"It could cause none, my dear sir," replied Dudley, "even if your supposition were correct; but I am not an ecclesiastic, and I can assure you I view your church with anything but feelings of bigotry; and, indeed, regret much that the somewhat too strict definitions of the Council of Trent have placed a barrier between the two churches which cannot be overleaped."
"Strict definitions are very bad things," said the priest; "they are even contrary to the order of nature. In it there are no harsh lines of division, but every class of beings in existence, all objects, all tones, glide gradually into each other, softened off, as if to show us that there is no harshness in God's own works. It is man makes divisions, and bars himself out from his fellow men."
Dudley did not dislike the illustration of his new acquaintance's views; but he remarked that he did not touch upon any definite point, but kept to generals; and having no inclination himself for religious discussions, he thanked Mr. Filmer again for his kindness, and asked him if there were any objects of particular interest within the limits of a walk before breakfast.
"One which for me has much interest," replied the priest: "the ruins of a priory, and of the church once attached to it, which lie just beyond the park walls. I am ready to be your conductor this moment, if you please."
Dudley expressed his willingness to go; Mr. Filmer got his hat, and in a few minutes they issued forth into the fresh air.
Taking their way to the right, they left the avenue of trees upon the other hand; and, by a well-worn path over the grassy slopes of the park, they soon reached the wall, over which they passed by a stone style, and then descended a few hundred yards into a little wooded dell, with a very bright but narrow stream running through it. A well-trimmed path, through the copse brought them, at the end of five minutes more to an open space bosomed in the wood, where stood the ruin. It was a fine specimen, though much decayed, of that style of architecture which is called Norman; a number of round arches, and deep, exquisitely chiselled mouldings, were still in good preservation; and pausing from time to time to look and admire, Dudley was led on by his companion to what had been the principal door of the church, the tympanum over which was quite perfect. It was highly enriched with rude figures; and the tutor gazed at it for some time in silence, trying to make out what the different personages represented could be about. Mr. Filmer suffered him, with a slight smile, to contemplate it uninterruptedly for some time; but at length he said, "It is a very curious piece of sculpture that. If you remark, on the right-hand side there is represented a hunt, with the deer flying before the hounds, and a number of armed men on horseback following. Then in the next compartment you see dogs and men again, and a man lying transfixed by a javelin."
"But the third is quite a different subject," said Dudley: "a woman, seemingly singing and playing on a harp, with a number of cherubim round her, and an angel holding a phial; and the fourth compartment is different also, showing two principal figures embracing in the midst of several others, apparently mere spectators."
"It is, nevertheless, all one story," said the priest; "and is, in fact, the history of the foundation of this church and priory, though connected with a curious legend attached to three families in this neighbourhood, of each of which you know something. I will tell it to you as we return; but first let us go round to the other side, where there is a fragment of a very beautiful window."
Dudley was not content without exploring the whole of the ruin; but when that was done they turned back towards the park again, and Mr. Filmer began his tale:--
"Nearly where the existing house stands," he said, "stood formerly Brandon Castle, the lord of which, it would appear, was a rash, impetuous man, given much to those rude sports which, in the intervals of war, were the chief occupations of our old nobility. In the neighbourhood there was a family of knightly rank, of the name of Clive, the head of which, in the wars of Stephen and Matilda, had saved the life of the neighbouring baron, and became his dearest, though comparatively humble friend. The lord of Brandon, though not altogether what may be called an irreligious man, was notorious for scoffing at the church and somewhat maltreating ecclesiastics. He had conceived a passion for a lady named Eda Adelon, the heiress of some large estates at the distance of about thirty miles from this place, and had obtained a promise of her hand; but upon one occasion, he gave her so great offence in regard to an abbey which she had aided principally in founding, that she refused to ratify the engagement, and entered into the sisterhood herself, telling him that the time would come when he, too, would found monasteries, and perhaps have recourse to her prayers. Five or six years passed afterwards, and the baron himself, always irascible and vehement, became more so from the disappointment he had undergone. The only person who seemed to have any power over him, and that was the power which a gentle mind sometimes exercises upon a violent one, was his companion, the young Sir William Clive. Hunting was, as I have said, his favourite amusement; and on one occasion he had pursued a stag for miles through the country, always baffled by the swiftness and cunning of the beast. He had thrown a number of javelins at it, always believing he was sure of his mark; but still the beast reappeared unwounded, till at length it took its way down the very glen where Brandon Priory stands, and then entered the thicket, just as the baron was close upon its track. Fearing to lose it again, he threw another spear with angry vehemence, exclaiming, with a fearful oath, 'I will kill something this time!' A faint cry immediately followed, and the next instant Sir William Clive staggered forth from the wood, transfixed by his friend's javelin, and fell, to all appearance dying, at the feet of the baron's horse. You have now the explanation of the first two compartments; I will proceed to give you that of the two others. The great lord was half frantic at the deed that he had done; the wounded man was taken up and carried to the castle; skilful leeches were sent for, but employed their art in vain; the young knight lay speechless, senseless, with no sign of life but an occasional deep-drawn breath and a slight fluttering of the heart. At length one of the chirurgeons, who was an ecclesiastic, ventured to say, 'I know no one who can save him, if it be not the Abbess Eda.' Now, Eda Adelon had by this time acquired the reputation of the highest sanctity, and she was even reported to have worked miracles in the cure of the sick and the infirm. Filled with anguish for his friend, and remorse for what he had done, the baron instantly mounted his horse, and rode, without drawing a rein, to the abbey, where he was admitted to the presence of the abbess, and casting himself upon his knees before her, told the tale of his misadventure. 'Kneel to God, and not to me, Lord Brandon,' said the abbess; 'humble your heart, and pray to the Almighty. Perchance he will have compassion on you.'