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 UNIVERSITY 
 
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 v-Vs-o
 
 CASTLE AY ON 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM," "RAVENSCLIFFE," 
 
 &c, &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1852.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 U 2 - 
 
 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Some days after, Hesther was again sitting 
 there upon the brink of the stream, watching 
 her little boy, who was playing with and en- 
 deavouring to feed his young owlet, with which 
 he was delighted. 
 
 She kept her eyes fixed upon him, and 
 was sunk in deep thought. The profound 
 melancholy of her countenance, the darkness 
 that usually clouded her beautiful eyes, appeared 
 to deepen, as thus the wretched woman said to 
 herself : 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 z CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " You are not worthy. That angel of light 
 and you have no fellowship together. You 
 are a black, wicked demon — a murderous, 
 blood-stained wretch ! — and he is as fair and 
 spotless as the white rose in its opening bud. 
 You are as dark as the howling, starless 
 winter's night; and he is as sweet as the 
 breaking May morning ! And how dare you, 
 fiend, as you know yourself to be — how 
 dare you call that cherub yours? — how dare 
 you ? Look at him now ! look at those 
 little legs and feet of his! There —he has 
 stripped off his stockings and shoes, and he 
 is wading in the stream — trying to catch the 
 blue-beetles that are shining in the sun. Look 
 at his little legs and feet, and at his arms 
 and hands ! Are they not transparent as the 
 leaves of a flower? — as if they were made 
 of wax ? — waxen figures, such as I have seen ! 
 — but a thousand times more beautiful than 
 waxen figures, or flowers, or anything else ! And 
 look at your own brown, shrivelled, withered, 
 dried-up hand and arm ! Yes, that's you and that's 
 he ! You are all scorched up with bad and evil 
 passions ; the very heart within you is at best 
 but a burning cinder — one . spot of fire in a
 
 CASTLE AVON. d 
 
 pitchy night — for all within me is night — 
 and he ! he is all made up of brightness ! 
 Yes, old Mrs. Heme said well — there's the 
 blue of heaven in his eyes, and the golden 
 sun-ray in his hair ! And you dare take 
 that thing — that soft, beautiful thing — in your 
 dry, hard, bony arms, and clasp him to your 
 breast ? — to your black, black heart ? And 
 who says I shall not?" she exclaimed aloud, 
 breaking off her reverie in a strange way, as 
 she was sometimes wont to do, " who says 
 I shall not ? But I will ! I will have him ; 
 I will love him ; I will keep him ; I will grow 
 to him, fasten him to this heart, bad and 
 black as it may be. Nobody shall take him 
 away — no, no — never, never ; not till I'm dead 
 — when Hesther's a corpse; ay, then, then, 
 not till then ; no, no, not till then. Mother ! 
 queen of the fairies ! fair lady in silks and 
 satins! with your soft kisses, and your white, 
 hands, and your gentle ways ! Yes, you may 
 cry your eyes out ; but you shall not have 
 him — no, not you. If you bore him, I saved 
 him ! If you bore the fierce travail-pangs for 
 his sake, I did more'. You brought him into 
 the world ; and then all anguish was forgotten, 
 
 b 2
 
 4 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 for a man child was born, and your agony 
 was turned to joy. But what did Hesther do ? 
 what did she do for his sake ? She bore an 
 agony far, far beyond the agony of travail ! 
 She bore the agony of crime ! the agony of 
 sin ! Yes, she crept, in the still night, into 
 the old one's tent, when she was asleep ! — 
 that old mother ! — and she griped her hard. 
 It was the first time Hesther had done a secret, 
 wicked thing, but she did it for his sake ! 
 Oh, horrid, horrid thing, secretly to steal and 
 to kill a sleeping creature, and turn a living 
 soul to cold clay ! Oh, the face ! the face ! the 
 ghastly changed face ! Yet she did it ! Yes, 
 she did — for him ! 
 
 " Your agony, fair lady of satins and silks, 
 in your bed of fine linen and down, with 
 curtains of camesoy, was soon over, for your 
 baby-boy was in your arms ! Your own — 
 own ! your rightful own — own — own ! But 
 Hesther's agony is never over. Hesther's agony 
 grows greater and greater, worse and worse ; 
 for is not that face, that changed, dreadful, 
 horrid face always there ? The boy may be 
 in her arms — the living, beautiful boy ! but 
 he is not hers; hers he is not. No rightful
 
 CASTLE AVON. 5 
 
 own — own — own ! No blood of hers ; no 
 child of hers ! And ah ! whilst she clasps 
 him to her poor heart — that heart that has 
 burned itself to a cinder for him — he has 
 no blood of hers ! he is not of hers ! Hes- 
 ther knows herself to be a wicked thief, 
 that has filched her treasure ; but she will 
 never let him go ! Come here, child. Come, 
 as you are, all dripping out of the water; 
 come and kiss Hesther — a good big kiss ! 
 Let me dry your little limbs, all running 
 down with crystal water, against this burning, 
 burning heart. Come to me, Charlie ! Come 
 to me — come to Hesther ! Come out of the 
 water ! Do you hear? Come to me !" 
 
 " Mammy ! mammy ! what do you want ?" 
 scrambling out of the brook at her call, his 
 limbs glistening with the streaming water, and 
 looking like an opening rose-bud, all be- 
 dropped with dew. " Here I am ; what do 
 you want ?" 
 
 " I want you ! I want you to come to 
 me, Charlie !" catching him in her arms, and 
 straining him to her bosom. " I want you 
 to call me mammy. I am your mammy, 
 ain't I r
 
 b CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " Yes, you're my mammy — you're my 
 mammy." 
 
 " And Charlie loves his mammy ?" 
 
 " Don't I ?" giving her a thousand fond, 
 playful, childish kisses. " Don't I ? I love 
 my mammy very much — as much as that — 
 as much as that — and that — as much and 
 more than all the world !" 
 
 " But you'll run away from your mammy. 
 They'll tell you to run away from your mammy, 
 and then you'll go." 
 
 " No I won't. I'll never, never, leave you, 
 tell me to go who will. But who will tell me 
 that?" 
 
 " Mrs. Heme, Jasper, perhaps. The lads 
 — the boys." 
 
 " No they won't ; and if they did, I'm 
 not going to go. They may bid, but I 
 won't go. They may 'tice me, but I won't 
 go. No, mammy, I'll stay with you." 
 
 " But suppose — suppose, Charlie, somebody 
 came and said they'd take you back to fairy- 
 land, to that fairy queen so white and beau- 
 tiful ; you'd leave your poor, cross, black 
 mammy then ?" 
 
 " But I wouldn't— I wouldn't !" and his
 
 CASTLE AVON. / 
 
 heart swelled, and he hegan to sob. " What 
 do you say that for, mammy ; my poor, black 
 mammy ! Yes, you are black, and you're poor, 
 and you're cross, sometimes ; but, mammy ! 
 mammy ! I'd be dead ten times over, before 
 they should take me from you." 
 
 " What ! not to go to the white lady ?" 
 
 " What do you plague me about the white 
 lady for ?" cried the child, impatiently. " I love 
 you." 
 
 And at such times, Hesther's heart bounded 
 with a joy unutterable ; all her jealous pangs 
 subsided, all her remorseful scruples vanished 
 like a dream ; and a voice within would ex- 
 claim exultingly : 
 
 " He's mine ! he is mine ! He's not hers. 
 Blood is not blood ; it's no more than water ! 
 He cares not for her ; he loves me /" 
 
 And her resolution never to restore him 
 would become stronger than ever. Those mo- 
 ments of joy were, however, but as the fleeting 
 gleams in a stormy sky. No sooner did she 
 see the child again engaged amid the springs 
 and flowers, restored, as it were, to that element 
 of purity and beauty to which he seemed to 
 belong, than the old feelings were revived ; to
 
 8 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 be succeeded by agonies of remorse, if she 
 found him mingling with the gipsies, sur- 
 rounded by children of his own age, depraved, 
 coarse, and cruel; for then, her excellent, 
 natural understanding represented but too vio- 
 lently the fearful hazards to which she was 
 exposing him, amid the sin and pollution that 
 was there. 
 
 Then the crime she was hourly com- 
 mitting, in thus withholding the child from 
 his parents ; the cruel injury she was in- 
 flicting upon the being she so loved, by the 
 degradation to which she exposed him, would 
 present itself with a painful intensity. Her 
 agonies would be dreadful, but alas ! without 
 result. She wrestled fiercely against her convic- 
 tions ; and every struggle with conscience, with 
 that voice of rectitude which still spoke within, 
 only ended in a more desperate resolution to 
 keep him in defiance of everything. The 
 moral dangers to which she thus exposed 
 him were indeed awful. Whether these people, 
 to whom she belonged, w T ere genuine gipsies 
 or not, I cannot exactly say, being too little 
 acquainted with the manners of these tribes 
 of wanderers to decide ; but, certainly, a more
 
 CASTLE AVON. 9 
 
 thoroughly degraded set of half-savage vaga- 
 bonds could scarcely exist. In the midst of 
 civilised society, they led the life of the most 
 barbarous and unenlightened heathens, yet 
 without possessing those wild virtues which 
 ordinarily belong to the untutored life of 
 nature. They had no high imaginations, 
 no rude feelings of honour, no strong and 
 generous affections among them ; they were, 
 for the most part, a set of brutal thieves 
 greedy of gain in any form ; prone to the 
 grossest indulgence of their appetites, parti- 
 cularly those of eating and drinking, and ad- 
 dicted to all the petty vices incident to low 
 gambling ; they were quarrelsome, covetous, 
 grasping, envious, and malignant. 
 
 These evil tempers might be more or less 
 discernible ; and, among some individuals, more 
 favoured by accident or nature, faint signs 
 of something higher and better in feeling might 
 be found. But the exceptions were rare ; in 
 any case, it was merely a matter of degree. And 
 it was to this mass of corruption, of the very 
 lowest kind, that Hesther was knowingly ex- 
 posing the lovely child ! Knowingly ; for 
 she had in her a native sense of superiority,
 
 10 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 which taught her the fearful wrong she was 
 committing, not only by withholding the 
 child from his parents, but in the daily and 
 hourly evils to which she thus subjected 
 him ; do what she would to obviate their ill 
 effect. 
 
 Fearful ! fearful trial ! 
 
 Can he, can any one, walk unscathed 
 through such a fiery furnace? 
 
 Yes, they can ; and, more, they have. 
 
 But, will he ? 
 
 If fine natural good dispositions, if an under- 
 standing, which even at that early age was 
 remarkable for its clearness and depth, if a sort 
 of intuitive perception of justice, a tender, 
 affectionate heart, and a character that seemed 
 quite hungry after good, if these precious gifts 
 of nature can avail unassisted to ward off the 
 evil influences that surround him, the boy will 
 be saved. There can be no doubt that moral 
 dispositions, as well as the gifts of genius and 
 talent, are by no means equally apportioned to 
 individuals upon their mysterious advent into
 
 CASTLE AVON. 11 
 
 this world. That they should be so, neither 
 experience nor revelation would lead us to 
 expect ; all supreme justice requires from man, 
 is to render an account of the portion he has 
 received. 
 
 This child Was remarkably endowed in this 
 respect. Perhaps it might be his descent, 
 for his father was one of the most excellent 
 of men, perhaps these boons of nature are 
 transcendental and dispensed by a decree and 
 rule above the regular workings of nature's 
 appointed laws. Vain but most interesting 
 speculations. 
 
 The child was of a social, joyous nature, 
 in spite of the delicacy of his perceptions, which 
 exposed him to suffer in a way his fellows 
 never did, either in his own person or in sym- 
 pathy with those around him ; but in spite of 
 this delicacy, his courage was high, his heart 
 gay and joyous, and he loved to mingle with 
 other boys and share their noisy games, es- 
 pecially those w 7 hich called out bodily force and 
 activity. 
 
 In strength he was surpassed by many 
 others of his age, in activity and dexterity 
 he was without a peer. Strength he was not
 
 12 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 much called upon to exercise. There was little 
 fighting going on among these wild lads, less 
 probably than at our own public schools ; their 
 spirit, courage, and love of enterprise, under the 
 rude, half-savage life which they led, evaporated 
 in other ways. And besides this, the beautiful 
 fair-haired child, with his clear sweet voice, his 
 sweet gaiety, his goodness and kindness, and 
 the refinement that hung about him as a sort 
 of radiance, investing all he did, produced 
 the greatest effect upon the imaginations of 
 those around him. These rude but not alto- 
 gether stupid or brutalized beings, all loved 
 and adored him ; their love, indeed, partook 
 almost of the nature of worship. A hand was 
 never lifted against Charlie ; had it been 
 needed, ten thousand swords, to use the sen- 
 tence hvperbolically, ten thousand swords would 
 have leapt from their scabbards to avenge him. 
 In sober prose, twenty or thirty rough brown 
 fists would have been doubled to punish even 
 a look that might have threatened to offend 
 him. 
 
 He lived among them, and yet was not of 
 them. Bright gold mixed with, and yet not 
 sullied, by the impure clay. There was that
 
 CASTLE AVON. 13 
 
 about Charlie with which evil could not mingle, 
 it rolled off as a drop of rain from the leaf of 
 the lily, leaving not a trace behind. But the 
 most remarkable things at present to be ob- 
 served in this embryo moral life which we are 
 describing, were an undeviating love of truth, 
 the strictest rectitude with regard to property, 
 and a power of moral reasoning, which elevated 
 him to the rank of a sort of prophet in the 
 midst of this rabble crew. 
 
 Charlie plunged in the brook, and played 
 about and fondled Hesther ; and fed and 
 caressed his quaint pet and friend, for some 
 time. At last, a loud burst of merriment, 
 halloos, shouts, and laughter, intermingled, came 
 sounding up the valley. The child pricked his 
 ears, listened, and then flinging down the rushes 
 and flowers with which he was amusing himself, 
 started up, threw his arms round his mammy's 
 neck with a force that almost dragged her to 
 the ground, imparted an impetuous kiss upon 
 her cheek — his custom upon meeting or leav-
 
 14 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 ing her — and ran down the strath to the 
 place of the encampment. There was a 
 crowd of gipsy-hoys gathered together upon 
 a little grassy plain, formed by the wind- 
 ing stream, and lying between it and the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 A rough-looking group they were ; in dirty 
 and tattered garments of all descriptions ; 
 mostly barefooted, bare-legged, bare-headed, and 
 hare-armed ; some with battered hats, some 
 with old weather-stained caps, but all looking 
 picturesque in their rude attire. All were well- 
 made, lithe, slender, and vigorous in form ; 
 mostly with handsome, bronzed faces ; large, 
 dark, flashing eyes ; and abundance of hair, 
 black as night, hanging in dishevelled elf- 
 locks around their animated features. There 
 was something in their looks that pleased and 
 displeased at once : a spirit and life, but 
 also an expression of cunning and of sly- 
 ness, in the turn of the eye, and in certain 
 casts of the face, that was particularly disagree- 
 able, and which contrasted painfully with the 
 freedom of their motions and gestures. You 
 felt disappointed ; you seemed to expect that so 
 much vigorous development of limbs and action
 
 CASTLE AVON. 15 
 
 would be attended by a truthful and generous 
 spirit ; but it was not so. They seemed indeed 
 as if it were their business to cheat others, and 
 to be ever upon the watch to prevent being 
 cheated themselves. 
 
 At the present moment, however, the nature 
 of the boy, if one may say so, is in full exercise, 
 and that of the gipsy in abeyance : the group, 
 in the highest enjoyment, being engaged in 
 some sport that excited their greatest interest. 
 They are hallooing, shouting, laughing ; and the 
 yelping of their dogs, and the loud cries with 
 which they are urging them on, show that their 
 sport is that common sport of boy and man- 
 nature ; namely, the chase, or destruction of 
 animal life. 
 
 Our little Charlie has run madly down the 
 valley at full speed, and now, panting for breath, 
 his golden hair flying from his face, which is 
 glowing with health, and is the colour of the 
 rose, he pushes his way into the throng, 
 elbowing this way and that, not asking ques- 
 tions, but wanting and wishing to see for him- 
 self. 
 
 The rocks and stones are falling in con- 
 fusion down one side of this tinv marsh,
 
 16 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 being insterpersed with little knots of brush- 
 wood and brambles. In front of them was 
 a confused crowd of boys and their dogs, 
 curs and mongrels of every degree, with a 
 few terriers and purely-bred cockers — how 
 come by may be guessed. All, boys and 
 dogs, are busily employed in persecuting a 
 young fox, which a lad standing upon the 
 stones holds captive by a string, long enough 
 to allow the animal to run about and hide and 
 dodge among the bushes. 
 
 Poor little Reynard ! He is in what may be 
 called in his prime of cubhood — not a little cub, 
 and not a full-grown fox ; he retains his charm- 
 ing look of fun, slyness, cleverness, and yet 
 ingenuite, to use the French word, which 
 renders his face at that age, perhaps, the most 
 charming one in the animal creation. His 
 beautiful long brush drags upon the ground, 
 as now he runs to this side, now to that ; 
 now pauses for a moment, and peeps out 
 from among the stones, brambles, and yellow- 
 broom, as if seeking for help, or hoping for 
 mercy. 
 
 The yellow broom flowers topple over his 
 pretty nose, the blue-bells and pink centaury
 
 CASTLE AVON. 17 
 
 are wagging their heads among the stones 
 around him, and the sun is shining so sweetly 
 and beautifully upon that side of the scene. 
 Upon the other are the savage boys and their 
 cruel and excited dogs ; all rushing forward, 
 with loud yells and shouts, to tear the pretty, 
 intelligent being to pieces. 
 
 The full force of the contrast struck upon the 
 child's lively and tender imagination at once ; 
 and darting from the circle, he rushed forward, 
 crying out : 
 
 " Oh, don't ! don't ! Let him be ! let him 
 be!" 
 
 But the boys were far too deeply engrossed 
 in their sport to listen to the voice of remon- 
 strance. 
 
 A loud laugh greeted Charlie's cry of distress, 
 and " Get out of the way ! get out of the way, 
 or you'll be worried, too !" 
 
 And at the moment half a dozen dogs, urged 
 by the voices of their masters, sprang furiously 
 up the bank. The little fox dashed away, and 
 cleared the mountain face before them, for one 
 brief moment he escaped, the next the string 
 pulled him back. The boy who held him in 
 custody shouted with ferocious glee, as the poor 
 
 VOL. II. c
 
 18 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 little victim fell backward, and the dogs flew 
 upon him. 
 
 " Oh, don't ! don't ! Let him go ! Loose 
 the string ! Let him go ! Oh, they'll tear 
 him to pieces ! They are tearing him to 
 pieces ! Vincent, Sterne, Roberts, let him go ! 
 let him go !" the child shouted desperately, 
 scrambling up the rocks, and with reckless 
 valour flinging himself into the very midst of 
 the furious dogs, vainly hoping to snatch the 
 victim from them. 
 
 " What are you about ? Keep back ! keep 
 back ! keep back !" one of them shouted 
 from behind him. " They'll be upon him ! 
 They'll worry him ! They'll tear him to 
 pieces !" 
 
 And as if moved by one general impulse, the 
 boys rushed up the steep after their dogs, en- 
 chanted by the brave child's intrepidity, and 
 hastening to rescue him from the imminent 
 danger to which he was exposing himself. 
 
 It was a scene of the wildest uproar and con- 
 fusion for a few minutes. Nothing could be 
 distinguished in this crowd of boys and dogs, 
 who were struggling, battling, yelling, shouting, 
 and screaming.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 19 
 
 Then in the midst of the tumult the crowd 
 opens a little, and gives way to a wild and 
 beautiful figure, hair streaming, eyes flashing 
 fire ; dashing down the steep, holding the res- 
 cued creature in his arms. 
 
 The dogs pursue him furiously — savagely. 
 The gipsy-boys, screeching and screaming, 
 hurry after, shouting to the dogs to keep back, 
 and rushing forwards to save their favourite. 
 
 They succeed. At last the storm subsides. 
 Each dog has been brought to reason and 
 obedience to his master's voice ; and the hubbub 
 ends in a sort of grumbling, discontented silence 
 upon all sides. 
 
 Charlie has seated himself upon a stone on 
 the opposite side of the little plain ; he is gasp- 
 ing for. breath, but he still holds the fox fast. 
 He keeps his muzzle clasped in his hand, for 
 the ungrateful little beast is making unheard 
 of efforts to bite his deliverer. 
 
 The other boys, followed by their dogs, are 
 wandering over the meadow in a slow, lounging, 
 discontented manner — vexed to have their sport 
 spoiled, delighted with the bravery and hardi- 
 hood of the child, angry that he should have 
 
 c 2
 
 20 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 rescued the fox, yet consoled at finding the 
 animal still a captive. 
 
 "It's too bad, I declare ! What business has 
 he spoiling sport? What a fellow it is! why, 
 the dogs were like lions. There's nothing that 
 lad fears ; why should he ? What can hurt him? 
 he's a fairy child. Fairy child or not, he shall 
 not spoil our sport, and that I'm agoing to tell 
 him, and get my fox back. I'm glad it didn't 
 get off, at all events." 
 
 Such were their remarks, as some of them 
 lounged idly up to where Charlie sat, and then 
 one of the boys began. 
 
 " Charlie, my fine fehW ! how come you to 
 spoil our sport in this fashion ?" 
 
 " Because I thought it a very cruel, and a 
 very unjust sport. What had the little fox 
 done ? And a dozen dogs against one ! that's 
 mean and cowardly, I think, and unjust too, I 
 call it." 
 
 " Here's a fine fellow ! justice to a fox ! 
 Whoever heard the like of that ? W T hat are 
 you going to preach about next, Master 
 Methodist ? last time it was a cock we mustn't 
 throw at; something in that, there might be, 
 inasmuch as chanticleer never hurt any one but
 
 CASTLE AVON. 21 
 
 hisself. But now it's a fox ! Well, I suppose 
 if a roaring lion came amongst us, we mustn't 
 touch him." 
 
 " It's not a roaring lion ; and if it were, he 
 ought to have justice," said Charlie, hugging 
 the fox closer to his breast, who had now ceased 
 to struggle, and sat there, his sharp eyes 
 fixed upon the speakers, as if listening to 
 what could be urged against or for his defence. 
 "If he were a lion, he ought to have fair 
 play." 
 
 " Fair play ! you're always talking of justice 
 and fair play, as if anybody cared for fair 
 play." 
 
 " I care for it, and you care for it ; and we 
 all care for it !" cried Charlie, with enthusi- 
 asm. " Gipsy lads you are, all ; but that's no 
 reason. You know what fair play is, and why 
 shouldn't you do it, by beast or man, one and 
 all, for that's what I call noble and true." 
 
 " Where did he get all his big words, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 " Oh ! the fairies come and tell him them 
 in his dreams. Ain't it so Charlie? Where 
 do you get all your grand notions, little lad ?" 
 
 " Come, give me the fox," said the boy who
 
 22 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 owned the animal, " and let's have done with 
 it ; and I'll forgive you for spoiling sport. 
 Keep down, Badger," to his dog. " Yes, 
 twelve to one ivas unfair odds, I'll own so 
 much, any how." 
 
 And he came forward to take possession of 
 the fox, but Charlie held back and squeezed 
 the creature the tighter. 
 
 " It ain't yours ! Give him to me — do you 
 hear ?" said the boy, angrily. 
 
 " No, it ain't mine — I know it ain't mine — 
 but it's not yours, perhaps, either. How did 
 you get it ?" 
 
 " What business is it of yours, how I got it. 
 Give it to me — give it to me, I say. Do you 
 hear ? I'll give you a good 'un upon the head, 
 else." 
 
 " What are you going to do with him ?" 
 
 "Do with him? what I like." 
 
 c< And , what will you like ; worry him, and 
 torment him, and be cruel to him ?" 
 
 " Worry him, to be sure. What is a fox 
 good for, but to make fun of?" 
 
 " Then you shan't have it, to make fun of," 
 and turning suddenly round, he was about to 
 set the animal at liberty; but the thought
 
 CASTLE AVON. 23 
 
 flashed across his mind that then all the dogs 
 would be upon him in a moment, so he held 
 him fast, and said : 
 
 " Only look at his funny, clever face, and 
 his eyes ! Why he looks as if he was smiling. 
 Don't worry him, Ben ; make a pet of him. 
 If you'd give him me, I'd make a pet of him. 
 It's not like a man to worry a poor little dumb 
 creature like this." 
 
 " Not like a man !" said Ben, contemptu- 
 ously, " why what do men do — don't they 
 badger-bait, and bull-bait, and bear-bait, and 
 fight in the ring, and — " 
 
 " Well, it's not like what I call a man, if 
 they do." 
 
 " And what are beasts made for, if we mayn't 
 make sport out of them ?" 
 
 " I don't know what they're made for ; but 
 this I know, I wouldn't, if I were a big boy, 
 hurt a poor little dumb animal — no, not for all 
 the world. So don't, Ben ; let this little fox 
 alone, and — " 
 
 We shall be tired of this childish pleading, 
 to which I feel that I am not doing justice. 
 This time, indeed, Charlie did not probably 
 speak with his usual eloquence, for Ben was
 
 24 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 not to be persuaded. In the meantime, the 
 other boys, tired of the moral argument, had 
 taken themselves away, they and their dogs, 
 in pursuit of some other diversion; and the 
 two boys were left alone, so intent upon 
 what they were saying, that they did not for 
 some time perceive it. At last, Charlie, looking 
 round, spied his advantage and turning his 
 bright blue eyes sparkling with triumph upon 
 great, heavy, big Ben, he said, abruptly breaking 
 off the colloquy : 
 
 " Now promise me you will not let him be 
 worried again, or — " 
 
 " Or what will you do ? for I won't promise 
 you anything ; but this I'll do, I'll set the dogs 
 upon him the moment I gets him to myself, 
 see if I don't — and that because you plague me 
 so about him." 
 
 " You will, will you ? Say that again." 
 
 " I will — that I will, and I'll swear to it if 
 you like." 
 
 " Then this is what I shall do," cried the 
 child, exultingly ; and opening his arms wide, 
 he released the fox, who speeded like light- 
 ning across the grass, and was out of sight 
 among the rocks in a moment.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 25 
 
 Big Ben turned pale with anger. 
 
 " And this is what I'll do — now — " doubling 
 his ponderous fist with a gesture as if with one 
 blow he would annihilate the delicate being 
 before him. 
 
 " No, you won't — no, you won't !" the child 
 repeated, calm and unflinching, not even moving 
 himself on one side to avoid the blow, but con- 
 fronting the young ruffian with a serene eye and 
 unblenching cheek. " No, Big Ben, you won't 
 hurt me because I took the part of the unfor- 
 tunate." 
 
 "I could find it in my heart to kill you," 
 muttered Big Ben, dropping his hand and 
 turning away sulkily. 
 
 " Oh, you're a great, big, rough fellow," 
 cried Charlie, springing after him, and twining 
 his arm round that of the young Hercules. 
 " Oh, you're a great, big, rough fellow ! — 
 but if your wrath is like a lion, a n't you 
 generous as a lion ? — generous to a little lad 
 like me, as the lion was to the little dog, Big 
 Ben, ain't you? — ain't you? And, now, you 
 won't be sorry a poor beast is got safe and 
 happy home ?" 
 
 " You've such a way with you," said the
 
 26 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 strong one, stooping down, and with his great, 
 rough hand caressing the little boy's head and 
 its golden, silky curls, " you've such a way ! 
 Generous ! that's one of your words. Do you 
 think the brute of a Big Ben can be gene- 
 rous ?" 
 
 " He is — why shouldn't he ? — Why 
 shouldn't he be a noble, brave fellow, such as 
 I w 7 ant him to be? — one who wouldn't hurt a fly, 
 yet would fly at a lion. That's what Big Ben 
 ought to be ; that's what he will be." 
 
 " I don't know for that ; perhaps he might 
 if he had a little fellow like you always at his 
 elbow, to conjure up the good in him, if there is 
 any good. But its main little there is of that 
 same, I'm afraid ; and when you're gone back to 
 Hesther, I'll be as bad again as ever. Why does 
 she keep so lonesome and out of the way ? 
 However, I am glad the poor beast wasn't wor- 
 ried, after all."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 2? 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 The simple event above related, laid the 
 foundation of much which seriously influenced 
 the boy's after life. In the first place, it was the 
 beginning of a close friendship between Big Ben 
 and Little Charlie — a friendship which Hesther, 
 in spite of the cruel torments of her jealousy, 
 could not witness without a certain satisfaction. 
 
 Big Ben was the Milo, the Hercules, the 
 strong man among these rude gipsy-boys, and 
 Hesther, who could not help trembling for the 
 very existence of the precious and delicate being 
 exposed to the rude contact of these hard and 
 savage natures, looked upon the protection he 
 was now certain to obtain as an assurance of 
 her darling's safety.
 
 28 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 She therefore stifled the envious pangs she 
 felt, and looked on with patience when she saw 
 Charlie happy and excited, playing round the 
 great rough hoy like some delicate spaniel about 
 a big water-dog ; or sitting by him upon the 
 grass, on the side of the coursing brook, his 
 little arm locked in the huge one of his com- 
 panion, prattling away, lifting up his blue intel- 
 ligent eyes, and fixing them upon the face of his 
 half-surly, half-pleased friend. In truth the 
 child had already began to exercise over Big 
 Ben the same strange fascination which he pos- 
 sessed over Hesther ; and, as the wild affections 
 of the one were rivetted upon him with a 
 measureless intensity, so over that heap of heavy 
 clay — this great animal of a boy — the voice, the 
 eye, the winning manners of a creature so dif- 
 ferent, possessed a strange power. In the heart 
 that lay hidden within the bosom of that rude 
 unformed Colossus, there were stirrings of life ; 
 faint throbs of emotion they were at first, but 
 gradually they strengthened ; faint beams of 
 light, too, broke amid the darkness of the 
 intellect, casting gleams and shadows, and re- 
 vealing forms till then quite obscured and un- 
 perceived. The voice, that voice which first
 
 CASTLE AVON. 29 
 
 awakened chaos, and called forth harmony 
 and beauty from the dull elements, was 
 breathing upon the uncouth mass. That pre- 
 cious voice now found utterance through the 
 eyes, in the sweet lively tones, and the engaging 
 loveliness of this good and innocent child ; and 
 a spirit was awakened within that wild untutored 
 gipsy bosom, a perception, faint though it might 
 be, of new and better things — of goodness and 
 of beauty. 
 
 The first action of little Charlie after the release 
 of the fox had been one of great moral loveliness, 
 displaying at once his sense of justice, his 
 admiration of what was right, and his own 
 generous spirit of self-sacrifice. Struck with 
 the conduct of the once harsh and too often 
 cruel boy, the child after he had parted from 
 Big Ben, retraced his steps up the glen in deep 
 meditation. 
 
 His thoughts had taken another turn, and 
 the fox being no longer the object of compassion 
 and interest, his attention was turned to his 
 late master. He began to think of the loss Big 
 Ben had sustained, and to measure, by the 
 intensity of delight it would have afforded him-
 
 30 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 self to possess such a favourite, the extent of the 
 sacrifice to another. 
 
 He began to doubt whether if he had 
 restored the little sagacious rogue to Big Ben, 
 he would not have done what was more right 
 and good-natured, than in thus letting him go. 
 The child's conscience was puzzled between his 
 humanity and the affectionate esteem he began 
 to entertain for his companion. 
 
 " I wonder whether Ben is very sorry — as 
 sorry as I should be if they took my little 
 howlet away — my dear little howlet, — perhaps 
 he is." 
 
 So he went on thinking, and pitying, and dis- 
 satisfied with himself, because he could make 
 no compensation to Big Ben. All at once a 
 thought struck him, and he stood still as if 
 thunder-struck. 
 
 Oh yes ! that would do — that would com- 
 pensate to Big Ben. But should he ? could he ? 
 Could he bear to part with it ? — his queer little 
 howlet, which he intended so to love and 
 play with; the friend and companion of his 
 solitude, and the object of so much adoration 
 to his warm untutored heart. Should he?
 
 CASTLE AVON. 31 
 
 Yes ! yes ! he would — that he would ; and he 
 started towards home as fast as he could. 
 
 First thoughts are best when they are generous ; 
 second thoughts are but too usually those of pru- 
 dential calculation. First thoughts are of the 
 heart ; second thoughts of the head. He seemed 
 afraid to trust himself with reflection ; he hurried 
 rapidly on. 
 
 Hesther was still sitting upon the stone, 
 leaning her back against the solitary tree. She 
 was looking down the glen, watching impatiently 
 for his return. He never left her but she was in 
 terror for his safety — a vague sort of terror, for 
 which she did not attempt to account, and to 
 which she yielded without resistance, just as she 
 did to every other feeling, good or bad, as it 
 arose. She was never easy when he was long 
 away, because she lived but in his presence, and 
 also she was in continual dread that something 
 might arise to part them. 
 
 She had remained there restless and impa- 
 tient for some time, and was just about to 
 rise and walk down the glen to look after her 
 Charlie, when she saw him coming flying 
 towards her. She opened her arms, as she was
 
 32 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 wont to do, to receive him, but instead of 
 flinging himself as usual upon her breast, he 
 passed her, and hurried to the place where he 
 had built himself a kind of cage to hold his 
 little owl. 
 
 " What are you going there for? I thought 
 how it would be," she began angrily ; " you 
 can't think of Hesther now. You've no eyes 
 but for your howlet. I wish with all my heart 
 it was drowned in the stream. I've a good 
 mind to wring its neck, haven't I ? Ever since 
 you've had it, you've loved it better than me. 
 
 " See how he's hugging it !" she went on 
 half aloud to herself. " Did you ever see any- 
 thing like that child ? Why, he's crying over 
 it, I declare ! What a heart of love it is," she 
 added with a sigh ; then more loudly, and with 
 increased irritation, she went on, " Pretty fellow, 
 you are, crying for joy, to see that nasty beast 
 again, and not a word for Hesther ! — not a word 
 for Hesther, and you away, I don't know how 
 long." 
 
 The child's heart had been too full for him 
 to pay attention to anything; he neither heard 
 nor saw any object, but that upon which his
 
 CASTLE AVON. 33 
 
 whole soul was intent; but these reproaches 
 reached him, and turning to her, with his eyes 
 swimming full of tears, he said : 
 
 " But, mammy, 1 do love him so." 
 
 " I know you do — a little foolish beast ! 
 Well, well, children must — but let him alone 
 now. What are you going to do with him? 
 Can't you come and have your supper ? Why 
 can't you let him alone ?" 
 
 " Oh, mammy, mammy ! Oh, my little 
 howlet ! my little howlet !" 
 
 " Well, what a fuss you are making about 
 your little howlet. Of all the days in the 
 year, why make such a to-do about him just 
 now ?" 
 
 " Because — because I'm going to part with 
 him." 
 
 "Part with him! What's in the child? 
 Nonsense, your little howlet ! No, no ! If it's 
 because you think I'm jealous of him, and 
 hate him — why so perhaps I may be, and 
 so perhaps I do. But I'm a bad creature, 
 Charlie ; Hesther's jealous of everything. Never 
 mind her ; don't heed it ! Part with your 
 
 VOL. II. D
 
 34 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 little howlet that you loved so ! and all to 
 ease poor Hesther's heart ! No, that you shan't. 
 You are a darling to think of it. But don't 
 think of it again. Part with it !" she kept 
 repeating, her heart quite melted. " No, that 
 you never shall do for me!" 
 
 " It's not for you, mammy ; though I'd 
 give it you first if you liked it; but you 
 don't like it ; it's for Big Ben." 
 
 " Big Ben ! And how come you to be 
 so thick with Big Ben? I doubt whether 
 he's a proper companion for you, my own 
 jewel, for he's a bad boy." 
 
 " Oh ! he's not a bad boy ; but a good, 
 generous boy. Only hear, mammy." 
 
 And then, still holding the bird fondly 
 in his arms, he came to her knee, and with 
 great fervour, his eyes sparkling and his bosom 
 heaving, related the history of the fox, con- 
 cluding with : 
 
 " And so I will give him my howlet. It 
 is all I have in the world, and I'll give him 
 my howlet." 
 
 There was a strange light in Hesther's eye, 
 a passionate admiration of moral worth — that
 
 CASTLE AVON. 35 
 
 passion which, so long as it continues to exist, 
 seems to redeem the darkest nature. 
 
 " And you'll give it him ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will — I will. But I must go now, 
 mammy ; don't keep me now. If I don't do 
 it at once, I can't do it." 
 
 " Go, go !" said she. 
 
 And the child turned away and went upon 
 his generous errand. 
 
 " Big Ben," he said, as he went up to that 
 hero, who now indolent and moody as some 
 heroes in repose are apt to be, was sitting 
 upon a tussock of grass, plucking idly the 
 herbs which grew around him, and sunk, ap- 
 parently, in no very agreeable reflections. He 
 was indeed thoroughly out of sorts, for he 
 felt ennuye and dull, that most insupportable 
 affliction to people of his class of life, who 
 but rarely exposed to feel it, endure it when 
 they must, with peculiar impatience. " Big 
 Ben ! What are you doing, Big Ben ?" 
 
 " Doing ! What should I be doing, who 
 have nothing to do ? Thinking what a fool 
 I was to let you have that fox, and turn him 
 out so. I should have been playing and 
 
 D 2 *
 
 36 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 amusing myself if I had the little fellow now. 
 I'll tell you what," he added, getting up in 
 great ill-humour, " I didn't serve you out for 
 it then ; but I've a good mind — " 
 
 "It's not because I'm afraid you will serve 
 me out," said the little Charlie, " for I'm sure 
 you won't ; but it's because I, who never had a 
 pet before, know how sorry you must be to lose 
 yours: so I have brought you mine, which I 
 hope you'll please to take, and love it, and be as 
 happy with it as I used to be." 
 
 " You're not going to give me that howlet !" 
 said Ben, opening wide his big, black eyes. 
 
 " But I am ; and you're welcome to it ! 
 You'll like it very much ! It's so droll and 
 pretty ; and, perhaps — perhaps, Big Ben, when 
 you've got it, you'll let me come now and then 
 to look at it, and feed it ?" 
 
 " You're not a going to give this ere howlet 
 to me!" Ben repeated, still keeping his eyes wide 
 open with amazement. 
 
 " Yes ; pray take it ! — to make you amends. 
 Here, this is the way to hold it. Don't hurt it, 
 Ben, with your big hands — poor little thing !" 
 
 " J hurt it ! I touch it ! I take it ! I'll be
 
 CASTLE AVON. 37 
 
 d — d fi rs t ! J" take your howlet from you !" 
 cried Ben, his huge chest heaving with emo- 
 tion, and an odd moisture coming into his 
 eyes. " I take it ! Well, but you are a good 
 little fellow, to come now and bring your only 
 treasure, the thing you love best in all the world, 
 and offer it to me ! Why, there's a something 
 in it, Charlie, I don't know what, but it 
 seems — And hang me, if ever I'll let boy or 
 man plague you or contradict you again ; never 
 believe Big Ben else ! No, no ; take your pretty, 
 funny bird back again, and love me a bit, that's 
 all i" 
 
 And in this simple manner the friendship 
 between these two apparently incongruous beings 
 began. 
 
 So soon as Hesther learned how Big Ben had 
 received her little boy's offer, she was delighted 
 with him; she thought nothing too good for 
 him; treated him with the greatest cordiality, 
 and could'even resign her Charlie to him for 
 hours, so grateful was she that her child's
 
 38 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 feelings had been spared, and he, made happy 
 again. 
 
 This friendship produced permanent effects. 
 Under the protection of Big Ben, Charlie was 
 inclined, and Hesther suffered him, to visit the 
 encampment much more frequently than he had 
 been before accustomed to do, and to associate 
 more with the other gipsy-boys. 
 
 The moral contagion to which she thus ex- 
 posed him, she thought less of; satisfied that 
 he was quite safe, so far as personal security was 
 concerned, under the care of his doughty friend; 
 for she was herself becoming more and more 
 gloomy and melancholy, more than ever ad- 
 dicted to solitude, and indifferent to everything. 
 The crime she had committed seemed to hang 
 like a heavy weight upon her conscience ; a fear- 
 ful darkness pervaded her soul, in which she 
 groped with a dim perception, almost ignorant 
 of the extent of the sin, the remembrance of which 
 pressed so heavily upon her heart. Incapable of 
 that repentance which would have been to her a 
 renewing, and a regeneration, her remorse seemed 
 to be devouring her by inches, without producing 
 any real change or improvement. Every day
 
 CASTLE AVON. 39 
 
 she became more self-absorbed and more 
 morose, till the voice, even of the charmer, 
 seemed to have lost its power. The intense inter- 
 est she had felt in the moral welfare of her little 
 boy seemed to be changing into in difference and 
 apathy. She loved to indulge her morbid melan- 
 choly in solitude, and left him to take his 
 chance. A fearful chance it was ! among those 
 uncultivated and vicious barbarians. But she 
 seemed content now, contented so that he came 
 back to her at night, and she saw him safe and 
 sound. 
 
 This was a fearful change for the worse, 
 as regarded him. And now the tide of evil 
 began to set in strong. Evil companions sur- 
 rounded him on every side ; all the vices to 
 which that form of savage life is prone — a 
 life not carried on in the wild freedom of 
 nature, but exposed to the corruptions of 
 civilised society, without its attendant anti- 
 dotes — flowing round him like a flood. 
 
 What will become of him ? Is it possible 
 that he can escape? Can beneficent nature, 
 however rich and lavish her endowments, suf- 
 fice to shield him from the mass of bad which
 
 40 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 besets him in every form, and upon every 
 side? 
 
 But we must leave him, and return to his 
 mother and Hernana.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 41 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A charming creature, was Hernana, as I 
 have said. So thought her father, so thought 
 Lady Aylmer, so thought Philip Gorhambury. 
 
 The life Mr. Lovel, Lady Aylmer, and 
 Hernana lived, continued much such as I have 
 described. Mr. Lovel wore the same shabby 
 hats and coats, in spite of all his daughter 
 could do ; and would not, even to gratify Lady 
 Aylmer, be persuaded to lay out one shilling 
 upon himself, unless in matters of indispensable 
 necessity. And, as he had a contempt of ap- 
 pearances, which amounted almost to a fault — 
 and was, indeed, the only fault that could be 
 discovered in him — this indispensable necessity
 
 42 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 had often been long evident to other people, 
 before he could be persuaded to acknowledge 
 it himself. 
 
 Hernana and Lady Aylmer had recourse to 
 numberless little feminine contrivances to remedy 
 the disorder of his toilette. Sometimes a coat 
 or waistcoat were surreptitiously introduced"; 
 sometimes the battered hat disappeared, and 
 a spruce beaver was found upon the peg in 
 its stead. The coat or waistcoat was usually 
 put on without observation; probably the change 
 was unperceived. The new beaver could not so 
 easily escape ; he would take it down from its 
 peg, sweep it with his coat sleeve, turn it round, 
 fit it upon his head, look rather discomposed 
 and discomfited in it, search about for his old 
 favourite, but that not being to be found, would 
 at last go forth with the stranger upon his head, 
 looking so half-rueful, half-ashamed, that Her- 
 nana could not help laughing. 
 
 The whole time of this good man was spent 
 in the indefatigable discharge of his professional 
 
 duties. The city of G was large, and had 
 
 been long greatly neglected, both by its clergy 
 and its municipality. Mr. Gorhambury's parish
 
 CASTLE AVON. 43 
 
 was a very extensive one, and comprehended 
 some of the very worst quarters of the place. 
 The sum of crime and misery, of ignorance, vice, 
 disease, and sorrow, of ill-conduct, mistaken views, 
 barbarity, darkness, and perversion, accumulating 
 under such circumstances, is immense. One 
 only effectual remedy has as yet been found, or 
 according to my persuasion, ever will be found 
 to this array of evils ; namely, the efficient 
 preaching of the Gospel. Other blessings will 
 follow, I am persuaded, as a matter of course. 
 But it is vain to attempt permanently to im- 
 prove the condition of the poor by any other 
 means. 
 
 All your lecturings and teachings, and culti- 
 vations of the intellect, and taste for the beau- 
 tiful ; even your thrice and ever blessed, and 
 to be praised sanitary reforms, will prove vain, 
 so long as man is but as the beasts which 
 perish, without accountability, and without a 
 future. With these, be his condition what it 
 may, he is still a man ; a noble, exalted, 
 spiritual being, lifted above himself by com- 
 munion with the All-wise, and All-good. De- 
 prived of these, be he in a palace, or a dungeon ;
 
 44 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 ruling an empire, or grinding at the mill ; his 
 is a poor, futile, maimed, mutilated existence, 
 robbed of its true distinction — the Infinite. 
 
 "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die !" 
 
 The oyster may exchange the sentiment with 
 the infidel. Incessantly did Mr. Lovel labour 
 at this great task ; his days were spent among 
 the dwellings of the forlorn, and wretched, and 
 darkened creatures. There were so many ; 
 such numbers upon numbers ; such hosts upon 
 hosts. It was as if one would exterminate the 
 flies or locusts of plagued Egypt. But he 
 laboured perseveringly and unremittingly, never- 
 theless. Oh ! he would not that one of these 
 little ones should perish. And countless were 
 the souls he saved ; or, if this be thought too 
 presuming an expression, countless were the 
 souls he restored to a better life, and to a 
 higher destiny ; countless the death-beds of 
 poor, weak, miserable sufferers, that he ele- 
 vated, and consoled by the idea of the divine 
 sympathy ; countless the sinners that, having 
 first humbled, he brought into submission to the 
 Divine Master; countless the drunkards that
 
 CASTLE AVON. 45 
 
 became good and happy fathers of families; 
 countless the slatterns and the scolds, who 
 exchanged their languid indolence and their 
 peevish irritability, for industry, cheerfulness, 
 and contentment. Long, long, he worked, an 
 ill-requited and obscure labourer ; but the savour 
 of these labours mounted on high. 
 
 The great ones of this city, at last, began 
 to perceive that a good agency was at work. 
 The obscure Curate became an object of atten- 
 tion. His advice was asked, his suggestions 
 attended to, means were furnished for more 
 extended good. This was his recompense here, a 
 high and delightful recompense. When he saw 
 sewers cleansed, and habitations repaired, the 
 blessed light of heaven, the blessed breath of 
 heaven, and above all, the living springs of 
 pure God-given water pouring where all had 
 been darkness, filth, and disease, he was 
 repaid. Did he care for hats and coats whilst 
 he was doing this ? Too little, perhaps. But 
 his Hernana and his Louisa cared for owe, 
 who cared for every one on earth but himself.
 
 46 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 Economy, however, was the order of the day 
 with them all. Lady Aylmer's desolated heart 
 found its best consolation, childless widow as 
 she was, in administering to the wants of the 
 wretched. She made herself children of the 
 children of misery. She did not, it is true, 
 carry her charitable pemiriousness quite so far 
 as Mr. Lovel. A certain elegance and beauty in 
 the life which surrounded her seemed indis- 
 pensable to her well-being, necessary to main- 
 tain in her that serenity of spirit which is 
 required for all successful labour; but the 
 luxuries the superfluities, and above all, the 
 ostentations of life, she despised and defied. 
 
 Hernana loved order, and beauty too ; but 
 she loved generosity, and a Spartan contempt 
 of ease and luxury still better. She profited by, 
 and preserved, a happy medium between the 
 sacred indifference of her father and the 
 perhaps too sensitive dependance of Lady 
 Aylmer upon externals.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 47 
 
 Now I think it is time to make you acquainted 
 with Philip Gorhambury. 
 
 Mr. Gorhambury, in secret — a very dissa- 
 tisfied and unhappy man, took up his abode at 
 the Castle, where he continued to live with the 
 exception of those portions of the year when he 
 was in residence. He was a prebendary of the 
 cathedral, as well as rector of the largest living 
 
 in the city of G . Uneasy and irritable, 
 
 he seemed to be under the influence of some 
 maledictory bann, yet everything he touched 
 appeared to turn to gold. He, therefore, be- 
 came exorbitantly rich; but, as too often hap- 
 pens in such circumstances, all seemed to become 
 blank, tasteless, and onerous, till even the grass- 
 hopper was a burden. 
 
 What a priceless treasure is a rich, large, 
 loving heart ! What dire penury lies in a cold, 
 unsympathising, selfish temper. What are 
 your heaps of gold to such a one? They are 
 apples of Sodom, indeed ! Mr. Gorhambury 
 knew that he had been guilty of a very base, 
 dishonourable action — a crime, as regarded the 
 will — a false deceit, as related to the proofs
 
 48 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 offered of the child's death; and therefore, 
 before the tribunal of his own conscience, he 
 stood a miserable, degraded caitiff. He felt, 
 and he looked as he felt, that he was in spite 
 of all his external wealth and show, a miserable, 
 degraded being. But worse for him, even 
 than this, his heart was utterly shrivelled up. 
 One has heard of such hearts, no larger than 
 a hazel-nut — incapable of expansion, as of 
 warmth — of the generous glow, as of the gene- 
 rous swell. What can life offer to such ? what 
 can wealth do for them ? 
 
 He was become incapable even of feeling pity. 
 He was so miserable himself that he envied 
 everybody. The very beggar who begged an 
 alms at his gate he envied. His was naturally 
 an envious nature ; and to the envious all sym- 
 pathy with his fellows is denied, except with 
 those more unhappy than himself. 
 
 And who more wretched than Mr. Gorham- 
 bury ? No one. 
 
 He could take no pleasure in relieving those, 
 with whom he would almost have changed 
 places. To increase happiness affords no joy to
 
 CASTLE AVON. 49 
 
 the envious man. That large field of delight 
 open to the wealthy is denied to him. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury was not a person to call 
 forth higher and better aspirations. She was 
 an excessively talented, superior woman. Genius 
 she had not, but everything els*, to an extraor- 
 dinary degree — ingenuity, talent, cleverness, in- 
 dustry indefatigable. 
 
 Her paintings, her sculpture, her carvings in 
 wood — even her very needlework, when upon 
 that she condescended to employ herself — all 
 alike exceeded anything ever produced by ama- 
 teurs before. She had, likewise, a very extensive 
 knowledge of languages ; and, for a woman, very 
 considerable erudition as a musician, in which, 
 whether as a composer or performer, she was 
 most remarkable. 
 
 Such accomplishments commanded the ad- 
 miration of everybody, and were a source of 
 great pride and satisfaction to her husband ; but 
 they were too much. All life seemed absorbed 
 by them. There were no spare moments for 
 sympathy and confidence; none of those dear 
 and tender dawdling fireside hours, which fuse 
 heart in heart. Even had Mr. Gorhambury's 
 
 VOL. II. e
 
 50 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 heart been capable of such fusion, the occasion 
 never presented itself. Mrs. Gorhambury was 
 absorbed in art, and in art he took not the 
 slightest interest. 
 
 The accession of fortune which had proved 
 so barren and unprofitable a gift to him, had to 
 her become a source of great enjoyment. The 
 abundant means thus furnished for the cultiva- 
 tion of her talents, the power it gave of com- 
 manding the society of all the most eminent in 
 the several circles of the arts, were enjoyed to their 
 full extent. She improved rapidly, wonder- 
 fully; her productions in every way fully merited 
 the admiration they were sure to receive. But 
 what was all this to the dreary spirit of her 
 husband ? loathing, as he did in his diseased 
 frame of mind, the very sight of the objects 
 upon which so much pains and time had been 
 expended. 
 
 One pleasant chat — one tender inquiry — even 
 one melancholy murmur of discontent- — one 
 good hearty falling out, would have been some- 
 thing — a communion, a relief. 
 
 And how was it as regarded the only son of 
 this all-accomplished woman ?
 
 CASTLE AVON. 51 
 
 The mother exercises an influence incalculable 
 upon the son. The mother may almost be 
 called the destiny of the son. 
 
 Upon Philip Gorhambury, the effect of his 
 mother's character and pursuits was great, and 
 the character of the results very dubious. 
 
 He inherited much of her delicate percep- 
 tion and fine taste; her talents seemed to 
 descend to him. He drew extremely well, and 
 his love for music amounted to a passion. 
 
 From a mere schoolboy he had been cele- 
 brated for his performance upon the only instru- 
 ment he then cultivated — his own matchless 
 power of musical whistling ; but, as he grew up 
 to manhood, he chose others, and became with 
 little pains a first-rate performer upon the 
 violoncello. 
 
 His mother delighted in those talents, and 
 encouraged them by every means in her power. 
 By her example the young man was taught to 
 love poetry rather than wisdom — beauty than 
 usefulness — art than politics. The cultivation 
 and worship of beauty was his religion, as it 
 was hers. Even the Almighty God above us 
 
 E 2 
 
 ■
 
 52 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 was to be worshipped in His " revelation as the 
 Beautiful." 
 
 Such habits of thought enfeeble and imper- 
 ceptibly degrade the mind. It is a pagan 
 worship after all. The sublime — the pure — 
 the light of lights is not there. 
 
 Philip grew up elegant, refined, full of deli- 
 cacy, accomplishment, and outward attraction ; 
 but susceptible, self-indulgent, with no bold, 
 generous, or manly aspirations after the higher 
 good as regarded himself, and still less as re- 
 garded others. 
 
 How different from Hernana — the very con- 
 trast to Hernana ! Was it for this reason that 
 they loved each other ? Upon her side, perhaps. 
 She had few opportunities for comparison. 
 Philip in talents, accomplishments, elegance of 
 appearance, and, above all, in a peculiar sweetness 
 and delusive tenderness of manner, far surpassed 
 everything she had ever seen, or even imagined. 
 She admired him, loved him, worshipped him. 
 
 But this admiration and idolatry was the 
 secret of her heart. She had not revealed it 
 even to her friend and second mother, Lady 
 Aylmer; no, nor to her father. There was a
 
 CASTLE AVON. 53 
 
 something in the manner of both when speaking 
 of Philip Gorhambury, which chilled her and 
 forbade confidence. She felt persuaded that 
 they did him the greatest injustice; and had 
 for some reason or other taken a prejudice 
 against him ; but her consciousness forbade her 
 endeavouring to overcome this prejudice. She 
 said nothing, and her secret was not in the least 
 suspected. 
 
 Philip upon his side, had liked Hernana from 
 a child. There was something in the energy and 
 sublimity of her character — her frank and faith- 
 ful truthfulness, so different from himself, and yet 
 which he loved beyond words, as boys and men 
 of somewhat feeble characters are prone to love 
 the girl or woman upon whom they can lean. 
 
 As she grew up, her fine, classical form, her 
 open-spirited, intellectual countenance, called 
 forth his highest admiration. Inferior to him 
 as she was in her social position, he took the 
 greatest pride in her — he never saw her without 
 a feeling of elation. She was such a noble 
 creature ! Once or twice he had spoken of her 
 before his mother, and his mother would acknow- 
 ledge that the form of Hernana was perfect
 
 54 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 enough to rival the antique models ; but then 
 she would add a few words of contemptuous 
 pity for the narrow education she had received, 
 her deficiency in accomplishments, her ignorance 
 of art, and the oddity and narrowness of Lady 
 Aylmer's ideas — she too who had pretended to 
 form her. 
 
 " Really, it is a pity," she said upon one of 
 these occasions, " for Mr. Lovel, though he is 
 only your father's curate, was born a gentleman, 
 I understand, but Hern ana is more fit to be a 
 housekeeper than a gentleman's wife. She is 
 not even accomplished enough to take the place 
 of an ordinary governess. Mr. Lovel is very 
 poor, I believe, but what could Lady Aylmer be 
 thinking of! However, she is an odd, ob- 
 stinate sort of woman — I know that from 
 your father. But, good heavens ! Philip, what 
 are you about? Why you are painting your 
 sky apple-green I" 
 
 " I took the wrong colour. Somebody has 
 jumbled all the colours together. Everything is 
 topsy-turvy — what a fool !" And he tore the 
 picture he was beginning from the easel, and 
 was about to cast it into the fire.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " Dear Philip, what are you about ?" said his 
 mother, " you can easily obliterate your mistake 
 — see ! It is done already," added she, passing 
 her experienced brush over the apple-green sky. 
 " This is a beautiful beginning — there the light 
 a little too much broken, perhaps ; but really it 
 does you infinite credit upon the whole — your 
 perception of art — " 
 
 " Art be d — d !" said he roughly, " I am 
 sick of art and of everything." 
 
 His mother stared. 
 
 " What can you be thinking of?" 
 
 " Sick of it all — of everything ! Some- 
 times, mother, I ask myself what is the 
 use of all this? What purpose in life 
 does it serve, making pretty pictures to 
 hang upon walls, which not one in a 
 hundred looks at, not one in five hundred 
 understands, and not one in ten thousand 
 cares for? It's all very pretty — very pretty; 
 but, oh ! how cursed tired of life I sometimes 
 am!" 
 
 " That distaste of life," said his mother, 
 quietly, " is the scourge of genius. Who has 
 not felt it, in their moments of discouragement 
 and anxiety ? All feel it. There is no escaping
 
 56 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 from it. But beauty is not the less beautiful 
 because there are moments when our very sense 
 and perception of it seems dead. The immortal 
 works of Grecian art remain for ever — the 
 endowment and admiration of the universe; 
 though— " 
 
 " Though what ?" said he. impatiently. 
 " Mother, it's a great humbug, after all. 
 Who is the better for the Apollo or the 
 Laocoon ?" 
 
 " Nay, if you talk so absurdly as that" 
 said she, resuming her pencil, " I can have 
 nothing to say to you." 
 
 Of course he believed, as everybody else 
 feels bound to believe, that he was very absurd 
 when he ventured to propound such ideas — 
 ideas, however false, which will present them- 
 selves, when life in its intensity presses upon 
 us. 
 
 " Well, mother, I beg your pardon for 
 speaking evil of your gods. It's all my own 
 stupidity and ill- humour. But, oh ! this Castle I 
 this Castle ! it is to me, at times, the very 
 cave of spleen — the den of the demon of 
 ennui. There are moments," said he, looking 
 round the room with an air of indescribable
 
 CASTLE AVON. 57 
 
 disgust, " when I could take up all these fine 
 things, and make a bonfire of them. That 
 would warm one, at least, for once in one's 
 life." 
 
 She continued her painting in dignified 
 silence. Such nonsense was unworthy of a 
 reply. 
 
 He sat there some time sullen : ill-temper 
 is apt to take that turn, when it does not get 
 answered. He kept watching her indefatigable 
 pencil, till he lost all patience; at last, he 
 suddenly looked up, with : 
 
 " Any commands for G ? I am going 
 
 to ride over to G , mother." 
 
 " What do you want at G ?" she 
 
 asked, without lifting up her head. " You 
 cannot be back to-night." 
 
 " Oh yes, I shall ; and if I am not, don't 
 fret about me. No commands ? not a little 
 inch of a ribbon I can get for you ?" 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 " Addio, then — addio" said he, with a 
 sudden return of spirit and gaiety. " And 
 here, mother of mine, is a kiss upon each 
 cheek ; one, to plead my excuse with the
 
 58 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 Apollo, the other with the Laocoon. And now 
 that I have jumped up from my chair, I am 
 ready to vow what you will in honour of 
 every hero or deity that ever was chi- 
 selled." 
 
 She took his kisses coldly, not playfully ; 
 but he did not seem to care, for his head 
 was full of new thoughts, as he ran merrily 
 down to the stable- yard.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 59 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mr. Gorhambury, though he had so com- 
 pletely given up his clerical duties, still kept his 
 living at G , and resided there a certain por- 
 tion of every year. So that Philip had always a 
 pied-a-terre in the city, where he very often took 
 refuge when he found the solitary Castle in the 
 mountains intolerable. It was indeed placed in 
 a very wild and secluded situation, and almost 
 reminded people of the Castle of Udolpho, 
 
 There was the usual solemn and quiet society 
 
 in G , which is common to most cathedral 
 
 towns. But though the dances and parties 
 were never very lively, there was often excellent
 
 60 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 music to be had, a peculiarity also common to 
 cathedral towns, where the affairs and interests 
 of the choir keep the subject uppermost in most 
 people's minds. 
 
 There were many amateur singers among the 
 gentlemen of the place, who gave the music of 
 the best masses and that of our own old mas- 
 ters, and good living ones too, with excellent 
 effect. Philip had a charming tenor voice ; 
 there was something of the tone and pathos 
 of Rubini in his singing ; and his assistance 
 was ever most welcome in these agreeable 
 evening concerts. Few indeed could hear him 
 sing without emotion, for he did it with a truth, 
 feeling and simplicity, which made its way direct 
 to the heart, to say nothing of the handsome 
 and expressive countenance, which gave fresh 
 sentiment to the words and tones he uttered. 
 He was a dangerous man among the young 
 
 ladies of G , where staid, middle-aged, 
 
 married men were plenty, but young ones like 
 Philip, rare as the Phoenix. Indeed, the part 
 of Phoenix he might literally be said to play at 
 this time, for there was not one man in the 
 place who could in the least compare with him,
 
 CASTLE AVON. 61 
 
 either as regarded personal or mental accom- 
 plishments. 
 
 Many a young lady sighed in secret, but 
 sighed in vain, for the charming Philip Gor- 
 hambury ; but not one could flatter herself with 
 being the object even of a preference. There was 
 a gaiety and gallantry — nay, something more — 
 a touch of sentiment about him, which might 
 have flattered and beguiled many a one ; only 
 these things were so generally diffused, his 
 attentions so equitably distributed among his 
 favourites, he professed to be so deeply in love 
 with at least half a dozen fair ones at once, that 
 it was impossible for the most obstinate self- 
 delusion to persuade itself that there was any- 
 thing approaching to real partiality for any one 
 among them. They were consoled, these young 
 ladies, as voung ladies and all the world besides 
 are apt to be, by the conviction, that if not 
 fortunate themselves, no one could boast of 
 better luck. 
 
 This pleasing idea was, however, a mistaken 
 one, for there was one, whom Philip Gorhamburv 
 never mentioned, never praised, about whom he 
 never made any of his wild professions of pas-
 
 62 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 sion ; one who seldom appeared at any evening 
 parties, and when she did so, mostly sat by, dis- 
 regarded, for she was only a poor curate's 
 daughter, and the belles of the city scarcely con- 
 descended to notice her. 
 
 Philip rarely spoke to her in public ; a 
 ceremonious bow was the usual salute ; perhaps 
 a sentence or two might now and then be 
 formally exchanged, that was all. Yet, some 
 way, though no one noticed the coincidence, when 
 she was present, the tones of his sweet and 
 passionate voice were more thrilling, more 
 intensely pathetic than ever, and the lovers of 
 music would wonder at and applaud the sudden 
 inspiration, while she sat retired, like the 
 Egeria of old, shedding her influence, hidden, 
 and unperceived. 
 
 But she of old was in a less dangerous 
 situation than poor Hernana, for she dictated, 
 but was not a witness of the effects she produced. 
 She escaped, perhaps heart-free, perhaps not. 
 It was Hernana's fate, however, to sit a silent 
 and entranced listener, to tones which she knew 
 were inspired by and addressed to her alone. 
 One look directed to the corner where she
 
 CASTLE AVON. 63 
 
 sat, one expressive, momentary glance, would 
 tell her to whom all this world of beautiful 
 sound was dedicated. 
 
 But now he is mounted upon his noble black 
 horse, with shining coat and waving mane and 
 tail, and hoofs that seem almost to scorn the 
 ground ; and he is bounding over the hills 
 alone, drinking in the sweet mountain air, his 
 bosom swelling, his intellectual brow dilating 
 with thought and feeling — delicious, as they are 
 high and pure. 
 
 He was of that peculiar temperament which 
 responds like the chords of some fine instru- 
 ment to the harmony which is around him, 
 and his heart constant, affectionate, and true, 
 trembled with happiness as he thought of her 
 to whom all his fond aspirations are devoted. 
 
 He has loved her all his life, he loves her 
 still with a true and honest love — for herself. 
 He knows not why — he cares not why — he 
 loves her because she is Hernana. 
 
 Hernana is truth, energy, nobility of mind, 
 reason, action. She is all this ; but he loves
 
 64 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 these things because they are in her — not her 
 because she is all this. 
 
 He loves her ; that is enough. And like the 
 carrier-pigeon needing no compass, by the 
 instinct of love steering direct towards home ; 
 so Philip Gorhambury bounds over the hills, 
 riding an unconscious steeple-chase, of which 
 Hernana is the goal. He mounts a steep ascent, 
 and then looks down ; and below him in the 
 valley lies the town of G . 
 
 The grey towers of the cathedral rise in 
 the midst with the full light of the sun 
 upon them. The various habitations, inter- 
 mingled with trees, lie there nestling among 
 the hills, the broad majestic river rolling by, the 
 green meadows with their herds and flocks, 
 and hedge-banks, and rows of pollard-willow 
 stretching far upon either side — a wilderness of 
 houses, and trees, and fields, and gardens — how 
 beautiful ! He checked his horse, and looked 
 down upon the scene; at first, filled with 
 enthusiasm by the extreme beauty of the 
 picture, and then beginning to endeavour 
 to distinguish* well-known objects. The place 
 where he stood commanded almost a bird's-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 65 
 
 eye view of the city. He could see the cathe- 
 dral close, with its rows of elms and oaks, 
 and distinguish the Deanery perfectly well. Then 
 his eye travelled to the denser parts of the 
 city, where thickly crowded houses, narrow 
 lanes, small courts, and all the evidences that 
 these were the tenements of the very poor 
 presented themselves. This district was, how- 
 ever, traversed by one large and wide street 
 of handsome houses, in the midst of which he 
 could, even there, perceive his father's, as more 
 lofty and imposing than any other. 
 
 It had tall ornamented chimneys and a high 
 flight of steps, and a door with a Grecian pedi- 
 ment and pillars. He fancied he could see 
 even these. 
 
 His father's church- steeple, a noble spire, 
 rose at some little distance, from among this 
 wilderness of squalid dwellings. Near it, his eye 
 searched long. 
 
 It was difficult to distinguish the small obscure 
 dwelling he sought — with its garden before 
 and its garden behind — which was situated 
 close by the churchyard. At last he thought 
 he could single out the little green plot by one 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 66 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 particular tree — a poplar tree it was — which 
 rose like a giant not far from the garden- 
 wall Having settled this point, he seemed 
 satisfied; and dismounting from his horse, 
 prepared to lead him down the steep descent 
 before him. 
 
 He reached the bottom of the hill, then he 
 vaulted into his saddle, and plunging among 
 the narrow lanes and courts, made his way to 
 the well-known little gate. 
 
 A boy of his acquaintance, son of the sexton, 
 was accustomed to take charge of Philip's 
 horse when he came this way. He now sum- 
 moned him, and put Alcaster into his care, 
 charging him as he valued his life not to 
 mount himself; and then walked by the side of 
 the brick wall which enclosed Mr. Lovel's little 
 domain, till he came to the narrow high iron 
 gate which closed the entrance to it. 
 
 He peeped through. The house Mr. Lovel 
 occupied was the old parsonage ; far too incon- 
 venient for the requisites of modern luxury, as 
 the Rector regarded them ; and, therefore, it had 
 been given up rent free to the Curate. 
 
 It was an old low building of dark brick, with
 
 CASTLE AVON. 67 
 
 pointed gables and casement windows, almost 
 overgrown with ivy, pear trees, and creepers of 
 various descriptions, which Hernana had trained 
 up against the w 7 alls. It had a small court in 
 front, occupied by a grass plot, which was 
 equally divided by a paved walk running from 
 the gate to the house ; behind the house there 
 was a somewhat larger space, occupied also by a 
 grass plot, upon which grew a dwarf cherry tree, 
 two small plantations of some dozen sycamores, 
 laburnums, plane, and lilacs, on either hand ; two 
 flower borders, with a gravel walk between, 
 running the whole length of the garden; and, 
 on each side, the ground laid out as a kitchen 
 garden of very slender dimensions. 
 
 The back garden was fenced in by privet 
 hedges, cut, and pruned, and trained, till they 
 exceeded the height of a tall man ; the front 
 was surrounded by the high w r all of dark, 
 coloured brick, of which I have spoken. The 
 tall poplar tree growing outside, cast its shadow 
 over the scene. 
 
 It was a somewhat gloomy, yet not altogether 
 unpleasing place; and Philip loved it dearly. 
 There was a charm about the quiet old house, 
 
 f 2
 
 68 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 which belonged not only to the present, but to 
 the past ; for he remembered well the wife of a 
 former curate regaling him, a little child, with 
 dainty cakes and rich cream in this very garden, 
 before Hernana and her father had come to live 
 there. 
 
 The churchyard, opposite to which the iron 
 gate opened, was quite deserted, and Philip 
 could stand at his leisure and look through 
 unobserved. 
 
 He wanted to find out whether Mr. Lovel 
 was at home or not. Much as he liked the 
 daughter, the father was not in the least to his 
 taste. His neglected dress ; his dawdling, in- 
 different manner ; the serious, almost severe, 
 character of his virtue ; each and all found 
 something in Philip Gorhambury with which it 
 was impossible they could harmonise. 
 
 He looked and peered about. The case- 
 ment of the parlour window was open, and a 
 throstle in a cage was singing and whistling 
 there, evidently quite at its ease, and probably 
 by itself. The window of Mr. Lovel's room 
 above was likewise open, and no one to be seen 
 stirring there either. He put his hand upon the
 
 CASTLE AVON. 69 
 
 latch, opened the gate noiselessly, and stole into 
 the garden. 
 
 There were no dogs to be apprehended as 
 giving alarm. A cat whisked through the 
 bushes ; she was the only inhabitant of the 
 sort, except the throstle. There was not 
 food enough in the menage to provide for 
 such pets, as dogs. So he made his entrance 
 unobserved; and first he went to the parlour 
 window, and looked in, but the parlour was 
 empty. Hernana was not there as usual, 
 writing or sewing. Then he followed the path 
 which led to the back of the house, and upon 
 which the eating-room — for it scarcely merited 
 the name of dining-room — and the kitchen win- 
 dow looked. 
 
 The casement of the eating-room was closed ; 
 but that of the kitchen was open. To it he 
 stole; and hidden by a flanking white rose- 
 bush, which, with another of rosemary, grew 
 close by, he peeped in. 
 
 Cobbett, in one of his wholesome books, exe- 
 crating the potato as the bane of all domestic 
 industry, and magnifying the good brown 
 loaf, draws a beautiful picture of a fine active
 
 70 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 young woman, drawing her bread out of the 
 oven. 
 
 But tastes differ. For there are tastes which 
 are simple and wholesome, and tastes which are 
 perverted and vitiated ; or as some, on the con- 
 trary, would have it, tastes are refined, or tastes 
 are vulgar. 
 
 Philip, the elegant child of fortune, and 
 reared to fortune's notions and refinements, 
 peeped into the kitchen; and there he saw 
 — what think you ? His dark Spanish beauty ; 
 the Hernana of the glorious shape, the large 
 dark eye, the ebon hair; the enchantress, in short, 
 whom he had in fancy attired in mantilla and 
 bugle flowered petticoat, with a shoe so neat and 
 delicate as to set the world on fire when 
 stepping along the Alameda, employed — 
 how ? 
 
 How was Dulcinea del Toboso employed, 
 when Sancho was sent to her with a message — 
 stringing pearls? 
 
 The kitchen was, as always, a perfect Dutch
 
 CASTLE AVON. 71 
 
 picture of neatness. The sanded floor, white 
 as snow ; the large kitchen table as emulously 
 fair and clean ; the little shelves, shining with 
 bright copper vessels, or with rows of old china ; 
 where figured sundry strange figures, bowls and 
 jugs, most rare and antique. They had belonged 
 to Hernana's mother, who had been a Spaniard. 
 The fire blazed cheerfully in the grate. 
 Before it was a low fender, shining like 
 silver, and upon a little square of crimson 
 carpet that here covered the floor, lay a large 
 tabby cat, reposing in all that domestic quiet 
 comfort of which a reposing cat is so perfect 
 a type. By the fire, in an old-fashioned arm- 
 chair, dressed in the primitive style which one 
 now sees no more, with a quilted black petticoat, 
 open gown, snow-white apron, handkerchief 
 quaintly crossed and pinned over her bosom, 
 and a curious construction called a cap, white 
 as swansdown, upon her head her feet 
 resting upon a footstool, sat the old house- 
 keeper, as complete a figure of comfort and 
 repose as the cat herself. Her cheek was 
 pale, and she looked ill ; and that accounted for 
 the ever-busy housewife being at rest, whilst
 
 72 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 her tasks were performed by another. For 
 there was a kneading-trough resting upon low 
 tressels in the middle of the room, and there, 
 kneading the bread for the family, was Hernana. 
 Her beautiful arms were bare, her sleeves rolled 
 back, her hair somewhat in disorder, a few 
 raven locks escaping over her neck, and her 
 cheek a little flushed. She was kneading away 
 with all her might, little thinking how she 
 looked, and only anxious to save the dear old 
 dependant from fatigue, and make her father 
 some good bread. 
 
 Mrs. Alworthy groaned aloud, as she sat 
 there reposing, uttering many a lackaday ! 
 and welladay ! to which lamentations Her- 
 nana, lifting up her head, would answer with 
 a cheerful encouraging smile j and then return 
 to her work, and knead on with the utmost 
 industry. 
 
 And there stood the fastidious Philip gazing 
 at her. And as he gazed, his heart was filled 
 with strange emotions. She looked charming ! 
 she looked beautiful, even then ! and he had 
 it but too strongly impressed upon his heart 
 how far more beautiful she could look at
 
 CASTLE AVON. 73 
 
 other times. But there was something in the 
 employment which offended his taste, his false 
 and somewhat tinselly taste. Something in her 
 dress so common ! — in the whole scene so 
 vulgar ! vulgar ! ! 
 
 Base and most inapplicable word ! He 
 was the vulgar one — not she. He, who was 
 insensible to the moral beauty of a magna- 
 nimous simplicity — to the loveliness which 
 lies in the detail of domestic life, however 
 humble, when love and generosity are the 
 elements in which it subsists. 
 
 And yet, meretricious as were his tastes, 
 it was impossible that the little scene should 
 be ^without charms for him. The reposing 
 old woman ; the beautiful energetical and simple 
 figure of the girl. 
 
 There was a witchery in it. Where did the 
 charm lie ? Why could he not tear himself 
 away? He thought he disliked the whole 
 thing. It vexed him to see Hernana thus 
 degrading herself; yet, strange contradiction! 
 he loved her more so than ever he had 
 loved her before. He was angry, yet en- 
 chanted !
 
 74 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 Oh, simple, unconventional life has a rare 
 magic in it ! 
 
 He stood there, watching her. The old 
 woman groaned, and moved uneasily. Then 
 Hernana wiped the dough hastily from her 
 hands, and flew to her, and shifted a cushion 
 that lay against the back of the chair ; and 
 soothed, and comforted, and kissed her, and 
 returned to her occupation again. 
 
 He could stand it all no longer. He knocked 
 at the w T indow. She lifted up her head. First 
 the scarlet colour flew to her cheek; and 
 then she seemed ashamed of having been 
 ashamed; and then, stripping the dough from 
 her fair fingers, she laughed merrily, and came 
 to the casement and unclasped it. 
 
 " Wonders are never to cease!" said he, 
 half-vexed, yet half-pleased. " I see you have 
 taken up a new trade to-day." 
 
 " Yes. Poor dear Mrs. Alworthy, there, is ill 
 with the rheumatism ; and bread must be had, 
 you know." 
 
 "There are bakers in the town, I should 
 think," he said, rather contemptuously. 
 
 " But it is cheaper to bake at home."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 75 
 
 " Cheaper !" 
 
 " Yes, cheaper. I pray you, don't pronounce 
 that word in such a contemptuous manner. 
 It is the most esteemed of qualifications 
 here." 
 
 " Yes, I know it ; and sometimes, per- 
 haps, regret it. The sordid, in no shape, is 
 lovely — never amiable — seldom right," added 
 he, peevishly. 
 
 " Sordid !" she repeated, a little hurt ; then 
 added — "A necessary economy is never 
 sordid." 
 
 " It is absurd to talk in this way, Hernana. 
 I know your father is not rich, but I also know 
 that numbers of girls whose fathers cannot be 
 better off than yours, would scorn to stoop to 
 these sordid — yes, sordid ! I can find no other 
 word to express my ideas — these sordid occu- 
 pations !" 
 
 She looked down for a moment. 
 
 What woman, however strong her character, 
 however noble her notions, however high and 
 pure her sentiments, can withstand the humilia- 
 tion of appearing low and degraded in the eyes 
 of the man she loves ?
 
 10 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 She may be fully sensible that he is wrong, 
 and that she is right; that he is conventional 
 and vulgar, and herself heroic and high; but 
 she is unamiable in his eyes ! and that is 
 enough. 
 
 How many an honest duty has been sacrificed 
 at this shrine of a false divinity ! How many 
 men with their shallow and tinselly views of 
 female excellence, have given a wrong direction 
 to many a loving heart ! 
 
 She looked down, to blush, and feel her 
 heart sinking, with a cold mortified sense of 
 being abased in her lover's eyes. But this was 
 not the first time that she had met with morti- 
 fication where she knew she deserved esteem — 
 and felt that the noble sacrifices made by self 
 only met slight and contempt from men. 
 
 The world is made thus. The common sort 
 value us more for what we do for ourselves, 
 than for what we sacrifice to others. 
 
 Many a time before had something in Philip's 
 manner, when she had been making some abne- 
 gation of this kind, humbling herself to the most 
 lowly tasks, denying herself the most trifling 
 piece of personal adornment, to save a shilling
 
 CASTLE AVON. , 7 
 
 or two for her father, often and often had his 
 manner, pained and perplexed her, yet she had 
 continued to persevere. 
 
 Her heart was of so high and generous a 
 temper that every new pain seemed only to add 
 force to her resolution, and stimulate her to 
 persevere in the path of self-denial which she 
 had chosen for herself. 
 
 Yet every recurrence of these little scenes 
 of discontent on the part of Philip, gave her 
 intense pain : she so loved to please him ; and 
 so longed for that appreciation upon his part, 
 which she felt to be her due, and which is the 
 sweetest, sweetest recompense upon this earth, 
 to a woman — the assurance the he she loves, 
 at least does her justice. 
 
 " I think," she said, lifting up her eyes, and 
 looking at him with that grave serenity and 
 strength, which he felt so irresistibly charming, 
 " that you are unjust, Philip, when you call these 
 things sordid in me ; sordid seems to me to 
 mean a love of sparing for sparing's sake — a 
 love of money for money's sake, and the accu- 
 mulation of it by paltry means ; a love of low 
 employments, because incapable of taking plea-
 
 78 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 sure in higher. Does that cap fit me, or mine, 
 Philip?" 
 
 " No, certainly ; and it is because you are 
 capable of what is higher, that it angers me to see 
 in you a sort of strange perversity — for I repeat 
 it — I never see other young ladies kneading 
 bread. Look at your fists," said he, half- 
 laughing, and still half-vexed, " are they fit 
 for a drawing-room ? A labourer's cottage, 
 say, rather." 
 
 She held them up. 
 
 " I don't see much harm done as yet," she 
 said, with simplicity. 
 
 " As yet ! No, perhaps not, as yet ! But how 
 long is this to go on ? And how do you think 
 Molly the cook, and Betty the housemaid, get 
 their coarse, red paws, but by doing just as you 
 do ? I am sure, Hernana, if my mother were 
 once to see you, as I see you now, it would 
 disgust her for ever." 
 
 " I should be sorry to disgust any one ; most 
 of all a woman of Mrs. Gorhambury's fine taste ; 
 yet to gratify taste we do not altogether live. 
 — we must not altogether live. There is a line 
 in the Catechism, Philip ; it served me as a child,
 
 CASTLE AVON. 79 
 
 and it serves me still — ' to do my duty in that 
 state into which it hath pleased God to call me.' ' : 
 
 " Pooh, nonsense ! This line may be used 
 as you use it, to justify any eccentricity. We 
 shall have you talking of the rights of women 
 next, I suppose." 
 
 " I don't think making bread was ever con- 
 sidered an undue exercise of the rights of 
 women. Come, Philip, don't be cross; don't 
 be vexed with me for doing that which you 
 know I ought to do. Forgive me if I offend 
 your taste, dear Philip, and do me the justice 
 to believe it is no love of eccentricity, but a 
 sincere desire to do my duty unswervingly, 
 just as it comes. And," in a lower voice, 
 " the poor thing is in such pain, I cannot let 
 her do anything herself; and really we cannot 
 afford to keep another servant, except for the 
 very roughest work. Kneading the bread is so 
 cleanly and so nice, you should not object to 
 that, you know." 
 
 It was such a sweet, fervent, persuasive 
 voice; it would have rived, to use the old 
 proverb, a heart out of a stone. It was all- 
 powerful with him. He thought she looked
 
 80 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 so majestic in her simplicity, so gentle in her 
 self-assertion and dignity. 
 
 He leaned against the window-sill and con- 
 tinued to look into the room. The evening 
 was closing fast, and as the shadows deepened 
 outside, the cheerful brightness of the little 
 apartment became all the brighter, the fire 
 throwing up its flickering blaze and flashing 
 upon the coppers and china. He felt in his 
 poet's soul, that which all poets feel, the 
 invincible charm of nature. 
 
 " You look very comfortable here," said he. 
 
 Her countenance brightened, there was quite 
 an effulgence upon it when she was happy. 
 
 " You think so. I think so. There is 
 something in a little quiet kitchen like this, 
 which has great delights for me. I am luckily 
 different from people in general, I believe; I 
 really like these little comfortable places ; I 
 think if I lived in a great wilderness of a palace 
 I should be lost. Sometimes at the Deanery 
 it seems almost a labour to get from one 
 end of those two large drawing-rooms to the 
 other. If they are not filled, they look desolate ; 
 and if they are filled, what a crowd it is ! One
 
 CASTLE AVON. 81 
 
 or two friends, over a nice, cosy, blazing fire 
 like that ; is it not comfortable ?" 
 
 Philip said nothing. Her countenance was 
 so speaking, so animated whilst she said this — 
 the scene so exactly as she described it, there 
 in all its peace and comfort before him. He 
 could almost have wished his fate had consigned 
 him to the same simple life she seemed to 
 love, that necessity had forced him down to 
 such a sphere, with her by his side. But 
 necessity had done no such thing. 
 
 We cannot voluntarily degrade. He felt 
 that. The more easy solution of the question, 
 which in some form or other was now almost 
 always uppermost in his thoughts, was to 
 elevate her to the place by his side. For 
 without her by his side, what was life? But 
 then what would his mother say ? 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 82 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 But now the door of the little kitchen 
 opened, and Mr. Lovel made his appearance. 
 He had been hard at work that day, among the 
 very lowest of his parishioners ; he was exces- 
 sively tired, his shoes and his gaiters were be- 
 spattered with mud, his hat was more worn, 
 and his whole appearance more slovenly, not to 
 say beggarly, than ever. 
 
 Philip looked at him with unmixed disgust. 
 He was dirty, positively dirty ! shabby, mean, 
 eccentric ! What an absurd contempt he indulged 
 in for all the proprieties men are accustomed to 
 respect. 
 
 It angered Philip to see Hernana turn
 
 CASTLE AVON. 83 
 
 round, fly to her shabby-looking, and, as he 
 thought, disgusting father, clasp him fondly in 
 her arms, and imprint a kiss upon each cheek, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Dear, dear papa ! how tired you do look ! 
 and no bread baked for your supper ! What 
 have I been about ? Only stay a moment, and 
 I will fetch you a loaf from the baker's ; but sit 
 down first," and she put him into a chair by 
 the fire, and then kneeled down and began to 
 unbutton his gaiters, and offer to take off his 
 dirty shoes. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Hernana, let me do that !" cried 
 Mrs. Alworthy, offering to move. 
 
 " Be quiet, will you ? and sit still ! Dear, 
 dear papa ! how tired you do look !" 
 
 She, kneeling down and handling those be- 
 mired shoes and gaiters ! This was to make 
 bad worse with a vengeance. He drew back 
 from the window disgusted. But it was soon 
 to return again, He was bewitched ! she had 
 thrown a spell upon him ! Do what she would 
 — disgust, displease — she was Hernana still ! 
 
 Mr. Lovel did seem extremely faint and 
 tired. He sank back in the arm-chair in which 
 
 G 2
 
 84 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 she had placed him ; his colour faded ; a wan 
 blueness spread over his temples ; he looked so 
 wretchedly ill, that even the hard heart of pride 
 and fastidiousness was touched. 
 
 Philip looked at him with some interest. 
 She stood there gazing at her father, with a face 
 in which love, reverence, tenderness, and anxiety 
 were blended. Then she suddenly snatched up 
 her bonnet, which lay upon a table near, and 
 prepared to leave the house. 
 
 Philip was at the door before her, and met 
 her there. 
 
 " You are not going out alone at this time of 
 the evening ?" 
 
 " Yes I must, do come with me ; see how ill 
 he is. He went out but poorly this morning — but 
 what can keep him from his duty ? The fever is 
 about, and there are many, many — oh, so sick ! 
 and miserable ! But he must have brandy now ; 
 he has been all day in those fever holes. Oh, 
 how could I be so forgetful I" 
 
 She hurried on, Philip following in silence. 
 
 She came to the next public-house and entered 
 without a moment's hesitation. 
 
 Philip's feelings are indescribable as he stood
 
 CASTLE AVON. 85 
 
 at the door, not going in, but looking in, and 
 seeing this angel of light and purity invested 
 with a panoply, as it were, of virtue, entering 
 this den of dirt and depravity, where two or 
 three brutal fellows were laughing, smoking, 
 and drinking. She hastily asked for some 
 brandy, paid for it, and flew back to her father. 
 
 Rapidly she seemed to flit, rather than run 
 along the streets ; he following, but she did 
 not appear to remember him. She was only 
 thinking of her father. She opened the door 
 of the house, and went in — Philip following ; 
 but he stood at the door of the little kitchen, 
 as he had done at that of the gin-shop, not 
 entering, but looking in ; whilst she flew for- 
 ward, quickly prepared a little brandy-and- 
 water, and presented it to the pale lips of 
 Mr. Lovel. 
 
 " Brandy ! — no, my dear !" he said, drawing 
 back and shaking his head. 
 
 " You must — you must ! I was told so 
 yesterday by the medical man at Lady Aylmer's 
 — oh, how could I be so careless !" — she said, 
 " when you came back, faint and sick, from 
 those dens of misery and pestilence, that the
 
 86 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 best thing to preserve you from the fever, was 
 a little hot brandy-and-water. Take it — take 
 it, dear, dear papa !" 
 
 He took a little, though unwillingly, and 
 said he perhaps should be the better for it. 
 
 " I feel ill," he added. 
 
 The old lady had risen from her chair and 
 had hobbled up to her master as well as her 
 stiffened limbs would permit. 
 
 " Yes, I am sure, Mr. Lovel — my dear master, 
 you are ill : you have taken the fever. Oh, lack- 
 aday ! lackaday !" 
 
 " No, I hope not — I trust in God, not !" 
 cried Hernana. 
 
 The young man still kept standing at the 
 door, offering no assistance, engaged in 
 watching the scene ; it excited in him such 
 strange, contradictory feelings. 
 
 He could not be insensible to its moral 
 beauty ; for Philip, whatever else he might 
 be, was poet enough to have much moral 
 taste. And yet, at the very time that he 
 admired her piety so much, there was a 
 something displeasing to his pride, and false, 
 fastidious refinement in the whole.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 87 
 
 He had at times indulged himself in the 
 romance of dreaming of Hernana his wife. But 
 to take a wife is, with men of his stamp, a 
 very serious matter indeed. They have not 
 heart enough to invest the idea with all its 
 world of tender sympathies. With him, af- 
 fection was a matter more of the imagination 
 than of the feelings. He was at sad division 
 with himself; sometimes he would, sometimes 
 he would not ; just as his fancy veered about. 
 It never once suggested itself to his mind, 
 that by this indulgence of his wayward temper, 
 he might be trifling with the happiness of 
 another. What he felt he expressed ; and 
 when he felt nothing he kept away. She 
 only saw him when under the influence of 
 tender sentiments ; it is not to be wondered 
 at, therefore, that she believed he loved her 
 sincerely. He always was loving her when 
 she saw him. She had no standard to 
 measure the depth and breadth of his affection 
 but that of her own heart, and her heart 
 was all singleness and fidelity. How could 
 she then distrust his ? 
 
 She never thought of such a thing ! That
 
 88 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 Philip loved her she felt convinced ; and now, 
 whilst hanging anxiously over her father, 
 she lifted up her head, and looking round, 
 her eye caught the figure of Philip stand- 
 ing upon the threshold, a sudden rush of 
 joy, oh, so exquisite ! gushed to her heart. 
 He was there ! and his love and sympathy, 
 made even that moment of anxiety like 
 heaven. 
 
 She cast her eyes wistfully towards him. 
 He could not resist the appeal ; his heart 
 was at that moment what it should ever 
 have been. 
 
 He crossed the threshold, and with that 
 tenderness in his countenance, which his fea- 
 tures were but too well formed to express, said : 
 
 " Can I be of any use to you, dear Her- 
 nana ?" 
 
 " He is very ill ; you see he is very ill," 
 she said, in much distress. "What is to be 
 done r 
 
 As she spoke, her father's countenance 
 changed suddenly for the worse. In spite of 
 all his efforts to keep up, and assure her that 
 nothing was the matter with him, a livid pale-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 89 
 
 ness spread over his face, his eyes closed, and 
 he fell back in his chair, shivering violently in 
 every limb. 
 
 " You must have advice instantly," cried 
 Philip. " Something is very much amiss here. 
 Let me run for advice. Who shall I call 
 in?" 
 
 " Our apothecary is old Mr. Singleton ; oh, 
 go, go — run, run, dear Philip ! He is very 
 ill. Worse, worse ! Oh, papa — papa ! father 
 —father !" 
 
 Philip waited not for a word more ; but flew 
 to fetch the apothecary, Mr. Singleton. He 
 rushed down the street, and into that gentleman's 
 small, and somewhat obscure shop ; for Mr. Sin- 
 gleton was a general practitioner in a humble way, 
 and his practice lay principally among the poor. 
 He was not the less, however, a skilful and 
 experienced man ; or rather a man who knew 
 how to profit by experience — for experience 
 offers herself to every one ; the difference be- 
 tween man and man is, that whilst one gathers 
 ingots of gold from the mingled sands as they 
 run, another distinguishes, discerns, and ap- 
 propriates nothing. This by the way. Philip
 
 90 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 hurried into the little shop, where a young man 
 was standing behind the counter employed in 
 preparing medicine. He looked surprised to 
 see so fashionable and distinguished a young 
 gentleman entering Mr. Singleton's door; and 
 was beginning in the politest fashion he could 
 invent, to inquire his errand. But — 
 
 " Is Mr. Singleton at home ?" asked Philip, 
 hastily. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, just come in ; but he has been 
 out since five o'clock this morning, and is 
 sitting down to his tea. Anything I could have 
 the pleasure of doing ?" 
 
 " I want Mr. Singleton. Is this the way ?" 
 
 And without waiting for permission, Philip 
 entered a passage at the back of the shop, and 
 opening a door, found himself in the parlour of 
 the apothecary. 
 
 He was a small, singular-looking man ; but 
 with a countenance of remarkable acuteness. 
 Poor man, he had just taken off his miry boots, 
 after a journey of ten or twelve hours ; and was 
 enjoying the rest of his arm-chair, a comfort- 
 able cup of tea, a round of buttered toast, and 
 his newspaper.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 91 
 
 " Mr. Singleton !" 
 
 " At your service. I have not had the 
 pleasure — Ay, ay, ay ! I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Philip Gorhambury. In what can I assist 
 you, Sir ?" 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! It's not for myself ; a pa- 
 tient — " 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, deary me ! can't the patient 
 wait a little ? I am but just come in ; I must 
 have at least an hour's rest. Nature requires — 
 I will be with the patient in three quarters of 
 an hour." 
 
 " That won't do ; you must come directly. 
 Mr. Lovel has had a strange sort of seizure, and 
 is—" 
 
 " Mr. Lovel is it ?" starting up, and huddling 
 on his great coat. " Mr. Lovel ill ! Ay, 
 ay ! I knew but too well what it would all end 
 in. The blessed saint and martyr ! Got the 
 fever ! Ay ! I'll lay a hundred pound to a 
 shilling. Got the fever !" 
 
 He hurried into his shop, his great coat 
 unbuttoned, and all abroad ; and having quickly 
 filled a bottle with some medicine, hastened
 
 92 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 with rapid steps down the street, Philip follow- 
 ing him as fast as he could. 
 
 Mr. Singleton entered the kitchen, attended 
 by Philip, but the little chamber was now 
 empty. Even poor crippled Mrs. Alworthy had 
 found her way up-stairs. 
 
 The stairs opened into a passage close by the 
 kitchen-door. 
 
 Mr. Singleton went to the foot, and 
 called : 
 
 " Miss Hernana !" 
 
 She .flew down to meet him. 
 
 Her face was flushed, and tears were upon it ; 
 her manner all distraction and confusion. 
 
 " Oh, you are come ! Oh, thank you ! 
 bless you ! He is very ill. What can it be?" 
 
 So the anxious, hurried, trembling voice was 
 heard running on, whilst the old apothecary 
 blundered as well as he could up the steep stair- 
 case, and soon his heavy footsteps were heard 
 in the apartment above. 
 
 Philip remained standing by the kitchen fire, 
 looking into the red embers, and in a deep 
 reverie.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 93 
 
 The picture of humble life before him was 
 so unpleasant, so discordant, so inharmonious 
 with all his ideas ; and yet with a strange perti- 
 nacity, still the image of Hernana rested there, 
 rested as something without which life, the 
 world, all his advantages, and all his possessions, 
 would be utterly nought and valueless. 
 
 He loved her ; he felt, he knew that he loved 
 her. 
 
 Something within him whispered that his 
 love was a just, a generous, an ennobling 
 love. That his preference w 7 as wise, was 
 well-placed, was praiseworthy ; that under its 
 influence he should be a better man — should 
 be a worthier, nobler human being; a happy 
 man too — happy from the best and surest 
 sources of happiness. 
 
 But then the picture had its reverse. 
 
 The reverse was made up of a host of insig- 
 nificant nothings — vain trifles, which, to his 
 false and fastidious taste, and enfeebled character, 
 assumed a most unreasonable importance. A 
 host of ideas, which one moment's serious 
 appreciation of their true relative value, would 
 have reduced to their just insignificance, kept
 
 94 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 painfully crowding into his mind ; assailing him 
 in the weakest part, and endeavouring, as in 
 the old legend of the life's choice, to obscure by 
 their meretricious glare, the grave but sublime 
 attributes of the higher one. 
 
 Strange it is, but so it is. Even when men 
 love deeply and sincerely — even when every 
 inclination of the heart is prompting them, 
 when they would gladly, thankfully accept the 
 impulse from another, they want courage, man- 
 liness, and virtue to make the better choice for 
 themselves. It requires a certain, nay, a very 
 considerable amount of virtue, to dare to abide 
 by a worthy choice, and do what would be the 
 wisest thing in the world, and which our hearts 
 are yearning to do, when the idle voice of habit, 
 worldly considerations, and the common course 
 of things, are much opposed to it. 
 
 Oh ! how much happiness do men hourly 
 throw away because they have not the courage 
 to seek it, where alone they can find it, in the 
 unbiassed dictates of their own hearts. 
 
 Philip Gorhambury stood by that fire, gazing 
 into those embers, divided between the sweet- 
 ness of a generous well-placed love, and ten
 
 CASTLE AVON. 95 
 
 thousand vain, weak, trifling causes for doubt 
 and irresolution. 
 
 His mother too ! What would his mother 
 say ? What would she think of it ? His 
 thoughts glanced towards his father. He would 
 be terribly disappointed, and would be dread- 
 fully angry, but that he cared little for and 
 could defy. 
 
 But his mother ! his clever, talented, elegant, 
 accomplished mother ! Her contempt ! How 
 could he brook her contempt ? 
 
 The utter scorn and pity with which he knew 
 she would regard anything approaching to the 
 generous romance of life ; to that brave inde- 
 pendence of the world's opinion in matters 
 with which the world has no business to 
 interfere. It w 7 as not the disappointment that 
 she would feel, the pain he must necessarily 
 inflict upon his mother that he troubled himself 
 about ; but her contemptuous pity ! her forbear- 
 ance ! her blighting compassion ! her indignant 
 and unfeigned astonishment at his taste. 
 
 You see how much of a heart Philip Gor- 
 hambury possessed, or rather how far his 
 education had tended to extinguish or to deve-
 
 96 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 lope what good feeling nature had bestowed 
 upon him. So he stood at the fire, in a reverie, 
 till Mr. Singleton was heard slowly descending 
 the stairs, and he made his appearance in the 
 kitchen, followed by Hernana. 
 
 Her hair was all in disorder, falling in fine 
 picturesque masses about a face to which the 
 emotions of her heart had given the noblest 
 and most interesting expression. Intense feeling 
 in some countenances produces this beautiful 
 effect. This was eminently the case with that 
 of Hernana. 
 
 The imaginative eye of Philip was struck 
 almost with wonder, at the extraordinary beauty 
 of the face and figure of her — who, Mttle conscious 
 of the effect she was producing, and far too 
 much in earnest to think at that moment even 
 of her lover — was in broken sentences anxiously 
 inquiring from Mr. Singleton as to her father's 
 condition. 
 
 The old man could give her little satisfaction. 
 He could only exhort the young lady to firm- 
 ness and fortitude; whilst she, almost heart- 
 broken, drew from him the confession, that her 
 father's illness had assumed a most threatening
 
 CASTLE AVON. 97 
 
 aspect, and in short, that his life was in danger. 
 Then she was at last overcome, and the grief 
 which hurst forth was so natural and so deep, 
 the feelings so tender and strong, which seemed 
 for the moment to overwhelm her, that they 
 forced their way to the sympathies of her lover, 
 and completely vanquished him ; but some 
 fine scene in a tragedy would have done as 
 much. 
 
 She had sunk down upon the little bench by 
 the kitchen fire as soon as Mr. Singleton had taken 
 his departure, and had abandoned herself for the 
 moment to all the agonies of despair. He could 
 resist it no longer ; all that was really good in 
 him was aroused, he went to her, sat down by 
 her side, took her hand, and as he tenderly 
 pressed it, spoke, in those tones of manly ten- 
 derness and strength so dear to a woman's heart, 
 and entreated her to take comfort. 
 
 " Dear, dear Hernana ! Don't give way so ! 
 Don't abandon yourself to despair ! The doctor 
 told you there was hope." 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Yes, he did indeed. And now, my love, 
 compose yourself ; listen to me ; let us see what 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 98 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 can be done, sweetest Hernana," and the other 
 hand was made prisoner as he spoke. " You 
 know you can command me ; have no 
 scruples — do we not understand each other? 
 I have the means ; you will not refuse to use 
 them ? Everything I possess is yours to employ. 
 These fevers yield to proper treatment. What 
 shall we do first? Have you confidence in 
 Mr. Singleton, or shall I call in other advice ? 
 A nurse ? Yes, you shall instantly have a 
 nurse. Good wine? I heard Mr. Singleton 
 say something of cordials — of keeping up ? 
 My father has excellent Madeira — or perhaps 
 claret — I think I have heard claret recom- 
 mended. Anything — everything — only tell me 
 what shall be done first ?" 
 
 So he ran rapidly on ; holding her two 
 hands grasped in his, speaking in such a 
 pitiful, earnest, feeling voice. 
 
 For a moment — it was a human, it was a 
 woman's weakness, forgive it — every source 
 of apprehension for her father was drowned in 
 a flood of rapturous joy. She looked up at him, 
 their eyes met. His were all fervent passion ; 
 hers — Oh, the depths of feeling that he read
 
 CASTLE AVON. 99 
 
 there ! It was but the infirmity of a moment 
 upon her part, however ; she withdrew her 
 hands, and endeavouring to recover the 
 mastery over herself and to calm the beatings of 
 her heart, said : " Oh, thank you ! thank you, 
 Philip ! What is there I would not accept for 
 my father from you ? " 
 
 And he thought as she said so, there was that 
 in her face, that in her form, that in the tones 
 of her voice, that never woman had equalled, 
 and that he loved her as never man loved 
 woman before. And he was happy, happy 
 beyond expression ! 
 
 It took little time to settle between them 
 what was best to be done. Philip proposed, as 
 the first measure, to send his father's physician. 
 This she refused, her confidence in Mr. Single- 
 ton was entire; but she accepted with thankful- 
 ness his next proposal, which was to find out 
 a sick-nurse, and dispatch her to Hernana's 
 assistance, for of this experienced help, she felt 
 herself to be greatly in need. 
 
 Then Philip proposed wines, and various 
 dainties; but these, she said, were not wanted 
 at present ; but he thought to himself that 
 
 H 2
 
 100 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 she might want them, and said so at last, 
 conjuring her to remember her own health, 
 and take care of herself, in accents which, 
 though he did not exactly say so in words, 
 expressed, that the happiness of another was 
 concerned in her preservation. And thus per- 
 suaded, oh, with what an inward sense of joy, 
 did she promise to do what she could, and 
 to take the wine he said he would send her, 
 or anvthins; else that Mr. Singleton recom- 
 mended. 
 
 And still he kept dawdling and talking, 
 and had something more to say ; whilst she 
 began to feel that she was doing wrong ; that 
 she was selfish ; that she ought to be with her 
 father — to think of nothing but her father. 
 
 At last, he went away, and she returned 
 to the sick bed up-stairs. Oh, what a different 
 being from the one who had left it but ten 
 minutes before ! Treading on air ! her whole 
 being changed — strengthened, brightened, en- 
 nobled ! It was as if the very atmosphere 
 of existence was altered ; its first conditions 
 enhanced ; new powers, new energies, new 
 life, new joys ! and oh, with it all, such ge-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 101 
 
 nerous, generous feelings ! such a warm swell 
 of gratitude ! such a noble impulse to expend 
 all these new powers in the production of good 
 — to diffuse and expend the happiness enjoyed, 
 till it should warm every living being in the 
 creation of God ! Such energy for duty ! such 
 power of endurance ! such lofty disregard of self, 
 even when existence was become so inestimably 
 precious ! 
 
 Oh, this is a glorious passage of a woman's 
 life ! the first rapture, the first pure ecstasy of 
 love !
 
 102 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Philip did not leave town, as he had in- 
 tended, to rejoin his mother. Under the in- 
 fluence of the feelings which now entirely pos- 
 sessed him, he felt it impossible to quit the 
 spot where Hernana was. All his best feel- 
 ings were aroused; his love seemed to bring 
 with it something which aroused all that was 
 excellent in his character. 
 
 He walked down the streets of G , 
 
 towards the large and lofty house which his father 
 occupied, engaged in ruminations wholesome 
 and good. He was contrasting his mother's 
 view of life, with that presented by Hernana ; 
 her simple devotion to the useful and the
 
 CASTLE AVON. 103 
 
 requisite, her unaffected obedience to the calls 
 of affection and duty, with a life of devo- 
 tion to art; and found in it a something 
 wholesome and strengthening to the soul, in 
 comparison with which the empty aims of the 
 artist, be they the pursuit of the very highest 
 forms of beauty, sank into insignificance. 
 
 What a vain, unsubstantial phantom, was 
 this beautiful, when brought into comparison 
 with the good I 
 
 In this his present mood, even the circum- 
 stances surrounding Hernana, which had been 
 most unpleasing to his taste, assumed a dif- 
 ferent aspect. But, artist still in this, it was 
 as if the charms of some lovely home scene, 
 by Gainsborough or Collins, was contrasted 
 with a Claude or a Poussin. 
 
 The very familiarity of the subject, the ease 
 and tenderness of its daily aspect, gave an 
 interest to the details never felt before. 
 
 That little kitchen! The old lady in the 
 high-backed chair, the dosing tortoise-shell cat, 
 the brightly blazing fire, the flashing light 
 reflected from the shelves, with their copper 
 pots and pans ; the snow-white sanded floor,
 
 104 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 the kettle humming its sleepy song, the fair, 
 creature with her dark feeling eyes, and her 
 sable braids of hair, kneading at the bread- 
 tub. 
 
 An hour or so ago he had not known whether 
 to be most pleased or offended at the sight; 
 but he had gone an age in love since then. 
 He was fairly launched in the enchanted land, 
 where everything takes for its true form — the 
 prevailing glory. 
 
 So Philip Gorhambury walked, and so he 
 mused, as we might fancy Tennyson doing, 
 before the composition of one of his lovely, 
 poetic pictures of ordinary everyday life. And 
 his thoughts began to take words, and then to 
 arrange themselves into rhythm, and into regular 
 verses ; so that when he reached the Rectory, 
 the first thing he did was to turn into the 
 library, where pen and ink stood ever ready, 
 and to sit down and pen — not the following 
 lines, for I spare you them ; though I almost 
 wish I had them by heart, which I have not, 
 to show you how charmingly, very ordinary 
 scenes may present themselves to the truly 
 poetic spirit. The lines might have been an
 
 CASTLE AVON. 105 
 
 example and a warning; the very enthusiasm 
 for the picturesque, displayed in them, might 
 have led to some fear, how it actually was with 
 the heart. 
 
 This, at least I fear, must he confessed, that 
 Philip's dreams for the present, were of the pre- 
 sent. The interest of the moment absorbed him. 
 He looked not forward ; and the sweet future of 
 wife and home, so endearing when once enter- 
 tained by man's imagination, if they presented 
 themselves at all, loomed most indistinctly in 
 the distance. 
 
 Hernana, on the other hand, like most other 
 girls of her age, estimated the nature and 
 strength of her lover's feelings, by the honesty 
 and simplicity of her own. Women are so sin- 
 cere in their attachments, when once attached — so 
 truly devoted — their love is so completely their 
 life, a thing to which every worldly, or interested 
 consideration, is at once offered up without a 
 thought — that they cannot understand how, 
 too often, it is with men. How they can love 
 and not love. Display, and that without insin- 
 cerity, that which they at the moment honestly 
 feel — namely, a vast deal of real attachment,
 
 106 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 and yet leave undone that which is in their 
 power at any moment to do — secure the object 
 of their passion, and stamp the future happiness 
 of life, by the irrevocable word which makes of 
 two, one. 
 
 The dawdling, the uncertainty, the hesitations 
 of men, are a source of great and unintelligible 
 misery to the sincere hearts of women: they 
 cannot resist the evidence of, and find it vain 
 to attempt to disbelieve in, the existence of a 
 passion which they every day expect wall con- 
 firm its reality by words — words that never, 
 never come ! till hope and love languish and 
 die — a long, dreary death of suffering. 
 
 Hernana sat by her father's bedside, watch- 
 ing him anxiously, but with a heart, so far 
 as her own prospects were concerned, over- 
 flowing with happiness. She had believed, 
 she had hoped in Philip's attachment before ; 
 but now she felt assured of it. He loved 
 her ! And if he loved her, what should 
 prevent their being happy ?
 
 CASTLE AVON. 1 07 
 
 Lady Aylmer came the next morning, im- 
 mediately upon hearing of Mr. Lovel's illness, 
 to visit Hernana, and offer every assistance in 
 her power. 
 
 She opened the door of the house, and 
 entered the parlour. It was empty, so she 
 made her way to the kitchen; and there they 
 were. Hernana, as it would appear, had been 
 making a little gruel for her father, and was 
 preparing to pour it through a sieve and 
 strain it into a small china basin. And who 
 should be holding the sieve whilst she lifted 
 up her saucepan with both hands ? Who, 
 but Philip Gorhambury ! 
 
 Lady Aylmer started back with surprise. 
 The kitchen-door stood open, so that her 
 approach not having been perceived, the little 
 scene was presented in all its simplicity. 
 
 She stood like one stupified with astonish- 
 ment, and something of sadness and anxiety, 
 expressed in her face. Philip was holding 
 the sieve carefully in both hands, and he 
 smiled upon Hernana with so much sweetness, 
 as she lifted up the saucepan, and endeavoured 
 to pour the gruel steadily in, and there was
 
 108 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 such a pretty exchange of little laughs, and 
 then such a look of tenderness upon his part, 
 and such a sudden glow of rapture over her 
 whole countenance ! 
 
 Lady Aylmer sighed, and for a moment 
 turned away her head. This was a very 
 painful sight to her. Painful — most painful, 
 that Hernana should love Philip ! but far 
 more painful that Philip should seem to love 
 Hernana ! For Lady Aylmer knew, or thought 
 she knew, the world. Her prejudices against 
 the whole family of the Gorhamburys were 
 strong, and the suspicion and ill-opinion which 
 attached to the father, she had extended to 
 the wife and to the son. They were people 
 she had never liked in her happier days. 
 Their views of life, and ways of proceeding, 
 were in contradiction to all her ideas. She 
 thought them worldly, cold and calculating; 
 and that the talents with which both mother 
 and son unquestionably were endowed, only 
 served to increase their faults. 
 
 It grieved her to think that such a heart 
 as Hernana's- — a heart so noble and so pre- 
 cious — should be bestowed, as many, many,
 
 CASTLE AVON. 109 
 
 another heart she had seen bestowed, upon one 
 quite incapable of estimating its value. If he 
 loved her — which he must, or why was he here ? 
 -—it would be through his fancy, rather than 
 his heart, even granting that he had one. 
 
 After the exchange of a few more affectionate 
 looks and pleasant words between them, Hernana 
 took her basin and went up stairs ; and then 
 he laid down his sieve and sighed, as young 
 men in love do, they don't know why, and he 
 went and sat down upon the settle by the fire, 
 and leaned his head upon his hand and sighed 
 again — sighed like a furnace, if there were any 
 good in that. 
 
 Lady Aylmer hesitated whether to advance 
 or retreat. She did not and could not like 
 Philip Gorhambury ; but that seemed no reason 
 for absolute avoidance, and it would look odd 
 to go into the cold parlour without a fire, after 
 a walk when a sharp easterly wind was blowing, 
 merely to avoid meeting him. So Lady Aylmer 
 entered the kitchen. 
 
 They knew each other by sight, though they 
 had rarely spoken, and Lady Aylmer's story
 
 110 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 was well known to Philip, as was the interest 
 she had shown Hernana. We have found his 
 mother, in her way, alluding to it. 
 
 He started from his reverie upon hearing a 
 footstep : and perceiving who it was, rose hastily 
 and came forward with a respect and politeness 
 in his air, which was to her as unexpected as it 
 was pleasing, offering her a seat by the fire, 
 and saying something €-f the coldness of the 
 wind. 
 
 She looked at him — hesitated for a moment 
 whether to accept a civility from his father's 
 son ; but the courtesy of his manner prevailed, 
 she could not resist it ; so she took the seat 
 by the fire he presented, and to her astonish- 
 ment, found herself sitting there, with the son 
 of Mr. Gorhambury by her side. 
 
 She looked at his son ! the son of him, whom 
 she still in secret believed had, in some myste- 
 rious manner, a concern in the loss of her own. 
 The firm belief that her son still existed, and 
 would sooner or later reappear, neither time 
 nor reflection could impair ; and she had an un- 
 defined sense, of injustice done, a feeling, almost
 
 CASTLE AVON. 1 1 1 
 
 as if Mr. Gorhamburv, bv forcing: himself into 
 possession, had actually prevented that re- 
 appearance, on which her aching heart was ever 
 dwelling, with a sort of restless, passionate, 
 impatience. 
 
 Strange and hitter then, were those feelings 
 with which she looked upon this fair and hand- 
 some young man, now occupying her son's place, 
 and contrasted with agony, the fate of her own 
 child, exposed to all the evil chances of degra- 
 dation and obscurity. Her pale and _ beautiful 
 countenance, assumed the dark expression of 
 grief amounting to despair. She turned her 
 head away and covered her face with her hand. 
 
 He was so beautiful ! Such a fine young 
 creature ! So full of life and manliness ! Such 
 a picture of youth in its strength and glory ! 
 And such might her son have been — perhaps 
 was ! — perhaps was ! but where ? oh, where ? 
 And this one, was standing in his place. 
 
 Philip was shocked at her emotion, the cause 
 of which he did not comprehend ; he knew, 
 however, that Lady Aylmer and his father were 
 not upon speaking terms, and had usually heard
 
 112 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 it attributed, to her evil temper and jealous per- 
 tinacity. Still the greatness of her fall, and the 
 extent of her misfortunes, had excited in him 
 many feelings of pity and interest; and the 
 strange character of her beauty — ghostly beauty, 
 as it might be called, for since that fatal period 
 her cheek had never recovered the slightest 
 colour — interested and touched him ; so he en- 
 deavoured, by every means in his power, to 
 overcome the disagreeable awkwardness of the 
 situation, in which they both felt themselves. 
 
 He addressed the lady in the gentlest and 
 most respectful manner, and though the question 
 was merely as to whether she would let him dis- 
 encumber her of her heavy cloak or not, the 
 manner of it was almost irresistible. 
 
 Insensibly, Lady Aylmer felt her aversion sub- 
 dued, by the charm of Philip Gorhambury's 
 manner, and suffered herself to slide into con- 
 versation with him. 
 
 They talked of various things ; of the news 
 of the day ; of art and literature ; in all which 
 matters, Philip showed himself a very competent 
 and accomplished converser. He spoke of Mr.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 113 
 
 Lovel with much feeling, but not one word 
 about his daughter ; an omission, which Lady 
 Aylmer failed not to notice. 
 
 Presently Hernana appeared. She had been 
 detained by her father's bedside, and came in 
 apologizing for the delay. Lady Aylmer observed 
 the heightened colour, the hesitating words, 
 the anxious look upon both sides; and again 
 she fixed her eyes enquiringly upon Philip. 
 
 There was not a doubt of the sincerity of his 
 emotions, as betrayed by the sudden glow that 
 spread over his countenance, as the fair girl 
 entered ; and the manner, half-confused, half- 
 delighted, with which he performed some trifling 
 service for her. 
 
 " How is your father, my dear? I am happy 
 to hear he has had a better night," said Lady 
 Aylmer. 
 
 " He is very much better, thank you, Madam. 
 My mind is set at rest as regards present danger ; 
 but—" 
 
 " But what, my love ?" 
 
 " There seems reason to fear" — and turning 
 to Philip : " The physician you were so kind as 
 to send this morning, appears to be of opinion, 
 
 VOL. II. i
 
 114 CASTLE AVON, 
 
 that it will be a long time before my father 
 will be able to resume his duties, and that 
 change of scene and air, so soon as he 
 can bear removal, will be absolutely neces- 
 sary." 
 
 " Does he say so V* cried Philip, with a look 
 of anxiety ; " and where does he talk of send- 
 ing you ?' ? 
 
 " We are not got quite so far as that," she 
 answered, with a faint smile. " There is no 
 hope of my father quitting his bed, for some 
 weeks." 
 
 " Will he see me ?" asked Lady Aylmer ; 
 " and can I not be of use to you, my dear ? 
 My experience beside a sick bed has been long 
 and painful. It has made me a good nurse. 
 You must let me assist you, Hernana, in the 
 care of your valued father — and my best 
 friend," she added. 
 
 Hernana's answer was a look full of grati- 
 tude. 
 
 "And I!" cried Philip: "what can I 
 do?"
 
 CASTLE AVON. 115 
 
 The course of a love passage like this in 
 which Hernana was engaged, would be tedious 
 and uninteresting to follow. There were in it 
 no events, except those minute ones, which 
 lovers survey through magnifying glasses. 
 No paroxysms of passion, no conversations 
 full of interest and tenderness ; for, to tell 
 the truth, though everything between them 
 proceeded as if they thoroughly understood 
 each other — which for the time they did — no 
 express declaration of his passion, had ever yet 
 passed Philip Gorhambury's lips. 
 
 Everything, that love the most devoted could 
 look, or do, was looked and done. Everything, 
 save the one final irrevocable sentence. Every- 
 thing, but the declaration in words that he 
 loved her, and the demand in words, asking her 
 for his wife. 
 
 She was satisfied without this. Indeed, she 
 felt under the present circumstances, when it 
 would have been impossible to appeal to her 
 father, that there was delicacy and propriety in 
 Philip Gorhambury's conduct ; and his attach- 
 ment was too unequivocally displayed, in every 
 
 I 2
 
 116 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 manner by which attachment can be displayed, 
 for her to feel any of those cruel alternations of 
 hope and fear, by which many a girl's heart is 
 worn out, and her health and spirits destroyed. 
 She was as certain of her lover's truth and 
 constancy, as of her own. 
 
 Lady Aylmer, who knew more of human 
 nature, and was, as we know, not prejudiced in 
 favour of the young lover, was not so well 
 contented. She could not help wishing that 
 something definite should pass. She could 
 not help looking with doubt and distrust upon 
 an attachment, where there were so many obsta- 
 cles of pride and interest to overcome. Yet 
 Philip Gorhambury put so little restraint upon 
 his feelings, seemed so indifferent in displaying 
 his devotion in her presence, that she felt it was 
 almost injurious to doubt his sincerity. Doubt 
 it, however, she could not help doing. 
 
 " Mr. Philip Gorhambury seems very assi- 
 duous in his attentions to your father," she 
 said one day to Hernana. " I think it is very 
 amiable of him. Few sons of rectors, think 
 themselves under any obligation, to look after 
 the comforts of their fathers' curates."
 
 CASTLE AVON. ] 17 
 
 " Philip is very amiable — oh, so amiable !" 
 sighed Hernana. 
 
 " A little too amiable for some of us, perhaps, 
 Hernana." 
 
 " Perhaps so. I don't know — sometimes I 
 think—" 
 
 "What do you sometimes think?" 
 
 " How dangerous it must be, in a world so 
 changeful as this, to love any one too en- 
 tirely." 
 
 " I quite agree with you, my love : we ought 
 not. It is madness to build up idols in our 
 hearts. So much may happen — such fearful 
 changes and losses ! But it is sometimes still 
 more dangerous if we keep them." 
 
 " I don't quite understand, Madam." 
 
 They were sitting in the little kitchen, the 
 fire blazing cheerily, darkness creeping on. It 
 was black night behind the casement window ; 
 but the fitfully blazing fire kept up an ever 
 changing and ever cheering light within. It 
 was a moment of peace, such as opens the heart 
 to confidence. 
 
 In such moments, Hernana's spirit would 
 overflow with excessive happiness and joy :
 
 118 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 soothed by the tranquil cheerfulness around, 
 and, as it were, at leisure to enjoy the secret 
 felicity she possessed. 
 
 " My love, there is no human being that it is 
 safe to make an idol of." 
 
 "No, I suppose not ; indeed, I believe it 
 would be very wrong. It would be a form of 
 idolatry, as you say ; but I don't know 
 what case that exactly applies to just 
 now." 
 
 " Do you not ? Nay, then—" 
 
 "If you mean," said Hernana, looking up, 
 " that I make an idol of Philip Gorhambury, 
 indeed you are mistaken. I have had an 
 affection for him since he was a boy ; I honour 
 all his fine and noble qualities, but I make no 
 idol of him, for idolatry is the worship of what 
 is false, and I worship in him what is 
 true." 
 
 " Heaven grant it prove so," Lady Aylmer 
 ejaculated, but not aloud. 
 
 She was silent a little time ; then she 
 said : 
 
 "And how long do you mean to go on 
 worshipping thus ?"
 
 CASTLE AVON. J 1 9 
 
 "As long as I live, if he deserve 
 it." 
 
 "And what is this worship to end in at 
 last?" 
 
 Hern ana coloured ; but made no answer. 
 
 " Has he ever put that question to you ?" 
 
 " He ! how should he ? Dear Lady Aylmer, 
 I will not pretend to misunderstand what you 
 mean; but how could he? How dare he, 
 just now ? My father so ill ! Orphan of a 
 mother ! — quite alone but for you 1" 
 
 "And am I not your mother?" 
 
 " Yes ; more than mother ; but not, not — 
 just, perhaps, to him." 
 
 " And — forgive me if I am indiscreet, dear 
 girl, but allow for a tender friend's anxiety — has 
 he never said anything ; remotely hinted at 
 least — " 
 
 " Oh ! hundreds and hundreds of times !" 
 
 " Unequivocally ; so that there could be no 
 mistake?" 
 
 "What can you mean, dear Lady Aylmer? 
 If you mean to ask whether he has declared 
 himself in express terms — no ; he has not, 
 he could not ; but oh, if all the eloquence of
 
 1*20 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 looks and broken words be anything, he has 
 expressed his opinion in every possible way ! 
 I should be an unworthy, jealous creature to 
 doubt him after what has passed." 
 
 Her faith was so serene and unhesitating ; 
 her confidence in his faith so complete ; she 
 looked so calmly, so confidingly happy, that Lady 
 Aylmer could have hated herself for her own 
 suspicions. She would have given anything to 
 share in the young girl's assurance ; but some- 
 thing within forbade it. She loved not these 
 Gorhamburys. Why could not Philip speak out ? 
 Commit himself to her at least; do the ge- 
 nerous thing — the truly, the only generous 
 thing for man to do in such cases — commit 
 himself, bind himself to the woman who loves 
 him. 
 
 But this he never did. Time slipped on • and 
 the tedious illness of Mr. Lovel at last termi- 
 nated; but still nothing had been said that 
 could irrevocably commit a man of honour — 
 that is to say, in the common sense in which 
 the word is usually applied to affairs of this 
 description., 
 
 The illness of Mr. Lovel terminated, as the
 
 CASTLE AVON. 121 
 
 physician had foretold, in a languishing state of 
 weakness, for which change of scene and air 
 were reckoned indispensably necessary. It was 
 proposed that he should go to Penzance, accom- 
 panied by his daughter and Lady Aylmer, who 
 felt as if life would be insupportable, if left to 
 herself, and deprived of the constant comfort 
 and interest of their society ; she therefore pre- 
 pared to accompany them, knowing, likewise, 
 that her doing so would much diminish the 
 expense which must, in any case, prove a heavy 
 drain upon Mr. Lovel's purse. 
 
 The proposal was accepted with gratitude and 
 delight, by both father and daughter, and pre- 
 parations began to be made, for their speedily 
 setting out upon their journey. They were to 
 be absent six months : the whole, in fact, of 
 the winter, the later autumn, and early spring 
 months, it being thought desirable to keep Mr. 
 Lovel in the warm temperature of Cornwall 
 during that period. 
 
 And now Mr. Lovel was down stairs again, 
 and in an arm-chair by the parlour fire ; but 
 he was wan and feeble, a quite changed man ;
 
 122 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 all his ancient spirit and energy gone, the mere 
 shadow of his former self. The medical men, 
 however, assured his anxious daughter, that this 
 extreme feebleness was only the usual conse- 
 quence of such an illness as his had been ; and 
 that she would find the effects of the contem- 
 plated change of air almost miraculous. 
 
 Ill, however, as he was, he was down stairs. 
 She was again under his protection ; he was 
 enabled to see his more intimate friends, and 
 Philip Gorhambury, of course. And now the 
 time was come, when every objection to a full 
 and unequivocal declaration of his feelings, was 
 done away. Every day, Hernana believed that 
 something definite would be said, for she could 
 not think it possible that she should be suffered to 
 depart for six months in a state of uncertainty, 
 now beginning to become very painful. 
 
 Philip, on his side, seemed conscious, that 
 since Mr. Lovel had come down stairs, his posi- 
 tion, as regarded Hernana, was changed, and 
 his manner altered with it. Expressions of devo- 
 tion disappeared ; he became absent, and thought- 
 ful, often embarrassed and ill at ease ; it
 
 CASTLE AVON. 123 
 
 seemed as if every time he entered the house, 
 he came with a resolution to say something, 
 which yet never was said. And why ?
 
 124 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury and her son sat toge- 
 ther. They often sat so, talking confidentially, 
 for they were very sincerely attached to each 
 other — in their own peculiar way, be it un- 
 derstood, for their attachment was built up 
 of a good deal of self-esteem, extended, as it 
 were, to each other, as is often seen in cha- 
 racters of this egotistical sort. Such ones really 
 can extend their self-love to their own near 
 relations ; this said self-love being often the 
 strongest tie that exists between them. 
 
 Philip had instinctively kept the secret of his 
 love for Hernana Lovel, as much as possible 
 from his mother, and had to a considerable 
 degree succeeded ; but that lady was too clever
 
 CASTLE AVON. 125 
 
 and sharp-sighted to be altogether blinded as to 
 this matter ; and though, not aware of the full 
 extent to which Philip's affections were en- 
 gaged, was upon the watch for every oppor- 
 tunity of meeting and warding off the danger 
 that threatened him. To divert the course of 
 his thoughts and affections, by unremitting en- 
 deavours, and yet by methods that would not 
 excite his observation, or alarm his jealousy, 
 was the plan she proposed to herself ; and she 
 carried on the hidden warfare against poor 
 Hernana's happiness, and what would have 
 ensured her son's best safety and happiness, 
 too, with a cleverness and undeviating perse- 
 verance worthy of a better cause. 
 
 For though she chose to consider this affair 
 with Mr. Lovel's daughter, as a most unfor- 
 tunate and degrading mesalliance, there was 
 nothing to justify the feeling. Mr. Lovel 
 was a gentleman by birth and education ; his 
 daughter gifted with everything that could best 
 adorn a woman, wanting alone, in those exterior 
 accomplishments, which are only to be obtained 
 by the efforts of extraordinary natural genius, 
 or at considerable expense in money. Neither
 
 126 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 could any portion be expected with the young 
 lady, for money to advance there was none ; 
 it was not in the least needed ; but such, 
 too, is the way with many parents. Precisely 
 because it was not needed ; because Philip Gor- 
 hambury would have enough, and more than 
 enough, for every rational purpose, Mrs. Gor- 
 hambury could not endure the idea, of his 
 marrying a portionless girl. 
 
 The innumerable good qualities she pos- 
 sessed — her personal charms, her intellectual 
 ability, her strong, yet amiable and most 
 affectionate character — what were they in com- 
 parison with five or ten wretched thousands of 
 pounds or so, when there was so large a fortune 
 upon Philip's side ? To marry a girl with 
 nothing down, was to throw himself quite away ! 
 
 " How absent you are, Philip, this morning," 
 Mrs. Gorhambury began, as she sat before her 
 easel, from which her eyes had been for some 
 time diverted, employed in watching her son, 
 who was sitting at a table, his pencil in his hand, 
 with a sketch which he apparently intended to 
 copy, stretched out before him. Pie seemed, 
 however, not even to see it as he sat there, his
 
 CASTLE AVON. 127 
 
 hand in act as it were to draw, but never 
 moving, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, 
 in a perfect reverie. Now and then a deep sigh 
 might be heard, and his sighing would seem 
 to arouse him, for he would hastily raise his 
 hand, look at the model before him, draw a line 
 or two, and then relapse into his former 
 inactivity. " How absent you are, Philip ! what 
 weighty matter, may I take a mother's liberty 
 to ask, can have occurred in your somewhat too 
 prosaic life, to weigh, as it would seem, so 
 heavily upon your spirits ? You have been 
 sitting before that table, three good quarters of 
 an hour by Shrewsbury clock, and fetching sighs 
 like a furnace, as Rosalind would say, but doing 
 no earthly thing besides." 
 
 He started like one conscience-struck at his 
 mother's voice, and looked hurriedly up at 
 her as she spoke ; then most involuntarily there 
 came another sigh. He strove to hide it up 
 with a short cough, but his mother was not to 
 be so imposed upon. 
 
 " Another ! " she said. " What on earth 
 can you have to sigh for, child?" 
 
 " Sigh ! I don't know that I sighed. Nothing
 
 128 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 certainly, have I to sigh for." And he sighed 
 again. 
 
 "Another, and another, and another!" said 
 his mother. " My dear boy, don't hide the matter 
 from me. I love you very, very much ; more 
 than even mothers in general love their sons, 
 and it is the pride and joy of my life, to think 
 that my society can form a portion of your 
 happiness ; but I am not so proud, or so vain- 
 glorious as to fancy I can constitute it entirely. 
 My dear Philip, I guess pretty well what is the 
 matter with you, though you strive to con- 
 ceal it." 
 
 He glanced quickly at her, with a conscious, 
 anxious look. He knew well, as he thought, 
 what must be coming ; and what should he 
 say ? — how should he parry the attack ? Or 
 had he not better confess the truth at once, cast 
 himself upon his mother's indulgence, and have 
 done with it? 
 
 " I know well what is the matter with you — " 
 she said. 
 
 He knew well, too. 
 
 " You are dying of ennui — " 
 
 He felt as one who has prepared himself to
 
 CASTLE AVON. 129 
 
 mount a difficult step in the dark, and his foot 
 falls upon plain ground. He was actually 
 confounded by this sudden dispersion of his 
 fears and difficulties. 
 
 " You are dying of ennui." 
 
 "No, mother, don't say so — don't think 
 so." 
 
 " You are dying of ennui. All characters, of 
 any mental superiority, are liable to be vic- 
 timized, more or less, by that fiend, ennui; and 
 the youthful, when of the gifted, most of all. 
 I may be able to bear the monotony of this 
 castle, which, romantic as it may appear, is, 
 after all, a sort of prison to the mind. I am no 
 longer young. I have my own occupations and 
 interests, and can get along very tolerably. 
 But you — what can you do ? I have been 
 reflecting upon this for some time. You are 
 dying of ennui, I see ; and no tyrant ever 
 invented a more cruel supplice, as our neigh- 
 bours would call it." 
 
 Certainly, it was not of ennui that he was 
 dying, if dying he were ; for his days and hours 
 were full of interest — at times, of an almost 
 devouring interest. He had of late become 
 
 VOL. II. K
 
 130 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 more in love than ever : and so much in love, 
 that he began seriously to feel that Hernana, 
 come what would, must be his wife ; and to be 
 making up his mind to tell her so, in spite of 
 the number of disagreeables, of all sorts and 
 sizes, that he knew would be consequent upon 
 the measure. 
 
 He had been very much harassed, as people 
 of a character like his are prone to be, with 
 fears for his own happiness, and with the 
 struggles arising between apprehensions and 
 wishes that would not be reconciled. His 
 heart had been full of passion, and his head full 
 of debate. Certainly, he had not known ennui: 
 from that evil, at least, his perplexing fate had 
 preserved him. 
 
 Just at this moment, he was vexed by hesi- 
 tations as to whether he should deny the 
 accusation at once, or let it pass : whether to 
 seize upon this opportunity for a full expla- 
 nation, which he dreaded as much as he desired, 
 or defer it to another, as if there could be a 
 better. 
 
 " It is generous in you," she said, " to look, 
 as you are at this moment doing, as if you
 
 CASTLE AVON. 131 
 
 would not own ' the soft impeachment ;' gene- 
 rous to endeavour to conceal from your poor 
 mother, that she cannot be all in all to your 
 happiness. But it will not do. I know you, 
 Philip, better than you, perhaps, know yourself ; 
 and at this moment, I am sure that you 
 suffer from neither more nor less than 
 ennui" 
 
 " No, mother, don't say so : pray don't 
 repeat that. T assure you, ennui is the last 
 feeling I have been suffering from these past 
 two months. I have felt ennui often enough 
 in my life, to know very well what it is ; but 
 I am not suffering from that cause now, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Perhaps you fancy so ; but I tell you, ennui 
 lies at the bottom of the mischief, depend upon 
 
 it. What do you ride into G so often 
 
 for, if it is not in search of excitement ?" 
 
 He coloured a little, and said : 
 
 " I have not been seeking what is commonly 
 called excitement." 
 
 " You don't think you have, perhaps ; but I 
 know you better ; and I tell you, Philip — and 
 trust me, who can read your heart as plainly as 
 
 K 2
 
 132 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 the hand-writing upon the wall — ennui, and 
 nothing more nor less than ennui, lies at the 
 root of the matter ; and it is that which drives 
 you to seek excitement in any form or mode 
 that can divert the demon, and afford a chance 
 of feeling interested." 
 
 " Indeed, mother, you totally and altogether 
 misapprehend the matter in this instance." 
 
 " So you think ; and indeed if you did 
 not, the very excitement which you find so 
 agreeable would be at an end. If you were 
 not hoodwinked and blinded by a strange sort 
 
 of infatuation, you might ride to G seven 
 
 mornings in the week, and you would not find 
 yourself the better for it. Philip," she went 
 on, assuming for the first time a more severe 
 and earnest tone, " I must not have you throw 
 away your life, like a young lieutenant in a 
 marching regiment, for want of something 
 better to do with your time and thoughts. 
 My son, I have been to blame. Blinded by 
 my fondness, by the fatal self-flattery of be- 
 lieving that my affection could suffice for 
 your happiness, I have done very wrong. 
 I have suffered you to stagnate here till the
 
 CASTLE AVON. 133 
 
 slightest interest in the world was too grate- 
 ful and too dangerous. I repeat it — I will 
 not suffer you any longer, like a young lad 
 in a marching regiment, to be sick to death of 
 having nothing to do. I will not suffer you 
 to fancy yourself in love — the word will out — 
 because you have nothing better on earth to 
 amuse your imagination with." 
 
 " Mother ! what do you mean ? I repeat 
 it ; you totally and entirely misapprehend the 
 matter." 
 
 But she went on. 
 
 " Young men's first fancies, which they dig- 
 nify to themselves with the sublime name of 
 love, arise from various causes ; sometimes it is 
 the mere besoin cl'aimer. Soft hearts, formed 
 for the tender passion, easily find some girl or 
 other, to be tender about, be it this or be it that, 
 no matter. Others, whose minds and charac- 
 ters are of a different stamp, who require 
 occupation because they have faculties to be 
 occupied, fall in love because they have nothing 
 else to do ; deprived of the natural aliment 
 required by their capacity, they want an object, 
 and that is all. In this case the choice is
 
 134 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 usually fixed upon the one least eligible or least 
 attainable, because what they seek is struggle, 
 difficulty, interest, object to be sought, and 
 obstacles to be overcome ; and woe, woe to 
 them if they do overcome them ; if, unhappily, 
 insurmountable obstructions are not found to 
 arrest them in their career ! Woe, woe to them, 
 when that which owed its chief, its almost 
 entire attraction to difficulty, ceases to be 
 difficult, and becomes their own ! An impru- 
 dent, ill-assorted marriage, may have something 
 in it wonderfully captivating to an imagination 
 rendered morbid by idleness ; but woe, woe, 
 when the imagination has no longer anything 
 to do with the matter, and a man finds him- 
 self set down for life with his humble, ill-chosen 
 companion I" 
 
 " Mother, all you are saying may be very 
 wise, may be very true, but I assure you it 
 has nothing on earth to do in reference to 
 me. I am not about to make an ill-assorted 
 marriage, nor any marriage at all, that I 
 know. I am greatly too young to sit down 
 at present upon any terms, I must see more 
 of life first/'
 
 CASTLE AVON. 135 
 
 " Unquestionably, undoubtedly. To own 
 the truth to you, Philip, I did give you credit 
 for more sense, more character, more manliness, 
 than to fling away a life upon a fancy of the 
 teens. Dear boy, it is time enough, as you 
 say, to think of marriage ten years hence. 
 You have the world to see, the world before 
 you. You are not such a fool as to throw 
 away the rich inheritance of an intellect such 
 as yours, of a promise of life such as yours, 
 upon one of those fond, dreamy fancies, which 
 will possess lads of your age — there is no help 
 for it — and which are only in danger of taking 
 any form or consistency with a young man of 
 sense, when he is so unfortunately left without 
 sources of amusement and interest as you have 
 lately been. I have been much to blame ; 
 you must forgive me for the sake of the cause, 
 will you not, Philip ? And now listen to 
 me." 
 
 He felt at this moment as if all was as she 
 described it. His love for Hernana set in con- 
 trast with the free, young man's life of excite- 
 ment opening before him did appear as a fancy
 
 136 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 and a charm, which no man of sense would 
 suffer to prevail over his better self, and to 
 which none but an imbecile would sacrifice a 
 life. And yet even whilst his recreant heart was 
 saying this, a small still voice whispered other 
 things ; and the creature he had loved from a 
 child rose up before him. 
 
 " I listen, mother," he said ; " but, indeed, 
 you are alarming yourself most unnecessarily 
 about nothing at all" 
 
 " I have no doubt my fears outran the occa- 
 sion ; but I assure you the advice I am going 
 to give, and the plan I am about to propose, 
 have only been a little hastened. My selfish 
 wish to keep you near me but a little the 
 sooner overcome, because you have lately taken 
 a somewhat Coryclon-like behaviour and ex- 
 pression. I don't believe my Philip is really in 
 any very great danger from a tall brown girl in 
 a kitchen ; but it is as well not to entangle the 
 brown girl herself by little acts of kindness and 
 attention, which brown girls in kitchens are 
 very apt to misunderstand, or pretend they 
 misunderstand ; and therefore, my dear, as in
 
 CASTLE AVON. 137 
 
 the cases we have supposed, flight is the best 
 security for all parties, I advise you to be wise 
 in time, and order a pair of post-horses to your 
 phaeton, and be off for Bath, which is now in 
 the full tide of the season ; and thence you can 
 go to the continent, or anywhere else it may 
 like you best — only don't let me see your face 
 again for ten months at least. And I assure 
 you, the Spartan mother, when she armed her 
 son and sent him forth to battle without a tear, 
 did not act much more heroically than I am 
 doing at this moment, Philip." 
 
 And she looked at him with much and 
 genuine emotion. She had very great influence 
 with him, the more so that he was of so un- 
 stable a nature. People of a good deal of 
 imagination without much strength of character 
 are usually the victims of irresolution. They 
 would and they would not ; would have, without 
 accepting the conditions annexed to the having ; 
 would refuse, without incurring the loss of 
 happiness incident to refusal. 
 
 The manner in which this mother of his, 
 whose intellect, taste, and knowledge of the
 
 138 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 world, he so highly estimated — the way in which 
 she spoke of his attachment, seemed at once 
 greatly to disenchant the subject. 
 
 He began to wonder that he could have 
 seriously entertained the idea of making Her- 
 nana Lovel, the daughter of a poor half-pay 
 officer and curate, the brown girl busy in a 
 kitchen, his wife. Regrets, tender remem- 
 brances, there might be — those gentle pullings 
 at the heart with which a true love, like our 
 good angel, seems to recall us to the sense of 
 the pure and the truly wise and right ; but he 
 resisted them. 
 
 The evil influence — the world, the terrible 
 world ! with its dread laugh, its demands, its 
 fancied obligations, spoke so loud, and spoke so 
 emphatically when it borrowed his mother's voice ! 
 
 He was silent ; he seemed reflecting upon 
 what she had urged. The woman that delibe- 
 rates is lost — so is the man. 
 
 " Indeed, I am right," she went on, encou- 
 raged by the hesitation she read in his counte- 
 nance. " I am sure the more you reflect upon 
 the subject, the more you will find cause to
 
 CASTLE AVON. 139 
 
 acknowledge the justice of what I say. Add to 
 which there is this consideration : the plan I 
 propose involves no consequences. Your ab- 
 sence for a short time from G will give 
 
 you time to look about you, to think twice. 
 And, oh, Philip ! think twice, think a thousand 
 times, before you throw your life away. Away, 
 for what ? an idle love dream, such as every 
 young man of your age has dreamed in his 
 turn, and every young man has, in his turn, 
 awakened from." 
 
 " Mother ! There is much truth in what you 
 say, there is much in it to which I assent, 
 much to which I absolutely refuse to assent. 
 I should like, I think I ought to see Her nana — 
 as the secret will out — I ought to see her again 
 before I come to a conclusion." 
 
 " Exactly what I most particularly beg and 
 desire that you will not do. Exactly what, if 
 you are wise or know yourself, you will avoid 
 doing. No ; what I wish is, that you should 
 try the strength of this attachment which 
 you imagine you feel — try it fairly. If you see 
 her under the influence of your present senti-
 
 140 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 ments, you will only strengthen the illusion 
 under which you lie. Besides, it is due to her, 
 as well as to yourself, not to hold out delusive 
 expectations. Your sudden departure will be 
 a truthful, honourable proceeding. It will at 
 once put an end to any — " 
 
 " Mother, if I have raised expectations, I 
 ought to fulfil them." 
 
 " Idle nonsense ! you can have raised no just 
 expectations. What castles in the air a silly 
 girl may build without any foundation, is 
 nothing to you or to any one. The only point 
 that concerns your honour is, not to give a 
 foundation for such romances. You effectually 
 avoid this by going away to Bath for a week 
 or two, commissioning me to convey your 
 adieus to the fair lady, a thing I will readily 
 undertake to do ; indeed, I ought to call and 
 inquire after Mr. Lovel. Dear Philip be ruled 
 by me. For my sake ! for all our sakes ! for 
 the sake of the happiness of your whole future 
 life ! What I propose is wise, believe me, it is. 
 And take it in the most unfavourable point of 
 view ; if it do no good, at least it can do no
 
 CASTLE AVON. 141 
 
 harm. It is but going to Bath ! What is the 
 distance from Bath ? You can return home 
 in ten days or earlier, at any moment you 
 wish it.
 
 142 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Two days after this conversation a handsome 
 chariot stopped at Mr. Lovel's door, and a 
 finely-powdered footman inquired whether Miss 
 Lovel was at home, giving the name of Mrs. 
 Gorhambury. 
 
 Oh, how Hernana's heart began to flutter 
 and beat ! It was now an unusually long time 
 since she had seen Philip — three days at least. 
 She had become so accustomed to a visit from 
 him every day, that it appeared to her an age. 
 What could have kept him away so long ? 
 And now his mother was come in his place. 
 Why did his mother come just now ? she 
 who so rarely — scarcely once in a year —
 
 CASTLE AVON. 143 
 
 honoured the Curate with a call. Could she — 
 could there be anything relating to Philip 
 which brought her here in his place? The 
 words, the hoped for long expected words, had 
 often appeared to be just fluttering upon 
 Philip's lips — they had not been said. Could 
 he have employed his mother ? Was she 
 likely ? Would she say them ? 
 
 Hernana, be it observed, had no compre- 
 hension of the enormous breadth of the gulf 
 which, in Mrs. Gorhambury's opinion, separated 
 her from Philip. She felt rather, it may be 
 said, than knew her own value. Though she 
 could not touch the pianoforte like Henri 
 Herz, or sing like Giulia Grisi, nor sketch 
 like De Wint, nor speak six languages, she 
 knew the value of a heart like hers ; of such 
 deep attachment, of such truth and sincerity, of 
 a character so vigorous and so able. She felt 
 instinctively the real value such things must 
 prove to any one, most of all to a man like 
 Philip. 
 
 Not in self-conceit, not making a false 
 estimate of herself, was this done, for in fact 
 she made no estimate at all ; but she felt that
 
 144 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 she suited him, and that she deserved him, and 
 that the love they bore each other would secure 
 the felicity of each. She felt that had their 
 worldly positions been exchanged, she would 
 have chosen Philip before all mankind. She 
 believed that he felt the same strong and 
 generous determination with regard to her. 
 So she prepared herself to go down and meet 
 Mrs. Gorhambury, with considerable emotion, 
 no doubt, but without either trepidation or false 
 shame ; and as she turned the lock and entered 
 the little parlour where Mrs. Gorhambury was 
 sitting, the spirit and grace of her air and 
 figure, her fine countenance, with the colour 
 slightly raised, and her eyes so large, lustrous, 
 and beautiful, moved that lady in a way she was 
 not exactly prepared for. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury was too genuinely the 
 artist not to be very much struck with beauty 
 of form or expression whenever she might 
 meet with it. She ceased at once to wonder at 
 her son's taste, and rejoiced that she had 
 that morning safely started him off for 
 Bath. 
 
 Not that Hernana's figure was regularly
 
 CASTLE AVON. 145 
 
 symmetrical, or delicately rounded as that of the 
 heroine of such a romance ought to have been ; 
 for she was, perhaps, rather too tall, her limbs 
 larger than a just proportion would have 
 allowed, and her figure somewhat wanting in 
 those softer curves of outline which belong to 
 perfect female beauty ; but it was the elasticity, 
 the spirit, the life, which pervaded all, that some- 
 thing indescribable, which at once assures us 
 that the possessor of such an exterior is one far 
 above the common sort, something of the 
 classical — of the heroic age. Mrs. Gorham- 
 bury could not settle with herself exactly how it 
 was. 
 
 But she was wonderfully pleased, determined 
 as she had been not to be pleased. She no longer 
 marvelled, as I said, at Philip's infatuation ; but 
 this very admiration was inimical to poor 
 Hernana's interests ; the more Mrs. Gorham- 
 bury saw reason to dread the power of her 
 attractions, the more she resolved to put a 
 stop to the affair and prevent future inter- 
 course. 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 Hernana came in, as I have said, looking as 
 she was, a remarkably fine, striking girl, with 
 her colour a little heightened, for her heart in 
 truth was beating fast, yet no weak, nervous 
 fear, no base self-desertion were sinking that 
 heart, or those free and wholesome spirits. She 
 knew Philip Gorhambury loved her; and she 
 believed in his truth and fidelity, for she judged 
 him by herself. 
 
 She felt certain that Mrs. Gorhambury's 
 unexpected visit must have some reference to 
 what deeply affected her. Not that she ex- 
 pected that Philip would have delegated to 
 his mother the office of declaring his sentiments 
 — an office he was so well fitted to discharge 
 himself; but Mrs. Gorhambury so very rarely, 
 or never, came to the house of her husband's 
 Curate, that she could not help looking upon 
 this unusual piece of condescension upon her 
 part, an omen upon the right side, a sign 
 that she was beginning to take interest in her- 
 self for the sake of her son. Therefore, it was 
 with far more pleasure than she was accustomed
 
 CASTLE AVON. 147 
 
 to feel when about to meet that lady, that 
 Hernana had obeyed the summons to attend her 
 down stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury was seated in the little 
 parlour upon the only large chair in the room, 
 one devoted to Mr. Lovel's comfort, but which 
 now stood empty by the window. This window 
 looked out upon the little garden, which gene- 
 rally, through the care of Hernana, was neat 
 and pretty, though she had far too much work 
 upon her hands to be able to bestow much 
 pains or time upon it, and her father had far 
 too many uses for his money to allow of her 
 employing the labour of others upon this inno- 
 cent piece of luxury. I wish I could say 
 that it ever looked so pretty and so trim as 
 it would have done if Hernana had found 
 little else tb do but look after it. A garden, 
 such as one sees sometimes, and reads of 
 very often, it never was; and now, long neg- 
 lected during Mr. Lovel's tedious illness, it was 
 become a perfect wilderness, and anything but a 
 pleasing wilderness. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 For it was that time of the year when autumn 
 is in the sere and yellow leaf, or rather in the black 
 and sodden stem ; and broken sunflower stalks, 
 and miserable, half-dying chrysantheums, were 
 to be seen, with Chinese roses putting out a 
 few pinkish, deplorable, sickly flowers among 
 their straggling branches. The little grass-plot 
 was all rough with untrimmed grass, and half 
 covered with decaying leaves. Such was the 
 cottage garden upon which the eyes of Mrs. 
 Gorhambury, the poet, the artist, and the fine 
 lady in one, were bent with an expression of 
 disgust, somewhat more than the occasion 
 required. 
 
 For, after all, it was but a bit of garden- 
 ground that was rough. All within the house 
 was clean to precision, and looked neat, in spite 
 of the homeliness of the furniture. So, at this 
 time of the year, and occupied in pious cares as 
 she had been, methinks Hernana might have 
 escaped contempt and censure for her neglected 
 garden. 
 
 But Mrs. Gorhambury was in a humour to
 
 CASTLE AVON. 149 
 
 see everything in the worst light ; and the dreary 
 spectacle of vegetable disorder before her eyes 
 she chose to accept as an indication of that 
 want of delicacy in habits and taste within, 
 which she allowed to herself as a just reason 
 for dreading this mesalliance for her son ; 
 choosing to forget the inveterate and unfeeling 
 pride which lay concealed under all these petty 
 pretences. 
 
 The state of the garden might be disgusting ; 
 but the mien and carriage of the young girl as she 
 entered the room, gave rise to other sensations. 
 There was the undefined air of superiority 
 belonging to a free and generous spirit about 
 her, which filled Mrs. Gorhambury, as I have 
 said, with sentiments partly of admiration, and 
 partly of apprehension, which she found very 
 particularly disagreeable. 
 
 " I am sorry to have kept you waiting, 
 Madam," began Hernana, as she entered the 
 room ; " I beg your pardon for the delay. My 
 father was just being put into his bed again, 
 and I could not leave him till it was done."
 
 150 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " How is Mr. Lovel ? I hope better. I 
 called to inquire after hirh, to satisfy my own 
 anxiety upon the subject, and report to Mr. 
 Gorhambury. I hope you can give me a more 
 favourable account." 
 
 " Not much more favourable," said Hern ana, 
 sadly. " My father is still very, very ill. Some- 
 thing there is about him which yields to no 
 medicines prescribed; a languor and weakness 
 it is impossible to conquer. He is very much 
 grieved for the inconvenience to which he fears 
 he must be putting Mr. Gorhambury ; but 
 how can he help it ? And, then, this dreadful 
 fever was caught in the discharge of his 
 duty." 
 
 " I have heard so. I think it is a pity to run 
 such risks, and for purposes of, I fear, very 
 doubtful utility ; for, after all, what can be 
 done? The apothecary, and a good bottle of 
 wine or two, I presume is the principal thing." 
 
 " Oh, Madam ! — " then she stopped herself. 
 
 She felt as if there would be a certain air of 
 presumption, of conceit, in saying more upon
 
 CASTLE AVON. 151 
 
 this subject to one so much older, and who 
 should have been so much better taught than 
 herself; she marvelled, and was silent. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury seemed to read her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Do not misunderstand me," she went on ; 
 " I know all you would say ;" and then she 
 muttered something about death-bed repentance 
 and enthusiasm. 
 
 " My father thinks," began Hernana, and 
 then she stopped again. 
 
 " Oh ! you need not tell me what Mr. Lovel 
 thinks upon these subjects," Mrs. Gorhambury 
 continued, with the slightest possible acerbity in 
 her tone; "we all know his high notions of 
 duty, and his peculiar opinions upon certain 
 subjects. I only wish the consequences had 
 not stretched him upon a sick bed, and laid 
 him up useless for months." 
 
 The heart of Hernana began to beat faster. 
 It was a rebel heart, and it would beat high 
 when indignant. The colour flew to her usually 
 pale face ; but she said nothing.
 
 152 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 She turned a little away, that was the only 
 external sign of anger, or disgust, which she 
 gave. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury either did not, or was too 
 proud to show, that she perceived or cared 
 for the little demonstration. She dropped the 
 subject, and went on with a manner altogether 
 unconcerned. 
 
 "What are your plans? What are you 
 about to do? What does Mr. Fenmore ad- 
 vise?" 
 
 "The doctor says, Madam, that change of 
 air is absolutely necessary ; and we are thinking 
 of trying what a journey of a few weeks will do. 
 By my father's desire, I wrote to Mr. Gorham- 
 bury upon the subject this morning." 
 
 " A journey ! This is a strange resolution 
 enough ; and odd, that Mr. Gorhambury was 
 not informed of it before. His convenience 
 seems not very particularly attended to in 
 this." 
 
 " Dear Madam, what can we do ? My poor 
 father is too helpless to be of the slightest use
 
 CASTLE AVON. 153 
 
 to Mr. Gorhambury ; yet he was most anxious 
 to stay upon the spot, in hopes of being soon 
 able to resume his duties. It was not till 
 this morning that Mr. Fenmore mentioned the 
 subject, and proposed the plan with so much 
 urgency, that at last I persuaded my father to 
 allow me to write to Mr. Gorhambury." 
 
 " Mr. Fenmore ! This morning !" Mrs. 
 Gorhambury mused for awhile. " This morn- 
 ing, don't you say ? And where, if I may take 
 the liberty of asking, is it your intention to 
 go?" 
 
 " That point is not settled yet. It must 
 depend upon my father's strength. And to 
 own the truth," she added, colouring a little, 
 " upon the strength of his purse." 
 
 " Are you to go to the sea coast ?" 
 
 " No, I believe not. Mr. Fenmore recom- 
 mends a change to some inland place, where 
 my father will enjoy change of air, and have the 
 advantage at the same time of good medical 
 attendance, which he is not, indeed, at present, 
 in a fit state to do without."
 
 154 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " Perhaps Bath would suit you. Perhaps, 
 Bath is the place you are going to," said Mrs. 
 Gorhambury, speaking with a certain hesitation 
 and difficulty. 
 
 " No, I believe not. Rather, perhaps, Clif- 
 ton, or the Hot Wells; or, if we can manage 
 it—" 
 
 "Clifton! the Hot Wells. They are very 
 near Bath/' said Mrs. Gorhambury. 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " I presume Miss Lovel knows that." 
 
 " I might have said so. But the place Mr. 
 Fenmore particularly recommended is Laun- 
 ceston, or Penzance, in Cornwall ; though the 
 last I believe is near the sea." 
 
 "But you prefer Clifton or the Hot 
 Wells, because they are near Bath, eh, Miss 
 Lovel?" 
 
 " I know nothing of Bath. My only reason 
 for preferring Clifton is that it is nearer, and 
 the journey will be less expensive. I know 
 nothing of Bath. We have no reason for 
 wishing to be near Bath."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 155 
 
 " Oh !" said Mrs. Gorhambury, drily, " I 
 thought you might prefer it, as it is just the 
 high season for Bath. But I forgot — you pro- 
 fess to despise the world, and are indifferent to 
 its times and seasons." 
 
 " I cannot profess to despise that which I 
 never knew ; and probably — " but she altered 
 the word to " perhaps," for she was truth 
 itself — " and perhaps never shall know." 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury marked the change, and 
 it irritated and provoked her very much. 
 She felt quite angry ; so she repeated the 
 word. 
 
 " Perhaps ! Oh then, Miss Lovel has some 
 expectation of being introduced into the great 
 world some time or other." 
 
 " No one knows what may happen to them," 
 answered Hernana. 
 
 " True ; no one knows. But most of us 
 may form a pretty shrewd guess. Well, I keep 
 very much aloof from it myself; but I do not 
 pretend to share your indifference upon the 
 subject just at this moment. I hear Bath is
 
 156 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 unusually gay and pleasant, and I heartily wish 
 it may he so, for Philip started for the place 
 yesterday in high spirits, and full of anticipa- 
 tions of enjoyment. It is his first season, 
 though I prophecy it will not be his last. I 
 heartily hope his expectations of pleasure will 
 not be disappointed. All the world of beauty 
 and fashion is there, as the vulgar newspapers 
 have it, and — 
 
 " My dear Miss Lovel, what's the matter 
 w r ith you ? You look suddenly taken ill ; quite 
 pale — over-fatigue. Pray, try my smelling- 
 bottle." 
 
 " No, thank you, Ma'am," putting it coldly 
 aside with her hand. "I am not very strong 
 just now ; but the fresh air is the best thing. 
 I will take a turn upon the grass-plot, if you 
 will give me leave, and return again." 
 
 Yes ; it should be the grass-plot — the 
 grass-plot in front of the parlour windows. 
 Mrs. Gorhambury should not think that she 
 was gone away to cry about it. 
 
 Fresh air would enable her to hold up till
 
 CASTLE AVON. 157 
 
 this cruel, cruel woman was gone : that was all 
 she just then wanted. 
 
 " Go, my dear, by all means," said Mrs. 
 Gorhambury, in a milder tone; for she could 
 not help being a little touched by the dis- 
 may written in the fallen countenance. 
 
 If Hernana had not been endowed with a 
 courage and fortitude far beyond the common, 
 she never could have stood the shock as she 
 did. She must have given way to a burst 
 of tears, or fallen flat upon the ground ; but 
 shed a tear she would not, and faint she did 
 not, though the room was swimming round 
 her; shrill noises were in her ears, and she 
 scarcely knew where she was. 
 
 She managed, however, to escape into the 
 garden ; took two or three turns upon the little 
 grass-plot, just in front of the windows, Mrs. 
 Gorhambury still sitting there, and, as she 
 knew, watching her ; and then, having collected 
 her scared and distracted spirits, and composed 
 herself as well as she could, she re-entered the 
 room.
 
 158 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 And Mrs. Gorhambury, pitiless as ever, (for 
 these unequivocal signs of emotion betrayed, as 
 she thought, the secret understanding between 
 the two), went on as if finishing her sentence : 
 
 " And so I supposed you too might be 
 going to Bath, or into the neighbourhood of 
 Bath?" 
 
 " No, Madam ; certainly not. Mr. Fenmore 
 wishes us to go to Launceston, as I believe 
 I had the honour of telling you." 
 
 " He is quite right : I am glad to hear 
 you have come to that determination," said 
 Mrs. Gorhambury, greatly relieved. " Mr. 
 Fenmore is unquestionably right. The air of Bath, 
 even of Clifton and the Hot Wells, has some- 
 thing bleak in it, after all. Launceston, on 
 the other hand, is the Madeira of Eng- 
 land, I have been told ; I never was there. 
 Besides, you will find it very cheap; and 
 the difference of prices will more than com- 
 pensate for the difference in the length of 
 the journey. But I am afraid you still 
 hanker after Bath."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 159 
 
 " What should make you think so, Mrs. 
 Gorhambury? No, there is no hankering, 
 indeed : Bath is the last place upon earth that 
 I should wish to go to." 
 
 " Keep to that resolution, for it is the wisest 
 you can make, in every point of view," said 
 Mrs. Gorhambury, with some emphasis, as 
 she rose to go ; for Hernana's colour changed 
 so alarmingly, she was in terror lest there 
 should be a scene ; and as the traveller, des- 
 scrying the signals of approaching storm, 
 hurries to shelter, Mrs. Gorhambury hastened 
 to take refuge in her carriage. " I must be 
 be gone. Don't ring the bell. Pray, don't 
 trouble yourself: I can open the door my- 
 self. I shall be glad to hear of your safe 
 arrival at Launceston. And can we be of any 
 use ? There is our cart ; it is doing nothing 
 at the Rectory. It can take your baggage to 
 the coach. Anything else ?" 
 
 But Hernana spoke not. She could not 
 force her voice to utter a syllable of thanks. 
 She would not stretch forth her hand to take
 
 160 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 the offered one of Mrs. Gorhambury, who, 
 triumphing in her success, extended it with every 
 appearance of cordiality and good-humour. 
 
 This cordiality and good-humour made Her- 
 nana feel more heart-sick than all the rest. 
 The anger she could stand ; the good-humour 
 made her feel almost hatred. 
 
 Gone to Bath ! Well, and why should he 
 not go to Bath ? Was there anything so 
 unreasonable in his wishing to go to Bath? 
 anything so unheard of, in a young man taking 
 such a measure, that it should produce all 
 the effect it did upon Hernana ? 
 
 Philip was gone to Bath to be very gay 
 there, that was all she had heard ; and Philip 
 had taken his departure without coming to 
 take leave. Perhaps this was unavoidable. 
 She felt, she knew that it was not unavoidable. 
 Perhaps he would write to her, to inquire 
 after her father, to explain why he went away 
 thus suddenly.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 161 
 
 No ! She knew that he would not write. 
 It was all over between them. The world 
 had seized its victim. Philip would be but 
 a too easy one. She was not altogether de- 
 ceived as to Philip's character, much as she 
 loved and admired him. She felt that he was 
 not made of that stuff of which the great, the 
 heroic are made ; and she felt that to adhere 
 to his preference for her would, under the cir- 
 cumstances, savour of the great and the heroic. 
 
 She cast one despairing glance around her. 
 It was all darkness. It was as if every light 
 of her life had gone out at once. 
 
 Philip had been the loadstar of her existence 
 ever since she remembered her existence ; the 
 object to which, as by a natural magnetic in- 
 fluence, she tended. Whilst he had been there, 
 all things else had been in comparison indif- 
 ferent, as regarded joy or sorrow, with only the 
 exception of her father and Lady Aylmer ; and 
 even those too, dear as they were ! oh, how 
 different it was ! Philip had been the secret 
 source of joys so ineffable, consolations and 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 162 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 supports so precious, so strong, so inexhaust- 
 ible ! His affection first, and then his love, 
 had so entirely constituted the existence within, 
 that now all was suddenly swept away, she felt 
 as if chaos were, indeed, come again.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 163 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Then Mrs. Gorhambury went next to visit 
 another young lady. 
 
 Yes, there was another young lady just 
 arrived at G ; and before Mrs. Gorham- 
 bury left town, most certainly she must go and 
 pay her a visit. 
 
 This young lady is the daughter of the Lady 
 Maria Westmore, and of the Dean Westmore, 
 
 of G , to whom I slightly introduced you 
 
 at the beginning of this history. 
 
 Maria, for she is called after her mother, 
 has just completed her education at a highly 
 fashionable boarding-school; and has returned 
 home to be introduced into the world, and, in 
 
 M 2
 
 164 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 due time, married, and all that; and she seems 
 set apart as one of fortune's favourites, to accu- 
 mulate around herself all the good things of 
 this life, and make a very slender experience of 
 its anxieties and sorrows. 
 
 She is excessively pretty, extremely sweet- 
 tempered, and kind-hearted enough; very ele- 
 gant in her dress and habits, moderately well 
 educated in more important respects ; highly 
 talented, she is called, which means in this case 
 that she possesses a remarkable talent for 
 music ; but more than all this, she is daughter 
 to Lady Maria, and the Dean of G , conse- 
 quently a person of the first importance in her 
 own little circle. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury has had her eye upon this 
 young lady for her son Philip ever since she was 
 born. Mr. Gorhambury, in his arbitrary way 
 of arranging things, has, because he wishes 
 and chooses it, looked upon the matter as of 
 course settled. The Dean and Lady Maria have 
 in some way or other accustomed themselves 
 to think it is to be, without taking any parti- 
 cular pains to bring it about ; for the Dean is a 
 man of too much sense, and we may add
 
 CASTLE AVON. 165 
 
 of a matrimonial nature ; and Lady Maria is 
 too much accustomed to let things take their 
 course to adopt very energetic measures to secure 
 any plan. 
 
 All that has been done, therefore, upon their 
 side has been to suffer the two young people to 
 pass a good deal of their time together. Little 
 aware were they of what they were doing, or 
 that while, Philip Gorhambury was nourishing 
 a romantic passion for the Curate's daughter, 
 the Dean's daughter was giving all her girl's 
 heart, such as it was, to him. 
 
 A dangerous youth this Philip Gorhambury, 
 it would seem, since two girls so extremely 
 unlike, as were Hernana and Maria, should 
 alike be bewitched by him. 
 
 Maria's love had, however, as yet been a 
 hidden thing — hidden at least from every one 
 but her bosom friend at school, a certain Miss 
 Harriet Manvers, to whose sympathising bosom 
 she had confided her passion, and from whom 
 she had received all the encouragement which 
 loftiness of feeling to condescend to any schemes
 
 166 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 one romantic young lady is accustomed to 
 bestow upon the love-tale of another. 
 
 In this instance, however, the fair heroine's 
 attachment was not productive of any dire 
 wretchedness, for there was a sort of atmosphere 
 of encouragement around her. Philip Gorham- 
 bury was flattering and attentive, smiled very 
 sweetly, and rattled away very gaily when in 
 her presence. He had the run of the Deanery, 
 and was a welcome guest whenever he made 
 his appearance, which the close intimacy of the 
 families rendered a very constant occurrence; 
 this being, however, too habitually his custom 
 from childhood to be significant of any peculiar 
 feeling or remark. 
 
 But Maria was far too young and inex- 
 perienced to think of distinctions of this nature, 
 and quite inclined to put the interpretation 
 of her friend, Miss Harriet Manvers, upon 
 Philip's visits. Though, certainly, to one more 
 acquainted with the symptoms of such things, 
 the easy manner in which Philip treated Maria, 
 which had every appearance of being merely
 
 CASTLE AVON. 167 
 
 that of a young man's good-natured indulgence 
 to a pretty school-girl, would have given no en- 
 couragement to more serious hopes or expecta- 
 tions. 
 
 But be that as it might, with the other 
 members of the family, Maria found herself 
 an object of the greatest partiality and indul- 
 gence, and for Philip's sake she loved Mrs. 
 Gorhambury very much, and even found it 
 possible to love harsh, unamiable Mr. Gor- 
 hambury himself, after a manner. So she 
 was delighted when she heard Mrs. Gorbam- 
 bury's name announced, as the footman opened 
 the door of the drawing-room in which she 
 was sitting with her mother. 
 
 Maria had been absent for about eighteen 
 months, during which none of the Gorham- 
 bury s had seen her. These months had been 
 the finishing months. She went away a thin, 
 lanky girl, in a white frock and a long sash, 
 looking gawky and unformed, as girls at that 
 age are apt to do ; she had returned, a young 
 lady complete, in a dress of the first fashion,
 
 168 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 admirably adapted to display the beauty of 
 her form and figure, both of which had in 
 the course of that time ripened into some- 
 thing very pretty indeed. 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury called to pay her first 
 visit to the young lady as young lady. I 
 ought to have added, that after the finishing 
 year at school, Maria had spent six months, 
 accompanied by her mother, partly in London, 
 partly in visiting among her mother's relations. 
 She had been presented, and so forth, and 
 was now come back, still quite as much in 
 love with Philip Gorhambury as ever. For, 
 after all, though she had been a good deal 
 out, she had not mingled much with the 
 gay world. The people she belonged to, 
 being rather a formal, old-fashioned set, she 
 had not been thrown into the society of 
 young people of her own age ; so, even if 
 her little heart had been inclined to inconstancy, 
 there had been small opportunity for it. 
 
 She was delighted, therefore, to hear Mrs. 
 Gorhambury announced, and rose up with a
 
 CASTLE AVON. 169 
 
 face animated with pleasure as that lady en- 
 tered the room, and who having made her com- 
 pliments to Lady Maria, turned towards the 
 daughter, holding out both her hands. She 
 started back as she did so with a little cry of 
 pleased surprise ; then advancing, took her by 
 the hand, and drawing her forwards, gazed 
 at her for a moment or two with a look of 
 the most gratified affection, and then saluting 
 her upon each cheek, said : 
 
 " My dear, you must allow an old friend — 
 I have known you from your long frocks, you 
 know. How you are grown ; and how well 
 you look !" And she turned to Lady Maria 
 with a sort of appeal, as if to say, is she not 
 charming ? 
 
 Lady Maria thought so, but was of so 
 inveterately quiet and impassible a nature, 
 that not even the admiration excited by her 
 own daughter could move her much. She 
 responded by a calm, self-satisfied smile, to 
 Mrs. Gorhambury's animated glance. 
 
 " What a cotton-wool doll it is," thought 
 that lady ; " but the girl is charming." And 
 then she secretly congratulated herself upon
 
 170 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 her morning's work ; rejoicing thac Philip was 
 off for Bath, and that Hernana was on the 
 move for Cornwall, or the Madeiras, if pos- 
 sible. Yes, it should be to the Madeiras, if 
 possible. The absurd affair — if it could even 
 be called an affair — was ended, and Philip 
 would return to see Maria in all her beauty, 
 his fancy no longer disturbed, as she hoped, by 
 another image. 
 
 " How she is grown and altered !" repeated 
 Mrs. Gorhambury, sitting down by Lady 
 Maria, her eyes still fixed in delighted admira- 
 tion upon Miss Westmore. " She is perfectly 
 charming !" she whispered. " I always 
 thought she promised to be very pretty, but 
 anything so perfectly lovely as this, I never 
 anticipated." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" lifting her glass and 
 looking at her daughter. " Yes, I believe 
 she is thought pretty well by some 
 people." 
 
 " And my dear," turning to Miss Westmore, 
 " I hope your fine musical talent has not been 
 neglected. I trust your pianoforte has not 
 been forgotten in the midst of the gaieties of
 
 CASTLE AVON. 1 7 1 
 
 the great world you have been living 
 in." 
 
 " Oh, as for that, I don't think we have been 
 anything very particularly gay — have we, 
 Maria? I think our set is dull enough — 
 don't you, child ? I declare I think the world's 
 gone stupid since I was young. Yes, I believe 
 the passion for your pianoforte was kept alive. 
 I used to hear you practising it most assidu- 
 ously at Lord Carlton's, at least ; but then it 
 was horribly stupid there, and the poor thing had 
 literally nothing else to do." 
 
 " It was not particularly entertaining, cer- 
 tainly," said Maria ; " but indeed, Mrs. Gor- 
 hambury, I should not have forgotten my 
 darling piano wherever I had been. I love 
 music more passionately than ever." 
 
 This was said quite naturally. Maria's taste 
 for music was genuine. She inherited it from 
 her father the Dean. She had been cradled in 
 music. She played charmingly : really charm- 
 ingly. Not as mere good masters teach a 
 clever girl to play, but with a fine natural 
 talent, carefully developed by the best instruc- 
 tion.
 
 172 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " I thought," said Mrs. Gorhambury, " that 
 Miss Westmore had too much genius ever to 
 prove inconstant to her pianoforte. Great talent 
 and great delight in an occupation are usually 
 found united." 
 
 " I do love my pianoforte, dearly," said 
 Maria, " and I have often thought, how 
 charming it would be, if dear Mrs. Gorhambury 
 would let me accompany her delightful harp, 
 sometimes. I have brought down some capital 
 duetts of Stoddart's, for harp and pianoforte." 
 
 " I know them, I think," cried Mrs. Gor- 
 hambury, eagerly. " Is there not one begins 
 la, la, la," singing a stave or two. " Mills 
 sent them down a few weeks back. They are 
 very good. There is an accompaniment for 
 a violoncello obligato, to one or two of 
 them." 
 
 Maria coloured a little — a pretty, sweet 
 colour it was, and said " yes, she believed 
 so." 
 
 " Then we shall make quite a concert when 
 my son comes back. Philip is gone to Bath, 
 Lady Maria." 
 
 " What do you let him go to Bath
 
 CASTLE AVON. 173 
 
 for ? There is nobody worth knowing at 
 Bath." 
 
 Mrs. Gorhambury was a little set down by 
 this speech, but she rallied with an : 
 
 " Oh, it is only pour se desennuyer. We 
 were so dreadfully dull at Castle Avon. Mr. 
 Gorhambury, I think, grows more sulky every 
 day, and his dislike for company increases. 
 Poor Philip ! It really is hard upon a young 
 man, and he hates field sports, you know. I 
 thought he would be moped to death, so I advised 
 him to take a run to Bath. It used to be gay 
 enough at this time of the year in my time." 
 
 " I'm sure it's not gay now, at this time or 
 any time. But, true, as you say, one does not 
 know where to go, for Cheltenham is so Irish, 
 and Leamington so common-place ; and, as for 
 the things in Derbyshire, they're horrid. Why 
 don't you send him to Paris ?" 
 
 "I am a foolish mother. We have been 
 so happy, so much accustomed to enjoy things 
 with each other, that now the continent is 
 at last opened again ; I own I wished to travel 
 with him, and that we should visit Paris and 
 Italy for the first time together."
 
 174 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Philip Gorhambury is a most 
 exemplary young man, I do not doubt. 
 I suppose you think you shall keep him 
 good by going with him to Paris. Many 
 mothers, I have known, lying under that 
 blessed delusion." 
 
 She spoke with the contempt with which 
 a mere passionless woman of conventionalities 
 and the world, regards anything that deviates 
 in the slightest degree from that world's beaten 
 track, quite incapable of either sympathizing 
 with, or even imagining the existence of, feelings 
 strong enough to occasion such a course. She, 
 I believe, thought Mrs. Gorhambury a some- 
 what out of the way and very affected woman, 
 because she had great talents, strong feelings, 
 and led a life somewhat different from other 
 people. 
 
 More especially the affection which was pro- 
 fessed between the mother and son appeared to 
 her exaggerated and preposterous ; and the idea 
 of such a thing as their really planning to travel 
 together, seemed to her the very climax of 
 absurdity. 
 
 Not so to Maria. She thought it charming
 
 CASTLE AVON. 175 
 
 of Mrs. Gorhambury to be so fond of her son ; 
 and thrice charming of Philip to love to travel 
 with his mother. She only wished with all her 
 heart that she might but be of the party. 
 
 " Dear mamma," she said, " how natural it 
 seems that Mrs. Gorhambury and Mr. Philip 
 Gorhambury, who have both such a passion 
 for pictures, should love to visit the Louvre 
 together." 
 
 " Dear me, yes. I suppose it may be ; but 
 it strikes me as rather original. And, so Mr. 
 Philip Gorhambury is really gone to Bath ; and 
 who, for goodness sake — do tell me — who on 
 earth can be there?" 
 
 " There are the L.'s, I know ; and Sir 
 C. C's. family, and the F's." mentioning a few 
 names; and whilst she did so Maria's heart 
 began to beat a little faster. She knew none of 
 these families, but she fancied half a dozen nice 
 girls belonging to each of them. 
 
 " The L.'s and the F.'s ! Yes, tolerable people. 
 Well, I hope he will amuse himself very much. 
 And, pray, when do you expect him back again ?" 
 
 " In a fortnight, or ten days, at the farthest. 
 And then, Miss Westmore, we will try the trios,
 
 176 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 shall we ? Philip is excessively improved upon 
 his violoncello ; he really plays charmingly." 
 
 " How's Mr. Lovel ? " interrupted Lady 
 Maria. "The Dean wrote me he had been 
 very ill whilst we were away. I hope he's 
 better. He'd be a great loss ; he's such a useful 
 man, I've heard the Dean say." 
 
 " And dear Hernana, how is she?" put in 
 Maria. " Mamma, it rained so yesterday, you 
 would not let me go out ; but I must put on 
 my bonnet and just run down to her." 
 
 " You can't go to-day, child ; for one of the 
 carriage-horses is lame. As for your running, 
 like a madcap, through those dirty streets 
 towards the wharfs, I do not intend to allow 
 of its ever being done. You forget you are 
 no longer a child." 
 
 " Mr. Lovel is better," said Mrs. Gorham- 
 bury, "but still unable to resume his duty. 
 They talk of sending him to a milder climate — 
 Cornwall, or, perhaps, the Madeiras. I saw 
 Hernana a quarter of an hour ago. She was 
 full of the scheme." 
 
 " What a fine girl that daughter of Mr. 
 Lovel's is !" said Lady Maria. " She reminds
 
 CASTLE AVON. 177 
 
 me of Lady E. E. Such a gipsy of a creature ! 
 I really am half afraid of her, girl as she is ; she 
 has so much dignity about her. 
 
 " She is a dear, dear girl," added Maria ; 
 " and I love her almost better than any one in 
 the world, except darling Harriet, who is 
 married, and gone nobody knows where. 
 Mamma, you really must let me go to her, or 
 let me send and ask her to come to me. As for 
 the carriage-horse, its leg will never be mended : 
 our carriage-horses' legs never are. So I will 
 have a fly, and a footman ; that will be the 
 best way ; for I would rather go to her, than 
 send to ask her here now her father's so 
 poorly. And besides, I do so love that Par- 
 sonage, and the wee parlour, and the 
 kitchen." 
 
 " That I can quite understand," said her 
 mother. " There is nothing I love so much, or 
 think so pretty, as a kitchen in a cottage. 
 Well, child, I have no objection. I think 
 Hernana Lovel a very good friend for you," 
 added Lady Maria, who, when she chose to 
 
 VOL. II. n
 
 178 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 make use of her understanding, possessed a 
 tolerable one ; " better a thousand times than 
 that odious Harriet Manvers, who was the most 
 vulgar school-girl I ever met with — quite enough 
 to make one ill."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 179 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "You are come back, dear Maria. How 
 dear of you to come to me so soon ! so glad, so 
 thrice glad as I am to see you !" cried Hernana, 
 embracing her friend, whose young and lovely 
 face and figure, set off by the elegance of her 
 dress, seemed quite to brghten the lowly little 
 kitchen, into which she had forced herself, 
 delighted to find Hernana there in the midst of 
 her household gods. 
 
 " Dear me ! I am so glad to come — so glad 
 to be here ! Oh ! I have seen nothing I liked 
 so well, nothing I thought so pretty, nothing to 
 
 N 2
 
 180 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 me so delightful, since I went away, as you, in 
 your kitchen, Hernana." 
 
 " What a remarkable thing you are !" giving 
 her a little tap upon the cheek. " What, after 
 all the fine people you have been among, and 
 the fine sights you have seen 1" 
 
 " I declare to you," said Maria, sitting down, 
 " it is just as I say. I don't know what there 
 is in me, but you cannot think what a bore I 
 find things that everybody seems to like so 
 much, and make such a fuss about. I find 
 what they call society so tiresome ; but I 
 believe, as ill-luck would have it, I belong to a 
 very tiresome set of people. I had ten thousand 
 times rather lead the life you lead, Hernana, so 
 that I might but have my pianoforte. I must 
 have my pianoforte, you know." 
 
 " As great a rage for that as ever ?" 
 
 " Oh, greater and greater than ever ; and I 
 really play so well, it's quite the astonishment of 
 everybody ; and of course that adds to the plea- 
 sure. It's no vanity in me to say so, but I really 
 do play very well indeed ; and I wish you would
 
 CASTLE AVON. 181 
 
 come to the Deanery, and hear me ; but you do 
 not care for pianofortes ?" 
 
 " Not very much. I love music too, I 
 believe ; and I like to hear you, because I love 
 you." 
 
 " That's very kind of you to say, Hernana ; 
 but what's the matter with you ?" said Maria, 
 looking into her friend's face, which, indeed, 
 was paler than usual, and her eyes were heavy, 
 and with a clouded expression, affording a 
 strong contrast to the usual bright serenity of 
 those twin stars. " Mrs. Gorhambury, who 
 was with us yesterday, told me Mr. Lovel had 
 been ill, and that you were very anxious about 
 him, that he did not recover kindly, and that 
 you were going to try change of air. I am 
 sure if he wants change of air, you look as if 
 you wanted it quite as much ; you are quite an 
 altered creature since I went away." 
 
 " You have been eighteen months away. 
 Eighteen months is a great space in life ! We 
 all change in that time !" said Hernana, willing 
 to put the matter aside. Alas ! she knew it
 
 182 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 was within the last eight-and-forty hours, for 
 that was the time which had elapsed since Mrs. 
 Gorhambury's visit, that the change had come 
 over her. 
 
 She did, indeed, look ill. What she had suf- 
 fered in that time exceeds description : though 
 she had from the first moment that she heard 
 of Philip's departure in this unkind manner — 
 without a line, without a call, without a word, 
 after all that she could not but be conscious 
 had passed — felt a kind of instinctive certainty 
 that everything was over between them. Dimly 
 the future shadowed itself forth to her mind ; 
 how it would be, she felt it had not been given 
 her to discern. This feeling alone pressed 
 upon her with that dire conviction not to be 
 shaken off; that melancholy divination of the 
 heart to which, struggle against as we will, we 
 seem impelled by a power too strong for us. In 
 vain, as the first panic subsided, and she had 
 leisure to reflect, did she argue the matter with 
 herself, striving to reason herself into a hope, 
 which the something within her obstinately re-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 183 
 
 fused to accept. It would not do ; her heart 
 seemed to have died within her, all the spirit, 
 relish, light of life to be gone. 
 
 Heavy and drooping she went about her 
 usual duties ; but all the alacrity with which 
 she was accustomed so cheerfully to fulfil them 
 had forsaken her. In vain she tried to rally — 
 to be what, till that day, she had ever been ; 
 in vain ! 
 
 A blight had gone over her : it seemed as if 
 the death-breathing wind of the desert had 
 passed, and all that was beautiful and glad had 
 withered away. 
 
 She had loved Philip so long — so long ! that 
 it seemed as if she had loved him before she 
 could remember. Her father and Philip — that 
 had been the whole of her existence. Her 
 father had her affection, her interest, her love, 
 her duty; but Philip was the soul of her life, 
 her light, and her joy ! 
 
 And how exceedingly happy had been these 
 last four weeks ; these four weeks of toil and 
 anxiety, sweetened by his visits, by his kind-
 
 184 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 ness, his tenderness, and rendered — oh, too 
 rapturous ! too exquisite ! as certain looks, 
 certain words, certain gestures, so precious, so 
 expressive, would escape from him at times; 
 only the more significant, only the more 
 apparently sincere, because they were evi- 
 dently involuntary. 
 
 Such a forty-eight hours as she had gone 
 through since Mrs. Gorhambury's visit ! 
 Oh, there are dreadful passages in human 
 life — passages which are endured in the hid- 
 den silence of the inner being, unregarded, 
 unrevealed, unmarked by the nearest and dear- 
 est, known only to Him who reads the heart, 
 and sends His chastisement of sorrow to His 
 children ! 
 
 A gleam of joy had gladdened the darkness 
 of her spirit as Maria entered. Kindness is 
 always healing. She had loved the Dean's 
 daughter much ; more than, as she had often 
 told herself, was prudent, for she was well 
 aware of the social distance which separated 
 them, and she doubted Maria's constancy. To
 
 CASTLE AVON. 185 
 
 find her the same — so ready to seek her 
 out — so loving and affectionate, had warmed 
 and cheered her. There was quite a glow of 
 the heart. For a few moments other things 
 were forgotten, and Hernana was herself again. 
 But that soon passed away, and the heaviness 
 of sadness came over her, giving that extraor- 
 dinary expression of suffering to her face which 
 had surprised Maria so much. Maria was 
 extremely good-natured but not very discerning, 
 and the depression of Hernana's manner must 
 have been great to have excited her atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Change in eighteen months !" was her 
 reply to Hernana's remark ; " yes to be sure we 
 do, but not as you are changed ; but I know 
 what it is," she went on, for her poor little 
 foolish heart was full of one subject almost to 
 the exclusion of every other. " I do believe 
 you are in love ! Nay, I vow you are colouring 
 scarlet ! This is charming ! I thought you 
 never would be so — what shall I call it? — as 
 to fall in love. Oh ! it is delightful. Now we
 
 186 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 can have confidences and talk of our lovers 
 together — which, you were so wise, I never 
 dared do before, Hernana. I was forced to take 
 refuge with Harriet Manvers, who was never fit 
 to hold the candle to you ; and now she has 
 disgusted me outright, for, after pretending to 
 me to be dying for Lieutenant Oswald, of the 
 5th, who, though he had not a penny, she vowed 
 she was ready to scrub the floor for — what 
 has she done ! but, in less than two months' 
 time, thrown the poor man overboard, and 
 married a good-for-nothing old squire, thirty 
 years older than herself, because he has thirty 
 thousand a-year. Isn't it too bad ?" 
 
 Hernana smiled. " I always thought Miss 
 Manvers a little too much a votary of the great 
 world to suit you, Miss Westmore." 
 
 " Don't Miss Westmore me ; but come and 
 sit down here on the window-seat. How nice 
 it is ! with the window open and the robins 
 chirping this morning ; and now, first tell me 
 a little about yourself and your affairs, and then 
 I will tell you about mine."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 187 
 
 " Dear Maria, how you run on ! I have 
 nothing to tell you, believe me; but I shall 
 be happy to hear what you have to tell 
 me." 
 
 " Ah, you are so close and reserved. That's 
 a great fault in you, Hernana, let me tell you, 
 for I am as positive as I sit here that you are 
 in love. It is impossible to look in your face 
 and doubt for a moment what's the matter with 
 you — I know it," she went on, " but too well 
 by myself. Oh, Hernana, to think of Philip 
 Gorharnbury !" 
 
 Hernana gave a sudden start. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" cried Maria. 
 
 No ; the idea had never presented itself 
 before. It may seem strange, but she had not 
 seen them much together. The first pang 
 of jealousy, added to that of desertion, is 
 dreadful. 
 
 " Nothing ! nothing ! You were saying 
 something about Mr. Philip Gorharnbury, I 
 think." 
 
 " You think ! Why, to be sure I was. You
 
 188 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 think ! Well, you are a strange creature," 
 said Maria, somewhat pettishly. " Did you 
 never find me out? Harriet Man vers found 
 me out in a moment." 
 
 " Perhaps so. I am not clever in rinding 
 people out. So, Mr. Philip Gorhambury, per- 
 haps it is, that — " 
 
 " Dear me !" cried Maria, throwing herself 
 back in her chair with a sort of childish glee. 
 " So you really never detected me before ! 
 How odd you are, Hernana. Oh me ! I have 
 been dying for Philip Gorhambury since I 
 can't tell when." 
 
 It looked so like impiety, so like sacrilege, 
 so like blasphemy, to speak thus of feelings 
 so sacred ; and of him ! Hernana dropped 
 the hand she held with a mingled sensation 
 of disgust and contempt ; then, forgive her 
 for it, her heart was a little cheered. It was 
 impossible, she felt sure that a man' like 
 Philip Gorhambury, having once loved her- 
 self, could desert her for a trifler like this. 
 Oh no ! He was gone. He had done that
 
 CASTLE AVON. 189 
 
 which she felt he must intend her to under- 
 stand as a rupture of the tie between them. 
 He had been cruel, not to say treacherous ; but 
 he would not abandon her for this one ! The 
 same instinctive assurance which had driven 
 her well nigh to despair by the certainty that 
 he was parted from her for ever, now told 
 her that he was gone to be free ; not to shackle 
 himself to another, not for such another ! The 
 pangs of jealousy subsided; and, in comparison, 
 all others seemed supportable. It did her good. 
 The intense pain of the one feeling seemed to 
 annihilate that of the other. 
 
 " And to think of his being gone to Bath 
 just as I came home ! Is it not cruel ? Is 
 it possible he can care for me the least in 
 the world? And yet Harriet Manvers, the 
 last time she was here, vowed that he was 
 dying for me. And she said, the very little 
 notice he ever took of me in company was 
 a certain proof, for that his eyes were never 
 off me when he could do it unobserved. Now 
 tell me what you think of it, Hernana ?"
 
 190 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " I have seen you so little together, that 
 I cannot pretend to be a judge ; but I should 
 say — " and she hesitated. 
 
 " What would you say ? Out with it !" 
 " But you will not like to hear it." 
 "Not if you are going say that you think 
 he don't care for me; to be sure, I should 
 not like that. For, in the first place, I'm 
 positive it's false; and in the second, you 
 cannot possibly know. So pray don't torment 
 and teaze me with any doubts about that, 
 which I have every reason upon earth to be 
 certain is a fact." 
 
 Again Hernana's heart began to sink. Oh ! 
 how she longed to question, to lead this some- 
 what indiscreet young lady to a full avowal 
 of all she thought and felt; but it seemed 
 to her scarcely honourable to accept the con- 
 fession of another's feelings when she so re- 
 solutely concealed her own. She was silent ; 
 which rather provoked the other young lady, 
 who thus ran on : 
 
 " I am sure, if implied compliments and pres-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 191 
 
 sure of the hand, and standing by the piano-forte 
 whilst I am playing, and all sorts of little 
 things mean anything, there has been no want 
 of them ! And I must say, and shall always, 
 that Philip Gorhambury has used me ex- 
 cessively ill if he means nothing ; but he 
 must mean something, and I am sure he 
 does mean something, though he is gone to 
 Bath. Now do tell me what I ought to 
 think; I assure you the last time I saw him, 
 and that was in London — " 
 
 " You met in London !" 
 
 " To be sure we did ; why do you look so 
 oddly? I declare, Hernana, you are half- 
 crazy this morning. Why, in the name of 
 goodness should we not meet in London, if you 
 please ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ! No reason in the 
 world ; only I did not know that you 
 had." 
 
 " That's not very wonderful, I should think. 
 I suppose Mr. Philip Gorhambury does not 
 render an account of his sayings and goings on
 
 192 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 to you! Yes, though you don't happen to 
 be aware of it, we did meet in London. 
 And Harriet Manvers said, that his attentions 
 were very particular; but, for my part, I wish 
 he had been a little more explicit — sometimes 
 he seemed as if he would, sometimes as if he 
 would not. You know, papa was always so 
 glad to see him, and made so much of him, 
 that he was forced to talk a vast deal to him, 
 when Harriet Manvers said she was positive he 
 was dying to be talking to me ; and yet, if papa 
 would go out of the room, he didn't often seem 
 to care to come ; he'd chat with mamma, or 
 any one else, or turn over the pages of a book, 
 rather than, as it would seem, come up to 
 me ; but Harriet said that was mere shy- 
 ness and awkwardness, and yet of all men 
 upon earth, Philip seems to me least troubled 
 with those sort of things. What do you 
 think?" 
 
 " I do not think, to speak honestly, that / 
 should be quite of your friend Miss Manvers' 
 opinion. I do not think Mr. Philip Gorham-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 193 
 
 bury shy, and I do think if he loved you, he 
 would not keep you in ignorance of it ; for why 
 should he ?" 
 
 " I am sure I can't guess why he should, for 
 I wish papa and mamma didn't show quite so 
 much as they do, how they would like to have 
 him for a son-in-law. Men are such queer 
 creatures, Harriet Manvers says. 1 should not 
 wonder if he felt himself too secure ; I've a good 
 mind to plague him well by flirting with some- 
 body else, and there are plenty would be glad 
 enough. Do tell me what you think, will you, 
 Hernana ? There you sit, looking with such an 
 odd face, not saying a word to comfort me — so 
 different from Harriet Manvers." 
 
 " I really do not know what to say — because 
 — because I have not seen you much together ; 
 but I own by your account, I do not think 
 Mr. Philip Gorhambury is attached to you." 
 
 " Oh, you don't — don't you ?" in a voice of 
 pique. " Then perhaps you think he is attached 
 to some one else. You, for instance ?" 
 
 " Oh, not to me !" replied Hernana faintly. 
 
 VOLi II. O
 
 194 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " I should think not. You, of all people in 
 the world ! Well, that is the last thing I should 
 suspect Philip Gorhambury of. Take my word 
 for it, love in a cottage, is not Philip Gorham- 
 bury 's taste. The delightful creature, he 
 deserves a palace, and he knows he does, and 
 I am only afraid he flies too high for poor me — 
 but I protest you look uncommon odd. You 
 are not in love with him yourself, I do hope, 
 Hernana ? That would be wretched work for 
 
 you!" 
 
 " Oh, don't trouble yourself about me. I am 
 used to take care of myself." 
 
 " That's it, however," said Maria, lowering 
 her voice. " That's my secret fear — that he is 
 flying at higher game than me ; for you cannot 
 think how excessively he is flattered and ad- 
 mired ; and then, besides, he will have such a 
 fine fortune you know, and though Mr. Gor- 
 hambury is a horrid, odd sort of a reserved 
 savage, that nobody likes, everybody's exces- 
 sively charmed with Mrs. Gorhambury ; she is 
 the most accomplished creature in the world.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 195 
 
 So he really might choose where he pleased, and 
 I should not think of hoping about it, if it were 
 not for little looks, and signs, and speeches, that 
 one cannot misunderstand, and which convince 
 me he loves none but me. But, oh ! how shall 
 I bring him to declare himself? for Harriet 
 Manvers says, every man on earth wants a 
 landing-net, and I am sure Lady Maria will 
 never take the trouble to handle one for me." 
 
 This somewhat vapid conversation is given 
 as a specimen of various conversations of the 
 same nature, which took place between Her- 
 nana and Maria, during the short interval of 
 time which elapsed before Mr. Lovel, his 
 daughter, and Lady Aylmer set out upon their 
 journey. 
 
 Though beginning with the most absolute dis- 
 belief in the existence of any partiality upon the 
 part of Philip towards Miss Westmore, as these 
 revelations proceeded and became rather more 
 
 o 2
 
 196 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 detailed, the wretched Hernana could not conceal 
 from herself that either Maria, misled by her 
 wishes, exaggerated very much, or that Philip 
 was behaving excessively ill to them both ; playing 
 a false and treacherous game, the temptations to 
 which, the more she reflected upon them, the less 
 she could understand. 
 
 It was easy to believe that his fancy might 
 have been attracted by the pretty face of Maria, 
 and by her unaffected, though rather childish 
 manners ; but if so, why did he make any 
 reserve or difficulty about declaring his passion 
 and making proposals for a marriage, which it 
 was plain would be the most agreeable thing in 
 the world to all parties concerned ? And oh ! 
 if loving and thinking of another, how could 
 he — how dare he — have been, what during her 
 whole life he had more or less been to her — and 
 most of all throughout these last few weeks so 
 dear and precious to her memory ? 
 
 Could those looks, those tones, those little 
 bursts of involuntary feeling; those broken 
 sentences, half uttered, half called back; those
 
 CASTLE AVON. 197 
 
 innumerable tokens which the heart alone 
 understands — oh ! could all these have been 
 only a mockery? Could Philip Gorhambury 
 be such a vile, heartless, practised deceiver as 
 that would amount to ? Impossible ! 
 
 No, he loved her ! he must love her ! But 
 then, Maria ! In that case, how account for his 
 conduct to her ; for make what allowances she 
 would for Maria's wish to be deceived, still 
 there was no denying that much which she had 
 related had an appearance of truth. Her 
 wretchedness was extreme. 
 
 She knew not what to think — what to do. 
 Her feelings were all in confusion. At times 
 abandoned to that intense longing for a happi- 
 ness which seemed to have been once within 
 her grasp, but was now withdrawn ! Or was it 
 really withdrawn? The doubt, the suspense, 
 was what so hampered her feelings. Doubt ! 
 Terrible doubt ! 
 
 Could she but have come to some conclusion 
 — could she but have been convinced, either of 
 Philip's truth, or of his infidelity, as she thought,
 
 198 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 she could have home it. One great struggle, 
 and she felt she should have resolution to dis- 
 entangle her heart. One bold blow of severance ! 
 and, though it would have been bitter as the 
 stroke of death, it would have been over; and 
 from that time forth her cure would begin. 
 Time, which could do nothing for her now, 
 would do everything for her then ; as day passed 
 after day, she must, in spite of herself, become 
 better 
 
 Ah ! it is uncertainty — cruel, wearing, helpless, 
 uncertainty — which robs so many a cheek of its 
 colour, and fades and withers so many a form. 
 
 Those who can end this horrid suspense when 
 they will, are little aware of the tortures they 
 inflict, when, sometimes heedlessly, sometimes 
 through self-distrust, sometimes with pre-medi- 
 tation, they occasion them.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 199 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " My child," said Lady Aylmer, as Her- 
 nana entered her little drawing-room, " what 
 does ail you ? My love, I fear you have tried 
 your strength too far, in these unremitting atten- 
 tions to your dear father. I thought you 
 looked ill some days ago ; but since Friday the 
 change for the worse has been frightfully rapid. 
 You are altered in a manner that alarms me. 
 Come here, dear child of my heart. Kind and 
 good Hernana, come here, and lay your head 
 against this poor aching bosom of mine, and 
 tell me, my love, what it is ; or shall I ? — shall 
 I?" She went on, after having gazed upon
 
 200 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 the wan, worn countenance for a few moments 
 with unspeakable anxiety and affection : " Shall 
 I — not ask, but guess — venture to guess, my 
 darling ?" 
 
 And she took her hand, with that expression 
 of deep feeling and sympathy upon her coun- 
 tenance, which no countenance was more fitted 
 to express than Lady Aylmer's, for her long, 
 long sorrow, the heart wound she carried within, 
 and which time seemed unable to soften, would 
 seem to have moulded her features into some- 
 thing most refined and spiritual, and singularly 
 calculated to express every emotion of the 
 soul. 
 
 The character of the face was so tender as it 
 looked at Hernana, the sympathy with sorrow 
 so sincere — sympathy, such as those who 
 have known much silent and deep-seated sorrow^ 
 are alone, perhaps, capable of feeling 1 
 
 Lady Aylmer was one of the most interesting, 
 as she w ? as the most consoling of friends and 
 comforters. 
 
 " Nay, do not turn your head away," which
 
 CASTLE AVON. 201 
 
 had been Hernana's first natural impulse, but 
 she did not yield to it ; she fixed her eyes 
 upon those of her friend — eyes so full of sad- 
 ness — that they seemed to acknowledge that 
 she had guessed right — to acknowledge that 
 Lady Aylmer was in possession of her secret. 
 " Is it so ? I was afraid. Nay, I do not know 
 why I should say I was afraid, except from, 
 perhaps, a natural misgiving, where that name 
 to me so fatal, is engaged; but I would not 
 be prejudiced against the son by my dislike of 
 the parents. You may trust me, Hernana. I 
 can and I will love Philip Gorhambury for your 
 sake. If — but why do you look so sad? It 
 cannot be possible that after all I saw, little as 
 that might be — but enough — it cannot be 
 possible that he is gone. But I hear that he is 
 gone, and has left you still in uncertainty as to 
 his intentions !" 
 
 Hernana made no reply. She sat down upon 
 the sofa where Lady Aylmer was still forced for 
 the greater part of the day to recline, though, 
 in the ardour of her conversation, she had
 
 202 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 half risen from it, and was now sitting up, and 
 continued to hold Hernana's hand, and gaze 
 at her with the most affectionate anxiety. 
 
 " You do not speak ! Nay, surely, my love, 
 I hope it cannot be so." 
 
 " Yes, it is so," was all Hernana could reply. 
 
 " You cannot mean it ! Gone ! and said 
 nothing ! But it must he for a very short 
 time, then. He must very soon be intending 
 to return?" 
 
 " I do not know. No, I think Mrs. Gorham- 
 bury said the time of his return was quite un- 
 certain : he was away for she knew not how 
 long." 
 
 " Mrs. Gorhambury ! My dear, never mind 
 what Mrs. Gorhambury says : we all know her. 
 She will not hesitate at endeavouring to make 
 you believe that to be true which she wishes 
 to be true. If from Mrs. Gorhambury alone 
 you have heard that Philip has gone away in 
 this strange, inexplicable manner, (for a long 
 time, and without explaining himself), depend 
 upon it she deceives you, and perhaps herself;
 
 CA9TLE AVON. 203 
 
 for Philip Gorhambury loves you, Hernana. 
 I am not, I think, a self-flatterer, nor very 
 apt to flatter my friends ; and experience has 
 made me very distrustful of those appearances 
 by which girls are led to persuade themselves 
 that a man is seriously attached to them. But 
 I do not think I am deceived here; I could 
 stake my life upon it, that man loves you." 
 
 Hernana did not speak, but she turned her 
 eyes upon her friend with such a sudden flash 
 
 of j°y- 
 
 " And so tell me, my dear, how you parted ; 
 for I feel sure he could not part from you, 
 without betraying, by some word or look, what 
 was to be read in every glance, and heard trem- 
 bling in every sentence, when I saw you to- 
 gether. Come, come — I know that mere 
 absence throws one into such low spirits, that 
 it gives a dark colour to everything. Alas ! 
 I know it all so w T ell ! I have tried it all so 
 truly ! and I seem to live it over again in you, 
 my dear, dear girl." 
 
 " He did not take leave. He went away
 
 204 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 without even trying to see me, suddenly, and so 
 unkindly ! How could he — how could he have 
 so little feeling for me ?" 
 
 " Went away without taking leave of you ?" 
 
 " Ah, Lady Aylmer I" 
 
 " My dear child !" 
 
 " You could not speak with such confi- 
 dence of his attachment now ?" said Hernana, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " My own love ! I do not know what to 
 think or say." 
 
 " You think it, then, so very strange, so 
 veiy unkind, so — so significant ?" 
 
 She uttered the last word as if she could 
 hardly articulate it. 
 
 " Alas ! my own dear child, what can I 
 say ?" 
 
 " It seems," resumed Lady Aylmer, after 
 the pause of a few moments, " as if I must 
 have little stability of judgment, to change 
 my opinion so suddenly, and, as some might 
 think, on such light grounds ; but I will not 
 disguise what I think from you, my child ;
 
 CASTLE AVON. 205 
 
 for I know you have a brave and magnanimous 
 heart, and that you know a woman's duty — 
 her hard, but her most imperative duty ! My 
 Hernana will not sacrifice a life given her for 
 high purposes — will not make the misery of 
 those w T ho love her, for the sake of such a one 
 as this is. You are a noble, good girl, 
 Hernana : you must think of this man no 
 more." 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 "That sounds to you like the sentence of 
 death," said Lady Aylmer. 
 
 "It does ; and worse ! far worse !" 
 
 " I know it ; I know it ! What is physical 
 death — once and over— to the living death of 
 the heart ? that death which does not kill ! 
 Ah, child ! child ! I know it too well. It is 
 here, here — hope dead ! happiness dead ! love 
 dead ! everything dead ! Everything dead, but 
 one's miserable self." 
 
 " Yes — I see, I understand ; but do not say 
 you have no hope — oh, do not say that. I 
 thought you lived upon hope."
 
 206 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " Upon the shadow of it — yes ; but it is 
 a shadow that grows fainter and fainter every 
 day ; and, indeed, it is beginning, of late, to take 
 strange fantastic forms of misery !" Lady Aylmer 
 went on to say, not in heartless forgetfulness 
 of the younger heart's sorrows, but willing to 
 divert their bitterness by sympathy with her 
 own — " of late, to take strange fantastic forms 
 of misery. For him that I lost — a lovely child 
 ■ — is by this time a child no more : he is a boy 
 —a man ! — and so I never, never can find my 
 lost, my darling little one again ! And then, 
 when I think to what he may have been 
 exposed — what a boy, what a man he may 
 have become ! — what I may find, if ever I do find 
 — oh, it is hideous ! hideous !" 
 
 And the wretched mother, now entirely ab- 
 sorbed with her own anguished reflections, 
 covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut 
 out some dreadful image. 
 
 Love is a strange, strange thing. However in- 
 tense and bitter the sufferings, it seems to shrink 
 ashamed before more substantial sorrows. It
 
 CASTLE AVON, 207 
 
 seems aware of its own somewhat evanescent 
 nature, and stronger than death itself, in its pas- 
 sionate anguish to stand abashed, when the voice 
 of other grief is heard. Rachel mourning for her 
 children ! What love complaint would dare 
 mingle itself with the horror of that sound ? 
 Can Hero dare to weep, when Niobe is there ? 
 So Hernana felt: ashamed of her sorrow, 
 abashed, and as if conscience-stricken before 
 the heart's cry of that wretched mother. 
 
 The feeling was salutary. A new current 
 was given to her thoughts, before the dread- 
 ful anxieties and uncertainties of the be- 
 reaved mother, her griefs appeared as trifling — 
 as nothing. Yet her anguish was, in truth, as 
 acute, more acute, more agonising, if possible. 
 Yet there was, I know not what, wanting. But 
 I will not attempt to account for the fact; 
 satisfied that the experience of every heart that 
 feels will bear me out in it. 
 
 Lady Aylmer sat, her face covered with her 
 hands, a prey to one of those paroxysms of 
 grief and horror by w T hich she was overwhelmed,
 
 208 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 whenever the idea of her lost child was presented 
 to her in this, the most wretched of all its 
 varying aspects of wretchedness; for, happily, 
 no sorrow of this nature can take a permanent 
 aspect, it changes with the spirits, sometimes 
 hope predominating, sometimes sinking into the 
 depths of despair ; but at least the misery of a 
 fixed idea is thus escaped, and the mind pre- 
 served from madness. The presence of actual 
 sorrow in another shape, was here useful to the 
 poor mother, as to the love-crossed girl. Both 
 hearts w T ere so really generous and good, that 
 their sympathy was a help to each other. 
 
 " It is very selfish of me," said Lady 
 Aylmer, raising her head. " How can I be so 
 selfish ? Dearest girl, forgive me ! There are 
 moments, when that idea presents itself, when 
 all the little fortitude I have gives way. And, 
 as time rolls on, I fancy him growing and 
 changing — growing and changing. That thought 
 gets more and more persistent — more and more 
 terrible. Oh ! forgive me, my love, I am very 
 selfish ! and, with your pale cheek before me,
 
 CASTLE AVON. 209 
 
 can I think of anything — anything else ? My 
 own, dear girl, forgive me." 
 
 " Ah ! Lady Aylmer, do not speak so. If 
 you knew how ashamed I feel of my grief in 
 the presence of your awful sorrow. But I will 
 hear my portion as I ought — indeed, indeed, 
 I will ! I am not going to be a burden upon 
 your spirits, or a source of sorrow and anxiety 
 to my dear father. No, believe me ; I can, and 
 I will." 
 
 Yes, the presence of this awful sorrow, as 
 well she might call it, brought her back at once 
 from those regions of passion into which, under 
 the fascinations of Philip Gorhambury, she 
 had been wandering, restoring her to reality, 
 to duty, to goodness, to resignation, and the 
 wholesome everyday life. 
 
 Yes, that was the harassing anxiety, the 
 
 VOL. II. p
 
 210 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 dark and terrible idea, which had gradually 
 been gaining strength in Lady Aylmer's mind, 
 and every year added to the sum of accumu- 
 lated pain. For a long time she had continued 
 to think of her lost one as still the little, 
 innocent, helpless, beautiful, baby-boy. She 
 had still- clung firmly to the idea that he would 
 be restored to her, and restored much as she 
 had lost him. 
 
 But time wore away, weeks accumulated 
 into months, and months into years, and still 
 not the slightest tidings of him reached her. 
 The silence of the grave seemed indeed to 
 have closed over him, and every one of her 
 friends were so convinced that this was really 
 the case, that their looks of sad despair, 
 when she would speak of him as still living, 
 and a something bordering upon disapproba- 
 tion, which she could detect, as if she were 
 indulging in a dangerously morbid fancy, were 
 so disagreeable to her, that for some time
 
 CASTLE AVON. 211 
 
 she had ceased to mention him to any one 
 but Hernana. 
 
 Not that her faith was in the least im- 
 paired. She calculated upon his reappearance 
 with that sort of absolute certainty, which 
 make some of our previsions assume all the 
 reality of prophecy; and it was the consola- 
 tion of her life that this faith, she had been 
 able to impart to Hernana, who, young and 
 sanguine, was ready to believe what she so 
 ardently desired might prove true. 
 
 But since the painful ideas above alluded 
 to had taken possession of Lady Aylmer's 
 mind, even this long cherished hope ceased 
 to be a consolation. The dreadful idea that 
 this child so ardently desired, might, exposed 
 to every possible evil influence, be growing 
 up a wretched, perverted human being, was 
 so horrible, that at times the most fervent 
 prayer that Hernana could offer for her friend 
 was, that all these fluctuations of hope and 
 
 p 2
 
 212 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 terror might be merged in the assurance, in 
 some way or other, that the child had perished 
 in his infancy. 
 
 It was. but a melancholy party that at length 
 set out upon the expedition to Cornwall. Mr. 
 Lovel so ill, and, added to the present suffering, 
 there was occasion for the most serious anxiety 
 as regarded the future, it seeming to be very 
 doubtful, whether he would ever be enabled 
 to resume his duties. In that case, what 
 was to become of them? If that resource 
 failed him, what were they to do? Besides, 
 he loved his profession; his whole heart and 
 soul were devoted to it ; life seemed to have 
 lost all interest and purpose when he could no 
 longer do good. 
 
 Lady Aylmer was more than usually de- 
 pressed : she felt low at removing from G .
 
 CASTLE AVON. 213 
 
 It was painful to go so much further from 
 the spot where her child had disappeared, 
 and where she still hoped he might one 
 day or other reappear ; and yet, on the con- 
 trary, when she thought of the distant secluded 
 country to which they were bound, she cherished 
 some faint, vague expectation, that there, 
 among its mysterious wilds, she might hear 
 of him. 
 
 These things made her silent, sad and pre- 
 occupied. The mood of these her companions 
 allowed Hernana, however, more leisure and 
 quiet for the battle with her heart in which 
 she had engaged, and so far perhaps was well. 
 That conversation with Lady Aylmer, a com- 
 parison of her own sorrow, with the dreadful 
 anxieties of her friend, and still more with 
 the depression and melancholy of her father, 
 helped her. It aroused all that was generous 
 within her heart to the resolve that she would 
 not prove a burden to those already so heavily
 
 214 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 burdened. She knew it was vain to talk, but 
 so long as she should indulge herself in these 
 sad regrets, these intense longings after happi- 
 ness, she could be neither of service nor of 
 consolation to those who so greatly needed 
 both. Pity, and a generous desire to comfort and 
 support those she loved, rescued her from the 
 depression into which she had at first fallen. 
 She shook off the insidious weakness that had 
 invaded her, and resolved to look her situation 
 courageously in the face. 
 
 Days had passed, and weeks had passed, and 
 Philip Gorhambury had not returned, neither 
 had he written one line to her. His mother 
 got a letter now and then, the contents of 
 which she communicated at the Deanery, and 
 through Maria, Hernana learned that he was 
 passing his time in the gayest manner, and that 
 he was thinking of nothing less than returning 
 home. He talked of proceeding direct to 
 Paris, and of his mother joining him there, but
 
 CASTLE AVON. 215 
 
 did not appear to have the least intention of 
 visiting G before his departure. 
 
 Maria spent her time, when with Hernana, 
 partly in lamentations, partly in fits of anger. 
 Sometimes she grieved over her own want of 
 power to fix the dear deluder ; at others, in- 
 veighed against the selfish inconstancy of 
 man. 
 
 Hernana did her best to console her, 
 and to encourage her to persist in the efforts 
 she professed to be making to drive the 
 deceiver from her thoughts; and as she 
 did so, she laid the lesson to her own 
 heart. 
 
 And so we will leave her in the exer- 
 cise of the true and cardinal virtue of woman 
 — that of ruling the tender affections with 
 courage and severity. Denying herself every 
 vain indulgence of self-flattery, she reso- 
 lutely drove from her memory those recol- 
 lections of tones and looks which had deceived
 
 216 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 her. She steadily held before her eyes the 
 facts of the case — that he was gone, when he 
 might have staid, a voluntary exile from the 
 place where, if he truly loved, he would most 
 upon earth have desired to remain. That he 
 had not spoken, w T hen there was nothing to 
 prevent him speaking ; had not written, when 
 there was nothing to prevent him writing — 
 nothing, except his own ambition and worldli- 
 ness, and the ambition and worldliness of his 
 mother. If these were enough to prevent him 
 doing that which truth, and honour, and 
 affection so imperiously commanded him to do, 
 what was there left to hope, or even to wish ? 
 
 If such was his character, why vainly expect 
 it would change ? Character does not change. 
 As well may you wait till the river ceases to 
 flow, as wait for a man to alter from what 
 he is. 
 
 Such were the things she said to herself; 
 and she fought the hard fight, and fought it
 
 CASTLE AVON. 217 
 
 bravely and well. She was one resting firmly 
 too upon that best of strengths — the cheerful 
 confidence that we live actually, really, and 
 unfailingly, under a government merciful and 
 good, far — far above the things of this 
 world. 
 
 We will leave her then to the sharp contest 
 with herself, and to the performance of the 
 pious duties to which she is devoted — 
 and we will return to the child, who we 
 know lives, and is surrounded by physical 
 and moral peril, greater than the darkest 
 imagination of the mother could have pic- 
 tured.
 
 218 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Years have passed away. The scene has 
 changed with them. The gipsies have wan- 
 dered far and near ; have visited almost every 
 green lane and barren moor in the island ; and 
 are now encamped in one of those deep, secluded 
 valleys which lie upon the southern coast of 
 Kent and Sussex. 
 
 The hills in this part of the country are 
 steep and abrupt, running in long parallel lines, 
 bare of all foliage, and covered over with short 
 grass, or heath. Between them lie those deep 
 and narrow valleys, which seem almost cut off 
 from all communication with the rest of the 
 world.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 219 
 
 As the road traverses the heights, you look 
 down into these secluded nooks, where per- 
 haps a few tall trees surround the small parish 
 church, with its low, square tower, and humble 
 roof; round which, a farm-house or two, and a 
 few cottages may be seen nestling. Some- 
 times the course of a stream may be traced 
 through the valley ; but most often, this is not 
 the case. 
 
 There they lie, these little villages, looking so 
 solitary, so obscure ! very lodges in the sur- 
 rounding wilderness. 
 
 These valleys were favourite haunts of the 
 gipsies. They loved the seclusion in which 
 they could remain hidden, and the wide expanse 
 of country which they could traverse in pursuit of 
 their various occupations ; and most of all, they 
 loved the peculiar opportunities for engaging in 
 smuggling transactions — then at their height, 
 for it was during the long war. 
 
 Claribert of Avon is now a youth of about 
 sixteen ; Big Ben is a man of twenty ; Hesther, 
 though comparatively young in years, is
 
 220 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 become quite a withered old woman. The 
 consuming fire within seems to have burnt 
 away all of youth, of human feeling, and 
 almost all of human substance that was in 
 her. 
 
 This is the first time she has ventured to 
 quit the desolate mountains, extending from 
 Lancashire to the south of Scotland, where she 
 and her tribe had sojourned for so many years 
 in the trackless wilderness, concealed from the 
 pursuit so long kept up by Lady Aylmer, now 
 in utter despair almost abandoned. The 
 security has been so complete, the tradition of 
 the story has so long faded into silence, that it 
 had died away almost from the memory of the 
 tribe itself. 
 
 There were moments when some action out of 
 the common, some look, some gesture, the 
 flashing blue eye, and the golden hair, reminded 
 an old crone of an old story ; but nothing was 
 said. The tribe is busy with its own affairs — 
 its fortune-telling, its horse-jockeying, and its 
 various other schemes, more or less honest, in
 
 CASTLE AVON. 2*21 
 
 pursuit of gain. The stranger ceases to be 
 regarded in particular. He has long circulated 
 among the boys of the tribe, as if one of them ; 
 for Hesther has grown languid and dispirited ; 
 her fervour and energy have forsaken her ; and 
 she ceases to claim for her adopted son those 
 privileges and immunities for which she once 
 strove so fiercely. Whether it were that the 
 restless gnawing of conscience within had worn 
 away all of pride that once mingled with her 
 affection, or whether that the dread which for 
 ever haunted her, that he might be torn away, 
 rendered her content, and even desirous, as he 
 grew older, that he should mingle with the 
 common herd, I cannot say ; but certainly, 
 during the whole of this period of his life, 
 Charlie has been allowed to mingle indiscrimi- 
 nately with the rest. 
 
 There the encampment lies before you. 
 About half a dozen magnificent elms and 
 beeches form a sort of irregular semi-circle 
 round a green unenclosed spot, removed about 
 a quarter of a mile from the village. A
 
 222 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 rippling brook, running between the long and 
 verdant grass, over bright blue and golden 
 pebbles, trinkles down this valley, the neigh- 
 bourhood of fresh water being what these 
 gipsies, above all things, loved. Their tents, 
 or, rather hovels, are pitched irregularly about 
 the little plain, in the centre of which, and 
 down the lane into which it gradually narrows, 
 rough, ragged horses and asses are scattered 
 about browsing. Sundry carts, covered and 
 uncovered, were drawn up, with their shafts in 
 the air, round about. 
 
 The evening twilight has already fallen in the 
 valley, though the sun elsewhere is yet above 
 the horizon. The gipsy fires are lighted, and 
 their lurid flames and smoke rise and mingle 
 not unpleasingly with the topmost branches 
 of the trees. 
 
 The yelp of the numerous dogs ; the hoarse 
 voices of men and boys ; the shrill tones of the 
 women; and the laughter, now and then, of 
 the children, mingle with the other sounds in a 
 sort of stilly confusion.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 223 
 
 The people are assembled in groups, and seem 
 busily engaged in the discussion of some sub- 
 ject which occupies all their attention. Rapid 
 conversation is going on, and from time to time 
 different individuals mav be seen detaching 
 themselves from the several groups, and going 
 towards the entrance of the deep lane which 
 leads between high hedges into the far country. 
 They seem to be looking down it, as if in ex- 
 pectation of an arrival ; but no one comes. 
 
 Disappointed they return to the fires, from 
 one of which the voice of lamentation is heard. 
 A giantess of a woman, with skin the 
 colour of bronze, long tresses of black dis- 
 hevelled hair, hanging in volumes round her 
 face, huge, sinewy arms, and the shoulders of a 
 female Hercules, is venting her grief, mingling 
 her sorrow with execrations. 
 
 " To think of him ! My Ben, of all ! The 
 last I should have thought as ever would have 
 been taken, so 'cute as he was ! Never found 
 out in a trick in his life ! No ; there wasn't 
 one of you understood the sly like him ; to say
 
 224 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 nothing of his good brawny arm ; except, in- 
 deed, that white-haired, white-livered chick of a 
 lad, who goes sneaking about, and doing nobody 
 knows what, and saying nobody cares what ; 
 half hypocrite, half thief! He's better on the 
 sly than my Ben himself; a young rascal ! and 
 I'll be hanged if he han't a hand in getting my 
 Ben into this brostle, for all the fine face he puts 
 upon it !" 
 
 " What are you saying there ?" exclaims 
 a low, stern, hoarse, hollow voice, which 
 comes as if from the sepulchre. It has 
 that tone which tells of decaying physi- 
 cal life w T ithin, when the life of the soul still 
 burns with all its brightness. From the worn, 
 thin spectre of a tall, dark, wasted woman, one 
 bright hectic spot upon either cheek, and 
 eyes whose gloomy darkness is all now lighted 
 up with rage, it proceeds : " What are you say- 
 ing there ? What are you saying of my 
 Charlie ? Say it again ! say it again, if you 
 dare ! You know he is an angel of light, come 
 down, nobody knows how, here, among the
 
 CASTLE AVON. 225 
 
 fiends of the pit, and you dare compare him 
 with your ruffian, Ben !" 
 
 " I do, and I dare ! Better be a bold, brave 
 ruffian, and defy the law, than a fair-faced, 
 smooth-tongued, sneaking hypocrite, who'll take 
 care of his own skin, and keep his own neck 
 out of the noose, let who will suffer for it ! Ay, 
 Hesther, you may glare, and flame, and look, as 
 I'll be bound you did when you gripped I know 
 who; but I've said it once, and I'll say it again, 
 — villain for villain, cheat for cheat, thief for thief, 
 better ten hundred thousand times be a bold, 
 honest villain, a bold, honest cheat, a bold, 
 honest thief, passing for what he is, and no 
 better than he is, like my Ben, than a crouching, 
 praying, psalm-singing hypocrite, like your fine 
 gentleman, prying and prowling about, nobody 
 knows where or for what ; and all the time 
 being as 'cute with the hand, and as ready upon 
 the sly as any thief engro' among us ! 
 
 " You lie !" cried Hesther, furiously, " you 
 lie ! Charlie is no thief ; Charlie is no cheat ; 
 Charlie is no vile poisoner of pigs, and filcher 
 
 VOL. II. Q
 
 226 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 of ducks and fowls ! Fine things to boast of, 
 if boast you must ! He ! he never took so 
 much as the value of a hair, which was not 
 his own ; and what is he doing now ? What 
 is he doing now? whilst all the rest of you 
 are crowding round your flesh-pots of Egypt here. 
 What ? but gone down to the town amid the 
 thick of them all, to see his friend righted. 
 Maybe they've taken him up, too, and sent him 
 to prison, for who knows what one of them 
 fine magistrates may do? but none of them 
 can prove that, which never was ; and his pure 
 blood speaks in his cheek before the world !" 
 
 " It does, does it ? Mighty pure ! See, if 
 he don't bamboozle Hesther, as well as the rest 
 of ye, with his double tongue and looks ? But 
 he can't take in me ; he can't take in me !" 
 repeated the gipsy, shaking her head omi- 
 nously. 
 
 The debate was interrupted just as Hesther 
 was about to make an indignant reply, by a 
 general shout ; and a thin, slender figure, some- 
 what but not much above the middle size, was
 
 CASTLE AVON. 227 
 
 seen by the moonlight, slowly approaching up 
 the lane. 
 
 " Here he comes at last ! here he comes at- 
 test ! What cheer ? what fare ?" 
 
 The figure was still at some distance when 
 these eager voices saluted him, and heads were 
 stretched forth, and eyes starting almost out of 
 their sockets with eagerness, as the mingled 
 crowd of men, women, and hoys, looked down 
 the lane. 
 
 It was a close green lane, with high banks, 
 between which, under the wear and tear of 
 ages, the way had sunk many feet below 
 the surface of the surrounding country. The 
 banks were ornamented with daisies, jasmines, 
 and violets, the honey-suckle climbed aloft, 
 waving her sweet head to the breeze, and 
 strayed among the stout branches of hazel 
 and willow, that now shot upwards, now across 
 the lane, embowering it, at intervals, and flinging 
 heavy masses of shadow, amid the bright gleams 
 of the moonlight. 
 
 Up this beautiful lane the youth slowly 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 advanced ; his air was deeply depressed and 
 melancholy. Hesther had followed with the 
 rest ; had, as was her custom, pushed 
 her way imperiously through the throng of 
 busy faces, and stood leaning against a green 
 knoll of earth, watching the approach of 
 Charlie. His eyes were bent upon the 
 ground; he seemed moody, thoughtful, and 
 unhappy ; but, as the loud shouts of his assem- 
 bled fellows greeted him, he raised his head, 
 looked forward, quickened his pace, and was 
 soon among them. They gathered round him 
 thick as bees, with faces eagerly lifted up to 
 his. 
 
 " Well, well, what cheer ? What did you 
 do ? Where did you go ? Did you see the 
 bigwigs? speak to his worship himself? And 
 what did his reverend worship say?" 
 
 These, uttered in a half-feigned, half-genuine 
 tone of contempt, were the sentences which 
 greeted him upon every side. They left him 
 no time to answer ; yet was he about to speak, 
 when the tall woman, seizing him rudely by
 
 CASTLE AVON. 229 
 
 the arm, and griping it as if she would make 
 her fingers meet in the flesh, said, in a tone of 
 scornful reproach : 
 
 " You haven't brought him back with you, 
 then ?" 
 
 " No, mother," turning upon her that beau- 
 tiful fair face, so full of majesty and se- 
 renity. " No, mother ; they would not let him 
 go." 
 
 " Wouldn't ! oh, we wait upon would and 
 could. Didn't like it, eh ? So, that is all you 
 got for your fine daring, thrusting your head 
 into the lion's mouth — into his worship's own 
 parlour — is it ? I thought how it would be." 
 
 " Mother, you know I could not help it. You 
 know I would have done it if I could," replied 
 the youth, with some emotion. " You know I 
 would if I could ; but oh, mother — ! " 
 
 " Well ! speak out, can't you ? What have 
 they done with my brave, Big Ben?" 
 
 " Mother, he is committed." 
 
 " Committed !" shrieked the gipsy, " my own 
 Big Ben ! my brave, free bird of the woods !
 
 230 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 my wild youngster of the moors — committed! 
 Between four walls, and the sweet air of heaven, 
 and the sky, and the sun, and the fields, and the 
 trees, all shut out ! In a haleful dungeon ! 
 and the irons on him — the irons on him ! Oh, 
 Ben ! my Ben ! my own, own Ben ! What 
 hast thou done ? what hast thou done ?" 
 
 The youth looked down, and shame and grief 
 were written in his fair face, but he said 
 nothing. 
 
 " If he had been rich, the foul wretches, 
 would they not have admitted him to bail ? If 
 he'd been one of them Gorgios — a gentle like, 
 with a cambric shirt and a fine coat on his 
 back, wouldn't they have admitted him to bail ? 
 See if they wouldn't have. No four walls for 
 them ! No ; they'd have — But why, you 
 lazy, stupid ass," turning fiercely to Charlie, 
 " why could your smooth tongue not find a 
 word to say for him ? I warrant you could have 
 found more words than enough to get him set 
 at liberty if you had pleased ?" 
 
 " No," said Charlie, gently disengaging him-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 231 
 
 self from her gripe, " no, I could have said 
 nothing." 
 
 An expression of the deepest grief, shame, 
 and mortification mingled, were visible upon his 
 face whilst he spoke. 
 
 " You could have said nothing I you could 
 have said nothing in his defence ! Nothing ?" 
 
 " No ; because the accusation was true." 
 
 He uttered this in so low a voice that the 
 meaning reached only herself. 
 
 " True ! what do you mean, you winney- 
 looking coward, by that? What accusation, if 
 you please, since such fine long words is the 
 go ? What, but he'd pocketted an apple, or, 
 may be, taken an egg out of a hen's nest in 
 a hedge ! that's the sum of the mighty accu- 
 sation, if we must all learn sitcher fine words ! 
 And it was true, was it?" 
 
 Charlie only shook his head mournfully, but 
 said no more. The curious crowd would leave 
 him to Big Ben's mother no longer ; they began 
 to press, and squeeze, and jostle about him, 
 overwhelming him with questions as to what
 
 232 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 was become of their favourite and champion, 
 the Samson of the band. 
 
 The answers were given painfully and re- 
 luctantly ; and yet it was plain that there was 
 something more than the mere sorrowful fact of 
 Big Ben having been committed to prison, 
 which weighed so heavily upon the youth's 
 heart. 
 
 " Did you follow him to prison ? Did you 
 see my bold boy in his cage, at least? his cage! 
 beating his wings, poor hawk of the wilderness, 
 against the wires. Did you care,, or heed, or 
 think to do so much as that ? — visit him in his 
 cage — Master Primrosy-face." 
 
 "Yes," said Charlie, "I followed in the 
 crowd as they took him to prison." 
 
 " And where did they lodge him ? My darling 
 bird of the mountain." 
 
 " Literally in the cage," said Charlie, with a 
 faint melancholy smile. 
 
 " Shame ! shame !" resounded on all sides. 
 " I know the cage," cries one. 
 
 " Ay, aye, you have tasted the inside of it
 
 CASTLE AVON. 233 
 
 yourself, and all for an old white hen as tough 
 as a halter !" cries another. 
 
 At which last sally there was a general 
 laugh. 
 
 " And I say, it would be a black shame to 
 put a Christian vagabond, far more a bold child 
 of Egypt, into such a hole as that." 
 
 " It is a hole," repeated Charlie. 
 
 " Ay, is it ?" cried the mother, again push- 
 ing forward, seizing his arm, and fixing her 
 flashing eyes upon his face, but with less 
 of animosity than impatience this time ; " then 
 you did go in, after all ; you did follow my 
 child to his dungeon ? That's not so bad 
 of him, Hesther, either, is it?" 
 
 " I should think not," said Hesther scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " But what sort of a place is it ? Tell me, 
 and is my lad in a dungeon, and is he in 
 irons ?" 
 
 "I'm surprised you can be asking such 
 childish questions, Bet," interposed a man. 
 " Why only to hear the sweet innocent, one
 
 234 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 would think as how it had never tasted a prison 
 itself." 
 
 At which there was another general laugh ; 
 to which Bet only responded by giving a 
 furious scowl round. But Charlie answered 
 gently, saying : 
 
 " It's not a dungeon, not under ground ; but 
 it is cold, and hard, and sadly small, with a 
 stone floor, and only a stone bench to rest on. 
 That is as well as I could see through the win- 
 dow, which is barred and cross-bound over." 
 
 " The window ! See through the window ! 
 Then it's not one o' those confounded courts, 
 with high walls, and big gates, enough to make 
 one's heart die within one, only to look at 
 them ! How did you get at the window?" 
 
 " The window looks into the street." 
 
 " And Ben can put his face to one side, 
 and you can glue yours to the other ?" 
 
 She waited for no answer : she turned away, 
 and the next moment might be seen striding 
 through the flickering moonlight of the green 
 lane, a giant, threatening figure.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 235 
 
 No sooner was she gone, than the interest 
 taken in the fate of Big Ben, which had caused 
 every one to hurry from their untasted sup- 
 pers, began to subside before the calls of 
 appetite. The group began to break up, 
 and individuals to betake themselves to their 
 fires, where the seething pot was bubbling 
 temptingly, every now and then giving evidence 
 of hidden treasures, as one substance after 
 another rose to the surface ; whilst an odorous 
 savour of very good things, was diffused through 
 the air. 
 
 True flesh-pots of Egypt were these. 
 
 The misfortunes of poor Ben were forgotten 
 in the hurry and avidity, with which each seized 
 upon, and began to devour his portion of the 
 mess, such as that with which the immortal 
 Meg Merrilies regaled the not less immortal 
 Dominie. They sat upon the turf round their 
 crackling fires, and from beechen platters of 
 their own fashioning, helped themselves with 
 wooden spoons of their own manufacturing. 
 They laughed and gossipped, and boasted and
 
 236 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 defied, and told wild stories of the life of 
 the road, as they called it, of hair-breadth 
 escapes, ingenious thefts and devices, scoffing 
 at and deriding the civilized life they despised, 
 relating tales directed to the bringing all that 
 is reverend, but more especially their wor- 
 shipfuls the magistrates, into ridicule ; and 
 defying, to use their own phrase, " the devil 
 and Doctor Faustus." 
 
 So they laughed and chatted in good fellow- 
 ship at least, if in nothing else good. 
 
 But Charlie sat apart with Hesther.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 237 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 They sat apart by the door of their hut, 
 and beside a fire which, low and smouldering 
 through its embers, still gave forth a fervent 
 heat. Hesther sat there, supporting her elbows 
 upon her raised knees, and her face upon her 
 hands. 
 
 Her black hair fell in masses over hands 
 and face, but did not cover her eyes ; which 
 burning like two urid lamps in the gloom 
 of a sepulchre, might be seen shining ominously 
 between her fingers.
 
 238 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 She was watching her foster- son, who sat 
 upon the opposite side of the fire. His 
 arms were folded, his head sinking upon his 
 breast; he was lost in what was evidently, 
 most painful rumination. 
 
 Long did Hesther gaze at him with those 
 deep, gloomy, thoughtful eyes of hers ; in pro- 
 found silence she sat and gazed. She loved to 
 do so. There was nothing she loved so well 
 as to sit perfectly still, and pass away her 
 life, as it were, gazing at Claribert. She has 
 sat by his side, when wearied he has thrown 
 himself upon the turf and fallen asleep — motion- 
 less, gazing for hours and hours. 
 
 Watching, not so much to ward him from evil, 
 for all her old terrors for his safety, or her still 
 greater fears of being robbed of him, had long 
 subsided — but simply to gaze, to feed her 
 doting, aching affection with his beauty, with 
 his image ! 
 
 And so she sat now, watching him. But 
 there was anxiety and sympathy mingled at this
 
 CASTLE AVON. 239 
 
 time with the fascination, that was wont to rivet 
 her eyes upon that face. Claribert was evi- 
 dently wretched. 
 
 They sat long in this silence — a length of 
 time that would have worn out our patience ; 
 but the denizen of the woods is patient, and 
 silent, and brooding. It might be a couple 
 of hours that thus passed away, and the night 
 was now far advanced. One by one the fires of 
 the encampment had gone out, and the trees no 
 longer umbered by their light, raised their 
 tall, giant tops black against the sky, which 
 was all alive with large, glittering stars, twink- 
 ling in their everlasting motion, as if pouring 
 forth light from their urns. 
 
 Hesther at last spoke. 
 
 " Charlie," she said, " what ails you ? Sorry 
 you are, that Big Ben is in the cage, I know 
 that — for you loved him, more than was 
 need — more than was need, perhaps. But some- 
 thing other is plaguing you now. I know your 
 face — there, Hesther has read it since you were
 
 240 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 a blessed infant ! Strange looks it has — things 
 in it I see, that it is not for such as Hesther to 
 understand. Lines from that other world, I 
 don't know their speech . They are too bright 
 and beautiful for Hesther's eyes, deep mysteries 
 are they to me ; and now, thy looks are a mystery 
 too, Charlie, only this I can discern, that some- 
 thing ails thee — something more than common 
 ails thee !" 
 
 He lifted up his head and raised his eyes. 
 Those beautiful, pure, eyes, in which, indeed, 
 you saw a world of wild, and lofty, and 
 spiritual thought — beautiful in truth, trans- 
 cendantly beautiful ! 
 
 Such was their beauty, so penetrating, so 
 sublime, that no one, be he who he might, 
 could look upon those eyes unmoved. How 
 much less she, thus strangely witched by 
 the rare Saxon beauty, so foreign to her 
 race. 
 
 " Yes, Hesther," he said, " there is something 
 working here. It has been stirring long, but
 
 CASTLE AVON. 241 
 
 this day, this night, the something within me 
 seems coming to a crisis. There is great pain 
 and anguish — terrible pain and anguish — but I 
 feel, I do feel, that when this is gone through, 
 something better will come, something better 
 must come — things cannot, shall not, must not 
 go on so any longer." 
 
 " What do you mean ? — what do you mean ?" 
 she was always ready to take alarm, when the 
 one, to her most fearful subject, was approached. 
 " This life can't go on — mustn't go on ? What 
 do you mean ? What other life would you 
 have ? What other life are you fit for ? What 
 other life is there for you ? Can't, shan't, 
 musn't go on ! What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Mean ! Oh, Hesther ! do you know ? I 
 thought, fool and blind ! — they blinded me — 
 willing to be blinded ! — I thought it was in little 
 things — I suffered my conscience to be hood- 
 winked. I thought it was only in little things ; 
 but, day by day, it has been coming clearer and 
 clearer upon me, just as the sun rises and rises ; 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 242 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 and suddenly there is a great burst of light, and 
 one sees all at once — blue mountains, and rivers, 
 and castles, and trees, and flowers, where every- 
 thing before was mistiness and confusion ! For 
 the first time, now I see it ! I see it ! I had 
 glimmerings before ; but this last ! — oh, it has 
 burst it all open before me at once ! Little, and 
 daily ! little, and daily ! — fed in it, cradled in it, 
 nursed in it, reared in it ! — one and all, one 
 and all pilfering, and over-reaching, and wrong- 
 ing, and defrauding ! — deceit being like the very 
 air in which all breathe; bad air, poisonous, 
 corrupting, and defiling ! — then blackening, till 
 all is black ! And now all this has brought forth 
 its fruit — ripened it with its poisonous breath ! 
 just as I've seen a great stem of deadly night- 
 shade growing up rank and venomous in a 
 dunghill heap. Yes, it's come to fruit at last ! 
 Ben, Big Ben, is sent to gaol for a horrid, horrid 
 crime !" 
 
 " Nay, then," cried Hesther, " I never thought 
 that of Ben. I never thought he was bad — 
 he would do like the rest of them, no doubt
 
 CASTLE AVON. 243 
 
 — but no such great harm in that ; but I never 
 thought Ben would do what you call a 
 crime." 
 
 " No such great harm," cried he ; " no such 
 great harm ! Ay, that it is — that it is. I see 
 it now. No such great harm ! no such great 
 harm ! Oh, that is like the heap of leaves ! — 
 each a little thing, but one put to another, there 
 is a great heap — a great putrid mass, upon 
 which the deadly nightshade grows." 
 
 His w T ere the accents of despair. 
 
 " Well, well, never mind. Don't fret and 
 vex yourself. Little leaves or big leaves, deadly 
 nightshade or not, you never carried one least 
 leaf to the heap — never one, never one ; no, not 
 the smallest one: I took good care of that!" 
 cried Hesther, in a voice of exultation. 
 
 " But if I did not, haven't I stood by and 
 seen others do it ? Add leaf to leaf ! — leaf to 
 leaf!" 
 
 " Well, and didn't you try to prevent 'em ? 
 as if even you could — as if an angel from 
 heaven could ! Oh, don't go and worry your- 
 
 R 2
 
 244 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 self about what you couldn't help ! As well 
 try to roll these hills back into the sea." 
 
 " That has done till now !" he cried ; and a 
 sudden brightness, as of one inspired, flashed 
 into his face ; " that may have done till now ; 
 it has done. Someway I was satisfied with it, 
 but 1 am satisfied no longer. Oh ! for the 
 sake of that wretched man, who's fallen into 
 this crime, and of all he said about it — for 
 I heard him : ' Beginnings of bad begin- 
 nings' — for his sake, something must be done 
 — something shall be done. There must be 
 better things going on somewhere. That dim, 
 misty feeling, which you call nonsense, is not 
 nonsense. Though you take care to keep me, 
 and have always kept me, a wanderer in these 
 wild places, there are better things, I feel sure. 
 Why, that very church behind those trees — 
 those decent farm-houses there — those decent 
 people ! It comes to me now ! It is as if my 
 eyes were suddenly opened — how can they 
 have been shut so long ? These poor creatures 
 that we live among ! There is a better life all
 
 CASTLE AVON. 245 
 
 around us ! everywhere around us ! All people 
 are not like these wretched, beggarly, cheats and 
 swindlers — pilferers of hen-houses and hedges, 
 living like beasts in dens and coverts — worse 
 than beasts, living in wrong and baseness ! 
 And it must not be ! My people ! (if they are 
 my people) it shall not be ! Something I must 
 do — I don't know what ; but there is like a 
 voice speaking and crying within me ! Some- 
 thing must be done — I know not exactly what ; 
 but something must be done, to save myself 
 and all of them." 
 
 " Save them ! Save them from what ? Child, 
 you are gone mad this evening." 
 
 " No, no ! I feel strangely, but I'm not mad, 
 Hesther — not mad ! Save them from what ? 
 Why from their misery and their wickedness." 
 
 And then as a gust of wind suddenly raised, 
 as suddenly lulls, and down falls the gentle rain, 
 the wild vehemence of the moment gave way, 
 and down gushed a torrent of tears.
 
 246 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 The mind and character of the unfortunate 
 boy had lately been in fearful peril. From 
 some of the expressions which in his distress 
 he let fall, the real state of the case may be 
 surmised. 
 
 It was not possible that, surrounded as he 
 was by some of the most contemptible, if not 
 the most hideous, forms of depravity and de- 
 gradation, he could have long preserved un- 
 tainted the purity and elevation of his principles. 
 The dishonesty as regarded small things which 
 was daily practised around him, could no longer 
 escape his observation : what it was easy to hide 
 from the undi seeming child, was betrayed by 
 degrees to the discerning boy. The shock and 
 disgust he at first felt could not but be in 
 danger of gradually wearing away, living as he 
 did in hourly and amicable association with 
 those who practised these things. 
 
 That fatal habit of disregarding the wrong 
 and the right in small things, was stealing upon 
 him, and though never once had he sullied the 
 innocence of his heart by wrong or dishonesty
 
 CASTLE AVON. 247 
 
 in the minutest particular, yet he associated 
 daily, and with pleasure, with those who did. 
 The forbidden thing was in the camp, and he 
 had ceased to denounce it. 
 
 He was getting accustomed to look upon 
 such things as inevitable evils, and to regard his 
 own scruples rather as needless refinements, 
 than as everlasting truths. 
 
 Happily before the leaven had worked so far 
 as vitally to change the pure substance upon 
 which it had to act, the crime and consequent 
 arrest of his friend Big Ben had aroused him, 
 as from sleep, and awakened him to a vivid, 
 almost transcendental perception of the situa- 
 tion in which they were all standing, and a 
 horror, as of great distress, fell upon his 
 soul. 
 
 All within was yet struggling confusion. 
 He saw but he could not distinguish. He had 
 sharp, fearful perceptions of evil, but they were 
 like the pain of one dreaming, who cannot seize 
 upon its object. 
 
 He saw that all around him was wrong,
 
 248 CASTLE AVON 
 
 hideously wrong, but where should he find the 
 right ? 
 
 Oh for the day-star to arise with healing on 
 its wings ! Scattering these obscure shadows, 
 and making the night spectres flee before its 
 brightness. 
 
 It did arrive at last. 
 
 Its beams shining over the heavens, visited 
 this humble and darkened corner of this poor 
 little earth of ours. 
 
 Under the pressure of his new thoughts and 
 emotions, Charlie became as solitary as he had 
 been w r hen a child. He spent his time wan- 
 dering alone over the downs that stretched 
 far upon every side ; sometimes sitting on the 
 highest crest of a hill, gazing over the vast 
 expanse of land and heaven, and distant view 
 which enclosed him ; sometimes buried in one 
 of the loveliest valleys, watching the running 
 brook, and the lambs disporting themselves by 
 its side. His mind was in a wilderness of con-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 249 
 
 fused thought, searching instinctively, but blindly, 
 for something better, fairer, purer than the moral 
 life around him ; dimly observing, and yearning 
 for that something which lay hidden under the 
 beauteous veil which nature throws over the true 
 and great realities. 
 
 He also made frequent pilgrimages to visit 
 Big Ben, who was now removed to the county 
 gaol, his offence being an unbailable felony. Gaols 
 were at that time in their worst state of dis- 
 order, and what Charlie witnessed in those 
 hideous dens of depravity and wretchedness, 
 seemed to confirm the sort of moral despair 
 into which he was falling. 
 
 It seemed to him as if the world was but one 
 scene of disorder, barbarity, and wickedness, as 
 if the very gipsies, whose manners and ways of 
 thinking he was just learning to look upon with 
 distrust and dislike, were angels of light com- 
 pared to the other inhabitants of this soil. 
 
 Poor Big Ben felt it as he did ; his gipsy 
 blood could not brook the defilement of being 
 brought into this daily, close, unavoidable asso
 
 250 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 ciation with the very scum of the land. The 
 poor fellow blubbered and lamented himself to 
 his friend, and bemoaned his crime, but more 
 the company into which it had thrown him. 
 He lost flesh and spirits, and soon became but 
 the shadow of himself. Alas ! he had no one 
 to whom to look, was without hope and without 
 fear. He was no Christian, poor Big Ben; 
 he had been born in a Christian community, 
 reared in a Christian land, but what profited 
 that to him ? He had never heard the healing 
 words of forgiveness, peace and hope ; he knew 
 not that this world, in which he had lived so 
 untaught and unthinking, and which now was 
 become such a world of sorrow to him ; he 
 knew not the treasure it contained in its revealed 
 history. Thousands and thousands knew, but 
 had never taught him, that One had been, 
 and was still, Alpha and Omega, the first and 
 the last, who had arisen upon this darkness, 
 with light and truth, making that darkness 
 bright, and the rough places plain — that this 
 sorrowful existence was not all — but was the fore-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 251 
 
 runner and preface to another, and that a lovelier 
 and a happier life lay behind it. No one of 
 the thousands and thousands, had taught poor 
 Big Ben this. 
 
 He was born in a Christian country, poor 
 Big Ben ! myriads around him were solaced 
 every day by truths such as these, but they 
 never reached him, no one had taken the trouble 
 to search him out, and acquaint him with them. 
 He had naturally a warm, grateful, honest heart 
 of his own, but he had been left to himself, 
 not to nature ! Oh, no ! but to the evil in- 
 fluences of a corrupted and depraved society. 
 And now, step by step, from little to more, 
 from big to bigger, he had been betrayed into 
 the commission of a great crime. The fine, 
 young, feeling being who now stands by him, 
 in that low, dark prison cell, where all sorts of 
 wickedness is going on ; he — illuminating those 
 impure regions as by an angel's presence, with 
 his pure and beautiful countenance — is in that 
 respect, little better off than himself. He has 
 by a sort of instinct, and the proud care of the
 
 252 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 woman who treasured him, been preserved, as 
 yet, from the contamination of vice — that 
 change which takes place when man, from 
 associating with wrong, begin to practise it, 
 and sin and he become one. He had been as 
 yet preserved from that ; but he was, in fact, 
 little more enlightened than his poor, big, rough, 
 blubbering friend. 
 
 These things went strangely with him. From 
 every visit to the prison, Charlie returned home 
 more thoughtful and depressed. Something he 
 wanted, a something surely that was to be 
 found. In his way to and from the county 
 gaol, and even in the very gaol itself, he became 
 acquainted with forms and figures of things 
 that belonged to a better order of being ; but 
 there seemed to be a great gulf between him 
 and them. It was as if some enchanted wall of 
 separation was around him, which shut him out 
 from communion with all, but those of his clan 
 and kind.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 253 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 One day Charlie had wandered farther than 
 usual, over the more solitary part of those 
 downy highlands. He had quitted the beaten 
 road, pursuing his way over hill beyond hill, 
 lost in his melancholy thoughts. At last 
 he began to feel weary. He had entered a 
 valley, which, perfectly unhabited, ran winding 
 from north to south ; it was intersected by a 
 little stream, upon the banks of which some 
 of the black-nosed sheep of the country were 
 cropping the scanty herbage. 
 
 A few sallows and alders fringed the brook, 
 and the hills rose boldly upon either side ;
 
 254 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 it was a lonely yet a pleasing sight — so still 
 and tranquil ! The blue sky was bright over 
 head, and every now and then, a large bird, 
 kite or raven, might be seen slowly winging 
 its way across the blue depths, the sun, casting 
 his black shadow along the southern side of the 
 hill. 
 
 It was a scene such as the boy loved, and he 
 sat down upon a little hillock of grass to con- 
 template it. He then became aware, that the 
 valley was not so entirely shut out from the 
 world as he had at first imagined, for close by 
 the brink of the streamlet, a narrow foot-path 
 ran. 
 
 He pursued it a little way, and when the 
 winding valley made a sudden turn, came 
 suddenly upon a beautiful scene. There the 
 brook abruptly widened, forming a little trans- 
 parent pool, crowned with a group of alders, 
 whose branches meeting formed a sort of bower, 
 which was now thrown into shadow, for the sun 
 was behind it. 
 
 The little bower was already occupied; a
 
 CASTLE AVON. 255 
 
 man was seated by the brink of the pool, under 
 the shade of the trees, bathing his feet, as 
 Dorothea of yore might have done, in the 
 cool water. His appearance was that of a 
 toil-worn traveller ; his dress, though decent, 
 being defiled with dust and travel ; his hair 
 was in considerable disorder, and his face wan 
 and weary. He seemed to sit there, inhaling 
 the sweet breeze that gently wafted up the 
 valley, and refreshing himself with the delicious 
 coolness. 
 
 From time to time he dipped his hand 
 into the water, and threw the drops over his 
 face; then he lifted up his countenance again, 
 and gazed into the deep blue heavens, and, as 
 he did so, something wild, vehement, inspired, 
 almost unearthly, might be seen to flit over it. 
 
 There was that about the wayfarer, which 
 at once struck the imagination of the boy ; 
 and without coming forward to discover himself, 
 he stood there watching the proceedings of the 
 person who had struck and interested him so 
 much.
 
 256 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 Presently, the man once more raising his 
 pale face, with a passionate gesture of adora- 
 tion to the sky, slowly and solemnly began to 
 sing a psalm. A slow and solemn chant in- 
 deed it was, breaking through the almost awful 
 silence of that lonely place ; and these were the 
 words with which it began : 
 
 " Through all the varying scenes of life, 
 
 In trouble or in joy, 
 The praises of my God shall still, 
 
 My heart and tongue employ. 
 Of His delivrance I will boast, 
 
 Till all that are distrest, 
 From my example comfort take, 
 
 And charm their griefs to rest." 
 
 Slow, solemn, simple, the notes rolled forth, 
 every syllable distinctly articulated. He sang 
 with a loud, powerful voice, filling the valley 
 with his song, for he thought himself quite 
 alone. The sounds — though born in a Chris- 
 tian land — the voice of sacred melody — was 
 new to Charlie. He might have heard psalm-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 257 
 
 singing, it is true, when at no great distance 
 from a church, where service was going on, 
 or the voice of some congregation or other, 
 collected for field-preaching among the hills ; 
 but that was all, these things had only come to 
 him with a vague sense of beautiful sound. 
 
 This was the first time that his mind had 
 been awakened to the perception of a meaning 
 in music ; and certainly the first time that such 
 a thing as religious verses, which he could listen 
 to, and, in a measure, understand, had reached 
 him. 
 
 The man still sang on, keeping his face 
 lifted up towards the sky, with a sort of pas- 
 sionate fervour. When he had finished the 
 first verse, he paused ; it was almost as if he 
 intended, that the meaning might sink deeper 
 into the young listener's heart, 
 
 Charlie's memory was retentive ; it had seized 
 upon the lines, and he was devouring them in 
 silent wonder. God ! that name, at least, was 
 not new to him. He had heard it invoked 
 often enough, however, irreverently; and he had 
 
 VOL. II. s
 
 258 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 a confused remembrance of his infant prayers ; 
 and he had found, even among the godless 
 savages with whom he lived, some vague ideas 
 of a God, the Creator. It was a subject upon 
 which his thoughts had often been engaged, 
 endeavouring to pierce the mystery that sur- 
 rounded him. 
 
 " The praises of my God — 
 
 Of His deliverance I will boast — 
 From my example comfort take." 
 
 The man paused after this, as I said, as if in 
 meditation. Presently, he struck up again; 
 the strain was louder, even more passionate, 
 than before ; and the surrounding hills rang 
 with it. 
 
 "Oh, magnify the Lord with me ! 
 With me exalt His name. 
 When in distress to Him I called, 
 He to my rescue came. 
 
 " Their drooping hearts were soon refreshed 
 Who looked to Him for aid ; 
 Descried success in every place ; 
 A cheerful air displayed."
 
 CASTLE AVON. 259 
 
 The boy crept nearer and nearer, with stealthy 
 pace, his ear drinking in the sounds, fearful to 
 lose a syllable of that which seemed directed to 
 his very heart. 
 
 The pale face of the singer; his look and 
 attitude of adoring ecstacy ; the clear blue vault 
 above ; the deep solitude around ; the hoar alders 
 bending over the clear pool ; the sweet, cool 
 air; there was a spirit abroad pervading it all. 
 Once more — once more — again the rich, clear 
 voice is lifted up and rolls forth the pregnant 
 verse once more : 
 
 " Oh, make but trial of His love ! 
 Experience will decide 
 How blest are they, and only they, 
 Who in His truth confide." 
 
 It ceased : the man remained sitting upon 
 the grass in silence, still gazing upwards, in an 
 attitude of adoration. 
 
 The boy had crept nearer and nearer, till at 
 last he unintentionally rustled the branches, 
 
 s 2
 
 260 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 and the man turned his head and perceived 
 him. 
 
 Charlie was about to retreat ; but the travel- 
 ler, after exclaiming rather hastily, " Who are 
 you ?" added so courteously, " Don't go away, 1 ' 
 upon seeing the face of the intruder, that 
 Charlie came towards him without hesitation. 
 
 " What brought you here, young man ?" said 
 the stranger, kindly, as he approached. " I 
 thought I had this little nook to myself. I 
 believed no one else knew of this quiet pool 
 and the little shy water-hen. What brought 
 you here ?" 
 
 " You were singing ; and I loved to hear 
 you." 
 
 " I believe it has pleased the Lord to bestow 
 upon me a somewhat harmonious voice," re- 
 plied the man. " I have been told so. Be it, 
 and all things employed in His service," bending 
 his head with reverence. 
 
 " The singing was very beautiful tome; but 
 ihe singing was not all — not nearly all ; the 
 words ! — the words !" faltered out the youth,
 
 CASTLE AVON. 261 
 
 " they came upon me strangely. I have been fear- 
 fully in want of words like these ; they come to 
 me when I needed them." 
 
 " They are good words, and true words ; and 
 who, more than I, have cause to say so. Sit 
 down by me, young man ; this grass is soft 
 and pleasant, and the little pool transparent and 
 cool ; these embowering trees are like the 
 pleasant garden of the Lord. Oh, the refresh- 
 ings He sends us here are great ! Could God 
 spread a table in the wilderness ? Doubtless ; 
 and who knows it better than the wretch before 
 you. ' He maketh the water-springs to flow 
 in the wilderness, and sendeth refreshment to 
 the dried land !' To the hardest heart, the 
 most seared and desperate, God sends forth 
 His voice, and that a strong voice ; not 
 loud and terrible, but strong and piercing, 
 like a sharp sword, dividing the bones and 
 the marrow; yet powerful to heal — powerful 
 to heal. Oh, there is balm in Gilead, powerful 
 to heal !" 
 
 " The God of whom you speak I feel is"
 
 262 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 replied the youth ; " but He has not shown Him- 
 self to me. 1 know Him not. No one has told 
 me of Him. Tell me who He is, and where 
 He is to be found." 
 
 The man answered not, but fixed his 
 eyes upon the youth's face with a deep, 
 earnest gaze, and then he sighed deeply and 
 said : 
 
 " Poor lost ones ! poor lost ones ! And 
 what am I, that I should be as a brand snatched 
 from the burning, when so many — oh !" and he 
 groaned in spirit, then he slowly waved his head 
 from side to side, as if pondering some deep 
 mystery, and he said: " It is not the will of 
 your Father, who is in heaven, that one of these 
 little ones should perish." 
 
 And that assurance seemed to comfort him 
 in a manner; for he was one of those who 
 could not without agony, contemplate the fearful 
 doom, to which so many blinded ones among his 
 fellow-creatures were hastening. That thought 
 haunted him night and day. It was his terrible, 
 fixed idea.
 
 CASTLE AVON. 263 
 
 " Perish !" said Charlie ; " perish from what ? 
 We must all die ?" 
 
 " Ay, apparently all — all die ;" repeated 
 the man ; " but what is that ? die once ! 
 Nothing. To die ever ; for ever. The living 
 death, the second death, oh, that is fearful ! 
 The second death, young man, that is what we 
 should flee from. Fear not those who kill the 
 body, and after that have no more that they can 
 do ; fear Him who, after He hath killed, can 
 cast both soul and body into hell. Yea, I say 
 unto you, fear Him." 
 
 " Your words are very grand ; they seem to 
 tell me of great things ; after we are killed, you 
 say. Then it is not true, as Hesther says, that 
 when I have laid the clods over her, there will 
 be an end of her." 
 
 The answer to this was another deep groan. 
 Then— 
 
 " And in a Christian country too !" and 
 raising his appealing face to heaven : " How 
 long, oh Lord ! how long ?" 
 
 There was after this a short silence, during
 
 264 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 which the man kept his eyes pensively fixed 
 upon the turf; whilst those of the youth were 
 fastened upon his face, perusing the wan, wasted, 
 fervent features. Over them it was plain the 
 storms of intense grief and passion had at one 
 time passed ; for their vestiges were too deep to 
 be effaced by time. 
 
 At length lifting up his eyes, which were 
 now full of a melancholy compassion, mingled 
 with doubt and perplexity, he said : 
 
 " The face is beautiful, the eye clear and 
 pure, sin and folly have not dishonoured the 
 image of the Creator there impressed. Whence 
 do you come? Who are you? How have 
 you been reared, that you should unite this 
 horrible ignorance of your God, with a sem- 
 blance of so much truth and purity." 
 
 " That, J do not know. I have been bred 
 among the gipsies, but I am not of their 
 race • I have been among them ever since I 
 can remember, I should say ; but there is a 
 sort of a dim vision of other things haunting 
 me. Hesther says, it is all nonsense, and that
 
 CASTLE AVON. 265 
 
 it is a remembrance of fairy-kind, and that I 
 come from fairy-land. As a child I believed 
 this, as a youth it will no longer satisfy me. I 
 see no traces around me of those beings they 
 citll fairies ; but when they talk, as some of 
 them do, of God, I think I do see His traces, 
 hut I know Him not, and I want to know Him." 
 
 " And what ! has no one come near you 
 these long number of years- — how many? 
 fifteen ! — who could tell you of such things ?" 
 
 " I have lived among my own people. It 
 is not our custom to associate much with the 
 rest of the world. Some of our men do, as 
 horse-jockeys, tinkers, cattle leeches. Some of 
 our women as sellers of philtres and fortune- 
 tellers ; but Hesthcr never did any of these 
 things. I loved not such dealings, nor those 
 with whom such dealings would have made 
 me acquainted ; and besides Hesther was so 
 wretched w T hen I left her, that I could not 
 hear to leave her." 
 
 " And you have never been within a church ? 
 No — that of course ; but have you never heard
 
 266 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 the word of God preached by those, who struck 
 with horror at the dreadful destitution in which 
 poor wretches, such as you speak of, are left, 
 go forth and endeavour to lift up a voice in 
 the wilderness ?" 
 
 " I do not understand you. Field-preachers, 
 perhaps you mean ; I have heard our people 
 speak of such, but I never chanced to hear any. 
 The people I am with, scoff at these things." 
 
 " But you have never scoffed." 
 
 " No, I feared to scoff — I hated to scoff — to 
 scoff at the deep dark mystery around me, 
 seemed too horrible a thing. I thought it like 
 a brute to live in indifference to the great 
 thought, I seemed to feel differently from the 
 rest. This thought pressed in upon my mind ; 
 it was a weight, a burden, yet which I could not 
 shake off, and would not have done if I could, 
 there was a hope, a sort of foreshadowing of 
 what was to be in my mind, that told me it 
 would not always remain thus with me ; for 
 thus, it had assuredly not always been. Sir, 
 there lies among my thoughts a vision of a fair
 
 CASTLE AVON. 267 
 
 angel clothed in white, with long flowing curls of 
 golden hair, and with dark blue eyes, beautiful 
 as that sky above us. I am kneeling upon 
 her knee, and my two hands are clasped in 
 hers. And I remember still how the words she 
 taught me to say began : ' Our Father which 
 art in Heaven.' It is in vain that Hesther 
 endeavours to persuade me that all this is mere 
 fancy. None of my fellows have such fancies." 
 
 " Wonderful ! wonderful ! Thy ways are in 
 the great deep, and thy pathways in the wide 
 waters. Mysterious are thy doings, oh Lord ! 
 and that my soul knoweth right well." 
 
 " Sir !" 
 
 " I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. 
 Leave thy fatherless children, I will provide 
 for them." 
 
 " Sir ! I don't understand—" 
 
 "No, no; you do not, and yet you do. 
 You said that you had perceived Him though 
 He was hidden ; had caught a glimpse of the 
 skirts of His glory, even though He had passed 
 by."
 
 268 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 "I do not know what your words exactly 
 mean; yet they have a strange power over 
 me. Sir ! I am a poor, lost ignorant youth. 
 Would you be pleased to speak so that I could 
 understand you ?" 
 
 " I do wrong ; I do greatly wrong to in- 
 dulge in this vein. Yes, young man, I will 
 speak plain ; I will open to you tidings of 
 exceeding joy." 
 
 And as Philip opened the Gospel to the 
 eunuch, so this man now opened his mouth, 
 and in simple sentences preached the everlasting 
 Gospel to the breathless, awe-struck, soul- 
 entranced listener. 
 
 I despair of making any one believe it. 
 It requires much reflection, much exercise of 
 that valuable gift of imagination, which enables 
 us to fling ourselves as it were, into the place 
 of others, to realise what those glad tidings 
 really proved to a soul in this state. 
 
 Not a gross, animalised, brutish soul, to 
 whom if these tidings come at all, they come 
 but with a much-impaired force; but to a
 
 CASTLE AVON. 269 
 
 mind like the one before us, which nature 
 had gifted with the highest faculties of per- 
 ception, reflection, reasoning and imagination, 
 and which had long lived in a labyrinth of 
 perplexed and darkened thoughts. 
 
 Whence came he ? He was answered. Whither 
 was he bound ? He was answered. Whence 
 sprang this beautiful form of nature around 
 him, of whose loveliness he had such an ex- 
 quisite sense and enjoyment? And wherefore 
 and whither — wherefore this, whither tending ? 
 — AU answered. 
 
 The replies given to these questions by 
 the simple Christian, who was now engaged 
 in disclosing his treasure of hope and con- 
 fidence to the eager listener, were all-sufficient 
 for him. To his simple understanding and 
 unsophisticated views of things, what he was 
 told, harmonized so perfectly with what he had 
 felt and seen, that it came at once upon his 
 soul with the force of unquestionable truth. 
 
 And oh ! how mighty was the change 
 effected ! A new birth, indeed ! Springing
 
 270 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 into a new world of existence — as completely 
 new as when the babe first springs into this 
 world's life. 
 
 Everything around him was changed — every 
 relation and perception altered ; for the very 
 element in which all these things existed was no 
 longer the same. Moral life, spiritual life, life 
 renewed after death — interminable. Existences 
 unseen, but present, and to a certain degree 
 within perception — glorious, benevolent, protec- 
 tive, good ! A course to be pursued ; an 
 obedience to be rendered ; time to be accounted 
 for ; the great and the good to be done. 
 
 His mind seemed overwhelmed with the rush 
 of new ideas. He could scarcely breathe. He 
 was almost as one dead. He grew pale with 
 emotion ; his heart stood still as he listened. 
 As the curtain rose, and the glorious visions 
 were disclosed, they seemed too bright f for 
 mortal sense. His brain reeled under them. 
 His young mind, nurtured by the impressions 
 of the great nature around him, found neither 
 doubt nor difficulty. The answer to all his
 
 CASTLE AVON. 271 
 
 questions was given ; the object of all his 
 searchings found ; the dumb yearning of his 
 inner life satisfied. All was complete, all 
 harmonious, all, to his naturally clear under- 
 standing, logical. 
 
 To doubt that the great problem was re- 
 solved, the true answer given, would have 
 appeared to him the wildest absurdity. He 
 felt as intuitive a perception that he held the 
 true exposition of the great question, as if the 
 inevitable solution of a mathematical problem 
 had been expounded to him.
 
 272 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Do not leave me — do not leave us ! Come 
 to the tents of my poor gipsy brethren, and 
 tell them what you have been telling me. Oh ! 
 you cannot guess how greatly — greatly we are 
 all in want of a teacher like you !" 
 
 " I cannot come ;" and as the man spoke 
 thus, he turned suddenly pale, and painful 
 recollections seemed to disturb him. " No, no, 
 I cannot come with you : my call lies other 
 ways. And yet — " checking himself — " where- 
 fore say I this ? Am I not devoted ? Is not 
 my vow, to go wherever 1 am most wanted ? 
 And yet, I greatly fear, young man, if I did
 
 CASTLE AVON. 273 
 
 come, those rude men of whom you speak 
 would deride and scoff at me — perhaps misuse 
 one like me, who presumed to speak the words 
 of everlasting life. I — I — what am I, that I 
 should be sufficient to do the Lord's work among 
 them ?" 
 
 " Come and tell them what you have told 
 me." 
 
 The man seemed to hesitate. 
 
 11 You will not leave us in this manner ?" 
 urged Charlie. " What is to become of me, if 
 you go away and leave me ? With these new 
 thoughts just put into my mind, and nothing 
 to strengthen them, already a thousand ques- 
 tions seem struggling for words, impatient for 
 an answer." 
 
 " You shall have that which will answer them 
 all." 
 
 He drew forth sundry books out of the little 
 wallet that lay upon the grass by his side, and 
 selecting a Testament bound in the cheapest 
 and commonest manner, presented it to 
 him. 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 " This," he said, " will make you wise unto 
 salvation." 
 
 " But ah ! I cannot read.' 7 
 
 " Not read !" 
 
 " No ! Pages of printed books are all dark- 
 ness to me." 
 
 " Then how have you learned to think and to 
 speak as you do ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Some words please me, and 
 I use them ; some displease me, and I do not 
 use them. The woman who stands to me in 
 the place of a mother has a lofty utterance at 
 times. I learn from her." 
 
 " You would like to learn to read ?" 
 
 " If books have in them such things as you 
 have told me, yes; but I have not wanted 
 books." 
 
 " Listen, and you shall hear how books 
 speak." 
 
 And he took the book, and opening at the 
 Gospel of St. John, read the discourse of the 
 evening before the Crucifixion. 
 
 " Teach me to read ! Give me that 
 book !"
 
 CASTLE AVON. 275 
 
 " You will soon learn — let us begin now. 
 See, the sun has not yet sunk behind the 
 mountain-top. It will be at least two hours 
 before the long shadows cover the valley. Sit 
 down by me, and let us begin." 
 
 You will not suppose they began in the usual 
 spelling-book manner. Subtle, intelligent, fresh 
 and strong as were the powers of the pupil, in 
 two hours' time even much was done. 
 
 A fresh world of wonders burst upon 
 Charlie. 
 
 I scarcely know a more delightful, intellectual 
 pleasure than that which we feel at the moment 
 when written characters upon which we have long 
 pored, discerning in them nothing but ugly and 
 confused dots and lines, suddenly become in- 
 stinct with life and intelligence. Of all the 
 magics and magnetisms, I know, or ever heard 
 of, nothing seems to me more wonderful than 
 this, and the more I think of the miraculous 
 connection between the written word without 
 and the living word within, the more won- 
 derful it appears to me. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 The sun had now long set hehind the hills, 
 and the shadows fell heavy upon the narrow 
 valley, the little pool and the alders ; hut the 
 twilight was soft and clear, and a few stars 
 hegan to glimmer in the heavens, as the book 
 was closed, and the traveller rising from his 
 seat, hegan to adjust his wallet, as if about to 
 depart. 
 
 The youth stood beside him whilst he was 
 thus occupied, musing deeply. Deep thought 
 and deep melancholy were upon his face. 
 
 " Farewell !" said the traveller, reaching out 
 his hand, " when shall we meet again for 
 another lesson ?" 
 
 " You are not going away I" cried Charlie, 
 again starting from his reverie. " You cannot 
 go away and leave us all. You will stay with 
 us a little time — you will tell these poor, poor 
 creatures what you have told me. Oh, you 
 cannot think how much they need it !" 
 
 " Not now — my path leads another way. 
 Young man, you do not speak to one pursuing 
 a chosen course, but driven forwards whether
 
 CASTLE AVON. 277 
 
 he will or not. I do not go where I wish, hut 
 where I must ; for if I do this thing willingly it 
 is well, hut if not woe is me." 
 
 The youth looked at him as if he did not 
 understand — as if he waited for more. 
 
 "Shall I tell him? Must I tell him too?" 
 the man exclaimed passionately : is there no 
 one — no one — from whom I may hide the 
 dreadful tale ! Oh, wretch, wretch !" he hurst 
 forth with great agony, " and is it still so — 
 ever so — base wretch, will you refuse to tell 
 what the Lord hath done for you ? Refuse ! 
 that you may save this poor shame-seared 
 cheek a few hot blushes ! You think me a 
 good man, I dare say, child," he said, suddenly 
 turning round, and almost fiercely addressing 
 him. " You deceive yourself ! There is not 
 walking upon this earth a blacker criminal than 
 I am." 
 
 The young man started back he turned 
 white — he looked dreadfully shocked and dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 " You thought because you found me singing
 
 278 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 psalms here by myself;" continued the other 
 bitterly, " that I was even such a one as you 
 are — one of the pure lambs of Christ's own 
 flock; of which indeed you have ever been. 
 Not yet called indeed, but ready — ready — 
 when the Master's voice was heard. But 
 I ! what was I ? Oh, one of his 
 lambs ! — one of his lambs ! But it was that 
 one, the gracious Master went to seek when it 
 was lost — lost — lost in the wilderness. It was 
 lost and is found. And therefore — therefore I M 
 he cried, his wasted cheek flashing with a 
 sudden fire, and his eye lighting with a wild 
 enthusiasm ; " and therefore I will proclaim His 
 glory and my shame — my shame ! Yes, yes — 
 but not now — not now — another time. I 
 could not do it now." 
 
 And his voice and attitude sunk again to 
 despondency. After a little time he seemed to 
 recover himself, and he went on thus : " This 
 is it : your people — yours is the tribe there, 
 is it not? — your people are too much accus- 
 tomed to walk in the dark paths, not to know 7
 
 CASTLE AVON. 279 
 
 most of those who have been there also. I 
 would not have them know me again. Perhaps 
 some of them might know me. No, no — 
 better not, better not. You, I will tell; you 
 shall learn all. My soul is knit to thee as 
 David's was to Jonathan. I would have thy 
 love and thy honour — be thy revered teacher 
 in Christ — this is what I would fain be — but 
 no, no — I will not be a hypocrite even for 
 this. It is bitter, but bitter or not, it shall be 
 done. 
 
 " Child — child — who knows?" and again a 
 sudden flash of exultation gleamed in his eyes j 
 and then it faded away into the deepest gloom, 
 as he said — " No, no, no — what is done cannot 
 be undone." Then, with a fresh burst of enthu- 
 siasm : " But thanks be to God, who giveth us 
 the victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord ! 
 Thanks and praises and honours, to the Lamb 
 for ever ; our robes have been washed, and made 
 white in His blood." 
 
 He kept gathering his things in a hasty, 
 flurried manner, together as he went on
 
 280 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 talking in this wild, fitful manner. When 
 all was finished and he was ready to depart, 
 he stooped down, scooped some of the water 
 from the little pool, and hathed his temples 
 and forehead. The paroxysm of his mind, 
 which almost amounted to frenzy, seemed to 
 have suhsided, and taking the hand of the 
 youth in his, he said more calmly : 
 
 " You understand, there are reasons why I 
 had better not go with you ; they might some 
 of them know me, and if they did, my words 
 would be worse than vain ; they would sound 
 like horrid mockery and blasphemy in their 
 ears. Now I must pursue my journey where 
 my call leads me, and that is to the county 
 gaol. The prisoners there know my face well, 
 some of them my history ; I am a visible 
 example to them of the power of God ; 
 they recognise it in me, for they know all. 
 Your people, if they chanced to know part, 
 would not believe the rest. It is you, not I, 
 who must go among them. Come again here 
 to-morrow. You must learn to read. I shall
 
 CASTLE AVON. 281 
 
 stay in these parts a few weeks, in order to 
 teach you. Then you may go forth, a worthy 
 messenger of God, and hear His holy tidings 
 to these poor wretches, to whose horrible 
 situation you have been wonderfully awak- 
 ened." 
 
 Perplexity and doubt were in the young 
 man's eyes; he seemed scarcely to be able 
 to take in all that was said, yet his counte- 
 nance kindled. He had so deplored the fate 
 of those around him, had been aw T akened to 
 so strong a perception of their wants and their 
 misery, that the idea of going among them 
 to help and enlighten, bearing the joyful tidings 
 he had just learned, seemed to his heart a 
 joy too big to be contained. 
 
 The new perceptions with which his soul 
 was filled, and which seemed to come so 
 home to his spirit, admirably as his nature 
 was calculated to receive them, these en- 
 larged prospects, these noble hopes, these 
 glorious Presences, he longed to impart the 
 great tidings to his poor lost fellows of the
 
 282 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 wilds, as yet being happily ignorant of that 
 difference in their original temperaments, which 
 might make what was so congenial to his 
 nature, a strange and antagonistic element to 
 theirs. 
 
 " Farewell, again," said the man, extending 
 his hand, and in act to depart. 
 
 But Charlie still held him fast, detaining 
 his hand and looking wistfully into his 
 face. 
 
 " To the gaol ! Did I not hear you say 
 you were going to the county gaol ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that is my first station." 
 
 " I have a friend there. He is committed 
 for housebreaking; and, there was a death — 
 there was murder — " 
 
 The hand which he held, began violently to 
 twitch and tremble as the horrid word was 
 uttered. The stranger grew pale, with that 
 paleness which a sudden sickness at the heart 
 produces. 
 
 " Let me go, let me go," he said, angrily ; 
 " why do you keep me here longer ? Let me
 
 CASTLE AVON. 283 
 
 go ! What do you mean by using that hideous 
 word ? Oh, oh ! the worm that never dieth ; 
 the fire that never can be quenched ! It comes 
 again, it comes again ! yet there is peace. 
 Well, well, your friend has committed a 
 murder, has he ?" with a strange bitter tone ; 
 " and who can you send to him better than 
 I? who better? who better ?" 
 
 " No, no ; he did not commit the murder. 
 Poor fellow ! he would not hurt a fly — great, 
 big, rough Ben, rough as he is, he wouldn't 
 hurt a fly ; but he got mixed up with a fearful 
 gang, all through a woman. He is guilty of 
 housebreaking, and he is suspected of the 
 murder. He lies there, poor fellow, sur- 
 rounded by wretches, worse than ever he was, 
 though they may not have committed felonies 
 punishable with death. There they are, young 
 and old, scoffing and swearing, and blas- 
 pheming, and talking ; oh ! it makes the hair 
 of the head stand on end to hear them ; 
 and the poor, fellow, Sir, he looks, and he 
 is, more like an innocent stupid bull calf,
 
 284 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 who unwittingly has knocked down and hurt 
 somebody, never thinking it was wrong; he 
 is more like that than anything else. He's not 
 as one of those scoffers round him, who know 
 what they are at, and what they do. It would 
 make your heart bleed, to see the poor fellow, 
 looking like a big child, so surprised to find 
 himself there ; and still more to find himself 
 a felon, a housebreaker, a thief, and a consort 
 with murderers. He knows no more than a 
 baby how it all came about; but the woman 
 persuaded him. Sir, what a wretch is that 
 woman ! for he loves her so, he would lay his 
 heart before her feet for her to trample upon, 
 and would give his life willingly for her, any 
 day." 
 
 " You want me to see and speak to this 
 man. Do you guess why I am the properest 
 of all men upon earth to go and preach to 
 the murderer ?" 
 
 The wildness of his eyes was returning. 
 
 " No, Sir ; only that you seem to me 
 ready to do good to any one ; and, above all,
 
 CASTLE AVON. 285 
 
 to preach to the lost ignorant; and this poor 
 boy, this Big Ben, wants your help very 
 much." 
 
 " He shall have it ; yes, what help I can 
 give — what help a wretch, once lost, like myself, 
 can give." 
 
 His mind seemed still unsettled ; he was 
 aware of it himself; again he stooped down, 
 and bathed his brows with the water. This 
 seemed, as before, to compose him ; he settled 
 his wallet upon his shoulders, and then he 
 promised Charlie that he would see his friend 
 the next day ; and the day following, would, 
 towards the evening, be again at the spot 
 where they were standing, and repeat the 
 reading-lesson. 
 
 " You must learn to read, in the first place," 
 he said, now speaking as quietly and rationally 
 as any other man. " That is of indispensable 
 necessity, before you can take upon yourself the 
 task for which the Lord seems to have prepared 
 you. His treasures are hidden in caskets of 
 written words; and we must possess the key,
 
 286 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 before we can minister these rich things. Come, 
 again, then, to-morrow ; and perhaps, per- 
 haps — may I find help, as I mean rightly ! 
 perhaps I shall have the courage, sometime 
 or other — well, well — good night, good 
 night." 
 
 And again wringing the youth by the hand, 
 he turned away, and slowly and meditatively, 
 took his path in the direction which led to- 
 wards the county town. 
 
 So they parted, and the boy turned home. 
 It was now late, and as he emerged from 
 the valley, and mounted the ascent above, the 
 wild expanse of open downs and hills stretched 
 upon every side around him, like the breadth 
 of the ocean; all sleeping tranquilly in the 
 bathing light, for the night was preterna- 
 turally clear, and the heavens were all alive, 
 spangled with stars, which seemed big as so 
 many suns. 
 
 Right before him, as he ascended the bank, 
 and looked southwards, was the splendid con- 
 stellation of Orion, with its glittering lumi-
 
 CASTLE AVON. 287 
 
 naries, a planet or twinkling sun on every side. 
 Glorious spectacle ! 
 
 Filled with his new ideas, the youth gazed 
 upwards, awe-struck; his soul was swelling. 
 That wide-spread vault above, alive with eyes ; 
 the sleeping world beneath, hill beyond hill, 
 softening in the dusky twilight ! Had his 
 mind been imbued with poetic reading, the out- 
 pouring of his spirit might have found words, 
 and he could have exclaimed : 
 
 " But, oh! thou mighty Mind, whose powerful word 
 Said, thus let all things be, and thus they were — 
 Where shall I seek Thy presence ? How unblamed 
 Invoke Thy dread perfection ? 
 Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee ? 
 Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion support Thy 
 throne ?" 
 
 And then, as his heart melted and trembled 
 at the deep sense of the reality of the great 
 mystery of the awful Being, whose majesty 
 is, in the immensity of the star-clad heavens
 
 288 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 disclosed even but faintly, he might have 
 added : 
 
 (< Oh ! look with pity down on erring, guilty man — 
 Not in Thy robes of terror clad — 
 Not with those lightnings armed which guilty Sinai 
 
 felt, 
 When fear appalled the scattered tribes — 
 Thou hast a gentler voice, which whispers comfort to 
 
 the swelling heart ; 
 Abashed, yet longing to behold her Maker !" 
 
 The fires were extinguished, the encampment 
 wrapped in profound repose, when Charlie entered 
 it. There they lay, the rude huts scattered 
 about, under the tall elm trees, which lifted their 
 huge heads towards the star-besprinkled sky. 
 A dog raising his head suddenly with a sharp 
 cry, and laying it down again with a little com- 
 fortable grumble upon perceiving who it was, 
 alone saluted him. He reached the tent of his 
 foster-mother, which stood apart from the rest, 
 hoping to find her asleep, but she was still 
 watching for him. She was sitting upon the
 
 CASTLE AVON. 289 
 
 ground, with her back to the tent door, her 
 eyes fixed upon the planet Jupiter, which was 
 shining full upon her. 
 
 " You are very late, Charlie," she began, lifting 
 up her head and looking at him, but not other- 
 wise changing her attitude. " Where have you 
 been all this time ? At the gaol ? It is well to 
 remember friends in adversity; but there is a 
 time for all things, and a time to remember 
 friends at home." 
 
 " I have not been to the gaol. This is not a 
 day when I could be admitted." 
 
 " Then where have you been, to keep away so 
 late? It is not well, Charlie. Hesther sits 
 alone, looking at that pure star, till its whiteness 
 seems to burn into her soul ; not to make it 
 white too, but to show how hideous its black- 
 ness and deformity is. Hesther's mind is 
 waning, Charlie ; it flares up and down like a 
 lamp quivering in its socket, and the oil is 
 exhausting fast away. You should not leave 
 
 VOL. II. u
 
 290 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 me so long now, boy, for my heart is weary, 
 weary. Sometimes when you do not come back 
 at your time, I think you will never come back 
 at all, and then ! You should not give 
 Hesther that pain. She has borne much ; 
 but that thought, oh, it is the death agony ! 
 You should not do it, Charlie." 
 
 He had sat down by her whilst she was 
 pouring out this sort of lament, in a wild, half- 
 musical kind of tone, and her thin hand, almost 
 black, so completely was it withered, was held 
 kindly in his, as in a soothing manner he began : 
 
 " Mammy must not be sorry that I staid late 
 this time, and she should not vex herself. Have 
 I not promised that I will never, never leave her ? 
 Let that comfort her. You must not vex your- 
 self, my mammy, if henceforward I am oftener 
 away ; for I am no more a boy, and I must be 
 up and doing." 
 
 " A boy ! no ; no longer a boy !" said she, 
 turning to him, and fondly stroking down his 
 beautiful hair. " No ; the little angel-boy is
 
 CASTLE AVON. 291 
 
 become a man. He cannot stay here long ; 
 it is not possible. The butterfly is bursting, 
 has burst its case. But only let me die 
 first, only let me die first ! Tell me where 
 you have been," she said, changing her tone 
 suddenly. 
 
 " I have been over the hills on that side, and 
 down into one of the deep valleys, where I never 
 was before, and there I met with a man — a 
 traveller — and I have spent the time with 
 him." 
 
 " A man ! a traveller ! One upon the 
 road ? One of our own people V 9 
 
 " Not one of our own people." 
 
 " And how came you to get into talk with 
 him ? They are bad, bad, bad, those Gorgios. 
 You are best kept to yourself, and to your own 
 clan." 
 
 " No, mammy, that is not so. I am no longer 
 best kept to myself; and, from my own clan, 
 I learn nothing. I found this man dressed in 
 a simple garb, not such as the Gorgios you 
 despise wear, much such as one of ours might 
 
 u 2
 
 292 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 have on. He had a wallet by his side, and 
 he sat by the brink of a little solitary pool, all 
 alone, singing." 
 
 " Singing ! What should he be singing ? 
 Some foolish song or other, better not listened 
 to." 
 
 " Songs of thanks to Him above, who made 
 him, and you, and me, and all of us, and who 
 hears us all." 
 
 " Stuff ! A wandering parson — a gospel 
 engro. What good could he do you ?" 
 
 " Much : he told me of great things, which, 
 when you will hear, I will tell you." 
 
 " Tell me ! tell me ! waste of time to tell 
 me," shaking her head. " And what other 
 fine things did he tell you?" 
 
 " He gave me this, and he told me I must 
 read it. I am to learn to read it." 
 
 " A book ! — let me look at it ; let me 
 touch it. And he will teach you to read ! 
 Ah! I see it, I see it — I read it, I read it. 
 The hour is coming ; it will soon, soon be 
 here. I shall be dead first ! I shall be dead
 
 CASTLE AVON. 293 
 
 first ! I will be dead first ! for lose him — I cannot 
 — cannot do it. Teach you to read, says he? 
 Make a clerk of thee ! Ay, to be sure — to be 
 sure. It is all right — all right ! Yes," turning 
 to him her large fevered eyes, and gazing upon 
 him fervently ; " yes, to be sure. He shall not 
 go up into the lordly chambers ashamed ; he 
 must not do that. When the time comes, 
 they will suppose him to be a poor, ignorant, 
 brutified boy — a beast ! a wild beast ! Not 
 so. Oh ! the free air and the wild hills have 
 not nourished him so ; but ignorant ! ignorant ! 
 None of their fine letter learning, that they 
 think so much of; none of that at least. Ha ! 
 ha ! but he shall have learned to read. 
 
 " It is well," she ended this outburst with 
 saying; " the man will teach you to read, 
 you say : go to him and learn. Learn well, 
 and learn fast ; for the thread of Hesther's life 
 is well-nigh spun ; and when that is ended, 
 you must hear of something. Yes, when that 
 is over," pressing her hand to her bosom, 
 where the little glove in its satchel hung sus-
 
 294 CASTLE AVON. 
 
 pended, " we must undraw curtains, and reveal 
 secrets, and — oh ! that 1 could live to see the 
 end. But they would take him away from 
 me." 
 
 END OF VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOI9-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 051353404 
 
 mi