As soon as he had finished, and our expressions of surprise had subsided, an old lady in the company—Mrs. Scroggins—exclaimed, “Well, now, this reminds me that my man, William, saw the ‘White Nun’ in the convent grave-yard last night; and she so frightened him, that he declares he will never pass there again after dusk.”
The mention of this aroused Bob’s curiosity and mine. We begged her to give us the history, or the legend, if any, connected with this mysterious personage.
Reader, have you ever heard of a gentleman who was asked in company to sing, and who did not raise a thousand objections, although he was all the while dying to exhibit his vocal abilities? Have you ever seen the lady who was asked to play at a party, and who did not excuse herself in fifty ways, although she had been practicing the whole day previous for the occasion? If you have, I have not. Nor have I ever met with a person who, when called upon for an anecdote, did not declare it was not worth repeating, or that he or she was certain it had been heard before. So it was with Mrs. Scroggins; we had to beg of her for this legend for about a quarter of an hour, after which, like the vocalist and the pianist, under similar circumstances, she consented.
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THE LEGEND.
The convent of Hickle-path Hill, which two or three centuries since is said to have presented a very imposing appearance, is now represented by a few tottering remnants of walls, which all of you, I suppose, have often seen on a clear day from the front window. A little beyond them, to the right, are the ruins of a castle, which formerly belonged to the Bassett family.
About the latter half of the fifteenth century, Sir Hugh Bassett occupied the castle, which was then large and strong. He had a daughter called Agnes, an only child, and a beautiful girl. She was the admiration of every one who beheld her, and a standing toast at every feast in the neighborhood. Her hair was said to have been raven-black, her eyes dark, large and sparkling; her cheeks fresh as the leaves of a full-blown rose; her teeth like pearls; her form and figure, “stately, like a queen.” At least she was evidently very pretty; I wont say, for I can’t say, she realized this description, for it seems as if copied from the pages of a modern novel—and we know that there all heroines are alike, superior to any thing ever seen in this world.
She lost her mother at an early age—a loss to a child for which nothing can compensate. The want of maternal care and teaching was no doubt the cause of some little peculiarities in her disposition. Being left much to herself, having none but her father whom she recognized as her superior, she acquired a spirit of independence and of firmness of character which she would not likely have otherwise possessed. But notwithstanding this, she did not want many good and kind qualities; and she had a judgment and discrimination of character by no means common in those times. To the poor of the neighborhood she was always kind, and was much admired by them in return. With many of her own rank she was reserved, although with others she was cheerful and communicative. It was remarked that those whom she seemed to like most were generally more distinguished for character than rank. She seemed, to the wonderment of her father’s friends, to regard many an industrious peasant more than she did some far-famed baron, with “quarterings” on his shield. To her parent she always exhibited affection, and never withheld her respect, even when she reluctantly bestowed him her submission.
Sir Hugh had descended from one who had accompanied William the Conqueror to England. He was as proud as he was powerful. He measured merit by military prowess—virtue, by wealth—and character, by the length of ancestry; peculiarities which, we believe, are not altogether unknown at this day. He loved his daughter more because she was his daughter, than for herself; and he estimated her claim to respect, not so much by her virtues, as by the Bassett blood which flowed in her veins.
The fame of the fair Agnes naturally brought her many admirers and suitors. For a long time her heart seemed untouched by their looks or addresses. But no woman’s heart is impregnable! She may skirmish a great deal, she may act as if about to make a powerful repulse, she may make seeming preparations for a terrible encounter, but, if her opponent has any knowledge of tactics in these matters, and is otherwise unobjectionable, she will sooner or later “give-up,” hang down her head, blush up to her eye-brows, and then, whisperingly utter, “take me, and be happy!” So Agnes drove off suitor after suitor. One she frightened by her freezing looks, which no one better than a woman can assume, when she chooses. Others she dismissed with a flat refusal; while some were driven back by her palpable contempt for their persons. But as time crept on, a close observer might remark a slight blush rising on her cheeks when young Rhoderick Wray made his appearance; and how, by some unaccountable accident, they would be both found, soon after his arrival, standing in close converse in some retired part of the room, or strolling together upon the balcony.