The Old Hall among the Water Meadows

Chapter I

You shall see this upper room is hung With cobwebs, Sir, and these so large they may Catch and ensnare dragons instead of flies ; Where sit a melancholy race of old Norman spiders that came in with the Conqueror ! Sir William Davenant. OX the edge of the great range of down and moor which stretches in a south-easterly direction from Marlborough to the confines of Hampshire — in a quiet valley watered by a broad stream winding among green meadows — there stood, at the beginning of the present century, an old mansion called Hungerford Hall. Its walls, battered and weatherstained, showed traces of the vicissitudes which had, during the last three hundred years, befallen its possessors. Deep marks in tower and gateway dated from the time of the bloody wars of the Roses ; and an entire wing of the structure had been ravaged by sire kindled by a party of reckless Cavaliers who occupied the place after the King's cause had triumphed at Roundway Down.

Thick wreaths of ivy had charitably spread over the seared and blemished stonework, twining across the gothic mullions of the empty casements. At the back of the mansion — in part darkened by its solid walls, but elsewhere brightly illuminated by the moon — lay an old-fashioned garden full of shining evergreens and deep mysterious thickets. Whatever might be its defects in the daytime, now, in the un certain radiance, the scene was a pleasant one to look upon. Black groups of fir and cypress caught on their summits a silvery gleam ; and each spray and leaf of the burnished laurels that bordered the walks shone and glistened in the moonlight. Under the higher trees soft glades on which the dewy lustre rested, seemed to stretch away into indistinct remoteness ; while, against them, cut sharply the trunks of the tall pines ; or the lighter summer foliage of the grove cast changeful, inconstant shadows, which shifted with the play of the wind that tossed the branches.

Though it was a June night, the sky was flickered over with white clouds, a sharp breeze was stirring, and the moonbeams fell with a cold pale glare upon the earth. The rays were most strongly concentrated upon a broad terrace walk, parallel to the house, and darkly shaded by tall firs at its farther extremity ; where it entered the grove and descended by steps to the margin of a deep pond. But it was on the highest part of the terrace, near the mansion that two figures — those of a man and a girl — were walking ; and, whenever they reached the trees, the girl seemed to shrink away, as if afraid to pass from the bright garden-path, flooded by moonlight, into the dark depths to which it led. Her companion's demeanour was entirely different. Bold, dark-eyed, handsome, the fearless Irish youth had, indeed, little in common with the graceful, fragile creature who had grown up under the shadow of those dilapidated walls.

The pale moonbeams might almost seem to have conjured up such a shape and framed it out of the thin mist}- waves that streaked the sky ; — so light and fair and frail was .\da Hungerford. Even by day her cheek was pale ; and now there was dread at her heart to increase its whiteness. Her slight frame shook, as she listened to words unfamiliar to her ear, and growing every moment more impassioned ; and the flash of the eye which she felt powerless to avoid struck terror to her inmost soul. Nevertheless, she yielded in some measure to his entreaties, and did not, as she once proposed, leave the guest — the first for many a weary year — who had sought hospitality at Hungerford. Perhaps, for Ada was of a most obedient nature, she remembered her mother's strict injunction that she should treat him courteously ; or it might be that his impetuous plead ings conquered her original impulse.

The fair, sweet face drooped lower, — the slow, faltering accents of denial ceased, the slight, trembling frame moved on, though reluctantly, beside him ;— and no aid from the dark house— no sign of either maternal affection or vigilant solicitude was vouchsafed to strengthen the vacillating purposes of one who most deeply needed such support. Ada sighed,— but she listened,— as the first words of love, after years of neglect and harshness, fell upon her ear, calming the indefinite fears that voice and glance had awakened. The youthful couple were, meanwhile, not entirely unobserved. In one of the oak-panelled rooms within the old house, unlighted save by the occasional play of the moonbeams, two persons were seated by the window, engaged in earnest conversation. Though the sight of the figures slowly passing to and fro, at a little distance, evidently suggested some if not all the ideas they were interchanging, yet neither of them showed any disposition to interrupt the dialogue of the lovers.

Lady Hungerford, a tall, stern-looking woman, bearing on her countenance lines of deep suffering, gazed with indifference on her young daughter, while the keen eyes of the elderly priest beside her, alive with quick intelligence, noted every modest gesture of the maiden, each successive token of her handsome companion's admiration, as if in the scene enacted in the moonlit garden there was nothing to call for interference, but much to excite interest and profound attention. The glance which Lady Hungerford had allowed to wander carelessly over Ada rested with a maternal gentleness seldom visible on her countenance, on the form of her companion. As her thoughts travelled back into the past, she recalled with [a shudder, perils through which those nearest and dearest to her had passed during her own impetuous girlhood; when a man's foes in Ireland were often those of his own household, when even a brother's faith could hardly be relied on ; and the treachery to which in 'Ninety Eight the father of her present guest was a victim had sunk deep into her heart.

Yes, exile as this young Aubrey was, proscribed by Government for the renewal of disturbances which had led many of his name to banishment or the scaffold, early impressions were reviving in Lady Hungerford's heart ; and the dreams of Ireland's independence and glory which had been cherished in youth — hopeless as they might seem to others — were more real than most of the objects round her to the Irish Roman Catholic lady ; and the youth on whom her proud eyes moistened by unfrequent tears — were fixed, awakened more watchful tenderness than her neglected English children. " How it brings back one's youth," she said, with sorrowful emotion, " to see again the same eyes, the same noble features, familiar to us in days gone by ! Aubrey is the image of his father as I, perhaps alone, remember him ; — gay, reckless, improvident, ill-fated, — ■ but with traits in his disposition, smiles and frowns on his dark handsome face, that made us all love him.

That boy is dearer to me by far than my own alienated son!" Father Gaveston answered her calmly : — " Sir Walter is separated from you, Madam, by the deep gulf which divides the children of our Holy Church from heretics. Aubrey, on the contrary, is the heir of fortunes darkened indeed, under the will of heaven, but sanctified by affliction. Young as he is, he is intensely devoted to the cause of the Church in his unhappy country; and, if our prayers are granted — if we ever rise again from oppression— it will be by the aid of warm hearts and firm hands like those of all the men of his race." " He is a genuine O'Byrne!" said Lady Hungerford, warmly : " but Ada — what do you, her spiritual father, —I, her mother— know of her? See her now!— listening without enthusiasm to words which, at her age, made my heart glow, my pulses throb, and might had I been allowed to listen to them, — to follow out my self-chosen destiny, — have rendered me a sorrowing widow — as, indeed, I am — but glorying in my grief.

What are the chances of this contest ? Why is not Aubrey telling me instead of that child ? Stop their vain talk and bring him here. I have jewels ; money might be raised on my settlement. Let Aubrey confide his hopes and projects to me." The priest did not comply with her desire. His attention had never wandered from Ada and Aubrey. He knew, with the deep knowledge of a man whose life has been spent in observing others, the importance of those moments of idle loitering to the tender heart of the girl whom he had watched from childhood. Ada's hand rested in her lover's ; — at that distance no one could see how much it trembled — her face was turned away so that the moonbeams no longer revealed its paleness. There was hesitation in her attitude ; but little to prevent the youth beside her from gathering courage to press his suit.

"You are impatient," the priest said gravel}', "and overlook the means by which the end we would attain will be wrought out. This young English maiden must not be terrified. Leave them together. Is it possible you do not see the spell working on Aubrey which makes him — impetuous as he is — prefer her unwilling, reluctant attention to our most cordial sympathy ? " Lady Hungerford did not interrupt him. Her eyes followed with keener interest her daughter and young O'Byrne ; as, slowly descending the stone steps at the end of the terrace, they were dimly seen for a few moments between the stems of the trees, and then lost sight of. " Do you think she loves him ? " the mother said in a changed and troubled voice. " Time was — in far off days, in our mountain home in Connemara — when I heard from lips, long sealed in death, such words as Kilmarnie's son is now breathing in my daughter's ear!

Oh father ! why did a cruel policy separate those who loved so truly, and force me into the wretched marriage with a heretic which has worked so much woe ? — But the last and bitterest drop was added to my cup of sorrow when the control over my own daughter was taken from me by Sir Maurice's last act." " Providence will counteract its effects ; " said the priest, solemnly. " In the misfortunes which have caused Aubrey to take refuge here, I see the means of delivering your child from the influence ofthe heretical guardians appointed by her father's will. Ada's destiny will henceforth rest in the keeping of one whom you know to be a faithful son of the Church. Hunted, proscribed, — Aubrey is still the Kilmarnie O'Byrne in his own country. There friends and followers abound ; — and though unsuccessful for the time being, our holy cause must triumph.

He will return from temporary exile to be the head of the Catholic party, and your child will share the glorious destiny which, had his love been prosperous and his schemes more prudently conducted, might have been yours with his gallant father ! " Meanwhile the two so unconsciously watched had emerged from the shadow and were slowly approaching the house. Aubrey's flashing eye was softened by deep and genuine emotion. The young girl, as the moon shone down fitfully through the fleecy clouds, met his glance, for the first time, without terror. At that moment a shadow fell upon the path, and Aubrey started back as he saw that Father Gaveston was standing close beside him. The priest took no notice either of the overpowering confusion of Ada or of the embarrassment of her companion ; but said, in his usual quiet manner.

" Our preparations are all complete : and, from the enquiries I have been making, I fear that a farther delay in this neighbourhood would be attended with danger. Lady Hungerford is waiting for you, and nothing remains to be done, my son, but to bid farewell to those who have sheltered you at considerable risk, and to accept their blessings and good wishes for your journey." An expression of unfeigned anguish settled on the speaking features of the young Irishman. " Is this, indeed, all ? " he said slowly. " Oh, father: you are wrong; — there is more— much more— to be said. It is too late to escape. My fate is sealed ■ and I would rather die at Hungerford than live else where ! " The priest answered him somewhat scornfully. ALE A DOWS. 9 " This is not to the purpose, Aubrey. In any case you have, I trust, a long life before you.

Neither at Hungerford, or before an English court of justice would your life be in danger ; but liberty, that inestimable blessing is threatened. Fly, therefore at once, and be prudent. Your friendswill give you timely notice when you may return to British ground in safety." " You do not understand me," said Aubrey, in a tone of deep feeling. " I love this young girl. Life, liberty are valueless without her. This is the danger to which my words pointed, and I have neither the will nor the power to fly from it." For a moment Mr. Gaveston did not answer him : — then he said " Do you wish me to lay this matter before Lady Hungerford ? " Aubrey's heart leaped within him. Cold as the priest's words might appear, the young man knew that unless some favourable impression existed a stern denial of hope would have checked his suit.

He be lieved that Father Gaveston had all along perceived his growing love for 4_da, and he warmly implored his aid. Mr. Gaveston was extremely cautious in his reply. All he would promise was not to prejudice Lady Hungerford against his proposal, but to report it fairly and honourably and to allow Aubrey to postpone his departure till the morrow. Neither he nor her lover enquired what were .\da's sentiments. Her tears seemed to speak for her ; and, pitying her embarrassment, the}' did not prevent her stealing silently away. It never occurred to her to go and weep upon her mother's bosom ; nor could the poor girl rest her aching head on the shoulder of some faithful servant — such an one as has often soothed the grief of many a lonely child. If possible Ada feared Lady Hungerford's stern-visaged Irish attendant more than her mother.

As she paused uncertain whither to betake herself, a vision for a moment crossed her fancy which she thought it sinful to cherish, — a noble, youthful face, with a kind grave smile upon the lip, bright truth shining in the eye, — the long absent brother, faintly remembered in childhood ; but better known from the spirited picture taken of him at the time of his entering the army. Ada often looked upon it, by stealth ; for her affection for Walter met with no encouragement in that household. Even now, as the kindly face beamed upon her in her distress, a gush of bitter tears followed the instinctive impulse of tenderness towards one whose name was seldom heard in his mother's house. Ada crossed herself hurriedly, and entered the chapel, where a light was burning before the shrine of the virgin.

No one could blame her for seeking consola tion there ; and she threw herself on the marble pavement and strove to compose her thoughts for the repetition of her accustomed devotions ; though her utter bewilderment of mind for some time baffled her efforts. It was, probably, the absolute seclusion of the old mansion — the inactivity following the plots and journey ing and convivial meetings of the conspirators with whom he was linked, — that first made the thoughts of the visitor at Hungerford dwell on the shy pale image which sometimes, in the grey twilight of the gardens, came within his view. ME ADO ITS. 11 Father Gaveston, the Roman Catholic priest who accompanied him to Hungerford, had been absent for several days, making preparations for Aubrey's flight to a foreign country; and Lady Hungerford hardly permitted her guest — till daylight waned — to leave the remote apartments assigned to him, where he was waited upon, assiduously, by herself and two devoted Irish servants, who had adhered to her through every change of fortune.

The fears which impelled her to these multiplied precautions were, no doubt, in some degree exaggerated. but Aubrey's personal freedom, at least, was imperilled by seditious practices of the same nature as those more overt acts of treason, for which in his native country not many years previously the scaffold had streamed with noble blood, kindred to that which ran in his veins. At that fearful crisis no man's home was a safe asylum. The hand that clasped his father's in friend ship had turned against him ; the bland voice and smile had hidden treachery ; and no care, in his hostess's opinion, was too great to guard young Aubrey from the fatal doom which in 'gS had been pronounced on his father, Lord Kilmarnie. While Lady Hungerford questioned him eagerly respecting affairs in Ireland, Aubrey's gaze often rested on the graceful form of Ada, standing on the terrace below his eyrie.

Now and then, in the dusk of evening, he saw her gathering flowers for the chapel, or herbs for the medicaments the old housekeeper made up for the use of the family. At first Ada invariably fled from him, but he had nothing to occupy him in his solitude, and her habits of life were so monotonous that it was not difficult for the young Irishman to intercept her after her pious visits to the chapel, or among the alleys of the old garden overlooked by the lofty window of the turret which he occupied. It never occurred to the simple child that the "young Goshawk," as the Irish peasants called him, was trying to waylay her. Her mind had never expanded in the cloister-like seclusion in which she lived ; and her ignorance of books and the world prevented her feeling any interest in the cause for which the young exile had hazarded every prospect in life.

The girl's novice-like inexperience, debarred as he was from other sources of amusement, attracted the handsome guest, imprisoned sorely against his will during the long summer days in the dark chambers of Hungerford. To see the first rosy streak of girlish vanity tinge Ada's pale cheek was a reward for all the trouble it had cost him to win her to listen to him. Though it needed as much explanation as if he were speaking to a child before she could understand his hopes and fears, the peril which had driven him from his country, and the glorious destiny for Ireland and for himself, to which he confidently aspired, it in terested Aubrey to watch the slow awakening of emotions which were hidden usually by the soft coldness of her manner. One tear from those downcast eyes which so seldom met his gaze — one word from those silent but beautiful lips— was more valuable to him than all the faith and energy which dwelt in the breast of her who listened with a mother's tenderness and a patriot's enthusiasm to his bursts of impetuous eloquence.

Chapter II

O sanctissima, o purissima, Dulcis, Virgo, Maria, Mater amata, intenerata, Ora, ora pro nobis. THE flowers Ada had gathered the previous day were drooping on the altar, — the tapers before the shrine burned with a feeble glimmer in the cold rays of the dawn, when at a very early hour of the next morning the doors of the chapel were unlocked. The two Irish handmaidens crossed themselves reve rentially as they entered ; and proceeded at once to arrange the few ornaments and scanty furniture of the holy place, — taking down the shutters which were made very close and solid in order to prevent any ray of light from within betraying the time when the sacred precincts were illuminated for evening worship. Though Lady Hungerford had suffered no moles tation in the practice of her faith, she still maintained all the secresy required in times of persecution in the performance of religious rites unsanctioned by the laws ofthe land.

Her few domestics had followed her from the country of her birth, and shared in her national prejudices, and in the exaggerated fears and hatred wherewith those of an alien faith were regarded by the bigotted mistress of Hungerford. As the women swept away the fallen rose-leaves of Ada's garland and removed the withered flowers from the shrine, they talked together with subdued voices but with much animation ; as if the work on which they were employed was a pleasant labour. " Sure, it's the arbutus from our beautiful loughs and a bit of the blessed shamrock, — I wish we'd a four-leaved one ! — ye'll pick, Honor, and not these pale English roses to make the place smell sickly? There's plenty of myrtle, grown from bits my lady brought with her, with the shine upon the leaves ; and the big magnolia that's from a slip of the one that grew by his reverence's own window at the ould Castle in Connaught.

Holy Mother ! I wish we were back in it ! " The person she addressed paused in her employment. " I'm thinking, Mona, that day may not be so far off as you fancy;" she said, with less accent than her companion. " My poor lady is sadly altered. It's the absence from her own country, and the foreign customs that's killing her entirely. There's not the life in her there was two years back, when she stood up and warned away the English minister that presumed to cross the threshold, — and she a true daughter of the Church, and of one of the oldest families in Ireland ! She's going fast, and the young mistress is of a different sort altogether. We shall have another order of things here, presently; and one that will not suit women like us, who hang by the true faith." Then she said, slowly, AMONG TLLE HATER ME ADO J I "S. 15 " I wouldn't answer for Miss Ada's not going over to the heretics a minute after her brother comes back."

" Whisht, Honor! don't put evil upon her — the child of the house — on her wedding morning ! " said the other domestic, more tenderly. " The saints defend her, and him too ! he's a fine man and one of the right sort ; a real, downright Irish prince, that's flying for his life with the rope about his neck. It's he that has got the flashing eye, the soft tongue, and a bit of the blarney. I've seen him courting that shy young thing among the green alleys, and she half afraid of him. The ould lady likes him best. It's she that has the spirit. If there were many like her we'd never have lost our Parliament and our liberty and all our old privileges ; but Ireland's a better place than England still ; and I, for one, will not be sorry to pit ni}- feet on that blessed soil which harbours no vipers : — them damp places by the river swarm with adders and evats, as the folk here call them, they jump out of the old walls in the priest's meadow — the glebe, they call it, — by dozens."

"Go on with your work, Mona;" said the upper servant, gravely. " You talk too much, and the morning is growing older. Bring fresh flowers and light the tapers. It's too light now for any one to see them from without ; and for once — though the place is more like a barn than a chapel — we'll do our best to give it a brighter look for the sake of them that are deserving of the heart's best wishes of us all ; I mean the old lord, his father, and our own dear mistress." The old servant's eyes filled with tears as she went on with her preparations. Meanwhile the younger maiden hurried in and out, bringing boughs from the garden and hanging them on the ungarnished walls, and strewing the floor with sweet-scented twigs of juniper and green rushes. " Mercy of heaven, girl ! What a choice you've made !

" said the elder woman as she looked round suddenly, speaking with a strong idiom and with much emotion. " What bids ye bring the dead wreath in upon us, an' we standing here, making ready for a wedding ? Did ye never hear that the yew, if ye bring it into a dwelling, has death upon its leaves and branches? — and here's the cypress that's for buryings, — and rosemary ! Pull them down, girl, and leave the walls bare ; — it's better than such senseless adorn ments." "There's no time for altering, Honor ! " answered the younger female, obstinately. " I've done my best, and I won't stir a finger for less than my lady's bidding. It's no sin of mine," she said passionately, " if every Irish leaf and tree in the English garden has a tear on it. There's the arbutus, and the bog-myrtle and the great green ivy leaves with the dew fresh upon them ;— there's no curse on them, woman ; — they're for con stancy ; — and as for the rushes and the juniper an' rosemary, the young feet that is to press them will tread out the bitterness.

Leave it alone ; — it passes us; but it's all in the Lord's hand, an' the Holy Mother, and the saints' keeping; an' sure I am I did not pull a branch this morning without a prayer." The other woman was silent. She seemed to think it indeed too late to alter her companion's arrangements, for, at that moment, the chapel door again opened. The two attendants curtseyed, crossing themselves reverentially, and stood aside, as Father AMONG THE WATER MEADOWS. 17 Gaveston in his priestly garments passed slowly and with dignity up the aisle, and took his place at the altar. A breathless pause ensued ; and then, through the dim atmosphere of the chapel, along the shadowy pave ment, there passed a slight pale form, robed in white and with one of the large colourless roses that grew over the ancient portal of the house of Hungerford in her snowy bosom.

Her mother's arm supported Ada ; who moved along droopingly, almost unconscious of what was passing ; awed by the unusual aspect of the holy place in the subdued light of morning ; with the breath of the incense overcoming her senses, and mingling with the strong perfume rising from the crushed leaves which the Irishwoman had thrown down upon the path of the small party entering the chapel. A shudder passed over the frame of the young girl as she paused before the shrine of the Virgin, and offered up a hurried but silent petition. No one asked what meant the half-frenzied expression of that pale face, the quivering of the lips. Ada met her mother's cold glance and turned from it in despair. As she did so her hand was warmly clasped by her lover, who drew her closer. The momentary impulse, whatever it had been, passed ; and in spite of invincible terror at her heart, 4_da Hungerford, the rigidly brought up Catholic maiden, with the eyes of her mother and of the priest upon her, yielded herself to their will.

As the ring, after being solemnly blessed, was pressed upon her finger, she looked up and her eyes met the impassioned gaze of Aubrey. What was there in the glance which made her heart quail and sink within her ? .\da knew not. Every circumstance which might have alienated her from the friends of her mother's youth, the sharers of her creed, had been kept from her; and though she trembled, Ada could not read the language of those unquiet eyes, which fondly, ardently, as they spoke to her, imparted no confidence to the girl's troubled spirit. Perhaps Father Gaveston who had conversed with her for a long time, alone, the night before might, from his profound knowledge of the human heart, guess how unprepared the young creature before him was for this solemn dedication of her life to one almost a stranger.

Yet, whatever doubts and fears had been confided to him, the priest had not opposed the desire ofthe young Irishman; and the influence which Aubrey had acquired over Lady Hungerford, during his seclusion at the old Hall, had enabled him to win her consent. In the same spirit with which — had her husband's will, and the son whom he left as his representative, per mitted — she" would have assisted to close upon Ada the gates of a cloister, she now stood by the shrinking girl, who would willingly, in her innocent terror, have ex changed the uncertain fate before her, for the quiet rest to which she had from childhood been taught to look forward, in the peaceful life of the holy votaries of religion. The ceremony concluded, Aubrey, as he had pledged his word should be the case, hurriedly tore himself away.

Father Gaveston accompanied him to the nearest sea port, and returned the same evening with tidings of his having safely escaped observation, and embarked on board the vessel waiting for him, which had immediately put to sea. A ALONG TLIE WATER ALEADOWS. 19 All that night the anxious inmates of Hungerford listened with trembling awe to the wild raging of the storm which swept over England, — breaking with peculiar violence on the coast from which the voung adventurer had departed.