LIE) R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N I VERS ITY 
 
 Of 1LLI NOIS 
 
 K5\3e 
 
 v. I
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 OF 
 
 >> (< 
 
 >> a 
 
 SMUGGLERS AND FORESTERS, " FABIAN S TOWER, "LEWELL 
 PASTURES," AND "THE WRECKERS." 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 L. BOOTH, 307 REGENT STREET, W. 
 
 1860.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.
 
 8c^ 
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 My father's house was a story higher than 
 any other in the wild west-country village of 
 Moraston. When we were boys, my brothers 
 and I were rather proud of the high, straight, 
 unpicturesque edifice in which we all three 
 first saw the light. Though we clambered up 
 a ladder-like staircase, and crept into slant- 
 roofed chambers, somewhat resembling the 
 holes of a dove-cot, we would not, in our 
 early days, have given up the dignity accru- 
 ing to us from those dingy, inconvenient, ill- 
 lighted garrets. 
 
 The only advantage I can see in them 
 
 snow is, that those dormer-windows command 
 
 a fine stretch of country. When the wind 
 
 rises, and whistles through the lofty cedars, 
 
 on the opposite side of the road which passes 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 ^ 
 
 v
 
 the earl's cedars. 
 
 y door, I sometimes quit my employment — 
 though my life is a busy one — and go to the 
 top of the old house to see the ocean waves 
 break against the gigantic barrier of shingle 
 ■which guards the coast. There go the ships, 
 their topsails lowered, seeking the shelter of 
 the neighbouring roads, which arc full of 
 storm-bound vessels; and, with a hoarse roar, 
 like wild beasts disappointed of their prey, 
 the long line of snow-white breakers leaps in 
 fury against the great pebble-bar. 
 
 These vast accumulations of sand and 
 shingle offer a triumphant opposition to the 
 perpetual war carried on against them by the 
 rough sea which lashes our low shore. The 
 angry waves, like rash antagonists who go to 
 war without counting the cost, or calculating 
 the resources of the cnemv, strengthen, bv 
 their violent attacks, the mighty bulwark 
 Nature has raised to stop them. As they 
 sweep onward, higher and higher, thundering 
 and foaming, till they nearly reach the summit 
 of the sloping wall, each monstrous avalanche 
 bears its tribute of stones and seaweed ga- 
 thered from the deep to swell the shifting 
 mountain. After a storm, the beach is strewn 
 with these trophies; — driftwood from wrecks 
 in distant seas ; jewels even, which the re- 
 morseless waves have swept from the persons 
 of the drowned — all manner of curious relics
 
 the earl's cedars. 3 
 
 mingle with the polished pebbles ; and the 
 next time the billows lash themselves into* 
 fury, they break upon a higher ridge of shingle 
 than before. 
 
 Like the beach, our wild hills are tossed up 
 and down over the face of the country, in 
 every kind of fanciful shape. Above the vil- 
 lage, the downs rise bare and brown, without 
 a sign of vegetation except the short turf, 
 which is soon parched by the sun. In spring 
 and early summer the hills are green ; but in 
 general it is a bleak and gloomy district, with 
 the storm-swept bars and mountains of sand 
 and shingle on one side, and, on every other, 
 the bold curves and abrupt summits of the 
 wild western clowns. 
 
 There were a few trees in the hollow, clus- 
 tered among the cottages and out-buildings, as 
 if for protection. Our house had a garden 
 in front and at the back ; and across the road 
 were deep groves of evergreen. It is the only 
 village in the west where I have ever heard 
 the nightingale ; but at intervals, in the night, 
 and among the trees of Lord St. Lo's park, or 
 over the pools of water which lay deep and 
 still in their shadow, the thrillmsr soncr came to 
 our ears. Thus heard, once in a way — for 
 the villagers entertained an idea that the 
 nightingales came every seven years to the 
 place, and I have certainly not heard them
 
 4 Tin: earl's cedars. 
 
 oftencr — that tender melodv sounded like the 
 voice of a spirit. 
 
 A lonely-looking road wound under the 
 park-wall, and up among the hills, past our 
 door. It crossed the highway through the 
 village at a couple of hundred yards' distance 
 from the bottom of our garden. From the 
 garret windows, it could be traced over the 
 barren summits, and in and out through vast 
 tracts of gorse and heather, which, when they 
 were in blossom, gave quite a different ap- 
 pearance to the country. As soon as the 
 bloom faded, or the furze was cut for fuel, 
 the brown and withered stumps only added to 
 the surrounding desolation. 
 
 Besides the superior elevation of the attic 
 story, we were distinguished above our neigh- 
 bours by keeping two maid-servants and seve- 
 ral horses. My father's large round of prac- 
 tice as a medical man rendered this last expense 
 necessary. At all hours of the day and night 
 the surgery-bell was constantly ringing ; and 
 the poor animals in his service were worked 
 hard to satisfy the wants of the rural popula- 
 tion anions; whom he resided. 
 
 I am not sure that I did justice, formerly. 
 to my father's unwearied exertions. At tl 
 time, the life of a village-doctor inspired me 
 with disgust. I could not comprehend the 
 quiet pleasure he derived from his profession,
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 to which, with the whole and undivided powers 
 of a strong mind, he had been, since my mo- 
 ther's death, devoted. 
 
 One of his numerous crotchets was that 
 medical men, as well as clergymen, should live 
 alone, with no family troubles to disturb them. 
 He was not a tender parent, but I believe 
 him to have been a most conscientious one. I 
 used to think that he looked with more affec- 
 tion upon his physic bottles and surgical in- 
 struments — above all, at his small medical li- 
 brary — than upon us, his children. His tone 
 of voice was infinitely more gentle towards his 
 patients; but then they were in pain or trouble; 
 and though he bore a rough exterior, I learned 
 to know at last that his heart was tender and 
 in the right place towards the sick and 
 needy. 
 
 The Countess St. Lo's illness formed an 
 era at Moraston. I remember, as if it were 
 yesterday, the great event of my childhood, 
 when mv father was sitting with us, one even- 
 ing, tired and harassed, with his leather-over- 
 alls unbuttoned and his teacup in his hand, 
 and the surgery-bell rang one of its sharpest 
 peals. This was in my mother's lifetime. Her 
 pale face grew contracted with anxiety. 
 
 " Cannot Edward go instead of you, this 
 time, Robert ?" she asked. " The boy is quick 
 and clever, and knows more than you give
 
 G THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 him credit for. You will wear yourself out 
 with toil." 
 
 Before ray father could answer her, our 
 rousjh west-countrv maid, Dinah, rushed in. 
 As she told her story, all traces of fatigue 
 vanished from his countenance. He drank off', 
 more to please ray mother than himself, th 
 cup of tea he had been holding in his hand ; 
 and, without stopping to fasten his leggings, 
 mounted the horse which a servant from the 
 Great House held in readiness for him, and 
 rode through a storm of wind and rain to 
 visit his new patient. My mother was an in- 
 valid, and kept early hours ; but she sat up for 
 him that night, listening to the wild gusts that 
 swept through the elm-trees, and over the 
 pine-tops, and wondering at his prolonged 
 absence. 
 
 It was the first time that I had heard of 
 "The Cedars" — as Lord St. Lo's place was 
 called — being inhabited. The white house 
 among the trees, where the nightingales paid 
 unfrequent visits, was no longer empty. The 
 Earl had come down without warning, and 
 brought his fair young wife to die among 1. 
 neglected tenantry. 
 
 Though mv father visited her every day. 1 
 never entered the Great House during tl 
 Countess's stay there. Mv brothers and I, in 
 general, roamed about the plaec freely ; but.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 in cases of sickness, my father was very par- 
 ticular, and when we accompanied him to take 
 care of the horse, we were strictly charged to 
 give no trouble, and accept no invitations to 
 enter the dwellings he visited. 
 
 Frequently, during the poor lady's illness, I 
 waited for hours under the impervious canopy 
 of the gloomy group of cedars near the house, 
 while he visited his patient. The horse would 
 draw a little to one side to crop the grass ; no 
 one heeded us. I had time to count the rings 
 on the bark of the old trees, which showed 
 how many years they had withstood the fierce 
 storms which swept over our wild hills, and to 
 number the closed windows of the great pile 
 of building, of which only a few chambers at 
 the back were occupied by the sick lady, her 
 infant daughter, and a few attendants. 
 
 Sometimes the nurses would bring the 
 pretty little girl out to walk in the avenue. 
 Once, when it rained heavily, I was invited to 
 enter; but my father's orders were peremp- 
 tory, and I did not venture to disobey them. 
 Thus waiting for hours, it might be — bitter 
 thoughts filled my heart. What were these 
 great ones of the earth who dwelt in palaces, 
 with the mighty cedar-boughs shutting them 
 in from the world — those magnificent trees 
 which the Hebrew king thought worthy to be 
 employed in building the Temple of the Most
 
 8 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 High? I doubted much whether the group 
 on Lebanon were finer than our own ! The 
 country-people called the great space across 
 which the straight dark branches stretched, in 
 the middle of the park, opposite to the win- 
 dows of the mansion, " the Earl's Drawing- 
 room." There was not an inhabitant of Mo- 
 raston who did not feel proud of The Cedars. 
 
 But there were times when these Oriental- 
 looking trees were inexpressibly gloomy. I 
 thought often of the sepulchres and burial- 
 grounds I had read of, in the East, with their 
 groves of funereal cypress, while I waited in 
 the shortening days of autumn for my father. 
 When the woods were robed in gold and 
 crimson — when even the hedge-briers showed 
 a rich variety of changing foliage, and put 
 forth their bright berries — there were still the 
 monotonous cedar-trees ; darkly green, it is 
 true, with no saddening trace of decay ; freshly 
 vigorous as if, instead of centuries having wit- 
 nessed their slow growth, they were still 
 young ; but always the same, gaining no addi- 
 tional beauty, when their brethren of the forest 
 were each clothed in brilliant though fading 
 hues of gorgeous colouring. 
 
 My father hardly thought it worth while 
 to tell me whether the Countess were better 
 or worse, when he joined me. There could 
 be no change of consequence in her hopeless
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 9 
 
 condition. I did not ask him ; neither did he 
 question me respecting the thoughts which had 
 occupied my tedious leisure. Absorbed in 
 the details of this, to him, interesting case, he 
 probably did not notice the flight of time, and 
 imagined he had not left me for more than 
 half an hour. He was generally grave after 
 these visits, which were much longer than he 
 paid elsewhere. Now and then, he had a 
 quiet smile on his lips when he came forth. I 
 believe the poor lady valued his society very 
 much, and that they often held long and in- 
 teresting conversations together. Of these he 
 told me nothing ; but I have heard him, on his 
 return, amuse my mother, whose health was 
 sinking fast, with anecdotes belonging; to a 
 widely-different sphere from the quiet one we 
 moved in at Moraston. 
 
 Though they did not meet, my mother 
 and Lady St. Lo took a great interest in each 
 other. They both knew that they must leave 
 the world soon ; and, though nothing could 
 be more dissimilar than their position, the 
 twilight of that dim border-land in which 
 they were both walking, gave an unsubstan- 
 tiality to every surrounding circumstance that 
 severed the lady of rank from the wife of the 
 village-doctor. My mother always questioned 
 her husband closely respecting every parti- 
 cular of the Countess's illness; and I noticed
 
 10 fHl eatil's cedars. 
 
 that my father of late never gainsayed nor 
 
 neglected to answer her. 
 
 The final summons came to them, as mv 
 
 ■ 
 
 mother had often prophesied, nearly at the 
 same moment. I remember that mv father cave 
 up almost all his other practice at the last to 
 attend to these two cases. lie passed his 
 time between our own house and the Hall ; 
 and, very often, while I waited for him, I was 
 expecting that the angel of death, whose pin- 
 ions were quivering over the Great House, 
 might in our absence have flapped his wing 
 at the closed window of my poor mother's room. 
 The little girl passed me once, when I had 
 thrown myself under the bank in a paroxysm 
 of grief. She also was weeping. The grave- 
 looking servant, who held her hand, tried to 
 comfort her. Though I was but a bov, I did 
 not choose that the woman and the child 
 should see me in tears ; but mv mother was 
 very justly dear to me, and I could not in a 
 moment stop them. I went and leaned my 
 head against the old horse's neck, pretend! 
 to be busy with the harness, when a little 
 hand slid gently into mine, — a bright, though 
 weeping, childish face looked up at me. The 
 nurse called her hurriedly away, but not before 
 I had involuntarily bent down and kissed the 
 
 ■r 
 
 Earl's little daughter. The next morning the 
 child and I were both motherless.
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 11 
 
 The Countess was buried on the same day 
 with her neighbour in the village. If they 
 died near the same time, she had wished it to 
 be so. Her funeral was a private one, and 
 every mark of respect was paid by the Earl 
 to our bereaved family. He was for ever after 
 in the habit of saying, that if anything could 
 have saved Lady St. Lo, it would have been 
 Mr. Erankland's unremitting and most skilful 
 care. His lordship, who was a genuine 
 Irishman in disposition, felt the loss he had 
 sustained, for the time, severely, and rewarded 
 generously all who had contributed towards 
 smoothing for his young wife the painful pas- 
 sage to the tomb. 
 
 My brothers and I profited largely by 
 these benevolent dispositions in our favour. I 
 thought better of the aristocracy than I had 
 done, while waiting in the rain under the 
 cedars, when the Earl gave my brothers and 
 myself full and free permission to shoot over 
 his property, and fish in the stream which 
 gushed through his beautiful park. My pa- 
 tient waiting had not escaped his notice, and 
 he made me a present of a first-rate gun. 
 All the keepers and gardeners were charged to 
 be invariably civil ; our table was to be sup- 
 plied with fruit and game ; and our estimation 
 in the eyes of our neighbours in the village 
 rose immeasurably higher.
 
 12 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 I think my father was gratified by the 
 Earl's attentions. He took them, very pro- 
 perly, as a mark of approbation of his pro- 
 fessional skill ; and the knowledge that he had 
 done his utmost under trial, was the greatest 
 comfort he was at that time capable of ex- 
 periencing. His grief for my gentle mother 
 sank very deep into his heart. I am not 
 aware exactlv how long the Earl's regret for 
 his wife lasted ; all I can positively say is, 
 that, like most sorrows, it came to an end. In 
 less than two vears he had married again, and 
 
 •J O ' 
 
 the frequent demands upon his property, the 
 raised rents of his tenantry, and the felling of 
 timber, gave proof that he was leading a gayer 
 life than ever. 
 
 Mv father, on the contrary, though he 
 said very little abont what he suffered, grew 
 rapidly older. The softer traits of his man- 
 ner disappeared. He ceased to take an inte- 
 rest in much that had served to amuse his 
 intelligent, delicate companion, and became 
 every day more wrapped up in the toilsome 
 duties of his profession, from which she had 
 possessed sufficient power occasionally to divert 
 his attention. 
 
 I do not know whether the painful cir- 
 cumstances under which he had last visited 
 The Cedars influenced the Earl, but he seldom 
 came near the place. None of his family
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 13 
 
 liked to look upon the grave side of human 
 affairs. They were a race not natural to 
 England — Irish to the heart's core. Nowhere 
 could a pleasanter man be found than the 
 Earl. My brothers and I were delighted 
 with him, during his brief and hurried visits, 
 which were always marked by some especial 
 sign of favour, which made our lives more 
 agreeable afterwards. But these acts of kind- 
 ness were things of the moment. He was a 
 boy amoug us — foremost with his gun, un- 
 wearied in promoting our boyish amusement, 
 thoughtless as a child, and at the root cold- 
 hearted. 
 
 I almost learned to look upon myself as 
 the proprietor of The Cedars in his absence. 
 My brothers cared less for the freedom 
 and solitude of the place ; and being, the 
 one older, the other more studious, than 
 myself, found greater amusement in society 
 or in books. As for me, I dreamed away 
 every moment of leisure in the neighbouring 
 park. No career was as yet marked out for 
 me. Edward had been reconciled to follow- 
 ing his father's profession, by having a liberal 
 share in its profits assigned to him. Harry 
 used to be my mother's darling. He was 
 decidedly clever, and my father was making 
 every effort to fit him for college, in the hope 
 of his obtaining a fellowship. I am hardly
 
 14 THE EARL 8 CEDARS. 
 
 aware what opinion our parent at that time 
 entertained of me. We were very little to- 
 gether, and my mind was full of vague pro- 
 jects for the future, wherewith that grave, 
 painstaking man was not likely to sympathise. 
 Nevertheless, I too, in my own way, was 
 working hard. 
 
 It was certainly an evil pride which made 
 me keep back from him the knowledge of 
 one part of my studies, in which he would 
 have been interested, and might have aided 
 me ; but he had chosen to consider me an 
 idler, and I let the charge pass without con- 
 tradicting it. Not a bird on the wing, not 
 an insect on the grass, escaped my notice. 
 In his more genial days, my father had in- 
 spired me with a taste for the sciences which 
 trace the wonderful laws of nature in the 
 animate and inanimate world around us ; and, 
 without any definite aim, but aided by an 
 observant eye, I went on adding to my store 
 of knowledge. 
 
 One of the former possessors of the Hall 
 must have had a great liking for botany, 
 mineralogy, and similar pursuits ; for there 
 were many old books, which assisted me 
 in my studies, to be found in the library 
 there, all marked and interlined in the same 
 crabbed characters. It was not one of the 
 laughter-loving, harebrained Irish ancestors of
 
 THE EARL'S C ED AllS. 15 
 
 the present Earl, but a member of an older 
 race, to which the late Countess belonged. The 
 Cedars came to the Earl by marriage, and 
 constituted only a small portion of the pro- 
 perty which he was running through, if report 
 might be believed, with marvellous rapidity. 
 
 The library, to which I had free access, 
 was a large and lofty room, containing a very 
 extensive and antiquated collection of books. 
 I used little ceremony with them. No one 
 interfered concerning my coming or going, or 
 the manner in which I employed my time 
 there ; and volumes which an antiquary w^ould 
 have handled respectfully often had a place 
 in my pocket, together with flies for fishing, 
 and a very miscellaneous collection of boyish 
 treasures. 
 
 Yet I w r as not altogether unworthy to 
 be trusted with those quaint old tomes ; for 
 often the trout leaped up unheeded, or escaped 
 the hook, while in the deep shade of the 
 summer foliage I was poring over the page. 
 Whatever I learned was tested bv actual 
 experience. The w T ild sea-coast near me af- 
 forded ample scope for geological researches ; 
 and every bird that came within shot of my 
 gun, every wild animal that crossed my path, 
 was carefully examined, until I had dis- 
 covered, as far as might be, the unerringly 
 wise laws which regulated its being.
 
 1G the earl's cedars. 
 
 Another branch of my desultory studies was 
 the attempt to investigate the various modes of 
 living and habits of men, in countries which 
 I knew only by name ; their differing soils 
 and climate, and the effect of each upon the 
 races of the earth. In reflecting upon these 
 subjects, I was much aided by the knowledge 
 I had acquired — theoretically if not practically 
 — of my father's profession, and by remarks 
 which occasionally fell from him. Yet I had 
 not the grace to acknowledge the debt, nor 
 to gratify him by confessing that the time I 
 apparently loitered away was not altogether 
 misspent. 
 
 The house in the village grew more and 
 more distasteful to me every day. My father's 
 homely calling did not satisfy my ambition. 
 To travel far and wide in quest of knowledge, 
 and then to bestow the result of my inquiries 
 upon the world, in some astonishing discove- 
 ries for the benefit of my fellow-creatures, 
 were my dreams as I lay under the cedar- 
 trees. Meanwhile, I did not absolutelv neglect 
 the duties of actual life. I worked Ions; and 
 hard at times to assist my father in his in- 
 creasing labours ; but mv heart was not in the 
 task. The moment I was at liberty, mv steps 
 instinctively turned to tin? gate into the park 
 nearest to our house ; of which, by the Ear. 
 especial favour, I poss, ;'. private key.
 
 THE earl's cedars. 17 
 
 The high wall extended for more than a 
 mile upward, from the heart of the village. 
 The last straggling groups of hardy fir and 
 pine in Lord St. Lo's grounds were also the 
 most elevated points to which the vegetation 
 of the valley extended ; but the house stood 
 low down in the centre of the woods, and near 
 deep, silent pools of water. The situation 
 was regarded as an unhealthy one ; and it was 
 said that the Earl's second wife had a mortal 
 aversion to the idea of a residence where her 
 predecessor had perished. 
 
 I do not know how that might be, but, 
 certainly, I did not wish the family to visit 
 The Cedars. The Earl's keepers often elated 
 my youthful vanity, by coming for directions 
 to me, as the only sportsman authorised to 
 disturb the game. In the twilight, I saw the 
 long porticoes and columns of the building, 
 which was in the Italian style, with orna- 
 mental bridges crossing the stream, and, now 
 and then, a solitary, mossy statue, looking 
 damp and chill among the evergreens ; and I 
 loved even the miasma which gathered over 
 the deep pools and low, damp lawns. Had 
 the place been more cheerful and salubrious, 
 others would have admired it : gay voices 
 would have called to each other from the 
 sculptured balustrades ; the boat I had so 
 carefully nailed together and caulked would 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 have been manned by other rowers. My pri- 
 vileges and imaginary power Avould have 
 passed from me. The white house among 
 the cedars would no longer have been mine.
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Often, in distant lands, my heart has 
 yearned to hear the sough of the retreating 
 waves from the ridge of pebbles which alone 
 saved our village from destruction. During 
 the great gale of November, a.d. 1S24, the sea 
 rose so high that people escaped in boats from 
 the upper windows of the cottages in the 
 main street, which was flooded by water ; and 
 even in the sheltered grounds belonging to 
 the Hall, the water was raised up from the 
 bed of the stream and flung in wild wreaths of 
 foaming vapour against, and even over, the 
 tops of the tall trees that bordered the road 
 opposite to our house. 
 
 In general, the fiercest storms scarcely 
 penetrated into the low grounds of Lord St. 
 Lo's park. You might hear the wind raging 
 over-head and not feel it. Hardly could the 
 gale stir those mighty cedar-branches. Their 
 solemn, quiet gloom had a great attraction 
 for me, even in boyhood ; yet when I heard 
 at a distance the tide coming in, and thunder*-
 
 20 the earl's cedars. 
 
 ing against the bar, nothing could restrain 
 me. The feeling which makes one man a 
 sailor, another a soldier, while others love the 
 more tranquil walks of life — that natural in- 
 stinct which gives a bias to future existence — 
 would rush upon me strongly. With the roar 
 of the winds and waves in my ear — the 
 mighty music which has sounded since cur 
 Maker's hand divided the waters that were 
 above and below the firmament, and made 
 the dry land appear, setting bounds to the sea, 
 which it cannot pass over — I went down to 
 mark the wild course the billows were run- 
 ning, as they chased each other up the steep 
 inclined plane of shingle. 
 
 . At these stonnv seasons, the seafaring 
 population of the village were mostly abroad ; 
 the men looking out for waifs and strays, 
 but ready to aid mariners, if vessels in distress 
 hove in siurbt : the women straining their eves 
 to see through the white foam and blacken- 
 ing tempest the sail of some returning bark. 
 The coast was very closely watched by the 
 revenue-service men, but still many a con- 
 traband cargo was landed on dark nights and 
 carried successfullv across the beach. At the 
 rude hostclries among the hills, the spirits 
 imported by the bold smugglers cheered the 
 hearts of travellers benighted among the bleak 
 West-of-England downs.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 21 
 
 There was one person who seemed to de- 
 light in rough weather even more than myself. 
 1 did not exactly know, at the time of which I 
 am speaking, the habits of life, or former pro- 
 fession, of an elderly man whom, notwith- 
 standing, I never passed by without notice. 
 His boat was, apparently, as much the worse 
 for wear as himself; and, in the stormy even- 
 ings, I saw him constantly mending it, whist- 
 ling, as a sailor does in calm weather, for a 
 wind, when all around the skies were black 
 with coming tempest, while the rain poured 
 unheeded over his slightly-grizzled, thick, dark 
 hair, and ran off his rough but picturesque 
 attire. 
 
 He was always dressed alike, winter and 
 summer, in a tight-fitting jacket and trousers 
 of faded reddish-coloured serge, with his feet 
 and ancles bare, and the sleeves of his sho^t 
 jerkin turned back, to leave his brawny limbs 
 free play. No matter how wildly the waves 
 dashed up against the boatside, he would 
 stand half in the water, despising their fury. 
 Or he would launch his old boat fearlessly, 
 when much younger men shrank from the 
 danger, if he saw from the shore any article 
 he thought worth the risk — wreck-timber, or 
 an empty cask floating on the waves, which 
 might serve him as winter firewood. 
 
 I never saw him put off to the assistance
 
 2:3 the earl's cedars. 
 
 of any vessel in distress. Even when a great 
 shoal of mackerel darkened the waves, his boat 
 lay high and dry on the beach, and he did 
 not oiler to push off, or lend a hand to brii 
 in the heavy loads which were well-nigh sink- 
 ing the boats. He was not a fisherman, he 
 said, but a sailor; and a sort of pride was 
 displayed by the way in which he kept aloof 
 from the crowd, chaffering in the street, after 
 he had laid in his own store — a capital 
 bargain. 
 
 Oat of the wreck-timber he had built for 
 himself a hut upon the beach, where the land 
 joined the shingle ridge, and here he would 
 lie for hours watching the squalls come up 
 from the west, and, to my fancy, enjoying the 
 mischief they wrought. Often, when I was a 
 boy, I would go down and listen to his tales. 
 Though I shuddered at the vindictiveness of 
 his looks and words, I liked to hear those 
 wonderful stories again and again. 
 
 He had been — at least so it seemed to 
 my boyish apprehension — in every country 
 under the sun, and his narratives fostered the 
 love of rambling and thirst for stirring adven- 
 tures, which formed the strongest features of 
 my character. What was the cold teaching 
 of books compared to the simple words that 
 came from lips which had given forth a wild 
 shout when, at last, after unnumbered perils,
 
 the earl's cedars. 23 
 
 the vein of virgin gold was found ? Here was 
 a man whose hands had been plunged in the 
 waters that played over lumps and bars of 
 that costly metal for which, in England, Ave 
 toiled so hardly ! It was true that he was 
 miserably poor; — he had thrown away and 
 squandered opportunities, but the red gold 
 was still there — he had touched it, — there for 
 more fortunate beings than himself, — had been 
 only lost to him by a thousand strange and 
 vexing chances which others might escape ! 
 
 Then, again, he would tell me of the tricks 
 of the slave-traders and the sufferings of their 
 human victims. I did not stop him to ask 
 how he had seen and known many circum- 
 stances which he mentioned to me, for, in 
 truth, I was verv much afraid of him : but I 
 lay on the shingles, hearing all he chose to 
 • narrate to me, and forming vague guesses, full 
 of interest, at what he kept concealed. 
 
 " It 's better afloat than ashore," he said 
 one day, when he had finished mending his 
 tattered sail, and was lying within the low en- 
 trance to his hut, peering out at the weather. 
 ' c When I was a youngster, not bigger than 
 those lads prawn-fishing yonder — they'll catch 
 plaguy few to-night ! — I had crossed the Line, 
 and seen the Southern Cross dip down be- 
 neath the water in another hemisphere. You 'd 
 like it, Master Charles, I'll engage, better than
 
 24 the earl's cedars. 
 
 physicking old women, and holding the marc 
 for the Doctor, when he goes up among the 
 hills to see sick folk. Why, even for that. 
 there arc better drugs in the leaves and roots 
 than your father sells us ; yes, and poisons, 
 too, as I learned among the Indians, that will 
 bring a man's hair off, and cover him with 
 blisters, which only the touch of the plant 
 Nature made to heal him can cure. I wouldn't 
 take a drop of the Doctor's physic for the 
 world ! In the woods, if you 're taken with 
 fever or ague, it's kill or cure with the natives; 
 and you know it, and have to put up with it. 
 Better die when your time comes than linger 
 on, neither sick nor well, dragging life after 
 you like a lengthened curse." 
 
 He started up from his recumbent posture, 
 just as the sun shone forth clearly for a mo- 
 ment across the dark-heaving waters, before 
 we lost sight of it again beneath a thick canopy 
 of clouds. 
 
 " AVhat 's that floating out to sea ": lie 
 said; " a cask, or staves? Lend a hand, lad, 
 and avc '11 launch the boat and fetch it in. 
 As well have it snug in the old house here, 
 broken to pieces in the water. Would you 
 like to come along with me, young master? 1 
 sometimes think you are the right sort, after 
 all, for a sailor." 
 
 Right glad was I to hoist the curious! v-
 
 the earl's cedars. 25 
 
 patched, dark yellow sail, on which the low 
 sunbeams gleamed as it flapped wildly in the 
 blast. The old sailor trusted me, and I was 
 proud of his confidence. Swiftly, ducking like 
 a sea-bird, and shaking; off with a shudder the 
 foam from her bows, the boat sped through 
 the waves towards the dark spot on the crest 
 of a distant billow, which had attracted Mat- 
 thews's attention. I knew well that I should 
 have been severely reprimanded at home for 
 the mad venture ; and, perhaps, I liked it all 
 the better on that account. The old tub or 
 plank was of no value to me ; yet I was just as 
 much set upon rescuing it from the sea as the 
 hardy, weather-beaten sailor. 
 
 A wild puff of wind curled the waves, the 
 sail caught it, and we veered round ; but I 
 heard the seaman's rapid directions and obeyed 
 them. In a few moments we had picked up 
 our trophy, and were on our homeward way, 
 running before the breeze. The old boat 
 leaked, and would require more mending than 
 ever, after our return. Matthews whistled as 
 he steered, in defiance of the freshening breeze, 
 and we ran the boat on the shingle-beach, as 
 skilfully as any of the fishermen who watched 
 us from a distance could have done. 
 
 I dare say my companion was disappointed 
 with the prize he had brought home. It was 
 nothing but the fragment of a boat, with the
 
 26 THE EABl/fl CEDARS. 
 
 name upon it of the ship to which it had be- 
 longed. He carried the plank up to his hut, 
 after lauding, with more care than at first he 
 seemed disposed to bestow upon it. 
 
 " So, you 're a bit of one of the Hogue's 
 boats!" he said, with a dissatisfied growl, ad- 
 dressing the senseless piece of wood, as he 
 threw it down on the threshold. " Hard and 
 tough, yet you 've found your master ! The 
 sea rent it, and forced out the nails. Look 
 how the holes are jagged and the timber splin- 
 tered ! yes. and the iron itself twisted. But 
 there 's a heart that 's harder than oak on 
 beard that three-decker, if she 's afloat still ; 
 Pharaoh's wasn't prouder and more arrogant; 
 it '11 take a deal to humble him. You sec, 
 Master Charles, ships arc like most other 
 places, — there's good and bad in them ; but 
 the worst is, if he 's ever so hard-pressed and 
 put upon at sea, a man can't run away. 
 There 's some have leapt overboard, and swum 
 to an island; but, ten to one, they starved, or 
 were caught, aud brought back to England in 
 irons. Best, after all, to stop where you are 
 and bear the worst, if a man could but think 
 so. 
 
 " I hope the ship rode out the gale as well 
 as we did," I said, triumphantly. " We shall 
 hear of plenty of wrecks, if the wind holds as 
 high as it is now in its present quarter."
 
 the earl's cedars. 27 
 
 " That 's true enough. Blow high or blow 
 low, there's clanger when the captain's too 
 proud to take advice, and too rash and igno- 
 rant to do without it; and sleeps in his cabin all 
 the sounder for the rush of winds and waves, 
 or the voices of the crew cursing him. I 've 
 seen the decks red with blood that wasn't 
 shed in fight, — drops that fell from stripes on 
 Englishmen's backs, which were not sorer than 
 the spirits that brooked them." 
 
 He kicked the plank into the hut as he 
 spoke, with a wrathful look. 
 
 "Yes, and I've seen the hearts of those 
 poor crushed worms rise at last, more, per- 
 haps, for a kind word spoken than for all they 
 suffered. But it was no good ! The captain's 
 like a king on his own quarter-deck, and after 
 he leaves it not a word is to be said against 
 him. The good of the service, forsooth ! — 
 that 's their cant ; and the great lords hush it 
 up, and compliment each other; while the 
 poor devils of seamen are put in irons, and 
 even their officers, if they dare speak up for 
 them, are down on the Blaek List, and pu- 
 nished as insubordinate." 
 
 " If this is the case," I said, " I wonder 
 you should recommend me to go to sea ; but I 
 believe such instances of cruelty as you appear 
 to have witnessed are rare in our navy." 
 
 " Oh, it's a fine thing to sail in a ship like
 
 28 the earl's cedars. 
 
 the one that boat parted from ! " exclaimed the 
 old seaman, changing his tone so suddenly 
 that I hardly knew whether his praise were 
 ironical or sincere. " You won't see anything 
 like it ! When the captain's friends come on 
 board, and the band plays, and the signal that 
 the ladies and gentlemen are dancing flies at 
 the mast-head ! It isn't always that the wind 
 blows great guns, as it does to-day. There 's 
 fine weather at sea as well as on land; and it 's 
 nowhere pleasanter than when a great ship 's 
 in harbour, with plenty of gay company on 
 board, and the anchor's lifted to the boat- 
 swain's whistle, the crew are piped up, and a 
 good eight hundred jolly tars on deck, all 
 ready and willing to do their duty. To see 
 the sails fill, and the huge floating castle 
 glide through the water, with cheers and good 
 wishes to speed her ! Be sure they 're all 
 happy ! What can they want more than their 
 grog and their pay ? Keep 'em on board, and 
 work 'em hard ! Don't let 'em get a sniff of 
 the land-breeze, nor a plunge in fresh water to 
 wash the brine out of their skins ! — it only 
 puts thoughts of freedom into their heads. 
 Best clap them under hatches, if they 're sedi- 
 tious, and give them plenty of rope's-end to 
 quiet 'em ! " 
 
 He turned into his hut, almost without 
 noticing my "Good night;' and I hurried
 
 the earl's cedars. 29 
 
 home, knowing that my father, probably, was 
 waiting for me. 
 
 I remembered the name I had read upon 
 the piece of wreck -timber, when I heard, a few 
 days afterwards, that the Hogue man-of-war, 
 a ninety-gun line-of-battle ship, had narrowly 
 escaped foundering in the late tremendous 
 gale ; and that one of her boats, with a full 
 •crew, which had left the vessel, contrary to 
 orders, had been lost in the West Bav. The 
 Honourable Adolphus St. Lo, second son of 
 the nobleman to whom most of the property 
 round Moraston belonged, was named as the 
 midshipman in command.
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 My father, booted and coated, was waiting 
 impatiently on the steps before our door 
 when I came home, after aiding the old sea- 
 man to pick up the fragment of the Hogue's 
 boat. Edward was not to be found, and 
 Henry busy with his books, and I was wanted 
 to accompany my father on one of his long 
 rounds of country practice, to hold the reins 
 at cottage-doors that lav among lonclv hills, 
 and to visit a distant farm-house, where one of 
 his more profitable patients was slowly dying. 
 I thought of Matthcws's anathemas against 
 physic, while my father, as we went along. 
 talked of this case. It was an utterly hoi - 
 less one. Nothing could be done but to alle- 
 viate pain. Art could prescribe no fresh 
 remedy; but still the man might linger lor 
 a burden to himself and others. As the sharp 
 wind cut against us on the bleak hill-side, up 
 which we wearily travelled, I remembered the 
 moment when I had met a fiercer blast proudly 
 on the sea. The toilsome round we were pur-
 
 the earl's cedars. 31 
 
 suing seemed unendurable to me, as I waited 
 under the corner of some barn-yard wall for 
 my father, watching the light burning in the 
 sick-chamber. 
 
 I did not hear the kind w r ords, the sooth- 
 ing suggestions, which made the dwellers in 
 those solitary places regard their doctor's 
 visits almost in the licrht of an angel's minis- 
 trations ; neither did I trace the kindly feel- 
 ings welling up in my father's breast, as he 
 buttoned his strong vestment over his chest, 
 and sat silent, after quitting the house of 
 grief. Fast through the gullies of the hills, 
 across flooded brooks, and over the bleak 
 crowns of the heights, I hurried him, stopping 
 often, however, sorely against my will, at 
 hovels where sickness had found its way, 
 though other visitants seldom penetrated, — 
 dropping balm into aching hearts, and light- 
 ening many a load of anxiety, of which, at 
 that time, I thought nothing, as I chafed at our 
 frequent stoppages, and drove on after each 
 delay, more impatiently than ever. 
 
 The last pause we made was at a farm, 
 high up among the hills, but sheltered by still 
 more commanding heights from the tempest. 
 I thought the wind had lulled when we turned 
 the exposed angle of the down, and saw the 
 trees bending under their autumnal load of 
 ripe apples, scarcely one of which had yet
 
 32 tiie earl's cedars. 
 
 fallen in the orchard of The Knowle, as the 
 residence of Farmer Brand was called. Among 
 the fruit-trees were some verv ancient yews. 
 and the old-fashioned dwelling-house was 
 surrounded with trimly-cut hedges and 
 quaint imitations of bird and beast, carved 
 out of the same unfading verdure. There 
 were dark-green peacocks, with their tails 
 spread out, fan-like, on either side of the gate. 
 Whether, as now, with the cheery sparkle 
 of the lights glimmering through the trees at 
 nightfall, or in the long hot summer days, The 
 Knovvle had always appeared to me a pleasant 
 place. My father's stringent regulation, that 
 we were to accept no offers of hospitality, was 
 relaxed in favour of Mrs. Brand, who always 
 came out curtseying and smiling to welcome 
 ns, her ruddy face very much resembling the 
 sunny side of one of her own Katharine pears. 
 As boys, we had the run of the fruit-garden, 
 where sunny beds of strawberries lay between 
 thick rows of currant and gooseberry bushes, 
 and the raspberries were as large as mulberries. 
 Old Farmer Brand was hale and heart v at 
 nearly eighty, and rode about his fields, which 
 extended along the broad slopes of the hills, 
 watered by a copious stream ; and over the rug- 
 ged sheep-walks on the down, where his large 
 liocks fed on the thyiny herbag His second 
 son, Hezekiah, managed the farm for him, the
 
 the earl's cedars. 33 
 
 eldest having left home, nearly thirty years 
 before, after grievously misconducting himself, 
 and never having been heard of since. Heze- 
 kiah Brand had married, and brought his wife 
 to live with the old couple at The Knowle. 
 Children were born to them year after year, 
 and all went on well, until the health of the 
 industrious, temperate man failed him. He 
 was wasting away rapidly in a decline, and 
 though Mrs. Brand had still a good store of 
 household comforts to set before us, her tears 
 ran over as she told my father of the progress 
 her son's hopeless malady had made since his 
 last visit. 
 
 There were boys whom we knew well, for 
 we often, on summer evenings, played cricket 
 on the green at Moraston together ; and one 
 tall, bright-eyed, handsome girl, whom I had 
 sometimes helped to shake the apples from the 
 trees in the orchard, or to catch some of the 
 young pea-fowl, when they strayed away from 
 the coops that stood on each side of the door 
 in the grassy courtyard. I was very sorry for 
 Kate, when I saw her sitting beside the hearth 
 with her fingers twisted, and her hands tightly 
 clasped together. I watched her deep silent 
 grief with a kind of awe, as she sat motionless, 
 with the red light of the great burning logs of 
 wood streaming on her neatly-braided dark 
 hair, and glittering on the large drops that 
 
 VOL. T. D
 
 34 the earl's cedars. 
 
 fell from her eyes. I can see her now, and 
 time, as it gives back to me that image, 
 hallowed by many a sorrowful thought, has 
 taught me to know better than I did when my 
 eves first received it, how fair a thine: it was ! 
 
 When mv father came down-stairs, he 
 sent us all out of the kitchen, and remained 
 long after I had got the gig ready for him, 
 talking with the old grandfather. I believe 
 that his sound, upright counsel often saved the 
 country people from incurring legal charges, 
 or rashly involving themselves in difficulties. 
 It would have been well if Mr. Brand had now 
 followed the advice he gave him, to send for a 
 lawyer at once, and have his affairs settled. 
 The poor fellow, who was dying in the room 
 above, had confessed how much it troubled his 
 mind that he could make no provision for his 
 wife and large family. Stranger things had 
 happened than the return of his elder brother, 
 the long-lost, prodigal son, from abroad, when he 
 might turn them all away from The Knowle, if 
 he so pleased, unless the old man, before he 
 died, should dispose of his property in their 
 favour. He had an invincible dislike to 
 making his will, and, even if he agreed to the 
 expediency of the measure, would put it off on 
 trivial pretexts, from day to day. 
 
 My father's words seemed to make an 
 impression at the time, but it was very transi-
 
 the earl's cedars. 35 
 
 tory. The old farmer, after being a little 
 ailing, rallied, and was able to attend as chief- 
 mourner at his son's funeral. The church- 
 yard at Moraston was crowded with people, 
 for Hezekiah Brand and his family were greatly 
 respected. After the crowd dispersed, I was 
 surprised at seeing the rough, weather-beaten 
 seaman from the beach standing beside the 
 newly-made grave. In general, he avoided all 
 rustic gatherings, and I had not noticed him 
 on this occasion til] the service was over. 
 
 He turned sharp round when he saw me. 
 
 " Here 's another of your father's patients 
 gone, Master Charles ! Pretty care he must 
 have taken of him ! It 's a wonder to see how 
 they drop off. Physic is not magic. Here 
 am I, who haven't taken a grain of it these 
 twenty years, and I dare say I shall see out a 
 good number of them yet. That poor fellow 
 was younger than I am — it must have been 
 his family that troubled him. What a line of 
 them there was ! It reached fairly from that 
 big elm-tree to the spot where they laid him. 
 His father's stout enough still — if the doctor 
 lets him alone, he '11 be a tough one. What 
 brought all those folk here, I wonder? I 
 suppose it 's much the same to them whether 
 the bells ring for a wedding, or toll for a 
 funeral. For my part, I think the last 's the 
 cheerfulest sound of the two. Petter to
 
 36 the earl's cedars. 
 
 put one man to his rest quietly than see 
 another set the stamp to his folly ! As for 
 christenings, they're worst of all. Just look 
 at that string of little beggars who were 
 here a few moments since. They've been 
 the death of their father ; and that white-faced 
 woman, their mother, will soon follow him. I 
 wonder what good they'll ever be of in the 
 world ! ' 
 
 He moved off as he spoke, and went 
 grumbling out of the churchyard, knocking 
 his stick against the gravestones, and now 
 and then stopping to look at them as he 
 passed. We neither of us thought, at the 
 time, that the hale-looking old man, Farmer 
 Brand of The Knowle, would follow his son 
 to the grave in a few weeks — but so it was. 
 He was struck by paralysis the night after 
 the funeral, but rallied sufficiently the next 
 day to bid his eldest grandson ride the best 
 horse in the stable to fetch the lawyer, that he 
 might do as Doctor Frankland advised him. 
 Before his senses were clouded again, he 
 made a hasty disposition of his property, 
 leaving; it unreservedlv to his wife, and omit- 
 ting altogether to name his son's widow and 
 children. It was a warning, my father said, 
 not to procrastinate. He had lived beyond 
 the age allotted to man, yet died at last with- 
 out having made fitting preparation.
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 37 
 
 The next time we visited The Knowle, 
 Dame Brand was too much afflicted even to 
 think of offerino; me the home-made cakes she 
 used to press upon me long after I ceased to 
 be a boy. The children were crying under the 
 fan-tailed peacocks in front of the house, and 
 I saw that the quaint devices on either hand, 
 usually so carefully trimmed, had grown out 
 rather wildly. When my father came out, he 
 said that all w r as over; and the blinds were 
 drawn down, and shutters closed in the ordi- 
 narily cheerful, pleasant chambers, as we drove 
 away. 
 
 It was a boyish fancy which often carried 
 me back to the Hall, and under the stately 
 cedars, after a day of successful sport, instead 
 of by the direct road to my home in the vil- 
 lage. I liked to pass along the avenues w T here 
 few but mvself were allowed to tread, and to 
 hear the footsteps, which I strove to render as 
 manly as I could, ring in the empty marble- 
 paved passages. The old servants who had 
 charge of the mansion humoured me. I be- 
 lieve they led such a lonely life, that my pre- 
 sence was a kind of comfort to them, and they 
 had seen me free of the place, by their lord's 
 will, for years. The housekeeper would kindle 
 a fire in the library for me when she saw me 
 come in wet and weary ; and I sat there, read- 
 ing the quaint volumes, and gazing out into
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 the park through the high windows, till dark- 
 ness hid the view. 
 
 As my dripping garments dried upon m 
 my young, strong frame, defying the effects of 
 carelessness and exposure, would glow with 
 happy exultation. None of the old possessors 
 of The Cedars gloried in their fine residence 
 more than the boy who stretched his tall 
 limbs towards the blaze, as the flame crackled 
 and sparkled, and the boughs cast upon the 
 hearth split asunder with the heat. The fire- 
 light, I knew, w r as visible to many a poor 
 simple hind crossing the fields on the other 
 side of the river ; and from the bridge, whe 
 strangers were taken for the best view of the 
 Hall. I knew how well the large windows 
 looked, illuminated within bv that cheerful 
 blaze, and I piled the logs higher and higher. 
 in case any passenger turned his head to 
 gaze, that he might see the place I loved to 
 advantage. 
 
 Little cared I for the rain, though I must 
 face it presently ; but I liked to hear it beat 
 against the glass, and drip slowly through the 
 cedars. As I lay in my own attic chamber, 
 with my curtains open, after the first sound 
 sleep which followed the active exertions of 
 the day was over, I saw the earliest streak of 
 dawn redden the horizon, and then the day- 
 light stream in through the straight boughs of
 
 the earl's cedars. 39 
 
 the distant cedars, and under the dark crowns 
 of the pines. Glowing with the fiery touch 
 of the sun-rays, the usually gloomy foliage 
 seemed begirt with glory. I believe that very 
 few knew, as well as I did, how beautiful the 
 Earl's park was in the early light of morning. 
 
 As the sun rose above the low hills that- 
 sloped away to the east, his beams travelled 
 across a stretch of wooded scenery, till they 
 reached the groups of evergreens, through and 
 under which they pierced, glittering on the 
 dewy grass, and throwing spangles of light on 
 the river. The birds singing in the tufted 
 trees, the radiance on wood and stream, 
 seemed more than ever to belong to me, as I 
 lay watching, with sleep still brooding over 
 the lazy world of men, that grand awakening 
 of Nature in the groves and over the glancing 
 waters, visible from the upper story of my 
 father's dwelling. 
 
 The Earl came down to Moras ton for a 
 week's pheasant-shooting this October. His 
 gay encouragement and cordial praises, when 
 I brought down my bird, as the covey scat- 
 tered right and left before our shots, warmed 
 my heart, and I did not listen to the many 
 tales current of the pressure upon the tenantry 
 caused by his extravagance. I could not 
 believe that pleasant, frank-spoken man, really 
 guilty of duplicity and heartlessness.
 
 40 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 When he left The Cedars, Lord St. Lo 
 told my father that it might be years before 
 he visited the place again, as he was going 
 abroad for the education of his children by 
 the second marriage, and meant to reside 
 permanently on the Continent. Lady St. Lo 
 and her young family appeared to occupy his 
 thoughts almost exclusively ; and the name 
 of the poor boy who had been lost at sea 
 never passed his lips. 
 
 " Such a man is not worthv to be called a 
 
 a/ 
 
 father ! ' ' said Lieutenant Salcombe, the officer 
 lately appointed to the coast-guard station, half 
 a mile distant from our village. " I have heard 
 a good deal about Harcourt's tyranny. Why, 
 a friend of mine was on board the Hogue when 
 poor young St. Lo took the long-boat to go 
 ashore without leave, and was cast away in the 
 storm. Temple thought the youth had been 
 hardly treated — and he is a strict discipli- 
 narian ; but when I tried to say a word in the 
 drowned boy's favour to his own parent, he 
 pooh-pooh'd the intelligence." 
 
 My father, who, although they were in the 
 main excellent friends, generally differed in 
 opinion from our excitable neighbour, took 
 Lord St. Lo's part on this occasion. The 
 Earl, he said, might have suffered too much 
 from his son's misconduct to like to speak 
 upon the subject.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 41 
 
 " No, no ; he is not the man to take a 
 thing seriously to heart. He is the merest 
 trifler, and never went to the bottom of an 
 affair in his life ! ' exclaimed Salcombe, hotly. 
 "Look at his Irish tenantry — see the abuses 
 perpetrated on his estate here ! Why, the 
 greater part of the men are poachers or smug- 
 glers. We have more trouble with his cot- 
 tagers than with all the rest of the district. 
 I will answer for it, more than one will be 
 in gaol this winter, and then what is to be- 
 come of their families? You won't tell me 
 that a man who lives abroad, and gambles 
 away his income, is likely to be either a 
 good father or landlord ! I agree with 
 Charles, that you will nowhere find a plea- 
 santer companion for a day's shooting than 
 his lordship. A finer-looking man I don't 
 desire to see ; perhaps Nature intended him 
 for a different kind of being from what he is 
 daily becoming. But, in the more intimate 
 relations of life, his conduct and example are 
 pernicious. Just now his young wife and her 
 children are objects of idolatry. I dare say it 
 was the same, for a time, with the poor lady 
 whose grave he passes, without a tear or sigh, 
 in the church vard of Moraston." 
 
 My father's brow contracted slightly. 
 
 " Men cannot make a display of such sacred 
 emotions, Salcombe. The Earl, perhaps, feels
 
 42 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 more than yon imagine. He has certainly 
 never liked Moraston since her death, bat I 
 did not expect him to remain single." 
 
 " That may be j but he need not neglect 
 her children ! ' said the energetic sailor. 
 "Adolphus St. Lo's case was a hard one; — 
 of that I am convinced. Now, will you ]Y 
 tell me whether his father is a man whose 
 character justifies him for pronouncing an un- 
 merciful sentence ? Did he never get into a 
 scrape at school or college? — rob an orchard, 
 break bounds, or, in fact, commit some such 
 flagrant act of insubordination as this poor 
 lad has paid for with his life ? I will engage, 
 worse sins lay at his door, before he was one- 
 and-twenty, than this youngster committed. 
 Mind you, I would not take his part, if it were 
 not for Temple's vindication ! Discipline must 
 be enforced ; but when it goes beyond the re- 
 gulations of the service, as has been the case 
 more than once on board the Iiogue, it be- 
 comes cruelty. Young spirits, Mr. Frankland. 
 can't stand it. Here 's your boy, Charles! 
 Just fancy his receiving an insult no gentle- 
 man's son is bound to endure ; not a lawful 
 punishment, but a blow struck in the heat of 
 passion by his commanding officer. Well, 
 what does he do? Anything that is most 
 mad and intemperate ! And what follows ? A 
 puff of wind catches the lug-sail, and in his
 
 the earl's cedars. 43 
 
 passion, in his temporary insanity, the poor 
 young fellow is cut off before his prime. 
 What would you do, or I, or any other father, 
 who was not a peer of the realm? Should 
 we not take all pains, and know no rest, night 
 or day, leave no stone unturned, till the case 
 was investigated ? Our small means, our busv 
 lives, would not prevent our sifting out the 
 truth ; and, at all events, rescuing our son's 
 memory from disgrace, instead of consigning 
 it to oblivion." 
 
 My father, softened, perhaps, by Salcombe's 
 appeal to his paternal feelings, was silenced ; 
 and i think his interest in the first Countess 
 made him (though from habit he had contra- 
 dicted his friend) in his heart incline to the 
 same view of the case. He had been some- 
 what severely tried lately by acts of indiscre- 
 tion and exhibitions of temper on the part of 
 my eldest brother, who was of a more extra- 
 vagant disposition than accorded with the 
 habits of our household. Edward liked societv 
 of a gayer kind than was consistent with my 
 father's strict principles ; and he was in love 
 for the first time. His engagement was an 
 imprudent one, and had not yet received the 
 paternal sanction ; but when time should have 
 tested the stability of his attachment, my 
 father was not likely to drive him to despair 
 by over-severity. He had but to be patient, if
 
 44 Tin: earl's cedars. 
 
 he wished to overcome present difficulties. 
 Our younger brother was working hard, pr - 
 paring for college. As for me, when released 
 from my morning duties, I went unquestioned 
 with my dogs and gun over every part of 
 Lord St. Lo's noble domain, which, some- 
 times cultivated to the highest degree, else- 
 where became as wild as the surrounding 
 downs and commons. 
 
 That year was the first when we began to 
 hear that the deer in Lord St. Lo's park had 
 been shot by poachers. Hitherto the villagers 
 had looked with a certain degree of pride on 
 the Earl's Chace, but the familv had been so 
 long absent, that the interest once felt in them 
 was passing away. The tenantry were discon- 
 tented, and the poor murmured at the cessa- 
 tion of benefits and charities from the Hall, so 
 that altogether an evil spirit prevailed. 
 
 I was coming home late one evening across 
 the western extremity of the park, which was 
 enclosed by a high deer-fence, dividing it from 
 trackless, gorse-covered downs. The ground 
 in this remote spot was hilly and broken, with 
 here and there an oak-tree standing out alone 
 among fern and heather, and the sweeping 
 lines of seared foliage softly descending with 
 the slope of the banks into a grassy hollow. 
 Along this dewy glade, where the moon was 
 shining brightly on the wet twinkling blades
 
 the earl's cedars. 45 
 
 of the reeds and fern-stalks, there came, as I 
 stood looking down it, a noble stag, trotting 
 fearlessly on its way, doubtless to join the 
 herd of his companions under the distant 
 trees. I never beheld a finer creature ; — the 
 sylvan scene seemed truly fitted for him, and 
 he tossed his proud antlered head, and glanced 
 with his bright eyes towards either side, 
 shyly, indeed, but yet unconscious of present 
 danger. 
 
 Pie had gone past, and I saw him speed- 
 ing up the grassy slope of the hill-side, his 
 tall, graceful shape casting a distinct shadow 
 on the moonlit sward, when suddenly his 
 firm, swift pace was arrested. A shot re- 
 sounded through the wooded glen, and the 
 splendid creature I had been watching bounded 
 forward, and then fell prostrate on the turf. 
 His dying cry, the saddest sound I ever heard, 
 came through the sighing leaves like the wail 
 of a child whose heart is breaking with sor- 
 row. It reminded me of the grief of the Earl's 
 little daughter on the day when we were both, 
 left motherless ; and I thought, with indigna- 
 tion almost as great as if some ruffian had 
 harmed the young, delicate girl, of the vaga- 
 bonds who had stained the green grass with 
 the blood of the stately stag. 
 
 Perhaps my presence was discovered ; for, 
 after the shot, not another sound was heard.
 
 4G THE : S CEDARS. 
 
 I did not go nearer to the spot where the 
 antlercd kino; of the forest was lying, but, 
 resolving to let Lord St. Lo's keepers 
 know what was going forward in the park, 
 [ turned in the direction of the head forester's 
 lodge. 
 
 The way was up a deep woodland glade, 
 and, even by the shortest path, more than 
 a mile of uneven ground had to be tra- 
 versed. As I passed a dense thicket, I 
 fancied that a light twinkled in the grass, and 
 I distinctly heard a dog bark. Rashly enough, 
 I pushed through the trees, and in a moment 
 found my progress arrested. When the lan- 
 tern was flashed in my face, my captors recog- 
 nised me, and I saw that their force consisted 
 of several of the Earl's keepers, with super- 
 numeraries hastily enlisted, who were on the 
 watch for the poachers. 
 
 They told me that others were on the 
 look-out about the park, and that the ma- 
 rauders could not well escape them. The 
 shot whose effect I had witnessed had been 
 heard very plainly, but their orders were to 
 remain in their present ambush until a given 
 signal. 
 
 I took my stand with them, and waited 
 crouching anions; the underwood, and main- 
 taming the most profound silence. In about 
 half an hour a slight crackling of the boughs
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 47 
 
 set us on the alert, and presently a doe and 
 her fawns came through the trees and began 
 feeding in the more open space in front of us. 
 The men lay quite still, but the doe soon 
 seemed uneasy, and left off grazing. Then, 
 trooping along in haste, with their light limbs 
 and graceful heads, the whole herd of deer 
 swept past us. 
 
 The next instant, shots rattled among the 
 leaves, and the pretty dappled doe, with one 
 of her fawns, lay on the grass, while the rest 
 of the herd rushed swiftly away. I was forci- 
 bly held back till the cleer-stealers, deceived 
 by the silence which followed the discharge of 
 their guns, began to steal forth from the oppo- 
 site thicket towards the spot where lay the 
 carcases of their victims. After they had 
 quitted their shelter, the keepers sprang for- 
 ward, and a sharp fight ensued. I was too 
 much of a boy not to relish the excitement of 
 the fray, and laid about me, like the others, 
 till I saw one of the poachers club his gun 
 and strike Duncan Gedcles, the Scotch keeper, 
 a felling blow upon the head. My blood was 
 roused, and I snatched up, with an oath, the 
 man's gun, which he had dropped, and would 
 have fired it at the rascals, but for his prevent- 
 ing me. His stern rebuke, uttered in a fal- 
 tering voice, shamed me, and I knelt down 
 silently by his side, and bound up the severe 
 wound he had received.
 
 48 the earl's cedars. 
 
 By the time this was done, one or two of 
 the deer-stealers had been taken, and the rest 
 made their escape. His companions placed 
 Geddes on a hurdle to carry him home, but 
 the deadly faintness which came over him 
 more than once made them pause, and the 
 rough-bearded men looked anxiously to me 
 for advice. I felt proud to be of use, and 
 knew enough of surgery to alleviate the pain., 
 and stop the flow of blood ; but I was sur- 
 prised to see the tenderness these hardy fellows 
 showed towards their wounded comrade. They 
 measured their steps by what I thought he 
 could bear, as with what haste they could, but 
 treading cautiously, so as to spare him any 
 painful jolt the ruts and stones might occasion, 
 they bore him to his hut in the greenwood. 
 
 It was but a rude home, built of logs of 
 wood and thatched with furze, while the boughs 
 arched over it so closely that it was almost 
 invisible to passers-by; yet as they crossed 
 that humble threshold, each man of our com- 
 pany looked round him with an unmistakable 
 expression of love and reverence, as if, under 
 that low roof, each had received some heartfelt 
 benefit. 
 
 Duncan Geddes was a young man, un- 
 married, and had not been long in the EaiTs 
 service. He held only a subordinate position, 
 yet it was wonderful how soon his steady con- 
 duct and serious character won for him the
 
 the earl's cedars. 49 
 
 respect of his companions, some of whom were 
 sad reprobates. Their rude songs had gra- 
 dually been silenced; profane words and oaths 
 were no longer uttered in presence of the 
 young mountaineer. He had received a sim- 
 ple, solid education, and was possessed of a 
 natural gift of eloquence, which aided the 
 effect produced by his earnest piety upon his 
 English brethren of the forest. Many were 
 brought by his exertions to a knowledge of 
 the truth as it had been revealed to him in 
 the silent watches of the night, or when, as a 
 boy, he tended his sheep among the hills, and 
 pondered upon the teaching he had received, 
 during the quiet hours of the solemn Scottish 
 Sabbath. 
 
 As we laid him on his pallet, Duncan 
 stretched out his hand to the shelf above his 
 head, on ' which lay his Bible ; but his eyes 
 were not clear enough to see the small print 
 of the double columns. The men looked to 
 me as best able to read to them, but I felt 
 humbled, and as if unworthy to open the 
 sacred volume; nevertheless, I could not re- 
 fuse the sick man's request. Though I knew 
 the chapter well, it seemed, with those up- 
 turned, eager faces surrounding me, as if every 
 word was new ; while, now and then, in a deep, 
 low tone, with his emphatic Scottish accent, 
 the wounded keeper repeated the words of 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE EABJ/S CEDARS. 
 
 salvation after me. When I had finished, I left 
 him with those willing friends sitting beside 
 him ; having done, as far as I could, all that 
 was needful for the present, and promising to 
 brins; him better surgical aid on the morrow. 
 
 My father was quite at home in the fo- 
 rester's hut, and Duncan Geddes, it was evident, 
 valued his pious conversation as much as his 
 professional skill. I used to creep inside and 
 listen to them, while the old mare cropped the 
 long grass under the trees. A deep feeling 
 of reverence for my grave parent grew upon 
 me when I observed what familiar home truths 
 those were to him which had come upon nic 
 with such startling force by the bedside of the 
 young keeper. 
 
 I believe that he noticed my unusual 
 attention, and that it gave him satisfaction to 
 behold the change working in me ; but he was 
 a man of few words, except when they were 
 drawn forth by congenial sentiments, like those 
 of his new patient. I am certain he never 
 knew how long a time he spent by that rough 
 pallet, for he would start, and utter an exclam- 
 ation, if he perceived what long shadows the 
 trees were casting when he came forth, and 
 then take the reins into his own hand, and 
 drive fast across the common, after emerging 
 from the tangled forest track, to make up for the 
 period which had unconsciously slipped away.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 51 
 
 Duncan Gecldes did not forget me after he 
 recovered from the effects of his wound ; and, 
 strange to say, the strict, stern Presbyterian 
 became my favourite companion. He had 
 great corporeal strength and activity, which 
 excited my boyish admiration ; but still deeper 
 was the impression which his strong sense of 
 duty to his employer, his earnest faith and 
 fervent piety, made upon my mind. To see 
 this man, after a long, wearying day, sit down 
 contentedlv with his Bible in his hand, instead 
 of joining in the amusements too common 
 with his class, brought religion before me in 
 a different shape from any in which I had 
 hitherto regarded it. Many lessons which I 
 had heard carelessly at home found their way 
 to my heart when enforced by his strong, 
 homely phrases, redolent of the North. Hours 
 spent by the side of the trout stream in the 
 grounds of The Cedars, or in night-watches in 
 the loneliest parts of the park, which I often 
 shared with my new friend, were not wasted. 
 The good seed sown ripened in the quick soil 
 of the young heart into which it was dropped. 
 Duty, obedience, industry — hitherto cold, re- 
 pulsive words — acquired a new meaning. I 
 gave up idling away my time in vain reveries, 
 and steadily set myself to do the work ap- 
 pointed for me, qualifying myself by its per- 
 formance to the best of my abilities for the 
 arduous life already opening before me. 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Though my father had two maiden sisters, 
 living in a town twenty miles distant, to 
 whom he had always been a kind brother, he 
 did not, when my mother died, invite them 
 to live with us. With some few exceptions, 
 he was not partial to the society of ladies ; 
 and I never saw him, after her death, unbend 
 as he used to do to amuse my mother in 
 her last illness. The harder features of his 
 character came out and grew stronger when 
 he lost her, and he spent his few hours of leisure 
 in study. Dinah was promoted to the office 
 of housekeeper, and discharged its duties 
 under strict and somewhat eccentric regula- 
 tions of her master's, with which neither she 
 nor any of his family ventured to interfere. 
 
 I saw my father read twice over — con- 
 trary to his usual habits of quick dispatch — 
 a letter from Lord St. Lo, which the post 
 brought one morning at our early breakfast 
 hour. He handed it over to me, when at 
 last he had finished it, and then walked to the 
 window, where he stood looking steadily at
 
 the earl's cedars. 53 
 
 the row of pines opposite. Through the tree- 
 stems his eye fell upon the glittering ponds 
 near the Hall, and he could see how the wet 
 left by recent heavy storms flooded the lower 
 part of the park. 
 
 I heard him sav to himself in an under- 
 tone, — "Poor child! It would never do for 
 her to be there alone. She would soon follow 
 her mother to the grave." 
 
 He had fully made up his mind how to 
 act, I am sure, before I came to the end of the 
 first three florid phrases of the Irish noble- 
 man's letter. When I understood its drift, I 
 thought, in spite of his lavish protestations 
 of affection, there must be a lack of feeling 
 in her father's heart towards the motherless 
 girl whom he expressed a wish to place under 
 Mr. Frankland's care, during a visit which he 
 intended her to make at The Cedars. 
 
 The health of his eldest daughter had 
 always, he said, been extremely delicate, and 
 the melancholy death of his young sailor-son 
 — to which the Earl alluded in terms of 
 poignant sorrow — had been felt with peculiar 
 keenness by Lady Honoria. Adolphus was 
 her favourite brother. They had fallen into 
 a thousand headlong scrapes together. She 
 had made excuses for every fault, and mag- 
 nified each virtue the poor youth possessed; 
 and it w T as impossible to say when her nervous
 
 54 the earl's cedars. 
 
 system might recover from the shock it had 
 sustained, on hearing that his brief career was 
 closed for ever. 
 
 She had been alternately drowned in tears 
 and uttering wild, passionate reproaches, or 
 lost in a state of hard, stony, speechless grief, 
 since her arrival in town from their Irish 
 mansion to join Lady St. Lo and himself, 
 before their departure for the Continent. 
 Their arrangements had been made for win- 
 fcering abroad, under the idea that such a 
 change would be beneficial to the whole 
 family, after the distress they had all recently 
 undergone ; but the Countess naturally found 
 it quite beyond her powers to undertake, 
 during their tour, the management of — he 
 was afraid he must say — a somewhat refrac- 
 tory invalid ; and Lady Honoria very decid- 
 edly expressed her desire of remaining in 
 England. 
 
 If my father would add to the important 
 obligations already conferred upon Lord St. 
 Lo, by devoting some portion of his valuable 
 time and attention to the child, the Earl 
 declared that he should be able to 2:0 abroad 
 with a heart comparatively light. In case of 
 his preferring to receive her under his own 
 roof, instead of visiting her at the park, Lord 
 St. Lo would be delighted to forward so 
 desirable an arrangement. No doubt, if Mr.
 
 the earl's cedars. 55 
 
 Frankland had not been compelled, like him- 
 self, to provide for the comfort of his children 
 by a second marriage, he had some female 
 relative residing in his house who would 
 bestow a mother's care on the young girl. 
 
 I looked at my father with more respect 
 than I was feeling for the Earl, as I read 
 this sentence. Deep in that kind heart, I 
 well knew, lay the love for the dead mother 
 of his children. If, in some small matters, 
 we had missed a woman's tender care (and 
 what man can ever fulfil a mother's offices 
 of love?), at least he had kept her memory 
 and her place in our house sacred. We 
 had never trembled at the idea that he was 
 going to give her a successor. 
 
 Lady Honoria's fate was different, and I 
 pitied her sincerely. The delicate girl, an 
 encumbrance to the Countess's movements, 
 was to be sent to the low, damp burial-place 
 of her mother — the sad scene of her own 
 first deep grief, to recover amidst strangers 
 from the blow which had fallen upon her 
 so heavily. My indignation at Lord St. 
 Lo's inhumanity was warmly echoed by my 
 father. 
 
 " It is just like him," he said. " The 
 young wife and second family are everything 
 now. This poor girl is only a painful me- 
 mento of the past. I thought how it would
 
 56 the earl's cedars. 
 
 be, when lie wanted to be buried in the same 
 grave with his Honoria, and left a space i 
 his own name to be inserted on her tomb- 
 stone. Such violent grief seldom outlasts 
 the twelvemonth." 
 
 He was silent. Memory carried him 
 back to the dark November day when, with 
 little outward sign of sensibility, he had seen 
 the tomb close over his own every hope and 
 joy — that day for which he had ever since 
 worn mourning, not only outwardly, but in 
 his heart of hearts. 
 
 " The child cannot go to The Cedars," he 
 said, abruptly changing the subject. " She 
 must come here. Let me see : how long is it 
 
 since " he paused, and added in a lower 
 
 tone: — "She was five years old then; she 
 must be fourteen now. It will be very in- 
 convenient ; but I cannot let her go to that 
 unhealthy place at this season. Half the 
 park is flooded." 
 
 "The waters were out by Marley pond- 
 when I came past yesterday, I said. " The 
 house is always damp in autumn, and next 
 month is generally a very rainy one." 
 
 " To be sure it is. I must write to the 
 Earl, and offer to receive her. He takes it 
 for granted that we can find room, and con- 
 jures up a maiden aunt, expressly to take care 
 of her. These great men think nothing of
 
 the earl's cedars. 57 
 
 the trouble they give. I suppose I must drive 
 over and fetch Margery/' 
 
 I dare sav my countenance fell con- 
 siderably. I was delighted with the prospect 
 of a visit from the Earl's daughter ; but my 
 father's eldest sister, a stiff and starched old 
 maid, was not likely to be so agreeable an 
 acquisition. 
 
 On this point my father, whether he 
 guessed my sensations or not, did not consult 
 me, but wrote at once to Lord St. Lo. 
 When the letter was sent to post, it was 
 apparently dismissed from his mind. He 
 went about his avocations as usual; but I 
 heard him tell Galpin to give the mare a 
 double feed of corn the next morning ; and 
 I had to visit some of his patients while he 
 drove over, at his quickest pace, to the town 
 where his sisters lived, since his marriage, on 
 the interest of a sum of money which he had 
 secured to them. 
 
 I thought Aunt Margery looked less angular 
 than usual, when, in a shorter time than could 
 have been expected, considering the long drive 
 and her feminine preparations for a visit of some 
 duration, my father brought his sister and her 
 wardrobe back with him in the gig. She was 
 not sufficiently at home among us, the first 
 evening, to find as much fault as, I remem- 
 bered, she used to do when we were children j
 
 58 the earl's cedars. 
 
 and I saw her eves moisten as she glanced 
 round the sitting-room my mother had occu- 
 pied, but which, in my aunt's younger days, was 
 the guest-chamber. After all, we none of us 
 like changes in what we have been long accus- 
 tomed to, and Aunt Margery always preferred 
 in her heart the dingy parlour below, with its 
 wire-blinds screening it from the turnpike- 
 road, darkened by Lord St. Lo's trees, to the 
 pretty apartment above-stairs, commanding a 
 prospect of the park, which, after my father 
 fitted it up for her as a drawing-room, was the 
 joy of my mother's heart. 
 
 I liked our visitor better for not sitting 
 down in the low chair bv the window, which 
 was scarcelv ever used bv any of us. Our 
 grandfather's straight, high-backed seat suited 
 her better than the fautcnil which had been 
 Lady St. Lo's first present to my mother, and 
 where I often fancied, still, that I saw her pale, 
 sweet face smiling upon us, as when, during 
 the last summer evenings of her life, she used 
 to sit watching the sun decline behind the 
 pine-trees. 
 
 Neither did Aunt Margery entertain any 
 wish to occupy the sleeping-room on the oppo- 
 site side of the passage, which my father had 
 not entered since his wife's death, and which I 
 had secretly appropriated to our other expected 
 guest. Our respected maiden relative had
 
 the earl's cedars. 59 
 
 fancies of her own, and carried her bandbox, 
 which she would allow no one to touch, 
 while I bore her small portmanteau, to an an- 
 tiquated chamber at the back of the house, 
 once called the nursery, and running out, with 
 a low, sloping roof, over the surgery. 
 
 This used to belong to her and to her sis- 
 ters. No doubt the dark holes under the 
 rafters, which she said, gravely, were mightily 
 convenient for boxes, had been hiding-places 
 and play-corners in her childhood, and the low 
 window-sill on which she placed her looking- 
 glass, to arrange the cap she had drawn forth 
 from the bandbox, had some of the light of 
 youth still shining upon it ; for her face seemed 
 smoother and softer, even to me, her saucy 
 nephew, as she looked into it, and settled the 
 perfectly smooth braids of her hair, before 
 s:oino; down with me a2;ain. She said that it 
 was too dark for me to perceive them, but I 
 certainly could not discover many grey hairs 
 among her still abundant tresses ; and when 
 she shook out the folds of her silk dress, after 
 the crumpling it had experienced in the gig, I 
 thought that, with a little less formality, my 
 father's sister would have been an agreeable, 
 ladylike-looking person. 
 
 The tea-table appeared much more com- 
 fortable than usual when my aunt presided 
 over it, and my father, who was in the habit
 
 60 THE EARL S CEDAKS. 
 
 of taking every meal after the most uncomfort- 
 able fashion, paid her the compliment of 
 sitting down, on the present occasion, and 
 remained with us till he was summoned to 
 attend a patient. Edward went out after him ; 
 but I thought it uncivil to leave my aunt 
 alone, upon the first evening, for many years, 
 which she had spent in our house. Old recol- 
 lections were crowding upon her, as she sat 
 looking down upon the quiet road past our 
 door, on which in her youth she had gazed 
 constantly. She told me of the changes she 
 had seen, and of others, before her time, in 
 the place ; and likewise more than I had ever 
 known as yet about my mother, and the cir- 
 cumstances which had led to her marriage. 
 
 " It was a sore trial to us, my dear, and 
 we doubted whether it would be for my bro- 
 ther's happiness. He used to say that ' medi- 
 cal men and the clergy should leave household 
 cares alone/ ' she observed, in a low and firm, 
 but not unkindly, tone, as we sat in the twi- 
 light together. " I am not o-oins; to sav a word 
 against Mrs. Frankland, except that she was 
 too refined and pretty for her lot ; and Robert 
 had always peculiar notions, which, perhaps, his 
 sisters thought might have been more respected. 
 But, after all, I dare say we should have spoilt 
 him. He did not care a straw for things that 
 were the very breath of her life, and he had
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 61 
 
 strong impressions against all kinds of luxury, 
 and little prettinesses which there used to be 
 about the house in her time; and, I can 
 assure you, I miss them sadly. There was 
 always a sweet scent of flowers in the room 
 which I called faintish ; but I should like it 
 now. Ah, well ! she is gone ; and I believe 
 there never was a better woman, nor one that 
 was more shrined in her husband's heart. He 
 has never got over losing her." 
 
 I did not answer, and my aunt went on 
 talking, in the same quiet, musing way, while 
 her fingers were busy with her knitting, which 
 she never looked at, and her eyes rested on the 
 trees opposite to the window, through which 
 the evening sky and glimpses of the park- 
 scenery were visible. 
 
 " I have often thought since that she was 
 right, and we were wrong, about Robert, which 
 is a good deal for me to own. All the changes 
 that we grumbled at for costing money, and 
 imagined were thrown away upon him, had 
 their meaning, and answered their purpose, I 
 dare say; though we were too short-sighted 
 to see it. It was not his way to speak of his 
 feelings ; but I think it did him good when he 
 came home to look out upon a bit of green, 
 and to see the roses blooming in the garden. 
 Men who lead hard lives, like your father, 
 want loving, womanly ways about them, — not
 
 62 the earl's cedars. 
 
 chips of wood, — blocks as stiff in the grain as 
 themselves, such as I and Mary have become ! ' 
 
 " I don't see it aunt/' I said, taking her 
 hand, as she laid down her work for a moment. 
 " I am not much used to any lady's society, 
 but I think the house seems pleasanter, and 
 more like what it ought to be, since you 
 entered it." 
 
 " I am glad you think so," she said, hur- 
 riedly going on with her work. "When this 
 young lady comes, we will try what we can do 
 to make her like it. There was a link be- 
 tween her mother and yours that Gives her a 
 place in your father's heart; and no man has a 
 kinder one. I saw it, the moment he told me 
 how sadly alone they were leaving her. You 
 see, Charles, though he has a rough manner, 
 like the rest of us, your father knows what 
 constitutes a real lady, for a sweeter one never 
 stepped the earth than your mother! How 
 she came to fancy him I never knew — in bis 
 eternal brown coat and overalls! — but she 
 loved him, in spite of all the opposition she 
 met with from her mother, the Dean's widow, 
 who was quite a line lady, and could not bear 
 that her pretty daughter should marry a poor 
 naval surgeon, with nothing to look forward to 
 in life but a settlement in a country village, 
 practising among parish paupers. She took 
 Emily out of harm's way, and travelled about.
 
 THE EAUL S CEDAES. 63 
 
 giving her ail kinds of advantages, but it was 
 of no use. I won't sav that, at the time, we 
 should not have been glad if her plan had suc- 
 ceeded. Our own parents were set against 
 the match, and Mary and I knew how much 
 we should lose if the home to which we looked 
 forward with Robert were broken up. We re- 
 joiced when we heard he had a rival, and a 
 formidable one, too, in a young nobleman 
 whom the Dean, her father, had brought up ; 
 and that all his relations were courting her to 
 come among them. But she stood firm against 
 all, even her mother's tears and their blandish- 
 ments, and wrote to Robert, who, as soon as 
 he heard how she was beset with persecutions, 
 set everything on one side, and went to claim 
 her. He told them all to their faces that 
 Emily was as good as his wife, and she con- 
 firmed it, and clung to him in spite of her gay 
 friends and acquaintances, though he went 
 just in his every-day suit, and spoke only the 
 plain words of truth that sprang to his lips. 
 They did not marry then, but, after one walk 
 together — she in her pretty silks and finery, he 
 in his old gaiters and tawny coat — they 
 parted, fast bound to each other. He worked 
 to gain a living for us, and, till my mother died, 
 never said a word of what was in his heart. 
 Then he helped my brother Henry to make a 
 home for us, and settled all he had saved as 
 our income, and went back and married his
 
 64 the earl's cedars. 
 
 true-love. I believe they went through great 
 hardships, for she followed him cheerfully, 
 while your Uncle Harry, who was just come 
 back from the West Indies, took the practice 
 here for a time. Your father held a coast- 
 guard appointment, and Ned was born in a 
 Martello-tower, where your mother spent the 
 first year of her marriage, never murmuring, 
 so they were together, at whatever privations 
 attended her. Henry's death altered every- 
 thing, and Robert came home to practise here, 
 where his father had made himself respected 
 before him. At first, we all lived together, but 
 that did not quite answer ; so, with much 
 sorrow, we left the old house, and he and his 
 wife altered it after their own fashion, and 
 brought up their children as they liked best, 
 without consulting us." 
 
 My aunt stopped suddenly, after the last 
 sentence was concluded, as though she felt 
 that there was a little of the old bitterness in 
 her heart, and reproached herself on that 
 account. Her eye fell on the low chair, 
 empty beside the window, — on the table 
 standing in the shadowy recess, where my 
 mother's taste had placed it, and on the tall, 
 white vase, still occupying its centre, but 
 where no flowers bloomed. She did not speak 
 again, but I saw that, diligently as she went 
 on with her work, her hands trembled, and 
 more than one tear dropped upon it.
 
 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A grief deeply felt in ray childhood, but 
 latterly wearing away, had been revived by 
 my aunt's words, and it seems to me that I 
 never missed my gentle mother's presence 
 and softening influence in our house so much 
 as on the day when we were expecting the 
 Earl's daughter. Aunt Margery had done 
 her best, and by dint of perpetual fault-finding 
 on her part, and great exertion of patience on 
 Dinah's, the load of litter we had accumulated 
 was cleared away, and the house underwent a 
 thorough reformation j but I do not think she 
 understood anything about embellishing it. 
 She had lived quite out of the world for 
 several vears with an invalid sister, and, ex- 
 cepting at rare moments, like those when, on 
 the first evening after her arrival, she sat in 
 my mother's drawing-room, with remorse for 
 past unkindness knocking heavily at her heart, 
 she was a woman of a strong practical turn of 
 mind, in character not unlike my father. 
 
 I wondered at seeing him going about 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 the earl's cedars. 
 
 as usual, and every now and then forgetting 
 that we were expecting a visitor. Xot one of 
 earth's monarchs would have possessed the 
 same claim upon my respect as the youthful 
 daughter of the St. Loes. I should have liked 
 much better to see her at The Cedars than in our 
 village-home. The parlour seemed dark and 
 low ; the drawing-room, cold and empty ; the 
 private apartments destined for her miserably 
 comfortless ; and Aunt Margery, in her stiff 
 attire, the vcrv reverse of attractive. 
 
 To my father, Lady Honoria St. Lo was 
 a little wayward, ailing child, to whom he 
 meant to be kind, and whom, at the cost 
 of great inconvenience, he was receiving under 
 his roof, as he would have done any other 
 equally desolate girl, whose mother's dying- 
 eyes he had closed, and in whose behalf an 
 appeal had been made to his benevolence. 
 The kind and friendly adviser so often seated 
 by the Countess's pillow, during those lonely 
 hours of suffering spent by her at The Cedars, 
 must have had many sorrows and anxieti 
 confided to him. Lord St. Lo's hasty resolu- 
 tion to place his daughter under Mr. Frank- 
 land's care had, I have reason to bclie\ 
 brought back to my fathers mind her mo- 
 ther's pathetic lamentations at leaving her 
 darling alone in a world which, at the last, had 
 deserted her, and to the tender mercies of a
 
 the earl's cedars. 67 
 
 parent whose feelings she doubtless knew, 
 though she never openly blamed him, to be as 
 evanescent as his principles were unstable. 
 
 Though he had seemed more than ordina- 
 rily busy all day, my father was at the gate, 
 when the carriage stopped, to receive the 
 invalid girl. I never heard his voice so soft 
 since he used to whisper comfort to his dying 
 wife, as it sounded when he took the poor child 
 in his arms and lifted her out, giving her a 
 warm, fatherly embrace. I do not know how 
 she received it, for a sudden shyness had 
 come over me, and I went back into the pas- 
 sage, after watching more than an hour in 
 the garden for her arrival. 
 
 The first thing that startled me, as I stood 
 sulkily leaning against the window-seat, with 
 my back to the glass, full of curiosity, but 
 ashamed to show myself, was the sound of a 
 sweet, clear voice, with a very decided Irish 
 accent, speaking to my father. I looked 
 through the window involuntarily, and saw a 
 wild, sweet face, fresh as mountain-air could 
 render it, with dew resting on the long eye- 
 lashes and flushed cheeks, and no visible sign 
 of infirmity or ill -health in the lithe, elastic 
 frame. Though her eyes were very dark and 
 deeply shaded, Lady Honoria's complexion 
 was as fair as it had been when I kissed her 
 little, soft cheek, wet with the tears shed for
 
 68 the earl's cedars. 
 
 her mother. Her hair, onlv one shade darker, 
 hung in the same light, loose ringlets. The 
 tall, slight form seemed full of youthful 
 energy ; the delicately small foot trod the 
 ground lightly; yet she stopped suddenly 
 and panted for breath, as she mounted the 
 three steps up to the door, and I saw my 
 father look grave, and place his arm round 
 her slender waist to support her. 
 
 " Well, we '11 not talk of it," I heard him 
 say, kindly. "A little quiet is certainly 
 needed. You are at home, here, my dear ; 
 and I am glad your father and Lady St. Lo 
 have chosen to confide you to me." 
 
 "Please, then, don't name them!' said 
 the young girl, speaking, with a slight hesita- 
 tion, in the accents which had sounded so 
 flowingly as she came up the garden. " I 
 mean, not my father, nor the Countess; — I 
 can't bear it. Another time, mavbe, I '11 
 tell you why ; but I couldn't do it to- 
 night." 
 
 Her eyes looked perfectly black, as her 
 heavy lids, with their long fringes, drooped 
 over them. Suddenly a flash burst through 
 the cloud, as she caught sight of the shy 
 youth in the shadow of the doorway. 
 
 "What is it you're hiding for? Why, 
 it 's the boy that used to be kind to me, and 
 once brought me the little dog to play with,
 
 the earl's cedars. 69 
 
 — the only living English creature that ever 
 loved me. I 'd have it now, only she took it 
 from me. Why don't you come and speak to 
 me r 
 
 She held out her hand to me, and then 
 gave it to Aunt Margery, who came out of 
 the parlour to welcome her, and whose quiet 
 manner seemed to calm the volatile creature. 
 From the first moment she nestled up to my 
 grave relative, as if her somewhat awful 
 aspect had no terrors for her. She obeyed 
 her implicitly, though a certain haughty ges- 
 ture, checked instinctively, showed that it was 
 not natural to her to be so submissive. 
 
 It was quite impossible to regard her with- 
 out interest and admiration. Her exquisitely 
 fair complexion, set off by the black of her 
 deep-mourning attire, the careless rings of 
 her fair hair, the grace of each unstudied 
 movement of her slight form, and the some- 
 times plaintive, sometimes joyous, intonations 
 of her sweet voice, were indescribably fasci- 
 nating. 
 
 When the servants came in to prayers, — 
 the only habit in our house which was punc- 
 tually observed, — Lady Honoria looked sur- 
 prised, and as if totally unprepared for what 
 was to follow. Her eyes were fixed on my 
 father's grave countenance with a kind of 
 wonder, as he emphatically expounded the
 
 70 the earl's cedars. 
 
 Scriptures, after a short petition that we 
 might interpret them rightly. Then she 
 knelt down by the side of Aunt Margery, and 
 I could not help listening for the voice which 
 seemed to me borrowed from the breeze that 
 might hover above Irish lakes and rivers, as it 
 faintly responded. After this, she seemed 
 quite at home among us, and went up an<\ 
 kissed my father and my aunt, as if she 
 had been their own child, before retiring for 
 the night.
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I had been very much affronted with Aunt 
 Margery, on the day when the great setting- 
 straight of our house was going forward, for 
 putting out of sight the model-frigate, rigged, 
 with the assistance of my sailor-friend, Mat- 
 thews, like a man-of-war, which had hitherto 
 occupied a place of honour on the side-board 
 of the dining-parlour. It struck me that she 
 had a good motive for hiding it, when I found 
 Lady Honoria, the morning after she came, 
 crying bitterly over the little ship, which she 
 had discovered far back on a deep shelf of a 
 press that stood open on the landing-place of 
 the attic sfbry. 
 
 I dare say the young girl felt very lonely 
 on awaking in a strange dwelling. The roar- 
 ing of the sea, she said, had aroused her. 
 The tide was coming in very loudly over the 
 pebble-bar, and she could not remain in bed. 
 Most likely it was the first time in her life 
 that she had dressed herself without help ; and 
 she had crept up to the highest part of the
 
 72 the earl's cedars. 
 
 house, where she saw that there was light 
 shining down from a window upon the stair- 
 case, to obtain a view of the ocean. 
 
 There was no one stirring in the house 
 but ourselves, for our family were not syste- 
 matically early risers. The girl sat crouched 
 up on the window-sill, her long, slender 
 limbs gathered under her, her arms crossed 
 over her bosom, which was heaving with 
 emotion, while her dark, troubled eyes 
 glanced now at the toy I had fabricated, then 
 rested on the distant line of sea. She did not 
 move or speak when I approached her, further 
 than to draw the folds of her white morning 
 frock away, as if to make room for me to sit 
 down by her; and I did so without hesitation. 
 
 All the colour which had given her an 
 appearance of health, the evening before, had 
 vanished. Her cheeks were deadly pale, and 
 beneath her eyes were deep shadows, which 
 made them seem larger. The ringlets were 
 all carelessly braided back from her forehead, 
 unskilfully fastened up, and half escaping 
 from the comb which was intended to hold 
 them. Her brow was painfully contracted, 
 and her small hands appeared clenched with 
 the vehemence of one who is struggling as 
 much with rage as grief. 
 
 For more than a quarter of an hour, we 
 sat there without speaking, watching the white
 
 THE EARLS CEDARS. 73 
 
 crest of each foaming wave advance higher 
 and higher on the ridge. My thoughts had 
 flown, at sight of her distress, to where hers, 
 no doubt, were fixed. I saw the Hogue, 
 after which I had named my model-frigate, 
 proudly sailing on her course, her white canvas 
 swelling in the breeze, and, in her wake, like 
 a speck upon the silver sea, the boat upon 
 the waters. Then the sudden squall, the 
 dangerous lug-sail carelessly handled, a wild 
 cry, and the rendering up of a young life, 
 and a soul buoyant with aspirations, such as 
 filled my own heart, into the hands of its 
 Creator. 
 
 " Is it poor Adolphus you are thinking 
 of?' Lady Honoria said, at last, bending 
 forward, and startling me out of my reverie, 
 when I found that her large, wild eyes were 
 turned upon me. " I thought no one was 
 sorry for him but me. Is that why you 
 named the little ship the Hogue ? I wish 
 you would give her to me." 
 
 " I am sorry you found it, since the sight 
 has grieved you/' I answered ; " but, if you 
 would really like to have it, it is yours. I 
 began to carve it several years ago, and, last 
 summer, an old sailor on the beach taught me 
 how to rig it." 
 
 I stopped, for I was afraid to tell her what 
 had suggested the name ; but the wild eyes
 
 74 the earl's cedars. 
 
 were fixed upon me with a sort of resistless 
 power, and the words were drawn forth against 
 my will. 
 
 " One day, after a storm, we picked up in 
 a raging sea part of a boat belonging to the 
 ship after which I named my vessel. If you 
 like, I will try to procure that relic for yon." 
 
 I never beheld such a storm of weeping as 
 shook the poor girl's frame, while we sat to- 
 gether on the old oak window-ledge. 
 
 " Ah, now, I 'd give all, and more than all 
 I am ever likelv to be worth in the world for it !" 
 she said, at last, in a hoarse whisper. <c Is it gold 
 the old seaman wants ? Oh, buy it for me !' 
 
 "Will you ask him for it yourself?' I 
 said, for I scarcely knew how to work upon 
 Matthews's sullen nature, and I thought her 
 grief might move him. " Are you afraid to 
 go down to the beach with me? It is a 
 longer walk than it appears from this 
 window." 
 
 The girl sprang up in an instant. " I am 
 coming," she said simply, and slid noiselessly 
 down 'the stair, and into her room. The 
 next moment, she stood beside me in a large, 
 low-crowned hat, with black feathers drooping 
 over the brim, and a rough cloak. The fas- 
 tenings on our doors were slight, and we went 
 out without disturbing: anv one. 
 
 I took her bv the shortest way to the
 
 the earl's cedars. 75 
 
 beach, through the low grounds of her father's 
 park, only avoiding such spots as my know- 
 ledge of the place told me would now be 
 flooded. We went past the large withy-bed, 
 with its embankment, and the sluices which 
 were made use of to ensnare the wildfowl 
 that frequented the marshes ; and then we 
 ascended the pebble-ridge. As we mounted 
 it, the wind blew very wildly, but my com- 
 panion faced the blast fearlessly. I observed 
 her shudder, nevertheless, when we reached 
 the summit, and saw before us the wide, foam- 
 ing ocean. 
 
 The thunder of the roaring billows would 
 have drowned any words she might utter ; 
 but I knew her wish, and guided her to the 
 hut which Matthews had constructed on the 
 beach. 
 
 His boat was hauled up on the shingles, 
 and the door made fast : I called and knocked, 
 but no answer came. At last I put my hand 
 into a hole above the door, where the seaman 
 sometimes placed the key of his dwelling be- 
 fore going on the water, and drew it forth. 
 
 The hut was empty, and no clue left to 
 discover where its owner might be found. 
 There had been no fire kindled lately on the 
 hearth, and his few possessions had mostly 
 disappeared; yet I had never heard of his depar- 
 ture. Lady Honoria was bitterly disappointed,
 
 76 the eabl's cedars. 
 
 but I promised to make inquiries about him, 
 and, if possible, get for her the fragment of 
 the lost boat, She was forced to be satisfied, 
 but she pulled her hat over her brow as \vc 
 returned, and neither sea nor sky obtained 
 another glance from her. 
 
 The window-shutters of the house were 
 open when we came back, but no one had 
 missed us. Lady Honoria went to her own 
 room, silently and quietly, and I did not see 
 her again till later in the morning, when she 
 was quite differently dressed, in black. The 
 young girl looked sadly weary, before even- 
 ing, of that first, long, dull day spent in a small 
 country-house, and must have felt the unoc- 
 cupied hours hang heavily on her hands. She 
 bad no work — those slender fingers were quite 
 unskilled, apparently, in the use of the needle. 
 All she did with them was to thread my aunt's 
 needles for her ; and, I believe, the good old 
 soul worked faster than usual when she found 
 that the melancholy face beside her lighted up 
 with pleasure at her asking for this slight 
 assistance. 
 
 All my aunt's questions respecting her 
 acquirements elicited only the same monosyl- 
 lable in reply. She did not draw or play — she 
 had never had lessons in French, Italian, or Ger- 
 man ; certainly, no Earl's daughter could have 
 fewer accomplishments. She could swim and
 
 the earl's cedars. 77 
 
 fence, and play cricket, and foe at a mark; 
 but, of late, she had had no one to take part 
 in these not very orthodox amusements for a 
 young lady ; and a sigh followed the mention 
 of them. 
 
 As she went up-stairs at night, I saw her 
 stand for a moment looking at the moon, 
 which was shining over the trees on the oppo- 
 site side of the road belonging to the Earl's 
 park. 
 
 "Are those the cedars?' she asked me, 
 pointing to where their lofty, spreading sha- 
 dows blackened the grass, on which, else- 
 where, the first white frost of the autumn was 
 glimmering. " You shall take me to see thern 
 to-morrow, and I will tell you about Adolphus 
 as we sit under them. It is not gloomy 
 enough here." 
 
 When I left her, my father asked me 
 what the young lady had called me for ; and 
 I repeated her words. He thought it would 
 do her good to speak of her brother, and 
 that the effort to restrain the expression 
 of her grief had been injurious to her. I 
 scarcely knew how I had won her confidence, 
 but it flattered me ; and the pale, dark- 
 browed, melancholy girl, filled with despair- 
 ing grief for her sailor-brother, inspired me 
 with the deepest sympathy. 
 
 I was up early the next day, but she
 
 78 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 did not join me ; and when, after breakfast, 
 I purposely waited to receive her commands 
 and attend upon her, she seemed to have 
 forgotten the wish she had expressed the 
 night before. 
 
 My aunt, who had not heard what passed, 
 was furious with me for idling about, and 
 coming into the drawing-room every ten mi- 
 nutes; and at length my patience was tired 
 out. The capricious young lady sat listlessly 
 at the window from which she could catch a 
 glimpse of the cedars, till the transient 
 autumnal sunshine left their broad tops, and 
 clouds gathered overhead. When the day 
 was so completely overcast that there seemed 
 no chance of her wanting an escort, my 
 father, who had been considerate enough to 
 leave me unfettered, called me, and I was 
 kept steadily employed till late in the after- 
 noon. 

 
 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I went out at the close of a busy day, to 
 cool my impatience by a walk in the mist. 
 The glades of the park were filled with white 
 vapour, which curled up like smoke among 
 the trees, and lay thick upon the grass. 
 When I reached the wide space under the 
 cedars, I found the Earl's drawing-room free 
 from fog, and the bare ground beneath the 
 boughs of the great trees was dry ; but every 
 opening gave a view of the wreathing, eddy- 
 ing volumes now floating away before the 
 rising wind, and then again rolling over 
 more densely, and completely obscuring the 
 prospect. 
 
 In opposition to the shadowy distance, 
 the massive trunks and strong branches of 
 the cedars were clearly defined, and stood out 
 darkly and solemnly against the dim, grey, 
 shifting curtain of the mist. There was no 
 
 wind strong enough to stir their foliage ; the 
 
 i i 
 
 merest twig stood motionless ; and underneath 
 
 them the rich brown hue of the soil was uni-
 
 80 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 formly spread, like a costly but sombre carpet. 
 I had been walking up and down for halt an 
 hour, charing at the disappointment I had 
 experienced in not showing these splendid 
 trees in the beauty of the morning to Lady 
 Honoria, when she suddenly came through 
 the veil of shifting vapour outside the cedars, 
 and joined me. 
 
 " I 'd rather see them so than with the 
 morning sunshine on their brows," she said, 
 looking upward. " They don't like it more 
 than I do, the grim giants ! There 's mighty 
 little pleasure to them in the sun-rays, that 
 they would shut out if they could, and do, 
 mostly, only now and then a stray one creeps 
 ill and gets lost among them. I could fancy 
 them holding a court-martial, like those sea- 
 tyrants, on some poor child that 's mad with 
 their cruelty," she half- whispered in an 
 awe -struck tone, gazing at the frowning 
 cedars, as if gifting them with human indi- 
 viduality. " There 's one, tall, straight, and 
 stiff as the mast of some three-decker. That 's 
 one of poor Adolphus's judges ! and here *s- 
 one that 's bent, but not yielding : it 's only 
 his own crooked fancy he 's pursuing ; not 
 one of them dreaming of indulgence to the 
 poor lad, whose brain is sometimes half-crazed 
 with looking out to sea from the maintopmast. 
 when the ship reels before the blast."
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 81 
 
 '" Oh, you're smiling!" she went on, sud- 
 denly glancing at one of the trees on which a 
 gleam fell momentarily through the fog ; " and 
 there's a bit of ivy has tried to wind itself 
 round you : but it 's dying. You flattered 
 him a little when your ship got the praise for 
 sending its signals aloft fastest ; but there was 
 no compassion in your hard heart the day the 
 poor lad's sight failed him, and the wind blew 
 the flag away, and another frigate answered 
 first. That 's what you never forgave him. 
 ' Is it sleeping you are, young sir, to let 
 others get the start of you ? ' and not only 
 such cruel words as those, but the blow that 
 no gentleman could stand, and that broke 
 the lad's heart fairly." 
 
 Her cheek reddened, and her small hands 
 were clenched with rage, as, in her strongest 
 Irish accent, she told me of the harsh treat* 
 ment her favourite brother had met with. 
 Doubtless, there was some exaggeration in her 
 fanciful statement ; but I believe that, in the 
 merciless rigour which the half-educated, ill- 
 disciplined boy had experienced from his 
 superiors, there was enough to excite a tamer 
 spirit than his sister's. 
 
 "Don't go to sea!" she continued, pre- 
 sently. " You don't know what tyrants some 
 of those naval captains are. They are very 
 well on shore. I have seen them sit at our 
 
 VOL. i. g
 
 82 the earl's cedars. 
 
 table, and heard them praise and flatter the 
 poor boy they have helped to drown ; but 
 they are very different afloat. There is one I 
 know of has the blackest heart, and never a 
 word of kindness ; and keeps the young lads 
 in the ship till it seems like a prison ; and 
 oh ! to gather a flower, or feel the land-breeze 
 blow on them, would be their salvation ! 
 But he won't hear of it ; and so thev rebel, 
 and go ashore without leave, and never 
 jcome back! — that's the worst of it. How 
 I wish I could believe we '11 meet again in 
 heaven !" 
 
 She fixed her dark, melancholy eyes upon 
 the grey sky, just visible between the cedar- 
 branches overhead, among which the evening 
 wind, as it swept off the drops left by the 
 wet fog upon the boughs, seemed to sound in 
 our ears like the wail of the dvino;. 
 
 " Even when Ave are in most trouble," I 
 said, trying to soothe her, " the thought of 
 heaven should comfort us. Your brother was 
 unkindly dealt with on earth ; let us trust 
 that, his faults forgiven by a more merciful 
 Judge, he may be with both our mothers in 
 paradise ! ' 
 
 "I'd like to sec into it clearer," iid 
 Lady Honoria, her wonderfully expressive 
 eyes seeming to grow larger as she gazed up 
 at the sky. " It is very cloudy and troubled
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. S3 
 
 up yonder ; but if they get their children 
 there with them, the mothers will warm them 
 at their hearts. But, then, how will it be if 
 we are so wicked?" she added, in atone of 
 anguish. " I am, I know — and Damian ; and 
 they tell me poor Adolphus deserved his fate. 
 She said so. I wish her tongue was blistered, 
 for the hard thought and the cruel heart that 
 let her speak it !' 
 
 Her voice nearlv broke down between 
 choking tears and passion. 
 
 " She hates us all ! There 's not a crime 
 she wouldn't commit to be freed from us, and 
 have her petted darlings in my brothers' 
 place !" she exclaimed, sobbing. "Adolphus 
 is gone ; and they 've taken Damian away ; 
 and soon I '11 be the last of them ! She has 
 stolen our father from us, and made our 
 home so dreary, it passes me to live there ! 
 I 'd rather be here, where my own mother 
 died, though it 's breaking my heart, I am, 
 among strangers, than with her in a foreign 
 country ! I 'm afraid of her ! There 's a cruel 
 look in her eyes, and a hard touch of her 
 hand, when she means to be caressing, that 
 freezes my blood ; and then I can't speak ; 
 and it lies like a load at my heart that she 's 
 lling my brothers, and that I can do nought 
 In stay her ! " 
 
 She flung herself on the broAvn earth, and
 
 84 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 clung to the great cedar- trunk nearest to her, 
 as if for protection. I was perplexed what to 
 say to her, or how to comfort her ; but I could 
 not let the poor child believe herself forsaken 
 by God and man ; though I felt that on earth 
 her destiny was a sad one. 
 
 As I talked to her, she grew surprisingly 
 calm and gentle. The least kindness seemed 
 new to her, and to produce an extraordinary 
 effect. When I reminded her that her hair 
 and dress were wet from the mist, and that 
 my father . and aunt would be uneasy at her 
 staying out so late, she got up directly. 
 
 "Will any one care if it hurts me?' : she 
 said. "No one minded in Ireland. I'd be 
 wandering about half the night at the old 
 castle, and never missed. I suppose it may 
 be different here." 
 
 We walked quietly back through the drip- 
 ping wood-paths, reaching home before it 
 grew quite dark, but not early enough to pre- 
 vent alarm being felt respecting the delicate 
 girl who had been confided to my father's 
 charge. 
 
 He had gone out to look for her ; and my 
 aunt was bustling about, making all sorts of 
 preparations to obviate the danger of her 
 taking cold, scolding Lady Honoria's maid, 
 and insisting, as soon as she saw her, upon 
 her going to bed immediately. The hitherto
 
 the earl's cedars. 85 
 
 neglected child obeyed all her injunctions, 
 with a sort of gratified wonder at being con- 
 sidered of so much importance ; and when I 
 went along the road to meet my father, and 
 tell him of her safety, I saw the red firelight 
 shining out from her room with a warm, com- 
 fortable gleam, and figures moving about 
 waiting upon her, behind the white window- 
 blind.
 
 S6 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When she came down, the following day, 
 Lady Honoria sat in my mother's low chair in 
 the recess between the fireplace and the win- 
 dow, watching the pine-trees swaying in the 
 strong blast, and the rain dimpling the surface 
 of the pools of water collected in the road. 
 
 My Aunt Margery, who bore her company, 
 was accustomed to a stirring, industrious life. 
 The sister with whom she usually resided was, 
 from ill-health, dependent upon her, and re- 
 quired so much attention, that sometimes, 
 during the whole morning, she told us she 
 never sat still for ten minutes. One of poor 
 Uncle Henry's daughters was at present with 
 the invalid ; and Aunt Margery, released from 
 one affectionate servitude, was ready to adopt 
 another, and not less onerous, set of duties 
 among us. 
 
 It must have been a weary task for a 
 woman of her active disposition to sit and 
 watch the listless, melancholy girl, who, appa- 
 rently, had never been taught to seek eniplov-
 
 the earl's cedars. 87 
 
 mentfor herself. Mv aunt had almost finished 
 the half dozen new shirts she had undertaken 
 to make for my father, before, one morning, 
 when I was sitting reading in the room, it 
 occurred to the Earl's daughter to wish that 
 she were not so idle and helpless. 
 
 " Indeed, my dear, I think it would be 
 better for you," Aunt Margery said, cheer- 
 fully. " I suppose those long fingers of yours 
 were given you to be of some use in the world; 
 and you don't seem over-happy doing nothing 
 from morning till night." 
 
 No more words passed at the moment; 
 but, when I next saw Lady Honoria, she was 
 at work, — not employed on any delicate em- 
 broidery, but slowly and with difficulty hem- 
 ming a coarse towel or duster. Her thoughts 
 seemed quite absorbed in her task, which she 
 executed, I imagine, rather indifferently ; but 
 she went on trying to improve, and was evi- 
 dently interested about her new occupation. 
 
 It amused me not a little, while they were 
 at work together, to hear the questions she 
 addressed to my aunt about her younger days, 
 and the patience with which these were an- 
 swered. There appeared to be no bounds to 
 Lady Honoria's ignorance and desire for in- 
 formation. Sometimes, I wondered at her 
 wishing to know so much of the habits and 
 ways of a person so unlike her in character, and
 
 83 the earl's cei 
 
 so far removed from her in position ; at others, 
 I was more surprised at the strong sense and 
 graphic images conveyed in Aunt Margery's 
 straightforward replies. Lady Honoria would 
 grow quite eager, and the work always dropped 
 from her hands when she became excited ; but 
 Aunt Margery stitched away unweariedly, 
 though now and then with the colour rising 
 in her withered cheek. 
 
 " What makes you fond of this house, and 
 why did you ever leave it, if you liked it so 
 much ?" I heard the young lady say, one day. 
 " My father doesn't care for Dunleary or The 
 Cedars, but I 'd rather stay there than go to 
 Ems or Baden. You might have lived at home 
 always, if you did not want to marry. I Avon- 
 der why you 'd leave your brothers." 
 
 " They left me, my love," said Aunt Mar- 
 gery, quietly. " At least, their hearts cleaved 
 to others, and then we were better parted. 
 Your father has many places much grander 
 than this ; but I fancy people who rove from 
 one to another, never love their homes a> 
 well as those who watch the trees bud and the 
 flowers blow, and see the same old things 
 about them year by year in one spot, from 
 the time when they were born/ 3 
 
 " And you really always lived here, and 
 were quite satisfied? 5 said Lady Honoria. 
 looking down upon the quiet road, and then
 
 the earl's cedars. 89 
 
 round the room with wondering eyes. " You 
 did not Ions to know what was bevond the 
 trees and the river ? — to go out into the world 
 with your brothers ? They would not alwavs 
 stay at home." 
 
 " We should have been very sorry to see 
 them hanging about the place idle," replied 
 my aunt. " Henry studied in Edinburgh. 
 Robert went to London, and afterwards to 
 sea. Ever since I can remember, there has 
 always been one of the name practising at 
 Moraston." 
 
 " Yes ; you are proud of that, and you 
 don't like idleness," said the young lady, 
 taking up her work again. " Were you al- 
 ways busy? — I mean, when you were a girl? 
 Were you as grave and steady then as you are 
 now ? " 
 
 My aunt smiled slightly. " Perhaps not 
 quite. I had a good deal to sober me, even 
 when I was young. Mary's health was feeble 
 — our parents were old : there was always a 
 charge upon me. In a medical man's family, 
 when the round of practice is large, there is 
 frequent occasion for self-denial, and often 
 danger of infection, and wear and tear of 
 health to encounter. We were brought up to 
 it, just as a soldier's daughters learn their 
 duty. We knew that the men of our house 
 must be up late and early, toiling day and
 
 90 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 night, doing battle with the enemy in the 
 shape of fever and disease, and that it was our 
 part, as far as we could, to aid them." 
 
 ct Did you like it?" asked Lady Honoria. 
 " I 'd soon tire of the sick people, and of being 
 so good. Why should you have had so much 
 laid upon you ? " 
 
 "It was God's will, my dear!" answered 
 my aunt, solemnly. " Mine, after all, were 
 light burthens ; but I don't say my spirit did 
 not sometimes rebel. We had been taught to 
 do our duty, however, and we found a blessing 
 in it. Mary bore her trials patiently, and does 
 so still, and I took care of her and of our 
 parents, till they gave me a much sorer grief 
 by ceasing to trouble me. I never knew what 
 real sorrow was before that time, and then it 
 came upon me like a strong man armed, and 
 took possession of my soul. Robert, who, I 
 had foolishly made up my mind, would never 
 marry, had been engaged for years, and brought 
 these children's mother to live with us. Our 
 other brother had married and died some time 
 before. We were not happy after Robert's wife 
 came, though she was a good creature ; and the 
 Almighty punished us for our discontent by 
 giving us our way, and letting us set up our 
 tent alone. My poor sister never got over the 
 change, though she seemed to feel it at the 
 time less than I did ; but she has never had
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 91 
 
 strength to move about the little garden my 
 brother took care to provide for her. If we 
 had made light of smaller troubles, this great 
 one of our own seeking might not have come 
 upon us." 
 
 " But it was very provoking of your brother 
 to marry. I must have hated his wife, if she 
 were ever so good and pretty. Why should 
 you go away to make room for her ? It is the 
 greatest shame I ever heard of," said Lady 
 Honoria, her cheeks burning with indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 My aunt only laughed and shook her head 
 in answer ; but I thought, as I reflected upon 
 what she had been saying, that there was 
 much, even in the simple life of a village-doc- 
 tor, of which his family might well be proud ; 
 nor less so of the many sacrifices by which 
 women of principle, like Aunt Margery, and of 
 tenderness, like my mother, lightened those 
 arduous labours. 
 
 Lady Honoria remained silent, and her 
 work advanced steadily, until my father came 
 in to tea, and sat down, wearily, on the chair 
 nearest to the table, while Aunt Margery pre- 
 pared it for him. The young girl brought her 
 the tea-caddy, and took my father's cup to 
 him as soon as it was ready. A very few mo- 
 ments elapsed before he received a fresh sum- 
 mons, and he did not come back till after we
 
 02 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 were all gone to our beds. It was so almost 
 always. The day when he went over to fetch 
 my aunt was the only holiday he had allowed 
 himself for years. 
 
 This constant toil was nothing new to me 
 I had seen it going on ever since I could re- 
 member. When I heard my aunt talking, day 
 by day, to the young, high-born lady, answer- 
 ing her questions, and ever and anon revealing, 
 in a few strong words, the many painful sacri- 
 fices which virtuous women habitually make 
 for the sake of their families, — those unre- 
 garded drops which in time form an ocean, — 
 I began to think there was something grand in 
 the simple, every-day life around me. Its 
 commonest details were ennobled, its priva- 
 tions endeared, by the conviction how r much 
 good was effected by one man's strenuous per- 
 formance of his allotted duty. It rested on 
 my mind that none of all the generations of 
 the St. Loes, with their ample means and 
 hereditary influence, had done as much for 
 the benefit of their neighbours as the humble 
 medical practitioner, residing within a stone's 
 throw of their park-gates, in the village-street 
 of Moras ton.
 
 93 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 For upwards of an hour, every morning, 
 while he waited for the rustic patients to 
 whom he gave advice and drugs gratuitously, 
 my father used to walk, after breakfast, up 
 and down a small plot of grass beside our 
 house, under the surgery-window. In my mo- 
 ther's lifetime, whatever employment might 
 seem to claim her attention was never per- 
 mitted to interfere with her practice of joining 
 him; and, as long as I can remember any- 
 thing, those two figures rise up before me, 
 pacing the green with even steps, and talking 
 earnestly to each other. 
 
 After her death he did not discontinue the 
 custom, but w r e, his children, knew that we 
 were not to interrupt him, and carried on our 
 play elsewhere. Sometimes, an old dame from 
 the village would drop her curtsey at the gate, 
 and enter, knowing that the Doctor was sure 
 to be at leisure at that time ; or a neigh- 
 bouring farmer or peasant would choose that 
 opportunity for consulting him about one of
 
 94 fan: earl's cedars. 
 
 the many rural or domestic matters concerning 
 which, as well as on medical subjects, tli 
 relied upon his giving them advice and assist- 
 ance. Often he would stay out on the green 
 most of the forenoon talking to his visitors, or 
 in quiet meditation, till his gig came to th 
 door, or the cares of business brought him 
 within the house. 
 
 I do not know what could have put it into 
 Ladv Honoria St. Lo's head, soon after she 
 came to us, to join him, as was her wont when 
 he was alone, in this early morning walk ; but 
 he certainly did not dislike her company. His 
 manner to her was always gentle, and I often 
 watched them, wondering that they could find 
 so much, in which both seemed to take inte- 
 rest, to say to each other. If I caught a word 
 or two, through the open window, while I 
 was busy in the surgery, the conversation was 
 generally on the gravest themes ; and yet the 
 young girl would come in -doors afterwards 
 with a serene, happy look in her face, which 
 at other times its delicate features seldom 
 wore. 
 
 There are the straggling rosebushes still, 
 the slip of grass, and, next the road, the 
 fence of shining hollv. Through the small 
 gate another set of patients come to consult 
 their medical adviser at the same hour as for- 
 merly; but all that then lent beauty, in my
 
 the earl's cedars. 95 
 
 eyes, to the homely picture is gone. My 
 father's countenance, with its strongly-marked 
 lineaments, and that confirmed wrinkle of the 
 brow which could never be quite unknit, 
 softened for the time being with compassionate 
 interest ; and the girlish figure, light and agile, 
 naturally, as the swift-footed deer in the neigh- 
 bouring park, but, from ill -health, languid 
 and bending; the small, proud head, with its 
 golden hau, on which the morning sunshine 
 fell, while through the loosely-falling rings 
 the breezes played. There are no such figures 
 in the foreground of my home-landscape 
 now ! 
 
 Aunt Margery, who was always peculiarly 
 cross in the morning, like most very early 
 risers, was shocked at the waste of time in- 
 volved in this leisurely pacing of our grass- 
 plot. It was a grievance of long standing. 
 The turf, she truly averred, was quite worn by 
 those constant footmarks, and she was certain 
 it would do both my father and his invalid 
 guest much more good to take a brisk consti- 
 tutional walk, and get up the hill and on 
 higher ground during this leisure hour. How 
 Mrs. Frankland, with her delicate health, and 
 a young family to attend to, had contrived to 
 humour her husband in this strange whim, 
 she could not say. The children's lessons and 
 the household were always behindhand in con-
 
 9G the earl's cedars. 
 
 sequence ; but, summer or winter, she never 
 gave it up. 
 
 Lady Honoria was as determined to per- 
 severe as my poor mother, till the last sum- 
 mer of her life, had shown herself; neither did 
 her bright eyes ever glance impatiently over 
 the hedge, nor her small foot tire of those nar- 
 row precincts. God bless her for her patience, 
 and for willinslv cheering those hours of a 
 toilsome life which we, none of us, did enough 
 to lighten ! I believe that a blessing did de- 
 scend upon her then, and that words of infi- 
 nite importance were spoken during those 
 morning walks. My father was a man of ear- 
 nest piety, and he was not likely to lose the 
 opportunity of imparting to that young, igno- 
 rant creature, the precepts by which he lived, 
 and by whose guidance he was solemnly pre- 
 paring himself, as the shadows of life crept on, 
 to die. 
 
 The fine lady whom the Countess had sent 
 to attend upon her step-daughter was not so 
 patient as her mistress. Before she had been 
 ten days in our house, she gave warning that 
 she meant to leave it. The situation was not 
 in the least what she had expected when en- 
 gaged to wait upon an carl's daughter. Her 
 references, which, she declared, were unexcep- 
 tionable, were thrown away, and she could not 
 forfeit caste bv continuinc; to reside in the
 
 the earl's cedars. 97 
 
 family of a medical man, however respectable 
 he might be, in a paltry country village. 
 
 My aunt, whom Lady Honoria, when she 
 found into what a state of discontent her at- 
 tendant had fallen, empowered to dismiss her, 
 very gladly paid her the wages due, and took 
 leave of her. Before she quitted the house, 
 however, she managed to acquaint Aunt Mar- 
 gery and Dinah with various details respecting 
 Lady St. Lo's treatment of her step-daughter, 
 which filled her auditors with indignation. 
 
 With every allowance for vulgar prejudice, 
 there was some ground for believing that part, 
 at least, of her representation was true. Lady 
 Honoria's horror at the mention of her step- 
 mother was extreme, and invariably brought 
 on a violent nervous attack. The neglect 
 manifested towards her — for she received no 
 letters from any of her relations — showed 
 that she was in a manner abandoned by them. 
 Her misery under her father's roof, owing to 
 the Countess's tyranny, had, it appeared, ex- 
 cited the compassion of the household ; and it 
 was whispered among Lord St. Lo's servants 
 that she had even attempted to put an end 
 to her existence, rather than accompany the 
 family abroad. The second family were all in 
 all, and the offspring of Lord St. Lo's first 
 marriage, it was believed, were stumbling- 
 blocks in the Countess's way. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 OS THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 My father paid no attention to these ques- 
 tionable reports, but devoted his utmost care 
 to promoting the recovery of his young charge. 
 She gave very little trouble after her London 
 maid quitted her, and was soon provided with 
 a more useful attendant. 
 
 This west-country lass was of Lady ITono- 
 ria's own choosing, and probably, on that 
 account, a great favourite. During the autumn 
 and early part of the winter, this young lady 
 often accompanied my father on his drives to 
 visit his more distant patients. I used rather to 
 envy him, as he tucked the warm rug in 
 round her, and made her draw up the little 
 hood of her velvet cloak, to defend her from 
 the keen blast, if she wanted to go with him 
 among the hills. I knew that she was de- 
 scribing The Knowle one day, when she men- 
 tioned the orchard and the cut yew-tn 
 belonging to a farm they had visited ; and 
 when my father came in he told us that a 
 great change had taken place there since old 
 Hezekiah Brand died, the previous October. 
 His reprobate son had suddenly come back, 
 and was likely, he feared, to cause the family 
 a good deal of trouble. lie had hung up his 
 hat as master, and taken possession of the 
 best room in his mother's house without ask- 
 ing permission ; and, though the old dame 
 was quite ill with flight, caused by his be-
 
 the eaiil's cedars. 99 
 
 liaviour, and the first seeing him again after 
 so many years of absence and misconduct, she 
 did not think it in her heart a right thing, 
 she said, to send him away. 
 
 Old Brand had made his will in a hurry at 
 the last, and left everything of which he died 
 possessed to his wife. His prodigal son could 
 not touch a farthing, and she could dispose 
 of the property as she liked; but she cried, 
 and said it was too great a charge for a woman. 
 She wished her husband had settled it for her 
 rightly. 
 
 Lady Honoria, while waiting for my father, 
 had conversed with the widow of the old 
 farmer's younger sou, and taken a great fancy 
 to her daughter. These women were quite 
 frightened at the rough ways of the man who 
 had come home from sea, and now treated 
 them as interlopers. They were sure he 
 would try to turn the old mother's heart 
 against them. His arrival had completely un- 
 settled them, and the eldest daughter had 
 been turning it over in her mind, that it 
 would be best to strive to make herself in- 
 dependent by going out to service. 
 
 Her pretty, modest countenance, and the 
 simplicity with which she told the young lady 
 of their distress, touched Lady Honoria's 
 girlish feelings. She asked Kate Brand, who 
 was four years older than herself, if she would
 
 100 THE EARL'S CEDAR- 
 
 like to come and live at our house, in place of 
 the attendant who had just left her. My 
 father's name was, as the widow knew, a 
 security for kindness, and when he came down- 
 stairs, the agreement was easily ratified. 
 
 Ladv Honoria was delighted with her new 
 maid, who, on her part, adored her pretty 
 young mistress. Kate talked to her about 
 the pleasant ways of the farm on which she had 
 been brought up, where she knew every cow 
 and calf, and was astir with the dawn, milking 
 the cattle and feeding the poultry. The young 
 lady seemed very anxious to add the homely 
 employments of churning, baking, and wash- 
 ing, in which Kate excelled, to the daily busi- 
 ness of plain needle-work, wherein, under my 
 aunt's instruction, she was making rapid pro- 
 gress. The Earl's daughter appeared to have 
 much more inclination for household or rural 
 labour than for courtly accomplishments. 
 
 Kate Brand's idea of making herself inde- 
 pendent particularly interested her. " Whj 
 should we not all learn how to get our own 
 living?" she asked. " Who knows what may 
 fall out for any of us ? I 'd like to know how 
 to clear-starch and manage a dairy : I will be 
 making everything I wear presently. I hate 
 to be a wicked, idle, fine lady !' 
 
 I am certain her mother-in-law was pre- 
 sent to her mind ; at that moment, for her
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 101 
 
 cheek flushed, and her speech failed her. She 
 set to work in real earnest, with a child's 
 impetuosity, but a woman's energy; perse- 
 cuting Dinah to let her churn the butter and 
 bake the cakes; and whatever useful task 
 those fair hands applied themselves to was 
 sure to be done well. 
 
 In fancy-work, or any ornamental kind of 
 performance, on the contrary, she was certain 
 to fail. Vainly my Aunt Margery tried some- 
 times to turn her attention to lady-like arts, as 
 they were practised, probably, a good many 
 years ago. Lady Honoria could make nothing 
 of them. Her amusements had been shared 
 with her brothers, and she used to watch us 
 playing cricket and keep the score for us, 
 though she considered herself too old, now, to 
 join with boys in the game. 
 
 Her drives with my father were her 
 greatest recreation ; the business of the morn- 
 ing was to help Dinah and Aunt Margery, and 
 learn some new branch of domestic duty. 
 Gradually the deep sorrow under which she 
 first came among us wore off; the rebellious 
 spirit was subdued ; and when, to my no slight 
 regret, my father informed me that he had 
 been disappointed in the expectation Lord 
 St. Lo had led him to entertain, of obtaining a 
 naval cadetship for me, and that I must leave 
 home for a twelvemonth to study his own pro-
 
 102 THE EABl/s CEDARS. 
 
 fession, I went from under his roof for the fir 
 time, bearing with me an ineffaceable impres- 
 sion of the beautiful, highborn creature who 
 had conformed to the quiet usages of rural life 
 so gracefully.
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The year I spent in Edinburgh, emancipated 
 from parental control, made a great difference 
 in all my feelings. I left home a boy ; when 
 I came back to Moraston, I had learned to con- 
 sider myself a man. All my early habits were 
 changed. I had gone through an arduous 
 course of study, with honour and credit ; and 
 my father, strict as he was in his requirements, 
 was satisfied with the progress I had made. 
 
 Neither he nor my brothers were good 
 correspondents. Almost everything that I 
 knew about home affairs was imparted to me 
 by Aunt Margery, and I read every part of her 
 closely- written letters, — except, I am ashamed 
 to say, the paragraphs containing good advice, 
 — a hundred times over. 
 
 I knew from her how much uneasiness 
 Lady Honoria St. Lo's delicate health had 
 occasioned my father. His young guest had 
 suffered from a severe return of her former 
 nervous malady, during the spring following
 
 104? THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 her arrival, and for several months was unable 
 to set her foot to the ground. At one time, it 
 was apprehended that she might be deprived 
 of the use of her limbs for life. I remember 
 that, while this period of anxiety lasted, it 
 seemed to me as if more than a twelvemonth 
 elapsed between Aunt Margery's weekly let- 
 ters, and that each successive interval grew 
 longer than the last ; but when I looked at 
 the dates, which she never omitted to put at 
 full length, I was forced to confess that her 
 punctuality was unimpeachable. 
 
 In August, at my father's particular re- 
 quest, Lord St. Lo, being in London for a 
 week or two on business, paid our house a 
 hurried visit. He was not so much shocked 
 as my aunt expected at his daughter's invalid 
 state, but expressed a decided opinion that she 
 could not be in better hands. Lady Honoria 
 appeared to agree with him entirely, and such 
 an aggravation of her nervous and hysteric 
 symptoms had taken place, in consequence of 
 my father's recommending her to accompany 
 Lord St. Lo abroad, and try the effect of 
 foreigu baths, and change of air and scene, that 
 he had been forced to give way. She had 
 exert ed herself surprisingly since the Earl's 
 departure ; and, perhaps, after the agitation 
 of seeing him subsided, his visit acted as a 
 salutary stimulus, for a steady improvement in
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 105 
 
 her health and strength went on during the 
 autumn and winter. 
 
 Aunt Margery still continued to live with 
 us, and latterly she had given up any mention 
 of the necessity for her resuming the charge of 
 her sister. On this point, I was more en- 
 lightened by one of my father's unfrecjuent 
 letters. His brother Henry had left a widow 
 and family, who lived in the same town with 
 my aunts. Mary had taken a great liking to 
 the girls, one or other of whom was always 
 staying with her, since Margery, who did not 
 agree so well with the widow, had been away. 
 It ended in my father's asking his eldest sister 
 to remain with us altogether, while Mrs. 
 Henry Frankland and her daughters took up 
 their abode with Aunt Mary. 
 
 By her not alluding to the subject, I could 
 see that the change towards herself in her 
 sister's feelings distressed my Aunt Margery 
 not a little. Mary was not so constant in her 
 affections, and enjoyed the alteration from their 
 quiet, old-maidenly habits to the bustle of a 
 house full of young people. We were most de- 
 cidedly the gainers ; and, after a short time, 
 Aunt Margery must have felt happy in the 
 conviction that we could not possibly have done 
 without her. Uncle Henry had left his family 
 extremely ill-provided for, and the arrangement 
 my father made, when they agreed to take
 
 106 the earl's cedar - 
 
 charge of Aunt Mary, was a great accommoda- 
 tion to them. They gave up their ugly house- 
 in the street very joyfully, and soon bestowed a 
 different aspect on the shady cottage and gar- 
 den which Aunt Margery's taste had rendered 
 one of the stiffest of suburban abodes. With 
 the young people to encourage her to exertion, 
 Aunt Mary contrived once more to move 
 about, and lead a comparatively active life, 
 when the eyes which for so many years had 
 watched her anxiously could no longer be 
 gladdened by the change. 
 
 Moraston, I firmly believe, never looked 
 so beautiful as during the summer I spent 
 there, when mv Edinburgh studies and lee- 
 tures were over. I had worked hard enough 
 to enjoy rny holiday, and my father probably 
 saw at a glance that I needed rest, for he did 
 not for some weeks urge upon me any fresh 
 exertion. The downs were green after the 
 spring-rains, or had whole fields of gorse and 
 broom, in golden blossom, covering portions of 
 their steep ascents. Xot one of our roses was 
 blighted, though in general the east wind cut 
 them cruelly. The bushes were laden with 
 flowers, and the side of the house starred with 
 white jasmine. It struck me, the instant I 
 came home, that the place looked different, the 
 grass more neatly mown, the flowers better 
 tended, — more worthy, in short, of being
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 107 
 
 the residence of the pretty creature whom 
 I found blooming, like a delicate exotic, 
 among us. 
 
 She was slighter and fairer, and looked, 
 perhaps, younger than ever ; but nevertheless, 
 to me, in that long twelvemonth, she had 
 grown into a woman. I felt strangely shy, 
 and at first scarcely ventured to speak to her. 
 Even her kindness did not reassure me. I 
 was astonished at the behaviour of nry father 
 and aunt, and still more so at that of Edward. 
 They treated her like a child or sister. To me 
 she seemed one quite apart from, and immea- 
 surably above, us. 
 
 Yet it was not long before the influence she 
 had insensibly exercised upon all my family 
 became to me very perceptible. The constant 
 care she had required during illness, and the 
 grateful affection with which she repaid it, had 
 softened my father's manners. Aunt Margery 
 had grown considerate, and Edward quieter 
 and more gentlemanlike. Even the old house 
 appeared to me lighter and pleasanter, with 
 windows opened where, formerly, no one took 
 the trouble to let in the air, and flowers in 
 every direction. As I watched her moving 
 about, ministering to my father's comfort, 
 breathing over our dull home the essence 
 of grace and beauty, I fancied my mother's 
 spirit, in a yet lovelier form, revived ; and
 
 108 the earl's cedars. 
 
 all the romance fostered in my character during 
 the lonely hours when, in boyhood, I lay 
 dreaming under the cedars, entered into and 
 ennobled the worship I rendered up to the 
 beautiful daughter of Lord St. Lo. The more 
 simple she appeared to others — the more she 
 tried to be the child of our house, rejoicing in 
 returning health, because she might be actively 
 useful — the greater was my reverence for her. 
 I could not understand Edward's satisfying 
 himself with carrying pails of water to the 
 flower-garden, and leaving her to do the rest. 
 Almost by force, I took the great can from 
 those snow-white hands, and poured showers 
 over the geraniums. Lady Honoria laughed, 
 and said with the Irish accent I so well re- 
 membered : — 
 
 " Leave it alone, Charles ! I '11 do it better 
 than you. See how you 're spoiling the blos- 
 soms ! Surely, you don't expect it 's sitting on 
 the grass I 'd be, and you slaving for me, 
 when you 're just come home for a holiday ? 
 It 's my work, and I like it ; and if I can't do 
 such things as these, I 'm tit for nothing in this 
 busy house ; so you had best not vex me with 
 tiring yourself, after your long, hot walk, but 
 lie down there in the shade, and look at me." 
 
 I did as she bade me, and lay on the grass 
 watching her as she moved lightly and grace- 
 fully among her plants, flinging over them
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 100 
 
 sparkling showers, and singing snatches of 
 wild Irish airs, that seemed to rise to her lips 
 spontaneously. 
 
 It was easier for me, after my return home, 
 to talk to Lady Honoria about my mother 
 than upon any other subject. She could just 
 remember her death, and often questioned me 
 concerning her ; and I found that my father, 
 who could scarcely ever bring himself to men- 
 tion his dead wife to her children, sometimes 
 spoke of her to the young creature who had 
 won for herself a daughter's place in his heart. 
 Mine often beat quickly, when our fair visitor 
 spoke with girlish vivacity of the delight of 
 sacrificing as mv mother had done, luxurv and 
 idle pomp for the sake of those she loved ; or 
 wondered why such opposition should have 
 been made by her relations to her marrying 
 my father. 
 
 The romance of their union, vividly present 
 to my recollection — my mother's extreme re- 
 finement of character, yet devotion to her 
 rugged partner — were themes which, at that 
 time, it greatly pleased me to dwell upon. 
 Not that any definite meaning linked itself to 
 these vague ideas ; but they lifted me out of 
 the commonplace world wherein we lived. 
 My father's patients, the dreary duties in 
 the surgery, were kept in the background, 
 while the clinging tenderness of the wife
 
 110 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 and mother, of whom Ave had been deprived, 
 threw a softening: grace over the rude features 
 of our toilsome mode of existence. 
 
 Lad}' Honoria had never quite overcome 
 the terror inspired, since her brother's death, 
 bv the sight and sound of the sea. After her 
 last illness, bathing had been recommended, 
 and my father took infinite trouble to procure 
 for her the necessary accommodation ; but the 
 effect upon her shattered nerves of the first 
 trial was so painful, that it was not considered 
 advisable to expose her to it again. The first 
 time she ventured upon the beach, after the 
 removal of the machine — the sight of which 
 terrified her — was after I came home. None 
 of her requests were ever denied in our house. 
 From my father to old Galpin, her will was 
 law ; and I went with her, a few evenings fol- 
 lowing my arrival, to the top of the pebble- 
 ridge, to see the sun sink below the waters of 
 the West Bay. 
 
 It was a very calm summer evening, and 
 the fine weather had been of long duration. 
 There were no traces of recent storms or 
 wrecks along the coast. One after another, 
 the waves rippled gently over the shingles ; 
 but still, while she leaned upon my arm, I felt 
 my companion shiver as the bright silvery line 
 crept almost to our feet. The ocean, however 
 smiling might be its present aspect, was her
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. Ill 
 
 young brother's cruel, melancholy grave ; 
 more funereal than the churchyard, though it 
 bore no mark upon its surface of the life which 
 had been lost beneath it. The boy's bright 
 hopes, her own bitter tears, were not regis- 
 tered upon that cold, clear mirror. 
 
 She did not speak of Adolphus, as we 
 proceeded slowly onwards, though I knew 
 that she must be thinking of him: but she 
 asked me whether I recollected coming down 
 to the beach with her, the morning after her 
 arrival at Moraston, and trying to find the old 
 seaman who had helped me to finish the little 
 model of a frigate which I had given to her. 
 She still had it in her possession ; and, one 
 day, when she was showung it to Kate Brand, 
 the girl told her that the person who had dis- 
 appeared so suddenly from the hut upon the 
 shingles was her uncle. One of the fishermen 
 who came to the farm with herrings had re- 
 cognised Matthews, who did not dispute the 
 question of his identity, though he gave the 
 man who announced it a very unfriendly re- 
 ception. During her grandfather's lifetime, 
 Kate believed that his graceless son's living in 
 the neighbourhood had not been suspected. 
 
 We were passing the mound of rubbish, 
 for it was little else now, which had once 
 served for a human creature's dwelling. After 
 it was deserted the roof had fallen in, and
 
 112 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 gradually most of the spars and timbers were 
 carried away. Then the shifting sand and 
 pebbles in winter choked up the place, whence 
 the few articles of furniture it contained had 
 been transported to other abodes near, almost 
 as forlorn, belonging to the fishermen. 
 
 Lady Honoria told me that my father had 
 not o-one near the farm for many months, on 
 account of his disliking the sailor so much for 
 the vile language he used. He was always 
 very violent about Dr. Frankland, Kate said, 
 and abused him for having persuaded his 
 father to make a will which cut him off from 
 the property. Perhaps he might be more 
 civil to me, and she longed to see her mother, 
 and her little brothers and sisters. I found, 
 in short, that it was a settled plan, with both 
 mistress and maid, that, when I came home, I 
 should take them to The Knowle farm. 
 
 There were very few places in the world to 
 which, at that period of my life, I would not 
 willingly have gone, if Lady Honoria had 
 desired me to be her companion. I remember 
 well how much we all three enjoyed the ai: 
 upon the breezy hills, scented, as it was. with 
 the rich perfume of the yellow furze. Kate 
 walked beside her mistress's pony, while it 
 was happiness enough for me to listen to her 
 voice, to open gates and assist her to mount 
 or light down from her saddle, when she pre-
 
 THE EARL'S CEDAKS. 113 
 
 f erred walking with her pretty handmaiden, 
 and I led her little fairy-footed Ariel. 
 
 The Knowle was such a lonely spot, that 
 the arrival of our small party created quite a 
 sensation. I saw the grizzled head which had 
 often bowed before the strong sea-blast beside 
 me, looking over the yew hedge as we came 
 up the pathway. The children were hiding 
 behind the carved peacocks from their terrible 
 uncle, and Kate's mother, the meekest creature 
 in existence, was peeping over the blind ; but 
 the old dame came out fearlessly, all smiles 
 and curtseys, at the front door, to welcome 
 us. 
 
 She had recovered from her grief at being 
 left a widow ; and in spite of the constant 
 whirlwind which Matthew's temper kept up 
 in the domestic atmosphere, she was as good- 
 humoured and hospitable as ever, taking it for 
 granted, as she expressed it, that men must 
 make themselves disagreeable, and that the 
 least said was soonest mended. 
 
 I saw the little children scudding into the 
 house under a torrent of abuse, and their 
 mother consoling them, as I took Lady Honoria 
 off the pony. Rather to my surprise, Matthew 
 Brand, who had put his hat on, and his hands 
 in his pockets, removed the covering from his 
 head when he saw, as he explained to me 
 afterwards, the real lady. He scowled fearfully 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE EARL's CEDARS. 
 
 at Kate, who ran past him into the Louse to 
 kiss her mother; but he spoke to me rather 
 cordially. 
 
 " It 's one of his good days ! ' Dame Brand 
 whispered. " He '11 not fly out so much be- 
 fore the lady ; but, bless ye, don't mind him ! 
 The children provoke him, but he doesn 't 
 mean half he says." 
 
 " What 's that about, missus ? ' inquired 
 her hopeful son, facing round suddenly. "Talk 
 of children, indeed ! you 'd better not ! — a fine 
 set of them you 've reared up to plague us. 
 The blacks were nothing to these little idle 
 beggars, running wild in, and out, and over my 
 flower-beds. What 's brought Miss Kate back, 
 I wonder? — I thought she was too fine to 
 stay at home. Just stop that kissing ! ' 
 
 He seemed to take some effectual measure 
 to damp Kate's joy, and that of her mother, at 
 meeting ; for though, after he strode into the 
 parlour, we were only a minute or two in 
 following him, the poor meek-hearted widow 
 was crying. 
 
 " Avast, there ! Mrs. Brand, let 's have 
 no caterwauling ! This mealv-mouthed vounc: 
 woman had best keep away, if all hands are to 
 set to piping. Here 's a precious lot of simple- 
 tons I 've got to manage, Master Charles ! So 
 you 've not forgot the old boat and the duckings 
 we got in her? I say, young fry! — look sharp —
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 115 
 
 be off — fly ! Here 's people come, and you 
 all stand blubbering round that girl, and give 
 them nothing to eat and drink ; I don't know 
 which is the greatest fool among you." 
 
 The children were scattered off, like leaves 
 before the wind, at his angry objurgations ; 
 the old dame, his mother, going on all the 
 while, behind his back, with a series of ges- 
 tures and curtsevs, which seemed intended to 
 imply that we were not to be disconcerted, 
 and to make up for her son's want of amenity. 
 
 " Here 's a pretty state of things for a man 
 that likes to see the decks swept clean, and all 
 hands neat, taut, and trim!' he exclaimed, 
 throwing the women's work off the table, and 
 pulling the hair of a rather unkempt lad who 
 was busv with his books at one corner. i( This 
 boy wants to be a scholar! — a gentleman, it 
 will be next ! — who knows but he won't turn 
 out a parson ? I don't so much mind if he 's not 
 a doctor. Your father has used me ill ; I wish 
 he 'd just come over here and hear a bit of my 
 mind ! Here 's this old woman, as stuck up 
 as she can be ! — keeps me under, sir, I can 
 tell you ! Flings it in my teeth that I 've been 
 a wanderer — I 'm not sure that she don't sav 
 
 ■ 
 
 vagabond — and sets the bits of things yonder 
 against me ! That 's my luck ! Come home, 
 after buffeting about the high seas forty years, 
 and here 's a pretty sort of welcome ! Find
 
 116 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 the old man lias left a will — your father helped 
 him, and a rascally thing it was ! — passing me 
 over, to make this old mother of mine captain 
 of the ship ; and a precious job she '11 make of 
 getting into port, if I don't lend a hand ! 
 Got a plaguy slippery crew — two widows, and 
 a leaky old vessel — rats in the hold, and these 
 little noxious varmint poking their heads out 
 of every chink and cranny. I 'm almost sick 
 of it ! " 
 
 He walked about the parlour faming, but 
 not offering to help, while his mother and 
 sister-in-law busily employed themselves in 
 spreading the table with all sorts of rural 
 delicacies. 
 
 " Take it out — I won't have it here 
 Don't you see the young lady 's tired and 
 hot, and would like the table put under the 
 trees? Pipe all hands up, and move it," he 
 said, savagely, when at last he saw what they 
 were about. " She '11 catch a fever, and we '11 
 have the Doctor about our ears, if you keep 
 her mewed up in the cabin. It 's cheery up 
 aloft in the fruit-garden ; and if the little 
 beggars haven't cleared the beds, there ought 
 to be loads of strawberries. Hallo ! there, 
 Mr. Scholar, I '11 shy that book at your head 
 if you don't bestir yourself! Mr. Charles, 
 it 's not the first time von 've lent a hand to 
 help me."
 
 THE EARL'S CEDA11S. 117 
 
 We pulled the great deal -table out into 
 the orchard, where the trees cast a pleasant 
 shade, and the children, who had been busy 
 gathering, brought freshly-piled cabbage-leaves 
 full of strawberries to add to our rural repast. 
 
 The seaman was quite courteous to Lady 
 Honoria, picking out the best fruit, and help- 
 ing her liberally. It was only when the meek 
 woman, Kate's mother, or her children, came 
 in his war, that he could not restrain his 
 tongue. 
 
 " Those widows are so aggravating ! ' he 
 said, eyeing her vindictively, as she sat talking, 
 in a very subdued tone, to her daughter. " I 'd 
 just like to know what she's saying to the 
 girl — what mischief she's putting into her 
 head. I say, mother, just stop her tongue a 
 bit, can't you ? The young craft's getting into 
 deep water — let's have a little plain sailing. 
 Pitch that vounsr rascal, Tommy, overboard, if 
 he treads on the borders ! I raked them over 
 myself before breakfast, while you lazy ones 
 were asleep. The lady 's got nothing on her 
 plate. You gather the gooseberries fast 
 enough when I don't want you, and now, 
 when we 've got friends, and the sun's broiling 
 worse than it did in the tropics, you let 'em 
 starve. I '11 be after you, you young good- 
 for-nothings, and make you look about you ! ' 
 
 Master Tommy was half-way up an apple-
 
 IIS THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 tree, the instant his uncle showed symptoms 
 of moving. Ladv Honoria's sweet accents 
 delaved the outbreak. She asked her surlv 
 neighbour about the ships he had sailed in, 
 and evinced so much interest in his answers, 
 that she quite humanised the rough monster 
 for the moment. Kate and her mother got 
 through a great deal of confidential talk with- 
 out rousing his indignation. 
 
 I heard her inquire, in faltering tones, 
 when no one but myself was listening, after 
 the bit of wood with the name of her brother's 
 ship upon it, which we had picked up after 
 the storm. 
 
 " God bless you, my sweet young lady ! 
 I wish I had it," — the rude seaman said, 
 more gently than I could have fancied his 
 speaking, — " and the young life, too, that was 
 cast away when that boat went to pieces; — I 
 would help all a man could to save it. If I'd 
 pulled an oar, then, it mightn't have hap- 
 pened ; but there 's no saying. I brought 
 scarce anything from the old hut but the red 
 jacket and trousers the young master knew 
 me in ; and those I burnt when I could pro- 
 vide myself with others. I 'd overhaul my 
 kit, if there was a chance of finding it ; but I 
 took it for nothing but a rotten old spar, and 
 never thought that tears would be shed for 
 
 it."
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 119 
 
 He was silent for several minutes, and 
 I saw that Lady Honoria was weeping over 
 the disappointment, though it was only what 
 we might have expected ; but, in early days 
 like those, impossibilities appear practicable. 
 He jumped up, crosser than ever, at last, and 
 scolded poor Kate and her mother so fiercely 
 that they quite trembled, and the children 
 skulked away like timid hares before the 
 blasts of his displeasure. 
 
 They were a bad lot, all of them, he said. 
 He wished Doctor Frankland no worse luck 
 than to have such a slippery jade as Miss 
 Kate under his roof. She was not to look 
 to him for a character, if she lost the one she 
 took out with her. As for her mother, like 
 all widows, she was as artful as could be, and 
 the children were just running the same bad 
 road as their elders. He wished he was back in 
 the old hut on the beach, with a good store of 
 winter firewood, and nothing worse to do than 
 to keep a sharp look-out for squalls in the 
 offing. 
 
 We left him storming away, with his hands 
 behind him, in front of The Knowle ; Dame 
 Brand smiling, in imperturbable good hu- 
 mour ; Kate's soft-hearted mother dissolved in 
 tears ; and the poor children frightened half 
 out of their senses.
 
 120 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Our vigilant coast-guard officer, Lieutenant 
 Salcoinbe, told us that his men had never had 
 such hard duty as during the winter which 
 Matthew Brand had spent at The Knowle. The 
 out-houses and barns, some of which stood in re- 
 mote spots among the hills, where the widow's 
 sheep found pasturage, were said to bave 
 been converted into receptacles for smuggled 
 goods ; and in spite of the pretence which the 
 ci-devant seaman made of being a stranger, 
 and one who kept aloof from the community, 
 the Lieutenant had an idea that the farm- 
 horses and carts were always ready for use 
 whenever a contraband cargo was landed. 
 Information had been given that a number of 
 suspicious-looking kegs had been seen lying in 
 the orchard, and he was determined that neither 
 the highly-respectable character of the dame 
 and of her late husband, nor the dread com- 
 monly entertained of the extremely violent 
 temper of the son, who now managed her 
 affairs, should prevent his paying them a visit.
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 121 
 
 The trade, which had languished since the 
 establishment of the new station at Moraston, 
 was now greatly on the increase, and several 
 profitable runs had been made. More capital 
 was reported to be invested in it, and the 
 closest watch was necessary all along the 
 coast to stop the only flourishing traffic in 
 which our west-country lads embarked. From 
 father to son, it was handed down amongst 
 them, that the best investment going was a 
 share in a contraband cargo, or the gain won 
 at the cost of personal hazard by assisting in 
 a smuggling venture. 
 
 Mrs. Brand had received the officer with 
 the greatest civility when, a few evenings pre- 
 vious to the one he was spending with us, he 
 had bearded the lion in his den, and told her, 
 while Matthew growled and fumed in the 
 chimney-corner, that he found himself under the 
 unpleasant necessity of overlooking her pre- 
 mises. The old dame seemed to consider it ra- 
 ther a good joke, and laughed and curtseyed 
 while she proffered him every assistance in the 
 examination, which proved to be totally unsuc- 
 cessful. 
 
 The only suspicious circumstance about 
 the place was there not being a single horse 
 in the farm -stables two hours after sunset. 
 Mrs. Brand was evidently surprised, when 
 told of this by Lieutenant Salcombe, and
 
 1.22 the earl's cedars. 
 
 lier fluency of speech sustained some check 
 in consequence. When his mother was for 
 once silent, Matthew gave expression to his 
 displeasure, saying that she was an old goose, 
 and had forgotten that the team always 
 started over-night when there was a heavy 
 load to take in to market. 
 
 The officer was forced to withdraw after 
 his fruitless search, under a torrent of abuse 
 from the son, and profuse civilities and offers 
 of refreshment from the mother. Neverthe- 
 less, evidence very little short of positive 
 proof was advanced the next day, that the 
 strong draught-horses, on whose girth and 
 breed old Hezekiah prided himself, had 
 helped to convey, a dozen miles up the coun- 
 try, a quantity of spirits and tobacco which 
 had paid no tribute to the revenue. 
 
 Our good friend, Salcombe, was. in his 
 own way, quite as impetuous as Matthew 
 Brand, and had more than once injured his 
 prospects by too great independence of spirit. 
 Though a capital officer, and always approxi- 
 mating towards perfection in the order and 
 discipline maintained under his rule, he was, 
 unfortunately, never long enough in the same 
 place to carry out to any useful end the admi- 
 rable plans which he was constantly forming. 
 He had been stationed for some time in the 
 north of Ireland, before his removal to this
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 1:23 
 
 western district of England, and had been 
 sent from pillar to post — from the Ultima 
 Thule of banishment, Connemara and Antrim, 
 to the Scilly Isles, the Cinque Ports, and 
 half a dozen other distant localities, in conse- 
 quence of his not being able to chime in with 
 the different arbitrary humours of the Inspect- 
 ing Commanders of the districts to which 
 he was appointed. 
 
 Perhaps he might partly be in fault. I 
 only heard his version of these stories ; and 
 in telling them, he had a way of branching off 
 from the point in question, which made it 
 rather difficult to ascertain the real merits of 
 the case; but I am sure he was .a warm- 
 hearted, honourable man, possessed with a 
 most earnest desire to forward the interests 
 of the hard service in which he was engaged, 
 and as much disposed to resent the injuries 
 of the meanest and most helpless of his 
 fellow- creatures as his own. 
 
 He never looked at Lady Honoria, while 
 she was our guest, without mv seeino- in his 
 honest, handsome face, the indignation which, 
 Avhen she was not present, he very plainly 
 expressed against her father. Lord St. Lo's 
 estates in Ulster, he said, were, from their 
 owner's neglect, in a very different condition 
 from those of any neighbouring proprietor, and
 
 124 the earl's cedars. 
 
 the peculiar wretchedness of the tenants had 
 weighed painfully on a heart as benevolent as 
 was ever lodged in a man's breast. 
 
 " Upon my soul, sir, I doubt whether his 
 children were much better cared for !' : he 
 remarked. " They were left month after 
 month, with a crew of rascally servants, at 
 the old sea-washed castle on the cliff, run- 
 ning wild like the rabbits. I was not sur- 
 prised to hear that one of the youngsters, 
 when subjected to the discipline of a king's 
 ship, as it was enforced by one of the severest 
 captains in the service, got into a sad scrape, 
 and perished in an act of disobedience. Poor 
 lad ! no one ever taught him his duty to God 
 or man, till it was laid upon him in the hea- 
 viest form it well can wear. I don't hope 
 much better things for the rest of that noble 
 family. The estate is a very hot-bed of Irish 
 misrule and oppression — rackrented, mort- 
 gaged — not a soul but the Earl's steward 
 and agent prospering. If there were to come 
 a scarcity, a blight in the potatoes, or any 
 accidental calamity, pestilence must ensue ; the 
 people would starve by hundreds. Such a 
 property is enough to bring a curse upon its 
 negligent possessor. I should like to see him 
 stand up before me, and tell me that it is a state 
 of things for which he is not responsible ! '
 
 the earl's cedars. 125 
 
 Our fiery lieutenant looked about him 
 fiercely, as if longing to inflict immediate 
 punishment upon the defaulter; but, as no 
 one present was inclined to take up the 
 cause of Lord St. Lo, he went on more 
 quietly. 
 
 " I heard of him wasting his money, 
 leading a gay life on the Continent, while all 
 this misery was going on within my beat ; 
 and, upon my word — it was not the wisest 
 thing in the world — but I could not help 
 writing to him. As a man, a father, and a 
 landlord, he received such an appeal from me 
 as I thought must stir his conscience ; and 
 he answered me very like a gentleman, I must 
 say. He did not neglect my letter, though I 
 was nothing but a half-pay lieutenant in His 
 Majesty's navy, at present serving in the 
 Coast-guard. The Earl wrote plausibly, very 
 fairly, about the evils I spoke of; no one 
 regretted them more than himself; but the 
 root of the mischief was deep-seated, farther 
 below the surface than he or I could reach. 
 He was very sorry for me, as a man of feeling, 
 witnessing distress which I could not alleviate. 
 In fact, Irish misgovernment was such a 
 hydra-headed monster, that there was no 
 encountering it, and he frankly owned that 
 he shrank from facing the grievances which 
 my eloquent letter described so well as exist-
 
 126 BE EABl/s DEDAR8. 
 
 ing among his peopl< He thanked mo for 
 
 mentioning that I did not think his poor 
 children were in proper hands, and end: 
 with warm professions of regard and obliga- 
 tion, but not a word of amending what he 
 knew to be amiss. I dare say lie shed tc 
 over it. If he had been one of our men, I 
 vow I would have stopped his pay, and made 
 him take care of his children ; but who can 
 touch a peer of the realm ? I should not 
 wonder if they went barefoot on the stones. 
 That girl looks as wild as she is pretty. She 
 has been shockingly neglected ; and so, they 
 say, is the young Lord Dunleary, her bro- 
 ther, — he that will have the property some- 
 day, if he lives, and is learning to spend and 
 mismanage it long before he gets it." 
 
 I could have wished at that time, with all 
 my heart, that Lord St. Lo had continued to 
 be as neglectful a parent as our honest friend 
 believed him. It was a blow to us all. 
 when an imperative summons came for Lady 
 Honoria to return to her family. Her 
 father had been ill, and. though much re- 
 covered, still expressed a wish to see her. It 
 was, fortunately, the healthiest season of the 
 year at Moraston, and there were no serious 
 cases on hand. My father put aside all minor 
 considerations, and accompanied his young 
 charge to the German watering-place where
 
 the earl's CEDARS. 127 
 
 the Earl and Countess were at present resid- 
 ing. Though I was fully occupied during his 
 absence, and Aunt Margery treated me with 
 more respect than formerly, and tried to make 
 me comfortable, the month that followed their 
 departure was the most dreary period of my 
 life. 
 
 When he came back, I thought him singu- 
 larly uncommunicative. There must have been 
 so much to tell that we should like to hear, so 
 many traits worth describing connected with 
 the gay foreign society of which he had had 
 a glimpse, that I could not forgive him for per- 
 sisting in his habitual silence and reserve. It 
 never struck me before that his nature was so 
 unsympathetic; and yet I am certain that 
 he was feeling very keenly for the beautiful 
 creature of whom we could persuade him to 
 tell us so little. I do not think that he at all 
 liked the aspect of the home in which he had 
 left her, or the circle in which her parents 
 moved. There was much, doubtless, that 
 offended against his austere, puritanical turn 
 of mind, in those half-ruined, gambling, expa- 
 triated English, and their dissipated foreign 
 associates. 
 
 I received rather more information on these 
 points from Dame Brand and her widowed 
 daughter-in-law, one day when I called upon 
 them at The Knowle/ Matthew was from
 
 128 the earl's cedars. 
 
 home ; and the two women were delighted at 
 having the opportunity of showing me, without 
 being disturbed by his fierce comments, a long 
 letter which her mother had received from 
 Kate. 
 
 The girl wjote with natural, unaffected 
 good feeling concerning the grief occasioned 
 to her by being separated from her family ; 
 and complained that she was at times very 
 forlorn. Her young mistress showed her 
 great kindness ; but the Countess was dis- 
 pleased at her coming, and expressed surprise 
 that Mr. Frankland should have made choice 
 of one so inexperienced to be her daughter's 
 attendant. Kate believed that she would have 
 been sent back with the Doctor ; but Lady 
 Honoria had appealed to the Earl, and, after 
 a struggle, the point was conceded. The girl 
 would have been glad to come home, except 
 for Uncle Matthew being sure to take it in such 
 a disagreeable way, and declare that she was 
 sent off for light conduct. She did not like, 
 either, to leave her young lady, who was very 
 melancholy sometimes, and had scarcely any 
 pleasure among her grand relation- Kate 
 thought that Ladv Honoria often wished her- 
 self back at Moraston. 
 
 I read this sentence more than once, as I 
 held the letter in my hand, wondering whether 
 Kate Brand's impression was a correct one.
 
 the earl's cedars. 129 
 
 I had worked myself up latterly into the belief 
 that Lady Honoria wished to go away, and 
 that in her own sphere, under her father's 
 roof, she must be happier than she could be 
 with us. I ought to have been sorry that her 
 home was not a pleasant one ; but I confess 
 I was selfish enough to be glad that she 
 regretted having left us. 
 
 Kate's letter went on to mention that the 
 young Lord had lately come over from Ireland, 
 and that she thought him one of the best of 
 the family. He did not speak any foreign 
 language, and liked to talk and laugh with his 
 sister, or even sometimes with herself : indeed, 
 but for him and Lady Honoria, Kate said she 
 should almost forget her English, for the 
 Countess and the little children spoke nothing 
 but German and French. All the servants 
 were foreigners and Roman Catholics; but 
 there was a little chapel belonging to the 
 Embassy, with a burial-ground for strangers 
 and heretics, as they called her, which had fir- 
 trees growing in it, and seemed more like 
 home, with the English names on the tomb- 
 stones, than anything else about her. 
 
 Lady Honoria went to the Protestant 
 Chapel, and the young Lord had gone once or 
 twice, but he was not very attentive to the 
 service. Kate tried to keep her mind steady . 
 and read her Bible on Sundays ; but it was a 
 
 VOL. I. k
 
 130 the earl's cedars. 
 
 hard matter, when everybody in the house 
 treated the day as one meant for recreation. 
 There was dancing under the trees, and card- 
 playing going on in the saloon, among people 
 who ought to know better ; but her mother 
 might rest sure that she would never join in 
 anything so wicked. 
 
 Above all things, Kate requested that Uncle 
 Matthew might not he permitted to read her 
 letters, or to hear a word of their contents. 
 She might, perhaps, have to ask her mother and 
 grandmother for advice under circumstances 
 which she should not like him even to guess at, 
 any more than to imagine what bad words he 
 would use about her and those with whom she 
 was living. 
 
 Kate's mother related to me, with her 
 usual accompaniment of tears, the failure of 
 her attempts to comply with this injunction. 
 Matthew had, indeed, respected Kate's little 
 seal, and did not open the letter when be 
 brought it from the post-office. He gave it to 
 her mother, saying that he knew it was full of 
 nonsense and things which she ought not to 
 have written. Both the women, however, 
 thought that he was angry at its not being 
 shown to him. 
 
 He had been so cross all day they could 
 scarcely stay in-doors with him and listen to 
 all the cruel remarks he made about Kate ;
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 131 
 
 saying that she had changed her religion, or 
 was otherwise misconducting herself in a man- 
 ner which they were ashamed to let him know. 
 This, of course, was indignantly denied ; but 
 when, on further provocation, the poor girl's 
 innocent letter was given to him to read, he 
 crumpled it up in his hand, vowing that he 
 had no time nor heart for reading such stuff, 
 and should throw it into the next fire he came 
 near. 
 
 The following morning, nevertheless, when 
 Kate's mother was crying as she dusted the 
 mantel-shelf, she saw something like the letter, 
 for the loss of which she was grieving, stuck 
 behind the looking-glass ; and pulling it out 
 carefully, recognised with joy Kate's precious 
 communication from foreign parts. The grand- 
 mother nodded and laughed, as she observed, 
 " Matthew must have read it, too, by his jokes." 
 Kate's mother coloured up till the tears came 
 into her eyes, at this allusion to the ungentle 
 criticisms, doubtless, of her brother-in-law; 
 but the recovery of the letter consoled her. I, 
 too, was glad that it had come safely out of 
 such rough hands, for it contained a great deal 
 which I was well pleased to have seen, and on 
 which I pondered during that sultry autumnal 
 afternoon, while I was fishing in the deep 
 stream that traversed Lord St. Lo's park. 
 
 The cool, grey sky was visible only at
 
 132 the earl's cedars. 
 
 intervals through the boughs of the trees, 
 which rested motionless, stirred bv no wan- 
 dering breezes, their weight of foliage bend- 
 ing them low, till they touched in many plac 
 the surface of the water ; a tinge of gold and 
 crimson lighting up the shadowy place with a 
 gleam like sunshine, and bright starry twink- 
 ling lights breaking out in the brook, amidst 
 the very darkest hollows, as the flies darted over 
 it, or some ripple in the under-current broke 
 its stillness. Wherever the trees opened, long 
 vistas of misty woodland seemed to stretch 
 away into interminable distance. The cooing 
 of the pigeons, the rustling of the squirrels,, 
 feeding upon the hazel-nuts, and the tap of 
 the woodpecker, with now and then the shrill 
 cry of the jay, made music in those extensive, 
 quiet groves. 
 
 I had almost forgotten the sport I was 
 pursuing when Duncan Geddes, the Earl's 
 Scotch keeper, came up, and asked whether I 
 had got my basket full, as it was a capital 
 evening for fly-fishing. He was a more skilful 
 angler than mvself, and had taught me many 
 a useful lesson. The fact was, the man had 
 that strong, practical turn of mind, quick ev 
 and observant spirit, which, whether applied 
 to small or great things, always give him who 
 possesses these rare endowments power among 
 his compeers, and generally raise him above
 
 the earl's cedars. 133 
 
 them. At the death of the old head-keeper, 
 such a recommendation was forwarded to the 
 Earl, that he gave his place to the Highlander, 
 and he now resided at the Forester's Lodge, 
 instead of occupying his wild hut on the edge 
 of the common. 
 
 I had not seen him since this change took 
 place in his position, and heartily congratu- 
 lated him upon it. 
 
 " It 's just the Lord's will, Master Charles," 
 he said, "and I thank Him for it ; but it 's 
 not the place he has to live in that makes a 
 man happy. The old hut was gude enough 
 for a lone fellow like me, and I think they 
 should have chosen a man with a handful of 
 bairns to run about in the Forester's Lodge. 
 Why, if it w r as in the power of the pleasant 
 places of this world to make us happy, where 
 would the master of this noble park be but at 
 his own fine house in the centre of it ? But 
 you see here stand the trees and the Hall for 
 our enjoyment more than his that owns them, 
 and never sees the golden glory of the sun- 
 shine on the tops of his own woods, or the play 
 of the stream as it gushes through them." 
 
 He landed a splendid trout on the bank as 
 he spoke, and proceeded to hook on a fresh 
 bait and cast my line, which he had taken up 
 from the water, in a cool, deep hollow, where it 
 was sure to prove attractive.
 
 134 THE EARJ/S CEDARS. 
 
 "You are a keener fisherman than I am. 
 Duncan," I said ; " I don't think I care much 
 for so tame a sport. It was more to take a part- 
 ing look at the woods and waters that I came 
 here. Do yon know that I leave home and 
 am going to sea the day after to-morrow ? 
 I shall like seems: the world better than 
 fishing." 
 
 Duncan's usually calm, grave features 
 worked with some hidden emotion, Avhich I 
 did not comprehend. Presently he said, — 
 
 " God guide ye, my laddie, in a' the 
 airts o' this evil world that He, in His mys- 
 terious ordinances, wills that ye shall be led 
 into ! I shall pray for you night and morning, 
 and the sairer the temptation, the mair may ye 
 be able to win through it honourably and 
 safely !" 
 
 I was not prepared for the solemnity of 
 this address, and it set me thinking, as his 
 words had often done before. Meanwhile, 
 Duncan Geddes sat with his keen eves watch- 
 ing the stream, yet busy with his own thoughts, 
 and not heeding the fish that leaped up at 
 the bait. 
 
 " Many a one have I seen leave their 
 hames," he said, after sonic minutes, " that 
 never came back, or returned so changed, that 
 those who loved them best scarce knew their 
 own again. Girls with the light of innocent
 
 the earl's cedars. 135 
 
 love ill their eyes, and frank-heartedness on 
 their lips, and men who walked honestly before 
 their Maker, till they came in contact with sin 
 and folly, and turned out of the right path 
 into one that promised better, but led to ruin. 
 I ni not thinking 'twill be so with you, young- 
 master. You've heard the truth, and now 
 the time 's come to practise the lessons you 've 
 been all your young life learning. It 's best 
 for you to go, but I will never pass through 
 the woods without missing you." 
 
 I was touched by his earnestness, and told 
 him more about my future prospects, to which 
 he listened with interest. I was to sail as 
 assistant-surgeon, in a ship whose captain 
 was the son of an old friend of my father ; 
 and since I could not, with due obedience to 
 my parent's wishes, carry out my boyish in- 
 tention of being a sailor, the career he had 
 chosen for me was the next best thing, for 
 one who loved the ocean so intenselv. 
 
 " Go where you will, it cannot harm ye to 
 have done the will of him that is your earthly 
 parent. May your Heavenly Father protect 
 you!" said the Highlander, gravely. " I 'm 
 not of your way of thinking about the sea, but 
 He is to be found there, as well as on the 
 lone hills of my ain country, where I have 
 sought Him ; aye, and in these green woods, 
 that seemed strange at first, but now have a 
 home-look about them. Will you come along
 
 136 the earl's cedars. 
 
 with me, Master Charles — it 's not far round — 
 and see my place ? I 'd like to show it you 
 before vou leave us." 
 
 The Forester's Lodge was a commodious 
 dwelling, set deep in the thicket, but with a 
 clearing just about it, which the Scotchman 
 was making as neat as possible. There were 
 bright hues on the Virginia creeper that, 
 mantled the walls, and the myrtles, which grew 
 within the damp, sheltered, woodland garden, 
 were starred with blossoms. Strong twisted 
 boughs of knotted oak shaded the windows, 
 and over the rustic porch twined roses and 
 honeysuckle. A warm gleam shone from 
 the fire within, just kindled by a country 
 lassie, whose hair was snooded after the Scot- 
 tish fashion. She was his niece, the keeper 
 said ; and as he had room for her, and she was 
 an orphan, he had sent for her lately to keep 
 his house. 
 
 He sighed as he spoke, and showed me 
 the conveniences of his dwelling; and a rumour 
 I had heard, that the strict, stern Presbyterian 
 was a lover of the beautiful girl, Kate Brand, 
 who had accompanied Lady Honoria St. Lo 
 abroad, came to my recollection. "When his 
 nieco had left the room, and we sat down by 
 the blazing hearth, I asked him why he had 
 not married when he obtained his present 
 excellent situation. 
 
 " Did I not try to keep her?' he said, all
 
 the earl's cedars. 137 
 
 the energy of his character suddenly bursting 
 forth ; "but, man or maid, the wilful maun 
 have their way, and hers was to go where the 
 word of God is thought of but lightly, and the 
 purest-minded women are sair apt to be mis- 
 guided." 
 
 He pushed one of the burning logs vehe- 
 mently with his foot into the red embers, and 
 as the flame burnt up brightly, I saw the dark, 
 strongly-marked lineaments of his face flushed 
 with passionate grief. 
 
 " Oh, Master Charles, there 's trials for us 
 all, but the hardest are those that come from 
 the heart ! There 's but one woman on earth 
 I'd care to have beside me. I'd have made 
 her happy, too, but she did not think so. She 
 was angered with her uncle, the daft old man 
 at The Knowle, and too proud of her ain 
 beauty to bury herself, as she called it, here, 
 in these lonesome woods. Often she has 
 crossed them, weeping ; that saddened them, 
 for it 's cheerful enough with the merry sun- 
 beams creeping in and out among the leaves, 
 and the birds singing. A winsome, light- 
 hearted creature; fitter for the sunshine and 
 fair weather than to bide the storm and bear 
 the crazy flights of that wicked old sinner's 
 crooked temper !" 
 
 I felt for him deeply, as, with his features 
 clouded, and his eyes fixed upon the fire, he
 
 138 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 pondered over liis disappointment. It w 
 true that to me, as it bad, probably, appeared 
 to the young girl, the man's grave and solid 
 character seemed ill adapted to match with 
 her livelier disposition. But love is still lo^. 
 light where it may; and dissimilar as Kate 
 Brand and Duncan Geddes might be, its 
 genuine spirit shone in the clear blue eye, and 
 burned in the manly, glowing cheek of the 
 Scotchman. Well would it have been if the 
 frail plant had sought support from that 
 strong, sturdy stem. In a very little while, it 
 might be, her influence would have softened 
 what was harsh in his nature, and his firm 
 principles and steadfast affection must have 
 repaid her. But it was not so ordained, and 
 the keeper's lodge was warmed only by the 
 kindly charity which had made him send for 
 the poor orphan from her desolate mountain - 
 home to share its shelter. Yet kindred love 
 and duty, what were they to the hope which 
 had been momentarily kindled in a breast loin: 
 inured to discipline and self-denial, of the 
 bringing home to dwell with him in the green- 
 wood so bright a creature as the vouiig; beaut \ 
 from The Knowle ?
 
 130 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I purposely hurry over the events of the 
 next six years, which were passed principally 
 afloat, and gave me experience, after my 
 dreaming boyhood, of the real hardships of 
 life. The career of a naval surgeon, even up 
 to the present time, has always afforded, at its 
 outset, much that must be humiliating to the 
 feelings of a gentleman ; and in the rude west- 
 
 countrv home which had hitherto been mine, 
 
 t/ . 
 
 though we were unaccustomed to luxuries, 
 our sense of propriety had not been blunted. 
 Placed below boys whose beards had not 
 grown, — degraded from the society of officers 
 who, in point of education, were, many of 
 them, far beneath me, - — I was, in most of the 
 ships I sailed in, a solitary individual ; and I 
 sometimes envied the wild glee of the young 
 midshipmen, which banished for the moment 
 the recollection of any evils — and they were, 
 then, not trifling ones — of which they had to 
 complain ; or the rough fare and equal mea- 
 sure dealt to the common seamen. They, at
 
 140 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 all events, messed together, were treated alike, 
 and lay down in their hammocks, rocked by 
 the waves, without the sorely- wounded pride 
 which, while it made me wretched by day, 
 often robbed the night of needful rest. 
 
 Home feelings overpowered me when I 
 found myself, one bright summer evening, 
 sailing past the white limestone cliffs of An- 
 trim, which brought to my mind the heights 
 of Freshwater and the tall pillars of Beer, the 
 last of the chalk range of Dorset. The front 
 presented by the land to the North Sea, which 
 was spread out before us, with the Scottish 
 coast and the Mull of Cantire faintly looming 
 in the distance, was very bold and remark- 
 able, intersected with chasms, down which 
 trickled streams of water, and capped with 
 pillars of basalt. A small town, backed by 
 precipitous mountains, lay, with its white 
 walls gleaming in sunshine, at the entrance of 
 a, dark- wooded glen, with naked rocks starting 
 up from it, which stretched on the right to a 
 promontory jutting out into the sea, crowned 
 by the towers of a castle. This steep cliff was 
 as white as snow, and between it and the land 
 was a narrow but deep chasm, spanned by a 
 bridge. We could see, from the deck of the 
 vessel, a cavalcade of persons on horseback 
 crossing it, looking more like birds than human 
 beings, so lightly was it poised in air. They
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 141 
 
 seemed to hurry over ; and probably it was, as 
 the pilot told me, the safest way. If people 
 loitered or stood still, the fragile structure 
 swayed backwards and forwards, and the odds 
 w T ere that the luckless passenger met with a 
 dangerous fall. It required a steady brain to 
 cross the swinging bridge between Dunleary 
 and the main land. 
 
 Sloping away to the very edge of the 
 w r ater, a gigantic mole or quay became ap- 
 parent as we neared the coast ; its close-set 
 ranges of columns fitted together as if by art, 
 in a way which the skill of man has never 
 surpassed. On the surface of that Titanic 
 platform we could see a fresh spring gushing 
 out ; but the water had not worn an inch off 
 the stone, hard as iron, of which those 
 visionary giants had wrought their mighty 
 causeway; neither had the sea marred their 
 work by creeping into the interstices of that 
 irregular but solid pavement. 
 
 As we sailed on past the white Castle 
 Island, and anchored in the bay, the wharves 
 and quay that ran out into the water were 
 thronged with human beings. Well did every 
 soul on board our vessel know the meaning of 
 that eager crowd. Before we were near 
 enough to see their faces, each man among us, 
 by his own pained heart, could guess what was 
 written upon them. In their gaunt lines were
 
 142 the earl's cedars. 
 
 engraven famine, disease, misery, hopeless until 
 now, for the tidings that the Retribution 
 brought relief to those perishing creatures 
 had only just been spread among them. 
 
 The present season was one of sore 
 calamity in Ireland. The food of the peasantry 
 had, by a mysterious dispensation of Provi- 
 dence, been cut off. By the road-side, in 
 tireless hovels, people were dying by hundreds ; 
 a terrible dearth in the land had been followed 
 by pestilence ; and, unless England had put 
 forth a mighty arm to relieve her, Ireland 
 must indeed have perished from among the 
 nations. 
 
 Thank God ! though somewhat tardy, our 
 Government was not cruel. Relief to those 
 starving multitudes was liberally administered. 
 Ours was not the only one of the Queen's 
 ships employed in this service, and many 
 vessels were chartered and sent to the different 
 ports, laden with provisions and necessaries of 
 all descriptions. 
 
 Medicine was not less required than food, 
 for the cholera was raging there. It was 
 nearly a fortnight before I was able to take off 
 my clothes, or snatch more than half an hour's 
 sleep, dressed and ready for an immediate 
 summons. In the dim alleys of that rocky 
 town, more especially in the seamen's quarter, 
 beneath the precipitous cliffs, disease was rife.
 
 the earl's cedars. 143 
 
 I think the supply of provisions, systematically 
 given out by the captain and his officers, did 
 much to check it; but the popular impression, 
 amounting to a superstitious belief, was, that 
 when the white sails of the frigate were first 
 reflected in the bay, the number of cases 
 lessened. The ardent Irish peasantry would 
 come on board and kiss the masts, or kneel 
 upon the deck, invoking, heretics as we were, 
 blessings upon us. It was, indeed, time that 
 the sword of the destroying angel, extended 
 over their homes, should be stayed. 
 
 As the panic decreased, we met with much 
 hospitality. The officers of the ship, excepting 
 at the hours required by duty, were seldom on 
 board. The distinctions observed afloat 
 ceased when we landed, and I, too, received 
 my full share of attention. Truly, there were 
 grateful hearts, for the moment at least, in 
 that wild corner of Erin, and the English 
 strangers were enthusiastically welcomed. 
 
 Very unexpectedly, I lighted upon a 
 friendly face one evening, when, not having so 
 much work now upon my hands, I was taking 
 an idle stroll through the town. The revenue 
 cruiser, Shamrock, was in the bay, and I 
 stopped for a moment, with the curiosity of a 
 stranger, to see her officer land at the quay 
 and come on shore for the night. I recog- 
 nised with pleasure my old acquaintance, 
 Salcombe.
 
 144 the earl's cedars. 
 
 " Ha ! ' lie said, joyfully, " is that you, 
 Charley, my boy ? Never was better pleased 
 in my life ! Come to my quarters at once ! 
 I'm a married man now, you know, and must 
 have somewhere to put up. Mrs. Salcombe is 
 not over-fond of the smell of salt water." 
 
 He gave directions rapidly to his men, and 
 piloted me to a tiny cottage on the outskirts 
 of the town and near the quay, but not com- 
 manding a view of the sea, where the lady 
 whom he had married, after a long engagement, 
 subsequently to his removal from Moraston, 
 was awaiting his return to tea. 
 
 Mrs. Salcombe was a delicate, ladylike- 
 looking woman, and must have been exceed- 
 ingly pretty before she lost her health, as, her 
 husband told me, had unluckily been the case 
 since they married. Terror and sea-sickness 
 during a stormy night, two years ago, when 
 she accompanied him in the cutter to Ireland, 
 had given her a shock which she had never 
 entirely got over. They had been on two or 
 three different stations, but none of them 
 exactly agreed with her. He was afraid sea- 
 air did not suit her constitution, in which case 
 the evil was beyond a remedv, since his wife, 
 if she could not come on board the cutter, 
 must reside upon the coast, if she wished to 
 see anything of him. 
 
 I was sorry for the frasnle-lookinG; creature 
 
 J DO 
 
 transplanted from a quiet vicarage in Warwick-
 
 the earl's cedars. 145 
 
 shire to follow her husband's wandering foot- 
 steps. She was evidently very fond of him, 
 and had gone through a world of hardships to 
 maintain her constancy to my resolute friend. 
 Salcombe was not a man easily daunted, and 
 had carried his point at last, and overcome 
 every obstacle, rational or irrational, in the 
 way of their union. 
 
 "Better, to-night, Fanny?" he said; 
 entering the frail abode with so quick and firm 
 a step that the thin boards creaked beneath it, 
 while the muslin curtains his wife had put up 
 flew about wildly in the draught. " How 's 
 baby ? I 've brought a friend to see you both, 
 who will tell you how to get well faster than I 
 can. Charles Frankland, the son of my old 
 friend at Moraston, and the young ship- doctor 
 of whom you were telling me such wonders." 
 
 Mrs. Salcombe's pale face brightened with 
 pleasure, and I thought her pretty as she held 
 her hand out to me. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," she said, kindly. 
 " The people here frighten me with their wild 
 ways, and I cannot understand much of what 
 they say ; but I did hear them blessing the 
 ship and the officers, and I am so thankful the 
 cholera is stayed at last, without coming to 
 our house. Was it really your prescriptions, 
 or a charm you brought, as these ignorant 
 Irish believe, that stopped the cruel ravages 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 the earl's cedars. 
 
 the disease has been making among us this 
 summer ?" 
 
 " We brought a shipload of provisio: 
 and the tidings that further supplies were on 
 the way," I said. " That did more good than 
 my medicine chest, which however, I trust, 
 has been useful. I do not wonder that you 
 have been unwell, in this tainted atmosphere, 
 witnessing so much suffering. Now that it is 
 in part relieved, you will recover." 
 
 " I am afraid I shall never be well by the 
 sea," she said, disconsolately. " I am sure 
 you must think Harry very silly for marrying 
 me, but it cannot be helped now. I shall 
 never make him a sensible wife, and he is 
 much too good for me. This house, small as 
 it is, is higher-rented than any in the town ; 
 but he took it for me because it is almost the 
 only one that does not face the water." 
 
 I thought of the cheerful prospect which 
 many even of the mean dwellings in the street 
 afforded, and pitied the poor nervous woman 
 who shuddered at the thought of ocean. If 
 ever a man had sailor written on his broad, 
 open brow, it was Harry Salcombe. What 
 could make her fancy him ? At night, she 
 could not close her eyes, she declared, if she 
 heard the waves. She slept in the worst room 
 of their tiny dwelling, buried among walls ; 
 and my friend offered me, with something of a
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 147 
 
 sigh, the more comfortable dormitory, which, 
 over the tops of chimneys and buildings, had 
 a distant view of the sea. 
 
 They would not hear of my leaving them 
 that night, and Mrs. Salcombe, with more 
 alacrity than I expected from her, retired to 
 give directions to her maid about accommo- 
 dating me. While she w T as gone, Salcombe 
 narrated to me the circumstances which had 
 led to his quitting Moraston. 
 
 It was the old story over again. A prag- 
 matic, overbearing commanding officer; and, 
 on the part of my friend, a great deal of hon- 
 ourable feeling and gentlemanly instinct 
 wasted. My father, he said, had taken his 
 part warmly, but the matter had gone too far 
 to be set right, so as to admit of his continu- 
 ing to serve under the same immediate supe- 
 rior. I thought so, too, when I heard that he 
 had collared the inspecting captain of the 
 district; though the provocation had been 
 such, that on strict inquiry being made, the 
 conduct of the tyrannical commandant was 
 severely blamed. Salcombe, however, was the 
 greatest sufferer. He was ordered, at his own 
 expense, and without being allowed the accom- 
 modation of a cutter, to remove to the coast 
 of Sussex ; and, after a very short stay there, 
 upon his venturing to make a representation 
 to the chief authorities, respecting the incon-
 
 148 the earl's cedars. 
 
 venience of the buildings at the station, he 
 was hastily banished as a refractory subject, 
 for the second time, to the coast of the North 
 Sea. 
 
 It was some compensation that friendly in- 
 terest in a short time obtained for him the 
 command of a cutter; and he dearlv loved 
 the sea ; but, in the end, even this turned out 
 unfortunately. Fanny's father, the old vicar, 
 who had so pertinaciously opposed their union, 
 died suddenly, leaving his family without a 
 home, and totally unprovided for. Of course, 
 Salcombe's next step was to get leave of ab- 
 sence, spend half his yearly pay in the long 
 journey, and bring back a portionless bride to 
 help him to dispose of the remainder of his 
 income. 
 
 Fanny was quite a lady, as he said, and my 
 own eyes sadly convinced me ; and, poor thing ! 
 she had been accustomed to a very different 
 way of living. He was afraid she felt the 
 change, and there was nothing to amuse her. 
 He had brought a parrot home from the West 
 Indies, which used to be quite a companion to 
 him in his bachelor days, and he gave it to his 
 wife : but Fannv was afraid of the bird, and 
 disliked the noise it made so much, that it was 
 impossible to keep it in the same room with 
 her. Latterly it had lived in his cabin, on 
 board the cutter, where all the sailors made
 
 the earl's cedars. 149 
 
 friends with it. He wished it might not learn 
 bad language, before baby was old enough to 
 understand it. 
 
 Salcombe sighed heavily as he looked 
 round his wife's dull, expensive, prospectless 
 lodgings. Poor fellow ! I dare say his cabin, 
 with the pretty, talking, companionable bird, 
 was much the most livelv. I remembered his 
 heedless, bachelor ways at Moraston, the hos- 
 pitable little suppers he gave me at the build- 
 ings, when I walked back over the cliff 
 with him after his nightly rounds, and 
 his frequent visits to my father's ; and doubted 
 whether the married life, to which he then 
 looked eagerly forward, had quite answered his 
 expectations. 
 
 It often surprised me to see how, in this 
 man, the natural impetuosity of his disposition 
 had never been, and seemed never likely to be, 
 overcome. Salcombe had had more than most 
 men to keep down his spirit, but the moment 
 a spark fell upon the tow it kindled into a 
 blaze. The strong discipline of the naval 
 service, the tyranny of the local commanders, 
 the arbitrary regulations of the coast-guard 
 duty, had been bridling him in for years and 
 years ; and yet he Avas just as ready now as 
 when he ran away from school in boyhood, to 
 throw up the irksome task of pleasing his 
 superiors. Nevertheless, he was a great stick-
 
 ■")0 THE EARL S CEDA 
 
 ler for the strict observance of rule and order, 
 as well as, in theory, a respecter of authority, 
 lie inarched into church, at Moraston, with 
 his hat off, and his head thrown back, punctu- 
 ally to a niin ute ; and even the severest fit of 
 rheumatism, such as in our damp fogs often 
 assailed him, never interfered with his bending 
 the knee, or standing erect, as enjoined by the 
 rubric. 
 
 My father, on the contrary, was disdainful 
 of all rules and regulations, and held the 
 laxest opinions on Church-and-State questions, 
 concerning which Salcombe and lie disputed 
 by the hour, without coming to any conclusion ; 
 yet he, too, in practice, often differed materi- 
 ally from his own theories. 
 
 How was it, then, that while the good 
 Doctor walked evenly on, along the straight, 
 decorous path of moral duty, obeying the laws 
 he professed to deride, and keeping his family 
 from the smallest derelictions by the force of 
 his own good example, as well as by the awe 
 he inspired, Salcombe was always living oft' at 
 a tangent, and sinning against the light that 
 appeared to be burning so strongly within 
 him ? 
 
 No one expressed himself more loyally 
 in favour of constituted authorities, or quar- 
 relled with them more frequently, than the 
 impetuous lieutenant ; while my father, who.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 151 
 
 from the monarch on the throne, and the bench 
 of bishops, irreverently declaimed against the 
 powers that be, in practice conformed to their 
 dictates. While holding the extremest opinions 
 respecting the original taint in man's nature, 
 the depravity of the human heart, and the im- 
 perfection of our best aspirations, his life was 
 pure and holy, and his household kept the 
 Word, as it was delivered to them by those 
 grave lips, better than I have seen it honoured 
 under anv other roof. 
 
 These thoughts, which occurred to me as I 
 lav listening to the distant dashing of the 
 waves, before sleep closed my eyes in that 
 friendly guest-chamber of Salcombe's cottage, 
 were, perhaps, graver than any I had enter- 
 tained when I listened at our own home to the 
 arguments carried on between him and my 
 father. But life had matured my reasoning 
 powers since then, and I was more capable of 
 forming conclusions on matters which once 
 perplexed me. The pretty little French clock, 
 which Mrs. Salcombe had placed over the 
 mantelpiece, told hour after hour ; and still the 
 quiet village, under the downs, with its grey- 
 towered church, the low buildings on the shore, 
 with the union jack flying from the signal-post 
 — more than all, my father's house, with the 
 country roads crossing near his door, rose up 
 before me.
 
 152 the earl's cedars. 
 
 Salcombc called me early, and we went on 
 board his vessel. The pretty green parrot 
 hurrahed at sight of its master, and called him 
 by his name, fluttering its wings with pleasure 
 when he entered the cabin. The bright crea- 
 ture was never happier, Salcombc said, than 
 when afloat — in this respect, at least, accom- 
 modating itself more readily to circumstances 
 than the sailor's wife, who sickened at the 
 sight of the sea, and paled when she heard the 
 heart-stirring melody of the winds and waves.
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 While rowing back from the cutter, Sal- 
 combe told me that he was doing duty on 
 shore for the officer at the next station, one of 
 my patients who was still laid up after a 
 severe attack of cholera. We walked over 
 the headlands together; and my friend re- 
 lated to me several particulars respecting the 
 service, and the difficulties attendant upon 
 the performance of its duties in a neighbour- 
 hood like this, when every Irishman was a 
 born foe to government. It was almost an 
 impossibility to get together a band of men on 
 whom an officer could rely ; and the danger- 
 ous nature of the coast afforded very great 
 facilities for smuggling. 
 
 On the summit of a narrow promontory, 
 which terminated in a precipitous white lime- 
 stone cliff, I saw a coast-guard man standing, 
 with his glass pointed at the Castle on the 
 island, and the aerial bridge, over which I again 
 observed figures in the act of passing. The
 
 154 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 man was hanging over the brow of the dizzy 
 height so heedlessly, that I thought the 
 sudden frown on Salcombe's face was occa- 
 sioned by a perception of his danger. There 
 certainly was scarcely a hair's breadth between 
 him and destruction. 
 
 When we came up to the place, the 
 preventive-man, with a sudden flush rising to 
 his brow, put his glass into the case slung 
 over his shoulder, and touched his cap to the 
 officer. I could not but be struck by his 
 appearance, and the extreme neatness and 
 finish of his appointments. He was more 
 than a head taller than our brisk lieutenant, 
 yet to the full as active and seamanlike in his 
 movements. His bright, dark eyes flashed 
 proudly as he sainted my companion ; and 
 he listened to the directions given him with 
 an air of dignity which would not have ill — 
 beseemed an O'Neill or O'Callaghan ; or, in 
 short, anv ancient chief of true Milesian 
 origin. 
 
 Salcombe seemed annoyed when he came 
 back to me. I could not help saying, — 
 
 "Well, I think you need not complain of 
 your men, if you get snch splendid fellows to 
 join you. He must be six-foot-two, without 
 his shoes ; broad-chested, and, at the same 
 time, lithe as a wild Indian. Have you many 
 more of that build in the service?"
 
 the earl's cedars. 155 
 
 " Xo, not one," said Salcombe, shortly. 
 " I don't half like it. The worst part is that 
 he does his duty so faultlessly, there is no 
 quarrelling with him. But hang me if I know 
 how to talk to him, or give him orders ! See, 
 he has got his glass out again ! " 
 
 We looked back, and perceived that the 
 handsome Irishman had returned to his giddy 
 ledge, while the figures that had traversed the 
 hanging bridge were sweeping over the cliffs 
 towards us at a gallop. 
 
 Standing a little aside to let them pass, 
 for the path was narrow, I saw that it was 
 Lord St. Lo's daughter, who was coming 
 swiftly towards me. I had expected that we 
 might meet, ever since hearing that her family 
 were in the country ; but I had done nothing 
 to advance or retard such an event. I scarcely 
 knew r whether I longed for, or dreaded, seeing 
 her again. 
 
 The graceful, childish-looking girl, had be- 
 come a woman ■ there was hardly any other 
 change. I heard her laugh and speak as she 
 came up, and both had the same tone as for- 
 merly. Floating far on the sea-breeze, as she 
 rode fearlessly in front of her companions, 
 along the ledge of the cliff, streamed the fair 
 ringlets I so well remembered. Her airy 
 form took the same easy lines as when I had 
 so often watched the wind on the western
 
 156 the earl's cedars. 
 
 downs blowing those soft curls from her 
 cheek, as she bent forward to meet it. 
 
 She did not pass ine by, as I expected, 
 without recognition. Seeing that we stood 
 off the path to make room for the party, she 
 had drawn in her rein and rode by us slowly. 
 Salcombe was in front, and I saw a wonder- 
 ing, doubtful glance cast at him. The next 
 instant, her hand was in mine, her glad, kind 
 accents of welcome sounding in my ear. 
 
 At that moment I heard a hurried step 
 behind me. The bright face at which I was 
 gazing, forgetful of every other circumstance, 
 flushed crimson, and Lady Honoria let go my 
 hand. It was only the fine young fellow we 
 had seen on the look-out who had come up 
 and startled her. He passed on, after a brief 
 communication with his officer, and Lady 
 Honoria recovered herself. She spoke most 
 kindly to Salcombe, whom she remembered 
 having seen often at Moraston, and introduced 
 us both to her brother Damian, Lord Dun- 
 leary. She smiled very sadly at me, as she 
 said, in a whisper, — 
 
 " The brother I so often spoke about : the 
 only one that is left me now ! ' 
 
 Her horse was very impatient, and the 
 ledge of rock on which it stood pawing the 
 hard ground so narrow, that I urged her 
 to proceed. Nevertheless, when I watched
 
 the earl's cedars. 157 
 
 the long folds of her dark riding-dress vanish 
 behind Kenbane Head, the brightness seemed 
 to have gone off the face of land and sea, 
 and the whole scene looked changed and 
 dreary. 
 
 I scarcely know what Salcombe talked 
 about as we went over the next mile of cliff. 
 He was in one of his fidgety humours, and 
 found fault with everything and everybody, 
 declaring that it was impossible to do another 
 man's duty satisfactorily, and that he wished 
 he had left Temple to look after his own men. 
 He always got into a scrape when he set foot 
 on shore. 
 
 He brightened up when he spoke, with 
 evident gratification, of Lady Honoria's recol- 
 lecting him. He had passed her frequently 
 when she was riding with her brother, but had 
 not thought it worth while to make himself 
 known to her. It was the seeing him with me 
 which called her attention to him. Nothing 
 would persuade him, henceforth, that the 
 young lady had not a warm, kind heart, after 
 the reception she had given us, and the grate- 
 ful manner in which she had mentioned Mrs. 
 Margaret Frankland and my father. 
 
 My friend told me that Lord St. Lo's 
 estate was in the worst possible condition, and 
 formed a most painful contrast to the lands of 
 other proprietors in Ulster. His tenantry
 
 158 the earl's cedars. 
 
 were starving round us. Nothing was ever 
 done to assist them by their feudal superior, 
 and the white towers of Dunleary were the 
 mark for curses. He believed, indeed, that 
 the Earl was not bad-hearted, and would have 
 helped them if he could, but he was crippled 
 with debts, and had let all authority slip from 
 his hands. Like many thoughtless, indolent 
 men, he was completely governed by his wife ; 
 and Lady St. Lo bad a heart as hard as the 
 rockv foundations of their Castle. 
 
 Thev had been living at Dunlearv all the 
 summer, filling it with company, in spite of 
 the dreadful suffering round them. All sorts 
 of gaiety went forward, and, according to 
 report, the visitors, in their revels, even 
 mocked and ridiculed the gaunt visages of the 
 famished and cholera-stricken peasantry. Pri- 
 vate theatricals, sailing-matches, steeple-chases 
 over the wild hills, were the amusements of 
 the inmates of the Castle, which, on its wind- 
 swept promontory, had defied the approach of 
 the disease that had penetrated into the in- 
 land dwellings of their neighbours. Nor had 
 the wild revelry been stayed for an hour, when 
 Death numbered his victims bv hundreds 
 daily in the town. 
 
 I was greatly shocked by Salcombe's re- 
 port, aud asked if Lady Honoria associated 
 with these unprincipled and thoughtless be-
 
 the earl's cedars. 159 
 
 ings ! In general, he thought not. She was 
 with her brother on all the occasions when he 
 had seen her, and had certainly not been pre- 
 sent at any of the public gaieties which had 
 offended so deeply the feelings of the commu- 
 nity. The Countess and her daughter-in-law 
 were said not to be on good terms, and most 
 of the visitors at Dunleary were invited by 
 Lady St. Lo. 
 
 Lady Honoria rode about the country 
 wildly enough, often alone, sometimes in her 
 brother's company. There were stories about 
 her, but they were different from those told of 
 her mother-in-law. He did not believe them 
 to be true. Salcombe stopped abruptly, and 
 I did not question him. It was not my wish 
 that the fair vision I had momentarily seen 
 should be disturbed; nor could I bear to listen 
 to the rural gossip of a small town respecting 
 one whom from boyhood I had worshipped. 
 
 The following day I received on board 
 ship a visit from young Lord Dunleary, who 
 brought me a note of invitation from his 
 father. Lord St. Lo was profuse, as usual, in 
 expressions of obligation to our family, and 
 warmly pressed me to return with his son to 
 the Castle. I did not agree to this, but pro- 
 mised to choose an early day to visit them, 
 and the young nobleman spent a pleasant af- 
 ternoon on board. He seemed an untutored,
 
 160 THE EARL'S CEDATtS. 
 
 inexperienced youth, thoroughly Irish, like his 
 sister, and almost as handsome, but without 
 her quick intelligence and depth of feeling. 
 The officers made him stay late, and then sent 
 him off in the pinnace, which pitched and 
 tossed in the foaming sea under the white cliffs 
 of Dunleary. 
 
 I saw a slender form on the battlements, 
 as, after landing him, we scudded over the 
 waters back to the frigate ; and I thought, 
 with tender regret, of the young, high-born 
 creature, who had been for more than two 
 years the joy of our hearts and the ornament 
 of our home, now exposed to temptation and 
 goaded by unkindness, beneath the harsh rule 
 of one who had never been a mother to her, 
 except by name, and under the ostensible care 
 of a father who had long forfeited all claim to 
 respect.
 
 161 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The walls of Dunleary Castle, built of the 
 same white limestone as the cliff on which it 
 stood, gleamed coldly in the sunlight, when I 
 crossed the fragile-looking bridge which alone, 
 at high water, connected the rock with the 
 mainland. When the tide ebbed, the build- 
 ing was more easily accessible, but now the 
 waves were tumbling furiously into the nar- 
 row strath, and the roaring, eddying current 
 filled up the channel completely. 
 
 Swept by keen breezes, lashed by the salt- 
 sea foam, the bare rock of Dunleary was, in- 
 deed, a contrast to The Cedars. Hardly any 
 sign of vegetation was visible upon it. The 
 Countess's garden, a formal, walled enclosure, 
 on the southern or inner slope, had evidently 
 been made at great expense ; for the beds 
 were cut out of the hard rock, and filled with 
 soil which must have been brought from a 
 distance. The shrubs, however, were dwarfed 
 by the gales and constant spray — the flowers 
 had mostly perished. The only nourishing 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 the earl's CEDARS. 
 
 thing I saw was here and there one of the 
 shining holly-bushes that grew to perfection in 
 the rocky glen through which the river flowed 
 into the bay where the Retribution was at an- 
 chor. The hollies here were low, and as 
 yet sheltered by the walls of the garden. The 
 sunshine glittered on their spiked foliage as 
 they stood, even on that windy elevation, stiff, 
 cold, and glittering, among the feebler orna- 
 ments of the lady's garden. 
 
 The high windows of the large saloon at 
 Dunleary were open, and no object but the 
 sea met my eye as I entered. The waves 
 rolled one after another in massive swells, with 
 foam on their ridges, while the sound came 
 loudlv to the ear. For a moment, it almost 
 bewildered me. The building, on the north 
 side, stood so close to the edge of the cliff, that 
 it hung quite over the water. In winter, the 
 prospect of that stormy ocean must have been 
 inexpressibly dreary. It was no pleasant, 
 smiling summer sea on which you looked from 
 the windows of Dunleary, — but, at all times, 
 a vexed and troubled briny wilderness, that 
 brought visions of shipwreck to your mind ; 
 a cold, cruel ocean, where rugged rocks lay hid 
 among foaming billows, and the winds swept 
 by in opposing currents, past beetling head- 
 lands, with merciless fury. 
 
 It was now the finest month of the year,
 
 the earl's cedars. 163 
 
 and the gale was, comparatively speaking, 
 lulled ; but in spite of the large fire burning 
 in the grate, the spacious apartment was not 
 warm. Lady Honoria's smile brightened its 
 aspect, as, to welcome me, she came from a 
 projecting balcony where several persons were 
 assembled together. Lord St. Lo was much 
 more voluble in his greeting, and overwhelmed 
 me with thanks for the care we had bestowed 
 upon his daughter at Moraston ; but his once 
 frank look was changed ; his cordial manner 
 had become too nattering ; and there was in 
 his countenance that impress of mental weak- 
 ness which long-continued indulgence in too 
 free habits of life brings with it. Though few 
 people might have seen the Earl actually de- 
 prived of the possession of reason, he drank 
 deeply, and the evening's excess was followed 
 by the morning's languor. It was not an oc- 
 casional indulgence, but a ruinous and fatal 
 habit. 
 
 Lady St. Lo was so much younger than 
 her husband that she might have passed for his 
 daughter. Her extremely juvenile appearance 
 surprised me, as she stood, before dinner, in the 
 midst of a group of her own beautiful children. 
 She did not conquer my prejudice against her 
 by any lavish civility, but left me entirely to 
 the care of her step-son and daughter, after be- 
 stowing upon me a slight and haughty saluta-
 
 164 the earl's cedars. 
 
 tion. If she connected any idea with me it 
 was that of my father, as one who had be- 
 friended the Earl's first wife and her family ; 
 and I do not imagine that this was a passport 
 to Lady St. Lo's favour. 
 
 Her haughtiness did not affect me. She 
 was no more than any other fine lady in my 
 estimation, — a class for which I entertained no 
 great respect. Even Lady Honoria, beautiful 
 as she was, would not have attracted me, if 
 circumstances had not taken her for a time 
 out of her own sphere, and brought her nearer 
 to us. There was the same soft accent in her 
 voice now that I listened to in the low, dark 
 parlour, where she sat in my mother's place. 
 The blinding sunbeams fell through the high 
 sashes of Dunleary on the golden tresses on 
 which, at night, my father used to lay his 
 hand as he blessed her; and in her warm 
 Irish bosom there were grateful feelings still, 
 wdrich reminded her that she had been admitted 
 by us, not only to our home, but to the 
 inmost sanctuary of our hearts. 
 
 I do not think that any of Lady St. Lo's 
 guests interested her step-daughter. There 
 was an expression of weariness on her face, 
 when she spoke with them, and a look in her 
 eyes as if her thoughts were far away. 
 Besides, she knew that I was a stranger, and 
 more peculiarly her charge ; and, though I
 
 the earl's cedars. 165 
 
 built no fallacious hopes upon her kindness, I 
 saw 7 that many envied me the beautiful girl's 
 attention. I imagine, nevertheless, that it 
 was not the fashion in that house to pay much 
 court to her. Lady St. Lo was the centre of 
 attraction. Her wit, sparkling and cold, like 
 the holly leaves of her parterre, kept the con- 
 versation alive during the repast, which to me 
 was somewhat tedious. The Earl revived, too, 
 when the table was hospitably spread and 
 surrounded with guests, among whom his 
 splendid wines circulated freely. It needed a 
 glance at the windows, dimmed with spray, to 
 remind one that this gay assemblage was 
 collected on a rocky islet, at the northern 
 extremity of famine-smitten Ireland. 
 
 It seemed to be an understood thins; with 
 the Earl's guests, that the prevailing distress 
 — which was alluded to, after the ladies left 
 the room, in connexion with the arrival of our 
 ship upon the coast — was entirely attributable 
 to the improvidence of the lower orders. 
 Many well-sounding aphorisms were broached 
 respecting the want of resources of the Irish 
 peasantry, and the cleverness of the inhabitants 
 of France and Belgium in converting the com- 
 monest roots and herbs into savoury food; 
 living also on fish, on chestnuts, and various 
 edibles, which the whole company, regaling on 
 dainties brought from far, declared to be ex-
 
 1G6 THE EARl/s CEDA1 
 
 cellcnt sustenance. From what I could gathe 
 
 most of those present had been absentees for 
 the greater part of their lives, and were better 
 qualified to speak of foreign manners and 
 habits than of those of their own countrymen 
 and women. I, who had latclv seen much of 
 Irish life and death in mud-walled cabins, with 
 rafters polished and blackened by the smok< 
 which refused to pass through the hole in the 
 thatch cut for its egress, did not cast another 
 stone at these much-enduring, sorrow-laden 
 people. 
 
 None of the party missed me, in all pro- 
 bability, when, leaving them sitting over their 
 wine, I found my way back through passages 
 running between walls many feet thick, with 
 deep loopholes everywhere affording views of 
 the sea, to the projecting balcony of the 
 drawing-room, where Lady Honoria was now 
 sitting quite alone, looking pensively out along 
 the const, which, with its bold headlands and 
 basaltic ranges of pillars, was visible from the 
 corner she occupied. 
 
 She smiled sadlv, and turning her head 
 away from the shore-line on which, before 1 
 came up to her, her eyes had been wistfully 
 fixed, she asked me various questions about the 
 frigate, and the voyages I had made since fir 
 leaving home. 
 
 I told her that I had not seen inv family
 
 the earl's cedars. 167 
 
 for several years. On my return, not long 
 since, from the West Indies, an appointment 
 to the Retribution had been offered me, and I 
 had at once accepted it. The ship had been 
 dispatched in haste to carry succour to the 
 sufferers bv famine, and no time was afforded 
 for visiting my home. I knew that no great 
 alteration had taken place at Moraston, but 
 Aunt Margery's last letters prepared me for 
 finding my father aged and less active. 
 
 " You '11 have to go and help him, 
 Charles," said Lady Honoria, with a soft voice 
 and air of affectionate interest. "Don't 
 neglect that duty. There 's a command to 
 honour your parents — a blessing and a threat, 
 too — I wish I 'd kept it better !" 
 
 She sighed deeply, and once more her 
 glance travelled along the line of sea-washed 
 coast. 
 
 " Where's Damian ?' she asked, quickly. 
 " Is he with the others, drinking away what 
 little sense God gave him ? He is not like 
 poor Adolphus, bright and beautiful; but 1 
 love him dearly. I hoped he'd stay with you." 
 
 " No one seemed inclined to move," I 
 said ; " and, I confess, I wanted to talk over 
 old times at Moraston with you. That brought 
 me here, for a man like myself has very little 
 in common with your gay guests. What 
 amuses them is harder work to me than actual
 
 16S THE EARTHS CEDARS. 
 
 toil. Your brother is young and less grave in 
 disposition. But, tell me, how is the pretty 
 maiden you took away with you, Kate Brand? 
 Is she as great a favourite as ever?' 
 
 " Kate does not live with me now," Lady 
 Honoria answered, somewhat coldly. " There 
 
 were circumstances " she stopped and 
 
 hesitated. " I 'd rather not say more about it ; 
 but 'twas best she shouldn't come to Ireland. 
 I was fond of her once, but not lately ; and 
 she went home to her own friends before we 
 came back to Dunleary." 
 
 I was sorry to hear what implied miscon- 
 duct on the part of our west-country girl, or 
 caprice on that of Lady Honoria ; but her 
 manner checked me, and I did not like to ask 
 further questions. She saw that I was dis- 
 satisfied, and said, hurriedly, — 
 
 " I 'd not wish to be hard upon her, the 
 poor lamb that had strayed from the fold. 
 May be 'twas the foreign air that blighted 
 her, and our evil ways. It 's another curse 
 laid upon us. Don't name her here again ! ' 
 she said, still more hastily, as a step ap- 
 proac lied over the polished floor of the saloon. 
 "Oh, is it you, Damian ? I can't tell you 
 how glad I am to see you away from those 
 people ! Stay by me, now, this evening !' 
 
 The young man looked at her with strong 
 affection.
 
 the earl's cedars. 169 
 
 "I'd like nothing better, Honor, darling!" 
 he said, with a more decided brogue than her 
 own. " Faith, I 'm tired of it all, and longing 
 to be out of it ! They are down at cards, 
 now, and my lady playing as high as any 
 man among them. You know the look she 
 has in her eyes when she 's wild about it." 
 
 Lady Honoria turned her proud head 
 away with a gesture of disgust. The young 
 lord yawned wearily as he stepped upon the 
 balcony and, leaning over the stone balustrade, 
 surveyed the panorama of the coast. 
 
 " What makes you like this post, Honor?" 
 he said, drawing back his tall but somewhat 
 indolent-looking figure, as the wind swept 
 past. " It is cold as my lady's charity. I 
 can't think why you sit shivering here in the 
 very teeth of the north wind. It cuts like a 
 knife. Let's go in and make a blaze in the 
 drawing-room. There '11 be another coal-brig 
 wrecked, blackening the waters, soon, to make 
 fuel plenty ; and all waifs and strays come to 
 us. No need to spare when all 's wasting ! " 
 
 " You didn't speak so lightly when you 
 sprang into the water to save the poor souls 
 from drowning, Damian," said Lady Honoria, 
 the tears filling her eyes. " Don't belie your- 
 self before Charles Frankland. He knows the 
 worth of human life and mortal woe, and does 
 his best to save one and lighten the other.
 
 170 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 He was the first," she continued, in a low, 
 proud whisper, " to volunteer to man the lii 
 boat ; and, oh, the cowards wouldn't follow 
 him ! Then the coal-brig parted on the rod 
 and we saw — Damian and I — one poor head 
 above the waves. My brother did not wait 
 for a rope, but leaped into the sea, and m 
 helped him — only one — and he hadn't seen it 
 at first, but was just come there. They swam, 
 and the waves played with them like corks — 
 now up, now down — I see them now ! 
 Sometimes I thought them drowned, but th 
 got nearer and nearer to where we saw the 
 speck dancing in the surf, and brought him in 
 — a man — a human being — rescued from 
 death, — one who had a wife and children to 
 mourn for him, if he perished ! They iv 
 blessing Damian, those Christian hearts! — 
 the woman and her children — at this minute. '" 
 
 " Did we do anything for that fine fellow. 
 Honor?' said the young man, who had re- 
 treated from the balcony while his sister 
 spoke, and now put out his head again as her 
 last words reached him. " I mean, that coast- 
 guard man. I forgot all about his helping me. 
 Did anv one remember to reward him?' 
 
 "Yes!' said Lady llonoria. while over 
 her fair features a bright flush spread sud- 
 denly, like the warm, sunset glow irradiating 
 the white headlands. " God and his own
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 171 
 
 heart repaid him, Damian ! — and I," she added, 
 more slowly, as the young man uttered an 
 impatient ejaculation, — " I, who stood by 
 looking/m, longing to aid, — thankful for the 
 rescue, — I did not forget him." 
 
 " That's enough, Honor. I don't like 
 to hear that a brave man gets nothing but the 
 approval of his own conscience, though 'tis as 
 well to have that, for perilling his life ; espe- 
 cially when he is only a poor coast-guard 
 man, with some pittance of pay, and lots of 
 people depending upon him. Those fellow r s, 
 however young they look, always have a wife 
 and loads of children. If you remembered 
 what he had done, no doubt he got his de- 
 serts; though, how you always manage to 
 have enough to do what's right, under the 
 present regime, is hard to guess. But enough 
 of that — come in, now. What will we do 
 with ourselves this evening ? Let 's have a 
 hit at backgammon. Not for'monev — we sec 
 enough of that — I know you '11 not stand it, 
 but just by way of something to do. It 's the 
 dullest spot, this, Mr.Frankland, you ever came 
 across in your travels ; and I hear you 've been 
 round the world. Suppose, if Honor won't 
 play, you tell us some of your adventures." 
 
 I scarcely remember how r the evening wore 
 away ; but the poor youth, whose abilities had 
 never been cultivated, kept asking, almost like
 
 172 the earl's cedai 
 
 a child, for more stories, till night gathered 
 over the waters, and I thought it time to leave 
 them. Lord Dunleary said he had not spent 
 such a pleasant evening since they left Wies- 
 baden, and he quite understood Honor's being 
 so fond of Moraston. We sat round the fire 
 at the end of the saloon, taking little heed of 
 the groups gathered round the tables. I 
 believe they were playing high ; and, when I 
 paused for a moment to bid the Countess 
 good night, the face I had admired some 
 hours previously looked ten years older, and 
 every feature was working with excitement. 
 She hardly vouchsafed a Avord to me, but 
 Lord St. Lo left the table, and parted from 
 me cordially, begging me to repeat my visit to 
 Dunleary on the first opportunity. 
 
 The young lord walked across the bridge 
 with me. His step was steady, and he had 
 not touched a card. At present, he was 
 unstained by the vicious inclinations which 
 had brought ruin upon his family ; but his 
 want of mental resources exposed him sorely 
 to temptation, in the dearth of every rational 
 amusement. 
 
 After we separated, I remembered that 
 Salcombe, who, as usual, was in hot water 
 with his commanding officer for the time 
 being, had asked me to look as I came along, 
 whether the man at the last outpost of Tern-
 
 the earl's cedars. 173 
 
 pie's district was on duty when I passed his 
 station. Salcombe had got into trouble on 
 his account, he said, the week before ; as, 
 after he himself had gone by, and could have 
 sworn the fellow was at his post all right, the 
 Inspecting-Commander had visited the look-out 
 on Kenbane Head, and reported that the 
 coast-guard man who should have been there 
 was missing. 
 
 There was no doubt about the man being 
 on the watch now. I saw his cigar shining in 
 the darkness as I came up, and he wished me 
 a cheerful good-night. It was the handsome 
 young fellow whoin I had seen hanging over 
 the cliff, when I passed by a few days before 
 with Salcombe, and he looked as wide-awake 
 and active as ever. We exchanged a few words 
 together; and, though he spoke with the 
 strong accent of the province, his expressions 
 were well-chosen, and his ideas manly and 
 sensible. I saw the lights burning in the 
 windows of the Castle I had left, while w r e 
 stood talking to each other, and the stars 
 shining over its towers reflected in the dark 
 waters at the base of the cliff.
 
 174 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I spent the next fortnight principally on 
 shore, at Salcombe's house, for he would not 
 allow me to seek other accommodation in the 
 town, and my health required the change. 
 Our captain, one of the pleasantest I ever 
 sailed with, though some of the unruly spirits 
 among his crew called him a tight hand — had 
 a man's heart in his bosom, and seldom dis- 
 regarded any application made to him on the 
 plea of sickness, or any other equally reasonable 
 ground. The moment I asked for leave to 
 quit the ship for a short time, it was granted. 
 He knew that, if a case requiring attention 
 occurred on board, I should be at hand, and 
 that I had worked hard in the terrible period 
 which followed our first arrival, and might 
 consequently need relaxation. 
 
 Captain Fairfax and his officers partook 
 largely, during this time, of the hospitalities 
 of Dunleary Castle. Though often invited 
 there, I did not generally accompany them. 
 The tone of the Earl's society was gayer than
 
 the earl's cedars. 175 
 
 suited rny taste or principles ; and, for many 
 reasons,, I deemed it wiser to hold myself 
 aloof from it. Indifferent health and spirits 
 pleaded my excuse, and the Countess's manner, 
 so haughty upon my first introduction at the 
 Castle, relaxed slightly when she found that 
 one, at least, of Lady Honoria's low connex- 
 ions at Moraston was not obtrusive. 
 
 Young Dunleary justified my idea, that he 
 was a goodnatured fellow, by often leaving 
 the lively society at his father's to visit me. 
 He and Salcombe took a liking to each other, 
 and very often the youth seemed to prefer a 
 cruise along the coast in the Shamrock, to 
 the gay parties at the Castle, or on board the 
 Retribution. He was very fond of his 
 sister, and used to lie on the deck of the 
 revenue cutter, asking me questions about 
 Moraston, and the life she led with us. It 
 had done her good, he said, and given her 
 kinder feelings than the rest of his family. 
 English women were more sensibly educated 
 than Irish. He thought, — the young man 
 added, after a pause, as if he were going to 
 enunciate some praiseworthy sentiment, — they 
 were a deuced deal prettier ! 
 
 We never could persuade Salcombe's wife 
 to accompany us on any of our cruises, some 
 of which were extremely pleasant. She had a 
 perfect horror of the sea, even in the calmest
 
 176 the earl's cedars. 
 
 weather, and declared that it made her un- 
 comfortable to go on board the cutter, when it 
 was at anchor in the harbour. The parrot 
 held her in detestation, and used to cry out, 
 " Go home, Fanny ! ' and utter a succession 
 of shrieks the instant she came into the cabin. 
 One day, when her husband had persuaded 
 her to lunch with us, the bird, which, on 
 other occasions, was a pattern for good beha- 
 viour, grew so unmanageable that it was very 
 evident both stars could not shine in that 
 small hemisphere. The parrot was at home, 
 and carried the day, hurrahing joyfully when 
 Mrs. Salcombe, quite overcome by the noise 
 and the fear it caused her, gave up the field, 
 in spite of our offers to banish her rival, and 
 returned, equally well pleased, to dry land, 
 and her sunless cottage out of sight of the 
 sea. 
 
 This attempt having totally failed, we went 
 on various excursions without my friend's de- 
 licate wife, and, I am afraid, he did not enjoy 
 them at all less than we did. All the won- 
 ders of the rocky coast were explored, and the 
 white sails of the cutter gleamed in manv a 
 secluded inlet. Lieutenant Temple had re- 
 covered his health sufficiently to look after his 
 own duties on shore, just in time to prevent 
 Salcombe's falling out irretrievably with the 
 district commander; and, fortunately, the re-
 
 the earl's cedars. 177 
 
 quirements of the service afloat did not inter- 
 fere with our amusement. Salcombe managed, 
 in some ingenious manner, to look after the 
 smugglers, while Dunleary and I visited every- 
 thing worth seeing in the neighbourhood, and 
 made astonishing geological discoveries. 
 
 When we came back, one afternoon, after 
 a couple of days' absence, we saw that the 
 Retribution had altered her bearings, and was 
 apparently getting ready for sea. Salcombe 
 lent me his boat to go on board, and I found 
 Captain Fairfax giving orders, all the officers 
 at their posts, and the crew on deck, heaving 
 the anchor. The captain seemed glad to see 
 me back, but gave me the option of remaining 
 with my friends, if my health was not quite 
 restored, since he expected to return in a few 
 days There were news come of serious dis- 
 turbances at a town on the west coast, where 
 the Relief measures had been ill received ; and 
 the Retribution had been ordered round to 
 assist in restoring tranquillity. 
 
 I did not hesitate about taking my part in 
 whatever might be going forward; but, finding 
 there was still a little time to spare before the 
 turn of the tide, for which the captain was 
 waiting, I went ashore to say farewell to Sal- 
 combe and his wife, and remove my property 
 from his spare room. We had had such foul 
 weather during our cruise that he feared 
 
 VOL. T. N
 
 178 the earl's cedars. 
 
 Mrs. Salcombc would be uneasy, and landed, 
 therefore, as soon as be could leave the 
 cutter. 
 
 They both seemed sorry to part with me, 
 and Fanny prognosticated illness for the baby 
 the moment I should quit the house. The 
 little creature, she declared, had been quite 
 provokingly well while they had a doctor stay- 
 ing with them ; and she herself had felt better. 
 I was still talking to her when Salcombe came 
 in to hurry me off'. He had been detained 
 speaking to one of Temple's men, the good- 
 looking fellow I had noticed on the cliff, who 
 had asked him to procure, through the medical 
 officer staying at his house, the favour of a 
 passage for him round the coast, on board 
 the Queen's ship. Salcombe believed he was 
 anxious about his mother, who lived at the 
 place where the people had been rioting. He 
 had got leave to visit her. Of course, I acceded 
 to his request. 
 
 Moriarty, so Salcombe named him to me, 
 was waiting close to the man-of-war's boat 
 when my friend and I got down to the quay. 
 He was as neatlv accoutred as usual ; the 
 leather belt and buckles of his dress shining 
 brightly, and his tightly-strapped kit all ready, 
 in case of obtaining a passage. He touched his 
 cap to Salcombe, and thanked me when I said 
 I had no doubt Captain Fairfax would allow
 
 the earl's cedars. 179 
 
 him to go with us. There was no time to be 
 lost, and he sprang into the boat. The 
 men dipped their oars into the water, and we 
 shot rapidly across the bay. 
 
 I could not help looking at the man, as he 
 sat with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed, 
 with a dark look in them, on the frigate. I 
 did not know anything of his history, but I 
 fancied it might be a remarkable one, and 
 that he had once been in a better position. 
 At present, however, there was no leisure for 
 conversing. When we got on board, Moriarty 
 went forward among the crew, and, after 
 mentioning him to Captain Fairfax, who will- 
 ingly accorded permission for him to remain, 
 I forgot him. The officers, released from 
 their duties, were crowding together, talking, 
 glad of a change. The ship was under weigh, 
 and sailing majestically past the white cliffs 
 and towers of Dunleary, — where, on the battle- 
 ments, Ave could see with our glasses figures 
 standing to watch us, — the basaltic pillars of 
 Pleaskin, and the ruins of Dunluce Castle. 
 
 We skirted the north coast of Ireland, 
 dropping down to the west with favouring 
 winds, which carried us past the frowning 
 rocks of Donegal with marvellous speed. 
 The boundless Atlantic received us with a 
 more smiling aspect than the North Sea 
 had vouchsafed to put on. Its blue waters
 
 180 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 stretched away farther than sight could reach, 
 without a cloud above them. 
 
 The prevailing distress had fallen very 
 heavily on the peasantry of Mayo and Galway, 
 — naturally an improvident race, and always 
 sufferers from the subdivision of land, low 
 wages, and the substitution of middlemen for 
 those who are bound to feel an interest in the 
 people over whom they are born to rule. If 
 the relief from England had been withheld, 
 thousands must have perished from starva- 
 tion, in spite of the assistance which, in 
 Ireland, and, indeed, everywhere, the poor 
 are ready to give to each other. At the port 
 we were approaching when we first saw the 
 steep cones of the Mayo mountains, rising 
 above a bay covered with, apparently, num- 
 berless islands, the Irish traders had shipped 
 off cargoes of oats, and locked up in store- 
 houses provisions for want of which the 
 townspeople were dying in the streets. The 
 agents of government, by their rapid and 
 energetic measures, reduced the price of food, 
 and caused the hoarded meal to be brought 
 into the market. Relieved from the imme- 
 diate pressure of famine, the populace, before 
 our arrival, had broken through all restraint, in 
 order to make themselves masters of the 
 stores provided for them by the public charity. 
 The troops guarding the meal carts were
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 181 
 
 severely handled, and more than one soldier 
 had fallen in the performance of his duty; 
 while the most fabulous stories of impending 
 starvation found credence at the very moment 
 when, if the populace had rested tranquil, the 
 worst was over, and steps which they were 
 doing their best to defeat had been taken 
 to allay the evil. There are no people so 
 difficult to reason with as the Irish, when 
 their passions are once excited ; and even their 
 own clergy had exerted themselves in vain to 
 stav the tumult. 
 
 There was not sufficient depth of water 
 for the ship to enter the inner harbour. The 
 trees of a noble domain fringed the shore, 
 almost to the quay, running out for some dis- 
 tance into the island-covered bay, at which 
 we landed in boats. I saw the coast-guard 
 man, Moriarty, leap into the first that was 
 got ready ; the sailors, with their usual kind- 
 heartedness, probably pitying his anxiety and 
 making room for him. The town, with its 
 streets lined with trees, more resembled a con- 
 tinental city than an Irish seaport. The 
 blue peak of the Reek towered up behind it ; 
 streams of water gushed down beside the shady 
 pavements ; and the fine trees, of which I 
 had seen but few in Antrim, here abounded. 
 In contradiction to these pleasing features, an 
 angry crowd were fighting and brawling in
 
 1S2 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 the streets, where carts loaded with grain and 
 meal, guarded by soldiery who hesitated to 
 lire upon the people, were trying to force 
 their way with supplies intended to be carried 
 into the country. 
 
 A slight diversion was caused by the 
 news that the marines were landing from ti 
 frigate, and the sight of our armed force 
 induced the crowd to fall back. The carts 
 pushed on ; the soldiers laying about them 
 with the flats of their swords ; the beggars 
 howling and cursing in English and Irish 
 with extraordinary volubility. In the midst 
 of almost unimaginable confusion, men began 
 to slink away down back slums and alleys, 
 and into the mud hovels which alternated 
 with houses of more pretension, in the part 
 of the town near the water. I saw the tall, 
 handsome coast-guard man in the midst of 
 a fighting group, which had stopped a carriage 
 belonging, it was said, to one of the magis- 
 trates who had tried to carry out the measures 
 appointed for the public relief, and had. 
 consequently, incurred great unpopularity . 
 Moriarty's cutlass shone bright in the air, as a 
 ruffian shook his fist in the old man's face, and 
 was proceeding to offer him further indigni- 
 ties. I hurried up with some of our men, 
 and the crowd dispersed, but not before a 
 blow from one of the rioters had stretched
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 183 
 
 the object of their animosity insensible on the 
 ground. 
 
 Moriarty had thrown some water, from 
 the stream gushing down the street, in the 
 pale face of the gentleman, and rested his 
 head on a door-step. When he saw me come 
 up, the young fellow said, hastily, C( See to 
 him, sir ! I fear he is badly hurt ! ' and 
 plunging down a narrow side-street, probably 
 anxious to provide for the safety of those of his 
 own house, he was out of sight in a moment. 
 
 A better-disposed crowd was round me 
 now ; the rioters had followed the provision- 
 carts, which had advanced some way ; and a 
 few of the dwellers in the more respectable 
 houses of the picturesque main street came 
 out to offer help. I was soon master of the 
 name and abode of the gentleman who had 
 been struck down in the tumult ; and, by 
 the time he could be removed, his carriage — 
 which the mob had pelted, and so terrified 
 the horses that the coachman was forced to 
 drive away — came back to the spot. I got 
 into it, w T ith its master, and we drove slowly 
 out of the town, in the direction of the moun- 
 tains, towards his place of residence. 
 
 As we passed along, I looked in at the 
 open doors of some of the most wretched 
 habitations I had seen in Ireland. Mud
 
 184 the earl's cedars. 
 
 walls, sod-covered roofs, with a mere opening 
 to admit the rain and afford egress to the 
 smoke, half-clad women and children, showed 
 the poverty of the land. All the men were 
 swelling the town mob, and the road we 
 followed, almost at a foot's pace, was quiet.
 
 185 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 About four miles from the town, the carriage 
 turned in at the gates of a park rilled with fine 
 timber, the sharp cone of Croagh Patrick 
 seeming to rise up from among the trees, 
 though the mountain was really at some dis- 
 tance. Peeps of blue water shone through the 
 boughs, and the turf was of the pure emerald 
 green, of which, as yet, I had not seen much on 
 the stony coast of Antrim, but which, wherever 
 it spreads in Ireland, has a hue and softness 
 peculiar to itself. My companion did not re- 
 gain consciousness, and I had a melancholy 
 drive ; now and then distracted from painful 
 impressions by the beauty of the scenery 
 through which I passed, for the first time, 
 with the gray head of the venerable pro- 
 prietor of the domain resting, like a dead 
 weight, against the cushions I had arranged 
 for him in the carriage. His pulse still beat 
 faintly, but he did not open his eyes till we 
 stopped at his own door.
 
 186 the earl's cedars. 
 
 I jumped out hastily, and was met on the 
 threshold by a tall, stately lady, with the marks 
 of considerable, though now faded, beauty in 
 her countenance. She looked surprised, and 
 the next moment alarmed, at seeing a stranger ; 
 but still she greeted me courteously, as if there 
 Avas a fine instinct in her nature, which made 
 her, even when agitated, incapable of forgetting 
 what was due to herself and others. Then, 
 putting me aside, for I would have stayed 
 her, and tried to hurry out some words of pre- 
 paration, she said : — 
 
 "I understand, sir; — some accident has 
 happened ;" and went to the carriage, of which 
 she opened the door herself, noiselessly, but 
 with so quick and firm a hand that the action 
 was performed before I could assist her. 
 
 I heard her speak in a low tone of deep 
 anxiety, and could distinguish a faint answer 
 to her inquiry. Her voice had done wonders 
 already, and I was glad to think that the new 
 patient, so suddenly put under my care, was 
 likely to have so good a nurse. The sound of 
 his voice relieved me from great apprehension ; 
 and, when she turned round to ask me what 
 was to be done, I was able to impart to her 
 the hope I felt, that her husband — a look had 
 convinced me the stately lady was his wife — 
 had not received material injury, and would 
 in a short time recover.
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 1S7 
 
 A number of servants had come out, and, 
 after a brief delay, I succeeded in arranging a 
 mode of lifting their master from the carriage, 
 and conveying him to his sleeping chamber ; 
 the lady, all the time, aiding my suggestions 
 by her better knowledge of the place and its 
 resources, and affording me the most prompt 
 and efficacious assistance. I was very anxious 
 to ascertain the extent of the hurt which had 
 been inflicted, and this could not be done till 
 the sufferer was laid on his couch and un- 
 dressed. 
 
 When the necessarv examination was over, 
 I followed a servant to the room where Lady 
 Sarah O'Malley, with a countenance of un- 
 shaken firmness, but pale and grave, had, at 
 my request, awaited the intelligence which, I 
 was thankful to have it in my power to say, 
 was entirely satisfactory. As the colour rushed 
 into her faded cheek, under the influence of 
 that joyful emotion, it struck me again how re- 
 markably handsome she must have been when 
 young. I did not longer oppose her wish of 
 going to her husband ; and, as I had used my 
 best endeavours to promote tranquillity, and 
 she promised to keep the room where he was 
 lying profoundly quiet, I accepted her offers of 
 refreshment, and descended to the hall, where 
 it was laid out for me. 
 
 In a book that lay upon the table, I saw
 
 188 the earl's cedars. 
 
 the maiden name of my dignified hostess ; and 
 I remembered having heard formerly — I could 
 not recollect through what channel — of the 
 firmness she had long since displayed, in 
 guarding her father's sick bed from disturb- 
 ance. It might possibly be one of the nu- 
 merous stories of the Rebellion which Ladv 
 
 ■ 
 
 Honoria used to tell us at Moraston ; for it 
 was in the troubles of Ninety-Eight that a 
 demand was made at the house of the noble- 
 man in question, on the part of the authorities, 
 for the surrender of arms of all descriptions. 
 His daughter, — a celebrated court beauty, and 
 once, as it was reported, upon her first intro- 
 duction into society, the object of a Prince's 
 adoration, — took upon herself the responsibility 
 of refusing, sooner than awaken her sleeping 
 parent, whose life would have been endangered 
 by the interruption of his repose. Truly, T 
 could not leave her husband in better hands, 
 for, it was plain, years had not subdued that 
 noble, courageous spirit ! 
 
 After seeing that Mr. O'Malley was sleep- 
 ing now, I strolled through the grounds, which 
 were extensive and beautiful, with thriving 
 young plantations, almost every tree in which, 
 the steward told me, was planted by his lady's 
 own hand. There were indications of pros- 
 perity everywhere around us ; and the eldest 
 son, Colonel O'Malley, when he came into
 
 the earl's cedars. 189 
 
 the property, would find it, my informant 
 added, worth twice as much as when his 
 father succeeded to it. This appeared to be 
 principally owing to his mother, Lady Sarah's, 
 vigilant management. Hers was evidently the 
 master mind. I gathered from the remarks 
 of my companion that the " ould squire," as he 
 called Mr. O'Malley, had never been a popular 
 character. His countrymen could not forget, 
 that when sent to represent them in their own 
 Parliament, he had betrayed their national 
 honour and interest, and voted for the Union. 
 This would never be forgiven him in Mayo, 
 and Colonel O'Malley had been ill received, 
 when, two years ago, he stood for the county. 
 The second son was a wild youth, and had 
 fallen into disgrace with his mother ; but more 
 people than the garrulous old man beside me 
 thought he had a better heart than the 
 Colonel. 
 
 When I returned to Mr. O'Malley's room, 
 he was still under the influence of the sedative 
 I had administered, and sleeping very calmly. 
 I thought, however, that its effect would wear 
 off soon, and, as I wished to be at hand when 
 he awoke, I sat down bv the side of his bed. 
 Through the door into the next room, which was 
 half open, I saw Lady Sarah seated at a table 
 writing. Her pen glided softly over the paper, 
 scarcely making a sound, and I could just
 
 190 THE EARL's CEDARS. 
 
 imagine the fair, lady-like, somewhat stiff, 
 characteristic letters it was inscribing. 
 
 The house w r as profoundly quiet, and, 
 nothing disturbing the repose of the sleeper, it 
 lasted longer than I expected. The shades of 
 evening closed in, and Lady Sarah stopped 
 writing, and, after looking into her husband's 
 room to see that all was croincr on well, sat 
 down by the window of the adjoining apart- 
 ment. I could perceive the folds of her dark 
 garments resting on the floor, and the outline 
 of the small foot supported by a cushion, but 
 nothing more. Suddenly, the door into the 
 outer room from the corridor opened sharply. 
 Lady Sarah's rich dress heaved, but did not 
 rustle, as she started up. Then I heard a 
 manly tread, and a voice lowered to an im- 
 patient whisper, but still more distinct than 
 any sound lately audible to me, said : — 
 
 " Mother ! I came to you the moment I 
 heard of his danger. Why do I always find 
 your heart barred against me ?" 
 
 I did not hear Ladv Sarah's answer. Per- 
 haps she signified to her son that his words 
 might reach other ears ; for he said, still more 
 impetuously, though his voice was kept down, — 
 
 " AVhy do you stop me ? Is it I that care 
 if the whole world were hearing me ? Onlv 
 that I wouldn't wake the sleeper, I 'd go in at 
 once to him !"
 
 THE EARLS CEDARS. 191 
 
 Again the low, but, I fancied, somewhat 
 cold and perfectly pure English accents of the 
 mother broke in upon the impatient, despair- 
 ing remonstrances of her son. 
 
 "Are vou mad, Shane? I am nursing 
 your father, who must not be disturbed. 
 Francis has more consideration, and did not 
 even ask to see him, when he heard how ill he 
 had been, and what danger there still was, if 
 he should be awakened suddenly. And you, 
 who' have been so long absent, force yourself 
 in, as if your place were beside him ! Go ! 
 -vou have forfeited it long since." 
 
 " Do not say so, mother ! ' answered the 
 young man, in a voice hoarse with emotion. 
 " If you send me away again, maybe I '11 
 never come back. Wouldn't that trouble you ?" 
 
 There was a long silence in the next room. 
 I saw the small foot move impatiently to and 
 fro on the footstool. Then, for one instant, a 
 tall, manly form knelt in the growing darkness 
 beside her. 
 
 " Mother ! does my voice never speak to 
 your heart, because the accent of my father's 
 country lies upon it ? How could 1 help it, 
 when you left me with the old followers, and 
 took Francis away with you to England, though 
 I was the youngest — the baby that should 
 have lain at your heart ? Have you no place 
 left in it for me?"
 
 192 the earl's cedars. 
 
 Lady Sarah's reply was couched in a hur- 
 ried whisper, which, of course, I strove not to 
 hear, and of which not a single word reached 
 me. Her softly-modulated tones did not ex- 
 tend as far as her son's broken ejaculations. 
 
 "Then, hear me !" he said. " You '11 not 
 go first. Here, in my father's house, which 
 you 've not made a home to me — where Francis 
 has all your favour — I '11 never trouble you 
 more ! Good bye ! God's blessing be upon 
 you! I can't leave her that's more to me 
 than all the world. Tell my father that I came 
 to see him, and 'twas you forbade my crossing 
 the doorway." 
 
 I heard not a word more — not even a 
 closing door; and deep silence and darkness 
 settled down upon us. After a short time, 
 Mr. O'Malley awoke, much refreshed by his 
 long sleep. A lamp was lighted, and a couch 
 made up for me in an adjoining chamber ; and 
 the whole household, excepting Lady Sarah, 
 who insisted upon sitting up with her hus- 
 band, retired to rest. 
 
 In the morning, Colonel O'Malley, the 
 eldest, and evidently the favourite, son, came 
 to pay his father a visit. I thought his polished 
 accents cold, compared with those of the young 
 man who had passionately pleaded, the night 
 before, for admittance to the sick-chamber ; 
 but no one mentioned his name. If Ladv
 
 the earl's cedars. 193 
 
 Sarah complied with his request, that she 
 would inform his father of his visit, it was not 
 in my hearing. 
 
 I did not consider my presence to be 
 necessary any longer, and I was anxious to 
 return to the ship. Lady Sarah thanked me 
 most gracefully, but I liked her less since her 
 harsh treatment of her second son became 
 known to me ; and I was not sorry to take 
 my leave of her. 
 
 Mr. O'Malley's carriage set me down, at my 
 own request, on the outskirts of the town, as 
 I wished to walk through it. The suburb 
 through which I passed was rather pretty, with 
 views of the bay and of the mountains of 
 Achill opening upon me at intervals. 1 stopped 
 at the door of an almost English-looking cot- 
 tage, with roses and myrtle clustering over the 
 porch ; and an old dame, who was busy laying 
 out the breakfast on a table covered with a 
 spotlessly white rloth, invited me to enter. 
 
 As I came in, a man who was stretched 
 on a settle, in a shady corner of the cottage, 
 rose to his full height, which was considerable, 
 and greeted me with some embarrassment. I 
 saw that it was my friend, Moriarty, the coast- 
 guard man, and easily guessed from her 
 glances, full of pride and affection, that the 
 dame was the mother he had come to see. 
 
 " Sure, and it 's my heart's darlin' he is ! 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 the earl's cedars. 
 
 and stole a minit from his employment, which 
 is not half good enough for the likes of him, 
 to come and see how it was with me, when the 
 boys were tearing the sods up, an' hooting, 
 an' scatterin' the meal upon the waters," she 
 replied, when I asked if she had suffered from 
 the disturbances. " I thought, whilst I was 
 biding alone, an' the stones flying past the 
 panes, what bad luck it was for a widow like 
 me to be in it ; and who should come up but 
 my jewel, an' it was which could take to their 
 heels fastest, when the lads saw him cross my 
 doorstep. If it's a friend of yours the gentle- 
 man is, asthore, you're mighty welcome to ask 
 him to stav an' break his fast with us." 
 
 Thus pressed, Moriarty rather shyly invited 
 me to sit down to the board which his mother 
 was hospitably spreading ; but I told them I 
 had taken refreshment before leaving Mr. 
 O'Malley's house, and wished to get back to 
 the ship. 
 
 " An' how 's the ould gintleman, the 
 morn?' she said, anxiously. "I've lived in 
 his house, an', faix, them that did that once 
 wouldn't easily forget it ! It 's a paradise for 
 comfort ! Perhaps my lady 's a bit high and 
 grand, but there 's goodness in her, and I m 
 proud to think of the trust she used to place 
 
 e." 
 
 She curtseyed, as if to the recollection of
 
 the earl's cedars. 195 
 
 her dignified former mistress. Moriarty got 
 up, and, going to the door, stood looking out 
 along the country road that wound into the 
 town, past his mother's humble dwelling. 
 
 " I 'd be ready for you, sir, at any hour 
 when the ship 's likely to sail," he said, as I 
 was departing. " My business in this part of 
 the country is done." 
 
 " Och, sure now, you'd not be cruel enough 
 to leave me so soon ?" said his mother, over- 
 hearing him, and coming to the door with the 
 home-baked loaf she was cutting in her hand, 
 and tears filling her eyes ; " I 've scarce seen 
 you yet, dear, and age is telling upon me. If 
 you stop away as long next time, maybe you '11 
 not find the ould mither." 
 
 Her son put his hand upon her stooping 
 shoulder affectionately. 
 
 " Cheer up, mother," he said ; " no fear of 
 my not coming back here. It's the only home 
 I've ever had worth naming." 
 
 " Well, it 's always open to ye, such as it is, 
 and the gintleman, if he could put up with 
 it. There ? s clane sheets to put on the bed. 
 I '11 make up another for you, if your friend 
 likes to stop here," she said, turning to me, 
 with genuine Irish hospitality, and then to 
 Moriarty, as if wishing him to second the in- 
 vitation. 
 
 This gentleman mayn't like you to call 
 
 « i
 
 190 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 him my friend/' said the young coast-guard 
 man, blushing. " He is one of the ship's of- 
 ficers — Mr. Erankland — the doctor who has 
 been so kind to our people when the cholera 
 was bad, and asked for a passage for me in 
 the Retribution." 
 
 " Well, the blessing of the saints be upon 
 him for his goodness," she said, curtseying 
 with an air of perplexity. "I'm sorry I've 
 made so free ; but, anyhow, you're welcome 
 to put up here, if the air suited you ; some 
 say it 's pleasanter than on ship-board." 
 
 I thanked her for her kindness, but declined 
 her offer, and walked on, leaving the mother 
 and son, as I hoped, enjoying their brief holi- 
 day together. I told Moriarty not to hurry 
 himself, as I would be sure to let him know 
 before the ship sailed ; but I met him again in 
 the streets of the town that evening, and he 
 informed me that he had taken leave of his 
 friends, and was coming on board. The little 
 town was restored to tranquillity, and I heard 
 that the frigate was expected to sail in the 
 morning. 
 
 I was rather sorry for the old dame, who 
 had so rejoiced to see her son, and wondered 
 that Moriarty should not choose to spend the 
 night at her cabin ; but it was no concern of 
 mine, and I did not interfere. I saw him 
 walking up and down the lower deck with
 
 the earl's cedars. 197 
 
 a gloomy, dissatisfied air; and he seemed 
 glad when the wind changed, the breeze fresh- 
 ened, and the crew began their preparations 
 for departure. 
 
 Just before we sailed, Colonel O'Malley 
 came on board, at his mother's particular re- 
 quest, as he said, to thank me for my atten- 
 tion to his father. He was now nearly re- 
 covered, and trusted that, if I made any stay 
 in Ireland, I would visit them again. My 
 movements were so fettered that I could 
 make no promises ; but the prospect held out 
 of salmon-fishing and grouse-shooting on the 
 mountains was so tempting, that I did not 
 absolutely refuse, but undertook to think it 
 over. The Colonel was much more agreeable 
 now than he had appeared during the short 
 formal visit he paid to his father's bedside. 
 He had been in various countries, — in India, 
 South America, and Africa, — and was a 
 thorough sportsman. This kind of talk was 
 so beguiling, that he did not leave the ship 
 till all hands were piped up to weigh the 
 anchor ; and we saw his boat still dancing on 
 the sunny waters of the bay as we sailed past 
 its entrance.
 
 198 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 At Salcombe's particular request, I agai 
 took up my abode in his house, after our 
 return from our cruise to the west, going on 
 board every morning to see whether my ser- 
 vices were required. I was leaving the ship, 
 after visiting a poor fellow often on the sick- 
 list, and now suffering from a low kind of 
 fever very prevalent in Ireland, when Captain 
 Fairfax, who was wal kins' the deck with one of 
 the lieutenants, called to me, and very po- 
 litely communicated some expressions which 
 Lord St. Lo had used, regretting that they 
 saw so little of rnc at the castle. Captain 
 Fairfax added that he believed be and the 
 other officers were partly indebted to mi 
 for the great attention paid to them at Dun- 
 leary ; since he found I had a much earlier 
 acquaintance with the Earl, who profess 
 himself to be under the strongest obligations 
 to my father. 
 
 Our captain's manner, when he choa 
 was so winning, that almost before I knew
 
 the earl's cedars. 199 
 
 what I was about, I found I Lad consented to 
 accompany him, the following day, to Dun- 
 leary. The fact was, I had exercised more 
 than common resolution in staving awav so 
 long, and was fully disposed to accept Lord 
 St. Lo's next invitation, even before Captain 
 Fairfax handed to me the note which had 
 been enclosed in one to himself. 
 
 I do not know how Lady St. Lo liked the 
 very open admiration which almost every one 
 of the officers of the Retribution manifested 
 for her beautiful daughter-in-law. From the 
 captain to the little middies, who, when she 
 went on board the frigate, esteemed it an 
 honour to take any trouble in her service, 
 and the crew, who crowded the deck to 
 look at her, she was decidedly the fashion 
 with our gallant tars. Lovely as, in a dif- 
 ferent style, her haughty step-mother un- 
 doubtedlv was, there was something in her 
 expression and bearing that failed to attract 
 the homage of any class of those honest- 
 hearted sailors. As I said before, from our 
 chief to the bare-footed fellows in their loose 
 jackets and wide trousers, with curls clinging 
 in clusters inside their open collars round 
 their brawnv throats, the crew of the Retribu- 
 tion were devoted to the beautiful, warm- 
 hearted young Irish lady, who never passed 
 over any act of kindness, or even the roughest
 
 200 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 mark of a seaman's gallantry, without a grate- 
 ful word or smile. 
 
 Nevertheless, I was surprised at seeing 
 how very slight an impression the more 
 serious attentions of a man like Captain Fair- 
 fax appeared to make upon her. In conversa- 
 tion, he was remarkably agreeable, and I saw, 
 when, upon the occasion I have mentioned of 
 our going together to Dunleary, he sat beside 
 Lady Honoria at dinner, that he was bent 
 upon pleasing her. I believe there were very 
 few ladies in the world, whose affections were 
 disengaged, with whom his efforts would have 
 been unsuccessful ; but, now, a faint, sad 
 smile, a few low-breathed, careless words, 
 alone repaid him. 
 
 Though she looked beautiful, my fair 
 opposite neighbour — for we happened to be 
 on different sides of the table — was very 
 pale and languid. The transparent delicacy 
 of complexion was again visible which I had 
 noticed after her long illness, when I returned 
 home and found her still residing at Mo- 
 raston. Her eyelids drooped, and, more than 
 once, I fancied their heaviness was caused by 
 unshed tears. Though the party was larger 
 than usual, she was dressed with extreme sim- 
 plicity, as if no one whom she cared especially 
 to please was present. Not even a rose in 
 her bosom relieved the uniformity of her white
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 201 
 
 muslin dress, gathered in folds to the contour 
 of her slender waist, and falling in soft, airy 
 waves, without garniture of lace or embroidery, 
 to the ground. 
 
 Lady St. Lo's dress, though also prin- 
 cipally white, and quite simple enough for 
 good taste, in that wild sea-side residence and 
 summer season, was a perfect contrast to her 
 daughter-in-law's. Every minute part was 
 studied, as well as the whole general effect, — 
 from the cobweb lace that veiled her fair arms 
 and neck, to the rich scarlet geraniums set in 
 clusters among her dark tresses, and the 
 enamelled, snake-like bracelets, brightened 
 by sparkling gems, that set off her white 
 hands. 
 
 Her manner to me was somewhat more 
 cordial than it had been on any former occa- 
 sion, and she condescended to make her own 
 pretty children known to me by name. There 
 were five of them living, and I observed a 
 tremulousness in her voice as she alluded to 
 the twins she had lost abroad. Those cluster- 
 ing round her now were of all ages, from 
 twelve to three, and singularly pretty. She let 
 them pull about her delicate lace and climb 
 upon her knee with a mother's fondness, and 
 the features I had thought haughty relaxed as 
 she played with them. 
 
 I did not stay long in the dining-room
 
 202 Tin; earl's cedars. 
 
 after the ladies retired, and the conversation 
 became general; but, leaving Lord St. Lo and 
 his guests over their wine, — I knew they 
 would sit late, — I went up-stairs. There wms 
 no one in the large drawing-room but Lady 
 Honoria, and even she was not visible ; but 1 
 knew where to look for her, in the far corner 
 of the projecting balcony, which I had ob- 
 served to be her favourite seat, on account 
 of the line view it commanded, not of the 
 open sea, but all along the splendid range of 
 coast. 
 
 I did not feel mvself an intruder on her 
 solitude, for she had seen me enter the saloon, 
 and called me to her ; and, when I came near, 
 she made room for me, as she had once before 
 done in the high staircase-window at Mo- 
 raston, when we were both little more than 
 children. 
 
 I could not help asking her if she was well, 
 and if she did not think a little of the quiet of 
 our old home would recruit her strength. I 
 had received a long letter that morning from 
 Aunt Marten', full of warm interest in all 
 that concerned her, and of inquiries whether 
 she ever meant to visit Moraston again. 
 
 Mavbe, I'll be coming when vou let 
 expect me!' she said, faintly smiling, while 
 her eyes looked larger and heavier than before. 
 " I feel sometimes as if I. 'd not be able to
 
 the eakl's cedars. 203 
 
 bear it long. But I 'm not ill : don't let 
 your kind father and dear Aunt Margery fret 
 about me, as they used to do when I was so 
 wavward ; till, for a time, while I was with 
 them, — it didn't last longer, — they taught 
 
 me better. Would you mind Oh, I can't 
 
 tell you how I 'd like to see the letter from 
 home !" 
 
 Her look and soft intonation of the last 
 word touched me deeply, and she read my 
 old aunt's letter, full of domestic news, with 
 close attention. 
 
 " And so Edward and his wife are tired of 
 Moraston and want to settle elsewhere : will 
 the Doctor like it ?' she said, looking up in 
 my face with sympathy, as if quite taken up 
 with our humble affairs. " But it 's best, as 
 your aunt thinks, to let the young people go 
 and manage for themselves. Oh, how wisely 
 and kindly she writes ! And here is what 
 your father says about grieving to part with 
 his grandchildren, but not wishing to prevent 
 what seems to be for their good. The brave 
 and kindly people, though their hearts arc 
 bound up in you all ! If we had had such 
 parents and friends — Damian, and poor Adol- 
 phus, and I — how different we 'd have been ! ' 
 She stopped abruptly, and went on with the 
 letter, not speaking another word till she 
 had finished and given it back to me.
 
 204 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, simply ; " it has 
 done me good. There are words in it that 
 will come back to me when I want them, 
 though they were not meant for me. But 
 there 's the thought, too, that they 're fond of 
 me still, and expect better things from me 
 than I 'in afraid they 're likely to hear ; for 
 oh, Charles ! I 'm just as wild and wilful now, 
 when the fit comes upon me, as I was when I 
 first came — no more than a child in know- 
 ledge — to stay with you. I couldn't be a 
 year and more in your house without hear- 
 ing what 's good and right, but I'm far off 
 from practising it. There was the time we 
 spent abroad that spoilt poor Kate, who was 
 all humility when we left Moraston ; it did 
 not do me any good. And then I came 
 here with Damian, and we had no one to 
 guide us — only our own wills to follow, 
 which often led us astray. It was just our 
 childhood over again, without its perfect inno- 
 cence. I was idle, and went about hither and 
 thither with my bold brother in a way that 
 would have shocked dear Aunt Maro;erv 
 dreadfully; — riding unbroken horses, and 
 just letting them carry me where they liked 
 after the hounds — over fences, wherever Da- 
 mian went, I followed him. He liked me to 
 do it. Poor boy! he had troubles of his own ; 
 and though I did not take his part at the
 
 the earl's cedars. 205 
 
 time, I pitied him when it was all over. 
 You 'd never believe the wild things I Ve 
 done in his company — shooting, and fishing, 
 and riding over as much ground in a day as a 
 fleet horse — and I rode the swiftest — could 
 carry me through. It wasn't womanlike, 
 Aunt Margery ! ' she said, while an arch smile 
 suddenly broke over her features, as if she 
 were addressing my demure maiden relative. 
 " I know that, now, as well as you can tell 
 it me ; and I hadn't forgotten what you used 
 to say about my playing cricket, or running 
 races with my brothers, when we were mere 
 boys and girls together. Well, it was much 
 worse when I was a grown-up lady, and I 
 had minded you, and left off my hoydenish 
 ways; but, I'm ashamed to say, I took them 
 all up again, just as I did the brogue, when 
 I came back to Ireland." 
 
 I could not help laughing, and I was very 
 glad to see the bright look that had made the 
 sunshine of our home replace the weary ex- 
 pression I had been noticing in her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " You cannot, at least, complain," I said, 
 " of having been subjected to severe control ; 
 and the open-air life and active sports you 
 have shared with Lord Dunleary, — who, I have 
 no doubt, took good care of you, — have, I 
 I trust, strengthened health which I remember 
 to have been very feeble."
 
 206 the earl's cedars. 
 
 " He take care of me? — Damian ! she 
 exclaimed, laughing somewhat scornfully ; 
 " I 'd be the leader in any mischief we got into 
 together. They say women always are, and 
 maddest ever ! but don't laugh at me, Chari 
 Frankland ; it 's no jesting matter when a 
 motherless girl like me, with none to counsel 
 her, rides wild about a country like this. If 
 I 'd no guidance, then, it was not love that 
 set me free, but more like hatred ; and I re- 
 membered the yoke — I bore the mark of it on 
 my chafed neck — and started off if the slightest 
 touch was laid upon it. In my heart, too, 
 there was the sore rankling : and it was not 
 joy that set me off on my mad frolics, but 
 despair, and the thinking there was nothing 
 on earth worth living for." 
 
 Lady Honoria bent her head low on the 
 cold stone of the balustrade. I thought she 
 was weeping ; but, in a moment, I saw that 
 her eyes were not closed or blinded by teai 
 and that she had lifted her head slightly, and 
 was gazing with a totally changed expression 
 at a light which had suddenly burst forth, 
 it appeared to me, at the mouth of a deep 
 cave into which I had once penetrated, be- 
 cause Salcombe told me its curious petri- 
 factions were worth seeing. The smugglers 
 of the coast were said to know it well, and 
 often concealed their tubs in the intrical 
 passages of the rocks.
 
 the earl's cedars. 207 
 
 "I must tell Salcombe of that light/' I 
 said, after watching the glimmering radiance, 
 which sometimes burned very clearly, then 
 appeared to go out, and was several times 
 rekindled. " I am certain that is a smug- 
 gling signal ; I have lived too much upon the 
 coast not to know when I see one." 
 
 " Oh, you wouldn't mention it, surely ! ' 
 said Lady Honoria, eagerly; " I like to see it 
 burning. That light — it has not been kin- 
 dled lately, — perhaps it is not what you 
 fancy." 
 
 " I scarcely see what else it can be," I 
 answered ; " and I know Salcombe is ex- 
 pecting the smugglers to try and land a 
 cargo. You would not wish me to let my 
 friend get into trouble for want of a w T ord 
 from me?" 
 
 " It 's not his business ! ' said Lady Ho- 
 noria, haughtily ; " he is the officer afloat ; let 
 others look after the coast. Oh, Charles, 
 leave the poor fellows alone ! You know your 
 father, though he wouldn't buy their goods, 
 never told of them. Don't come to Ireland 
 to turn informer ! ' 
 
 I laughed, but there was deep anxiety in 
 her tone. 
 
 " I 'm a real Irishwoman at heart, Charles, 
 and that light shone out against the dark 
 rocks, when I was saddest, to cheer me. \ ou
 
 208 the earl's cedars. 
 
 may laugh at me as much as you please for 
 being superstitious, but I always was and will 
 be ; and I take it for a good omen, so don't 
 cast trouble upon me." 
 
 The drawing-room was by this time bril- 
 liantly lighted up, and filled with guests ; but 
 Lady Honoria did not move, or offer to join 
 them. Several of the officers, at times, came 
 into the balcony, but her manner was so cold 
 that it gave them no encouragement to linger. 
 She still talked to me, and seemed to wish to 
 keep me near her ; rather, I think, to prevent 
 another from taking my place, than from any 
 more nattering reason, for her thoughts evi- 
 dently wandered, and her manner w T as fluc- 
 tuating ; sometimes flightily gay, at others 
 deeply sad. The affectionate confidence which 
 had marked it at first was not restored. 
 
 Captain Fairfax did not move away from 
 Lady St. Lo's side all the evening, until it 
 grew late, and then he came to the window 
 and asked if I was ready to accompany him. 
 Lady Honoria rose and shook hands with us 
 both, but she did not return to the drawing- 
 room. The Earl, with his usual friendliness, 
 went with me as far as the bridge, reiterating 
 the wish he had already expressed to see me 
 more frequently, and charging me with mes- 
 sages to my father at Moraston. 
 
 As I walked along the cliff at some dis-
 
 the earl's cedars. 209 
 
 tance behind Captain Fairfax and his officers, 
 for I did not hurry myself to overtake them, 
 I looked back more than once at a light 
 shining in what I believed to be the balcony 
 where I had only an hour before been talking 
 with Lady Honoria. While I gazed at it, the 
 sea-mist, or a bird flying across, seemed to 
 hide it from me ; but, after a moment's disap- 
 pearance, it was always to be seen again, 
 brighter than ever. 
 
 This faint, twinkling star, the only spark 
 of radiance visible, (for the night was now 
 overcast, and none of the other windows of the 
 reception-rooms fronted the coast,) mingled 
 with my thoughts, which dwelt much upon 
 her words, as, one by one, freshly as they fell 
 from her lips, her abrupt sentences of frank 
 confession returned to my recollection. The 
 wild life she had led since she went forth from 
 our quiet home, the want of love and care she 
 had experienced, the incautious manner and 
 unprotected mode of life which might have 
 laid her conduct open to misconstruction, in- 
 spired regret and anxiety. Then, like the 
 one starry light at Dunleary, which, as I 
 turned mv head a^ain, seemed to shine more 
 steadily above the mists, the remembrance of 
 her clear, truthful glance re-awakened hope 
 and confidence, and I felt sure, however im- 
 prudently regardless of opinion she might have 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 210 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 been, no deeper error than girlish wilfuhx 
 could be attached to her charact 
 
 In passing over Kenbane Head, I noti< 
 that there was no coast-guard man on duty at 
 this post, which was the one Salcombe had 
 once before desired me to observe, as being of 
 peculiar importance. The sentry-box on the 
 summit of the headland was empty, and I 
 heard only the voices and footsteps of the 
 officers in front of me. It was not Salcombe's 
 duty to look after the men on shore, now that 
 Temple was quite well, and able to resume his 
 own work ; but I had heard so much about 
 the smugglers of the district from my active- 
 minded friend, who protested that every na- 
 tive of the province was in league with them, 
 that I could not help connecting the absence 
 of the coast-guard man from the look-out 
 station on Kenbane Head with the smuggling- 
 signals at the mouth of the cave which I had 
 watched with Lady Honoria. 
 
 Before we entered the town, Captain Fair- 
 fax dropped back, and walked beside n 
 nearly to the snot where a boat was waiting 
 to take him off to the ship. 1 fancied that the 
 Ions: conversation 1 had seen him holding with 
 Lady St. Lo had left an unpleasant impression 
 on his mind. Though he praised her beauty, 
 it was with a strong reservation in favour of 
 women less attractive, perhaps, but more re-
 
 THE EAItl/s CEDARS. 211 
 
 tiring, and not so desirous of general admira- 
 tion. Nevertheless, he said that she had been 
 extremely agreeable — too much so, in fact, to 
 be entirely successful in fascinating the proud, 
 fastidious sailor. 
 
 He walked on in silence for several minutes, 
 and then said, somewhat unconnectedlv, — 
 
 " Thank Heaven, she is not her daughter! ' 
 
 I could easily supply the names he had left 
 out ; and the reluctance of my companion to 
 mention Lady Honoria confirmed the belief I 
 had for some time entertained, that she was the 
 object of a serious attachment on his part. Of 
 ancient family, ample fortune, and unblemished 
 honour, Captain Fairfax would have been, by 
 most persons, regarded as an excellent match 
 for the daughter of an improvident Irish peer ; 
 but I did not wish him success in his suit. 
 Without examining into the cause of the ill- 
 humour which was every moment growing 
 upon me, I at once decided in my own mind 
 that the handsome officer by my side, who 
 was, I felt convinced, balancing the pros and 
 cons with respect to an union with one, in my 
 opinion, immeasurably his superior, merited 
 nothing better than rejection. 
 
 My answers became shorter as he went on 
 questioning me about Lady Honoria's mother,, 
 the beautiful Countess who had died at The 
 Cedars, at the same time with my own parent,
 
 212 TIIE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 and whose memory was consequently en- 
 shrined as something sacred. 
 
 " The first Lady St. Lo did not die of con- 
 sumption," I said, when I found myself com- 
 pelled to speak. " She was my father's patient 
 at The Cedars, where she underwent much 
 bodily suffering from a painful internal malady, 
 which was said to be aggravated by mental 
 distress. All women cannot bear to witness 
 the failings of a husband with as smooth a 
 brow as the present Countess." 
 
 " She is no favourite of yours, Frankland ; 
 nor, indeed, of mine," said Fairfax. " There is 
 something of the hyena in her bright, keen eye, 
 and I do not trust the apparently unclouded 
 sunshine of her temper. There must be darker 
 shades in the moods of one whose horizon is so 
 cloudy ; for the Earl's life is most uncertain ; 
 and I understand that the part of his property 
 which has not been swallowed up in the vortex 
 of his extravagance is settled upon Lord Dun- 
 leary. No wonder his step-mother has a quick 
 eye to detect any symptoms of decaying health. 
 She told me, to-night, that he had such a vio- 
 lent illness, on the Continent, of some mys- 
 terious nature, that his life was despaired of. 
 Nothing could have saved him but the removal 
 of certain objects which excited painful re- 
 grets, and Lady Honoria's devoted care of him, 
 when, to try the effect of his native air, as a last
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 213 
 
 resource, his sister brought him over to Ire- 
 land. She was much too young to be en- 
 trusted with such a charge, but Dunleary would 
 bear to have no one else near him. These violent 
 accesses of temper, as it may be called in the 
 first instance, breaking out in persons of feeble 
 constitution, have threatened at different times 
 to be fatal to all the Earl's first family ; and, 
 since young Adolphus left home for sea in a 
 fit of ungovernable fury at his wishes being 
 opposed, and returned to them no more, Lady 
 St. Lo says she has been afraid to contend 
 with their humours. " 
 
 Captain Fairfax walked on moodily, and 
 I saw that, in spite of his dislike to the 
 Countess, her insinuations had some weight 
 with him. At last he came closer to me, and 
 said, in a low, emphatic tone, — 
 
 " Did you ever hear that there was mad- 
 ness in the first Lady St. Lo's family ?' : 
 
 " Never !" I answered, indignantly. " My 
 father has lived for many years, where my 
 grandfather dwelt before him, close to The 
 Cedars. Had anything of the kind existed, 
 they must have known it. The present hare- 
 brained proprietor of the estate is much the 
 unsteadiest of all its possessors." 
 
 " I am infinitely indebted to you, Frank- 
 land !' said the Captain, with an air of relief. 
 " That is the question I have been longing to
 
 214 the earl's cedars. 
 
 • 
 
 ask you. Lord St. Lo is a vauriea, certainly, 
 but not mad, — at least, not hereditarily so. 
 One would be glad to rescue any person in 
 whom one felt interest from his influence. 
 That young Dunleary, for instance — there 
 must be something good in him to make his 
 sister so fond of him. I should like to invite 
 him to take a cruise with us, if, as I believe to 
 be most likelv, the Retribution is ordered to 
 the Mediterranean or the Tagus. It would 
 please his sister extremely. By the way, what 
 was the reason, — vou have not told me that 
 yet, — of her being sent from home to your 
 father's house, and left there for two vears ? I 
 believe it was the best thing that could have 
 happened to her ; but, it seems, on the part of 
 her family, rather a heartless proceeding. 
 What a lovelv creature she must have been, 
 even then ! ' 
 
 He looked at me inquisitively. 
 
 " We all thought that Laclv Honoria was 
 much to be pitied,"' I said, " and the state of 
 grief and misery in which she came to us re- 
 quired peculiar care. This, I believe, she re- 
 ceived at my father's, and her delicate health 
 was strengthened by the quiet life she led with 
 us. She had been suffering from acute neu- 
 ralgia, brought on by her extreme grief at the 
 loss of her youngest brother."' 
 
 The young midshipman who was drowned 
 
 a Tl
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 215 
 
 off St. Malo, after quarrelling with his cap- 
 tain ?" said Fairfax. " I remember it well; — 
 there was a great deal said about it in the ser- 
 vice. Some blamed Ilarcourt more than the 
 poor boy ; — others said St. Lo was an undisci- 
 plined youth, and a most difficult subject to 
 manage. He was very handsome, like his sis- 
 ter, and, had he fallen into good hands, might 
 have turned out well; but in a large ship, 
 among a crowd of youngsters, who was likelv 
 to study his peculiarities ? I believe Harcourt 
 to be a most tiresome, pragmatical fellow. 
 He brought his shin home from Buenos 
 Ayres, two years afterwards, with three of his 
 officers under arrest — the first lieutenant shut 
 up in his cabin the whole way. The// brought 
 him to a court-martial for undue severity 
 to his crew, and inflicting punishments which 
 were not according to the regulations ; but 
 the charges against him were not satisfac- 
 torily proved. It is a very bad precedent for 
 junior officers to bring accusations against 
 their superiors, and, in most cases, something- 
 transpires which tells against their own cha- 
 racter, and prevents their rising in the service. 
 I know it was so in this instance/' 
 
 I did not wish to argue with a man whose 
 prejudices were sure to be in favour of his own 
 class ; but I had heard a good deal from various 
 quarters respecting Adolphus St. Lo's unfor-
 
 216 the earl's cedars. 
 
 tunate disobedience to orders, and my convic- 
 tion was that he had been hardly dealt with. 
 Without expressing any opinion of my own, I 
 told Captain Fairfax the result of my inquiries 
 on the subject. 
 
 " Well, it mav have been so : I am inclined 
 to believe that it was. At all events, it was 
 an act of boyish rashness, and the poor fellow 
 perished in consequence. That must make 
 us pity him ; and his sister," he said, in a low 
 tone, " she must have felt it deeply." 
 
 We did not pursue the topic, and on the 
 quay I was joined by Salcombe, who was 
 just come off the water, and met me after I 
 had parted from the officers of the Retribution. 
 He was in a great hurry, as usual, and con- 
 siderably excited. Though I had had a long- 
 walk, over somewhat rough ground, I could 
 not refuse to mount the cliff as far as the look- 
 out station above the town, before we went 
 home to his cottage. 
 
 "What's the meaning of that? ' : he said 
 to me, in a low tone, after taking the glass 
 from the man who was silently walking up 
 and down in front of the flagstaff, on an 
 elevated platform of rock, near the station. 
 "There, does that focus suit you? Tell me 
 what you make out yonder." 
 
 " The lights of Dunleary Castle," I said, 
 without looking in the direction he indicated.
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 217 
 
 " I am just come back from dining there, and 
 the great drawing-room was illuminated as if 
 for a ball." 
 
 " Psha ! nonsense ! I don't mean that. 
 Those windows face the sea, and have been 
 dark these two hours. I saw the grand blaze 
 there, shining down into the water when I was 
 out in the cutter, and augured that your 
 party was a gay one. What I want you to 
 notice, now, is that perverse, twinkling star, 
 now seen, now gone. There, — it was dashed 
 out then, or, more likely, something interposed 
 to hide it. I have been looking at it this hour 
 or more, and have seen it extinguished and 
 re-lit fifty times running. This night is not 
 the first, by many, that I have watched it." 
 
 " It must be the mist," I said, laying 
 down the telescope, after using it, with an 
 indifference which, I confess, was feigned. 
 " How long have you observed this ?' 
 
 " I watched it, night after night, while 
 Temple was ill, and pointed it out to him when 
 he was able to resume his duty, just before the 
 Retribution sailed," said Salcombe. " Then, 
 provokingly enough, no signals were made, 
 and we nearly had a quarrel. Now, he must 
 see that I was right. This is the first time 
 since his recovery that any one, at this late 
 hour, has hung out a light from Dunleary. 
 Nothing has been going on for the last week,
 
 218 the earl's cedars. 
 
 and just when I notice that twinkling ray 
 again, tidings come that a cargo is to be 
 landed. Positively, I believe there is a con- 
 nexion between some person at the castle and 
 these foreign vessels.' 5 
 
 His abrupt remark broke in upon such a 
 different train of thought in my mind, that I 
 answered him impatiently. 
 
 " You are quite mad about the smuggling, 
 Salcombe ! What can the Earl's family have 
 
 t 
 
 to do with it ? Do leave the matter to Tem- 
 ple, since you have mentioned it to Inn He 
 seems a capital officer." 
 
 " I don't know; — I wish I could make it 
 out!" said Salcombe, without attending tome, 
 but narrowly observing the distant gleam. 
 " One, two ;• — now it is gone. There is no fog 
 to-night thick enough to hide it from us so 
 completely. How many will you be able to 
 count before the next flash? — Five! I can't 
 understand it." 
 
 Both of us, I believe, with equal curiosiry, 
 watched the glimmering spark, which un- 
 doubtedly obeyed some peculiar laws of 
 own. I thought of wavering torch-gleams 
 seen from high prison-towers in Italy, by which 
 the victims of Austrian tyranny were said to 
 hold communication with their friends and 
 concert plans for their deliverance ; the un- 
 covering of the light a number of times in
 
 THE EARLS CEDARS. 219 
 
 quick succession, or its appearance at measured 
 intervals, standing in place of words and 
 letters. 
 
 When I put down the glass, the head- 
 boatman, who was on duty at the look-out, 
 respectfully took it from me, and gazed 
 steadily for some minutes at the object which 
 had excited our attention. 
 
 Salcombe was by this time in a perfect 
 fever, wanting to call up Temple, who had just- 
 gone in to rest, after making the round of his 
 posts for the first time during the night. The 
 old chief-boatman took the matter more 
 quietly. He had seen the same light burning 
 in that fluctuating way often before, and 
 nothing had yet come of it. It was strange, 
 certainly, but perhaps it was no concern of 
 theirs. 
 
 At all events, we could see no farther at 
 present into the mystery, if one existed. 
 Dunleary Castle, its faint star at last ex- 
 tinguished, hung darkly over the sea. The 
 wind was coming in cold gusts across the 
 cliffs, and Mrs. Salcombe, who expected her 
 husband home, was likely to be seriously 
 alarmed by a longer delay. Salcombe left 
 directions with the man on duty to mention 
 what he had seen to Lieutenant Temple, and 
 advise him to keep a strict watch j and we 
 went to bed, with the rising north wind roaring
 
 220 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 over the chimney-pots, and blowing off into the 
 street the tiles from the roofs of our neighbours' 
 houses, while it promised us decidedly foul 
 weather for the chase after the Dutch luggers, 
 which Salcombe had in contemplation for the 
 morrow. 

 
 221 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 It blew such a gale, the next morning, that the 
 cutter could not put out to sea. All the rocks 
 along the coast were covered with foam, which 
 flew high above the suspension-bridge at Dun- 
 leary, while the winds rocked it like a cradle. 
 Not a corragh was seen in the bay ; and even 
 the daring smugglers could not, with such a 
 sea running, have landed a cargo anywhere 
 between the lighthouses on the Maiden Rocks 
 and Portrush. 
 
 Floods of rain swept past our windows, 
 and as no pressing call of duty required my 
 services, I was glad to stay, during most part 
 of the day, in-doors. The Retribution, after 
 her captain went on board, had gone out to 
 sea, not liking the aspect of the coast near her 
 in such threatening weather. There was not 
 sufficient depth of water inside the harbour to 
 float so large a vessel, and, at its entrance, 
 rocks and dangerous reefs abounded, on which, 
 if she dragged her anchors, a ship might in a 
 storm be driven. The tall masts of the frigate
 
 222 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 at the entrance of the Lav, with the raan-of- 
 war's boats and those belonging to the port, 
 constantly passing to and fro, had given an 
 animation to the small Irish town which was 
 sorely missed, when, late in the evening, 
 Salcombe and I strolled down the muddy 
 
 ■ 
 
 street, with the rain-water running in swollen 
 rivulets along the kennels on either side of the 
 steep hill on which it was built. My friend, 
 who had been fuming and fretting all day at his 
 enforced idleness, left me almost directly, and 
 went to get information from the men whom 
 he had employed to learn the secrets of the 
 srnuo-o-lers, while I continued mv walk alon^ 
 the coast. 
 
 Truly, I shall never forget the magnificent 
 sight which met my eyes, when, not without 
 difficulty, for the wind set right upon the face 
 of the cliff, I reached its summit. It mav be 
 that, with those stern headlands and rent 
 columns now opposing themselves to the fierce 
 violence of the gale, is connected the idea 
 which, in some form or other, has governed 
 through life whatever there was of romance in 
 my composition; — and what man, worthy of the 
 name, has not some such unseen world of 
 thought within him ? 
 
 Mine was purely imaginary, and seemed as 
 far as possible removed from the realities of 
 existence ; but, nevertheless, it did enter into
 
 the earl's cedars. 223 
 
 them in spirit, gifting me with ambition, 
 energy, raid untiring zeal, even though no 
 object of attainment was before me which I 
 aspired to win ; and making me despise most 
 thoroughly the idle recreations and unworthy 
 vices, together with the tormenting scepticism, 
 which had ruined many who entered with me 
 upon the same career. If the feeling that ani- 
 mated every exertion, strengthened faith, and 
 ennobled the toilsome path of duty, was not 
 love — it was at least some spiritualising influ- 
 ence, cast by the pure worship of a dreamer's 
 mind upon my character, which saved me from 
 much evil, and, while it, perhaps, deprived 
 me of some of the light-heartedness of early 
 manhood, deserved my gratitude by restraining 
 me from many of its errors. 
 
 Throwing myself down, where a projection 
 of the cliff offered a slight shelter from the 
 wind, I now lay watching the stormy ocean, 
 with the sea washing over and thundering 
 among the outstanding rocks, but gradually 
 receding as the tide ebbed, and darkness 
 gathered over the face of the deep. There 
 was not a sail visible upon the waters; the 
 gulls, hoarsely screaming, were flying from one 
 tall headland to another, their white wings 
 gleaming against the murky hue of the sky, 
 which portended another night of rain and 
 wind.
 
 224 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 Even the cliffs and walls of Dunleary had 
 lost their claim to whiteness, and were almost 
 undistinguishable. There was no foaming 
 gulf, at the present moment, between the 
 castle and the land, but a dark slip of dimly- 
 seen, w^et sand, from which the waves had re- 
 ceded. I could not at all make out the bridge, 
 which had vibrated so plainly in the morning. 
 The wind had gone down slightly with the 
 tide, but there was every probability of its 
 rising higher when the waves flowed back upon 
 the shore. 
 
 At present, there was a dull, gloomy inter- 
 lude in the tempest, which was not without 
 its melancholy grandeur; the dark, heaving 
 sea subsiding in long, undulating swells, each 
 one leaving on the beach its tribute of tangled 
 sea-weed ; the mournful gushes of wind, that 
 still swept over the cliffs, full of dampness 
 from the sea-spray; and the thick veil of a 
 night which promised to be intensely dark, 
 drawing itself gradually over the face of nature, 
 and shrouding successively every object. Now 
 it was a distant headland, then a waving curl 
 of surf, or the sand-hillocks farther along the 
 beach, that, one after another, as I watched 
 them idly, became indistinct, and were finally 
 lost sight of altogether. 
 
 Suddenly, amidst the general gloom, a 
 light began to twinkle from the castle of Dun-
 
 the earl's cedars. 225 
 
 leary. It was only what I expected, and had 
 been long waiting to see, yet its first outbreak 
 startled me. I wondered whether Salcorabe 
 was watching, and what meaning he would 
 attribute to it. I was not now distracted by 
 his observations, nor by the wish that he 
 should not think I attached much impor- 
 tance to what had appeared originally a very 
 simple occurrence. Now that I was alone, 
 without a soul near me, I watched the light, 
 which I was certain shone from Ladv Honoria 
 St. Lo's favourite window, very intently. 
 
 It was as he had said — a perverse, fitful 
 gleam, and its fluctuations excited interest. 
 It did not shine like an ordinary light, beam- 
 ing from the dwelling of human creatures like 
 ourselves, cheering and irradiating the dark 
 waters, but was put out and rekindled in such 
 quick succession, that I tried in vain to count 
 the flashes. I thought, if any communication 
 were held by means of this mysterious glimmer, 
 it must be through the number of the times 
 the light appeared corresponding with the 
 letters of the alphabet — at least, I had heard 
 such an explanation given ; but if there were 
 any such meaning in the capricious light dis- 
 played at Dunleary, it was meant for other 
 eyes than mine to read — I could not make it 
 out. 
 
 My curiosity thus baffled, and at the same 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 the earl's cedars. 
 
 time excited, I thought that I would give the 
 world to know whether any corresponding 
 torch gleamed upon the shore. Without 
 troubling myself to give information to Sal- 
 combe, who was quite man enough for the 
 performance of his own duties, I descended to 
 the beach, with the intention of directing my 
 steps towards the great headland, beneath 
 which the cave was hollowed out, at whose 
 entrance, the night before, I had seen signals 
 burning. 
 
 Here an unexpected obstacle met me as I 
 walked over the shingles, in the shape of two 
 of Lieutenant Temple's men, who were patrol- 
 ling the beach, armed to the teeth. Th 
 were very civil, but peremptory, and would 
 not suffer me to go farther. No exception had 
 been made with regard to me, and thev had 
 strict orders from their officer, who had gone 
 the rounds at eight o'clock, to suffer no person, 
 on whatever pretence, to pass along the shoi 
 
 There was no help for it but to get the 
 stringent prohibition relaxed in my favour ; and 
 I was turning towards the station, near the 
 town, in as impatient a mood as Salcombe 
 himself could have exhibited, when I saw 
 standing, just at the point that ran into the 
 water of the grey headland I was longing to 
 go past, the coast-guard man, Moriarty, for 
 whom I had obtained a passage in the Retri-
 
 the earl's cedars. 227 
 
 bution. One favour deserved another ; and I 
 thought, from his appearance, and from Sal- 
 combe's way of speaking of him, that this 
 man was of a superior grade to those who 
 had stopped me. 
 
 At first, he seemed to hesitate, but, when 
 I called a second time, Moriarty came forward 
 and spoke to me. He declared himself sorry 
 to refuse my request, but Mr. Temple's orders 
 were explicit and absolute. He was the only 
 person allowed that night to go beyond the 
 point. That was his beat, and he had no right 
 to leave it, even for the moment we were 
 speaking together. 
 
 He was gone the instant he had spoken, 
 and I watched the young fellow's tall form 
 disappear round the rocks with a strong sen- 
 sation of envy, and plodded wearily back 
 over the shingles to obtain permission from 
 the lieutenant to pass through his water- 
 guard. 
 
 Near the town I met Salcombe and Temple, 
 visiting the different outposts together. My 
 friend seemed in a better humour than he had 
 been all day, in consequence of having his hands 
 full of business. He had received information, 
 on which he had every reason to rely, that the 
 smugglers were about to attempt landing a cargo 
 at the little haven to the east of Port Noffer, 
 where some of the scattered ships of the
 
 22S the earl's cedars. 
 
 Armada are said to have gone down. There 
 is no sound authority for the tradition, but it 
 is called along the coast " the Spanish Port," 
 and presents the same difficulties to mariners 
 as formerly. 
 
 Unless it blew a hurricane, Salcombe was 
 determined to get the cutter out to sea on the 
 morrow. His versatile thoughts had turned 
 into another channel, and he was now of opi- 
 nion that any lights in this direction, kindled 
 by the smugglers, were intended to deceive the 
 coast-guard. They would not have been dis- 
 played so often if a landing had really been 
 arranged in this locality. 
 
 I am not quite sure whether Lieutenant 
 Temple, who was a quiet man, still much out 
 of health, but, I think, in other respects, quite 
 as effective an officer as my volatile friend, 
 agreed with Salcombe in utterly disregarding 
 what, the night before, had appeared to be of 
 such paramount importance. He went on 
 with us, though at first he seemed fatigued, and 
 inclined to accept Salcombe's offer to take the 
 night-work for him ; and, while our friend 
 talked, he looked about him closely, and ques- 
 tioned the men on duty as to what they had 
 seen, giving his orders in a low, firm tone. 
 
 Of course, in such companionship, my 
 right to pass the headland was not questioned. 
 The tide was still on the ebb, and we went
 
 the earl's cedars. 229 
 
 round dryshod. Salcombe surveyed the spot 
 contemptuously, and, certainly, there was not 
 much to awaken suspicion — only a few charred, 
 half-consumed brands, cast down at the mouth 
 of the great cave, which, I believe, no one 
 but myself noticed. The man, Moriarty, was 
 walking composedly up and down his beat, 
 and the Castle of Dunlearv was as dark as the 
 starless skv above it.
 
 230 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The peaks of the basaltic columns that sur- 
 mount the coast near Port Noffer gleamed 
 against as stormy a sky as must have loured 
 behind them, when, according to the popular 
 belief, the scattered ships of the Armada mis- 
 took them for the chimney-tops, after which 
 they are still called, and went down in sight 
 of land, oft' Port da Spagna. Salcombe's 
 cutter, one of the swiftest in the Revenue 
 service, bore us gallantly through the foaming 
 waters. Neither he nor I felt in the humour 
 for scientific investigations ; and we shot past 
 white-walled, distant towns, frowning preci- 
 pices, and, now and then, thriving villages, 
 whose fair church-towers, backed by trees and 
 rising schools, betokened more prosperity and 
 improvement than the desolated estates of 
 Lord St. Lo could boast. Nothing was al- 
 lowed to interfere with the business of the 
 hour. I saw that the lieutenant was in 
 serious earnest, and did not delay or impede 
 him. It was not my fault if he swept the
 
 the earl's cedars. 231 
 
 sea and shore with his glass, from day-dawn 
 till near sunset, without making any of the 
 discoveries upon which he relied when we 
 started. 
 
 Sal combe w r as certainly not born under a 
 fortunate planet ; and he now raved bitterly at 
 his disappointment. With all his mental and 
 bodily energy, he had taken fewer prizes, and 
 risen more slowly in the service, than men 
 gifted with half his talent, activity, and zeal. 
 He told me, with bitter vexation, that Temple 
 had had the great luck to secure a rich cargo 
 of smuggled goods the previous winter ; for 
 which capture he and his men had received a 
 most liberal reward. The crew and passengers 
 of a large Scottish steamer had been likewise 
 rescued from shipwreck by his great personal 
 exertions ; and the proprietors of the vessel, 
 shipowners at Glasgow, had sent him a testi- 
 monial, which, every time the silver tea-service 
 glittered on Mrs. Temple's table, excited my 
 friend's emulation to bestow as gratifying a 
 gift upon his own pretty wife. I am sure 
 Salcombe would have done as much or more 
 than most men to save life or property, even 
 without the stimulus thus afforded ; but, as 
 yet, Providence had not vouchsafed hi in a 
 similar opportunity of distinguishing himself. 
 
 The cutter, not without considerable risk, 
 had been beating off the rocks of the Isle of
 
 232 the earl's cedars. 
 
 Raghery, while Salcombe and some of his men 
 landed and explored every fissure, in search of 
 the kegs or tubs of spirits, for which it was a 
 notorious place of concealment. They had 
 just returned on board, disheartened by their 
 want of success, when the man at the helm 
 pointed out a suspicious-looking craft stealing 
 along ahead of us, under the lee of the island. 
 Salcombe was on the alert immediately. His 
 handsome face lighted up with joy, as through 
 the foaming seas, throwing showers of spray 
 upon her deck, our gallant Shamrock, under 
 full press of canvas, kept her way ; and when 
 she began to gain perceptibly upon the foreign 
 vessel, as we firmly believed the raking-masted, 
 roguish-looking schooner to be, he was quite 
 wild with exultation. 
 
 We lost sight of her, for a brief period, as 
 she entered a dim cloud of mist. AY hen the 
 fog cleared off, the strange sail was threading 
 her way through a cluster of rocks that stretched 
 out beyond the main island. Salcombe threw 
 down his glass with an air of extreme vexa- 
 tion. 
 
 " That is no French vessel ! " he said. 
 " The fellows on board know this plaguy 
 coast as well as I do. Very likely half of them 
 were born upon it, and they are all arrant 
 smugglers ; but their craft is not the one wo 
 are looking for. It is Colonel O'Maliey's yacht,
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 233 
 
 the Mayflower ; and I dare say Lord and Lady 
 St. Lo are on board." 
 
 "Not in such weather as this, surely?" I 
 said. " It is not the kind of day for a lady to 
 venture on the water ; nor even for a lands- 
 man, like Lord St. Lo, to make a trip to the 
 Islands for pleasure." 
 
 " Her ladyship is by no means of a timid 
 character ; and, wherever she goes, if it pleases 
 her so to will it, my lord must follow," said 
 Salcombe, contemptuously. " She is a better 
 sailor than Dunleary, and would not have 
 turned back, as he did this morning, at sight 
 of the white caps upon the water." 
 
 " What makes them hug the land so 
 closely?' I said, as we stood watching the 
 light, graceful vessel labouring through the 
 heavy surf. " I thought, at first, they were 
 trying to keep out of your way." 
 
 " It did look like it, certainly," replied 
 Salcombe. " Perhaps her ladyship has had 
 enough of such a rough cruise, and wishes to 
 land ; but it is useless for them to think of 
 making the port of Raghery in such foul 
 weather. Ha ! by Jove, there goes a signal up 
 the rigging ! The yacht is in distress, and 
 wants assistance." 
 
 As the fluttering flag flew aloft, Salcombe 
 went forward, and ordered his boat to be 
 lowered. He pushed off in her himself, with
 
 234 THE EAR] EDAR8. 
 
 as many men as the cutter could spare, to th< 
 aid of the Mayflower, which, almost as fragile 
 as her floral emblem, had sustained consider- 
 able injury during the gale, and was found to 
 be in imminent danger. As quickly as it was 
 possible for the boat to return through the 
 turbulent sea, she came back, bringing Lord 
 St. Lo and the Countess, whom mv friend had 
 persuaded to go on board the Shamrock. 
 
 Colonel O'Malley did not leave his vessel ; 
 but Salcombe told me in a whisper, when he 
 returned, that he had not the slightest idea 
 how to manage her. By his obstinacy, he had 
 nearly run the schooner upon the rocks. 
 Though an unskilful sailor, however, he was a 
 man of spirit, and chose to stay by his crew, 
 some of whom were experienced hands, till 
 they got the pretty little craft out of danger. 
 
 I saw the Countess stand, with her lips 
 compressed, almost as pale as death, watching 
 the yacht, as it went shudderinglv through the 
 troughs of the waves, throwing the foam from 
 her bows — her white canvas torn and hanging 
 in ribands from her slender masts. Lord St. 
 Lo was a bad sailor, and went below imme- 
 diately after coming on board the cutter, 
 leaving his wife on deck. 
 
 I did not at first approach her ; and she 
 seemed for a time entirely engrossed by 
 anxietv for the safety of the vessel she had so
 
 the earl's cedars. 235 
 
 lately quitted. All our crew watched the 
 
 schooner with interest, and openly blamed the 
 blundering seamanship which had got her into 
 her present peril. I believe it was entirely 
 owing to Salcombe's judicious advice, which 
 the Colonel was at last wise enough to follow, 
 that the Mayflower was saved from foundering. 
 When the extreme danger was passed, the 
 Countess drew a deep breath, and turned 
 away. I heard her thanking Salcombe elo- 
 quently, as soon as he came back on board 
 the cutter. She regretted, however, having 
 quitted the Mayflower, where, she said, she had 
 felt no fear for herself. The great excitement 
 kept up her spirits ; and she had been certain 
 the yacht would weather the reef. If Lord 
 St. Lo had permitted — if his sufferings had 
 been less — she would not have left her com- 
 panions in danger. 
 
 Her lip slightly curled as she spoke. It 
 was evident that she was a total stranger to 
 personal fear, as well as to the physical weak- 
 ness which had completely prostrated her 
 lord. She would not go below, but sat on the 
 deck, wrapped in her boat-cloak, while showers 
 of spray fell over her ; not heeding them, a> 
 she still watched the yacht now making its waj 
 through calmer water to the neighbouring 
 port. When Salcombe, who was busily occu- 
 pied with the care of his own vessel, next went
 
 23G the earl's cedars. 
 
 near her, she stopped him, saying, in a low, 
 anxious tone : — 
 
 " Surely, there is no danger for them now ? 
 How beautifully she is skimming over the 
 green water! — like -a bird, or the spring- 
 flower she is named after, waving on the 
 meadows. I almost wish I had not left her." 
 
 " You may depend upon it she is get- 
 ting on better without your ladyship," said 
 Salcombe, impatiently, pausing for a moment 
 in front of her. " If I were her owner, I 
 should not like to have ladies on board in 
 such weather. Colonel O'Mallev, were he 
 a sailor, would not have invited you ; and, 
 for my part, I confess — as you never did me 
 the honour to come on board my vessel before, 
 Lady St. Lo — this is not the day I should 
 have chosen to see vou here ; and I shall be 
 heartily glad to put you safely on shore. ' 
 
 He turned away immediately ; and soon 
 after, the yacht having dropped behind out 
 of sight, Lady St. Lo looked round, and, 
 perceiving me, courteously acknowledged my 
 distant salutation. It would have been un- 
 manly not to speak to her, and, when I 
 approached her, she asked me some questions 
 respecting the features of the coast, which led 
 to a short conversation. 1 had never heard 
 her speak so agreeably ; her voice seemed soft- 
 ened by some strong inward feeling, and her
 
 the earl's cedars. 237 
 
 countenance — graver than I had ever seen 
 it, and perfectly colourless, as she sat wrapped 
 up in her cloak, with the rain and mist sweeping 
 past — struck me as a much finer one than 
 I had believed it to be, when set off by all 
 the adjuncts of a studied toilet. 
 
 When Salcombe came up to tell us that 
 all the perils of the passage were completely 
 over for us, and that he had, with his glass, 
 seen the yacht at some distance, but in perfect 
 safety, making likewise for the harbour, 
 Lady St. Lo thanked him in a most graceful 
 manner for his care, and urged us both so 
 warmly to follow her to the Castle and end 
 the day there, that it w r ould have been ungra- 
 cious to refuse. Lord St. Lo seconded her 
 invitation when he came up from the cabin to 
 go on shore ; and as soon as all was made 
 safe, and the cutter moored in the bay, Sal- 
 combe and I went on together to Dunleary. 
 
 The fine view commanded from the Castle- 
 rock greatly struck Salcombe, who had never 
 visited the place previously. He stood still 
 more than once during our ascent, pointing 
 out minute peculiarities in the precipitous 
 facade of the opposite range of cliffs, which 
 were more familiar to him than the furniture 
 of his wife's tiny drawing-room. The clouds 
 had lifted considerably, and there were signs 
 of an approaching favourable change of
 
 >S THE EARL'S CEDARS. 
 
 weather. I do not know that I regarded 
 them with pleasure, since they were fore- 
 runners of our speedy departure. 
 
 Lady St. Lo had resumed her usual style 
 of dress and haughty demeanour, and ap- 
 peared a much less interesting person in her 
 husband's castle than during the storm which 
 she had braved so courageously. She received 
 ns with dignified courtesy, and then — pro- 
 bably thinking that she had bestowed suffi- 
 cient honour upon us in the course of the 
 morning, and by her pressing invitation — 
 she turned away, and devoted herself to her 
 other guests. Colonel O'Malley was the last 
 to arrive, and dinner was postponed to a very 
 late hour, in consequence of his being ex- 
 pected. The Mayflower, in her almost dis- 
 abled condition, he said, had with difficulty 
 reached her anchorage. 
 
 He came up and spoke to me about his 
 father in a very friendly manner, telling me that 
 he was still in an extremely vacillating state of 
 health, which often caused Lady Sarah much 
 anxiety. She wished that I might be abl i to 
 see him again before I left the country, and 
 had sent by her son, in case the Retribution 
 had not sailed, a written invitation, which 
 contained further particulars of Mr. O'Malley'a 
 case. I promised, if it were possible, com- 
 pliance with her wishes.
 
 THE EARL S CEDA11S. 239 
 
 Colonel O'Mallev then addressed himself 
 to Salcombe, and they talked for some time 
 about his yacht, and the repairs which were 
 necessary before she could again be fit for 
 sea. With his usual good-nature, my friend 
 undertook to superintend this process; and 
 they found so much to say on nautical sub- 
 jects, in which the Colonel seemed to take 
 great interest — though Salcombc's abrupt 
 replies and somewhat unflattering ejacula- 
 tions showed his enthusiasm to be that of a 
 novice — that they did not separate until dinner 
 was announced. 
 
 Colonel O'Malley conversed a great deal 
 while we were at table ; not exclusively 
 with hisnext neighbour, but generally ; and he 
 appeared to be well informed, and to have 
 profited by his military wanderings. I do 
 not think that he w T as a man whom ladies 
 would, commonly speaking, consider agreeable. 
 There was a certain degree of hardness in 
 the tone of his remarks, and he w r as more 
 occupied with himself than anxious to dis- 
 cover the tastes and opinions of others. A 
 thoroughly unsentimental, worldly character, 
 fond of amusement and excitement, I should 
 have pronounced him to be. With a definite 
 object to gain, he might take considerable 
 pains to please ; but I doubt his possessing 
 sensibility enough to be always able, even if
 
 240 the earl's cedars. 
 
 he wished it, to forget himself sufficiently 
 to win a woman's favour. Several times, 
 when Lady St. Lo was speaking to him, he 
 left off listening, or interrupted her almost 
 rudely, if some remark made by any person 
 present caught his attention. Then, again, 
 he would allow his tone to rise, and utter an 
 abrupt contradiction, if the phrase she used 
 did not please him ; but his arguments were 
 clever and striking, and she appeared to listen 
 to them with attention, and led him on to 
 relate curious anecdotes respecting places he 
 had visited, in a manner that flattered his 
 vanity, and made him take an animated part 
 in conversation. 
 
 I never once heard Lady Honoria address 
 him, nor even saw her look towards the hand- 
 some Colonel. She seemed very anxious 
 about her brother, who appeared to have had 
 a better reason for his conduct than Salcombe 
 had given him credit for, when he declined 
 taking a passage with us that stormy morning. 
 His sister said that he had been ill all day, 
 and for the whole week he had seemed 
 much out of spirits. Every moment her 
 eyes turned towards him, and the youth's 
 pallid countenance and dejected air showed 
 that she was justified in her uneasiness. He 
 was often very melancholy, she said, with a 
 deep sigh. At times, she doubted whether it
 
 the earl's cedars. 241 
 
 was right to thwart him, even when it ap- 
 peared to be for his good. 
 
 "We may all be sorry for it, Charles." 
 she remarked, in a choking tone of sorrow; 
 " for I don't think he is one to bear a great 
 grief with fortitude, if it were laid upon him. 
 I 'm stronger than he is, after all !' : 
 
 She looked at him long and fixedly, her 
 eyes filling with tears ; and Dunleary, acci- 
 dentally meeting his sister's glance, smiled 
 upon her affectionately ; but the next moment 
 the gloom resettled upon his downcast face. 
 He scarcely spoke a word during dinner, 
 though the conversation was of a more lively 
 nature than usual, and likely to be interest- 
 ing to most young men, since it principally 
 treated of out-door sports in different coun- 
 tries — sleighing in Canada, with bells ringing 
 out over the frost-bound rivers and snowy 
 plains ; Spanish bull-fights, and chasing the 
 white bear over the peaks of the Himalaya. 
 In most of the hardy exploits he recited, the 
 Colonel was the hero of his own tale, and 
 young Dunleary 's heavy eyes did not kindle 
 at the narration. 
 
 When we went into the drawing-room, 
 Salcombe walked straight up to the window 
 at its farthest end, and stepped into the 
 balcony, which was quite empty. Lady 
 Honoria had not been sitting there at all 
 
 vol. i. R
 
 242 tiik earl's cedars. 
 
 this evening ; and, as the young Lord had 
 said on a former occasion, it was cold and 
 uninviting, now that, on this bleak north coast 
 especially, summer had come to an end. No 
 one else was likely to take possession of her 
 favourite station. I wondered what observa- 
 tions Salcombe was making, as I saw him 
 standing there, in the dim light cast by the 
 numerous tapers burning in the drawing- 
 room : and I fancied that Ladv Iionoria's 
 attention, as well as my own, was attracted. 
 When he came back into the room, she told 
 an attendant passing near her to close the 
 side-window ; adding, with a slight shiver, 
 that it was too late in the vear now to leave 
 it open. The man fastened the glass-door 
 or casement, and drew some heavv curtains of 
 brocade over it, so as to hide the recess com- 
 pletely. Salcombe came up to us directly 
 afterwards. 
 
 It was clear to me that he recognised th" 
 window at which a lierlit had been so frc- 
 quently displayed ; but he did not make any 
 allusion to the subject. Lady Honoria, who 
 he greatly admired, spoke to him with more vi- 
 vacity than she had shown during the evening 
 and, while most of Lord St. Los guests a 
 down to cards, and Colonel O'Malley entered 
 with as much zest into this amusement as he 
 had, by his own report of himself, evinced in
 
 the earl's CEDARS. .''243 
 
 every sport and pastime which was the fashion 
 of the day in the various places of resort he 
 described, young Dunleary drew near us, and 
 extending his long, weary limbs on a sofa, 
 rested his head on his sister's arm, which lay 
 upon the back of the couch. 
 
 " 'Twas best you stayed with me, Damian, 
 this moraine:, See, how your head 's been 
 aching all clay ! — I can feel the temples throb- 
 bing," said Lady Honoria, to whom Salcombe 
 had been giving an animated description of 
 the storm, and the peril which the yacht 
 had encountered, before Lady St. Lo quitted 
 her. 
 
 " The pitching and tossing of the sea would 
 have made the pain worse than you 'd have 
 been able to bear ; and there might have been 
 other things to annov you. How I hate the 
 sea!' she exclaimed, suddenly; — "and we 
 look upon little else at Dunleary." 
 
 " You have not overcome your old dis- 
 like?" I said. "The last time I saw you at 
 Moraston, I fancied it was wearing off.' 1 
 
 " May be I 'd have lost it there," she 
 said, mournfully; "but it came back, like 
 many other feelings I 'd be better without, as 
 soon as I was at home. Now, I 'd rather be 
 in the meanest cottage than in this sea-washed 
 castle, with the salt waves flowing on all 
 sides of it. But I '11 go with you, Damian,
 
 244 the earl's cedars. 
 
 dear, to the Islands, if you Avant to get away, 
 — if the change would do you good. Just 
 say the word, and I 'm ready. Oh, Charles ! 
 doesn't he look ill?' 
 
 I could not but agree in her opinion, 
 though I would not increase the vounsr man's 
 evident depression of spirits by confirming it 
 openly. Salcombe went off at a tangent, in a 
 violent tirade in favour of the sea ; Ladv 
 Honoria sat watching her brother, scarcely 
 listening to him. 
 
 " The sea never brought good to those 
 I loved," she said. " It was the ruin of my 
 poor brother Adolphus, who was never happy 
 but when upon the blue waters, and now lies 
 beneath them. Oh, the wreck and spoil the 
 waves would have to render up, if account 
 were taken of all the gay hopes and prospects 
 that have been swallowed up in the dark, dread 
 abysses that, often when the winds roar round 
 these dreary walls, I fancy in my sleep I see 
 yawning before me ! It's a cruel, treacherous 
 mistress ; but those who give their hearts up to 
 the love of the salt-water always have a corner 
 in them that 's locked up from us, and opens 
 only to the voice that 's ever ringing in their 
 ears. I don't think vou 've been so fond of 
 the water lately, Daniian ; but I '11 go with 
 you, any time you like, to The Fishery." 
 
 " I don't care to go, Honor," answered
 
 the earl's cedars. 245 
 
 her brother, listlessly. " Maybe it would do 
 me good, and maybe it wouldn't. I don't 
 think I mind much about anything now ; — 
 at least I 've no wish that you can help 
 me in." 
 
 Lady Honoria looked at him anxiously. 
 " Don't despair, Damian ! There is nothing 
 I would not do, when I see you so ill and 
 wretched." 
 
 "Does your ladyship intend visiting The 
 Fishery soon?' said Salcombe, abruptly. 
 " Let me know first, that I may give our 
 men notice to pay attention to your wishes." 
 
 " There 's little need of that," said Lord 
 Dunleary, affectionately ; " Honor knows 
 them all, and is a wonderful favourite. They 
 would lay down their lives for her, those fine 
 fellows of yours on the Island." 
 
 " Well, I am glad of it," said Salcombe ; 
 " it is well at such a place to be friends with 
 the only inhabitants besides yourselves that it 
 contains. Frankland, if you mean to come 
 with me, you must bid Lady Honoria and 
 Lord Dunleary good night. It is time I was 
 inspecting my posts." 
 
 He looked back several times after we left 
 the Castle; but not a spark of light was 
 visible, either above, below, or around us. 
 The lonely Castle, — the cave upon the beach, 
 — were alike dark; and all along the cliff,
 
 04G THE KARL S CEDARS. 
 
 Temple's men, alert and active, were on the 
 watch at the different outposts. Salcombe 
 spoke to each of them, asking for the news of 
 the night; and they all gave nearly the 
 same answer, to the effect that nothing was 
 stirring.
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Lord Dunleabt scarcely seemed in better 
 spirits, when lie came alongside the Retribu- 
 tion the next morning, in one of the ship's 
 boats which had been ashore. He readily 
 accepted our captain's invitation to luuch with 
 him ; but, in spite of the good-humour and 
 merriment on board, the youth still looked 
 jaded and unhappy. 
 
 I could not help asking him, when we 
 were alone in mv cabin, whether he had 
 any cause for unhappiness, or if he felt reallv 
 ill. 
 
 "It's much the same with m& always 
 now, Mr. Frankland. Faith, the life and soul 
 of me is gone out with the dulness at that old 
 Castle ! ' he said, throwing himself listlessly 
 into my easy-chair. " Honor can tell you that 
 the place is bad enough when we 're only 
 a family party ; but when my lady's friends 
 are in it, it 's past bearing. There 's no tell- 
 ing what we have to endure, and no help for 
 it, that I can see, except breaking loose like
 
 248 the earl's cedars. 
 
 poor Adolphus, and finding a grave as he did, 
 where he 's past tormenting. Nothing else v 
 can do will satisfy her!" 
 
 There was such bitterness in the young 
 man's tone that, whatever might be the 
 weapon which struck them, the wounds in- 
 flicted, I saw, rankled sorely ; and he was of 
 an age to put in practice any rash resolution he 
 might form. 
 
 " Why do you not persuade your sister to 
 travel with you?" -I said, wishing to change 
 the current of his thoughts. " If nothing 
 more exciting presents itself, you might pass 
 the autumn at The Cedars. You would enjoy 
 the shooting, and Lady Honoria, I am sure, 
 would not dislike to see her old friends at 
 Moraston again. I think you want a change ; 
 I will lend my aid, if you wish it, in recon- 
 ciling the Earl to parting with you both for a 
 time." 
 
 " It 's little he 'd mind it," answered Dun- 
 leary, while his dull countenance brightened 
 considerably. " I dare say he wouldn't take 
 the trouble of saying ' No,' and, I assure you, 
 I 'd like nothing better, as far as I am con- 
 cerned; but you'll not get Honor to con- 
 sent to it. She won't ^o with me to The 
 Cedars." 
 
 " Indeed, you do her less than justice," I 
 said. " Yesterday, when you were so unwell,
 
 the earl's cedars. 249 
 
 she told you that she would go anywhere 
 you liked with you ; and I am sure she meant 
 it. 
 
 "Yes, over to The Islands. She doesn't 
 care about roughing it. I dare say she would 
 go to The Fishery, but that 's worse than 
 Dunleary," said her brother, yawning, as he 
 pulled about the numerous articles on my 
 table. " You won't move her, Mr. Frank- 
 land, when she 's set against a thing. She 's 
 as obstinate ! — all women are ; if they take it 
 into their heads to go or stay, there 's no 
 turning them, — soft as they look, — not if 
 we 're breaking our hearts ! You 'd perhaps 
 better not mention it." 
 
 His brow grew dark while he spoke, and, 
 throwing down the newspaper he had taken 
 up for a moment, he rose and looked through 
 the cabin-window at the dancing water, on 
 which the sunbeams were sparkling as it 
 lashed the ship's side. 
 
 "I don't know," — he added, presently; 
 " I 'm sick to death of the Castle. I don't see 
 that things can be much worse for me than 
 they are. I 'm cribbed, and caged, and 
 bound, and scarce able to write a letter; she 
 watches us so. The Earl 's not much better 
 off, for that matter ; but he does not see it ; — 
 that makes all the difference; and he's sc* 
 careless, — nothing ever makes any lasting
 
 2oO the earl's cedars. 
 
 impression upon him. I 'm more English 
 than Irish, though you're half inclined to 
 laugh at me for saying it. It can't be wrong 
 to wish to know a little about the people that 
 are to be my tenants, and the place I 'm to 
 dwell in some day, when I hope I may be 
 happier than I am now. I don't suppose she 
 can hinder it, if 1 live ; and where 's the use of 
 dying, when it 's just the thing she will be 
 wishing might happen to us?' 
 
 " I certainly recommend your making the 
 best use you can of the good gifts of youth, 
 health, and strength," I said, looking, I am 
 sure, compassionately at the fine form which 
 so sadly wanted vigour and energy. " English 
 country sports would, I have no doubt, invigo- 
 rate you, and the game must want seeing 
 after. I shall have a holiday before the ship 
 sails, I dare say. Come and spend a little 
 time at Moraston. You know Lady Honoria 
 liked our quiet ways when she lived with us.' 5 
 
 " You may be sure I will, too ! '' said 
 Dunleary, eagerly, with quite an altered man- 
 ner. " I wonder what put it in your head to 
 ask me? I don't think I *m much of a favour- 
 ite generally. That 's what makes me cling so 
 to those that love me — and they are few in 
 number, and some of them far off. Will vou 
 come and trv if vou can do anything for me 
 with Honor? I think she minds what you
 
 the earl's cedars. 251 
 
 tell her ; and you know you said just now I 
 wanted a change, and that this would do me 
 good. I think we '11 talk it over with my 
 sister." 
 
 I was rather surprised at his sudden 
 vivacity ; but it appeared as if the prospect I 
 had put before him had really given him so 
 much pleasure, that I could not refuse to do 
 my best to realise the vision I had myself 
 raised. It was a temptation to me to have a 
 fair excuse for visiting Dunleary, where the 
 young Lord told me his sister was spending 
 the day alone, Lady St. Lo having gone with 
 the Earl and Colonel O'Malley to visit some of 
 the rocky wonders of the coast. 
 
 Salcombe hailed us from the pier, where 
 he was standing ready to put off in a boat to 
 Colonel O'Malley's yacht, which he had pro- 
 mised to inspect, in order that he might 
 judge whether the repairs necessary after her 
 severe conflict with the gale could be per- 
 formed at this small port. With his usual 
 good nature, he had gone heart and soul into 
 the business, and was determined to carry it 
 through. The Mayflower had superseded 
 everv other consideration for the moment, and 
 was the object of his peculiar pride and admi- 
 ration, now that she was left under his super- 
 vision. 
 
 He was very angry with us for manifesting
 
 252 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 neither curiosity nor interest respecting her 
 condition, when he invited us to accompany 
 him. 
 
 " I *ve not the least taste in the world for 
 yachting. You know I'ma bad sailor, Mr. 
 Salcombe," said Dunleary ; " but I liked some 
 of our cruises in the cutter amazingly. As 
 for that tight little craft, as you call her, of 
 the Colonel's, I 'd as soon she had a hole 
 right through her keel, and was sticking fast 
 on the reef where she nearly got aground yes- 
 terday, as take any trouble about her. That 
 is," he added, " provided the right people 
 were in her ! ' 
 
 He turned away as he spoke, and walked 
 moodily towards the Castle. All my efforts 
 to make him keep up anything like conver- 
 sation were fruitless. 
 
 We entered the Earl's mansion at the 
 back, Dunleary guiding me through the offices 
 to his own apartments. Owing to the un- 
 even nature of the ground, most of the rooms 
 appropriated to the domestics were below the 
 level of the soil, and the young Lord's peculiar 
 domain was about the dullest I ever trod. 
 The only recommendation it could boast was 
 a ready communication with the stables, 
 where he showed me, with some pride, his 
 own and his sister's horses. Several of the 
 other stalls were empty; the Countess's
 
 THE EARl/s CEDxVRS. 253 
 
 riding-party being a somewhat numerous 
 one. 
 
 " They '11 come back lamed and foot-sore. 
 My lady rides like the wind, and it 's little 
 mercy she shows to the beast that carries 
 her/' said Dunleary. "Anyhow, I'm glad 
 they 're out, and the place freed from them. 
 We '11 find Honor in-doors, somewhere, wait- 
 ing for me. I told her I 'd be back before 
 the afternoon to ride with her." 
 
 He pushed open a door as he spoke, and 
 we entered a low-roofed saloon in the most 
 ancient part of the Castle, the thick walls and 
 small deep-set windows affording little light, 
 and no prospect beyond the narrow, stone- 
 paved courtyard we had just quitted. There 
 was very little furniture, and what there was 
 appeared of the quaint description found in 
 the neglected rooms of old mansions. Dark 
 oak settees, a litter of fishing-rods, fowling- 
 pieces, fencing-foils, and other manlike gear 
 upon the tables, and half-a-dozen dogs occu- 
 pying the hearth-rug and carpet. Within the 
 recess of the window, Lady Honoria was 
 sitting reading, but the book fell from her 
 hand, and she started up joyfully, when we 
 entered. 
 
 " I 'm so glad you are come, Damian ; 
 and Charles Erankland with you ! I was 
 frightened lest the Countess had persuaded
 
 254 THE EATIL S CEDARS. 
 
 you to go with them, and then there would 
 be quarrelling and ill-will among you. Be- 
 sides, I 'm wearv of beim? nlone." 
 
 Her brother greeted her with not I 
 affection than she showed towards him. 
 
 " I 'm better already, Honor. You can't 
 think what a pleasant morning I 've been 
 spending with the English officers on board 
 the ship. I did not think of going when I 
 left yon, but while I was wondering what I 'd 
 be doing with myself all the morning to keep 
 out of the way of people I don't like, and who 
 don't care to see me, one of the young fellow^ 
 who dined here the other day met me, and 
 would take no denial but I must go back 
 with him. I 'm not much behind time, as it 
 is. We '11 have our ride yet, if you like it ; 
 and I knew you wouldn't mind when you 
 heard I was happy. Mr. Frankland had me 
 into his cabin, and he '11 tell you himself what 
 he thinks about me. I don't believe I m 
 well, and I won't be better without a change. 
 It 's the air of this place is killing me." 
 
 " Oh, then, we can't leave it too soon. 
 Damian, dear ! Why did not you tell me 
 sooner?' said Lady Monona, clasping his 
 hand in both of hers, and drawing him down 
 beside her. " Where will you like to go? — 
 it 's the same to me anywhere." 
 
 " There's but one place I 've a fancy for,
 
 the earl's CEDARS. 25-") 
 
 Honor, and "that's the one that cured you 
 when you were so ill once," said Lord Dun- 
 leary, leaving his hand in his sister's grasp 
 while he sat down by her. " I '11 never be 
 better unless I go to Moraston." 
 
 Lady Honoria drew her hands away. 
 
 " I 'm afraid I can't humour you, then," 
 she said, somewhat coldly. <c The air mightn't 
 suit you as it did me. My father would, per- 
 haps, not like you just now to be at The 
 Cedars. Have you asked him?' : 
 
 " No. Where 's the good of asking, when 
 I know I'd get refused?' said the young 
 Lord, in a tone of deep mortification. " I 'm 
 old enough to know what 's good for me ; 
 and there 's one thing, and only one thing, 
 I 'd like to do — but we '11 say no more 
 about it." 
 
 lie threw himself on the rug as he spoke, 
 and began playing with his dogs, who re- 
 turned his caresses with all the affection dumb 
 creatures could manifest. 
 
 " After all, theY 're better than father, 
 mother, or sister ! " he said, angrily ; " they 're 
 the only living things that don't vex and con- 
 tradict me. Never mind me ! I 'm not mad 
 with you, Honor," he resumed, when after a 
 few moments of silence he looked up and saw 
 that hia sister was weeping ; " I knew how it 
 would be, and I don't think I care very much
 
 25G the earl's CEDARS. 
 
 about it. At least, I '11 be able to get over it, 
 and, one day or another, The Cedars will be 
 my own, and I dare say I shall be tired enough 
 of them." 
 
 He rose, stretching himself to his full 
 height, and, whistling to his dogs, went out. 
 His sister looked after him anxiously, as he 
 slowly crossed the courtyard. 
 
 " 1 'm sorry I vexed him," she said, 
 mournfully, " but he 'd mind it less from me 
 than from others ; and if I said yes, they 'd 
 never let him go. He 's not treated as he 
 ought to be here. No wonder he wants to 
 go away, and longs to be his own master ; 
 but oh, Charles ! do you think he 'a fit to 
 guide himself?' Her deeply-pained glance 
 met mine searchingly. " He 's thwarted and 
 controlled at every step," she said, while her 
 colour rose ; "I couldn't wish him to bear 
 what 's laid upon him ; but there 's scarce any 
 way open that I can see for deliverance. Home 
 is not home when it 's filled with strangers, and 
 the children's place taken from them. I won- 
 der what he's thinking of now?" she observed, 
 Avatching her brother as he stood looking 
 through the portal on the opposite side of 
 the courtyard, swinging the door to and fro. 
 " His heart 's lull of bitterness and discontent 
 because I refused him his wish, but he 'd have 
 more to suffer if I granted it."
 
 the eael's cedars. 257 
 
 " He will soon get over his disappoint- 
 ment/' I said. ■ " It was my fault for raising 
 the thought in his mind of visiting Moraston. 
 I am sorry 1 suggested it." 
 
 " Will you like me to bring the horses 
 round, Honor ?" said Dunleary, coming back 
 suddenly, and stopping in front of the window. 
 " There's plenty of time for a ride, and Frank- 
 land shall go with us. I know the way the 
 others have taken, and we '11 not meet them. 
 There 's a fine fresh wind blowing, and it will 
 do us good to be out in it." 
 
 He bent into the room as he spoke, and 
 kissed his sister. "I'm not angry, Honor, 
 darling ! I '11 go to Moraston another time. 
 It's no use troubling about it now. The 
 thought 's gone out of my head ; so don't 
 mind what I said when it first came across 
 me." 
 
 He seemed anxious to dismiss the subject, 
 and was in better spirits than I had lately seen 
 him during our ride, which lasted far into the 
 evening, and was a very pleasant one. As we 
 were returning, the lights burning in almost 
 every window of the Castle, as well as the in- 
 creasing darkness, showed that it was late, and 
 that the riding party had come back before 
 us ; but Lady Honoria did not quicken her 
 pace. She said, haughtily, that she should 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 not join them, and that her only reason for 
 doing so, the previous day, was because Sal- 
 combe and I were expected. We parted at 
 the bridge — I to return to the ship, and Lad} 
 Honoria and the young Lord to spend the 
 rest of the evening in his dreary apartments.
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 When I went that night on board the Retri- 
 bution, Captain Fairfax, between whom and 
 myself there had been a slight coolness since 
 the day we spent together at Dunleary, re- 
 ceived me in a very friendly manner. He told 
 me that sailing orders had arrived, and that 
 his vessel was to refit at Cork, previous to 
 making a voyage to Lisbon. Our faithful 
 ally, Donna Maria da Gloria, was in trouble 
 from her revolutionary subjects, and we were 
 to hold ourselves in readiness to be sent, if 
 necessary, to support her constitutional go- 
 vernment, by the presence of a British man-of- 
 war at the mouth of the Tagus. 
 
 Lady Honoria's behaviour was kind, but 
 grave, when I went over with Captain Fairfax 
 to take leave of the family at Dunleary. I 
 saw his face cloud over, as if that parting had 
 given a deathblow to whatever expectations 
 he had formed ; but, after the lapse of a few 
 moments, during which Lady Honoria was 
 giving me affectionate messages for all her
 
 260 the earl's cedars. 
 
 friends at Moraston, including Dinah and 
 Galpin, his spirits rallied. I believe that he 
 was a man of a patient, but very firm, temper, 
 and that he postponed the declaration of his 
 love, which, I am certain, he had been ponder- 
 ing over during our silent walk to Dunleary, 
 till a more favourable period, but did not 
 alter his intentions. 
 
 The first time Lady Honoria's countenance 
 brightened was when she saw Lord Dunleary's 
 genuine pleasure at the invitation Captain 
 Fairfax gave him to accompany us, as his guest, 
 on our cruise. Our captain would have done 
 more than undertake the charge of her brother 
 for a few months, to win the beaming look of 
 gratitude with which Lady Honoria's eyes 
 repaid him. 
 
 Lord St. Lo made no opposition to the 
 proposal, and I think it was a relief to the 
 Countess. Evidently her step-son was an 
 object of dislike ; and the intensity of the 
 young man's hatred for his father's second 
 wife was very thinly veiled. Captain Fairfax's 
 invitation was accordingly accepted, without 
 one dissentient word. Lady Honoria's glad 
 participation in her brother's pleasure soon 
 died away, indeed, and her glance wandered 
 mournfully over the sea ; but it was enough 
 for her that he liked the prospect, and she 
 would not damp his unwonted cheerfulness by
 
 THE EARl/s CEDARS. 2CI 
 
 any sign of grief that might show how sorely, 
 in absence, she would miss him. We stayed 
 scarcely an hour, for we had all preparations 
 to make before starting, besides other friends 
 to whom farewell must be said ; and hardly a 
 dozen words were spoken between Fairfax and 
 myself as we walked back to the town across 
 the cliffs from Dunleary. 
 
 When I told Salcombe I was come to bid 
 him good-bye, he expressed himself as very 
 sorry to lose me, but, at the same time, added, 
 gravely — 
 
 " Perhaps the ship's being ordered away 
 is the best thing that could have happened for 
 you, Charley." 
 
 I did not ask him what he meant. The 
 danger he apprehended for me was not absent 
 from my thoughts ; and I do not know that 
 I should have had resolution, though I saw 
 the reef on which I was running, to steer 
 clear of the peril, if I had been left to my own 
 discretion. 
 
 He took me in to say farewell to his wife, 
 from whom I most sincerely regretted to part. 
 She had made her small cottage like a home 
 to me ; and though, perhaps, not the most 
 suitable wife in the world for a man of Sal- 
 combe's profession and habits, I quite under- 
 stood his warm affection for her. Out of 
 sight of the sea, Mrs. Salcombe was always
 
 :2G.C the earl's cedars. 
 
 cheerful, ladylike, and sensible ; and possibly 
 the lieutenant, with all his rough ways, liked 
 his pretty home-bird all the better for not re- 
 minding him of the tiresome details of his 
 daily life. In Fanny's parlour there was not 
 even a tuft of sea- weed to be seen ; but, gene- 
 rally, a few garden-flowers, as delicate as her- 
 self; and the young mother, and pretty baby, 
 with its fresh-looking English nurse, who had 
 followed her mistress from the banks of the 
 Avon, presented as peaceful a domestic pic- 
 ture as the often-vexed and weary coast-guard 
 officer could desire to rest his eyes upon, in 
 that bleak corner of Erin. 
 
 As we walked down to the boat, which 
 was waiting to take off to the ship some of 
 the officers who. like myself, had lingered till 
 the last moment, on that wild but hospitable 
 shore, Salcombe strongly advised me to marry 
 early, and settle at Moraston. He was certain 
 my father must need help, and our family 
 were so much respected, that it would be a 
 great pity if one of his sons did not aid him 
 now, and eventually take his place. Nothing 
 steadied a man like a happy marriage, giving 
 him an object, for which to exert himself ; and 
 he hoped no wild, romantic ideas, such as, he 
 sometimes fancied, might be floating through 
 my brain, would prevent my forming a suit- 
 able connexion.
 
 the earl's cedars. 2G3 
 
 I thanked him for his advice, and told him 
 he had adopted the best means of enforcing 
 his arguments, by admitting me into his house 
 so kindly, and allowing me such an insight 
 into matrimonial felicity. Nevertheless, at 
 present, I had no intention of giving myself 
 up captive, and, I feared, Fate had nothing 
 half so good in store for me as the prize he 
 had been fortunate enough to win. 
 
 Pie shook his head. "Depend upon it, 
 Charles, you* may fare as well, if you limit 
 your thoughts to your own sphere. Not but 
 what Fanny is very far superior to me in refine- 
 ment, but she does not think so ; and, poor 
 little thing ! though her troubles were of a dif- 
 ferent kind before she married, she learned 
 from experience that there must be difficulties 
 to contend with in this life. It is quite other- 
 wise with ladies of rank ; when thev have to 
 meet trial, it takes them by surprise. They 
 are not, as it were, brought up to it, and they 
 start and fly off at the first touch that ruffles 
 their fine plumage, till the proud creatures — 
 many of them through the misconduct of 
 fathers, husbands, or brothers — have to lie 
 down and die in their cold, empty nests, 
 robbed of their bright feathers. I suppose 
 they have their own way of bearing it — all 
 women endure bravely — but we cannot under- 
 stand it : and I advise you, Charles, from the
 
 2G4 THE EARL S CEDARS. 
 
 depths of my heart, to leave them to their 
 own courses. Don't pain your kind, honest 
 heart about one who, however beautiful and 
 graceful she may be, and gracious, too, as I 
 have seen her, will never waste a thought upon 
 you. Nay, more — though I have not chosen to 
 say it sooner — who is playing a desperate 
 game of her own, in which she is engaged 
 heart and soul, mind and body ; and for the 
 furtherance of which she would not care if 
 scores of men who love her as unselfishly as 
 you and your gallant captain both do, were 
 lying deep down, forty fathoms below those 
 blue waters." 
 
 He pointed as he spoke to the waves of the 
 sea, then laving the posts of the quay by which 
 our boat was lying. There was no time to 
 answer him, even if, at the moment, I had 
 known how to turn into words the thoughts 
 that chased each other through my brain ; but 
 I knew that his meaning was a kind one. 
 We crushed each other's hand warmly and 
 parted. 
 
 We touched, on our way to the Cove of 
 Cork, at that western port to which the frigate 
 had been sent round to quell the disturbances 
 at the time of the famine-riots, and Captain 
 Fairfax gave me permission to land, in order 
 that I might visit Mr. O'M alley. 
 
 The state in which I found him more than
 
 the earl's cedars. 265 
 
 justified the uneasiness expressed by his eldest 
 son ; and 1 felt convinced that the injury he 
 had sustained from the blow dealt to him in 
 the crowded street of the town was even more 
 serious than it had at first appeared. There 
 was a total want of energy in his constitution, 
 a dulness of the eye, and a degree of rambling 
 hesitation in his words, which it gave me pain 
 to witness. Lady Sarah, on the contrary, 
 was all life and activity, supplying her 
 husband's place more fully than ever, and, in 
 the arduous employment thus imposed upon 
 her time and thoughts, not allowing others — 
 scarcely, perhaps, herself — to perceive the 
 great difference between Mr. O'Malley's former 
 habit cf avoiding the cares of business from a 
 natural indolence of disposition, and the abso- 
 lute incapacity of attending to them, which had 
 now crept gradually upon him. 
 
 Once or twice, during the interview 
 between us, when I was left quite alone with 
 him, I fancied that some pressing weight 
 rested upon his mind, and that he felt inclined 
 to un burthen himself to me ; but words ap- 
 parently failed him. He began two or three 
 sentences, and left them incomplete, or ended 
 with referring me to Lady Sarah for explana- 
 tion. When I told him that I had seen his 
 eldest son at Dunleary, he said, hurriedly, — 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ? I have but
 
 ;2GG the earl's cedars. 
 
 one — now, at least. There were two, once ; — 
 both my boys ; but Colonel O'Malley is the 
 only one left." 
 
 I answered that, at the time of his illness, 
 I had heard his younger son ask to be ad- 
 mitted to his presence. The old man turned 
 quickly upon me. 
 
 " Yes, sir, you did ; and Lady Sarah very 
 properly refused. She knows what is best for 
 me ; but, sometimes, God help me 1 I think 
 that poor Shane has never had justice done 
 him. There, there, now ! — that is not what I 
 meant. Of course, she was right ; — why am I 
 troubled about it ? You must ask Lady Sarah, 
 if you wish for more information." 
 
 He became so much agitated that I could 
 say no more ; but I thought it my duty to 
 mention what had passed between us to Lady 
 Sarah, and to urge upon her the importance of 
 relieving Mr. O'Malley, in his present enfeebled 
 state, from any subject of anxiety which could 
 tend to impede his recovery. She thanked me 
 for mv advice in a way "which told me how 
 officious she considered my interference in 
 their private affairs ; saying, however, that I 
 niicdit rest assured she would, as far as lav in 
 her power, keep her husband s mind tranquil. 
 Mr. O'Malley shook hands with me very 
 warmly, at the last ; but his wife and I parted 
 somewhat distantly. I could not reconcile
 
 the earl's CEDARS. "267 
 
 mvself to the idea that the mother, from what- 
 ever motive, stood in the way of the father's 
 bestowing his forgiveness upon their son. 
 
 After leaving Mr. O'Malley's mansion, I 
 looked in, as I passed its open door, at the 
 cabin of Moriartv's mother, certain that even 
 a word about her " darlin' would j^ive the 
 warm-hearted Irishwoman pleasure. I doubt 
 whether, on ray former visit, she was not too 
 much taken up with her son to scan my 
 features, for she seemed very much puzzled 
 when I first spoke to her ; but she brightened 
 up at my saying that I thought it would 
 please her to hear how highly Moriarty's con- 
 duct was spoken of by his commanding officer, 
 and how much Lieutenant Temple valued his 
 services. He had told me that he placed more 
 reliance upon him than he could venture to 
 repose in any other of his subordinates. 
 
 "In coorse, he would!' she said, drawing 
 herself up. " I 'm proud to hear he bears 
 such a character, in whatever line of life he 
 chooses. It would ill become him not to be 
 first ; and, I '11 engage for it, he keeps his 
 place better, maybe, than some I could name, 
 that 's standin' in the room of others, an' niver 
 resting till, inch by inch, they 've cleared the 
 ground, and got it all for themselves to shoot 
 up in. But it 's not his pleasure to complain, 
 so I 'd best lave that alone, and thank you,
 
 268 the earl's cedars. 
 
 sir, for callin'. Though 1 knew it before, 
 through the voice spakin' in my heart for the 
 baby I nursed at my breast, tellin' me that 
 he's sure and sartin to be winnin' favour with 
 his superiors for the time being, and holdin' 
 straight on in his coorse, it 's right glad I am 
 to be certified of it by those that have seen 
 him. I '11 not be lookin' on him agin, mav- 
 be, for months or years," she continued, her 
 eves filling with tears. " It 's levin' the 
 counthry, ould Ireland, for ever he do be, soon. 
 Sure, it 's not to be expected he 'd stay in her. 
 It 's ever the best that go forth to win their 
 bread and till the ground ; and the selfish an' 
 cruel stay at home an' eat honey an' milk, an' 
 all the fruits of the land, without the throuble 
 of savin' 'with your lave,' or thanking God for 
 His bounties. You 'd best not mind me, sir, 
 when I run on about my jewel ; — the boy that 
 was the darlin' idol of my soul iver since the 
 hour he was born, and had no one else carin' for 
 him, so to spake, but me, a poor widow woman, 
 livin' in this cottage an' left alone in the world, 
 with both those that were dear taken from 
 me. 
 
 She stopped suddenly, and cast a glance 
 into the corner of the cabin, where a rough 
 wicker-cradle and some childish toys were 
 carefully put away, together with a seaman's 
 pipe, and one of the oars of a corragh.
 
 the earl's cedars. 269 
 
 Perhaps her husband's boat might have gone 
 down in some fierce Atlantic gale ; but there 
 was such anguish in her face that I did not 
 like to question her respecting the tale of sor- 
 row, to which that glance at those humble 
 relics bore reference. 
 
 I shook hands with her cordially, and tried 
 to prevail upon her to accept a small token of 
 remembrance ; but she steadily refused to 
 receive money. Lady Sarah, she said, would 
 never suffer her to want. 
 
 " But it 's he, my own darlin', that keeps 
 me supplied with all that 's cornfortin'," 
 Moriarty's mother added, clasping her hands. 
 " The blessing of the ould, sorrowful, lone 
 woman be on him, by night and by day, 
 fallin' early an' late, like the dews ! and on 
 you, too," she said, curtseying, " for troublin' 
 yourself to call upon me ! It 's proud I 'd be 
 to see you again, if ever you are passin' this 
 way." 
 
 I had no time to lose, and, though I hurried 
 through the town, the last boat was waiting 
 for me when I reached the quay, and the crew 
 were growing impatient. All the disturbances 
 in the little town were over; there was scarcely 
 a sound louder than the gushing of the streams 
 that ran down on either side of the quiet 
 street, and the rustling of the trees over- 
 head as the fresh wind swept through their
 
 270 the earl's cedars. 
 
 branches. The Mayo mountains and the 
 headlands of Achill were the last that I saw of 
 Irish scenery for several days, during which 
 we kept at some distance out to sea, till v. 
 steered between the forts at its entrance into 
 the deep waters of the fine harbour at Cork, 
 in which, it is said, England's largest fleet 
 might anchor safely, and where, now, nu- 
 merous vessels and yachts were moored. 
 
 I took a passage in one of the large Irish 
 steamers which touch at our southern and 
 western ports, intending to spend the short 
 space of time at my disposal with my family. 
 Though various other modes of employing this 
 period were suggested to him, our Captain's 
 guest, Lord Dunleary, persisted in the wish 
 he immediately expressed to accompany me. 
 Instead of joining the parties some of the offi- 
 cers had made to visit Dublin or Killarne 
 the young man preferred spending a week at 
 The Cedars. He had not seen the place since 
 he was a child, and felt more interested about 
 it than he could pretend to be in Magil- 
 licuddy's Reeks and Mangerton. 
 
 Captain Fairfax, like ourselves, was home- 
 ward bound, and before we parted at Ply- 
 mouth, he invited us both to pass a few days 
 with him at his own home on our way back. 
 when we might cross the country to Holyhead, 
 and return by Dublin and a different route,
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. '271 
 
 which would be new to us all, to Cork. 
 Having made this arrangement, I gave myself 
 up to the joy which, in a heart not perverted, a 
 return to one's home and birthplace must 
 always inspire, after long wandering over sea 
 and land, and among strangers. 
 
 My father was looking tolerably well, and 
 in better spirits than, from Aunt Margery's 
 letters, I had expected to find him. They 
 were both overjoyed at seeing me* though 
 the change in me was greater, I believe, at 
 first sight, than in them, and, for several 
 minutes, thev hardly recognised me. Nothing 
 that I could tell them interested my family 
 more than the account I was able to give 
 of Lady Honoria, and the life she had led 
 at Dunleary ; and I was forced to repeat her 
 name so often, that I learned to utter it with- 
 out the struggle its first mention cost me. 
 Eor her sake, my father wished to be kind to 
 her brother ; but young Dunleary was either 
 shy or proud, and preferred taking up his 
 quarters alone at The Cedars. We did not 
 see half so much of him as we wished during 
 my short stay at Moraston. 
 
 Many half-effaced recollections of my boy- 
 hood were revived as I drove rav father, — 
 with feelings so changed, that I was more in- 
 clined to linger than to hurry past them, — 
 through the quiet rural scenes into which his
 
 272 the earl's cedars. 
 
 daily practice carried him. Over the wild 
 hills darkened by the purple heather, and past 
 the fords at the bottom of the steep combes 
 where the horse stopped to drink habitually, 
 — along trackless downs and by stony lanes, 
 so narrow, that if we, by rare accident, met 
 another vehicle, one or the other must go 
 back, — we journeyed pleasantly together. I 
 learned more of his character than I had ever 
 known before during these long rounds of 
 duty. Though he generally, — -as I remem- 
 bered of old, — took his book with him, he 
 now seldom opened it when I w r as his com- 
 panion : the time was too precious to be 
 spent in reading. Perhaps he foresaw dimly 
 a period drawing near when active exertion, 
 in which he had alwavs delighted, would be 
 forbidden him ; for he seemed to take more 
 pleasure than ever in the w 7 ild scenery round 
 our home, and often pointed out to me mi- 
 nute but distinguishing peculiarities in its 
 features. The ancient camps or castles crown- 
 ing the heights had been objects of his atten- 
 tive studv, and he had read almost all the 
 remarks of learned antiquarians on the sub- 
 ject. We now examined them together, and 
 he listened while I told him observations I 
 had made on the raths or fortified places, — 
 sometimes planted with trees, sometimes 
 bare as the fight might have left them, — on
 
 the earl's cedars. :273 
 
 the shores of Lough Neagh, and the strange 
 relics, marked by tokens of human work- 
 manship, found buried deep underneath the 
 bogs. 
 
 He had never made up his quarrel with 
 Matthew Brand, and The Knowle was one of 
 the places I visited without him. Kate's mo- 
 ther looked more dejected than ever, while 
 the old matron overwhelmed me with hospi- 
 tality, and laughed and curtseyed with all her 
 former good-humour, in the gladness of her 
 heart at seeing me again. They both regretted 
 Kate's absence, thinking that she would have 
 liked to hear tidings of Ladv Honoria, who was 
 always kind to her. Her work, by which her 
 mother said she was clever enough to maintain 
 herself completely, lay on the table, as if she 
 had only just gone out, but none of the family 
 knew where she was to be found. She had 
 lost her health and spirits, they complained, 
 since she came back from Germany, and had 
 got into a melancholy way of wandering about 
 the moor, that made it useless to set the child- 
 ren to look for her. Often she went out alone 
 early in the afternoon, and would not return 
 for hours. 
 
 The poor girl was glad, no doubt, to get 
 beyond the reach of her uncle's tongue. He 
 was a greater savage than ever, and the tears 
 coursed each other down his sister-in-law's 
 
 VOL. i. T
 
 274 the earl's cedars. 
 
 pale cheeks while she spoke of the wrath he 
 had shown at the disgrace incurred, as he 
 considered, by them all, through the Coun- 
 tess's sending back Kate to her family, with- 
 out any reason being assigned for parting with 
 her. He had had a great mind to go to 
 Baden-Baden, himself, to find out the rights of 
 the story; — women were such simpletons ! he 
 declared: — and Kate, though she cried her 
 eyes out about coming away, would not con- 
 fess that she had done anything to anger my 
 lady. 
 
 While the women were talking of her, the 
 girl was seen coming through the gate of the 
 small court in front of the house, and, presently, 
 a loud voice, the precursor of Matthew's ap- 
 proach, was heard in the passage. He was 
 evidently very much out of temper, and the 
 mother trembled and turned pale, as the door 
 opened slowly and Kate Brand entered the 
 kitchen. At the first glance, I hardly knew 
 her again, she was so greatly altered. If she 
 had not grown taller, the increased slightness 
 of her figure gave her the appearance of greater 
 height. Her step was haughty, and the once 
 bright cheeks of our blooming country-maiden 
 were deadly pale ; but that might be from 
 suppressed anger at her uncle's chiding. Pale 
 as she was, Kate Brand was far more beautiful 
 than ever, and her countenance was full of
 
 the earl's cedars. 275 
 
 strong indications of character. I scarcely knew 
 whether I liked her appearance as well as when 
 her form and face bore the more pleasing at- 
 tributes of guileless youth and perfect health ; 
 but it was impossible not to admire her more. 
 
 She did not quicken her steps, nor make 
 any answer to her savage old uncle's coarse 
 reproaches about her staying from home so 
 late ; but came and spoke to me in a very 
 quiet, ladylike, self-possessed manner. She 
 had heard that I was in the neighbourhood, 
 she said, and hoped that I might call at The 
 Knowle. Then she inquired with grateful 
 affection, as if mindful of their kindness, for 
 my father and my Aunt Margery. 
 
 " That 's just like them ! I ve no patience 
 with women!' Matthew Brand growled out. 
 " Just hear how she talks, as if the Doctor was 
 the best friend she ever had : when the onlv 
 time he ever passed this doorstep, since I 
 came under these rotten old timbers, was to 
 tempt her away ; and much good leaving The 
 Knowle has done her 1 Look here, Master 
 Charles ! She might have married well, and 
 sailed in her own ship — that is, have had a 
 good husband, such as a girl like her wants, 
 to keep her out of squalls and eddies — but 
 she chose to go adrift in a punt of her own, 
 which, as might be expected, capsized when 
 it got into deep water. As well put off in
 
 270 the earl's cedars. 
 
 one of the old dame's washing-tubs ! This 
 honest man would have her now, if she 'd 
 learn wisdom ! but, what with her mother 
 and mine, there 's no end to her folly. They 
 put her up to it ; and once these young 
 things get the tiller-rope in their own hands, 
 there 's no making them listen to a word 
 of advice. Whether it 's calm or foul, they 
 set up the sail, and think they can weather 
 it! And what's the end of their cruise? 
 Why, they run the boat broadside on to the 
 waves, which fill her, and flood her, and wash 
 her up empty on the beach, where the by- 
 standers jeer at her destruction !' 
 
 The pale cheeks of Kate flushed crimson 
 as her uncle spoke ; and the hands, which I 
 noticed had become much whiter and softer- 
 looking than in her girlhood, were clenched 
 together, but she did not speak to him. Her 
 mother's well-meant but injudicious interven- 
 tion, as usual, blew the gale of Matthew's 
 passion into a fierce tempest. 
 
 " Hold fast ! If you speak another word, 
 I '11 make what I mean plainer. Here 's a 
 boat! — no, hang it, a girl I mean! — even- 
 day threatening to leave home ; going to sea 
 without making out her papers. I should 
 like to know who's to trust her? Xot I, for 
 one, though she's too proud to speak, with 
 her foreign ways and rustling silks; — the
 
 the earl's cedars. 277 
 
 lieutenant will say that I smuggled them ! 
 There 's no end of the trouble I 'm at about 
 you, and no one thanks me. Where did you 
 find the money to trick her out, but in the 
 old seaman's locker? There's more, too, 
 where that came from ; but I will know what 
 is to be had for it before I spend it." 
 
 The old dame whispered to me that what 
 Matthew said was true enough. He had 
 money of his own, and could be generous 
 with it, too, when the young folks didn't 
 cross him. It was a pity he let his temper 
 get the better of him, and that Kate took 
 what he said so much to heart ; for her part, 
 she never heeded him. 
 
 No doubt she was right, but it needed 
 the callousness of age, added to the harden- 
 ing effect on mind and body of a long life 
 spent in rural toil, to make a woman bear 
 Matthew's stinging comments patiently. Kate 
 Brand was of a different temper. Her beau- 
 tiful dark eyes flashed fire, and her small 
 mouth worked with passion. At last, as if 
 unable to bear more, and scorning to bandy 
 abuse with the coarse-minded seaman, she 
 gathered her work together from off the table, 
 and with a slight adieu, conveyed in one 
 brief word and speaking glance to me, she 
 swept out of the large, low-roofed farm-kitchen, 
 more with the air of a high-born lady than
 
 278 the earl's cedars. 
 
 of a girl brought up beneath those smoke- 
 dried rafters. 
 
 The old man was silent for a moment 
 after she was gone. I believe, in his heart, 
 he was sorry to have vexed her; but when 
 he looked at her mother, who was preparing 
 to follow her with tears streaming down her 
 cheeks, his wrath flamed out afresh. 
 
 " Let be ! I won't have one of vou o;o after 
 her ! " he roared out. " Let her come down 
 from her stilts, or, faith, I '11 bring her. 
 What is she, to give herself airs and fling off 
 in a huff, when her mother and grandmother, 
 better women than she is, though they all have 
 their faults, can bear to be told of them ? 
 How is a craft to right herself, if one and all. 
 skipper and crew, turn to piping and com- 
 forting each other when the wind lashes the 
 sea into a fury. Somebody must give orders ; 
 and you women, whether you like it or not, 
 have got to obe} r . I won't have one of you 
 go near Miss Kate, till she lowers sail and 
 asks my pardon." 
 
 There was but little chance of this. I was 
 certain ; and most likely the choleric seaman 
 was the first to ibrcrt the angry words he had 
 scattered about almost at random. Much 
 self-will and stern determination niicjlit be read 
 on the proud forehead, and sullen, quivering 
 mouth of the woman he had affronted ; and
 
 the earl's CEDARS. .'379 
 
 I doubt whether Kate forgave him, or came 
 down again that evening. I did not wait to 
 see, but, mounting my horse, rode homewards 
 through the rugged valleys that lay between 
 the lone hills and Lord St. Lo's park. 
 During part of the way Duncan Geddes was 
 my companion. He seemed to have grown 
 more fanatical, and his exterior was much 
 less prepossessing than formerly, so that I 
 hardlv wondered when I recollected the scorn- 
 ful curl of the lip with which the haughty 
 girl at the farm had listened to her uncle's 
 allusions to his constant affection for her. 
 The Scotchman was certainly not the fine- 
 looking fellow he used to be. Darker lines 
 were drawn round his firmly-compressed lips, 
 and the high cheek-bones and strongly-marked 
 features had become much more prominent. 
 He spoke sternly and sadly of the evil times 
 on which he said we had fallen, and com- 
 plained bitterly of the falling off from grace 
 of some of his companions. His manner 
 became almost fierce, when he found that 
 I was returning from The Knowle, and he 
 said, with emphasis, as he tramped along, 
 in his mud-bespattered gaiters, beside me, — 
 
 " Saw you ever sic an alteration, Master 
 Charles, as has come to that bonnie lassie? 
 Sae lifted up with the evil pride that, I'm 
 feared, gaes before a fall ! She 's awa' her
 
 2S0 the earl's cedars. 
 
 lane over the darkening hills, with none to 
 guide her, and the temptations of a woman's 
 vanity leading her astray ! " 
 
 " Her appearance is changed for the better, 
 as far as personal beauty is concerned," I 
 said, " and I pity her for the weary life she 
 must lead at home. Her uncle's temper is 
 more unbearable than ever." 
 
 " Nae doot he has mickle to try him," 
 answered the Scotchman, taking Matthew's 
 part, to my surprise. " I dinna think sae ill 
 o' him since he told me fairly he was grieved 
 at heart for the lassie's indiscretion. He 's 
 a rough-grained old block, but it 's heart of 
 oak within, I 'm thinking ; and if the women 
 told him truth, he 'd treat them better. 'Tis 
 their light conduct vexes him." 
 
 He was not to be shaken in his opinion, 
 and heaped text on text in a manner which 
 I shall not imitate ; comparing the object of 
 his fruitless love to the fair, frail daughters of 
 Jerusalem, and others of Eve's faulty descend- 
 ants. I did not continue verv Ions: in his 
 company, but, leaping my horse over a paling, 
 cantered along the road till I reached our 
 door, grieved at heart for the young girl who 
 had gone forth from her home almost at the 
 same time as myself, and who had returned 
 with a dark cloud upon her. 
 
 I had not mentioned before Matthew
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 281 
 
 Brand that Lord Dunleary was at The 
 Cedars ; and living at that place, far away 
 among lonely hills, weeks might elapse before 
 he would hear of it. The young nobleman 
 was greatly occupied with the shooting, a 
 pleasure in which I sometimes took part with 
 him ; though I am not sure that I enjoyed it 
 as much as when, in my boyish arrogance, I 
 walked with my gun over my shoulder, fancy- 
 ing myself " monarch of all I surveyed." The 
 rightful heir of the property did not appear to 
 take half as much pride in it as, in those days, I 
 remembered swelling in my heart each time I 
 looked at The Cedars. Their funereal gloom 
 struck him more forcibly than their beauty, the 
 first time I pointed them out to him. He 
 was walking along in a moody, discontented 
 humour, his gun on the full cock, and trailed 
 carelessly in his hand, as usual, after his 
 heedless manner, scarcely looking where he 
 set his foot, though I -often warned him of 
 the probability of an accident. 
 
 " I tell you what, Frankland ! if those 
 noble trees are worth anything, my re- 
 spectable parent will cut them down before 
 this place comes to me. He can't sell it on 
 account of its being settled upon Honor and 
 me, or he would have done so long ago ; and 
 perhaps there 's something prevents his felling
 
 28:2 the earl's cedass. 
 
 the timber. I 'in too lazy to sec into it ; bu 
 young as I am, and strong, too, to look at, I 
 fancy I '11 not stand long in anybody's way ; 
 so what 's the use of attaching one's self to 
 people or places ? The less one cares for 
 anybody or anything the better ! ' 
 
 lie sighed heavily, and, as he plodded on, 
 with his eyes fixed on the ground, the want of 
 youthful energy about him was more apparent 
 than ever, and made me think it right to con- 
 sult my father on the subject of his health. 
 He questioned the young nobleman closely. 
 but could discover no alarming symptom 
 only an indolence and apathy which might 
 proceed from the want of mental resources 
 and from shyness, arising from a sense of 
 inferiority to his equals in station, as well 
 from disease. 
 
 Whether it was that he resented our in- 
 terference, I cannot tell ; but, though friendly 
 in his manner to me, and respectful to my 
 father, Lord Dunleary, after this, affected our 
 society less than ever. We heard his gun 
 oftener than his voice ; while it was said that 
 his tastes were not elevated, and that he as 
 dated familiarly with his inferiors. 
 
 When I learned this, I determined to 
 shorten my stay at, Moraston ; and, in com- 
 pliance with the engagement we had made.
 
 THE EARL S CEDARS. 283 
 
 we set off together to visit Captain Fairfax at 
 his home in Staffordshire, where his mother 
 resided with him at a place which had been 
 long in the family, situated on the banks of 
 the Trent, 
 
 \
 
 2S4 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The fertile river-scenery, shaded by trees still 
 in full leaf, was grateful to the eve at the 
 close of the hot summer which had parched 
 the short turf of the western downs, while the 
 first blasts of autumn had withered the scanty 
 foliage on our bleak coast. Oakenshaw, the 
 residence of our gallant young Captain, who 
 had attained his present rank in the service at 
 an unusually early age, was situated on high 
 ground, with soft green meadows in front, over 
 which, in rainy seasons, the water flowed ; and 
 all the year their surface retained the emerald 
 tint given by those frequent periods of moisture. 
 It was fortunate for its inmates that the old 
 house stood hisjh and drv above the river, in 
 the midst of woods with craggy knolls break- 
 ing through the trees, and the broad stream, 
 ill its silvery beauty, winding through the 
 landscape. 
 
 Though the intervals of rest in a busy 
 life have never afforded me time to visit it 
 again, I see the place in its placid beauty
 
 the earl's cedars. 285 
 
 now. The grey manor-house, with its gables 
 peeping forth from mantling shrubberies, 
 and summer-flowers still in profusion, — old- 
 fashioned, perhaps, but full of beauty and 
 fragrance, filling the beds and bordering the 
 walks of the warden. There were sunnv ter- 
 
 O t/ 
 
 races, and fountains, and vases, on which the 
 light sparkled and glittered, with ancient fir- 
 trees that shut out the sun's too fervid beams, 
 and threw deep shadows on the velvet grass. 
 Below, a grey stone bridge with many arches, 
 dangerously long and narrow, but extremely 
 picturesque, crossed the river and the low- 
 lying, marshy meadows, which, at certain 
 times, were flooded. There was also a view of 
 a distant town, and an aged, hoary minster, 
 almost covered with ivy, whence the chimes 
 floated harmoniously over the water. On 
 Sabbath-evenings, they seemed to me to come 
 with peculiar clearness down the stream, 
 calling us with their sweet, emphatic, so- 
 lemn, and yet gladsome tones, to join in holy 
 worship. 
 
 Captain Fairfax was the last of a long 
 lineage — "the only child of his mother, who 
 was a widow." There is a peculiar sacredness 
 in that character, when women are severed by 
 it in heart from the world j and Mrs. Fairfax, 
 though she had a strong mind and a cheerful 
 spirit, to enable her to bear up under afflic-
 
 ;28G THE haul's cedars. 
 
 tion, was faithful to the memory of her dead 
 husband. Though her grief was not by any 
 means recent, it still lived in her heart. Tl 
 late master of the house seemed to his wife 
 more like one gone on a journey, whom she was 
 waiting to rejoin, than as if absolutely taken 
 from her. Evening after evening, as she sat 
 at work, for her hands were never idle, her 
 eyes would turn with a longing, lingering, look 
 to the ancient bridge, across which lie was in 
 the habit of returning, when at home from 
 sea, — for he, too, was a sailor, — punctual 
 as clockwork, to the accustomed hour and 
 minute. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax had not, as some mourners 
 do, put away the relics that reminded her of 
 the departed one, in some old deserted lumber- 
 room. She used the stont, gold-headed cane 
 on which her husband, who was slio;htlv lame, 
 supported himself during the last years of his 
 life, every time she walked out, and par- 
 ticularly when she went to church, though 
 I could not see that she in the least required 
 it. His picture, — that of a handsome, middle- 
 aged man, full of spirit, energy, and warm- 
 heartedness, looked down upon her as she 
 plied her needle ; and she often glanced up at 
 it in the course of the conversations which, 
 while I was her son's guest, we often held 
 together. I knew the Admiral's ways. — the
 
 the earl's cedars. 287 
 
 time when lie liked to dine, the county meet- 
 ings he attended, his objections to over- 
 educating the lower classes, his quarrels with 
 some of his neighbours, — with the Rector, in 
 particular, about the Sunday-post, — he dearly 
 loved to have his letters and newspapers 
 regularly ; — the good he did, and the harm 
 his active interference prevented, — as well 
 from his wife's report, as if I had seen him at 
 the head of the family. 
 
 She had, indeed, made very little alteration 
 in the habits to which he had been accustomed; 
 and her son was too little at home to care 
 to introduce — even if he would have preferred 
 it — any other system. There was a Dower- 
 house on the property, to which she meant to 
 retire when he married — an event of which 
 she lived in constant expectation. I never 
 saw any one in such a perfect state of prepa- 
 ration for a change, and yet so comfortably 
 established for the time being in her own 
 house, as Mrs. Fairfax. From her handsomely- 
 furnished, commodious, always well-ordered 
 drawing-room, to her household economy and 
 admirably-disposed store-room and domestic 
 offices, over which she conducted me with 
 some pride, — the future mistress of Oakcn- 
 shaw, to whom she frequently referred, would 
 have found all in readiness for her; and, not- 
 withstanding the pains these excellent arrange-
 
 288 the earl's cedars. 
 
 merits must have cost her, Mrs. Fairfax 
 seemed ready to give up her position without 
 a sigh. 
 
 " There is the same view from the Dower- 
 house as that which I look at, every evening 
 of my life, while I sit at this window. It 
 would not be such a change as you think for 
 me to leave Oaken sh aw," my hostess remarked, 
 when, I believe, she became aware that her 
 equanimity surprised me. " You see, Mr. 
 Frankland, I am far from being a young 
 woman ; and Lionel ought to have a younger 
 and a more lively companion, — such a wife, 
 in fact, as I hope I made to his father, forty 
 years ago, with due allowance for changes 
 of fashion and taste in such matters. I often 
 wonder why he does not marry. There is 
 nothing gives so much happiness in this life 
 as a well-assorted union, such as mine was 
 with the Admiral ; and, though so many years 
 have passed, and he had his quick ways and 
 starts of temper, I still sit here, watching and 
 fidgeting myself as I used to do, about his 
 careless way of driving over that old bridge, 
 — almost forgetting, for the moment, that I 
 shall never see him come past the grey arches 
 again.' ' 
 
 She paused and dropped her work, while 
 she looked with eyes that, 1 am sure, though 
 she turned them away from me, were too much
 
 the earl's cedars. 289> 
 
 blinded to pursue it, down the coarse of the 
 stream. 
 
 " I never repented of the vow I made, to 
 love, honour, and obey him ; and no woman 
 will have cause to rue the hour when she 
 plights her faith to Lionel, any more than I 
 had to regret giving my whole heart to his 
 father. They are alike in many points of cha- 
 racter, though it might not strike a stranger. 
 Long habits of command gave the Admiral a 
 dictatorial w r ay, which, as yet, I do not see in 
 Lionel; but he has the same firm will and 
 kindly nature, and the timid soul which trusts 
 itself to him will not be deceived in its reli- 
 ance. I wish you would tell me what you 
 think it can be that makes Lionel so averse 
 to speaking of his marriage ? He cannot 
 mean to let this old place, which has been in 
 his family for centuries, go away, as it must 
 do, if he has no heirs, quite into another 
 branch. That is a change which it pains me 
 much more to contemplate than to fancy my 
 grandchildren running about on the lawn, or 
 coming down to pay their daily visit to me at 
 the Dower-house, half a mile distant. Do 
 tell me if there was any attachment between 
 my son and Lord St. Lo's daughter? She is 
 almost the only young lady he ever mentioned 
 in his letters to me ; and I was surprised at 
 the rather close inquiries he made about her. 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 the earl's cedars. 
 
 That is a match which would give nic the very 
 greatest satisfaction. " 
 
 I was somewhat embarrassed how to 
 answer her. At last, I said that I had had 
 fewer opportunities than she might fancy, from 
 what Captain Fairfax had told her of my ac- 
 quaintance with Lord St. Lo's family, of 
 making any observations on the subject which 
 naturally interested her so much. The differ- 
 ence in our relative position, when we were 
 on board ship, was much greater than the 
 kindness of Captain Fairfax and herself would 
 allow to appear between us, now that I was 
 their guest. 
 
 " Oh ! I have not been a naval officer's 
 wife for so long without hearing enough of 
 discipline and etiquette," she answered : " but 
 then Lionel respects your.supcrior information ; 
 and he told me that Lord St. Lo was under very 
 important obligations to your lather. I km 
 his lordship well in his youth," she said, a 
 faint colour stealing into her still good-looking, 
 pleasant face, " and he was a most at tract i 
 person — very handsome, but not so steady as 
 he should have been. My parents were right 
 when they told me he would not make a good 
 husband, and 1 never repented having followed 
 their advice. I lis daughter, if she is like him 
 in person, ought to be a fine creature, and she 
 had a mother who was all excellence and ami-
 
 THE EARL'S CEDAIIS. 291 
 
 ability. I should not say a word in the young 
 lady's favour, otherwise ; for I have a rooted 
 opinion that girls take after their mothers, and 
 I should not like my son to marry any one 
 whose own parent had set her a bad example." 
 
 Captain Fairfax's entrance, at this moment, 
 prevented his mother's continuing these in- 
 quiries, and though she tried to make him 
 speak of our mutual friends in Ireland, he 
 dexterously avoided the subject. His plans 
 appeared to be as fixed as his mother's were 
 transitory ; and nothing annoyed him more 
 than any allusion to the prospect of her re- 
 moval. He would pull down the Dower- 
 house, he said, or let it — more than one 
 person had been tempted by the beautiful 
 view down the river to wish to become its in- 
 habitant — if she threatened to leave him. 
 
 At present, there seemed, certainly, little 
 chance of his settling at home. His hopes 
 and ideas appeared centred in his profession, 
 and a brief holiday at Oakenshaw, in the in- 
 tervals of dutv, was all the recreation he was 
 disposed to allow himself. I never saw such 
 a contrast as existed between him and young 
 Dunleary, who idled about the woods from 
 morning till evening, without end or aim in 
 existence, apparently ; while life seemed too 
 short for realising the Captain's prospects of 
 future distinction.
 
 292 THE BARl/s CEDARS. 
 
 He was an ardent politician, and felt con- 
 vinced that ere long the nations of Europe 
 would be plunged in a great war, wherein he 
 desired to obtain opportunities of rendering 
 his ancient and honourable name still more 
 illustrious. This earnest attachment to his 
 profession ran sorely counter to his mother's 
 wishes ; and I believe she was right in think- 
 ing that the strong objection he expressed to 
 fettering himself by domestic ties had been 
 strengthened by some recent disappointment. 
 At all events, he turned away impatiently from 
 her suggestions ; and there seemed little occa- 
 
 Do ' 
 
 sion for her to keep her affections so sedu- 
 lously detached from a home where he evi- 
 dently regarded her as permanently settled. 
 
 His manner as a host was very courteous 
 and agreeable, and 1 was sorry when the few- 
 days during which our visit lasted were over. 
 
 Mrs. Fairfax had known my mother's 
 family, intimately, in her younger days, when 
 she mingled much in societv : and she treated 
 me with creat kindness. There was a strong 
 tinge of romance in her disposition, which 
 years anil cares had not eradicated ; and she 
 remembered having sympathised warmly with 
 her friend throughout the trials which had to 
 be surmounted, before the Dean's widow con- 
 sented to her daughter's marriage witli my 
 father. What I told her of the happin
 
 the karl's cedars. ;293 
 
 which, I am certain, my mother experienced 
 during her married life, interested her, and 
 she felt deeply for the faithful sorrow with 
 which my father had borne her loss. 
 
 When I saw her gazing proudly on her 
 son's beautiful domain, skirted bv the river 
 and overshadowed by lofty trees — one of 
 those stately homes of which England has so 
 much reason to be proud — I could not help 
 thinking that Lady Honoria, tamed by affec- 
 tion, such as she was capable of feeling, and 
 Fairfax was in every respect calculated to in- 
 spire, would have been such a daughter-in-law 
 as Mrs. Fairfax ardently desired to welcome. 
 A happy life might even yet await the romantic 
 Irish girl, in that peaceful home on the banks 
 of the gliding river, with fair children at her 
 knee, and affluence everywhere surrounding 
 her. When the long shadows fell, and dark- 
 ened the sunny glades and sparkling waters, 
 and the grey gables of the house, together 
 with the arches of the old bridge, grew indis- 
 tinct, I sometimes imagined her tall, slight 
 form in that ancient family mansion, and won- 
 dered whether the same idea was in the 
 thoughts of the owner of Oakenshaw, while, 
 in the grave moods that excited his mother's 
 uneasiness, he looked from the broad terrace 
 which he paced, hour after hour, with a sailor's 
 even step, from end to end.
 
 294 , the earl's cedars. 
 
 It was not in my power to read his heart 
 — I do not think any human being possessed 
 his confidence — but undoubtedly his mother 
 was right in believing, as she did, that, at the 
 present moment, Captain Fairfax was not 
 happy. I saw her watch him, as he would 
 stop his quarter-deck walk, and survey the 
 fair prospect with eyes that scarcely saw one 
 object it presented to him ; and the mother's 
 heart echoed the sigh of dissatisfaction that 
 showed his thoughts were far away. He hated 
 idleness, and was therefore thoroughly glad 
 when the time arrived for him once more to 
 resume the duties of active service, though he 
 felt the separation from his mother severely. 
 He brightened up when the parting was fairly 
 over ; and our journey across England was a 
 pleasant one, in fine September weather, show- 
 ing us some of the fairest parts of the midland 
 counties, and ending in enchanting, though 
 rapid, glimpses of the Welsh mountains, with 
 bright cascades dashing down their rugged 
 sides ; woods, lakes, and rivers, glancing past 
 us, as we travelled along roads which, with the 
 desert bogs and loughs of Ireland full in our 
 recollection, seemed conducted through a 
 garden. 
 
 A few hours carried us across the Channel, 
 and a day was forced to suffice for the beau- 
 tiful Irish capital, where grace ami beauty
 
 the earl's cedars. 295 
 
 stand close to desolation and haggard poverty 
 in its most unseemly aspect. Then, by day 
 and night, we journeyed on, till we found our- 
 selves once more on board the Retribution, 
 which only waited for her Captain to quit the 
 shores of the British Isles. We dropped down 
 the harbour of Cork in the night, and when 
 the next morning's sun rose we had taken 
 leave of our native land, and were passing 
 down the Channel, with favouring breezes, on 
 our way to Lisbon.
 
 290 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 I am sure it was with a sad heart that Captain 
 Fairfax, on our homeward voyage, six months 
 afterwards, altered the course of the ship, ou 
 his own responsibility, and steered for the Irish 
 coast. This was not the manner wherein he 
 had ever purposed revisiting Dunleary ; nor 
 could he now promise himself the glad wel- 
 come from Lady Honoria which, in his more 
 sanguine moods, he perhaps might hope one 
 day to receive from her, — for on board the 
 Retribution was the lifeless body of the poor 
 young Lord, her brother. 
 
 It seemed as if a disastrous doom hung 
 over the gallant boys with whom she had 
 sported in childhood, and that the sea was 
 destined to be their destruction. Though 
 prosperous in all other respects, our cruise 
 had ended fatally for Dunleary. He was a 
 wilful youth, heedless of advice, ignorant and 
 unmindful of the effect of change of climate, 
 and constantly transgressing rules which his 
 by no means strong health made it impera- 
 tively necessary for him to obey. Independ-
 
 the earl's cedars. .-297 
 
 ently of this, all the officers, as well as myself, 
 thought that some hidden cause for grief preyed 
 upon his spirits. He had not his father's careless 
 temper, but, to put aside unwelcome reflections, 
 he often drank deeply. Then, under the burn- 
 ing mid-day sun of the Peninsula, he would 
 ride wildly away and return at night with the 
 heavy dews hanging about his clothes, ex- 
 hausted and weak as a child. He was very 
 impatient of control, and complained that the 
 monotonous routine on board ship wearied 
 him. The irritation of increasing ill health 
 was upon him, and neither afloat nor ashore 
 did he appear to find rest. While our vessel 
 lay at anchor at the mouth of the Tagus he 
 left us, and for a short time his energies 
 seemed to revive, for he came back from a 
 tour as far as the frontiers of Spain with his 
 face bronzed by the sun, and his frame in- 
 vigorated. This improvement, however, did 
 not last long, and I perceived that Captain 
 Fairfax, who visited him frequently at the villa 
 where he was lodging, with a Portuguese family, 
 was very uneasy about him. The season was 
 an unhealthy one, and every day the friend to 
 whose charge he had been committed felt the 
 responsibility to be more serious. I believe 
 he was more in Dunleary's confidence than 
 any of us. My own duties on board ship at 
 this time were heavy, and the young man
 
 298 the earl's cedars. 
 
 seemed to avoid our society. At last sailing 
 orders were received. Oar Captain was pe- 
 remptory, and reclaimed his refractory guest, 
 who complied with the summons reluctantly. 
 In spite of the change for the worse in his 
 appearance, the young nobleman declared he 
 had never in his whole life been so happy as 
 during his stay at Cintra. He meant to give 
 up to his father and mother-in-law every ad- 
 vantage hitherto in dispute, and get a mode- 
 rate settlement, which would afford him an 
 income to live upon, in lieu of the prospect of 
 succeeding to estates mortgaged nearly up to 
 their value. When this was done he should be 
 his own master ; and Honor, if she liked, could 
 return with him to Lisbon. He was just in 
 the humour to barter his inheritance with the 
 same carelessness that a child shows in parting 
 with a plaything. 
 
 The delay caused by bnfHing winds w, 
 very trying to both his health and spirits. 
 Once on board, he semed only anxious to 
 have the voyage over, and to settle affairs with 
 the Earl in such a manner as might make him 
 his own master and a i man. A decline, 
 however, more rapid than I could have antici- 
 pated, was wasting his strength, and soon 
 such dangerous symptoms appeared that I 
 entertained little hope of his reaching his 
 home alive. From first to last our Captain
 
 the earl's cedars. 29!) 
 
 never left him. He had no mother, and not 
 even his sister could have been more tender ; 
 yet in sickness as in health our care and 
 friendship were unavailing. I heard Captain 
 Fairfax ask, in the accent of a brother, when 
 danger was first apprehended, whether any 
 debts or difficulties troubled him ; but Dun- 
 leary was in a sullen mood, and would not 
 answer. 
 
 He manifested great impatience before his 
 death to see his father, but his hours were 
 numbered, and the favouring winds which at 
 last filled our sails and smoothed our passage 
 did not waft us over the seas as quickly as the 
 dark wing of the death-angel swept over the 
 bed of the sick youth. Perhaps, if he had 
 known how nearly his end was approaching, 
 he would have confided cither to Fairfax or 
 myself the load which weighed on his spirits, 
 and impeded the effect of every remedy art 
 could prescribe for his malady; but his mind 
 wandered so much at times that it was impos- 
 sible to understand his incoherent ejacu- 
 lations ; and, at the last, though he became 
 more tranquil, and often spoke of his sister, 
 and the happy days of their childhood, a veil 
 seemed to rest over the few years of his man- 
 hood, and whatever darkened or troubled his 
 memory before this temporal'}' respite was 
 quite obliterated. He died in our Captain's
 
 300 the earl's cedars. 
 
 arms peacefully ; and instead of his remains 
 being committed to the deep, our course, as 1 
 have said, was changed, and with signs of 
 mourning, her colours half-mast high, and 
 guns firing slowly, the Retribution cast anchor 
 once more under the white cliffs of Antrim. 
 
 In spite of the fits of morbid gloom which 
 latterly overshadowed the brighter features of 
 his character, Dunleary had made himself be- 
 loved on board our vessel, and by his father's 
 tenantry he was now universally lamented. 
 Even the townsmen, though they bore little 
 love to the Earl, showed every mark of re- 
 spect to the corpse of his heir, when it was 
 known to be on board the ship. Lord St. Lo 
 seemed broken down with sorrow after hearing 
 of his loss, and his handsome Countess mani- 
 fested every decent sign of outward affliction. 
 A very long train of mourners received the 
 poor young man's body when it was landed 
 on the beach, and together with all of our 
 officers and crew who could be spared from 
 duty, followed it to the family vault where 
 Dunleary's Irish ancestors lay buried. 
 
 I had imagined that Lord St. Lo might 
 wish his son to be interred beside his mother 
 at Moraston, near the inheritance of the chil- 
 dren of his first marriage — The Cedars; but 
 I believe his affairs were in such a state of em- 
 barrassment that he shrank from incurring this
 
 THE EARL'S CEDARS. 301 
 
 expense. No one interfered with the arrange- 
 ments he chose to make ; nor was the 
 solemn pomp of the funeral ceremony dis- 
 turbed by Lady Honoria's impetuous grief, as 
 I half feared it might be. I looked in vain 
 for her among the mourners, though several fe- 
 male forms were visible. Their sable hoods and 
 crape veils were too artistically arranged, and 
 their postures of grief too studied for me to 
 admit for an instant the- idea that Dunleary's 
 sister was one of them. In all probability she 
 was too ill, I considered, to be able to attend 
 the funeral of the object of so much love and 
 regret as her last-surviving brother. 
 
 Captain Fairfax asked me to ride with him 
 to Dunleary Castle on his first visit of inquiry 
 after the family. On our way, he talked to 
 me for some time of his regret at having ful- 
 filled so unsatisfactorily the mission he had 
 undertaken. I thought he appeared gratified 
 when I spoke of his unwearied kindness and 
 care, and said that I should bear testimonv to 
 those most interested in the ill-fated young 
 nobleman respecting his affectionate solicitude. 
 He thanked me, and said, briefly, — 
 
 " They will believe you, Frankland, sooner 
 than any man living. I shall be g-lad to have 
 such a record given to Dunleary's friends of 
 the manner in which I tried to perform the 
 trust committed to me."
 
 302 the earl's cedar-. 
 
 He said no more, but I saw, as we rode 
 along the beach, — from which the tide had 
 receded, so that we were not forced to make 
 use of the bridge, — his eyes turn to the pro- 
 jecting balcony whence, the previous summer, 
 I had watched the mysterious signal-lights at 
 the mouth of the cave. There was no figure 
 at the window now, and the ribbed sand under 
 the beetling rocks retained the marks of the 
 last high waves, but not a single footprint. 
 
 Lady St. Lo received us in the great draw- 
 ing-room, where she was sitting, with her own 
 fair-haired children around her. Xo one else 
 was present, and I saw Fairfax's eyes more 
 than once fixed upon the door, and then an 
 expression of bitter disappointment rise to his 
 face, as if, like myself, he had supposed that, 
 whatever Lady Honoria's grief might be, she 
 would not rest satisfied without seeing us, and 
 hearing the details of her brother's last illness. 
 It was impossible to dwell upon these with his 
 step-mother. The children, most of them too 
 young to understand how to feign grief, laughed 
 and interrupted our attempts at conversation ; 
 and even their mother's decorous gravity was 
 not sufficiently indicative of real feeling to in- 
 duce us to communicate more than was neces- 
 sary of the painful circumstances of the ca^ 
 
 At last, just as I was on the point of 
 making the same inquiry, Captain Fairfax pro-
 
 the earl's cedars. 303 
 
 nounced Lady llonoria's name. He had a 
 message to deliver to her, if she were well 
 enough to hear it, which it might hereafter be 
 a comfort to her to have received from her 
 brother. 
 
 Lady St. Lo coloured and hesitated. She 
 greatly feared that her daughter-in-law was 
 not at present in a state to bear any addi- 
 tional agitation. It was necessary to exercise 
 great caution in dealing with a person of 
 Lady Honoria's sensitive and excitable feel- 
 ings. In the Earl's absence, especially, — 
 he w r as from home, that morning, for the first 
 time since hearing of his son's death, — she 
 could not venture to introduce any except mem- 
 bers of the family into his daughter's presence. 
 
 Her manner was mysterious, and seemed 
 designedly to convey more meaning than her 
 words. Fairfax, I could see, was struck by 
 it, and showed an increased desire to obtain an 
 interview with Lady Honoria, but the Countess 
 was immovable. She could not say more 
 without her husband's sanction ; but certainly, 
 on her own responsibility, it was impossible 
 for her to accede to our request. The move- 
 ments of Lord St. Lo's daughter, however, 
 were quite unfettered, — far too little con- 
 trolled, she added, with strong emphasis ; and 
 she had no doubt other opportunities would 
 be afforded us, if, on reflection and further 
 inquiry, we considered it expedient to ac-
 
 304 the earl's cedars. 
 
 quaint Lady Ilonoria with her brother's 1; 
 words and wishes. 
 
 I thought that Lady St. Lo's beautiful 
 features were completely disfigured as she 
 spoke. Her forehead, which was naturally 
 low but very smooth, was contracted, and a 
 deep furrow crossed its white surface. Her 
 eyes flashed and sparkled, and a discordant 
 laugh among the children, who were now at 
 play, jarred upon our nerves. Captain Fairfax 
 haughtily rose. 
 
 " I must, then, madam, seek some other 
 means of fulfilling my poor young friend's last 
 request and expectation, since it is too sacred 
 a trust to be neglected. His sister's name was 
 the last sound I heard from his lips." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," said Lady St. Lo, 
 with another strange look, and a yet more dis- 
 agreeable emphasis. " It might have been quite 
 otherwise ! These young people have been a 
 great — a very painful charge to me and to 
 their father. I trust my children may be more 
 dutiful." 
 
 She looked at the noisy, healthy group 
 with eyes full of strong affection, but it was 
 not the kind of love that interested me. 
 Beautiful as the mother and her offspring un- 
 doubtedly were, there was something too ma- 
 terial about them to please me, and 1 was glad 
 to put a speedy end to our visit. 
 
 We crossed the sands in silence, but Fair-
 
 the earl's cedars. 305 
 
 fax's indignation could no longer be restrained. 
 " I do not know what that abominable woman 
 meant, Frankland, by some of her insinua- 
 tions/' he said ; " but I will see Lady Honoria, 
 to deliver her brother's last message, in spite of 
 her mother-in-law's manoeuvres. Why was 
 she not present to-day ? She used not to be 
 so docile. I do not believe that she is at 
 the Castle at all; but I will understand this 
 mysterv before the week is out." 
 
 The ice once broken, we talked freely, 
 and indulged in various conjectures, but we 
 could arrive at no satisfactory issue. The 
 Earl, when we next saw him, was almost 
 equally unintelligible. He stammered and 
 hesitated when his daughter's name was men- 
 tioned; and on Fairfax's gravely requesting 
 to see her, for the purpose he had stated to 
 Lady St. Lo, her father, with a burst of 
 almost childish emotion, entreated him not to 
 attempt it. 
 
 Lady Honoria, he said, when he had a little 
 recovered from his agitation, was not at pre- 
 sent at Dunleary. She, the last of his children 
 by his first marriage, had left him for a time. 
 Her health was extremely delicate. It was 
 impossible to say how she w T ould bear the 
 tidings of her brother's death, which had yet 
 to be conveyed to her. It might cause him to 
 lose her also. As a father, and now a most 
 
 vol. i. x
 
 306 the earl's cedars. 
 
 deeply-afflicted parent, he could only agree 
 with Lady St. Lo, that too much caution 
 could hardly be used in dealing with his 
 daughter. 
 
 The old man would not say more, and we 
 left him in his half-imbecile grief, with feel- 
 ings, on our part, bordering on disgust. We 
 could neither of us bear to permit Lady Ho- 
 noria to hear the intelligence of her brother's 
 death, in such a manner as might please her 
 step -mother, — a woman devoted to her own 
 children, and always disposed to treat those of 
 the first marriage cruelly. I remembered 
 Lady Honoria's saying as a child, but with a 
 woman's bitterness, that she and her brothers 
 were stumbling-blocks in the path of her 
 father's second wife. The more I thought 
 upon it, the more I dreaded the malice which 
 had now but one frail object left. 
 
 Fairfax, I am sure, was as wretched as 
 myself; but all our inquiries gained for us 
 little information. Lady Honoria, it was 
 known, had left Dunleary, but the motive for 
 her departure and her present mode of life 
 were wrapped in uncertainty. One person 
 told us, she was gone down the coast for "say- 
 bathing." Another declared she was right- 
 down "kilt" with melancholy and my lady's 
 airs, and never seemed like herself at the 
 Castle. It was quite another way of life that
 
 the earl's cedars. 307 
 
 suited her; and, if it was to The Fishery she 
 was gone, sure she would have a taste of 
 liberty. 
 
 It might be fancy, but, sometimes, in the 
 answers we received, evasive or negative as 
 they were, I read some resemblance to the 
 Countess's bitter tone of meaning. 
 
 end or vol. i. 
 
 LONDON: 
 Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.
 
 I
 
 4