chat¬ 
 tering about ?—what did you hear ?—what did you not expect?” 
 
 “ Why, I did not expect to meet you in an ill humour, Senor ? 
 and what I heard I believe to be true, and that makes me in 
 such haste to repeat it.” 
 
 “ It is to no purpose,” said I, “ that we trifle with this fellow. 
 Hugo knows you are not his master, and he takes liberties.” 
 
 “ I have no doubt,” answered Fernando, “ but my first sus¬ 
 picions were true and this fellow was sent purposely to heigh¬ 
 ten our apprehension.” 
 
 I gaye credit for myself this suggestion, and we walked lei¬ 
 surely on, till we came to the dining room. Elmira entered first, 
 but she started back with a scream, and we all pressed forward 
 together to see the object of her dismay. We were struck dumb 
 at sight of Don Padilla, who, by our delay, had had time to en¬ 
 ter the dining Toom before us. He was pacing the room, his 
 brows bent into the severest frown I had ever beheld. You have 
 seen, Marquis, what a gloomy portal he usually is—but then he 
 looked mischief personified. 
 
 Virginia half ran towards him, but he did not deign to notice 
 her ; and her courage failing, she was obliged to lean upon my 
 arm to a chair. Elmira was very little better, stammering out 
 something about surprise at his sudden return, which he did not 
 think worthy of answer. 
 
72 ELMIRA ; OR 
 
 r ^ In this unpleasant situation we remained for some minutes. 
 I lie colour went and came alternately in tlie cheeks of my 
 friend: and fearing that his feelings might betray him into rash¬ 
 ness^ 1 summoned up my resolution, and suppressed my pride at 
 this cavalier treatment. 
 
 e \ Don Padilla,” said I, you are perhaps as much surprised 
 at finding unexpected visitants in your castle, as these ladies are 
 at your return without notice, that they might have prepared to 
 receive you in a more suitable manner.” Still he remained 
 silent, and I went on. “ I can assure you, that this intrusion of 
 ours upon your hospitality, was by no means from a trivial mo¬ 
 tive ; and I should wish—” 
 
 He stopped, and stood opposite me, fixing his keen eye upon 
 me, while I continued : 
 
 “ And X should wish, that the obligation X have received from 
 your family in your absence, may be the means of promoting 
 a more extensive intercourse in future.” 
 
 “ Who are you?” said he, contemptuously. 
 
 “ Whoever X am,” replied I, coolly, “ give me leave to say, 
 Don Padilla, I know who you are !” 
 
 A malicious smile bent his features. “ You know who I am!” 
 said he : ee be so good as to explain who that is.” 
 
 X had already condemned myself for my haste; and now replied, 
 with a bow. 
 
 “ 1 he father of these ladies ; and, ar such, entitled to my 
 
 esteem, as I shall for ever remember the infinite debt of gratitude 
 I owe them.” 
 
 <c So shall I,” replied he, 66 But who is your comrade.” 
 
 Fernando, who bad not the same measures to keep as I, and 
 who had listened with a burning spirit to the altercation, replied 
 with a high and stern voice : 
 
 “ Don l^adilla ! it is for miscreants, murderers, and assassins 
 to have comrades ! You ask who I am V - At present I am a 
 stranger; but you .shall one day know me. The man who could 
 trample uyon the claims of friendship, may well be excused the 
 rights of hospitality!” 
 
 c Ha ! cried Padilla, a livid tinge colouring his dark features, 
 
 “ am I betrayed ?” 
 
 “ Your fears betray you,” replied Fernando. “ Guilt will 
 render ruffians cowards !” 
 
 . £t ^ hat do you aim at by such an epithet ?” cried he, stamping 
 with fury upon the ground. “Am I betrayed by my own people, 
 
 betrayed into the hands of a desperado, an adventurer ! Here* 
 help ! help!” 
 
 At these words he drew, and made a push at Fernando. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 73 
 
 Virginia fainted away. Elmira uttered a loud scream, and 
 caught the left arm of her father, while I ran to separate the 
 combatants, who eyed each other with inveterate fury. 
 
 The servants, who had heard their master’s cries, rushed into 
 the room ; but, being unarmed, I held them at bay with the 
 point of my sword, while Padilla, almost choaked with madness, 
 commanded them to seize Fernando. 
 
 “ This is an extreme foolish business on all parts,” cried I. 
 “ Don Padilla, you must allow this is a shameful outrage upon 
 persons of our quality; and you, Fernando Coello, govern your 
 resentment.” 
 
 “ Is this Fernando Coello?” said Padilla, sullenly. 
 
 “ Yes,” replied ], <£ it is your nephew, the son of your sister 
 Isabella; surely you will not treat him thus on a first visit? 
 Servants, you may retire.” 
 
 Don Padilla did not contradict my order; he sat down in 
 gloomy silence, and my friend, sheathing his sword, placed him¬ 
 self in a chair, playing with the hilt, without noticing the situation 
 of the ladies. Virginia yet remained upon the floor, and her 
 sister hung over her, uttering the most piercing cries. 
 
 Agatha, the ladies’ attendant, entered with some essence and 
 water, and I flew to assist in recovering Virginia. Don Padilla 
 No. 10. 
 
74 
 
 ELMIRA; OR - 
 
 eyed my attention without speaking; he seemed revolving in his 
 mind matters of greater moment, now looking at Fernando and 
 then upon me. 
 
 When Virginia recovered, he ordered his daughters to retire; 
 and then, in a tone ol greater complacency, inquired my name and 
 quality; and how I had met with the accident in the forest, 
 which he had slightly heard from the servants. 
 
 I replied, that I was the Marquis Albert de Denia; that my 
 mother was sister to his first wife, Lady Elmira. 
 
 The colour rose in his face at this remark; but, biting his lips, 
 he remained silent. 
 
 I had every reason to believe, that the assassin Jacques had 
 held some correspondence with Padilla; in which case, to appear 
 too ignorant, was as dangerous as knowing too much. I therefore 
 observed, that having been benighted in the wood, I had clambered 
 a tree to sleep, when I was suddenly awakened by the sound of 
 voices beneath me. “ I insist upon it,” said one, c ‘ he shall not 
 live—(Don Padilla started)—are we to take pay for nothing : I 
 scorn it, Lopez.” (“Did they say this?” said Padilla, impa¬ 
 tiently.) I took no notice of this question, but went on. 
 
 “ I am of your opinion, Jacques,” replied the other, who I 
 suppose was called Lopez; “I will not eat my bread in idleness 
 —Don Padilla- -(he at mention of his name turned pale, but 
 remained silent—Don Padilla shall certainly die !”■—“ Here,” 
 said Jacques, “ shall it be here on this spot: many a man sets 
 out on a journey he never returns from.”—(Padilla trembled, 
 and looked round the room).—No, not here,” replied Lopez, 
 “in the hole further on, where the trees hang over the water. 
 You remember that place, Jacques?”—(Don Padilla started up, 
 and clapped his hand upon his sword, while his eyes flashed with 
 fury; again he sat down, and I continued.) — 
 
 “ At these words I lost my patience, and leaping down upon 
 them, sword in hand, one of them was slain; and the other, tak¬ 
 ing advantage of my fall, stabbed me in the arm. Your daughters 
 saved me from death in the morning ; and 1 now return thanks to 
 you for the protection of your castle.” 
 
 Padilla muttered a very ungracious welcome. His mind was 
 disturbed by the account I had given him, which involved in sus¬ 
 picion the designs of the ruffians; a suspicion that was in some 
 degree confirmed by their then being in the kingdom, when he 
 had supposed them, according to their own account, slaves in 
 Turkey. 
 
 After a time spent in musing, he suddenly demanded if I had 
 * seen or could recollect the faces of these men ? I replied in the 
 negative; the darkness being so great, that I had difficulty to 
 distinguish their persons. < 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 75 
 
 He did not appear displeased with this reply; though he swore 
 vehemently he would have the scoundrel sought for and hanged 
 upon the nearest tree, “Had you killed them both, Marquis,” 
 said he,. 44 you would have made me eternally your friend.” 
 
 44 Thus it is,” thought I; 44 the tools of our vengeance or 
 ambition are a terror to ourselves. No doubt he trembles for the 
 consequence of that ingratitude, he himself has exemplified.’ 
 
 44 I suppose,” said he, after a gloomy silence of half an hour, 
 44 you do not intend remaining in this part of the country many 
 days after you are so well recovered ? I understood at Tolosa, 
 the troops were under marching orders.” 
 
 I perfectly comprehended this hint, and I answered— 44 The 
 death of my father has a more urgent claim upon my presence at 
 Madrid; and possibly the new dignities I shall thereby receive, 
 will prevent the necessity of my longer leading a liie of so much 
 
 hazard.” . 
 
 44 Then you were a soldier of necessity ?” replied he, without 
 
 any regard to delicacy. 44 It ou say right, it is a hazardous 
 
 profession.” . 
 
 I had some difficulty to qualify my reply. 44 It is as you say, 
 answered I, 44 But the necessity I laboured undei was the calls 
 of honour, and the claims of my country. These are powerful 
 arguments, Don Padilla.” 
 
 44 Yes,” cried Fernando, raising his head from the deep study 
 he had fallen into ; 44 but they are not arguments every man can 
 
 feel , ” 
 
 He darted a look at Padilla, who perfectly understood him, but 
 made no reply; and to turn the discourse, which I feared would 
 a^ain kindle into wrath, X praised the situation of the castle, and 
 the beauty of the scenery. He listened like a man who does not 
 
 a You do not seem satisfied wdth its situation, said Fernando. 
 44 For my own part I think I have seen a castle on the banks of 
 the Darro that was much more romantic, more suitable to reflec¬ 
 tion. You understand me —” 
 
 44 I do,” replied Padilla, rising; 44 but you do not understand 
 
 me.” • 
 
 He was quitting the room abruptly, when suddenly recollecting 
 
 himself, he returned to apologize to me; observing, that he had 
 many orders to give, and some necessary arrangements to make 
 
 after his absence. f 
 
 As soon as we were alone, Fernando gave way to a transport ot 
 
 rage; insisting that we should, without sleeping again in the 
 castle, return to Tolosa. 
 
 “ Moderate, if you please, this frenzy of yours, said l, ^on 
 
76 
 
 ELMIllA ; OR 
 
 sider the variety of interests we have to arrange in the service of 
 which, passion will be only detrimental. Don Padilla is a man of 
 power. He possesses a large revenue from his acquired American 
 fortune, which is increased by the acquisition of this extensive 
 domain, and rendered immense by the addition of the estate in the 
 province of Grenada; his income is equal to a prince, and think 1 
 you it will be an easy matter to bring a criminal like him (sup¬ 
 posing him such) to justice. We must bury in our breasts every 
 suspicion, till time and opportunity shall bring forward the hour 
 of retribution. Reflect also, that my heart is engaged to Virginia, 
 and you will then remember that Padilla is her father.” 
 
 “ Well, well,” replied he, “ all this I have been turning in my 
 mind; but remember also, that I am under the most sacred 
 engagements—engagements that I cannot break. Remember 
 also, that this castle contains a secret, which, if told, may over¬ 
 whelm all the power of Padilla in a moment.” 
 
 “ Do not bring before me that horrid recollection,” said I, 
 “The images of that chamber haunt my imagination; and this 
 night I resolve to discover if all my suggestions are true, or 
 whether the obscurity and terror of the moment had deceived my 
 sight.” 
 
 “ I will attend you,” returned Fernando: “ this is a business in 
 which we are both deeply engaged—no common affair must turn 
 us to another purpose. Padilla will know that we have slept in 
 different chambers, and it may raise his suspicion if we should 
 vary that custom; mine is not far from yours, and I will be with 
 you a few minutes before twelve.” 
 
 I had scarcely time to agree to this proposal, when Gonzalez 
 entered the room under pretence of clearing away the fruit. <f I 
 was afraid, Senors,” said he, “ how it would be—my heart mis¬ 
 gave me when the ladies asked for the key. I could not account 
 for it; but I have strange forebodings at times.” 
 
 “ Nothing new has happened I hope ?” said I. 
 
 f6 Ye?,” replied he, “ his Excellenza has found out that you 
 were all in the picture gallery, the curtain being left up. He has 
 been in a terrible passion, and so scolded the young ladies, that 
 they are crying their eyes out, poor souls ! I have come in for 
 my share; but I am old and tough, used to many a storm that 
 blows over me.” 
 
 “ A savage!” exclaimed Fernando ; “ he is—” 
 
 “ Hush ! Senor, pray do not let any body hear you. I am 
 much mistaken if there be not some spy in the family. You 
 remember the strange voice we heard that night? If 1 am 
 betrayed Senors, I know what will be the consequence.” 
 
 “ Comfort yourself, Gonzalez,” said 1: “ hear, and say nothing 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 77 
 
 to anybody, and time may bring about strange events. We must 
 soon leave the castle, possibly to-morrow; be a guard over the 
 ladies, and if any violence, from whatever motive, should be 
 offered them or you, instantly dispatch a courier to my palace at 
 Madrid, and we will bring a troop of cavalry, and pull this old 
 building down about his ears.” 
 
 Gonzalez smiled at this expression ; and fearing to be missed, 
 hastened away. I was very much pleased that a correspondence 
 had thus been established. It was needless to clear up to him 
 the knowledge we had of the person who had occasioned the 
 interruption; as it would only subject him to a thousand fears, 
 and perhaps cause him to leave the castle. 
 
 We saw little more of Don Padilla that night; he was, or 
 pretended to be, absorbed in business: neither did the ladies 
 appear, which made us suspect they were under a command to 
 keep their chambers. I retired early to my own, where I pre¬ 
 pared every thing for our undertaking; putting my pistols in 
 order, and providing my lamp. Some arrangements for my 
 intended journey the ensuing day kept me employed: for I was 
 determined no longer to delay my absence from Madrid, where 
 my presence was so necessary. 
 
 The solemn hour of midnight arrived, and Fernando appeared 
 very well armed ; so that we had no occasion to fear an encounter 
 with Jacques, even should he be supported by Padilla. We 
 trimmed our lamp, and, to prevent accidents from the sudden 
 closing of a door, or the current of air, Fernando lighted a taper. 
 
 I gently drew back the canvass painting, which rolled into a 
 nich, and entering the opening, closed it behind us. We pro¬ 
 ceeded silently and cautiously till we arrived at the gothic hall, 
 where the unfinished feast remained. 
 
 I was about to draw the curtains behind the chair of state, 
 when I fancied that 1 could distinguish the hollow sounds of a 
 passing footstep. We paused for a few moments, and all again 
 became silent. 
 
 I feared that our lights might betray us : for though we did not 
 apprehend much of personal danger, we knew not how to excuse 
 to Don Padilla the unwarrantable freedom we were taking, and 
 which in our own eyes appeared wanting of honour. 1 he motive* 
 however, was strange, and out of the ordinary occurrences of life : 
 common means of proceeding were abortive resources; and the 
 necessity laid upon us became, in our eyes, sufficient excuse. 
 
 I drew the curtain with caution, and looking round, all ap¬ 
 peared dark and vacant. We ventured forward, treading light as 
 midnight robbers—the echoing hall catching and returning the 
 smallest sound. 
 
78 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 Our lights reflected our persons in lengthened shadows on the 
 wall: and that fear superstition inspires, irresistibly touched our 
 minds, as we recollected the several incidents that had occurred 
 to ourselves. 
 
 We descended the staircase, down which I had fallen, and 
 passed on till we came to the door of those chambers where I had 
 been so shocked with human depravity. The key was no longer 
 in the lock; a plain indication that some person had been there 
 since myself; and an assurance that my senses had not wholly 
 deceived me. We endeavoured to enter by force ; bui the strong 
 door resisted all the efforts we were capable of making, without 
 endangering ourselves by the noise. We paused to consider 
 whether we should return to find other means of entrance. 
 
 A faint ray of light darted across the farther end of the passage, 
 discovering to us a distant and narrow flight of stairs, leading to 
 a range of apartments, of which we had no knowledge. 
 
 6( ^his flaring light will betray us,” said I. c< If you will re¬ 
 main here with the lamp and taper, I will venture to ascend those 
 stairs, and see whence that light shines.” 
 
 Fernando would not readily agree to this proposal: he wished 
 us to leave our lights burning upon the pavement, while we should 
 go together. But I represented the danger of our making too 
 much noise; and the double service he would perform in coming 
 to my assistance by surprise, if assistance should be necessary, as 
 my assailants would not be prepared for his attack. 
 
 Having prevailed on him to agree to my proposal, I walked 
 cautiously Tor ward ascending the back stairs. The light shone 
 steady on the landing, then suddenly disappeared ; as if the door 
 of the chamber from whence it shone had been closed. I 
 ventured forward, listening at every step I took. About twenty 
 paces forward, my ear caught the low sound of voices, but so 
 indistinct, that I could make out no one sentence. 
 
 I paused, and in a few moments a door on the right hand was 
 partly opened, a stream of light shone full into the gallery, and 
 some person looked out, as if to see no intruder was near. He 
 retired without closing the door, and I advanced, scarce daring to 
 breathe. I ventured so near, that I could distinguish the voice 
 of Padilla, and the harsh tones of some other, who spoke so low, 
 I had difficulty to understand him. 
 
 “ All this that yon tell me is true ?” said Padilla. 
 
 “True, your Excellenza.” 
 
 “ And you heard that old dotard amusing them with all the lies 
 that are circulated by the superstitious fools about him ?’* 
 
 44 Yes, your Exeellenza. He mentioned the strange entrance 
 ol Count Ferendez on your wedding night; upon which they 
 
THE MURDERED R1UDE. 
 
 79 
 
 made their comments. I am certain the Marquis overheard 
 more than was sufficient when he was roosting in the tree.” 
 
 “ And for which your tongues deserve to be cut out,” said 
 Padilla: a we must consult about him—he must pay for his 
 curiosity !” 
 
 “ Aye, aye, by the Holy Peter !” said the ruffian, whom I had 
 no doubt was Jacques ; “ if I take him in hand, he will have tight 
 work of it—’tis what I owe him for the murder of my friend. He 
 was very curious in his inquiries about the ladies.” 
 
 <( Do you say so ?” cried Padilla. “ Do you think he has any 
 suspicion ?” 
 
 ’Tis as certain as death,” replied Jacques, “ he has more 
 than suspicion. I should have done his business that night had 
 J found him snug.” 
 
 I shuddered at the narrow escape I had had ; and not without 
 a sense of the danger I ran, from having raised upon me so in¬ 
 veterate an enemy. He went on— 
 
 “ Invite them to remain with you some days. They will not 
 enter into your motive. There are many ways to dispose 
 of a guest!” 
 
 “ By my troth are there !” said Padilla, in a raised voice, “ you 
 have hit it Jacques—these sparks are not to be played with. 
 Fernando is a fiery-headed fellow, and has a claim from his 
 ancestors, never yet settled, to these very estates.” 
 
 “ I know it,” replied Jacques ; “ I have thought on that. We 
 will settle his claim, however, with more certainty than law.” 
 
 Don Padilla broke into a laugh. It was the laugh of malig¬ 
 nant triumph: and, had I at that moment possessed the power, 
 it is probable I should have made no scruple of arresting their 
 intentions. 
 
 “ Let us now go,” said Padilla : “ have you the key ? We 
 must perform the necessary duty.” 
 
 I inquired within myself what this duty could he. Had it 
 relation to the things I had seen in the moon-light chamber ; or, 
 were there yet deeper or more horrible secrets in the gloomy 
 walls of this antique building. “ Why not be witness to this 
 duty?” thought I. “ If it relates to that chamber, they must 
 pass these stairs—I shall have time to reach Fernando, and we 
 will take our stations together.” 
 
 I retreated gently down the stairs, and passing quickly along 
 the passage, was surprised to find Fernando absent. The lamp 
 remained burning on the pavement, but the taper was gone. 
 “ Surely,” said I to myself, “ this is very imprudent—what 
 succour could he have given me in case of necessity ? But what 
 motive could have led him from his post ? it must have been 
 
80 
 
 ELMIRA; OR 
 
 i 
 
 
 momentous. He did not pass me I am certain; and surely 
 cannot be returned to my chamber.” 
 
 I waited with the greatest impatience and apprehension, ex¬ 
 pecting that Padilla and Jacques would every moment appear 
 upon the opposite stairs,, and find me exposed before them, in a 
 place where their crime would run no danger of detection. I 
 durst not venture to call, and my imagination began to picture 
 some unexpected tragedy. 
 
 The old bell of the castle sounded the solemn hour of one. Its 
 vibration seemed lengthened in my ear ; where it had not ceased 
 trembling, when a bright light darted from a door on the 
 left hand at a distance, and gave me to expect the return of 
 Fernando. 
 
 I advanced a few paces to meet him, wondering what could 
 have induced him to enter that passage in my absence; but my 
 wonder was changed into astonishment, on beholding a pheno¬ 
 menon singular and unaccountable. J he light, whose rays had 
 broke upon the long and obscure passage, moved forw ard without 
 visible conductor, in the form of an ignus fatuus, or marshy 
 meteor; it moved within a foot of the pavement, with a slow and 
 even motion, and its light was fixed and clear, without w aveiing 
 on the breath of the wind. 
 
 I stood at a distance, watching this ominous appearance, and 
 expecting what might ensue—nor did I many moments expect 
 in vain. 
 
 A tall figure, wrapped in a long cloak, and muffled round the 
 head, walked solemnly into the passage. The arms were crossed 
 upon the breast, and but a faint outline beneath the drapery, 
 marked its connection with the human form. 
 
 I shuddered as this phantom drew near ; as it perfectly brought 
 to my mind the black figure I had beheld in my dream, within a 
 few yards of the very spot where I then stood. Its size was 
 equal to that of Padilla, and I should have supposed it himself in 
 disguise, had it not been for the supernatural flame which moved 
 forward before. I wanted courage to speak or to move, waiting 
 with terror for the event. 
 
 He moved forward, in a musing posture, until he came within 
 a few yards of where I stood, then solemnly raising the hood of 
 the cloak which enveloped his head, and throwing wide his right 
 arm, I beheld beneath, the dress of a soldier stained wdth blood. 
 
 I started at the sight. I doubted not but I saw before me the 
 perturbed spirit of Count Ferendez, and my knees trembled 
 beneath me. His countenance w r as pale and bloodless—his eye 
 was w r ild, yet without lustre—and death seemed stamped upon 
 his yellow forehead. His lips were without motion ; and, as he 
 
 ( 
 
81 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 slowly passed me, lie pointed to the door from which I had seen 
 him enter. 
 
 Once, and but once, I had seen this dreadful vision of dis¬ 
 turbed immortality, on the eventful night which had announced 
 the death of my father. The indistinct view that I then had, 
 imprinted for ever on my memory the terror of features not to be 
 forgotten ; and it was not until the phantom had ascended the great 
 stairs, that I found courage to remove from the place where 
 I stood. 
 
 I could not doubt but the motion it had made to" the farther 
 door, concerned my friend; whom I now judged to*have seen the 
 same appearance in my absence, and followed it into some dan¬ 
 ger. 1 had reason to believe, from what I had seen in the'moon- 
 lit chamber, that Don Padilla and Jacques, were not the only 
 inhabitants of this dreary wing : and I shuddered with apprehen¬ 
 sion, as I hastened to find my friend. 
 
 The door which I entered opened into a windmg passage, 
 which was arched with masonry, very different from any part of 
 the castle I had hitherto seen. I began to fear, from its solidity 
 that it led into the dungeons and vaults which ran beneath the, 
 whole building. 
 
 My apprehensions were in part allayed, when I entered, by 
 No. 11. 
 
ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 m 
 
 three descending steps and a narrow door, which, from the rust 
 of its fastenings, seemed to have been closed for many years; 
 into a chapel, evidently long in disuse, 
 
 I waved my lamp in the air, to guide me through the deep 
 gloom which seemed inpenetrable; a cold and sacred stillness 
 seemed to reside in the place, and to fasten on my mind with a 
 reverential awe. 
 
 Tall shadows seemed to move along the walls, as my lamp 
 waved in the air. I called in a low voice, the name of Fer¬ 
 nando ; but no sound, except faint echoes, returned reply. 
 
 I began to be extremely alarmed on his account; not being 
 able to conjecture what misfortune could have befallen him. 
 
 I paused, and looked round me with a reverence I cannot des¬ 
 cribe, and which we seldom feel. The ornaments of carved 
 work were covered with dust and cobwebs. The crucifix and the 
 lamps whre- broken. Trophies of ancient military exploits, waved 
 their torn fragments in the air. I approached the altar, on which 
 a small crucifix yet remained, mildewed with damp. I lowered 
 my latnp to look at the workmanship of the altar, and perceived on 
 one side, an iron door, which opened into the wall, standing 
 open, and I had no doubt led into the family sepulchre. 
 
 1 “ Doubtless/’ thought I, “ my dear Fernando has followed 
 that terrible phantom into this place, and his fright has overcome 
 him, surrounded by so many fearful objects. 
 
 I confess I did not feel any satisfaction in the thought of des¬ 
 cending into th is dark and frightful abyss, but the claims of 
 friendship suppressed this repugnance ; and holding my lamp so 
 as it was least liable to be extinguished, I ventured down 
 the steps, which were loose and shook beneath my weight. The 
 lamp which I held in my hand, scarce served to render darkness 
 visible; and I saw, with fear, that the flame hecame every mo¬ 
 ment dimmer, till it twinkled like a star and expired, leaving me 
 in the protoundest darkness. 
 
 I called aloud on Fernando, but received no answer : the hol¬ 
 low vaults extending and reverberating my voice to a distance, 
 which left me to conjecture. 
 
 I stretched out my hands, and found them resisted on one side 
 by a pile of coffins, which shook at the touch. I shuddered as if 
 I had grasped a serpent, and turned round with the intention to 
 hasten from a place where the air was so damp, I had scarce power 
 to respire, and where heaps of dead were extended in terrible 
 array. 
 
 In my haste I stumbled against something on the floor, and 
 fell down. I reached out my hand after the first surprise, and 
 felt a human body on the ground before me. The blood ran 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 83 
 
 cold to my heart. My fingers traced over the face, it seemed 
 warm beneath the touch, and the truth flashed upon my 
 comprehension. 
 
 “ It is Fernando,” cried I aloud, and scarce knowing what I 
 said, “ he is dying and no help is near !” The pang which I felt 
 at that moment, I cannot attempt to describe—it was a start of 
 despair; and, forgetful of danger to myself, I dragged the body 
 up the steps, which were clammy with subterranean dews, and 
 happily gained the chapel. 
 
 # I tore open his clothes, and putting my hand upon his heart, a 
 slight pulsation was perceptible. I raised the body on my 
 shoulders, and being too much agitated to regard trifling incidents, 
 I ran through the apartments, notwithstanding the impenetrable 
 darkness. The air in the great hall was strong, and placing him 
 upon one of the chairs, I chafed his temples and breast till he 
 began to breathe freely, and by slow degrees recovered. His 
 recollection, however, was extremely confused; and he cried fre¬ 
 quently, “ Oh ! the horrid vision—take me away, my dear 
 Albert—save me ! save me !” 
 
 1 was myself almost distracted at this raving; not doubting but 
 his senses were disturbed by what he had seen, and 1 conducted 
 him with the utmost difficulty back to my chamber; where X 
 forced him to drink one of the cordials the physician had prescri¬ 
 bed to me, and'then laying him upon the bed, I sat by him, think¬ 
 ing over the many unaccountable incidents which had occurred to 
 us both within so very few months. 
 
 It appeared to me like a dream. <c Who else amongst man¬ 
 kind,’’ thought I, “ are involved in so singular an adventure ?— 
 in a business so complicated, so mysterious, and so dreadful, that 
 I am at times tempted to doubt my own existence : or to believe 
 all the dreams of idleness and romantic superstition. 
 
 Undoubtedly, murder is the most atrocious offence man can 
 commit against man ; for which neither he, nor all united society 
 can make retribution to the injured. If is treason against the 
 order and harmony of nature. Without the intervention of su¬ 
 pernatural witnesses, no crime has been discovered by ways so 
 unforeseen and so singular. 
 
 It was the belief of the ancients, that the w r andering spirits of 
 persons slain by violence, whether private or in battle, roamed 
 about the earth until their ashes received burial; and that belief 
 has descended, and remains to this day amongst the lower classes 
 of mankind. And why may it not be so ? Are we more wise 
 than the ancients ? Or, are we only more daring ?” 
 
ELMIRA ; OR, 
 
 84 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Credulity, the child of Ignorance, 
 Nurtur’d by Idleness, best loves to dwell 
 In rustic shades, or in the gloomy pile. 
 
 While I sat beside my friend, wrapped in these gloomy musings, 
 the morning dawned across the mountains, light and airy clouds 
 spread over the horizon ; here streaked with gold, and there 
 dappled with silver. In the east, the etherial blue of the heavens 
 enlivened the landscape, and the dark mountains of Morena 
 seemed for once to smile. 
 
 J arose from watching over my friend, who had fallen into a 
 gentle slumber, and opening the casement inhaled the fresh air 
 of the morning, which revived my spirits, and seemed to breathe 
 upon me in new life. 
 
 The beauty of the garden beneath me, gay with a profusion of 
 variegated flowers, invited me to partake of its sweets before the 
 blazing sun should have exhaled them, or withered the clear 
 green of the foliage. 
 
 No person was yet visible in this large pile of building, and 
 fastening the sliding picture with a knife, I stole softly along the 
 galleries, and descended towards the garden. The door of a little 
 room on the ground floor stood open, and some person within 
 sighed heavily. ' 
 
 “ Who,” thought T, “ can have occasion to indulge this early 
 grief ? Have those in humble stations troubles like us to prey 
 upon them, and blight their little felicities? Very possibly this 
 is some love-stricken maiden indulging the reveries of future 
 prospects, and sighing forth the name of some fortunate youth. 
 
 These passing reflections occasioned my return after going by 
 a few paces, and curiosity prompted me to enter. I was greatly 
 surprised to see Virginia already up and sitting alone, so lost in 
 the subject of her reflections, that I made several steps before she 
 turned her eyes to me. 
 
 She started, blushing at my intrusion, and in her confusion 
 was at a loss to speak. 
 
 “ My dear cousin,” said I faultering, for I had caught her diffi¬ 
 dence ; “ how fortunate is this ! It is a chance beyond my hopes. 
 
THE murdered bride. 
 
 85 
 
 Ihis day, Virginia, will most probably part us many leagues, and 
 when shall I see you again ?*’ ' & 
 
 I hat I do not know,” replied she, turning her eyes towards 
 lie^ground. 4 But why should you ever wish to see me more ?” 
 
 . as ^ me 80 cold, so cruel a question?” said I 
 
 taking her hand. “ Can you be ignorant, that while you admi¬ 
 nistered to my illness, you inspired a pain that is incurable, but 
 by yourself. Tell me then, dearest Virginia, whether 1 may 
 hope you can return my affection ?” 
 
 She blushed, hesitated, half raised her eyes beaming with 
 meaning, then answered with the prettiest confusion In the 
 
 world—“ I know not. Marquis, whether discretion justifies me_ 
 
 J am ignorant of the ways of the world, and have only to speak 
 with the sincerity of a country maid. 1 have heard, that in 
 polished circles they never mean what they say.” 
 
 “ But T > Virginia, 1 have been little used to those circles; the 
 camp has been my school, and the thunder of war my rattle. 
 \V e have no time in camps to study the art of trifling with the 
 affections 01 the fair ; and believe me, lady, you yourself cannot 
 speak with less disguise. Speak then, Virginia; let me listen 
 with delight to the accents of peace.” 
 
 I endeavouied to sooth her embarrassment. I pressed her to 
 declare that she was not indifferent; and an affirmative which 
 
 died away upon her trembling lips, elevated my feelings to 
 rapture. 
 
 After allowing a few short minutes to these endearing con¬ 
 fessions, which constitute so much of the pleasure of genuine 
 love, and evaporate in detail, I remembered with regret the 
 necessity there was for my sudden departure from the castle, and 
 ad\citing to the return of Don Padilla, Is it not surprising,” 
 said I, that he should treat with such hauteur persons who have 
 some claims to civility ? Can you guess any motive, Virginia, 
 for this strange disposition ? Is it the malady of the mind or 
 arises it from external causes ?” 
 
 “ replied she, “ cannot give any reason for it. There was 
 a time, I am told, when he was all vivacity- too much so in¬ 
 deed ; but that was before he went to Peru. His good fortune 
 made him more exalted in his carriage : but from the. death of 
 mother (which happened before I can remember), arose that 
 severity of manners, which glooms over his own enjoyments. 
 He is always, I think, worse after his visits to Grenada; and my 
 sistei and I have generally to seclude ourselves from his presence 
 for some days, till his temper becomes more settled.” 
 
 And does no suspicion ever cross your mind ?” 
 
 “ Holy Virgin ! what suspicion should V* 
 
ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 *f> 
 
 “ Nay, I know not; but"surely there must be some secret— 
 some unusual cause for this behaviour. Who, or what does lie 
 visit at Grenada ? Have you relations there ?” 
 
 “ You ask very strange questions,” said Virginia. 
 
 “ Because,” replied I “ I have strange suspicions. Your 
 mother died suddenly- do not start, Virginia, but hear me.— 
 Her waiting-maid, Teresa, has never been heard of since the 
 night of the funeral—” 
 
 Here I suddenly remembered the images of that horrible 
 chamber, and of what my eyes had witnessed, and I started up 
 involuntarily. A moment was sufficient for recollection—I sat 
 down and continued. 
 
 The Lady Zidana, what became of her ? How, or when did 
 she die ?” 
 
 “ Did you never hear ?” said Virginia, turning very pale, per¬ 
 haps at the disorder of my features. (( I remember old Gonzalez 
 told us one day, she was drowned in a boat upon the river 
 Darro, by the boatmen being in liquor. But what has all this to 
 do with your sudden departure ?” 
 
 “ Would to heaven,” cried I, “ that it had not to do ! Ah ! 
 Virginia, I fear—” 
 
 <c Fear what ?” said she, trembling. “ You terrify me with 
 apprehension—what is it you fear ?” 
 
 “ I fear that all is not right. Why is the eastern wing of the 
 castle never visited V 9 
 
 “ O” said she, smiling, “ if that is The reason of your sus¬ 
 picions, I can easily do them away. That side of the castle is 
 haunted. Have you not noticed that large painting of the black 
 and the white knights ? Did you understand it V* 
 
 “ Yes,” replied I, “ I did understand it—it has a very im¬ 
 portant meaning. Are you then acquainted with the secret ?” 
 
 “ I know no particular secret in it,” returned she. “ It is 
 well known that wing of the castle is haunted by these knights. 
 They were two brothers, who, in former times fell in love with 
 the lady of the castle, who was their only sister. She lived alone 
 with them after the death of their parents ; her name was Se- 
 raphino, and she was renowned as the greatest beauty in the 
 provinces. Every knight who sought her hand was obliged to 
 tilt with one or other of the brothers, who constantly remained 
 victorious, and their uncourteous behaviour drove all visitants 
 from the castle. 
 
 “ The brothers having no strange knights to dispute with 
 became jealous of each other, both endeavouring to influence Se- 
 raphino with their criminal passion, and being of fiery spirits 
 they agreed to bring their pretensions to issue by single combat. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 87 
 
 They mounted their horses in the court yard, obliging their 
 sister to witness this unnatural dispute. The white knight was 
 wounded, but he unhorsed the black one. Both were enraged to 
 a pitch of frenzy, and dragging their sister into the great gothic 
 hall in the eastern wing they there proceeded to finish the com¬ 
 bat by the sword. Seraphino endeavoured to part them, but in 
 vain. They fought with the fury of lions ; and were not content- 
 till they had received so many wounds that they fell upon the 
 floor in the agonies of death. Seraphino was overwhelmed with 
 grief and despair at the sight, and stabbing herself with a 
 poinard, fell and died upon the bodies of her brothers. 
 
 “ Ever since that time the east wing has been haunted. The 
 noise of the knights fighting is heard at particular times; and 
 upon the same night on which the event first took place the 
 spirits of the knights and the lady act over the same tragedy— 
 the marks of which are visible at this day, the forms of their 
 bodies where they fell being printed on the floor in blood. 
 
 “ This is the most tragical of tragedies, Virginia,” said I. 
 “ Who gave you all this wonderful information ? Have you seen 
 or heard any part of it yourself?” 
 
 “ I have certainly heard very strange noises,” she replied. “ I 
 have heard groans at times which sunk my heart within me. 
 But why should you doubt the truth of this story ?” 
 
 “ Because, my dear cousin,” said I, “ there are many circum¬ 
 stances very improbable in it. It is not more than twenty years 
 since that side of the building was deserted. Your mother, 
 Elmira, resided there, and if it had been sujbect to these martial 
 visitants 1 fancy she would soon have changed her situation.” 
 
 Virginia had attended these objections with impatience. “ No¬ 
 thing is more easily answered,” said she, with an air of superior 
 argument. “ My father when he came to live at this place, on 
 his return T.iom Peru, found the castle shut up ; and treating the 
 whole story as a jest, he had that very suit of rooms fitted up for 
 his own residence, the better to inspire the servants with courage. 
 He was however never very content in his siuation; and the ser¬ 
 vants have told me, they were certain from his fchange of dis¬ 
 position he had seen the unnatural brothers in their nocturnal 
 rencounter. 
 
 “ Pie still persisted in living there, when my mother died. 
 Who knows if she were not frightened to death ? I’m sure the 
 sight of three dead people cutting each other in pieces would kill 
 me. When I first saw you wounded in the wood and the dead 
 
 -4 ®r 
 
 robber beside you I thought of the two knights.” 
 
 “ Nothing could be more natural,” replied I. “ But ’tis very 
 strange none of the servants should ever meet these Cavaliers ; 
 
SB 
 
 ELMIRA; OF, 
 
 and how should your father suddenly abandon that side of the 
 castle ? If he could live in harmony with them three or four 
 years how came they to fall out at length ?” 
 
 “ You laugh, Maiquis, but I assure you it is a very serious 
 affair. On the wedding night of my father with Lady Zidana, he 
 had this hall cleared, and illuminated in the most splendid 
 manner. All the guests w'ere seated, and the revelry begun, 
 when the knight in black, wrapped in a long cloak, the colour of 
 his armour, entered the hall. The clock struck one—and all the 
 frighted guests started up in terror, flying away in the greatest 
 confusion. When all the visitors had made their escape different 
 ways, and none but Lady Zidana fainting on the floor, and Don 
 Padilla remained, he took courage to inquire the reason of this 
 unexpected visit; inviting the ghost, at the same time, to sit 
 down to the feast. 
 
 “The black knight frowned at this familiar invitation ; and,open¬ 
 ing his long cloak, shewed his armour broken, and his body covered 
 with wound. “Flyj” cried he, in a voice like the crashing of spears: 
 “ this hall is mine !—My brother will be here anon, to partake 
 with our sister in the feast. This; east wing of the cajole is ours ; 
 and whoever henceforth resides in it, must enter the combat with 
 us.” So saying, he threw his gauntlet on the ground; and look¬ 
 ing sternly at my father, pointed with one hand to the challenge, 
 and the other to the door. My father willingly left such a guest 
 in possession of the feast, which I am told, remains on the table to 
 this very day; and taking his new-married bride in his arms, 
 hurried away from the gothic hall.” 
 
 I could not but admire this mixture of truth and falsehood: and 
 the plausible turn Padilla had given to an interruption, witnessed 
 by so numerous an assembly, that to have denied the fact, would 
 be to have pronounced himself guilty. 
 
 Credulity is ever ready to believe without criticism; and no 
 tale can be too improbable for ignorant auditors. I had been 
 warned by Gonzalez of the ridiculous reports circulated by the 
 servants, which he never took the trouble to contradict; and I 
 was grieved to see that Virginia had paid them so much attention. 
 Nothing indeed could be more natural iu their secluded situation, 
 where a tale of the marvellous had charms unknown in the busy 
 scenes of life; and where superstition held its sway without 
 controul. 
 
 <€ Virginia,” said I, at the conclusion of her story, “ I have 
 some reasons to wish jou not to place too much confidence in 
 the strange reports of domestics. They are generally unacquain- 
 ed with facts ; and from vague information, or half-heard sentences 
 conjure up a story that will set reason at defiance. Let us now', 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 9T 
 
 brought back to their fancy the pleasures of their, native fields, 
 and forgot the fatigues of tlieir journey in the remembrance of 
 past felicity. 
 
 What a contrast did their vivacity form against the joyless 
 scene around us. It exhibited that trait of the human charac¬ 
 ter which 'can feel pleasure in the midst of danger, and happi¬ 
 ness in regions of unproductive barrenness. 
 
 Having wearied themselves with singing and dancing they 
 laid down on the hard rock to enjoy the refreshment of sleep, 
 while mv fancy dwelt upon Virginia, and complicated plans of 
 futurity. 
 
 “Undoubtedly,” thought I, “the lower ranks of life are not 
 half so much exposed to vexations as those of greater refinement. 
 VVhat lofty cares interrupt the slumbers of these muleteers, on 
 the tops of the mountains of Morena ? while I, to whom they look 
 up with envy, feel myself infinitely more unhappy. VV hence 
 arises this distinction ? Are our joys and sorrows nearly poised? 
 Or, does a cultivated mind bring forth imaginary evils? 55 
 
 In reflections like these I passed the time till the hour arrived 
 for our journeying onwards. The guides and Raolo were quickly 
 ready, and we bade adieu, with some regret, to our rude shelter. 
 
 —the sun vet blazing with splendour. 
 
 No. 13. 
 
98 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 We wound amongst the rugged roads of the mountains: now 
 climbing by a narrow path, now proceeding down a dangerous 
 steep; then edging the brink of a precipice, where the smallest 
 slip would have been fatal; or traversing with caution the narrow 
 and gloomy defile, where every hollow might conceal a band of 
 ruffians, and fancy might almost see them start upon the trembling 
 traveller. 
 
 Towards evening the wind freshened, blowdng cold over the 
 tops of the mountains, whose bare sides afforded no foliage to 
 shelter off the blast. Heavy clouds rose over the horizon, adding 
 to the darkness and dreariness of coming night. I inquired how 
 far we had to go before we arrived at the next inn ? 
 
 “ No less than four leagues,” replied one of the [muleteers; 
 “ and these clouds drive on so heavy, that I’m feared, Senor, we 
 shall not reach there by night fall.” 
 
 66 And do you know no nearer shelter, no goatherds’ hovels, 
 where we could find a night’s lodging ? ” said I. 
 
 ec No, your Excellenza,” replied he. {( This part of the moun¬ 
 tains is so barren, that a kidling of a year’s growth could not 
 browse upon it. We have nothing to do, but put forward, and 
 trust to St. Michael.” 
 
 “ That is an excellent sentiment,” said I. (C If we always 
 hope for the best, and defy the worst, we shall overcome many a 
 difficulty.” 
 
 “ You are perfectly right, Senor,” replied Raolo. “ The man 
 who feels every danger which may happen, is never ready when 
 they do. A soldier, your Excellenza, should brave every weather, 
 and every difficulty. He should be above fortune, it he would 
 not have fortune use him ill.” 
 
 “ I approve your courage, Raolo; but suppose now we should 
 be attacked by some troop of robbers ? ” 
 
 “ O, for the love of Christ ! ” cried one of the muleteers, 
 don’t suppose any such thing, your Excellenza; “what would 
 become of us ? I never had any relish for fighting in my life ; 
 and just now I think less than ever.” 
 
 66 There are very strange stories it must be owned,” said 
 another. “ I have sometimes listened till my hair bristled up an 
 end. There, Senor, there is a cross, stuck upon the edge of that 
 rock. Some traveller has been murdered there.” 
 
 Each of the muleteers crossed themselves, repeating their Ave 
 Maria . 
 
 “Do you know the story?” inquired I ; willing to amuse the 
 
 time with conversation : for I felt the gloom that was deepening 
 
 around us affect my spirits, which had never regained their tone, 
 
 since mv adventure in the forest. 
 
 * 
 
99 
 
 THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 i( It has been there/’ said Pedro, Si ever since I can first 
 remember. In former times it used to be almost impossible to 
 travel over the mountains; and in some places the crosses stand 
 so thick, you would think they were planted to grow there.” 
 
 “ You are very familiar with sacred things,” said his com¬ 
 panion ; “ for my part my blood runs cold when I see them ; 
 especially since I heard the story which old Jacinthatold me one 
 night at Tolosa.” 
 
 What story was that?” said Jerome. I never heard it, 
 and I have heard many strange things.” 
 
 “ Tf his Excellenza will give me leave,” said the muleteer, I 
 will tell you now. It is not very long, and you will find it very 
 entertaining.” 
 
 <£ How can that be, honest friend? ” said L 
 “ It may very well be,” replied he, bowing; ‘‘but it begins 
 to rain, and we shall be soon drenched to the skin.” 
 
 I inquired if they knew of no shelter, such as we found at 
 noon. 
 
 66 No,” replied Pedro. “I would not for the universp 
 descend into those glens; they look, by this light, like so many 
 unfathomable pits. I should think I was going down into the 
 bottomless gulph.” 
 
 “ You make a strange comparison,” said I. “If you all 
 prefer a wet skin to braving the dangers of these unknown cavities, 
 put on ; and let us have the story Martin was going to entertain 
 us with.” 
 
 The evening was so dark, that we began to lose the distinct 
 view of immediate objects; and surely no prospect could be so 
 totally cheerless. The rain spread a mist about us, and rendered 
 the roads dangerous; while we feared to move from a direct line 
 in search of shelter, lest we should plunge down some precipice, 
 or wholly lose the road. The muleteers could not dissemble 
 their fears: and I had to urge Martin several times for his story, 
 well knowing that talking banishes fear. After several loud hems, 
 Martin began, his companions riding close, that they might attend 
 his tale. 
 
 “ A traveller, who was mounted on a sorry ass, had to journey 
 over the mountains alone without a guide, for he was very poor. 
 He rode several days, till he came near the middle of the 
 mountain. It was about night-fall that he arrived at the foot of 
 a prodigious large cross, fixed up where a barbarous murder had 
 formerly been committed. 
 
 “ Beside the cross stood a mule, ready saddled and bridled, 
 the bridle fixed to the cross; but as he drew near, he saw no 
 owner for the mule, at which he very much wondered. He 
 
100 
 
 ELMIRA; or, 
 
 stopped his ass to look round, but could see nobody. * This is 
 wonderful strange!’ said lie to hi'’self; ‘ this mule could not 
 have been placed here without hands; and why, above all places 
 in the world, place it on a cross? ’ I should have told you, that 
 his surprise at sight of the mule, made him forget to repeat his 
 Ave Maria; a thing never to be omitted on these occasions by a 
 good Christian. 
 
 “ Well, there he stood considering what the mule should do in 
 such a place without a master. f ’Tis a thousand pities,’ thought 
 he, ‘ so fine an animal should be so exposed to the weather. 
 He will be starved—some brute of a man will come by and take 
 him away. Why then may not I exchange him for my worn out 
 ass, who is more used to hardship than this sleek looking beast.’ 
 
 “ Having settled this point of humanity with his conscience, 
 he dismounted, and taking off the bridle, hung that of his ass in 
 the place. He than mounted, overjoyed at the exchange and ad¬ 
 miring the adventure; but he no sooner touched the back of the 
 mule, than away it galloped, scouring along the road, as il he 
 would break the neck of his rider. 
 
 “ The traveller endeavoured in vain to check him by the bridle; 
 he rode the more furiously, leaping prodigious chasms, and tear¬ 
 ing down the most frightful precipices. The poor fellow would 
 not have given a pin for his neck; and his bones were shaken in 
 his skin like a sack of cucumbers. But now we come to the most 
 tragical part of the story.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Raolo, with a laugh, <f let us have it by all 
 means ; what became of the traveller ?” 
 
 “ You shall hear,” replied Martin. The mule continued to 
 drive on at a most prodigious pace till he was all in a violent foam, 
 passing along the narrowest roads within an inch of the edge ; 
 sometimes tearing up hill, and then flying down, till the traveller 
 was almost dead with fatigue and fright.” 
 
 “Prithee, get him a little faster to the end of his journey,” 
 said 1. , 
 
 £f Please your Excellenza,” replied Martin, he went as fast as 
 he could; and it is impossible to finish the story before he ends 
 his career. 
 
 <f Well, he rode onwards, without being stopped or interrupted 
 by any thing on the way; nor did he meet with any living crea¬ 
 ture in this long course. He pulled hard at the reins to check 
 the mule, but he still continued to ride on as he did at first: and 
 what was more strange his swiftness seemed even to increase.” 
 
 “ O, intolerable !” exclaimed I. “ If he galloped as fast as 
 thy tongue, and to as little purpose, I fancy he never reached the 
 end of his journey.” 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 101 
 
 \ es, Senor, continued Martin, in a serious tone, “ he gal¬ 
 loped at a terrible rate, till he all on a sudden stood still, in a 
 nanow sa\agedooking hollow, where some thorns formed a cover 
 over head, and concealed even the twinkling of a star. The tra¬ 
 veller did not at all like the looks ol this spot. Me began to spur 
 and kick the beast to make him go on, but it was all in vain—he 
 stood stock still. He beat him over the head with his whip, but 
 the mule only hung his ears; he began to coax him, but he only 
 wagged his tail, and would not stir one step.” 
 
 u I m afraid,” said I, “ we are pretty much in the same situa¬ 
 tion : tell us, however, how long he stood in that position?” 
 
 1,4 1 can’t say exactly how long, Senor, but there he stood ; nor 
 would all the traveller could devise make him stir one step. He 
 dismounted and tugged at the bridle ; the mule put his fore -feet 
 to the ground, and stood firm. He went behind, and endeavoured 
 to shove him forward; but he might as well have attempted to 
 push down one of the mountains. He began to think that his feet 
 might be fixed in some trap, and he lifted them one by one, but 
 the mule would not stir.” 
 
 “ And there your tale remains,” said I, "‘like the traveller’s 
 mule.” 
 
 “ No, no,” replied he, “ I am not at the end of it yet. The 
 traveller in amazement mounted again, and the mule began to 
 neigh so loud, that all the cliffs rechoed the sound, and he thought 
 himself surrounded by a thousand others. The ground on which 
 he stood began gradually to move—” 
 
 “ JJravo ! bravo ! honest Martin,” cried I, “ this is a promising 
 story truly.—So, as the mule would not go, the ground was 
 obliged to undertake the journey !” 
 
 “\ou are pleased to be merry, Senor; but I can assure you 
 this is no joke. The ground, as I said, began to move, and to 
 sink downwards, till the traveller in affright found himself up to the 
 stirrup. In a moment after it was up to his breast; and before 
 he could raise his hands to cross himself, he found himself in a 
 cavern : where three fierce robbers, with whiskers from ear to 
 ear, and rapiers that trailed upon the ground, seized him at once 
 by the collar. 
 
 “ Ha! dog of a wretch!” cried they, in voices of thunder, 
 “ you would have stolen the mule, and the mule has stolen you. 
 You will be a dead man in a minute; but first tell us what you 
 
 _ ' 9 , 
 
 have got about you.” 
 
 “ For the sake of St. Dominique,” said the traveller, “ spare my 
 life. You will get nothing by killing me, gentlemen, I have not 
 a.maravidie about me. All my wealth was upon the back of my 
 poor ass, doubloons and dollars. I had not the time to remove 
 
102 
 
 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 them on to the back of that devil of a beast, before he rode away 
 with me. If you will only give me time, i will go and fetch it.’* 
 
 “ No, no/’ replied the thieves, 66 we are not so easily done as 
 that comes to, we will fetch it ourselves: in the meanwhile we 
 shall keep you safe enough.” With that they dragged the poor 
 trembling wretch into a long chamber of the cave, where he felt 
 nothing beneath his feet but skulls and dry bones of travellers 
 who had been trepanned in the same way, and his heart sunk 
 within him. 
 
 “ When he supposed the thieves at a distance, he began to 
 think how useless it was for him to spend his time in studying 
 over death’s heads when he was no hermit; and taking up a 
 strong thigh-bone, he made use of it to force the door of his 
 dungeon. 
 
 “ An excellent repast of meat and wine stood upon a table ; 
 and being willing to have another meal before he should be 
 starved to death, he fell to. The wine made him merry ; and, 
 seeing a dress belonging to one of the robbers, he stripped off 
 his own, being naturally fond of exchanges. 
 
 “ He admired the fierceness of his figure, armed with pistols 
 and a long Toledo, and began to lose all apprehensions of the 
 thieves. He considered, however, that it might be as well to 
 leave them to themselves when they should return ; and, as doubt¬ 
 less the mule who so well knew the way in, must know the way 
 out; he loaded him with some bags of hard coin, that the weight 
 might cool his courage, and mounting him, began to drub him. 
 
 “The mule, no doubt, thinking by the dress of his rider, that 
 he had one of his masters to deal with, immmediately struck into 
 a long dark passage, where the traveller was obliged to lay upon 
 his breast along the animal’s neck, to prevent his own being 
 broken. A glimpse of light at last appeared, and he found him¬ 
 self in a deep hollow surrounded by rocks, from which the mule 
 had a difficulty to extricate himself.” 
 
 “ I would not run so many dangers for all the money he got by 
 it,” said Pedro. 
 
 “ W hat became of the traveller’s ass, Martin ?” said Raolo. 
 
 Aye, truely, 1 had forgot, my honest cousin. There is a very 
 long story goes about that same ass; he had a very droll name, 
 and that was Raolo.” 
 
 We all laughed at the fellow’s humour, which had prevented 
 our thinking too much of our situation, being completely drenched 
 with rain. It continued to pour down, while the wind pelted us 
 unmercifully, and almost took the mules from their feet. 
 
 We had still a considerable distance to ride before we came to 
 the inn ; and then the cheerless prospect presented, of no accom¬ 
 modation, a general rule all over Spain. 
 
THE MURDERED BRIDE. 
 
 103 
 
 a This is bitter weather, indeed,” said Pedro, “ the poor beasts 
 will be jaded to death, and what a fine day we had of it. Diablo ! 
 if I don t think the inn has run away like the traveller’s mule.” 
 
 After this observation, we dropt into a profound silence, till 
 fear getting the better of Pedro, he first began to whistle, and 
 then to sing with all his strength, as if to out-noise the storm, and 
 deafen himself to its roaring. Martin and Jerome frequently 
 ejaculated Diablo ! or crossed themselves as the gusts of wind 
 caused them to bend over the necks of their mules. Raolo and 
 myself rode on in silence ; till Raolo ventured to observe, that we 
 had not been so nearly drowned for many a day; nor undergone 
 so much fatigue since the storming of fort Oran. 
 
 “ What a charming prospect,” said Raolo, “ we should now 
 have of a storm on this heap ol mountains, were it not that which 
 ever way we look, it is equally dark; not so much to bejjseenasan 
 old stump, stretching out its arms, like a giant, to devour travel¬ 
 lers by night. 
 
 “ It is now infinitely more sublime,” said I. “ Now you may 
 fancy any thing you please, and dress up the waste in your own 
 style. 1 wish, however, this inn was a little nearer. It is the 
 only addition I have any desire at present to see made to the 
 prospect.” 
 
 “ I should not wonder if we passed it in the dark,” said 
 Raolo : “ we keep in the middle of the road to prevent breaking 
 our necks down the steep, and we shall chance to ride all 
 night.” 
 
 “ 0 beatissimo nuestro Senora /” vociferated Pedro several 
 times. “ ’Tis there ! ’tis there !” 
 
 “ What is there ?” demanded I. 
 
 (t The inn ! the inn !” cried he. O beatissimo nuestra Senora! 
 we shall now sleep in a sound skm, and hear the storm singing 
 about us all the while !” 
 
 “ You are run mad,” said Raolo. “ I see no inn, nor any 
 signs of it—where about does it stand ?” 
 
 “ There, there,” cried he, “ right before us. Don’t you see 
 that little light sparkling through the windows ? Aye, there we 
 shall have a comfortable fire, and some of the best aqua vitae in 
 all Spain.” 
 
 I now discerned the faint glimmer of a lamp, which promised 
 no very cheerful welcome : but any shelter being preferable to 
 the pelting storm, we quickened our mules, and soon found our¬ 
 selves at the door. 
 
 The muleteers called aloud on Master Polo, the Host; but 
 Polo did not choose to hear anything but the storm, and all their 
 efforts were useless.. Martin dismounted, and thundered with 
 
104 ELMIRA; OR, 
 
 the handle of his whip against the door, but nobody returned a n ) 
 answer. 
 
 “ They are all dead for certain 4 ” said he, £i or deserve to be, 
 for treating us in this scurvy way.” Then discharging a stone 
 at the door, as if he intended to break it open, he called aloud 
 upon the Host. u If this is the treatment I am to meet with, 
 cried he, u I shall change my bait, and never call as I cross the 
 mountains.” 
 
 (S If you never stop here,” said I, “ where will you put up ? 
 for we have not seen any thing like a house since morning. 
 
 “ Why that’s true,” replied Martin : “ hut when a man is 
 drowned, and hungry, and dry, and cold, he never stops to 
 choose his words.” 
 
 “ Nor must he choose his inn upon these wilds,’ said Raolo. 
 
 “ This is a selfish fellow truly” said I: “ he knows civility is 
 a useless ingredient where there is no choice. If lie will not stir 
 for our sake, let us try what he will do for his own. W e must 
 use a stratagem of war—call out fire, lustily, my hoys.” 
 
 The expedient had the desired effect.—Polo opened the win¬ 
 dow in a hurry, to know what was the matter, and where the 
 fire might he ; hut seeing all safe, he w r as retiring, muttering 
 oaths at our disturbing his rest. 
 
 “ Look’e, Master Polo,” cried Martin, “ by all the holy Apos¬ 
 tles, Prophets, Evangelists and Martyrs ! if you don’t come 
 down and open the door, 1 will set fire to your hovel, that we 
 may dry ourselves as we stand !” 
 
 This brought Polo again to the window, demanding who we 
 were, and what we wanted at that late hour. 
 
 “ Come down quickly and open the door,” cried Raolo, “ or 
 you will have occasion to repent it the longest day you live. 
 Are the king’s officers to stand begging at the door of a paltry 
 inn, while a fellow like you is dozing in a warm bed ?” 
 
 Polo now made haste to open the door, terrified at the sound 
 of the king’s officers, and w r e entered a little miserable place, 
 with a mud floor almost in a puddle. At the farther end w r as an 
 open fire place, without one spark to w r arni this wretched 
 place. 
 
 Ilaolo seized some faggots, and 1 helped him to place them on 
 the stove. A large fire was quickly made, and some rancid ba¬ 
 con and oil prepared by a little meagre figure of a woman, the 
 picture of poverty and ill nature. She was only half dressed, in 
 her hurry to attend us, when she knew the respectability oi the 
 guests; and her brow n skin peeped forth here and there in no 
 very tempting manner. 
 
 Hunger gave us appetite to the homely dish she provided; 
 
THE 
 
 BRIDAL OF B ORTH WICK 
 
 A SCOTTISH TALE. 
 
 By D. M. MOIR. 
 
 l 
 
 (COPYRIGHT.) 
 
 Dear, leave thy home, and come with me, 
 
 That scorn the world for love of thee; 
 
 Thou shalt have wool, thou shalt have silk, 
 
 Thou shalt have honey, wine and milk; 
 
 Thou shalt have all, for all is due, 
 
 Where thoughts are free and love is true.—E arl of Pembroke. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. CLEMENTS, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET, 
 
 FOR THE PROPRIETORS OF 
 

 
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THE BRIDAL OF BORTHWICK. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “ Dear, leave thy home, and come with me. 
 
 That scorn the world for love, of thee ; 
 
 Thou shalt have wool, thou shalt have silk, 
 
 Thou shalt have honey, wine and milk ; 
 
 Thou shalt have all, for all is due 
 Where thoughts are free and love is true.” 
 
 Earl of Pembroke. 
 
 Lady Jemima de Borthwick was not more remarkable for her bearing than for her strong 
 passions. Descended from a long line of high progenitors, she had perhaps allowed over¬ 
 much the consciousness of her nobility to hold in abeyance the milder and more feminine 
 graces of her nature. This aristocratic disposition, let it, however, in charity be acknow¬ 
 ledged, was never allowed to display itself in tyrannous orders or actions, but left itself to 
 be inferred from her haughty reserve, the splendour of her usual attire, and her strict atten¬ 
 tion to preserve her children from vulgar contamination. 
 
 Had fortune established them somewhat, lower in the scale of society, this secluding system 
 of their parent might perhaps have cost them more than it was their lot to feel; for the 
 lawns and gardens around the fine castle of Borthwick afforded them sufficient scope for air 
 
 and exercise. 
 
 At the time of our little narrative. Lord de Borthwick was abroad at the court of France, 
 at the head of an embassy from Holyrood ; and his lady kept herself almost shut up within 
 the walls of the castle, one of the most splendid and redoubtable structures of the kind in all 
 Scotland, whether considered as a place of residence or defence ; though the value of a home, 
 in those troubled times, was estimated less by its comfort than its security. Human foresight, 
 however, is frail; for, notwithstanding its being almost surrounded by a rivulet named the 
 Gore, denying access, save by a perron of stone raised to the height of the first story, and 
 thence communicating by a drawbridge with the gate of the tower, it did not prevent the 
 very simple accident which is the basis of the following little tale. 
 
 Not only was the old family-nurse prohibited from carrying the children beyond the 
 grounds in the immediate neighbourhood of the castle, but they were never, on any account, 
 permitted to go out without her attendance. It chanced, however, that the orchard-gate 
 had been one day left open, and while the nurse, seated in the shade of a large cherry-tree, 
 was amusing Margery, the eldest daughter, with some verses of an old song, as she plied her 
 needle-work, Lilian, the younger of the two, in her frolicsome chase of a butterfly, made 
 her way out at it. The day was fine, and all the air musical with birds. The nurse sang, 
 
 and the young lady listened; but vvhen Lilian was missed and called for—Lilian was no¬ 
 where to be found. 
 
 Conscious of her lady’s impetuous temper, and terrified for the consequences of her own 
 indiscretion, the old nurse lost the only chance of redlining her strayed charge, by making 
 
 the affair known, and calling in the domestics to her assistance. Two hours were suffered to 
 elapse in fruitless search; the gardens—the shrubberies—the parks—nay, even the apart¬ 
 ments of the castle itself had all to no purpose been gone through, ere, approaching the focus 
 
4 
 
 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 of their dismay, Margery at length burst from the side of the old woman, and running with 
 tears in her eyes to the chamber of her mother, told her that Lilian was nowhere to be found. 
 
 The abruptness of the disclosure threw the unfortunate lady, as might have been antici¬ 
 pated, into a severe swoon, from which she was not for a considerable time, and with some 
 difficulty, recovered. Then, indeed, did a commotion commence, worthy of traditional record ; 
 for the alarm-bells were set a jingling so sincerely in earnest, that they were answered from 
 the towers of Crichton Castle on the one hand, and Oxenford on the other. The steeds 
 were hurried from their stalls, and twenty serving-men were in a few minutes mounted, and 
 scouring the country in every direction ; the bugles of one party responding to the bugles of 
 another, and thus keeping up a chain of observation and intelligence. Every half hour a 
 message was sent up to the warden, to learn if any one was seen returning from among the 
 hills with happy tidings; but noon matured into afternoon, and afternoon waned into evening; 
 in purple and gold the sun was descending behind the summits of the western Pentlands, 
 and the bat was already abroad, flapping his leathern wings, ere, one after another, dropped 
 in jaded steed and man, without having gained trace or intelligence of the lost child. 
 
 This was a grievous calamity for the house of Borthwick ; and they judge harshly of its 
 lady, who suppose that under the dazzling and proud exterior, dwelt none of the natural 
 affections peculiar to a mother. The opposite may be asseverated to have been the fact, for 
 the distraction of her mind amounted almost to insanity; the regards which she had been 
 accustomed to withhold from the great mass of society, finding their almost only outlet in 
 maternal tenderness. Day after day passed over, and day after day search was repeated in 
 vain, stewards were offered, but no one ever came forward to claim them ; and when Lord 
 do Borthwick returned from abroad, he found his fair little Lilian vanished, no one knew 
 where, and his lady, with the whole household, in mourning. 
 
 Year after year came to pass away, and Lilian de Borthwick was as one who had never 
 been, except in the unsatisfied recollection of her parents. It was concluded, either that she 
 had wandered into the woods, and losing herself in their recesses, perished of hunger, or had 
 fallen into some of the streams in attempting to find her way back to the castle. It was long 
 afterwards discovered, however, the truth of the story ran in neither of these channels. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Though the time when the gipsies, or wandering Egyptians, first appeared in Scotland, be 
 not exactly ascertained* the earliest authenticated notice of them hitherto met with, is in a 
 letter of James the Fourth, to the King of Denmark, soliciting the extension of his royal 
 uncle’s munificence to a party of them, who were travelling back to their native country on 
 the banks of the Nile. 
 
 At the period of oilr narrative they had multiplied to a considerable extent, and overrun 
 in an especial manner the districts in the south-east of Scotland: having at Kirkyetholm, in 
 Roxburghshire—a village embosomed among the Cheviot hills—a kind of general rendezvous. 
 This place the vagrant tribe considered as their head-quarters, and, better to bring a people 
 who acknowledged no claims of birthright or citizenship within the pale of justice, the Lords 
 in Council had granted particular powers to the head of their clan, under the style of Lord 
 and Earl of Little Egypt. Nor were the wandering community without their especial utility, 
 at a time, and in a country, where regular merchants were not to be met with, save in the 
 towns and cities, for though notoriously given to petty plunder, and consequently under a 
 particular public surveillance, they atoned for this in some measure by acting as tinkers, 
 and carrying about articles of crockery, selling gewgaws and finery to the swain, wherewith 
 to woo and win the affections of his rustic Dulcinea; or, peradventure, making to many the 
 present time happy, by prophesying lustily of future happiness. 
 
 Now, however little it might have been suspected by the noble family of Borthwick at the 
 time, a female of this tribe, and none other, was the kidnapper of fair little Lilian. Having 
 been perambulating the country in quest of customers for her small rvares, she chanced to be 
 resting on a large stone under a chesnut-tree by the way side, when the child, only three 
 years old, came tottering out, in her glee, from tho gate of the orchard. Such a prize had 
 
THE BRIDAL OF BORTHWICK. 5 
 
 never before awakened the pilfering propensities of the gipsy woman, the child being wrapt 
 up in a scarlet mantle, lined with costly furs, and profusely covered with gold embroidery. As 
 it were a bird drawn by fascination into the jaws of the snake, the heedless child made directly 
 towards the spot where the woman sate. No one seemed to follow ; and, gazing with a quick 
 heedful glance around, she perceived that no one was near; so, thoughtless of consequences, 
 and without having time to reflect, further than that a prize was in her power if she chose to 
 take advantage of her good fortune, she snatched up the little creature in her arms, enveloped 
 her in her ample duffle cloak, and away as fast as she could fly with her burden to the nearest 
 covert of the forest. 
 
 No doubt aware that the child was a scion of the proud tree of Borthwick, and that its 
 abstraction might draw down not only destruction on her own head, but involve the destinies 
 of her whole tribe, it is scarcely to be supposed that the gipsy had any other object in view 
 than to possess herself of the splendid mantle thrown around the child. So, after hurrying 
 on for some little distance into the woods, yet not farther than that Lilian, if brought to the 
 margin, might regain her way home, she endeavoured to undo the clasps which fastened the 
 mantle ; but, after repeated trials, found her efforts unavailing. It was only now that darker 
 purposes flashed athwart the mind of the Egyptian; and, taking out a large knife from her 
 pocket, she threatened instantly to imbrue her hands in the blood of the poor child if she 
 did not promise to remain quiet. She tried and tried in vain, for numerous clasps were 
 secured in a way she knew not to unrivet; and her eastern nature enkindling to a degree of 
 rage, while muttering some dark mysterious curses, she almost resolved on taking away the 
 life of the innocent,—for the fastenings could not be cut asunder, without materially deterio¬ 
 rating the value of her prize. But, even in the darkest and most malignant heart, there are 
 some nooks accessible to the touches of nature—some kindly speck in the blasted wilderness 
 of the human bosom, with its singing bird, and its spring, and its palm tree:—so when Lilian 
 cast up her bright blue eye, craving the mercy and compassion of the savage, the hard knots 
 of her swarthy brow relaxed ; the scintillations of her dark flashing eyes abated; and, threaten¬ 
 ing the child on the peril of its life to make any. outcry, she snatched her again up into her 
 arms, and pursued her way to the hills, through the by-paths of the forest. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The summer sun was now high in heaven, and the gipsy was far on the road towards Kelso, 
 though she kept carefully aloof from public observation, by threading many “ a bosky bourne, 
 and busky dell now making directly to some mountainous point among the Lammer-muir 
 hills, and now winding circuitously around the far-scattered farm-steadings. Often, from the 
 top of rising grounds, did she stop to listen, and to look back in the direction of Borthwick 
 Castle ; but neither sight nor sound conveyed to her a token of alarm or pursuit. Weary 
 and worn out with her burden, and her hurried journey, she came to a rivulet which gurgied 
 pleasantly under some ash trees, and here, seeing no trace of human habitation nearer than a 
 village some two miles distant, she laid down Lilian on the grass, that she might wash and 
 refresh herself. 
 
 Fatigue, terror, and anxiety, had so overcome the gentle child, that in a little she fell into 
 a sound sleep, from which she did not awaken as the Egyptian conveyed her to the screen of 
 a blaeberry-bush; for the sun was fierce and scorching, and there was not a cloud on the 
 faGe of the blue sky. Scarcely had she done this, when her ear was suddenly alarmed by the 
 trampling of horses, and climbing a little way up one of the trees, she perceived a party 
 ascending the nearest brae. What could she do ? To alarm the child was now too late ; for 
 in awaking it suddenly, it was most likely that a sense of its situation might cause it to scream, 
 
 and bring the horsemen directly upon her to escape from the copse was impossible ;_and 
 
 she immediately found that she had nothing for it but to provide for her own safety, by creeping 
 into a large hole in a sand bank, half hidden by the tangled branches of the sloe and bramble. 
 
 Scarcely had she got securely into her hiding place, when the riders approached. It was, 
 however, none of the scouring parties of Lady de Borthwick, but the lady abbess of Coldin°- 
 hame, who had been across the Frith of Forth, conducting some sacerdotal business at 
 
6 . THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 Dunfermline, and was now on her homeward route, attended by three of the lay-brothers of 
 the convent. Engaged in conversation, they had almost passed the copse, when the last of 
 the train, beholding the scarlet tinge of the child’s mantle under one of the bushes, reined up 
 his horse, made a signal for the party to halt, and, dismounting, found little Lilian fast asleep. 
 As no one was to be seen around, the abbess commanded the child to be carried forward along 
 with them, promising that it should be carefully attended to, until such traces might be 
 discovered as might lead to its restoration. 
 
 Scotland was, at that remote period, divided into a gfSat many almost distinct compartments, 
 from the pernicious prevalence of ithe feudal system—a system which rendered proximity of 
 lordship an almost certain plea for discord and disturbance, hostile aggression, and hostile 
 retaliation. On these accounts, there was little commerce or connection between the baronies 
 of Borthwiek and Consland, and those lying farther south ; the districts skirting the sea 
 having a more natural communication with the populous coast of Fifeshire ; while the border 
 counties formed a link of union among themselves to make incursions into the northern parts 
 of England, or resist the predatory attacks of the powerful families of Scroope, Howard, and 
 Percy. 
 
 Whatever might have been the cause—and probably this was the true one—the asylum of 
 Lilian never was discovered ; and she was suffered to grow up in the seclusion of the cloister, 
 like a violet in the shade. All the knowledge and learning of the times were, however, duly 
 propounded to her; for the abbess, to her credit be it spoken, took a pride in her young charge, 
 who, when she had attained to her fifteenth year, was a perfect model of feminine beauty. To 
 her external loveliness she added the endearing additions of a spirit the most affable and 
 benign, a heart overflowing with feelings of sympathy, and a sensibility to the charms of 
 external nature, illustrative of all that is excellent and generous. She looked on all living 
 things as if she derived pleasure from the sight; and, by the charms of her temper and person, 
 stole away the affections of all that looked on her. 
 
 About this time Sir David Seaton, a young and valiant knight, arrived from East Lothian 
 on some matter of business, and, in his conversations with the lady abbess in the guest hall, 
 was smitten with the loveliness of the fair foundling, who sat at work in one of the window- 
 niches. The severe rules of the place fprbade any formal introduction, and courtesy pre¬ 
 vented his making those approaches which affection eagerly dictated to him, and Sir David 
 departed withouUopportunity of exchanging a word with the beautiful stranger. 
 
 But the genius of true love is fruitful in inventions, and the business of the young knight's 
 mission, it w'as soon found, could not be settled at a single interview; so, in a short time, 
 without more leave’s-asking than a beneficent glance from the bright blue eyes of Lilian, he 
 ventured on breaking the ice of restraint between them. Circumstances paved the way for 
 one another; subject introduced subject, and interview led to interview. Still, it maybe 
 sworn, that even the unworldly abbess herself began to suspect, that mettle more attractive 
 than the settlement of some trifling difference concerning the feu-tenure of some church lands, 
 led the young scion of Seaton such a frequent dance, though scarcely could she allow herself 
 to suppose, that the heir of a powerful and ancient family could honourably fix his affections 
 on a foundling, who had no escutcheon of nobility to boast of, save that of nature in her fair 
 face and fame. 
 
 In this, however, she mistook ; for not only had Sir David Seaton placed his affections on 
 the lovely, homeless Lilian, but he had secretly vowed within his own soul, in the fervour of 
 youthful passion, that none other but she should share his house and heart. But a tremendous 
 barrier opposed itself between them—for how was he to obtain the consent of his family and 
 relations, proud of their rich blood and high pedigree, to his union with a girl who could not 
 reckon ancestry back the length of her own parents ? The jealousy of the lady abbess, 
 kindled but too late, had by this time denied him access to the convent; but as the old song 
 goes, “ True love will venture in, where it dare not well be seen,” and had before this 
 established a channel of communication; so Lilian was the plighted mistress of the young 
 lord of Seaton. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF BORTHWICK. 
 
 7 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 While the young knight and the fair Lilian where thus basking in the secret sunshine of their 
 joves, it so happened that the Baron of Borthwick took up his abode at Winton house for a 
 few days. Here he was nobly feasted and entertained by his host, who, having been left in 
 early minority by the death of bis father, had now attained to an age when he was deemed 
 capable to take the management of his extensive estates ; and it was on this occasion that one 
 evening, after the wine cup had circulated freely, the old lord, in recalling early times, spoke of 
 his juvenile intimacy with the deceased Sir Hugh Seaton, and of many extraordinary ren¬ 
 contres which had mishapped between them. Among other things he spoke of a famous 
 deer-chase, in which several riders and a number of horses had lost their lives, and when, after 
 all the dogs were done up, Sir Hugh held the buck by the antlers, till he himself despatched 
 him with the whinvard. “ But, my dear young friend,” said he, “ there is a story that, above 
 all, concerns you. Perhaps you may not be aware of the paction entered into, on our words 
 of honour, that our families should be united, provided the one possessed a son, and the other 
 a daughter ?” 
 
 It may easily be supposed the effect which this disclosure had on the heart of the young 
 knight, for never, till that moment, had be been made aware of the existence of such an agree¬ 
 ment ; and he knew too well the character of old Lord de Borthwick, to conceive him capa¬ 
 ble of jesting on such a subject. He was completely overtaken unawares, and at a loss what 
 to think ; for however rash he might deem bis parent, for having become a party to such an 
 unnatural agreement, yet did he hold his memory in such reverence as to reckon any act of 
 disobedience on his owm part not only unallowable, but sacrilegious. Then rose the form of 
 fair Lilian to the eye of his mind, and he was tossed in a sea of troubles. Could he think of 
 abandoning one so beautiful in form, and so pure in heart; whose affections he had wooed, 
 and Won ; and wno was willing to leave all, and follow his fortunes ! He wist not what to 
 think, for well he knew that, backed by the whole host of his relations, Lord de Borthwick 
 would call upon him to redeem the pledge, which had been sacredly given. So when, next 
 morning, he bade farewell to the party of the old baron, at the gate facing towards his town 
 of Ormiston, he shook him cordially by the hand, saying, “ Would to heaven your discovery 
 of yesterday had been made to me somewhat earlier, my lord ; nevertheless, I shall endea¬ 
 vour in all things to conduct myself as becometh a real and spotless knight; and, as in all 
 things I have been solicitous to follow the dictations of him who hath gone to a better 
 world, so far as honourably in me lies, his will in this matter also shall not be forgotten.” 
 
 Chafed in his mind, and depressed in spirit, finding it impossible to reconcile this contest 
 between honour and duty that now followed, it is easier to imagine than describe the state 
 into which the gallant young knight was thrown. A few restless days, and almost phrensied 
 nights, passed over him, and, driven to the verge of despair, he at length determined to 
 j unbosom himself to Lilian, and abide by her decision, whatever that might be. On the one 
 hand, he was called upon to ratify the paction of a father whom he tenderly loved in life • 
 whose rnemory he revered; and whose wishes commanded his most implicit regard; but to 
 verify ^^>dadage about “the course of true love,” &c. these wishes could not be'fulfilled 
 doing Htfifcnce to his most deeply-cherished feelings, and injustice to her who had 
 r ' ^exchanged vows of rraM affection, and whose loveliness and virtue tended so greatly to 
 '.enhance the magnitude ofHhe^v'Wice. 
 
 No sooner, however, wasxhe notfte-hearted Lilian made aware of what had been disclosed, 
 
 I than she heroically forestalled him in his application ; and, whatever the resolution might have 
 post her, she bore up against the threatened troubles, and suffered not her sorrows to appear. 
 She wrote to him a long epistle, conjuring him, by the sincerity of the love he had once pro¬ 
 cessed, to cherish hope no longer—to forget that such a being as herself existed, and faithfully 
 o obey the sacred duty he owed to the memory of his beloved parent. “ In me,” she added, 
 1 1 you might have found a humble follower of your fortunes, but not such a wife as the high 
 blood of Seaton calls for, and your merits claim. Think not of it—think not of me one 
 
8 
 
 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 moment longer. Unless yi^T consider my nature to be as base as my origin is obscure— 
 unless you wish me to believe that Sir David Seaton can prefer his own selfish gratifications 
 to the high and holy commands, ratified by the honour of a parent, and entailed on him as a 
 sacred duty to obey, you will see me no longer, nor venture to delude mine ear, or your own 
 heart, with vain sophisms. The die is cast. Farewell for ever ! let our next meeting be in 
 heaven. While I live, my prayers for ycur welfare and happiness shall duly ascend; and 
 when I die, I shall—’tis the only earthly recompence I demand—I shall expect that you shed 
 a single tear into my closing grave. 
 
 “ For the last time, farewell, farewell! and remember this, that had you not been true to 
 the injunctions of your father, you never could have been true to me. Should you consider 
 my poor loss as at all a sacrifice, console yourself with the truth that filial piety demanded it. 
 Secure from the tumults of the vain world, my days—and may they be few—will glide over 
 in peace, and, from thoughts dedicated to heaven, the only earthly claim will be my constant 
 prayer that Sir David Seaton and the wife of his bosom be happy and prosperous! ” 
 
 Terrible was the struggle between love and duty in the bosom of our hero; and had the 
 extremest danger that ever mortal heroism encountered, been sufficient to have given him a 
 chance of extricating himself from his difficulty, most gladly would he have encountered the 
 peril. But, on the one side, lay his heart and his vow ; on the other side, an obligation, which 
 his holiest feelings shamed him to regard. The dead could not arise to cancel this command ; 
 but the living had heroically left him, not only free, but had strenuously urged its fulfilment. 
 What could he do ? After allowing his heart to be almost rent asunder, he at length submitted 
 to the solicitations of his relatives: and, may it be added, of his still too dear Lilian;— 
 conscious of the awful sacrifice she was making for his sake, in voluntarily devoting her 
 blooming years to a heartless nunnery; and that, in ratifying his father’s paction, he was 
 sacrificing all his chances of earthly happiness, by uniting himself to a woman he had scarcely 
 ever beheld. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It is a hard thing to go a-woofng against the will, and to make those lip professions whieli 
 the heart has little share in. But circumstances reduced young Sir David Seaton to this 
 dilemma; and after having formally paid due court to Margery, the elder daughter of the 
 house of Borthwick, marriage matters were soon arranged, the bridal day appointed, and 
 magnificent preparations made for celebrating the union of two such powerful families. 
 Could credit be attached to traditional report, such a display of grandeur and magnificence 
 bad seldom been witnessed in this country: many of the nobility, with suitable attendants, 
 convening together, in honour of the joyous festival, from remote quarters; lord, lady, 
 waiting page, guard, and squire of low degree, bedizened out in all the gorgeous extravagance 
 of Uie times, with gold on gown and doublet, down even to the bits of their bridle reins, and 
 the housings of their saddles. So that, for some days anterior to the expected ceremony, 
 arrival after arrival caused the halls of Borthwick to overflow, and added to the cheer of wine 
 and wassail. 
 
 On the arrival of the cavalcade in attendance on the bridegroom, the whole party sat 
 down to a grand dejeune, in which, according to the fashion of the times, more substantia* 
 viands were mingled with rich wines, delicious fruits, confections, and lighter ariit^s SC fare ; 
 and remained at board till near mid-day, the appointed hour of th^filtffjage cere 
 which was to be performed in the chapel of the castle, by the holy A$bot of Seaton, who had 
 accompanied his relative and patron. 
 
 Attended by the ladies of the party, Lady de Borthwick had'freviously to this retired, to 
 observe that everything had been fittingly ordered, and to exhibit her magnificent arran®e- 
 ments. The admiration of all was, however, particularly elicited on surveying the decorations 
 and furnitures of the bridal chamber. The walls were gorgeously covered with the fines? 
 anas tapestry, and the floors were carpeted with stuffs of the most superb Turkish manui 
 facture. Censers, full of the most rare exotics, distributed their incense around; and the 
 hangings of the couch were purple satin, looped up with tasselage of gold. In short, nothin® 
 could be added, even in fancy, to the superb magnificence of the place, which resembled mor 
 
9 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF BORTHWICK. 
 
 the enchanted bower of an oriental tale, than a habitation destined to be occupied by two 
 beings inhaling the breath of frail mortality. So the maidens and waiting women, who stood 
 . passages as old Lady Jemina and her train passed along, expecting praise for this 
 
 tasteful exertion of their handiwork, and, peradventure, largess from her guests, were not 
 baffled in their expectations; but, in a few moments, a wild scream summoned the whole 
 posse to attendance on their mistress. 
 
 And what, it will immediately be asked, caused this so sudden alarm of the old lady ? It 
 was this: —On pulling aside the silken curtains of the couch, to display an embroidered 
 coverlet, in which her maternal pride especially delighted, she beheld, spread over it, the 
 identical bandekine, or eastern mantle, which was around the shoulders of her little Lilian 
 when she disappeared for ever ! She could not mistake it, for its peer was scarcely to be 
 found within the three Lothians; having been brought from Constantinople by a Jewish 
 merchant, on order of Queen Margaret, by whom it was presented to Lady de Borthwick, as 
 a birth-gift at the baptism of her younger danghter. Externally it was of the finest scarlet 
 velvet, starred over with gems and gold ; and, on the inside, lined with furs of the rarest. 
 
 Alarmed at this sudden and inexplicable indisposition of their hostess, the ladies crowded 
 around her, and supported her from sinking on the floor by bearing her away to a seat. 
 
 “ WHat is the matter, what is the matter?” eagerly inquired they all, as they hung around 
 ^ her, unlacing her bodice, and throwing open the casements for fresh air. 
 
 “ The mantle,—the mantle ! ”—was all she was able to exclaim ; and then fainted away. 
 
 “ It was I,” said a stranger, stepping forth from the band of maidens, and putting aside the 
 white veil in which her head and shoulders were shrouded. “ Oh, heavens! what have I 
 done. In my simple way I intended a peace-offering, and lo! I have brought anguish.’* 
 The eyes of the whole group were instantly turned upon her. Never had any one beheld a 
 countenance more radiantly beautiful—and no one had ever seen it before. 
 
 Lilian had always known that her fate was wrapt in darkness, but she had long given up 
 the hope that the mystery of her origin was ever to be developed. She was now, however, 
 as one on whom a meteor light flashes at midnight; and she felt a 3 if the moment had arrived 
 when the riddle was likely to be solved. But let us turn a little back, and account for the 
 unexpected appearance of the fair foundling at this time and place. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 \ Nature is above all; and, though its dictates may be stifled, they can never be eradicated, 
 for in them we live, and move, and have our being. Lilian was doomed to acquiesce in the 
 truth of this apothegm, when, in the solitude of the convent, she heard of the day fixed for the 
 union of the houses of Borthwick and Seaton. In the enthusiasm of her passion she had 
 reckoned on having nobly subdued all selfish considerations, and triumphed in the resolution 
 which had taught her to sacrifice the chances of her own happiness at the shrine of the man 
 she loved. Though yet but on the verge of womanhood, with a sunshining world beckoning 
 to enjoyment, she had acquired fortitude enough to let herself be shut out from its pleasures ; 
 <f but surely,” thought she to herself, “ now when I know that to him I am as I had never 
 been—that the marriage-day is fixed, and the heart and hand of Sir David Seaton devoted to 
 another—it may be allowed me for a moment to look on the happiness I cannot share, and 
 call a silent blessing down on the heads of the bridegroom and his bride.” When the heart is 
 willing to bo led, slender is the sophism that will convince it; and, satisfied with the purity 
 and innocence of her motives, the seemingly stoical, but. in sad truth, disconsolate Lilian, 
 secretly bade adieu to the walls of Coldinghame convent; and by such a bribe to the hand¬ 
 maidens of Borthwick as her slender means admitted, she gained access as an assistant in the 
 preparations for the marriage ceremony. She had arrived on the evening before ; and when, 
 or^the morning of the bridal, the last finishing was given to the gorgeous chamber, she lingered 
 for'a moment behind the rest, and, dashing aside a hasty tear, spread out above the coverlet 
 her uagnificent childish mantle—’twas all on earth she had to give—and departed. 
 
 A that she now lingered for was a parting glance at the happy pair, before she shut out 
 the and feelings from her for ever • when the accident hanpened which led to this 
 dieresW _ , 
 
30 
 
 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST'S LIBRARY. 
 
 “ It was I,” said Lilian, stepping modestly forward, almost trembling at the notice she had 
 drawn upon herself, and at the turbulence of emotion she had excited without knowing how. 
 
 “ And, in heaven’s name, who art thou ?” asked Lady de Borthwick, recovering from her 
 swoon, as she anxiously rose from her chair, and came forward to scrutinize her features. “ It 
 must be—it must be she,” she exclaimed. “ I see—feel—know it all. The same bright 
 flaxen hair, the same bright blue eyes, the straight nose, and the small mouth of the line of 
 De Borthwick. It is—it is my own, my dear, long-lost Lilian !” and with these words, in an 
 agony of parental tenderness, she rushed forward, and threw her arms around her neck, as she 
 clasped her to her bosom. 
 
 The news spread like wildfire through the castle, and all were electrified to hear that, in 
 one of the bower-maidens, Lady de Borthwick had discovered her long-lost child. It was no 
 time for ceremonials, and there was a general rush of exultation towards the bridal chamber ; 
 nor among the last was Sir David Seaton, from whose cheek the sunshine even of a bridal-day 
 had been scarcely sufficient to drive the clouds. 
 
 “ Where is she—where is my affianced sister?” said he, as he made his way through the 
 crowd. Lilian was at the moment standing with her back towards the entrance-door, and 
 the tones of his voice thrilled through every nerve, making her feel as if she could have shrunk 
 into the earth with agitation and delight; but as Sir David stepped forward to embrace her, 
 she turned half round, lifted up her eyes, and her look indicated what could not be expressed. 
 
 Ancient romancers would have called in some mysterious operation of the laws of nature to 
 assist the lovers on such an occasion ; but if, like Niobe of old, Sir David was not actually 
 metamorphosed into a statue, it may of a verity be declared that he looked like one. He 
 stood absorbed in amazement—bis brain whirled round, and all about him seemed but the 
 phantasm of a perplexing dream. .At length, heaving a deep sigh, and leaning his brow on 
 his hand,— 
 
 “ Ah, Lilian, Lilian,” he said, “ how unworthy am I of thy regard or commiseration. 
 Thou hast rescued me from a gulph of perdition and disgrace ! Had my. regard to honour 
 been as pure as thy affection has been devoted, less had been my compunction and self- 
 abasement at this hour. As it is, for the regard I bear, and have borne to thee, I will live 
 single, or wed none other. I have tarnished the fair name of Seaton, and will leave this land 
 for ever !” 
 
 If the astonishment of the group had been formerly great, it was now carried to an inex- M 
 plicable pitch; for not only was the acquaintance of Sir David Seaton with the fair stranger 
 acknowledged, but his love for her also made manifest. How matters should terminate was m 
 not quite so plain. 
 
 “ Not so fast,” exclaimed Sir Gregory de Murray, when Sir David had made an end of T i 
 speaking, <{ heaven orders all for the best, though man is ofttimes so froward in thwarting its 
 purposes, and, in this matter, let us acknowledge the interposition of a particular providence. 
 
 I trust the occasion will prove one of unmingled enjoyment to all; and that those who have 
 been long united in heart shall now in hand be also united. But let us adjourn from this 
 scene of confusion to the hall.” 
 
 When all the party were arranged round Sir Gregory de Murray in the hall, he continued 
 his address. He said, that “ with all respect to the living and the dead, he could not but 
 consider the affiancing of children yet unborn as at best unnatural, even though dictated by 
 the best and purest motives ; as, though hands might be in their power to bestow, it did not 
 follow that they could transfer hearts along with them.” 
 
 «* My Lord and Lady de Borthwick,” he added, turning to and addressing them, “ when, 
 after wooing the affections of your fair daughter Margery, I sued for her hand, your courteous 
 answer informed me, that had not this obstacle stood in the way of our alliance, none otbey j 
 could have possibly obstructed it. Luckily it is now in our power to rectify such an unfortu¬ 
 nate mistake. That obstacle is now to be removed. Though, woe’s me, my fair cousin hdh 
 come forward to-day decked out as the bride of another, I can forgive, nay, admire this 
 exertion of filial duty ; and, if still I hold respect in the eyes of my once plighted, and stu too 
 dear, fair friend-” 
 
 " Nay, hold, more than enough, my gallant knight,” said old Lord de Borthwick, have 
 felt deeply, trust me, the injustice of depriving you of your lady-love, and my daughb of the 
 
THE BRIDAL OF BORTHWICK. H 
 
 object of her choice. But the long-plighted vow—the long-plighted vow—how could I get 
 over it ? Thanks be to heaven, that has not only afforded a remedy, but that in the resto¬ 
 ration of my long-lost child. Margery, come forth, my sweetest, and acknowledge if you are 
 dissatisfied with the change ?” Margery was handed forth, but a deep blush was her only 
 answer, and not an ineloquent one. 
 
 Sir David Seaton then gallantly stepped forward, and, taking hold of 'her hand, placed it 
 within that of Sir Gregory de Murray. “ I have been the unfortunate, though, I assure you, 
 unsuspecting cause of impeding a union which I pray heaven to bless. To you, Sir Gregory, 
 I relinquish all claims—I resign the hand, and the heart, something tells me, you have 
 already won.” 
 
 The Abbot of Seaton was now summoned in to proceed with, what he had no expectations 
 of, a double ceremonial, which he confessed seemed brought about as by an especial inter¬ 
 position of Providence. 
 
 “ Thanks, holy father,” said Sir David, “ for your kind good-will.” Then, turning towards 
 Lady de Borthwick, he added, “ But, my Lady de Borthwick, I fear you will reckon me 
 cruel. You have but now recovered a long-lost child, and I would, even on the instant, 
 deprive you of her. What says mine own injured Lilian ?” 
 
 Lilian said nothing, but casting her eyes on the ground, let silence tell all that was necessary. 
 
 At the altar of the little chapel stood a double pair, and over the shoulders of Lilian her 
 mother threw the scarlet mantle, which was destined to have exercised such remarkable 
 powers over her fortune, saying,— 
 
 “ With that scarlet mantle I lost a daughter, and now-” 
 
 Sir David Seaton concluded the sentence by adding,— 
 
 “ By that same scarlet mantle I have w f on a bride.” 
 
 f HE E N D. 
 
 i 
 
THE 
 
 ROMANCIST 
 
 AND ' 
 
 NOVELIST’S LIBRARY, 
 
 EDITED BY WILLIAM HAZLITT. 
 
 NEW SERIES. 
 
 Vol. IV. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 JOHN CLEMENTS, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET. 
 
 1842. 
 
, j i .f.iT J l- If 'i- A - ■ 3- 
 
 
 
 
THE 
 
 BOOK OF LIFE. 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 By JOHN GALT. 
 
 (COPYRIGHT.) 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. CLEMENTS, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET, 
 
 FOR THB PROPRIETORS OF 
 
 THE ROSV3AIMCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY- 
 
 1841. 
 
LIF E. 
 
 THE BOOK OF 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 “ Rettrr be with the death 
 Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace, 
 
 Than on the torture of the inind. to lie 
 In restless ecstasy.” Shakspeare. 
 
 The story is in itself singular, and when you have heard how strangely the coincidences dove¬ 
 tail themselves together, you will not be surprised that I should hold such opinions. It was 
 some time about Lammas, after leaving the University^ I had taken a short botanical excur¬ 
 sion among the mountains, and was returning home. Do not look so incredulous, it is no 
 fantastical imagination of a young enthusiastic student, but a sober narrative, embracing 
 
 many years. 
 
 The weather had for some time before been uncommonly wet, every brook and stream was 
 swollen far beyond its banks, the meadows were flooded, and the river itself was increased to 
 a raging Hellespont, insomuch, that the ferry was only practicable for an hour belore and after 
 
 high tide. > . . 
 
 The day was showery and stormy, by which I was detained at the inn until late m t le 
 
 afternoon, so that it was dark before I reached the ferry-house, and the tide did not serve tor 
 safe crossing until midnight. I was therefore obliged to sit by the fire and wait the time, a 
 circumstance which gave me some uneasiness, for the ferry-man was old and infirm, and Dick, 
 his son, who usually attended the boat during the night, happened to be then absent, the day 
 having been such, that it was not expected any travellers would seek to pass over that night. 
 
 The presence of Dick was not, however, absolutely necessary, for the boat swung from 
 side to side by a rope anchored in the middle of the stream, and, on account of the strong 
 current, another rope had been stretched across, by which passengers could draw themselves 
 over without assistance; an easy task to those who had the sleight of it, but it was not so to 
 me, who still wore my arm in a sling. 
 
 While sitting at the fire-side conversing with the ferry-man and his wife, a smart, good- 
 looking country lad, with a recruit’s cockade in his hat, came in, accompanied by a young 
 woman far advanced in pregnancy. They were told the state of the ferry, and that, unless 
 the recruit undertook to conduct the boat himself, they must wait the return of Dick. 
 
 They bad been only that day married, and were on their way to join a detachment of the 
 regiment in which Ralph Nocton, as the recruit was called, had that evening enlisted, the 
 parish officers having obliged him to marry the girl. Whatever might have been their for¬ 
 mer love and intimacy, they were not many minutes in the house when he became sullen and 
 
 morose towards her ; nor was she more amiable towards him. He said little, but he often 
 looked at her with an indignant eye, as she reproached him for having so rashly enlisted, to 
 abandon her and his unborn baby, assuring him that she would never part from him while life 
 
 and power lasted. 
 
 Though it could not be denied that she possessed both beauty and an attractive person, 
 there was yet a silly vixen humour about her, ill-calculated to conciliate. I did not, therefore, 
 wonder to hear that Nocton had married her with reluctance ; I only regretted that the parish 
 officers were so inaccessible to commiseration, and so void of conscience, as to be guilty of 
 
THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 4 
 
 rendering the poor fellow miserable for life, to avert the hazard of the child becoming a bur¬ 
 den to the parish. 
 
 The ferry-man and his wife endeavoured to reconcile them to their lot; and the recruit, 
 who appeared to be naturally reckless and generous, seemed willing to be appeased; but his 
 weak, companion was capricious and pettish. On one occasion, when a sudden shower beat 
 hard against the window, she cried out with little regard to decorum, that she w’ould go no 
 further that night. 
 
 “ You may do as you please, Mary Blake,” said Nocton, “ but go I must, for the detach¬ 
 ment marches to-morrow morning. It was only to give you time to prepare to come with me 
 that the captain consented to let me remain so late in town.” 
 
 She, however, only remonstrated bitterly at his cruelty, in forcing her to travel in her 
 condition, and in such weather. Nocton refused to listen to her, but told her somewhat dog¬ 
 gedly, more so than was consistent with the habitual cheerful cast of his physiognomy, that 
 “ Although he had already been ruined by her, he trusted she had not the power to make him 
 a deserter.” He then went out, and remained some time alone. When he returned, his 
 appearance was surprisingly changed ; his face was of an ashy paleness ; his eyes bright, febrile, 
 and eager, and his lips quivered as he said,—“ Come, Mary, I can wait no longer ; the boat 
 is ready, the river is not so wild, and the rain is over.” 
 
 In vain she protested ; he was firm ; and she had no option, but either to go, or to be left 
 behind. The old ferryman accompanied them to the boat, saw them embark, and gave the 
 recruit some instructions how to manage the ropes, as it was still rather early in the tide. On 
 returning into the house, he remarked facetiously to his wife, 
 
 (i I can never see why young men should be always blamed, and all pity reserved for the 
 damsels.” 
 
 At this moment a rattling shower of rain and hail burst like a platoon of small shot on the 
 window, and a flash of vivid lightning was followed by one of the most tremendous peals of 
 thunder I have ever heard. 
 
 « Hark !” cried the old woman, starting, “ was not that a shriek ?” 
 
 We listened, but the cry was not repeated ; we rushed to the door, but no other sound 
 was heard but the raging of the river, and the roar of the sea-waves breaking on the bar. 
 
 Dick soon after came home, and the boat having swung back to her station, I embarked 
 with him and reached the opposite inn, where I soon went to bed. Scarcely had I' laid my 
 head on the pillow, when a sudden inexplicable terror fell upon me; I shook with an unknown 
 horror; I was, as it were, conscious that some invisible being was hovering beside me, and 
 could hardly muster fortitude enough to refrain from rousing the house. At last I fell asleep; 
 it was perturbed and unsound; strange dreams and vague fears scared me awake, and in 
 them were dreadful images of a soldier murdering a female, and open graves, and gibbet-irons 
 swinging in the wind. My remembrance has no parallel to such another night. 
 
 In the morning the cloud on my spirit was gone, and I rose at my accustomed hour, and 
 cheerily resumed my journey, it was a bright morning, alt things were glittering and fresh 
 in the rising sun, the recruit and his damsel were entirely forgotten, and I thought no more 
 of them. 
 
 But when the night returned next year, I was seized with an unaccountable dejection ; it 
 weighed me down ; I tried to shake it off, but was unable ; the mind was diseased, and could 
 no more by resolution shake off its discomfort, than the body by activity can expel a fever. 
 I retired to my bed greatly depressd, but nevertheless I fell asleep, At midnight, however, I 
 was summoned to awake by a hideous and indefinable terror; it was the same vague conscious¬ 
 ness of some invisible visitor being near that I had once before experienced, as I have described, 
 and I again recollected Nocton and Mary Blake ; in the same instant I saw—for I cannot 
 now believe that it was less than apparitional—the unhappy pair reproaching one another. 
 As I looked, questioning the integrity of my sight, the wretched bride turned round and 
 looked at me. How shall I express my horror, when for the ruddy beauty which she once 
 possessed, I beheld the charnel visage of a skull. I started up and cried aloud with such 
 alarming vehemence, that the whole inmates of the house, with lights in their hands, were 
 instantly in the room—shame would not let me tell what I had seen, and, endeavouring to 
 laugh, I accused the night-mare of the disturbance. 
 
THE BOOK OF LIFE. 
 
 5 
 
 This happened while I was at a watering place on the west coast. I was living in a board¬ 
 ing-house with several strangers ; among them was a tall, pale German gentleman, of a grave, 
 impressive physiognomy. He was the most intelligent and shrewdest observer I have ever 
 met with, and he had to a singular degree the gift of a discerning spirit. In the morning, 
 when we rose from the breakfast-table, he took me by the arm, and led me out upon the lawn 
 in front of the house; and when we were at some distance from the rest of the company, 
 said, 
 
 “ Excuse me, sir, for I must asK an impertinent question. Was it indeed the dream of the 
 night-mare that alarmed you last night?” 
 
 “ I have no objection to answer you freely ; but tell me first why you ask such a ques¬ 
 tion ?” 
 
 “ It is but reasonable. I had a friend who was a painter ; none ever possessed an imagina¬ 
 tion which discerned better how nature in her mysteries should appear. One of his pictures 
 was the scene of Brutus, when his evil genius summoned hirn to Philippi, and, strange to tell, 
 you bear some resemblance to the painted Brutus. When, with the others, I broke into your 
 room last night, you looked so like the Brutus in his picture, that I could have sworn you 
 were amazed with the vision of a ghost.” 
 
 I related to him what I have now done to you. 
 
 “ It is wonderful,” said he ; “ what inconceivable sympathy hath linked you to the fate of 
 these unhappy persons. There is something more in this renewed visitation than the phan¬ 
 tasm of a dream.” 
 
 The remark smote me with an uncomfortable sensation of dread, and for a short time my 
 flesh crawled as it were upon my bones. But the impression soon wore off', and was again 
 entirely forgotten. 
 
 When the anniversary again returned, I was seized with the same heaviness and objectless 
 horror of mind ; it hung upon me with bodings and auguries until I went to bed, and then, 
 after my first sleep, I was a third time aroused by another fit of the same inscrutable panic. 
 On this occasion, however, the vision was different. I beheld only Nocton, pale and wounded, 
 stretched on a bed, and on the coverlet lay a pair of new epaulettes, as if just unfolded from a 
 paper. 
 
 For seven years I was thus annually afflicted. The vision in each was different, but I saw 
 no more of Mary Blake. On the fourth occasion, I beheld Nocton sitting in the uniform of 
 an aid-de-camp at a table, with the customary tokens of conviviality before him; it was only 
 part of a scene, such as one beholds in a mirror. 
 
 On the fifth occasion, he appeared to be ascending, sword in hand, the rampart of a bat¬ 
 tery ; the sun was setting behind him, and the shadows and forms of a strange land, with the 
 domes and pagodas of an oriental country, lay in wide extent around ; it was a picture, but 
 far more vivid than painting can exhibit. 
 
 On the sixth time, he appeared again stretched upon a couch ; his complexion was sullen, 
 not from wounds, but disease, and there appeared at his bed-side the figure of a general offi¬ 
 cer, with a star at his breast, with whose conversation he appeared pleased, though languid. 
 
 But on the seventh and last occasion, on which the horrors of the visions were repeated, 
 I saw him on horseback in a field of battle - f and while I looked at him, he was struck on the 
 face by a sabre, and the blood flowed down upon his regimentals. 
 
 Years passed on after this, during which I had none of these dismal exhibitions. My mind 
 and memory resumed their healthful tone. I recollected, without these intervening years of 
 oblivion, Nocton and Mary Blake occasionally, as one thinks of things past, and I told my 
 friends of the curious periodical returns of the visitations to me as a remarkable metaphysical 
 phenomenon. By an odd coincidence, it so happened, that my German friend was always 
 present when l related my dreams. He, in the intervals, sometimes spoke to me of them, but 
 my answers were vague, for my reminiscences were imperfect. It was not so with him. All 
 I told he distinctly recorded and preserved in a book, wherein he wrote down the minutest 
 things that I had witnessed in my visions. I do not mention his name, because he is a 
 modest and retiring man, in bad health, and who has long sequestered himself from company. 
 His rank, however, is so distinguished, that his name could not be stated without the 
 hazard of exposing him to impertinent curiosity. But to proceed. 
 
6 
 
 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 Exactly fourteen years—twice seven it was—I remember well, because fbr the first seven 
 I had been haunted as I have described, and for the other seven I had been placed in my living. 
 At the end of that period of fourteen years, my German friend paid me a visit here. He came 
 in the forenoon, and we spent an agreeable day together, for he was a man of much recondite 
 knowledge. I have seen none so wonderfully possessed of all sorts of occult learning. 
 
 He was an astrologer of the true kind, for in him it was not a pretence, but a science ; he 
 scorned horoscopes and fortune-tellers, with the just derision of a philosopher, but he had a 
 beautiful conception of the reciprocal dependencies of nature. He affected not to penetrate 
 to causes, but he spoke of effects with a luminous and religious eloquence. He described to 
 me how the tides followed the phases of the moon ; but he denied the Newtonian notion, that 
 they were caused by the procession of the lunar changes. He explained to me, that when, 
 the sun entered Aries, and the other signs of the Zodiac, how his progression could be traced 
 on this earth by the development of plants and flowers, and the passions, diseases, and affec¬ 
 tion of animals and man; but that the stars were more than the celestial signs of these 
 terrestrial phenomena, he ridiculed as the conception of theory. 
 
 His learning in the curious art of alchymy was equally sublime. He laughed at the fancy 
 of an immortal elixir, and his notion of the mythology of the philosopher’s stone was the 
 very essence and spirituality of ethics. The elixir of immortality he described to me as an 
 allegory, which, from its component parts, emblems of talents, and virtues, only showed 
 that perseverance, industry, good-will, and a gift from God, were the requisite ingredients 
 necessary to attain renown. His knowledge of the philosopher’s stone was still more beauti¬ 
 ful. He referred to the writings of the Rosicrucians, whose secrets were couched in artifi¬ 
 cial symbols, to prove that the sages of that sect were not the fools whom the lesser wise of 
 later days would represent them. The self-denial, the patience, the humility, the trusting in 
 God, the treasuring of time by lamp and calculation, which the venerable alchymists recom¬ 
 mended, he used to say, were the only elements which constitute the conduct of the youth 
 that would attain to riches and honour; and these different stages which are illuminated 
 in the alchvmical volumes as descriptive of stages in the process of making the stone, were 
 but hieroglyphical devices to explain the effects of well-applied human virtue and industry. 
 
 To me it was amazing to what clear simplicity he reduced all things, and on what a variety 
 of subiects his bright and splendid fancy threw a fair and affecting light. All those demi- 
 
 sciences_physiognomy, palmistry, scaileology, &c., even magic and witchcraft, obtained from 
 
 his interpretations a philosophical credibility, 
 
 In disauisitions on these subjects we spent the anniversary. He had by them enlarged the 
 periphery of my comprehension ; he had added to my knowledge, and inspired me with a pro¬ 
 founder respect for himself. 
 
 He was an accomplished musician, in the remotest, if I may use the expression, depths of 
 the art. His performance on the pianoforte was simple, heavy, and seemingly the labour of 
 an unoractised hand, but his expression was beyond all epithet, exquisite and solemn; his airs 
 were grave, devotional, and pathetic, consisting of the simplest harmonic combinations ; but 
 they were wonderful: every note was a portion of an invocation ; every melody the voice of 
 a passion or a feeling supplied with elocution. . •» 
 
 We had spent the day in the fields, where he illustrated his astrological opinions by appeals 
 to plants, and leaves, and flowers, and other attributes of the season, with such delightful 
 perspicuity, that no time can efface from the registers of my memory the substance of his 
 discourses. In the evening, he delighted me with his miraculous music, and, as the night 
 advanced, I was almost persuaded that he was one of those extraordinary men who are said 
 sometimes to acquire communion with spirits and dominion over demons. 
 
 Just as we were about to sit down to our frugal supper, literally or philosophically so, as if 
 it had been served for Zeno himself, Dick, the son of the old ferryman, who by this time was 
 some years dead, came to the door, and requested to speak with me in private. Of course I 
 obeyed, when he informed me that he had brought across the ferry that night a gentleman 
 officer, from a far country, who was in bad health, and whom he could not accommodate pro¬ 
 perly in*the ferry-house. 
 
 “ The inn,” said Dick., “ is too far off, for he is lame, and has an open wound in the thigh. 
 
 1 have therefore ventured to bring him here, sure that you will be glad to give him a bed for 
 
% THE BOOK OF LIFE. 7 
 
 the iiight. His servant tells me that he was esteemed the bravest officer in all the service of 
 the Mysore of India.” 
 
 It was impossible to resist this appeal. I went to the door where the gentleman was wait¬ 
 ing, and with true-heartedness expressed how great my satisfaction would be if my house 
 could afford him any comfort. 
 
 I took him in with me to the room where my German friend was sitting. I was much 
 pleased with the gentleness and unaffected simplicity of his manners. 
 
 He was a handsome, middle-aged man—his person was robust and well formed_his fea¬ 
 
 tures had been originally handsome, but they were disfigured by a scar, which had materially 
 changed their symmetry. His conversation was not distinguished by any remarkabie intel¬ 
 ligence, but after the high intellectual excitement which I had enjoyed all day with my 
 philosophical companion, it was agreeable and gentlemanly. \ 
 
 Several times during supper something came across my mind as if I had seen him before, 
 but I could.neither recollect when or where ; and I observed that more than once he looked 
 at me, as if under the< influence of some research in his memory. At last I observed that 
 his eyes were dimmed with tears, which assured me that he then recollected me. But I con¬ 
 sidered it a duty of hospitality not to inquire aught concerning him more than he was pleased 
 to tell himself. 
 
 In the meantime my German friend, I perceived, was watching us both, but suddenly he 
 ceased to be interested, and appeared absorbed in thought, while good manners required me 
 to make some efforts to entertain my guest. This led to some inquiry concerning the scene of 
 his services, and he told us that he had been many years in India. 
 
 “ On this day eight years ago,” said he, “ I was in the battle of Borupknow, where I 
 received the wound which has so disfigured me in the face.” 
 
 At that moment I accidentally threw my eyes upon my German friend—the look which he 
 gave me in answer caused me to shudder from head to foot, and I began to ruminate of 
 Nocton the recruit, and Mary Blake, while my friend continued the conversation in a lio-ht, 
 desultory manner, as it would have seemed to any stranger; but to me it was awful and 
 oracular. He spoke to the stranger on all manner of topics, but ever and anon he brought him 
 back, as if without design, to speak of the accidents of fortune which had befallen him on the 
 anniversary oi that day, giving it as a reason for his curious remarks, that most men observed 
 anniversaries, time and experience having taught them to notice, that there were curious coin¬ 
 cidences with respect to times, and places, and individuals,—-things, which of themselves form 
 part of the great demonstration of the wisdom and skill displayed in the construction, not only 
 of the mechanical, but the moral world, showing that each was a portion of one and the same 
 thing. 
 
 “ I have been,” said he to the stranger, “ an observer and recorder of such things. I have 
 my book of registration here in this house; I will fetch it from my bed-chamber, and we shall 
 see in what oi.hei things, as ;ar as your fortunes have been concerned, it corresponds with the 
 accidents of your life on this anniversary.” 
 
 I observed that the stranger .paled a little at this proposal, and said, with an affectation of 
 carelessness, while he was evidently disturbed, that he would see it in the morning. But the 
 philosopher was too intent upon his purpose to forbear. I know not what came upon me, but 
 I urged him to bring the book. This visibly disconcerted the stranger still more, and his 
 emotion became, as it were, a motive which induced me, in a peremptory manner, to require 
 the production of the book, for I felt that strange horror, so often experienced, returning upon 
 me; and was constrained, by au irresistible impulse, to seek an explanation of the circum¬ 
 stances by which I had for so many years suffered such an eclipse of mind. The stranger 
 seeing how intent both of us were, desisted from his wish to procrastinate the curious dis¬ 
 closure which my friend said he could make ; but it was evident he was not at ease. Indeed, 
 he was so much the reverse, that when the German went for his book, he again proposed to 
 retire, and only consented to abide at my jocular entreaty, until he should learn what his 
 future fortunes were to be, by the truth of what would be told him of the past. 
 
 My friend soon returned with the book. It was a remarkable volume, covered with, vel¬ 
 lum, shut with three brazen clasps, secured by a lock of curious construction. Altogether it 
 Was a strange, antique, and necromantic-looking volume. The corner was studded with knobs 
 
8 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. # 
 
 of brass, with a small mirror in the centre, round which were inscribed, in Teutonic charac¬ 
 ters, words to the effect, “ I will show thee thyself.” Before unlocking the clasp my 
 friend gave the book to the stranger, explained some of the emblematic devices which adorned 
 the cover, and particularly the words of the motto that surrounded the little mirror. 
 
 Whether it was from design, or that the symbols required it, the explanations of my friend 
 were mystical and abstruse ; and I could see that they produced an effect on the stranger, so 
 strong that it was evident he could with difficulty maintain his self-possession. The colour 
 entirely faded from his countenance; he became wan and cadaverous, and his hand shook 
 violently as he returned the volume to the philosopher, who, on receiving it back, said, 
 
 “ There are things in this volume which may not be revealed to every eye, yet to those 
 who may not discover to what they relate, they will seem trivial notations.” 
 
 He then applied the key to the lock, and unclosed the volume. My stranger guest began 
 to breathe hard and audibly. The German turned over the vellum leaves, searchingly and 
 carefully. At last he found his record and description of my last vision, which he read aloud. 
 It was not only minute in the main circumstances in which 1 had seen Nocton, but it con¬ 
 tained an account of many things, the still-life, as it is called, of the picture, which I had 
 forgotten, and among other particulars, a picturesaue account of the old general whom I saw 
 standing at the bed-side. 
 
 « By all that’s holy,” cried the stranger, “it is old Cripplington himself!—the queue of his 
 hair was, as you say, always crooked, owingtoa habit he had of pulling it when vexed—where 
 could you find a description of all this ?” 
 
 I was petrified ; I sat motionless as a statue, but a fearful vibration thrilled through my 
 whole frame. 
 
 My friend looked back in his book, and found the description of my sixth vision. It con¬ 
 tained the particulars of the crises of battle, in which, as the stranger described, he had 
 received the wound in ttis face. It affected him less than the other, but still the effect upon 
 him was impressive. 
 
 The record of the fifth vision produced a more visible alarm. The description w r as vivid 
 to an extreme degree,—the appearance of Nocton, sword in hand, on the rampart—the ani¬ 
 mation of the assault, and the gorgeous landscape of domes and pagodas, was limned with 
 words as vividly as a painter could have made the scene. The stranger seemed to forget his 
 anxiety, and was delighted with the reminiscences which the description recalled. 
 
 But when the record of the fourth vision was read, wherein Nocton was described as sit¬ 
 ting in the regimentals of an aid-de-camp, at a convivial table, he exclaimed, as if unconscious 
 of his words, 
 
 “ It was on that night I had first the honour of dining with the general.” 
 
 The inexorable philosopher proceeded, and read what I had told him of Nocton, stretched 
 pale and wounded, on a bed, with new epaulettes spread on the coverlet, as if just unfolded 
 from a paper. The stranger started from his seat, and cried, with a hollow and fearful 
 voice, 
 
 “ This is the book of life.” 
 
 The German turned over to the second vision, which he read slowly and mournfully, espe¬ 
 cially the description of my own feelings when I beheld the charnel visage of Mary Blake. 
 The stranger, who had risen from his seat, and was panting with horror, cried out with a shrill 
 halloo, as it were, 
 
 “On that night, while sitting in my tent, methought her spirit came and reproached me.” 
 
 I could not speak, but my German friend rose from his seat, and holding the volume in 
 his left hand, touched it with his right, and looking sternly at the stranger, said. 
 
 “ In this volume, and in your own conscience, are the evidences which prove that you are 
 Ralph Nocton, and that on this night, twice seven years ago, you murdered Mary Blake.” 
 
 The miserable stranger lost all self-command, and, staggering from the spot. fell. 
 
 THE END. 
 
I 
 
 PAINTER. 
 
 * 
 
 THE 
 
 A SICILIAN TALE. 
 
 BY JOHN GALT. 
 
 \ 
 
 (COPYRIGHT.) 
 
 \ 
 
 Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; 
 
 Take honour from me, and my life is done. 
 
 Shaksfeare. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. CLEMENTS, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET, 
 
 FOIL THE PROPRIF.TOKS OF 
 
 THE ROMANIC 1ST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 1841. 
 
THE PAINTER. 
 
 A SICILIAN TALE. 
 
 • - “ Mine honour is my life, both grow in one; „ 
 
 Take honour from me, and my life is done.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 About a league distant on the left side of the road which leads from Naples to Salerno, stand 
 the ruins of a considerable villa. The gardens had been formed in terraces on the mountain 
 behind; the walls of them still exist, and the spacious stairs by which they were severally 
 connected, are proofs that it had once been the abode of taste and opulence. On the higher 
 garden a copious spring gushes out from the earth, and descends into the vailey, leaping fiom 
 terrace to terrace, and diffusing, as it descends, a fresh and beautilul verdure along the maigin 
 of its whole course. The peasants of the neighbourhood say, that a fountain, ornamented 
 with statues, formerly stood where the spring now issues, and that the water was 01 ought 
 underground in pipes from a small lake among the hills—perhaps it still comes in that manner, 
 but however this may be, few situations have been chosen with a happier respect for the 
 
 local genius. . 
 
 This once delightful mansion originally belonged to the Bellochi family, and was the 
 
 favourite residence of the last count of the race a nobleman possessed of many elegant 
 accomplishments, and amiable qualities. 
 
 He had visited England, and was much attached to the subjects and the manners of that 
 nation. His house was open in consequence to the English travellers, and when any of the 
 friends he had known in London visited Bellavista, as the villa was called, no limit was set to his 
 hospitality. He accompanied them himself to the numerous monuments of antiquity between 
 Pcestum and the metropolis, as well as to the wonders of Vesuvius, and the relics of the 
 exhumated cities, and he deservedlv became celebrated alike for his munificence, his eloquence, 
 
 and friendship. 
 
 One day a large party of gentlemen, among whom were several of his most esteemed 
 English friends, were received by the count with his customary kindness. He had but that 
 day returned from Sicily, where he had, a few months before, married a lady of noble birth 
 and extraordinary beauty. His house had not yet been opened for the reception ot his 
 friends, but still he was so delighted with the strangers, that notwithstanding the want ot 
 preparation, he invited them to remain, promising, as an inducement, that although, from the 
 oondition of his own household, he could not accommodate them with beds, he would himself 
 ride with them to a monastery on the road to Naples, and, by his influence with the fliars, 
 secure them a hospitable reception there. 
 
 It happened in the evening, that on reaching the convent several other travellers, bound 
 for Poestum, had sought lodgings for the night, and the count’s friends could not oe received 
 as he had expected. To lighten the chagrin of disappointment, he accordingly at once 
 resolved to accompany them to Naples, and sent back his servant Francesco to the villa, to 
 anprize the countess of his intention, and not to expect him that night. 
 
 It was near midnight before Francesco reached the villa ; the other servants being 
 fatigued with the day’s hard labour, in bringing the luggage from the vessel which had 
 brought them from Palermo, and with the unexpected bustle occasioned by the strangers, 
 were°all asleep when he arrived, and he was in conseouence obliged to let himself m by a 
 window 
 
4 
 
 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 On almost any other occasion this would not have happened ; for the coun#had in his 
 
 service a Sicilian painter, Salmano, who was employed in decorating some of the chambers_ 
 
 a man ol rare gifts, and who had a particular taste for watching the tints and shadows of the 
 moonlight for suggestions in his profession. But he, too, being this night exhausted and 
 weary, had foregone his nightly vigils. Nor was it. a circumstance to attract notice, for he 
 was a man advanced in life, of a pale and slender appearance, indicative of some constitu¬ 
 tional infirmity. It was, indeed, a wonder among the domestics how one, so evidently of a 
 feeble frame, could night after night pass so many cold and solitary hours studying the 
 glimpses of the moon on the landscape, or the shadows of the statues in the gallery. 
 
 Before day-break old Agatha, who had been the nurse, and was the favourite attendant of 
 the countess, was suddenly roused by her lady coming into her apartment in the wildest and 
 most distracted manner. She was still undressed ; her long hair fell in loose tresses on her 
 shoulders. She bore a lamp in her right hand, and shook her left, and gazed as if she had 
 come from some frightful discovery. 
 
 Agatha was awoke by her entrance, but astonishment at the sight before her rendered her 
 unable to speak, and she lay looking at the countess, who exclaimed with the voice of 
 agony— 
 
 “ I fear—I fear—yet cannot I give utterance to the horror. I blush like a guilty wretch, 
 and yet in what of shame have I been guilty—have I but dreamt! Oh heaven,! drive from 
 me the imagination with which I am beset.” 
 
 Agatha, terrified at these exclamations, raised herself, and entreated her lady to be com¬ 
 posed, and not to repine too much at the absence of her lord. » 
 
 “ He will,” said she, “ be here betimes in the morning, and you must not think of this 
 frolic in that way. I beseech you, my dear lady, to be calm. Though the count were dead 
 you could not be in greater affliction.” 
 
 “ To me he is dead,” cried the countess, “ to me he is lost—and I am lost. Call up the 
 household,—I am not yet mad.” 
 
 With these wild words she hastened back to her apartment, and Agatha, trembling, dressed 
 herself, and went to call the servants ; but when she reached the landing-place of the great 
 stairs, she found Frascesco standing there as if he had been watching. 
 
 “ How does the countess?” he inquired with a confident look, which, however, Acatha did 
 not observe particularly at the moment, but replied—“ She is wofuily sad; it is verv strange 
 that she should be so sad—w^ere is the count V’ 
 
 “ He is gone,” said Francesco, “ on to Naples, and sent me back to tell the countess. 
 Does she suspect ?” 
 
 “How!” cried Agatha, surprised at the cunning leer of the fellow, “what should she 
 suspect ?” 
 
 “ I could not inform her,” replied Francesco, confusedly, “she was asleep.” 
 
 “ Asleep, Francesco ! How knew you that ?” 
 
 “ She made no answer when I knocked at her door.” 
 
 “ Knocked J did you dare disturb her ?” 
 
 A momentary shudder shook the whole frame of old Agatha, and she looked with a curious 
 suspicion at Francesco, who said, in evident embarrassment—“ Why do you look at me in that 
 manner? perhaps she did not hear ?” 
 
 “ She must have heard you—audacious !—but why is she in such distress ?” 
 
 “ Is she distressed ?” replied Francesco. « Do you then think she will be angry when she 
 sees me ? The door was open, and I thought she knew my voice.” 
 
 “ Dared you to enter?” 
 
 “ In truth, Agatha, I did.” And, in saying these words, Francesco hastily descended the 
 stairs, in evident terror and alarm. 
 
 Agatha remained immoveable, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed—“ There is some mystery 
 
 —horrible mystery. Oh! could she be-a lady so chaste, so excelling in love to her 
 
 lord-” 
 
 She was interrupted by Salmano, the painter, who at this moment entered, and to whom 
 she said briskly—“ What seek you here?—this is about the time you were wont to goto bed.” 
 
 “ I have risen to see the dawn,” replied the artist. “ Last night I was fatigued, and early 
 went to sleep. But go to your lady—she is very ill.” 
 
THE PAINTER. 
 
 « She only grieves that the count has, so thoughtlessly, not returned;” and she looked 
 eagerly at Salmano. 
 
 Has nothing else happened to her V* 
 
 “ Do you then think that she has some other cause for sorrow ?” 
 
 “ I hope no other : but she looks as one that I should give ducats to have for my model 
 as Lucretia, escaped from Tarquin.” 
 
 “ Her grief is natural. The first night in a strange land to be so deserted ! ” 
 
 “ No, no, it comes of a deeper wound.” 
 
 “ Why think you so ?” sighed Agatha. 
 
 “ The painter’s skill,” replied the artist, “ instructs him to discern the mind in the face 
 I never saw her in such anguish before. It may, however, be as you say. But tell Francesco 
 to come to me betimes. The day is beginning to dawn, and I want him in my study. The 
 fellow has a lascivious look, with such a sober air, that he assists my fancy—as I am painting 
 Susannah and the Elders—he is an elder.” 
 
 Agatha made no answer, but with sadness in her eyes left him, and the painter went to his 
 study ; soon after Francesco, as desired, entered. 
 
 “ How now !” said Salmano, “you keep me idling.” 
 
 Francesco, with sullenness, replied—“ I am not hired to be a Jewish priest—I have my 
 master’s business.” 
 
 “ He said that, when I wanted you, all your other duties should be suspended.” 
 
 “ But I have business in Naples." 
 
 “ Does not the count return this morning ?” 
 
 “ How should I know?” 
 
 Salmano looked at him steadily for nearly a minute, and then said—“ You have a masterly 
 command of yourself. But, fellow, there is trouble and fear in your eye ; what guilt have you 
 committed ? what have you done that your presumptuous hopes may not yet be concealed ?” 
 
 “ You amaze me, sir,” replied Francesco with awe. 
 
 The painter laid down his easel from his thumb, and taking up his hat, said—“ I am here 
 but professionally, and am not of a prying disposition ; but you have done, or I mistake much, 
 some guilty deed, to which some wild hope is attached.” 
 
 With these words he walked into the garden, and before Francesco had time to recollect 
 himself, Agatha came into the room, saying, “ I thought Salmano was here.” 
 
 At these words Francesco stepped forward, and taking her by the wrist, said, in a whisper, 
 “ I do not like that painter.” 
 
 “ No !” 
 
 “ If we were in some secret place, I could tell you something, Agatha.” 
 
 “ Well.” 
 
 “ Agatha, you are knowing, observant, and prudent; but I wish we were in some room les3 
 exposed. How did the painter look when you saw him first?” 
 
 “ He deplored the grief of the countess.” 
 
 “ He was not stirring when I returned. Artists are men of subtile craft. When I re¬ 
 turned last night, I went to my lady’s room-” 
 
 “ Daring shame—I told her so !” 
 
 “ How did she look when you told her?” 
 
 »• Like Paulina, in the picture there, when told that her lover was not the god Anubis.” 
 
 “ It may be good, Agatha, for the painter to turn on me. These men of art do other things 
 at. night than catch moonlight shadows; but be cautious;” and he suddenly left the apart¬ 
 ment, while Agatha, in great perplexity, said aloud to herself, after thinking some time— 
 
 “ My fears first fell on him ; he is of that complexion, and I have seen him looking intern- 
 perately at her. Salmano, too, but not like him—here, in his study, she may be seen among 
 his goddesses; and when he looks at her the most ardently, it is as a student pondering over 
 his book. I should as soon expect to see him bedded with Diana ; but the rank look of yon 
 insinuating wolf makes conviction, even in my doubts.” 
 
 By this time the household were all afoot, and some remarkable apprehension appeared to 
 infect them all with distrust of each other. The painter was deeply affected ; he could not 
 resume his pencil, but walked alone in the gardens, and shunned everybody. Agatha, 
 noticing him from the window, went to him, and said—” You were not formerly inclined to 
 
6 THE ROMANCIST AND NOVELIST’S LIBRARY. 
 
 walk in the garden. Days are not your time of study ; but you walk too much in the night. 
 Night is the season of sleep, and none trespass on its lonely hours but those afflicted with 
 guilt or love.” 
 
 “ My profession,” replied the painter, “requires that I should study the varieties of light 
 
 and shade.” 
 
 “ Cannot you, then, be content with sunshine ?” 
 
 *« It is my taste, Agatha; my genius prompts me to study the moonlight.” 
 
 “ What is that genius, signor ? I hear of it, but none in the house can tell me what it is.” 
 
 “ It may not be easily explained,” replied the artist; “ but some have a keener relish of 
 one thing more than of another of their neighbour’s. Some are charmed by the ear, and some 
 bv the eye. The senses are the gates of the mind, and genius enters by the most frequented, 
 or that which is best constructed.” 
 
 Agatha paused thoughtfully ; for though aged, she was shrewd and wary. She then said. 
 
 Genius then makes men prone to find and to seize their means of enjoyment, and as you 
 forego your rest to hunt midnight shadows, or rise in company, forgetting who may be present, 
 and bid a fair lady bend her head aslant, as she would look from a picture • some other, by 
 the difference of his genius, would equally, without decorum, seize on his means of pleasure.” 
 
 “ You are wonderfully metaphysical,” said Salmano. “ I did not think you were so much 
 of a philosopher. But wny are you so suddenly changed, and so earnestly ? ” 
 
 Agatha, without noticing his question, inquired, seriously—“ How came you to be stirring 
 this morning at two, and yet, when I met you at day-break, you said that you had but just 
 risen ?” 
 
 “ I told you,” replied Salmano, “ the truth.” 
 
 « W a s ever such a robbery committed!” cried Agatha, with an accent of grief. 
 
 “Am I suspected of a theft?” replied the painter. 
 
 “ O ! no, it was not done by you—I could pawn myself for your integrity;’’ and she in¬ 
 stantly quitted the astonished artist and fled, in tears, into the house. Soon after Francesco 
 came into the garden ; he had plainly no business there ; but he sought the painter, who, on 
 perceiving him, went straight towards him, and said, severely, 
 
 “ A crime has been committed last night!” 
 
 “ I know it,” replied Francesco. “ Do you blame me ?” 
 
 “ Are you afraid, mannerless dog, that I should ? But, if I could persuade the world of my 
 skill, there would not be wanting evidence to do so—the forehead mark is plain upon you.” 
 
 « Shall I be ruined by your fancies ?” 
 
 The painter, indignant at hearing his art so contemned, said, with greater energy, 
 
 “ Lewd epicure, it is not for thee to know the scrutiny of the painter—ay, or the holy pur¬ 
 poses to which his art may minister. The painter’s pencil can teach like the poet’s pen, and 
 feelines, faithfully limned, instruct the mind, and improve the heart. Go, menial; go and be 
 punished.” 
 
 Francesco was thunderstruck, and slunk, abashed, from his presence. Soon after the 
 countess sent for the painter, and as he entered the house he met her confessor coming from 
 her. He would have spoken to the priest, but the old man was in tears, and turned from him. 
 On approaching the countess, he found her seated alone, in sublime serenity—a passion of 
 sorrow, that could only take expression in a calm—a calm like the stillness of death. 
 
 “ I pray you, Salmano, take the command of this ill-fated mansion—place sentinels at the 
 gate, men you can trust. Let no one pass till my lord returns. See that Francesco do not 
 escape. 0 , serpent! that could so invade the Eden of my wedded faith. I can no more 1 ” 
 and with these words, she stabbed herself, and instantly expired ! 
 
 A terrific cry from Salmano brought many of the servants into the room, and among them 
 Francesco. To him the painter solemnly said, “ Her heavenly spirit is away like a poor fright¬ 
 ened bird, appealing to the heavens against the hand that plundered its early nest. Rouse 
 thee, thou wretch ! there is no vision here !” More he would have added ; but in that moment 
 Francesco seized the dagger, and pa using, as if he hoped some one would arrest his hand, 
 plunged it, disappointed, into his ow f n heart. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 VOLUME IV. 
 
 CARLETON ; or, DUTY AND PATRIOTISM. A Tale of the American Revolution. 
 By John R. Willis, Esq. (Copyright.) 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES ; or, THE BLEEDING NUN. By Monk Lewis. 
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 THE THREE KEARNEYS. By Andrew Pickkn. (Copyright.) 
 
 THE UNGUARDED HOUR; or, THE MARTYRS’ CROSS. (Copyright.) 
 
 THE FARMER OF INGLEWOOD FOREST. By Elizabeth Helme. 
 
 THE CHEATERtE PACKMAN. By Lf.itch Ritchie/] 
 
 EISENBACH. By Andrew Picken. (Copyright.) 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS GUEST. By Cyrus Cranky, Esq. 
 
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 THE BRIDAL OF BORTHWICK. By D. M. Moir. (Copyright.) 
 
 THE BOOK OF LIFE. By John Galt. (Copyright.) 
 
 THE PAINTER. By John Galt. (Copyright.) 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 1842