Claire's love-life

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA f

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A TALE OF ENGLISH SOCIETY.

BY

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT.

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NEW YORK.

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 17 to 27 Vandewater Streeti f A V ,4 t

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Entered according to Act of Coiigress, in the year 18T9, by GEORGE MUNRO,

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

Claire's Love-Life, —“Laurel Series,”

Chapter 1. Gabriel And Pauline

The warm glow of the April sunshine was steeping the. gray old forest of Picardy in yellow light. Already the soft spring green had mantled every bough and spray, although in an English glen the shy leaves would scarcely, as yet, be unfolded from their wintery sheath. Already the ground was purpled with sweet violets and sprinkled over with wild hyacinths and scarlet columbine. Overhead the birds were making a melodious clamor, and, a few feet away, gurgled a crystal-clear brook, turning and winding amid the roots of hoary oaks and beeches, whose boughs made a green arch overhead. Far away, on a slight eminence to the north, the stained-brick towers of the Chateau de Cherbouret were just visible through the mantling woods, and altogether it was one of the sweetest and most picturesque of French landscapes upon which this April sunshine fell with such soft and lambent sweetness.

But Claire Colonsay, who sat reading on the short grass under a huge old beech, with her blue-ribboned hat lying beside her, and a bunch of faded violets in one hand, was no patrician French demoiselle, but a dark-eyed, rose-cheeked English girl of nineteen, with auburn-red hair braided about her small, shapely head, and level eyebrows, which were, perhaps, a thought too heavy and decided for her face. Her dress, of dark-blue serge, was of the plainest and cheapest material, but it fitted her as if Worth himself had cut it; a narrow collar of white linen encircled her round, milk-white throat, and was fastened with a bow of black ribbon, and a black leather belt was clasped with an old-fashioned cut-steel buckle around her slender waist. Ho servant could have been more plainly dressed, and yet no one in the possession of their ordinary senses would ever have taken Claire Colonsay for anything but the lady that she was.

CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE.

Page after page she turned, intent upon the exciting narrative — one of Victor Hugo’s romances — which she was reading, and all unheeding the sunshine that braided itself into the coronals of her lovely red -gold hair, the rustle of the scented leaves overhead, and the warble of the birds that darted in and out of the green wilderness, as fearlessly as if the young girl with the great wine-brown eyes and coral lips were one of themselves, until the sharp, complaining bark of a dog at her side, and the cold touch of a moist nose, unceremoniously displacing the violets in her hand, scattered her airy visions to the winds, and roused her to a sense of what was going on around her.

“ What is it. Bijou? Poor Bijou!” she said, caressing the beautiful little pearl-colored Italian greyhound who had thus thrust himself on her notice. But still the dog kept up his piteous whine, running a few paces, and then looking back at her, with violently vibrating tail, as if he would thus implore her to follow him.

Miss Colonsay started to her feet, and looked around her.

“ Pauline!” she called out in a clear, high voice. “ Gabriel! where are you?”

There was no answer; but through the trees beyond she could just discern the figure of a boy of thirteen or fourteen stretched on the banks of the little stream, flinging pebbles lazily into its current.

Hurrying through the woods, she came to his side, the dog still barking at her heels.

“ Gabriel,” said she, speaking in the purest and softest French, “ where is Pauline?”

The boy looked up. He was a long-limbed, sullen-looking fellow, with a bilious complexion, a retreating chin, and small black eyes, placed too near together in his head.

“ Isn’t she with you. Mademoiselle Claire?” said he.

“ Find her, then,” said Gabriel de Cherbouret; “7 am not Pauline’s governess.”

Miss Colonsay grasped the boy’s shoulder as if her slim, white fingers were a vise.

“ Where is she, Gabriel?” uttered she, peremptorily.

“ How should 1 know? Let go my shoulder, mademoiselle; you hurt mp,” snarled the boy. “It’s always ‘Pauline! Pauline.” ‘ Where is Pauline?’ 1 might pitch headlong into the lake half a dozen times over, and nobody would ever trouble themselves to say, ‘ Where is Gabriel V ”

“ Into the lake! Oh, Gabriel!” cried Miss Colonsay, her claire’s love-life.

cheeks suddenly paling as she heard his words; “ it can’t be possible that you have let your lame sister fall into that black, bottomless lake? 1 know you don’t love her; I know you have no more heart than a stone, Gabriel de Cherbouret; but 1 do not believe that even you could be so wicked and cruel as that!”

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders.

“You are complimentary. Mademoiselle Colonsay,” said he. “ So was Pauline last night. I told you both I’d be revenged. And I am !”

“Gabriel!” said Miss Colonsay, “what do you mean? Tell me, where is Pauline?”

“ Find out for yourself,” said the boy, wrenching himself suddenly out of her grasp, and breaking into an eldritch laugh as he sped away into the woods.

Miss Colonsay looked after him with a sort of mute, helpless terror; and still the little greyhound kept barking shrilly and dragging at the skirt of her dress.

“ Poor fellow, he would speak if he could,” thought she. “ Go on, Bijou,” she added, aloud; “ and I will follow.”

Away darted the little creature, with Miss Colonsay hurrying after; and presently he disappeared into a gloomy path where yews and cedars were interlaced overhead and a damp, green mold had sprung up on the ground below in unwholesome streaks.

“ He is going to the mausoleum,” thought Claire. “ Oh! surely Gabriel never can have — ”

For a second she paused, her heart seeming to come to a dead stand-still within her breast, and then she flew along faster than ever, down the deep and shaded path, to a mossenameled vault, supported on columns, which was built into a side-hill, and bore on its front the sculptured arms of the ancient family of He Cherbouret — the mausoleum, in which were deposited, in hermetically sealed cells, the remains of the dwellers of the chateau, as one by one they laid down the burden of life and entered the shadows of the world beyond.

She tried the rusted iron door, but in vain; it was locked. And then, standing on tiptoe, she endeavored to peep into the barred window above, through which the warm and sunny air streamed into the dismal abode of death and decay.

“ Pauline,” she called aloud, “ Pauline, ma petite /”

But only the echo of her own voice returned to her, with a hollow ring, as if some mocking ghost were gibing at her breathless terror, and a damp gust of air striking her forehead like a cold hand, made her recoil with a shudder.

claire's love-life.

In the same instant, however, she caught a glimpse of the flatter of something white below.

“ Pauline!" she shrieked, loader than ever. “ Oh, Pauline, my darling! speak to me."

Still there was silence, deep and terrible as that of the grave.

Claire Colonsay comprehended the situation at last. Gabriel de Cherbouret, in a freak of malicious spite, had somehow contrived to lure his little sister into this horrible place, and then had locked her in.

As she turned, with clasped "hands and v compressed lips, to consider what she had best do in this emergency, her foot struck against something on the brick-paved path that returned a hollow clink— the key of the mausoleum! — and with a cry of joy she unlocked the rust-scaled door. As it creaked dismally on its seldom- used hinges, little Bijou sprung in before her, and was presently licking the white, senseless face of a child of nine, who lay prostrate on the stone floor between the grisly marble shelves, where withered wreaths and crosses of immortelles rustled sepuichrally against the walls.

In another instant Claire Colonsay had lifted little Pauline de Cherbouret in her arms and borne her out into the fresh air and sunshine. For a few minutes she lay there, looking like death itself, and then, as Claire chafed her hands and poured eau-de-Cologne upon her face from a scent-flask which she carried in her pocket, the child opened her eyes, and began faintly to gasp for breath.

“ Oh, mademoiselle," she cried, clinging spasmodically to Claire’s arm, “ was it a dream? or was I really locked up there with all those dead people and moldering skeletons?"

And then, as a clearer consciousness returned to her, she began to sob hysterically on her young governess’s breast.

“ Little Pauline, darling Pauline, don’t weep so piteously," soothed Miss Colonsay, caressing the child’s pale forehead and golden hair. “ Tell me all about it."

“ It was Gabriel," said the child with a shudder. “ He coaxed me in there; he had the key in his pocket, and he told me there was a beautiful bird shut in among the cells. And he threatened to kill it, and when I came in to save its life, there was no bird there; and Gabriel ran out and locked the door, and shouted to me that he was going to leave me to starve to death there! Oh, mademoiselle! and then there came a dizziness in my head, and a black cloud across my eyes and I never knew anything more until I seemed to wake up out of a horrible dream, and found myself here in the sunclaire's love-liee.

shine, with the sweet Cologne dripping on my forehead and your dear eyes shining over me."

Little Pauline de Cherbouret was a child of shadow-like and exquisite loveliness, with long, luxuriant hair of the palest gold, luminous blue eyes, and a complexion as white as wax. Something of the extreme delicacy of her appearance was accounted for by a slight but very perceptible curvature of the spine, which was visible under the folds of her white muslin frock, and the little rose-wood crutch which lay on the garden path, and her whole aspect was that of an invalid.

“ Pauline," said Miss Colonsay, lookiug down at the pale and shuddering child, “ can you walk as far as the chateau with the aid of my arm, or shall I go up and send down Jacques, with the garden-chair?"

“ Oh, mademoiselle, don't leave me!" gasped Pauline, looking around her with a frightened glance. “I dare say I can walk if you will help me; and, if I were left alone again, Gabriel might — "

Miss Colonsay set her teeth tightly together. "I hardly think Gabriel will venture to molest you again, Pauline," said she. “ However, we will walk slowly, and you shall lean on my arm, and, after all, it is not far to the chateau."

And, clinging closely together, the tall English girl and the pallid little scion of French aristocracy made their way slowly along the broad avenue, with the rustling beech-leaves overhead, and the violetss^pangling all their path below.

They had not far to walk before the gray walls of the Chateau de Cherbouret rose up before them, with its stiff, colonnaded entrance, its rows of high, narrow casements, and its circle of orange-trees, aloes, and blossoming oleanders, set at formal intervals around the graveled carriage-drive — and Claire entered the hall, where the inlaid wooden floor was covered with dimly tinted Turkish rugs, and battered pieces of armor hung on the walls. There had been a wood-fire in an immense fire-place at the further end, but the logs had smoldered away into drifts of feathery ashes, and the air felt chili and cold in contrast to the spring sunshine without.

Miss Colonsay tapped at a door at the left, in front of which hung draperies of faded red tapestry. An old woman in a white cap answered the summons, after a little delay.

“ Is Madame la Marquise within?" Claire demanded.

Yes, Mme. la Marquise was within. What did the English mademoiselle want?

“ To speak with her at once."

The old woman hesitated. Mme. la Marquise was drink-

CLAIRE’S LO YE- LIFE.

ing chocolate, and reading a book of devotions; but she would ask if she could receive the English mademoiselle. And, after a prolonged whispering, the door was opened again, and a cold, high-pitched voice from within called out:

“ Entrez !”

Claire walked in, still with Pauline on her arm, and found herself in the presence of the widowed mistress of the Chateau de Cherbouret and all its appurtenances.

Mrne. de Cherbouret had been a beauty once, but she was now only a high-nosed individual, with thin flaxen hair, an artificial complexion, and watery blue eyes. She sat on a low divan, her slippered feet supported on an embroidered satin cushion, and a faded India shawl wrapped around her shoulders, as if the heat from the handful of fire that glimmered in the porcelain stove was quite insufficient to stimulate her sluggish blood. The room was like its occupant — it had been very splendid once, with gilding, and white enamel, and yellow satin furniture, all of which were now faded and worn out, and years behind the fashion; for the lineage of the De Cherbourets was considerably longer than their purse, ail'd the economy of the chateau had degenerated into positive avarice.

“ It is very strange. Mademoiselle Colonsay,” whined Mme. la Marquise, leaning back on her divan, with the transparent cup and saucer in her hand, and her light-blue eyes fixed coldly on the intruder, “ that 1 must be disturbed at this hour of the day. When I engaged a governess, 1 naturally expected to be released from all care and anxiety pertaining to my children, and — ”

“ If you will allow me to explain this intrusion, madame,” cal ml v interposed Claire, “ 1 think you will hardly blame me for it.”

And quietly, but explicitly, she explained the whole circumstance just as it had occurred.

But if Miss Colonsay had expected that Mme. de Cherbouret would have burst into exclamations of anger and indignation at the inexcusable conduct of her son, she was quite mistaken.

“ Pauline!” said Mme. la Marquise, setting down the transparent chocolate-cup, and transfixing the little girl with a stern gaze, “I’m surprised at you for attacffing so much importance to a mere joke on the part of yourbrother. Gabriel is a boy— and boys are always full of spirits. If the affection of a sister can not lead you to make due allowance for his exuberance of animation, 1 beg that you will endeavor to do so for viy sake!” ^

Pauline visibly shrunk from her mother’s cold, incisive

CtAiliE*S LOYE-LIFE]. 11

tones. MisS Colonsay colored high with indignation at the undeserved rebuke.

“ Madame de Cherbouret,” said she, speaking quickly, and with the sensation of a choking lump in her throat, “ this is a joke which might have cost your daughter her reason — a joke which is in itself almost a crime! Do 1 not tell you that I found her fainting on the cold stone floor of the mausoleum?^

“ I am surprised that Pauline has no more strength of mind,” said Mme. && Cherbouret, sourly. “Some more chocolate, Babette. I am quite sure that dear Gabriel meant no harm. And now. Mademoiselle Colonsay, if you have nothing more to say — ”

And thus Mme. la Marquise dismissed the complaint, with a nod and a shrug of the shoulders, which was meant to intimate that she bad been very unnecessarily annoyed. — '

Claire led poor little Pauline out of the room, and sat down on a moth-eaten velvet sofa near the extinct fire in the vestibule. Pauline looked wistfully into her face.

“ Mademoiselle,” said she, timidly, “ it is not that mamma means to be unkind. It is only that Gabriel is a boy — and boys are always of more importance than girls, you know.”

Claire took the pallid, shivering child to her arms, and burst into tears.

“ My poor little lamb!” she murmured. And in an instant the barrier of Pauline’s childish dignity gave way, and she too began to sob and cry pitifully, until her blue eyes looked like forget-me-nots" drenched in rain.

“ Mamma never loved me, mademoiselle,” she faltered between her tears. “ She never kisses me; she never smiles on me as she does on Gabriel! I don’t believe she would be sorry if I were to die! Oh, mademoiselle, the good cure says that Christ loves little children. I think I would be happier with Him if only it were not so painful to die! Tell me; mademoiselle, do you think it would be much worse than those bad turns I have at night, when you bathe my forehead in sal volatile, and put the bottles of hot water to my feet? I sometimes think that they must be worse than death; because, when papa died, Babette says he only just turned around and smiled, and seemed to go to sleep. If I could die like that, mademoiselle — ”

And Claire Colonsay, soothing the unloved child with soft caresses and whispered words of affectionate import, wondered how she could ever have fancied herself desolate and solitary in the world. For had she not youth and health, and the

Claire's loye-liee.

priceless heritage of beauty? While poor little Pauline was like a frost-nipped blossom, ready to drift from the tree at the first harsh wind.

And, half an hour afterward, when Pauline had fallen asleep on the sofa, with her long golden lashes resting on her white cheek, Claire Colonsay sat watching her slumbering face with grave thoughtfulness.

“ Better, ah! far better to be alone in the world, as I am,” she told herself, “ than to have such a home as this !”

CHAPTER 11.

A BOX OX THE EAR.

Just six months had elapsed since Claire Colonsay had accepted the situation of governess at the Chateau de Cherbouret — a position to which she had been recommended by Mis. Hobson, her former school-mistress at Hobson Hall, in Hertfordshire, a mature matron, whose favorable mention carried with it great influence. Miss Colonsay had not been especially desirous of earning her livelihood by teaching, but it was imperatively necessary that she should earn it in some way, and this seemed to be the only avenue of self-support which was open to her. Moreover, there was something seductive in the name of “ Madame la Marquise de Cherbouret,” and the sound of the word “ chateau 99 seemed to suggest wealth, luxury, and fashion. The salary, to be sure, .was small; but then the society! And what was to prevent her, Claire Colonsay, from making a brilliant marriage in such an atmosphere as this? She had read and heard of governesses doing such things before.

Alas! the waking from this day-dream was dispiriting in the extreme. The “ society ” at the Chateau de Cheibouret consisted of old Babette, the two children, and M. le Cure once a week, with rats skurrying through the deserted rooms at night, and owls hooting in the woods by day. Mme. la Marquise herself saw scarcely any company. She was sedulously nursing her son’s estate until such time as he should come of age, thereby doing her best to repair the damages wrought by the last marquis, who had possessed a fatal penchant for gambling. And, as the monotonous days crept by, poor Claire avowed to herself that life on such terms as this w r as scarcely worth the having.

But sh8 was at least earning a living, and that was something. She was perfecting herself in her French, moreover, claike's love-life.

and she had grown fond of little pale Panline, who was systematically neglected by every one else in favor of Gabriel, the heir-apparent of the name and fortunes of De Cherbouret. Claire Colonsay had a certain amount of English common sense also, and- she did not at present see that she could do better than to remain at the mildewed old chateau and endure the monotony of life within its ancient walls as best she might.

Her own room was desolate and scantily furnished in the extremest degree—a little iron bedstead, a few prints pinned on the wall, a chair, and a wash-stand covered with badly matched china, constituting its sole decorations, while its view, comprising the deserted stable-yard and kitchen offices, was anything but picturesque.

“ A castle — a chateau !”' Claire would repeat to herself with the utmost disdain. “ Why, there is not a grocer or farmer in all England but lives more comfortably than this.”

And thus Miss Colonsay learned her first lesson of scorn toward the “ blue-blooded ” aristocracy of fair France.

Claire Colonsay herself could boast no ancient lineage. Her j father, in spite of his euphonious appellation, had been a petty London tradesman; her mother, now married for the second time, was eking out her narrow means by letting furnished lodgings; and she herself would probably have been a mere household drudge at this time, had it not been for the whim of one Miss Claire Higgins, her godmother and namesake.

“ Claire shall have an education like a lady,” said Miss Higgins, who had saved up a snug little sum in the dressmaking and millinery business. “ I've no near relations to inherit my money, and Eve took a notion to spend it on Claire.”

And so the girl was sent to mingle with the daughters of the landed gentry at a fashionable boarding-school in Hertfordshire, the mistress of which Miss Higgins had supplied with bonnets and dress-caps for years. Education at Hobson Hall was an expensive affair; and when at last Miss Higgins was carried off unexpectedly by a fit of apoplexy, her little fortune was all spent, and nothing remained for her protegee but to take the first situation that offered itself, or return to her mother in the London lodging-house. She had very naturally preferred the former alternative; and here she was in charge of the two youthful scions of the Chateau de Cherbouret.

So much for the past; and now for the present.

It was the afternoon of the same day whose adventures we have chronicled, and Claire, her lessons over and her time

CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE.

temporarily at her own disposal, slowly descended the dark, waxed stairs, whose carved balustrades were so perilously insecure, to a moldering old room, called by courtesy “ the picture-gallery/' because of a few ancient and time-stained portraits in frames of tarnished gold, which hung'on the mildewed walls. She had taken a fancy to one in particular, a “ Courtier of the Sixteenth Century/' with dark eyes, and sad, regular features, and was intent on copying it as well as she could in water colors.

“ For if I am to be a governess always," said Claire Colonsay to herself with a little impatient shrug of her shoulders, “ I may as well try and improve myself in what few wretched accomplishments I possess, so as to make myself as marketable a commodity as possible."

From which remark it may be plainly inferred that the iron of discontent was already entering into the soul of the young governess.

She sighed a weary, impatient sigh, as she drew the table in front of the high, Gothic window, whose panes were incrusted with the dirt and dust of at least a year. For this was one of the uninhabited portions of the chateau, and old Fanchon, the housekeeper, was troubled with no unnecessary scruples of neatness. Although the air was soft and spring-like out-of-doors, there was a sepulchral chill in the air of the unused room, which made Claire shiver as she sat down in front of the sad-eyed cavalier and took out her portfolio.

“Iam not getting the expression at all," said she to herself, looking down earnestly at the sheet of Bristol-board on which she had sketched the outlines. “ Oh, dear! why was 1 not born a genius? Yes, come in."

For a soft tap had sounded on the door, and little lame Pauline had limped into the room with a deprecating countenance.

“ Do I disturb you. Mademoiselle Claire?" said she, wistfully. “ May I stay here? It's so lonesome down-stairs, and I almost know Gabriel is hiding at the corner, to jump out at me if I go to old Fanchon, because the hall is dark, and Gabriel knows I am afraid."

Claire pulled out a spindle-legged old sofa, covered with tarnished brocade, and hung with brass ornaments which stood in the angle of the fire-place, and threw her shawl over it for little Pauline's more comfortable reception.

“ Lie down there, dear," said she. “ No, you will not disturb me at all; in truth, I shall be glad to have your companionship in this dreary place while 1 am copying your grand-

CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE.

father or your great-uncle,. or whatever relation this gentleman with the big eyes may be to you."

Pauline shuddered.

44 1 am afraid of him, mademoiselle," said she in a low

tone.

“ Afraid?"

44 Afraid of all of them, Mademoiselle Claire," explained the child. “Their eyes seem to follow me around — around all the time. Even when my eyes are shut tight 1 can feel them looking at me. And," lowering her voice to a whisper, “ Gabriel says they come down out of their frames at night and stalk all over the rooms by moonlight."

“That is only Gabriel's silly nonsense, child," said Miss Colonsay.

“ Put this Monsieur Alphonse de Cherbouret," with a motion of her head toward the sad-eyed cavalier whose likeness Claire was trying so vainly to reproduce, “ was killed in a duel. Why do people fight duels. Mademoiselle Claire?"

44 Because they are fools, I suppose," said Claire, touching, the long eyelashes on her drawing, and then looking up to study the duplicate features in the portrait, to see how nearly she had succeeded in catching the likeness.

44 And Gabriel says he walks every moonlight night up and down the great entrance hall, looking for the drops of blood that fell there when they carried him in after he was dead. And, mademoiselle," added Pauline, with a scared sidelong glance at the portrait, 44 there are drops in the floor, which Fanchon has never been able to scour out. I've seen them myself."

44 Pauline, what nonsense you are talking!" said Claire, w r ith a laugh. 44 I'd wager any amount that an English house-maid, with plenty of soap and sand, would get them out. But Fanchon is lazy; and it's a deal easier to be superstitious than it is to be clean. Now, Gabriel, is that you?" turning brusquely on a new-comer, whose shadow fell across her drawing.

Gabriel de Cherbouret nodded, with a disagreeable smile, as he sidled into the room.

44 Aren't you glad to see me, Mademoiselle Colonsay?"

Claire painted away, as if she did not regard the visitor as worthy of a look.

44 I am not often glad to see you, Gabriel," said she. 44 Still less after your shameful conduct of to-day."

44 Who was to suppose Pauline would be such a little coward as to go and faint away?" said Gabriel, thrusting his hands claiee’s love-life.

down into his pockets aud drawing his head, turtle-fashion, between his shoulders. “ I say, mademoiselle, that sketch of yours is no more like the original than it is like me.”

“ Will you be kind enough to leave the room, Gabriel?” said Miss Colonsay. “ Your society here is as undesired as your criticisms.”

“ What should I leave the room for?” demanded Gabriel, insolently. “ This is my house, isn’t it? Or it will be, when mamma is dead.”

“You will leave the room because I tell you, Gabriel,” said Miss Colonsay, rising from her seat with such a determined air that the boy involuntarily retreated a step or two.

“ You’d better hear me out first, mademoiselle,” said he, sulkily. “ I’ve come here on a message from mamma.”

“ Say it, then, and be gone!” uttered Claire, curtly.

“ There’s to be company in the grand salon to-night,” said Gabriel. “ And mamma wants you to fill the big china vases with flowers.”

Claire bit her lip, recalling to herself that this newly imposed duty was no part of h&r business as governess, but she merely said:

“ Very well. Now take yourself off.”

“ Wait a bit, mademoiselle,” said Gabriel, his eyes sparkling with malicious glee. “That isn’t all. Mamma says you’re to come into the salon after dinner, and sing for the gentlemen. ”

The sudden scarlet flamed into Miss Colonsay’s cheek.

“ 1 shall not,” said she. “ I came here to educate Madame* de Cherbo.uret’s children, not to amuse her chance guests.”

“ Shall I tell her so?” said Gabriel, dancing about the floor in ill-concealed delight at the prospect of a difference of opinion between Mme. la Marquise and the governess.

“ You will be good enough to leave the room, and mind your own business,” said Claire, crisply.

“ Will 1, though!” cried Gabriel, nimbly vaulting over the table and ensconcing himself in the angle of the wall behind Pauline’s sofa. But in the action he contrived to upset the claw-legged little table, burying sketch, water-cups, paints and all in one general mass of ruin.