A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.
One half of the world was surprised that Reginald Belfront married Jane Holford—and the other half was equally surprised that Jane Holford married Reginald Belfront; for, considering the experience that both halves of the world must have had, it is amazing how subject they still are to surprise. To us, who have not the pleasure to belong to either half, there is very little surprising in the matter. Reginald had been for some time on a visit at the house of a distant relation—old Sir Hugh de Mawley. He had wandered through the great woods of the estate, and found them very tiresome; had strolled in the immense park, and found it dull; and, in the long evenings, had sat in the stately hall, and listened to the endless, whispered anecdotes of his host, and found them both intolerable. No wonder he started with joyful surprise when, one day in the drawing-room, he heard the rustle of a silk gown; caught the glancing of some beautiful real flowers on the top of a bright-green bonnet; and, more wonderful than all, the smile of the prettiest lips, and the glances of the clearest eyes he had ever seen in his life. The gown, the bonnet, the smiles, and eyes, all belonged to Jane Holford; and Reginald, who had, up to this time, made no great progress in the study of comparative physiology, now made such rapid strides, that he could have told you every point in which the possessor of the above-named attributes differed from the stiff and prim Miss de Mawley, who had hitherto been the sole representative of the female sex in Mawley Court. The neck and shoulders—the chin—nose—arms— ankles—feet—not to mention the hair and eyebrows—of the new specimen, were minutely studied; and, in spite of the usual antipathy he entertained against all scientific pursuits, he felt a strong inclination to be the owner of it himself, in order to pursue his investigations at full leisure. He was no genius—hated books—disliked clever people—but prided himself on his horsemanship, his play at quarterstaff, his personal strength, and, above all, in his fine old castle in a somewhat inaccessible part of Yorkshire, which had remained in the possession of his family ever since the Conquest. Jane, on the other hand, had no castle to boast of; and probably had no ancestor whatever at any period preceding the year 1750, when her grandfather had bought an estate near Mawley Court—which had gone on improving with the improvement of the times, till her father found himself the possessor of a rent-roll of fifteen hundred a year, four sons, and six grown-up daughters. It will easily be believed that no objections to the match were raised on the part of a middle-aged gentleman, with so many reasons for agreeing to the marriage settlement proposed by Reginald Belfront; consisting, as it did, of a jointure to the widow, and the use of Belfront Castle for life, without the remotest allusion to any portion or other contingent advantage on the other side; and as Jane herself was, if possible, still more satisfied on the subject than her father, all the arrangements were rapidly made, and in less than three months after the apparition of the silk gown and other etceteras in the drawing-room, the indissoluble knot was tied, and Miss Cecilia, the second daughter, was advanced to the dignity of Miss Holford, vice Jane—promoted.
The church was all decked out with roses and other pleasing emblems of the unfading nature of connubial bliss; wreaths of sunflowers, with the same comfortable moral, were hung up over the great gate of Mawley Court; while Miss de Mawley, representing in her own person the evergreens omitted in the garlands, received the happy couple on their return from the ceremony at the head of all the female domestics, from the housekeeper down to the kitchenmaid, and led the bride and bridegroom to the table in the great hall, where old Sir Hugh was sitting in great state. They kneeled down before his chair; and, laying his hand on their heads, he began blessing; but not having practised that style of oratory so much as he ought, it rapidly degenerated into a grace—and, as lunch in the mean time was brought in, and the Holford family, and one or two of the neighbours who had been present at the ceremony, had now arrived, the eloquence of Sir Hugh was not altogether thrown away. There were several speeches and toasts, and sundry attempts at jocularity; and Sir Hugh began the story of the French countess and the waterfall at Fountainbleau; and Reginald availed himself of the somnolency of the rest of the party to slip out with his bride without being observed, just as the royal family began to suspect the secret—and, long before the incensed husband sent the challenge, the happy pair were careering onward as fast as the postboy could drive, on the first stage of their wedding tour.
A month afterwards they were in a country inn in Wales. The window at which they sat commanded a view of the beautiful vale of Cwmcwyllchly—a small river glided down in winding mazes, hiding itself behind wooded knolls, and brawling over rocks in the most playful and picturesque manner imaginable. The sun had begun to set, and was taking a last look at the prospect, with his vast chin rested on the top of Penchymcrwm, presenting to the poetical mind an image of a redfaced farmer looking over a five-barred gate—every thing, in short, that is generally met with in Tourists' Guides, as constituting a splendid view, was assembled on this favoured spot; and yet Jane heaved a deep sigh, and appeared to take no notice of the landscape.
"You're tired, my love," said Reginald; "you have walked too far up these Welsh mountains."
"I hope to get used to climbing," answered Jane; "there are plenty of hills at Belfront—aren't there?"
"Yes, we have plenty of hills; but why don't you call it home, Jane?"
"Because I have never lived there," she replied; "and a place can scarcely be called home that one has never seen."
"But you have never said you wished to see it."
"Oh, but I have wished it all the same—may we—may we go—home?"
She said the word at last, and Reginald was delighted.
"Home! to be sure—to-morrow, at daybreak; for, to tell you the truth, I don't care sixpence for fine views—in fact, I don't think there is any difference between any two landscapes—except that there may be hills in one, and none in another, or woods, or a river—but they are all exactly the same in reality. So, let us go home, my love, as fast as we can, or I'm very much afraid Mr Peeper won't like it."
"Mr Peeper?" enquired Jane. "Who is Mr Peeper?"
"You will know him in good time," said Reginald; "and I hope he will like you."
"I hope he will—I hope all your friends will like me—I will do every thing in my power to please them."
"You're a very good girl, Jane; and Mr Peeper can't help but be pleased, and I am glad of it; for it ought to be our first study to make ourselves agreeable to him."
"Agreeable to Mr Peeper!" thought Jane. "How strange that I never was told about him before this moment! Does he live in the castle, Reginald?" she asked.
"Certainly. One of his family has lived there ever since one of mine did; so there is a connexion between us of a few hundred years."
"Have you any other friends who live in the castle?" enquired the bride.
"I don't know whether Phil Lorimer is there just now or not; he has a room whenever he comes; and a knife and fork at table."
"Who is he?"
"A capital fellow—full of wit—and makes funnier faces and better songs than any man in Yorkshire. You will like Phil Lorimer."
"And I hope he will like me!"
"If he don't, I'll break every bone in his body."
"Oh! I beg you won't," said the bride with a smile, and looking up in Reginald's face to assure herself he spoke in joke. It was as earnest a face as if it had been of cast-iron; and she saw that Mr Lorimer's only chance of preserving a whole skin was to like her with all his might.
"Is there any one else?"
"There's Mr Peeper's assistant, Mark Lutter—a clever man, and a great scholar. I hate scholars, so he dines in the servants' hall, or far down the table—below the salt."
"Are you serious?" enquired Jane.
"Do you not like scholars?"
"What's the use of them? I never could see what they were good for—and, besides, Mr Peeper hates them too."
"Then why does he keep this man as his assistant?"
"Because if he didn't, the fellow would rebel."
"Well, you could turn him off."
"We never turn any body off at Belfront Castle. If they go of their own accord, we punish them for it if we can—if they stay, they are welcome. Mr Peeper must look to it, or Lutter will make a disturbance."
"What a curious place this castle must be," thought Jane, "and what odd people they are that live in it!" She asked no more questions, but determined to restrain her curiosity till she could satisfy it on the spot; and, luckily, she had not long to wait. Next day they started on their homeward way. As they drew nearer their destination, Jane's anxiety to gain the first glimpse of her future home increased with every mile. She had, of course, formed many fancy pictures of it in her own mind; and, as love lent the brush and most obligingly compounded the colours, there can be no doubt they made out a very captivating landscape of it between them.
"At the top of the next hill," said Reginald, "you will see the keep."
Jane stretched her head forward, and looked through the front window as if she could pierce the hill that lay between her and home. On went the horses; but the next hill seemed an incredible way off; it was now getting late, and the shadows of evening, like a flock of tired black sheep, began to lie down and rest thenselves on the vast dreary moor they were travelling over. At last Jane felt that they were beginning an ascent; and a sickly moon, that seemed to have undergone a severe operation, and lost nearly all her limbs, lifted up her pale face in the sky. The wind, too, began to whistle in long low gusts, and Reginald, who was not of a poetical temperament, as we have already observed, was nearly asleep. They reached the hill top at last, and a great expanse of rugged and broken country lay before them.
"Where is it?—on which hand?" said Jane.
"Straight before you," replied the husband; "it is only three miles off; the high-road turns off to the left, but we go through fields right on."
Jane looked with almost feverish anxiety. At a good distance in front, rose a tall black structure, like the chimney of a shot manufactory—a single, square, gigantic tower—throwing a darker mass against the darkened sky, and sicklied o'er on one of the faces with the yellow-green moonlight. There were no lights in it, nor any sign of habitation; and Jane would have indulged in various enquiries and exclamations, if the carriage had allowed her; but it had by this time left the main road, and sank up to the axles in the ruts; it bounded against stones, and wallowed in mire alternately; and all that she could do, was to hold on by one of the arm rests, as if she had been in the cabin of a storm-toss'd ship.
"For mercy's sake, Reginald, will this last long?" she said, out of breath with her exertions.
"We are about a mile from the drawbridge. I hope they have not drawn it up."
"Could we not get into the castle if they have?"
"We might fall into the moat if we tried the postern."
"Oh, gracious!—is there a moat?"—and instinctively she put her hand to her throat, for her mother had brought her up with a salutary dread of colds, and she felt a sensation of choking at the very name.
At this moment, the agonized carriage, after several groans that would have moved the heart of a highway commissioner, gave a rush downward, and committed suicide in the most determined manner, by dashing its axle on the ground—the wheels endeavouring in vain to fathom the profundity of the ruts, and the horses totally unable to move the stranded equipage. The sudden jerk knocked Reginald's hat over his eyes against the roof of the carriage, and Jane screamed when she felt the top of her bonnet squeezed as flat as a pancake by the same process, but neither of them, luckily, was hurt.
"We must get out and walk," said the husband; "it isn't more than half a mile, and we will send Phil Lorimer, or some of them, for the trunks."
He put his arm round Jane's waist, and helped her over the almost impassable track.
"We must try to get the road mended," said Jane.
"It has never been mended in our time," was the reply; and it was said in a tone which showed that the fact so announced was an unanswerable argument against the proposition of the bride.
"A few stones well broken would do it all," she urged.
"We never break stones at Belfront," was the rejoinder; and in silence, and with some difficulty, they groped their unsteady way. At last they emerged from a thick overgrown copse, in which the accident had happened, and, after sundry narrow escapes from sprained ankles and broken arms, they reached the gate. It was an immense wooden barrier, supported at each end by little round buildings—like a slice of toast laid lengthways between two half pounds of butter. It was thickly studded with iron nails, and the round piers were of massive stone, partly overgrown with ivy, and as solid as if they had been formed of one mass.
"Does any body live in those lodges?" enquired Jane.
"There is a warder in the inner court," said Reginald. "These are merely the supporters of the outer gate."
"And how are we to get in?"
"We must blow, I suppose." And so saying, Reginald lifted up a horn that was hung by an iron chain from one of the piers, and executed a flourish that made Jane put her fingers to her ears.
In a short time the creaking of an iron chain—whose recollection of oil must have been of the most traditionary nature—gave intimation that its intentions were decidedly hospitable; and with many squeaks and grunts the enormous portal turned at last on its hinges, and exposed to view a narrow winding road between two walls, which, in a short time, conducted the visitors to a long wooden bridge over a piece of stagnant water—the said bridge having only that moment been let down from the lofty position in which its two halves were kept by an immense wooden erection, which bore an awful resemblance to a scaffold. When they got over the bridge, Reginald turned round, and, imprinting a kiss on the pale cheek of the astonished bride, said—
"Welcome home, dear Jane. This is Belfront Castle!"
Jane looked round a spacious courtyard, and saw a square of low dark-looking buildings, with the enormous tower she had seen from the top of the hill rearing its thick head above all at one corner. They proceeded across the roughly-paved quadrangle, and entered a low door; ascended three steps, and opened another door. They then found themselves in a large and lofty hall, with fitful flashes of red light flickering on the walls, as the flame of the wood fire on the hearth rose or fell beneath the efforts of a half distinguishable figure, extended at full length on the floor, and puffing the enormous log with a pair of gigantic bellows. In the palpable obscure, Jane could scarcely make out the persons of the occupants of the apartment; but when the flame burnt up a little more powerfully than usual, she observed the figure of a tall man dressed in black, who shook hands with Reginald, and bowed very coldly and formally to her, when he was introduced as Mr Peeper. He seemed about fifty or sixty years of age, but very much enfeebled. He stooped and coughed, and was very infirm in his motions; but when the red glare from the hearth fell upon his eyes, they fixed themselves on Jane with such a piercing expression, that she turned away her face almost in fear. His hair was snow-white, and yet it was impossible to decide whether he was a man of the years we have stated, with the premature appearance of age, or a person of extraordinary longevity, retaining the vigorous eyes and active spirit of youth. However it was, Mr Peeper was too harsh and haughty in his approaches, and exacted too much deference from the youthful bride, to be very captivating at first. He said no welcome to the new-comer, and was stiff and unkind even to the owner of the castle. Candles were soon brought in, and Jane took the opportunity of looking round. The individual who had been busy blowing the fire now rose from his humble position, and was presented to the lady as Phil Lorimer. He bowed and smiled, and was proceeding with a compliment, in which, however, he advanced no further than the summer sun bringing out the roses, when Reginald pushed him out of the hall, with orders to get the luggage brought in from the carriage, and to be back in time for supper. Phil Lorimer seemed a man of thirty, strongly built, with a sweet voice and friendly smile; but what station he filled in the household—whether a servant, a visitor, a poor relation, or what he could be, Jane could not make out, either from his manner or the way he was treated.
"Mr Lorimer is very good-natured—very obliging, to take care of the luggage, I am sure," said Jane.
"Better that than talking nonsense about roses," replied Reginald. "Did you expect us this evening, Mr Peeper?"
"I did, Mr Reginald, and have invited a few of the neighbours to meet you."
"Who are coming?"
"Sir Bryan De Barreilles, Hasket of Norland, Maulerer of Phascald, and old Dr Howlet. They will be here soon, so you had better make haste."
"I had better not appear, love," said Jane; "no ladies are coming, and among so many gentlemen my presence might be awkward."
"By no means," replied the husband. "It wouldn't be right, Mr Peeper, for my wife to be absent from the supper-table?"
"Certainly not. It is to see her the neighbours are coming."
Is this Mr Peeper to have the control of all my actions? thought Jane. Who can he be?
She took another glance at the object of her thoughts, but caught his eye fixed on her with the same penetrating brightness as before; and she cast her looks on the ground; and, whether from anger or fear, she felt her cheeks glowing with blushes.
"You will not be long gone, if you please," he said to Jane as she retired to change her dress.
"You don't seem pleased to see us, Mr Peeper," said Reginald, when Jane had gone to her room under the guidance of a very tall old woman, who walked before her, holding out a tremendously long candle, as if it were a sword, and she was at the head of a military procession.
"No, sir," replied Mr Peeper; "I am not pleased with the person you have brought here. You have gone too far from home for a wife. None of the Belfronts have ever married out of Yorkshire, and it may give rise to troubles."
"I am very sorry my wife's relations would not allow me to send for you to perform the ceremony."
"It is a bad omen," said the old man; "my predecessors have married your predecessors without a break since the conquest. It bodes no good."
"I trust no harm will happen, and that you will soon forget the disappointment."
"None of my family forget, but we will not talk of it." So saying, he turned away, and arranged a goodly array of bottles on the sideboard. Reginald sat down on an oak chair beside the fire, and gazed attentively into the log.
In the mean time, Jane had followed her gigantic conductor through half a mile of passages, and reached a small room at one end of the quadrangle, and through the window (of which half the panes were broken, as if on purpose) she caught the melodious murmur of a rapid river, that chafed against the foundation walls of the castle. On looking round, the prospect was not very encouraging. Tattered tapestries hung down the walls, and waved in a most melancholy and ghost-like fashion in the wind; the floor was thinly littered over with some plaited rushes, to supply the place of a carpet; and a few long high-backed oak chairs kept guard against the wall. The fire had died an infant in its iron cradle, the grate; and the curtain of the bed waved to and fro in mournful sympathy with the tapestry round the room. Jane was so cold that she could hardly go through her toilette, simple as it was; but having at last achieved a very slight alteration in her dress, and left her bonnet on the head of an owl, which formed the ornament of one of the high-backed chairs, she endeavoured to retrace her steps; and after a few pauses and mistakes, she found her way once more into the hall.
The guests in the mean time were assembled and had seated themselves at table. On Jane's entrance they all rose, and on being respectively named by their host, bowed with cold and stately courtesy, and sat down again. The four strangers seemed all of the same ages, fifty or thereabouts—tall, hale, and dignified in their manners. Sir Bryan de Barreilles had a patch on his right eye; Hasket of Norland a deep scar on his forehead, that cut his left eyebrow into two parts, and gave a very extraordinary expression to his rigid countenance; Maulerer of Phascald had the general effect of very handsome features, marred by the want of his nose; not that there was actually no nose, but that it did not occupy the prominent position it usually holds on the human face divine, but was inserted deep between the cheeks—in fact, was a nose not set on after the fashion of a knocker, but a fine specimen of basso-relievo, indented after the manner of Socrates's head on a seal, and would probably have made a very fine impression. Dr Howlet was perfectly blind, and from the tone in which he was addressed by the other gentlemen, Jane concluded he was also very nearly deaf. Besides these, there were present Mr Peeper, at the foot of the table next to Reginald, and on the other side of him a thick square-built man, with a fine hilarious open countenance, who was perhaps of too low a rank to be introduced to the lady of the castle—no other in fact than the redoubtable Mr Lutter, of whom Jane had heard on her journey home.
After the serving men, with some difficulty, had brought in the supper, consisting of enormous joints of meat, hot and cold, and deposited on the sideboard vast tankards of strong ale and other potent beverages, Mr Peeper rose, and folding his hands across his breast, and bending forward his head with every appearance of devotion, muttered some words evidently intended to represent a grace; but so indistinct that it was utterly impossible to make the slightest guess at their meaning, whereupon they all fell to with prodigious activity, and cut and slashed the enormous dishes as if they had been famished for a year. Mr Lutter, after making an observation that true thankfulness was as much shown by moderate enjoyment of good gifts as by long prayers said over them, made a most powerful assault on the cold sirloin, and, of all the party, was the only one who had the politeness to send a helping to Jane. She was tired and hungry, and felt really obliged by the attention, but could scarcely do justice to the viands from surprise at the conversation of the guests.
"Ho, ho!" said Sir Bryan de Barreilles, "I once knew a thing—such a thing it was too—ho! ho!" And partly the vividness of the recollection, and principally an enormous mouthful of beef, produced a long fit of coughing—"'twill make you laugh," he continued—"'twas a rare feat—ho! ho!—even this lady will be pleased to hear it."
Jane bowed in expectation of an amusing anecdote.
"One of my tenants was going to be married; his bride was a very young creature, not more than eighteen, and on the wedding-day, as I always was ready for a joke in those days—ah! 'tis thirty years ago, or more—I asked the bridal party to the Tower. Ho! ho! such laughing we had!—Giles Mallet and Robin Henslow fought with redhot brands out of the fire, till I thought we should all have died; and Giles—the cleverest fellow and the wittiest, ho! ho!—such a fellow was Giles!—he took up the poker instead of the fir-log, and watched his opportunity, ho! ho!—it was redhot too—a good stout poker as ever you saw—and ran it clean through his cheek—you heard the tongue fizz! as it licked the hot iron—'twas a famous play. How Robin roared, to be sure, and couldn't speak plain—ho! ho! Well, the games went on; and nothing would please some of the young ones but we should see the Oubliette. 'Twas a dark hole where my forefathers imprisoned their refractory vassals, and sad stories were told about it—how that voices were heard from the bottom of it, and groans, and sometimes gory heads were seen at the top of it, looking up to the skylight, and struggling to escape, but ever tumbling back into the deep dark hole, with screams and smothered cries; a rare place for a man's enemies—but it had not been used for many years. Well—nothing would do, but when we were all merry with ale, we should all go and see the Oubliette, and a kiss of the bride was promised to the one who should go down the furthest. Now, the stone steps were very narrow at best; and were all worn away—and that was the best of it—all along the passages we went, and past the dungeon grating, till we came to the open mouth of the Oubliette. Ho! ho! how you'll laugh. Down a step went one—no kiss from the bride for him—two steps went another—some went down six steps, and one bold fellow went down so far that we lost sight of him in the darkness. Then the bridegroom, a stout young yeoman—thought it shame to let anyone beat him in daring, for so rich a prize as a kiss from the rosy lips of his bride, and down—down—he went—step after step—till finally, far down in the gloom, we heard a loud scream—such a scream—ho! ho! I can't help laughing yet when I think of it—and in a minute or two, whose voice should we hear but Giles Mallet's! There was Giles, hollowing and roaring for us to send down a rope but how he had got down, or when he had gone down, nobody knew. However, a rope was got, and merrily, stoutly, we all pulled, but no Giles came up. Instead of him, we drew forth the bridegroom! but such a changed man. His eyes were fixed, and his face as white as silver—his mouth was wide open, and his great tongue went lolling about from side to side—and he shook his head, and mumbled and slavered—he was struck all of a sudden into idiocy, and knew nobody; not even his bride. She was sinking before him, but he never noticed her, but went moaning, and muttering, and shaking his head. Ho! ho! 'twas the comicalest thing I ever saw. And when Giles came up he explained it all. Giles had gone down deeper than any of them, and waited for the others on a ledge in the cavern; and just when the bridegroom reached it, Giles seized him by the leg, and said—'Your soul is mine'—ho! ho! 'Your soul is mine,' said Giles—and the bridegroom uttered only the loud, long scream we had all heard, and stood and shook and trembled. 'Twas a rare feat; and if you had come down last year"—he added, turning to Jane—"you would have seen the bridegroom going from door to door, followed by all the boys in the village—he never recovered. There he went, shake, shaking his head—and gape gaping with his mouth. "Twas good sport to teaze him. I've set my dogs on him myself; but he never took the least notice. 'Twas a good trick—I never knew better."
"And the bride?" enquired Jane.
"Oh, she died in a week or two after the adventure! A silly hussy—I wished to marry her, by the left hand, to my forester, but she kept on moping and looking at the idiotical bridegroom, and died—a poor fool."
"Ah! we've grown dull since those merry times," said Hasket of Norland, looking, round the empty hall, and then towards Reginald, as if reproaching him with the absence of the ancient joviality. "There were three men killed at my marriage—in fair give and take fight—in the hall, at the wedding supper. There is the mark of blood on the floor yet."
"I lost my eye at the celebration of a christening," said Sir Bryan de Barreilles. "My uncle of Malmescott pushed it in with the handle of his dagger."
"I got this wound on my forehead at a feast after a funeral," said Hasket of Norland. "I quarreled with Morley Poyntz, and he cut my eyebrow with an axe. 'Twas a merry party in spite of that."
"The Parson of Pynsent jumped on my face at a festival in honour of the birth of Sir Ranulph Berlingcourt's heir," said Maulerer of Phascald. "I had been knocked on the floor by the Archdeacon of Warleileigh, and the Parson of Pynsent trode on my nose. He was the biggest man in Yorkshire, and squeezed my nose out of sight—a rare jovial companion, was the Parson of Pynsent, and many is the joke we have had about the weight of his foot. Ah! we have no fun now—no fighting, no grinning through a horse-collar, no roasting before a fire, no singing"—
"Yes," said Reginald, "we have Phil Lorimer."
"Let him come—let us hear him," said some of the party.
"I hate songs," said Dr Howlet; "and think all ballads should be burned."
"And the writers of them, too," added Mr Peeper, with a fierce glance towards the fireplace, from which Phil Lorimer emerged.
"Oh no! I think songs an innocent diversion," said Mr Lutter, "and softening to the heart. Sit near me, Mr Lorimer."
"Make a face, Phil," cried the knight; "I would rather see a grin than hear your ballad."
"Jump, Phil," said Hasket of Norland, applying his fork to Phil's leg as he passed, "you are a better morris-dancer than a poet."
Phil, who was imperturbably good-natured, did as he was told. He opened his mouth to a preternatural size, turned one eye to the ceiling, and the other down to the floor, till Sir Bryan was in ecstasies at his achievement. He then sprang to an incredible height in that air, and danced once or twice through the hall, throwing himself into the most grotesque attitudes imaginable, and the table was nearly shaken in pieces by the thumpings with which the party showed their satisfaction.
"Now then, Phil; here's a cup of sherry-wine—drink it, boy, and sing a sweet song to the lady," said Reginald.
"Songs are an invention of the devil," said Mr Peeper.
"Unless they are sung through the nose," said Mr Lutter, with a sneer.
"You approve of songs then?" inquired Mr Peeper, with a fierce look.
"Certainly," said Mr Lutter, "when their subject is good, and the language modest."
"Then you are an atheist," retorted Mr Peeper.
"What has a ballad to do with atheism?" enquired Mr Lutter, looking angry.
"You approve of wicked songs, and therefore are an atheist."
"A man is more like an atheist," retorted Mr Lutter, "who is ungrateful to God for the gift of song, and shuts up the sweetest avenue by which the spirit approaches its Creator. I admire poetry, and respect poets."
"Any one who holds such diabolic doctrines is not fit to remain in Belfront Castle."
"Nay," replied Mr Lutter, "Belfront Castle would be infinitely improved if such doctrines were adopted in it."
"Gentlemen," said Reginald, "you are both learned men; and I know nothing about the questions you discuss."
"Your lady shall judge between us," said Mr Lutter.
"She shall not," said Mr Peeper; "I am the sole judge in matters of the kind."
"Let us hear Phil's song in the mean time," said Reginald. "Come, Lorimer."
"What shall it be?" said Phil.
"Something comic," said Sir Bryan.
"Something bloody," said Hasket of Norland.
"Something loving," said Maulerer of Phascald.
"Will the lady decide for us?" said Phil, with a smile. "Will you have the 'Silver Scarf,' madam; or 'the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad?' They are both done into my poor English from the troubadours of Almeigne."
The lady fixed, at haphazard, on "the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad:" and Phil prepared to obey her commands. He took a small harp in his hand, and sate down in the vacant chair next to Sir Bryan de Bareilles. The rest of the company composed themselves to listen; and, after a short prelude, Lorimer, in a fine manly voice, began—
"Oh, brightly bloom'd the orange flow'r,
And fair the roses round;
And the fountain, in its marble bed,
Leapt up with a happy sound;
And stately, stately was the hall,
And rich the feast outspread;
But the Soldan of Bagdad sigh'd full sore,
And never a word he said.
Never a word the Soldan said,
But many a tear let fall;
He had tried all the joys that life could give,
And was weary of them all.
The Soldan lift up his heavy eye—
And to that garden fair,
A stranger enter'd with harp in hand,
And with a winsome air;
Long locks of yellow molten gold
Hung over his cheek so brown,
And a red mantle of Venice silk
Fell from his shoulders down.
A weary wanderer he did seem,
Come from a distant land;
And over the harpstrings thoughtfully,
He moveth his cunning hand.
He opes his lips, and he poureth forth
Such a sweet stream of sound,
That the Soldan's heart leaps up in his breast,
And his eye he casts around.
'Was never a voice,' the Soldan said,
'So sweet—nor so blest a song;—
Sing on, kind minstrel,' the Soldan said,
'I have been sad too long.'
The minstrel sang, and soft and sweet
The Soldan's tears fell free;
'Oh, tell me, thou minstrel dear,' he said,
'What boon shall I give to thee?
Oh, stay with me but a year and a day,
And sing sweet songs to me;
And whatever the boon, by Allah, I swear,
I will freely give it to thee.'
The minstrel stay'd a year and a day,
And the Soldan loved him well;
'Now what is the boon thou askest of me—
I prithee, dear minstrel, tell.'
'A Christian knight in thy dungeon pines,
And his hope is nearly o'er;
His freedom is the boon I ask—
Oh, open his prison door!'
The minstrel went—and no more was seen;
And the Christian knight, set free,
Found a stately ship, that bore him safe
Home to his own countrie.
And his lady met him at the gate,
His lady fair and young;
And with a scream of pride and joy,
She in his bosom hung.
Oh, glad, glad was the Christian knight,
And glad was his lady fair,
And her pale cheek flush'd as he cast aside
The locks of her raven hair,
And kiss'd her brow, and told the tale
Of his dungeon, deep and strong;
And of the minstrel, too, he told
And of the power of song.
And they blest the minstrel, and blest his song,
And soon the feast was dight;
And prince and noble crowded in,
To welcome home the knight.
And when the brimming cup went round,
Spoke out an evil tongue,
And blamed that lady to her lord,
That lady fair and young;
And told, with many a bitter sneer,
How that, for many a day,
When he was prison'd in Paynim land,
That dame was far away,
And none knew where; but all could guess—
Up rose the knight, and kept
His hand close clutch'd on his dagger heft,
And down the hall he stept;
And onwards with the dagger bared,
He rush'd to the lady's bower—
'Thou hast been false, and left thy home—
Thou diest this very hour!'
'Oh! it is true, I left my home;
But yet, before I die,
Oh! look not on me with face so changed,
Nor with so fierce an eye!
Oh! let me, but for a minute's space,
Into my chamber hie;
One prayer I would say for thee and me—
One prayer—before I die!'
She left the bower; and as he stept
To and fro in ireful mood,
A stranger from the chamber came,
And close behind him stood.
Long locks of molten yellow gold
Hung over his cheek so brown,
And a red mantle of Venice silk,
Fell from his shoulder, down.
Dark frown'd the knight—'Vile churl!' he said;
But ere he utter'd more,
The stranger let the mantle fall
Unclasp'd upon the floor,—
And off he cast the yellow locks—
And, lo! the lady fair,
Blushing and casting from her cheek
Her glossy raven hair!
Down fell the dagger; down the knight
Sank kneeling and opprest;
And the lady oped her snow white arms,
And wept upon his breast!"
"A foul song!—a wanton woman!"—exclaimed Sir Bryan de Barreilles—"he should have stabbed her for living so long with a Jew villain like the Soldan of Bagdad."
"Was the villain a Jew?" enquired Dr Howlet, who had caught the word. "I did not know Bagdad was in Jewry. Is a heathen the same as a Jew, Mr Peeper?"
The gentleman thus appealed to, coughed as if to clear his throat, and though he usually spoke with the utmost clearness, he mumbled and muttered in the same unintelligible manner as he had done when he was saying grace; and it was a very peculiar habit of the learned individual, whenever he was applied to for an explanation, to betake himself to a mode of speech that would have puzzled a far wiser head than Dr Howlet's, to make head or tail of it.
Dr Howlett, however, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the information; and by the indignant manner in which he struck his long gold-headed ebony walking-stick on the floor, seemed entirely to agree with the worthy knight in his estimate of the heroine of Phil Lorimer's ballad.
"I like the ballad about the jousting of Romulus the bold Roman, with Judas Maccabaeus in the Camp at Ascalon far better," said Hasket of Norland. "Sing it, Phil."
"No, no," cried Maulerer, who was far gone in intoxication. "Sing us the song of the Feasting at Glaston, when Eneas the Trojan married Arthur's daughter.—Sing the song, sirrah, this moment, or I'll cut your tongue in two, to make your note the sweeter.—Sing."
Thus adjured, Phil once more began:—
"There was feasting high and revelry
In Glaston's lofty hall;
And loud was the sound, as the cup went round,
Of joyous whoop and call;
And Arthur the king, in that noble ring,
Was the merriest of them all.
No thought, no care, found entrance there,
But beauty's smiles were won;
No sour Jack Priest to spoil the feast"—
"Ha!" cried Howlet, interrupting Mr Lorimer in a tremendous passion, "what says the varlet? He is a heathen Turk, and no Christian. How dares he talk so of the church?" The old man rose as he spoke, and, suddenly catching hold of the enormous ebony walking-stick, which generally reposed at the side of his chair, he aimed a blow with all his force at the unfortunate songster; but, being blind, and not calculating his distance, his staff fell with tremendous effect on the left eye of Sir Bryan de Barreilles.
"Is it so?" cried the Knight, stunned; but resisting the tendency to prostration produced by the stroke, and flinging a large silver flagon across the table, which missed Dr Howlet, and made a deep indentation in the skull of Maulerer of Phascald—"Now, then!"
Hasket of Norland attempted to hold Sir Bryan, and prevent his following up his attack; and Mr Maulerer recovered sufficiently to fling the heavy candlestick at his assailant; the branches of which hit the cheek of Hasket, while the massive bottom ejected the three front teeth of Sir Bryan.
There was now no possibility of preventing the quarrel; and while the four strangers were pounding each other with whatever weapons came first to hand, and Mr Peeper crept under the table for safety, and Reginald essayed to talk them into reason, Mr Lutter politely handed Jane to the door of the hall.
"Permit me, madam, to rescue you from this dreadful scene."
"Is it thus always?" enquired Jane, nearly weeping with fright.
"There are many things that may be improved in the castle," said Mr Lutter. "I have seen the necessity of an alteration for a long time, and, if you will favour me with your assistance, much may be done."
"Oh! I will help you to the utmost of my power."
"We must upset the influence of Mr Peeper," said Mr Lutter. "May I speak to you on the subject to-morrow?"
A month had passed since Jane's arrival at Belfront Castle, and she had had many private and confidential conversations with Mr Lutter. The ominous eyes of Mr Peeper grew fiercer and fiercer, and she many times thought of coming to an open rupture with him at once; but was deterred from doing so, by not yet having ascertained whether her influence over Reginald was sufficiently established to stand a contest with the authority of his ancient friend. She could not understand how her husband could have remained hoodwinked so long; or how he had submitted to the despotic proceedings of his former tutor, who persisted in assembling the same airs of authority over him, as he had exercised when he was a child. Such, however, was evidently the case; and Reginald had never entertained a thought of rescuing himself from the thraldom in which he had grown up. A look from Mr Peeper; a solemn statement from him, that such and such things had never been heard of before in Belfront; and, above all, the use of the muttered and unintelligible jargon to which Mr Peeper betook himself in matters of weight and difficulty, were quite sufficient: Reginald immediately gave up his own judgment, and felt in fact rather ashamed of himself for having hinted that he had a judgement at all. Under these circumstances, Mr Lutter had a very difficult part to play; and all that Jane could do, was to second him whenever she had the opportunity. One day, in the lovely month of April, Phil Lorimer sat on a sunny part of the enornous wall that guarded the castle, and leaning his back against one of the little square towers that rose at intervals in the circuit of the fortifications, sang song after song, as if for the edification of a number of crows that were perched on the trees on the other side of the moat. The audience were grossly inattentive, and paid no respect whatever to the performer, who still continued his exertions, as highly satisfied as if he were applauded by boxes, pit, and gallery of a crowded theatre:—Among others, he sang the ballad of the "Silver Scarf."
"It was a King's fair daughter,
With eyes of deepest blue,
She wove a scarf of silver
The whole long summer through—
"A stately chair she sat on
Before the castle door,
And ever in the calm moonlight
She work'd it o'er and o'er.
"And many a knight and noble
Went daily out and in,
And each one marvell'd in his heart
Which the fair scarf might win.
"She took no heed of questions,
From her work ne'er raised her head,
And on the snow-white border
Sew'd her name in blackest thread.
"Then came a tempest roaring,
From the high hills it came,
And bore the scarf far out to sea
From forth its fragile frame:
"The maiden sate unstartled,
As if it must be so—
She stood up from her stately chair,
And to her bower did go.
"She took from forth her wardrobe
Her dress of mourning hue—
Whoever for a scarf before
Such weight of sorrow knew?
"In robes of deepest mourning,
Three nights and days she sate;
On the third night, the warder's horn
Was sounded at the gate—
"A messenger stands at the door,
And sad news bringeth he;
The king and all his gallant ships
Are wreck'd upon the sea.
"And now the tide is rising,
And casts upon the shore
Full many a gallant hero's corse,
And many a golden store.
"Then up rose the king's daughter,
Drew to her window near;
'What is it glitters on thine arm,
In the moonlight so clear?'
"'It is a scarf of silver,
I brought it from the strand;
I took it from the closed grasp
Of a strong warrior's hand.'
"That feat thou ne'er shouldst boast of
If but alive were he;
Go take him back thy trophy
To the blue rolling sea.
"And when that knight you've buried,
The scarf his grave shall grace;
And next to where you've laid him,
Oh, leave a vacant place!"
"Here, you cursed old piper! leave off frightening the crows, and open the gate this moment. Who the devil, do you think, is to burst a bloodvessel by hollowing here all day?"
Mr Lorimer, though used to considerable indignities, as we have already seen, had still a little of the becoming poetical pride about him, and looked rather angrily over the wall. "Nobody wishes you to break bloodvessels, or have their own ears disturbed by your screaming," he said. "What do you want?"
"To get into your infernal house, to be sure. Where did you get such unchristian roads? My bones are sore with the jolting. Send somebody to open the gate."
"The drawbridge is up, and Mr Peeper must have his twopence."
"Who the devil is Mr Peeper?" said the stranger. "I sha'n't give him a fraction. Who made the drawbridge his? Is Mr Belfront at home?"
"Yes, he is in Mr Peeper's study."
"And Mrs Belfront?"—
"Pickling cod. It is Mr Peeper's favourite dish; so we all live on it sometimes for weeks together."
"With such a trout-stream at your door? He'll be a cleverer fellow than I think him if he gets me to eat his salted carrion. Open the door, I say, or you'll have the worst of it when my stick gets near your head. Tell Mrs Belfront her uncle is here—her Uncle Samson."
Phil Lorimer saw no great resemblance to the Jewish Hercules in the little, dapper, bustling-mannered man in a blue coat with bright brass buttons, pepper-and-salt knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who thus proclaimed his relationship to the lady of the castle. He hurried down from the wall to make the required announcement.
"My uncle Samson, the manufacturer, from Leeds! Oh, let him in, by all means!" exclaimed Jane; "he was always so kind to me when I was a child!"
"He can't get in, madam, unless Mr Peeper orders the drawbridge to be lowered; and he is now busy with Mr Belfront."
"Go for Mr Lutter; he will be glad to hear of uncle Samson's arrival."
Mr Lorimer discovered Mr Lutter comfortably regaling himself in the buttery; but on hearing in what respect his services were required, he left unfinished a large tankard of ale, with which he was washing down an enormous quantity of bread and cheese, and proceeded to the moat.
"Don't disturb Mr Peeper," he said, "but help me to launch the little punt."
By dint of a little labour, the small vessel was got into the water, and Mr Lutter, taking a scull in his hand, paddled over to the other side, and embarked the gentleman in the blue coat. Paddling towards an undefended part of the castle, he taught him how to clamber up the wall; and Mr Samson, wiping the stains of his climbing from the knees of his nether habiliments, looked round the castle-yard. "Well! who'd have thought that such a monstrous strong-looking place should be stormed by a middle-aged gentleman in a punt!"
"You've a friend in the garrison, you'll remember, sir, and the battlements have never been repaired."
"They ain't worth repairing. It's a regular waste of building materials to make such thick walls and pinnacles. Blowed, if them stones wouldn't build a mill; and a precious water-power, too," he added, as he saw the river sparkling downward at the northern side. "Oho! I must have a talk with Jane. Will you take me to Mrs Belfront? I haven't seen her for five years. She must be much changed since then, and I must prepare her for the arrival of her cousins."
Jane was sitting in the great hall, feeling disconsolate enough. Often, in her father's comfortable parlour, she had read accounts of baronial residences of the olden time; and one of the greatest pleasures she had felt in becoming Mrs Belfront, was to be the possessor of a real bona fide castle that had been actually a fortress in the days of knighthood. She had studied long ago the adventures of high-born dames and stately nobles, till she was nearly as far gone in romance as Don Quixote; and many questions she had asked about Belfront, and donjon-towers, and keeps, and tiltyards, and laboured very hard to acquire a correct idea of the mode of life and manners of the days of chivalry. Her imagination, we have seen, was too lively to be restrained by the more matter-of-fact nature of her husband; and she now felt with great bitterness the difference between presiding at a tournament, or being present at the Vow of the Peacock, and the slavish submission in which she, with the whole household, was held by Mr Pepper. Deeply she now regretted the feelings of superiority she had experienced over her own relations by her marriage into such an ancient race as the Belfronts. She felt ashamed of the contempt she had felt for the industrious founders of her own family's wealth, and at that moment would have preferred the blue coat and brass buttons of her uncle Samson, to all the escutcheons and shields of the Norman conquest; and at that moment, luckily, the identical coat and buttons made their appearance.
"Well, niece, here's a go!" exclaimed the angry uncle. "Is this a way to receive a near relation after such a journey?"
"Oh, uncle!"
"Why, did ye never hear tell of such a place as Kidderminster?—have you no carpets?"
"Mr Belfront says there were no carpets in his ancestor's time"—
"And no railroads, nor postchaises, nor books, nor nothing; and is that any reason why we shouldn't have lots of every thing now? By dad, before I've been here a week I'll have a reg'lar French Revolution! No Bastille! says I; let's have a Turkey carpet, and a telescope dining-table, good roads, and no infernal punts—and, above all, let's get quit of the villain Peeper."
"Oh! if Reginald would only consent!"
"Why not? by dad, I'll make his fortune. I'll give him a thousand a-year for the water-power that's now all thrown away. I'll have a nice village built down in the valley. I'll get him two guineas an acre for his land that's now lying waste. I'll dig for coal. We'll build a nice comfortable house, and leave this old ruin to the crows."
"And the neighbours, uncle Samson?"
"Why, we'll build a church, and the parson will be a good companion. When the roads are made, you'll give a jolly dinner once a-week to every squire within ten miles. You'll have a book club. You'll help in the Sunday school. You'll go to the county balls. Your husband will join the agricultural society, and act as a magistrate. He'll subscribe to the hounds. He'll attend to the registrations. He'll have shooting-parties in September. And as to any old-world, wretched talks about chivalry and antiquity, we'll show him that there never was a time like the present—commerce, land, property, and intelligence, all in the very best condition. We'll make Lutter superintendent of the whole estate, and send old Peeper about his business. And in all this you must help; for there's nothing to be done without the help of the ladies: so give me your hand, dear niece, and don't cry."
"It would make me so happy! I would never look into Amadis de Gaul again!"
"Hang Amadis de Gall and Amadi de Spurzheim, too! Where is your husband?"
"I seldom see him now. He is always in the oratory with Mr Peeper."
"The deuce he is!" said the uncle. "And how do you get on in other respects? Are you comfortable—happy—contented?" Jane told him all she had encountered since she had come to the castle, and the uncle seemed thunderstruck at the recital.
"Well! bold measures are always the best," he said at last; "I'll kick Peeper into the moat!" and before his niece could interfere, the uncle had rushed across the quadrangle, guided, we are sorry to say, by Mr Lutter, and, grasping the venerable Peeper, whom he met near the drawbridge, he dragged him towards the water.
Jane ran to get assistance for the unfortunate victim; and crying "Help! help!" as she saw the wretched man forced over the walls, she looked in a state of distraction towards her husband. "Dear Jane," said that individual, smiling blandly, "I told you you had overtired yourself with walking." Jane gazed round; there was Reginald sitting beside her, with her head reclining on his shoulder, at the open window of the inn in Wales. The vale of Cwmcwyllchly was spread in a beautiful landscape below. They were still on their wedding tour.
"You have been asleep, Jane," said Reginald.
"And have had such dreadful dreams. Oh, Reginald! I have had such visions of horrid things and people. I shall never be romantic again about chivalry. Such coarseness!—such slavery!—such ignorance! Ah, how happy we ought to be that we are born in a civilized time, with no Mr Peepers for father confessors, nor fighting with firebrands for amusement!"
"You have been reading Hallam's Middle Ages—a present from your uncle Samson—till you have become a right-down Utilitarian. Come, let us ring for tea; and to-morrow we must start for Yorkshire! The Quarter-sessions are coming on."