Ye hae marred a bonnier face than your ain.

DYING WORDS OF THE BONNIE EARL OF MORAY

One room at Hurst Walwyn, though large, wainscoted, and well

furnished, bore as pertinaciously the air of a cell as the

appearance of Sister Cecily St. John continued like that of a nun.

There was a large sunny oriel, in which a thrush sang merrily in a

wicker cage; and yet the very central point and leading feature of

the room was the altar-like table, covered with rich needlework,

with a carved ebony crucifix placed on it, and on the wall above,

quaint and stiff, but lovely-featured, delicately tinted pictures

of Our Lady in the centre, and of St. Anne and St. Cecilia on

either side, with skies behind of most ethereal blue, and robes

tenderly trimmed with gold.

A little shrine of purple spar, with a

crystal front, contained a fragment of sacred bone; a silver shell

help holy water, perpetuated from some blessed by Bishop Ridley.

'With velvet bound and broidered o'er,

Her breviary book'

Lay open at 'Sext,' and there, too, lay with its three marks at the

Daily Lessons, the Bishop's Bible, and the Common Prayer beside it.

The elder Baron de Ribaumont had never pardoned Cecily his single

glance at that table, and had seriously remonstrated with his

father-in-law for permitting its existence, quoting Rachel, Achan,

and Maachah. Yet he never knew of the hair-cloth smock, the

discipline, the cord and sack-cloth that lay stored in the large

carved awmry, and were secretly in use on every fast or vigil, not

with any notion of merit, but of simple obedience, and with even

deeper comprehension and enjoyment of their spiritual significance,

of which, in her cloister life, she had comprehended little.

It was not she, however, who knelt with bowed head and clasped

hands before the altar-table, the winter sunbeams making the

shadows of the ivy sprays dance upon the deep mourning dress and

pale cheek. The eyelashes were heavy with tear-drops, and veiled

eyes that had not yet attained to the region of calm, like the

light quivering of the lips showed that here was the beginning of

the course of trial through which serenity might be won, and for

ever.

By and by the latch was raise, and Cecily came forward. Lucy rose

quickly to her feet, and while giving and returning a fond embrace,

asked with her eyes the question that Cecily answered, 'Still in

the same lethargy. The only shade of sense that I have seen is an

unclosing of the eyes, a wistful look whenever the door opened, and

a shiver through all his frame whenever the great bell rings, till

my Lord forbade it to be sounded.'

'That frightful bell that the men told us of,' said Lucy,

shuddering; 'oh, what a heart that murderess must have had!'

'Hold, Lucy! How should we judge her, who may at this moment be

weeping in desolation?'

Lucy looked up astonished. 'Aunt,' she said, 'you have been so

long shut up with him that you hardly can have heard all-how she

played fast and loose, and for the sake of a mere pageant put off

the flight from the time when it would have been secure even until

that dreadful eve!'

'I know it,' said Cecily. 'I fear me much that her sin has been

great; yet, Lucy, it were better to pray for her than to talk

wildly against her.'

'Alas!' murmured Lucy, 'I could bear it and glory in it when it

seemed death for the faith's sake, but,' and the tears burst out,

'to find he was only trapped and slain for the sake of a faithless

girl--and that he should love her still.'

'She is his wife,' said Cecily. 'Child, from my soul I grieve for

you, but none the less must I, if no other will, keep before your

eyes that our Berenger's faith belongs solely to her.'

'You--you never would have let me forget it,' said Lucy. 'Indeed I

am more maidenly when not alone with you! I know verily that he is

loyal, and that my hatred to her is more than is meet. I will--I

will pray for her, but I would that you were in your convent still,

and that I could hide me there.'

'That were scarce enough,' said Cecily. 'One sister we had who had

fled to our house to hide her sorrows for her betrothed had wedded

another. She took her sorrows for her vocation, strove to hurry on

her vows, and when they were taken, she chafed and fretted under

them. It was she who wrote to the commissioner the letter that led

to the visitation of our house, and, moreover, she was the only one

of us who married.'

'To her own lover?'

'No, to a brewer at Winchester! I say not that you could ever be

like poor sister Bridget, but only that the cloister has no charm

to still the heart--prayer and duty can do as much without as

within.'

'When we deemed her worthy, I was glad of his happiness,' said

Lucy, thoughtfully.

'You did, my dear, and I rejoiced. Think now how grievous it must

be with her, if she, as I fear she may, yielded her heart to those

who told her that to ensnare him was her duty, or if indeed she

were as much deceived as he.'

'Then she will soon be comforted,' said Lucy, still with some

bitterness in her voice; bitterness of which she herself was

perhaps conscious, for suddenly dropping in her knees, she hid her

face, and cried. 'Oh, help me to pray for her, Aunt Cecily, and

that I may do her wrong no more!'

And Cecily, in her low conventual chant, sang, almost under her

breath, the noonday Latin hymn, the words of which, long familiar

to Lucy, had never as yet so come home to her.

'Quench Thou the fires of heat and strife,

The wasting fever of the heart;

From perils guard our feeble life,

And to our souls Thy help impart.'

Cecily's judgment would have been thought weakly charitable by all

the rest of the family. Mr. Adderley had been forwarded by Sir

Francis Walsingham like a bale of goods, and arriving in a mood of

such self-reproach as would be deemed abject, by persons used to

the modern relations between noblemen and their chaplains, was

exhilarated by the unlooked-for comfort of finding his young charge

at least living, and in his grandfather's house. From his

narrative, Walsingham's letter, and Osbert's account, Lord Walwyn

saw no reason to doubt that the Black Ribaumonts had thought that

massacre a favourable moment for sweeping the only survivor of the

White or elder branch away, and that not only had royalty lent

itself to the cruel project, but that as Diane de Ribaumont had

failed as a bait, the young espoused wife had herself been employed

to draw him into the snare, and secure his presence at the

slaughter-house, away from his safe asylum at the Ambassador's or

even in the King's garde-robe. It was an unspeakably frightful

view to take of the case, yet scarcely worse than the reality of

many of the dealings of those with whom the poor young girl had

been associated: certainly not worse than the crimes, the suspicion

of which was resting on the last dowager Queen of France; and all

that could be felt by the sorrowing family, was comfort that at

least corruption of mind had either not been part of the game, or

had been unsuccessful, and, by all testimony, the victim was still

the same innocent boy. This was all their relief, while for days,

for weeks, Berenger de Ribaumont lay in a trance or torpor between

life and death. Sometimes, as Cecily had said, his eyes turned

with a startled wistfulness towards the door, and the sound of a

bell seemed to thrill him with a start of agony; but for the most

part he neither appeared to see or hear, and a few moans were the

only sounds that escaped him. The Queen, in her affection for her

old friend, and her strong feeling for the victims of the massacre,

sent down the court physician, who turned him about, and elicited

sundry heavy groans, but could do no more than enjoin patient

waiting on the beneficent powers of nature in early youth. His

visit produced one benefit, namely, the strengthening of Cecily St.

John's hands against the charms, elixirs, and nostrums with which

Lady Thistlewood's friends supplied her,--plasters from the cunning

women of Lyme Regis, made of powder of giant's bones, and snakes

prayed into stone by St. Aldhelm, pills of live woodlice, and

fomentations of living earthworms and spiders. Great was the

censure incurred by Lady Walwyn for refusing to let such remedies

be tried on HER grandson. And he was so much more her child than

his mother's, that Dame Annora durst do no more than maunder.

In this perfect rest, it seemed as if after a time 'the powers of

nature' did begin to rally, there were appearances of healing about

the wounds, the difference between sleeping and waking became more

evident, the eyes lost the painful, half-closed, vacant look, but

were either shut or opened with languid recognition. The injuries

were such as to exclude him from almost every means of expression,

the wound in his mouth made speech impossible, and his right arm

was not available for signs. It was only the clearness of his

eyes, and their response to what was said, that showed that his

mind was recovering tone, and then he seemed only alive to the

present, and to perceive nothing but what related to his suffering

and its alleviations. The wistfulness that had shown itself at

first was gone, and even when he improved enough to establish a

language of signs with eye, lip, or left hand, Cecily became

convinced that he has little or no memory of recent occurrences,

and that finding himself at home among familiar faces, his still

dormant perceptions demanded no further explanation.

This blank was the most favourable state for his peace and for his

recovery, and it was of long duration, lasting even till he had

made so much progress that he could leave his bed, and even speak a

few words, though his weakness was much prolonged by the great

difficulty with which he could take nourishment. About two winters

before, Cecily had successfully nursed him through a severe attack

of small-pox, and she thought that he confounded his present state

with the former illness, when he had had nearly the same attendants

and surroundings as at present; and that his faculties were not yet

roused enough to perceive the incongruity.

Once or twice he showed surprise at visits from his mother or

Philip, who had then been entirely kept away from him, and about

Christmas he brightened so much, and awoke to things about him so

much more fully, that Cecily thought the time of recollection could

not be much longer deferred. Any noise, however, seemed so painful

to him, that the Christmas festivities were held at Combe Manor

instead of Hurst Walwyn; only after church, Sir Marmaduke and Lady

Thistlewood came in to make him a visit, as he sat in a large easy-

chair by his bedroom-fire, resting after having gone through as

much of the rites of the day as he was able for, with Mr. Adderlay.

The room looked very cheerful with the bright wood-fire on the open

hearth, shining on the gay tapestry hangings, and the dark wood of

the carved bed. The evergreen-decked window shimmered with sun

shine, and even the patient, leaning back among crimson cushions,

though his face and head were ghastly enough wherever they were not

covered with patches and bandages, still had a pleasant smile with

lip and eye to thank his stepfather for his cheery wishes of 'a

merry Christmas, at least one better in health.'

'I did not bring the little wenches, Berenger, lest they should

weary you,' said his mother.

Berenger looked alarmed, and said with the indistinctness with

which he always spoke, 'Have they caught it? Are they marked?'

'No, no, not like you, may boy,' said Sir Marmaduke, sufficiently

aware of Berenger's belief to be glad to keep it up, and yet

obliged to walk to the window to hide his diversion at the notion

of his little girls catching the contagion of sword-gashes and

bullet-wounds. Dame Annora prattled on, 'But they have sent you

their Christmas gifts by me. Poor children, they have long been

busied with them, and I fancy Lucy did half herself. See, this

kerchief is hemmed by little Dolly, and here are a pair of bands

and cuffs to match, that Nanny and Bessy have been broidering with

their choicest stitchery.'

Berenger smile, took, expressed admiration by gesture, and then

said in a dreamy, uncertain manner, 'Methought I had some gifts for

them;' then looking round the room, his eye fell on a small brass-

bound casket which had travelled with him to hold his valuables; he

pointed to it with a pleased look, as Sir Marmaduke lifted it and

placed it on a chair by his side. The key, a small ornamental

brass one, was in his purse, not far off, and Lady Thistlewood was

full of exceeding satisfaction at the unpacking not only of foreign

gifts, but, as she hoped, of the pearls; Cecily meantime stole

quietly in, to watch that her patient was not over-wearied.

He was resuming the use of his right arm, though it was still weak

and stiff, and he evidently had an instinct against letting any one

deal with that box but himself; he tried himself to unlock it, and

though forced to leave this to Sir Marmaduke, still leant over it

when opened, as if to prevent his mother's curious glances from

penetrating its recesses, and allowed no hands near it but his own.

He first brought out a pretty feather fan, saying as he held it to

his mother, 'For Nan, I promised it. It was bought at the Halles,'

he added, more dreamily.

Then again he dived, and brought out a wax medallion of Our Lady

guarded by angels, and made the sign that always brought Cecily to

him. He held it up to her with a puzzled smile, saying, 'They

thought me a mere Papist for buying it--M. de Teligny, I think it

was.'

They had heard how the good and beloved Teligny had been shot down

on the roof of his father-in-law's house, by rabid assassins,

strangers to his person, when all who knew him had spared him, from

love to his gentle nature; and the name gave a strange thrill.

He muttered something about 'Pedlar,--Montpipeau,'--and still

continued. Then came a small silver casket, diffusing an odour of

attar of roses--he leant back in his chair--and his mother would

have taken it from him, supposing him overcome by the scent, but he

held it fast and shook his head, saying, "For Lucy,--but she must

give it herself. She gave up any gift for herself for it--she said

we needed no love-tokens.' And he closed his eyes. Dame Annora

plunged into the unpacking, and brought out a pocket-mirror with

enamelled cupids in the corner, addressed to herself; and then came

upon Berenger's own.

Again came a fringed pair of gloves among the personal jewellery

such as gentlemen were wont to wear, the rings, clasps and brooches

he had carried from home. Dame Annora's impatience at last found

vent in the exclamation, 'The pearls, son; I do not see the chaplet

of pearls.'

'She had them, 'answered Berenger, in a matter-of-fact tone, 'to

wear at the masque.'

'She----'

Sir Marmaduke's great hand choked, as it were, the query on his

wife's lips, unseen by her son, who, as if the words had touched

some chord, was more eagerly seeking in the box, and presently drew

out a bow of carnation ribbon with a small piece of paper full of

pin-holes attached to it. At once he carried it to his lips,

kissed it fervently, and then, sinking back in his chair, seemed to

be trying to gather up the memory that had prompted the impulse,

knitted his brows together, and then suddenly exclaimed, 'Where is

she?'

His mother tried the last antecedent. 'Lucy? She shall come and

thank you to-morrow.'

He shook his head with a vehement negative, beckoned Cecily

impatiently, and said earnestly, 'Is it the contagion? Is she

sick? I will go to her.'

Cecily and Sir Marmaduke both replied with a 'No, no!' and were

thankful, though in much suspense at the momentary pause, while

again he leant back on the cushions, looked steadily at the pin-

holes, that formed themselves into the word 'Sweet heart,' then

suddenly began to draw up the loose sleeve of his wrapping-gown and

unbutton the wristband of his right sleeve. His mother tried to

help him, asking if he had hurt or tired his arm. They would have

been almost glad to hear that it was so, but he shook her off

impatiently, and the next moment had a view of the freshly skinned

over, but still wide and gaping gash on his arm. He looked for a

brief space, and said, 'It is a sword-cut,'

'Truly it is, lad,' said Sir Marmaduke, 'and a very bad one,

happily whole! Is this the first time you have seen it?'

He did not answer, but covered his eyes with his hand, and

presently burst out again, 'Then it is no dream? Sir--have I been

to France?'

'Yes, my son, you have,' said Sir Marmaduke, gently, and with more

tenderness than could have been looked for; 'but what passed there

is much better viewed as a dream, and cast behind your back,'

Berenger had, while he spoke, taken up the same little mirror where

he had once admired himself; and as he beheld the scar and plaster

that disfigured his face, with a fresh start of recollection,

muttered over, '"Barbouiller ce chien de visage" --ay, so he

said. I felt the pistol's muzzle touch! Narcisse! Has God had

mercy on me? I prayed Him. Ah! "le baiser d'Eustacie" --so he

said. I was waiting in the dark. Why did he come instead of her?

Oh! father, where is she?'

It was a sore task, but Sir Marmaduke went bravely and bluntly,

though far from unkindly, to the point: 'She remains with her

friends in France.'

There the youth's look of utter horror and misery shocked and

startled them all, and he groaned rather than said, 'Left there!

Left to them! What have I done to leave her there?'

'Come, Berenger, this will not serve,' said his mother, trying to

rouse and cheer him. 'You should rather be thankful that when you

had been so foully ensnared by their wiles, good Osbert brought you

off with your life away from those bloody doings. Yes, you may

thank Heaven and Osbert, for you are the only one of them living

now.'

'Of whom, mother?'

'Of all the poor Protestants that like you were deluded by the pack

of murderers over there. What,'--fancying it would exhilarate him

to hear of his own escape--'you knew not that the bloody Guise and

the Paris cut-throats rose and slew every Huguenot they could lay

hands on? Why, did not the false wench put off your foolish

runaway project for the very purpose of getting you into the trap

on the night of the massacre?'

He looked with a piteous, appealing glance from her to Cecily and

Sir Marmaduke, as if in hopes that they would contradict.

'Too true, my lad,' said Sir Marmaduke. 'It is Heaven's good mercy

that Osbert carried you out alive. No other Protestant left the

palace alive but the King of Navarre and his cousin, who turned

renegades.'

'And she is left there?' he repeated.

'Heed her not, my dear boy,' began his mother; 'you are safe, and

must forget her ill-faith and----'

Berenger seemed scarcely to hear this speech--he held out his hands

as if stunned and dizzied, and only said, or rather indicated, 'Let

me lie down.'

His stepfather almost carried him across the room, and laid him on

his bed, where he turned away from the light and shut his eyes; but

the knot of ribbon and the pin-pricked word was still in his hand,

and his mother longed to take away the token of this false love, as

she believed it. The great clock struck the hour for her to go.

'Leave him quiet,' said Cecily, gently; 'he can bear no more now.

I will send over in the evening to let you know how he fares.'

'But that he should be so set on the little bloodthirsty baggage,'

sighed Lady Thistlewood; and then going up to her son, she poured

out her explanation of being unable to stay, as her parents were

already at the Manor, with no better entertainers than Lucy,

Philip, and the children. She thanked him for the gifts, which she

would take to them with his love. All this passed by him as though

he heard it not, but when leaning down, she kissed his forehead,

and at the same time tried to withdraw the knot of ribbon: his

fingers closed on it with a grasp like steel, so cold were they,

yet so fast.

Sir Masmaduke lingered a few moments behind her, and Berenger

opening his eyes, as if to see whether solitude had been achieved,

found the kind-hearted knight gazing at him with eyes full of

tears. 'Berry, my lad,' he said, 'bear it like a man. I know how

hard it is. There's not a woman of them all that an honest, plain

Englishman has a chance with, when a smooth-tongued Frenchman comes

round her! But a man may live a true and honest life however sore

his heart may be, and God Almighty makes it up to him if he faces

it out manfully.'

Good Sir Marmaduke in his sympathy had utterly forgotten both

Berenger's French blood, and that he was the son of the very

smooth-tongued interloper who had robbed his life of its first

bloom. Berenger was altogether unequal to do more than murmur, as

he held out his hand in response to the kindness, 'You do not know

her.'

'Ah! Poor lad.' Sir Marmaduke shook his head and left him to

Cecily.

After the first shock, Berenger never rested till he had made

Osbert, Mr.Adderley, and Cecily tell him all they knew, and asked

by name after those whom he had known best at Paris. Alas! of all

those, save such as had been in the Ambassador's house, there was

but one account to give. Venerable warrior, noble-hearted youth,

devoted pastor, all alike had perished!

This frightful part of the story was altogether new to him. He had

been probably the earliest victim in the Louvre, as being the

special object of private malice, which had contrived to involve

him in the general catastrophe; and his own recollections carried

him only to the flitting of lights and ringing of bells, that has

made him imagine that an alarm of fire would afford a good

opportunity of escape if SHE would but come. A cloaked figure had

approached, --he had held out his arms--met that deadly stroke--

heard the words hissed in his ear.

He owned that for some time past strange recollections had been

flitting though his mind--a perpetual unsatisfied longing for and

expectation of his wife, and confused impressions of scenes and

people had harassed him perpetually, even when he could not discern

between dreams and reality; but knowing that he had been very ill,

he had endeavoured to account for everything as delirious fancies,

but had become increasingly distressed by their vividness,

confusion, and want of outward confirmation. At last these solid

tokens and pledges from that time had brought certainty back, and

with it the harmony and clearness of his memory: and the strong

affection, that even his oblivion had not extinguished, now

recurred in all its warmth to its object.

Four months had passed, as he now discovered, since that night when

he had hoped to have met Euctacie, and she must be believing him

dead. His first measure on the following day when he had been

dressed and seated in his chair was to send for his casket, and

with his slow stiff arm write thus:--

'Mon Coeur, My own sweetheart,--Hast thou thought me dead, and

thyself deserted? Osbert will tell thee all, and why I can scarce

write. Trust thyself to him to bring to me. I shall be whole

seeing thee. Or if thou canst not come with him, write or send me

the least token by him, and I will come and bear thee home so soon

as I can put foot in stirrup. Would that I could write all that is

in my heart!

'Thy Husband.'

It was all that either head or hand would enable him to say, but he

had the fullest confidence in Landry Osbert, who was one of the few

who understood him at half a word. He desired Osbert to seek the

lady out wherever she might be, whether still at court or in a

convent, convey the letter to her if possible, and, if she could by

any means escape, obtain from Chateau Leurre such an escort as she

could come to England with. If, as was too much to be feared, she

was under too close restraint, Osbert should send intelligence

home, as he could readily do through the Ambassador's household,

and Berenger trusted by that time to be able to take measures for

claiming her in person.

Osbert readily undertook everything, but supplies for his journey

were needed, and there was an absolute commotion in the house when

it was known that Berenger had been writing to his faithless

spouse, and wishing to send for her. Lord Walwyn came up to visit

his grandson, and explain to him with much pity and consideration

that he considered such a step as vain, and only likely to lead to

further insult. Berenger's respect forced him to listen without

interruption, and though he panted to answer, it was a matter of

much difficulty, for the old lord was becoming deaf, and could not

catch the indistinct, agitated words--

'My Lord, she is innocent as day.'

'Ah! Anan, boy.'

'I pledge my life on her love and innocence.'

'Love! Yes, my poor boy; but if she be unworthy?--Eh? Cecily, what

says he?'

'He is sure of her innocence, sir?'

'That is of course. But, my dear lad, you will soon learn that

even a gentle, good woman who has a conscience-keeper is too apt to

think her very sense of right ought to be sacrificed to what she

calls her religion.--What is it, what is he telling you, Cecily?'

'She was ready to be one of us,' Berenger said, with a great effort

to make it clear.

'Ah, a further snare. Poor child! The very softest of them become

the worst deceivers, and the kindred who have had the charge of her

all their life could no doubt bend her will.'

'Sir,' said Berenger, finding argument impossible, 'if you will but

let me dispatch Osbert, her answer will prove to you what she is.'

'There is something in that,' said Lord Walwyn, when he had heard

it repeated by Cecily. 'It is, of course, needful that both she

and her relations should be aware of Berenger's life, and I trow

nothing but the reply will convince him.'

'Convince him!' muttered Berenger. 'Oh that I could make him

understand. What a wretch I am to have no voice to defend her!'

'What?' said the old lord again.

'Only that I could speak, sir; you should know why it is sacrilege

to doubt her.'

'Ah! well, we will not wound you, my son, while talk is vain. You

shall have the means of sending your groom, if thus you will set

your mind at rest, though I had rather have trusted to Walsingham's

dealing. I will myself give him a letter to Sir Francis, to

forward him on his way; and should the young lady prove willing to

hold to her contract and come to you here, I will pray him to do

everything to aid her that may be consistent with his duty in his

post.'

This was a great and wonderful concession for Lord Walwyn, and

Berenger was forced to be contented with it, though it galled him

terribly to have Eustacie distrusted, and be unable to make his

vindication even heard or understood, as well as to be forced to

leave her rescue, and even his own explanation to her, to a mere

servant.

This revival of his memory had not at all conduced to his progress

in recovery. His brain was in no state for excitement or

agitation, and pain and confusion were the consequence, and were

counteracted, after the practice of the time, by profuse bleedings,

which prolonged his weakness. The splintered state of the jaw and

roof of the moth likewise produced effects that made him suffer

severely, and deprived him at times even of the small power of

speech that he usually possessed; and though he had set his heart

upon being able to start for Paris so soon as Osbert's answer

should arrive, each little imprudence he committed, in order to

convince himself of his progress, threw him back so seriously, that

he was barely able to walk down-stairs to the hall, and sit

watching--watching, so that it was piteous to see him--the gates of

the courtyard, but the time that, on a cold March day, a booted and

spurred courier (not Osbert) entered by them.

He sprang up, and faster than he had yet attempted to move, met the

man in the hall, and demanded the packet. It was a large one, done

up in canvas, and addressed to the Right Honourable and Worshipful

Sir William, Baron Walwyn of Hurst Walwyn, and he had further to

endure the delay of carrying it to his grandfather's library, which

he entered with far less delay and ceremony than was his wont.

'Sit down, Berenger,' said the old man, while addressing himself to

the fastenings; and the permission was needed, for he could hardly

have stood another minute. The covering contained a letter to Lord

Walwyn himself, and a packet addressed to the Baron de Ribaumont

which his trembling fingers could scarcely succeed in cutting and

tearing open.

How shall it be told what the contents of the packet were? Lord

Walwyn reading on with much concern, but little surprise, was

nevertheless startled by the fierce shout with which Berenger broke

out:

'A lie! A lie forged in hell!' And then seizing the parchment, was

about to rend it with all the force of passion, when his

grandfather, seizing his hand, said, in his calm, authoritative

voice, 'Patience, my poor son.'

'How, how should I have patience when they send me such poisoned

lies as these of my wife, and she is in the power of the villains?

Grandfather, I must go instantly---'

'Let me know what you have heard,' said Lord Walwyn, holding him

feebly indeed, but with all the impressive power and gravity of his

years.

'Falsehoods,' said Berenger, pushing the whole mass of papers over

to him, and then hiding his head between his arms on the table.

Lord Walwyn finished his own letter first. Walsingham wrote with

much kind compassion, but quite decisively. He had no doubt that

the Ribaumont family had acted as one wheel in the great plot that

had destroyed all the heads of Protestant families and swept away

among others, as they had hoped, the only scion of the rival house.

The old Chevalier de Ribaumont had, he said, begun by expressing

sorrow for the mischance that had exposed his brave young cousin to

be lost in the general catastrophe, and he had professed

proportionate satisfaction on hearing of the young man's safety.

But the Ambassador believed him to have been privy to his son's

designs; and whether Mdlle. de Nid de Merle herself had been a

willing agent or not, she certainly had remained in the hands of

the family. The decree annulling the marriage had been published,

the lady was in a convent in Anjou, and Narcisse de Ribaumont had

just been permitted to assume the title of Marquis de Nid de Merle,

and was gone into Anjou to espouse her. Sir Francis added a message

of commiseration for the young Baron, but could not help

congratulating his old friend on having his grandson safe and free

from these inconvenient ties.

Berenger's own packet contained, in the first place, a copy of the

cassation of the marriage, on the ground of its having been

contracted when the parties were of too tender age to give their

legal consent, and its having been unsatisfied since they had

reached ecclesiastical years for lawful contraction of wedlock.

The second was one of the old Chevalier's polite productions. He

was perfectly able to ignore Berenger's revocation of his

application for the separation, since the first letter had remained

unanswered, and the King's peremptory commands had prevented

Berenger from taking any open measures after his return from

Montpipeau. Thus the old gentleman, after expressing due rejoicing

at his dear young cousin's recovery, and regret at the unfortunate

mischance that had led to his confounded with the many suspected

Huguenots, proceeded as if matters stood exactly as they had been

before the pall-mall party, and as if the decree that he enclosed

were obtained in accordance with the young Baron's intentions. He

had caused it to be duly registered, and both parties were at

liberty to enter upon other contracts of matrimony. The further

arrangements which Berenger had undertaken to sell his lands in

Normandy, and his claim on the ancestral castle in Picardy, should

be carried out, and deeds sent for his signature so soon as he

should be of age. In the meantime, the Chevalier courteously

imparted to his fair cousin the marriage of his daughter,

Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont with M. le Comte de Selinville,

which had taken place on the last St. Martin's day, and of his

niece, Mademoiselle Eustacie de Ribaumont de Nid de Merle with his

son, who had received permission to take her father's title of

Marquis de Nid de Merle. The wedding was to take place at Bellaise

before the end of the Cardinal, and would be concluded before this

letter came to hand.

Lastly, there was an ill written and spelt letter, running somewhat

thus--

'Monseigneur,--Your faithful servant hopes that Monsieur le Baron

will forgive him for not returning, since I have been assured by

good priests that it is not possible to save my soul in a country

of heretics. I have done everything as Monsieur commanded, I have

gone down into Anjou, and have had the honour to see the young lady

to whom Monsieur le Baron charged me with a commission, and I

delivered to her his letter, whereupon the lady replied that she

thanked M. le Baron for the honour he had done her, but that being

on the point of marriage to M. le Marquis de Nid de Merle, she did

not deem it fitting to write to him, nor had she any tokens to send

him, save what he had received on the St. Barthelemy midnight; they

might further his suit elsewhere. These, Monsieur, were her words,

and she laughed as she said them, so gaily that I thought her

fairer than ever. I have prevailed with her to take me into her

service as intendant of the Chateau de Nid de Merle, knowing as she

does my fidelity to the name of Ribaumont. And so, trusting

Monseigneur will pardon me for what I do solely for the good of my

soul, I will ever pray for his welfare, and remain,

'His faithful menial and valet,

'LANDRY OSBERT.'

The result was only what Lord Walwyn had anticipated, but he was

nevertheless shocked at the crushing weight of the blow. His heart

was full of compassion for the youth so cruelly treated in these

his first years of life, and as much torn in his affections as

mangled in person. After a pause, while he gathered up the sense

of the letters, he laid his hand kindly on his grandson's arm, and

said, 'This is a woeful budget, my poor son; we will do our best to

help you to bear it.'

'The only way to bear it,' said Berenger, lifting up his face, 'is

for me to take horse and make for Anjou instantly. She will hold

out bravely, and I may yet save her.'

'Madness,' said his grandfather; 'you have then not read your

fellow's letter?'

'I read no letter from fellow of mine. Yonder is a vile forgery.

Narcisse's own, most likely. No one else would have so profaned

her as to put such words into her mouth! My dear faithful foster-

brother--have they murdered him?'

'Can you point to any proof that it is forged?' said Lord Walwyn,

aware that handwriting was too difficult an art, and far too

crabbed, among persons of Osbert's class, for there to be any

individuality of penmanship.

'It is all forged,' said Berenger. 'It is as false that she could

frame such a message as that poor Osbert would leave me.'

'These priests have much power over the conscience,' began Lord

Walwyn; but Berenger, interrupting his grandfather for the first

time in his life, cried, 'No priest could change her whole nature.

Oh! my wife! my darling! what may they not be inflicting on her

now! Sir, I must go. She may be saved! The deadly sin may be

prevented!'

'This is mere raving, Berenger,' said Lord Walwyn, not catching

half what he said, and understanding little more than his

resolution to hasten in quest of the lady. 'You, who have not

mounted a horse, nor walked across the pleasance yet!'

'My limbs should serve me to rescue her, or they are worth nothing

to me.'

Lord Walwyn would have argued that he need not regret his

incapacity to move, since it was no doubt already too late, but

Berenger burst forth--'She will resist; she will resist to the

utmost, even if she deems me dead. Tortures will not shake her when

she knows I live. I must prepare.' And he started to his feet.

'Grandson,' said Lord Walwyn, laying a hand on his arm, 'listen to

me. You are in not state to judge for yourself. I therefore

command you to desist from this mad purpose.'

He spoke gravely, but Berenger was disobedient for the first time.

'My Lord,' he said, 'you are but my grandfather. She is my wife.

My duty is to her.'

He had plucked his sleeve away and was gone, before Lord Walwyn had

been able to reason with him that there was no wife in the case, a

conclusion at which the old statesman would not have arrived had he

known of the ceremony at Montpipeau, and all that had there passed;

but not only did Berenger deem himself bound to respect the King's

secret, but conversation was so difficult to him that he had told

very little of his adventures, and less to Lord Walwyn than any one

else. In effect, his grandfather considered this resolution of

going to France as mere frenzy, and so it almost was, not only on

the score of health and danger, but because as a ward, he was still

so entirely under subjection, that his journey could have been

hindered by absolutely forcible detention; and to this Lord Walwyn

intended to resort, unless the poor youth either came to a more

rational mind, or became absolutely unable to travel.

The last--as he had apprehended--came to pass only too surely. The

very attempt to argue and to defend Eustacie was too much for the

injured head; and long before night Berenger full believed himself

on the journey, acted over its incidents, and struggled wildly with

difficulties, all the time lying on his bed, with the old servants

holding him down, and Cecily listening tearfully to his ravings.

For weeks longer he was to lie there in greater danger than ever.

He only seemed soothed into quiet when Cecily chanted those old

Latin hymns of her Benedictine rule, and then--when he could speak

at all--he showed himself to be in imagination praying in

Eustacie's convent chapel, sure to speak to her when the service

should be over.




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