THE
CASTLE OF TYNEMOUTH.
A
TALE.
THE
CASTLE
TYNEMOUTH.
A
TALE.
BY
JANE HARVEY,
AUTHOR OF WARKFIELD CASTLE, &c. &c.
No air-built castles, and no
fairy bowers,
But thou, fair Tynemouth,
and thy well-known towers,
Now bid th’ historic muse
explore the maze
Of long past years, and
tales of other days.
Pride of Northumbria!---from
thy crowded port,
Where Europe’s brave
commercial sons resort,
Her boasted mines send forth
their sable stores,
To buy the varied wealth of
distant shores.
Here the tall lighthouse,
bold in spiral height,
Glads with its welcome beam
the seaman’s sight.
Here, too, the firm redoubt,
the rampart’s length,
The death-fraught cannon,
and the bastion’s strength,
Hang frowning o’er the briny
deep below,
To guard the coast against
th’ invading foe.
Here health salubrious
spreads her balmy wings,
And woos the sufferer to her
saline springs;
And, here the antiquarian
strays around
The ruin’d abbey, and its
sacred ground.
SECOND
EDITION.
IN
TWO VOLUMES.
VOL.
I.
NEWCASTLE
UPON TYNE:
PRINTED
BY ENEAS MACKENZIE, JR.
129,
PILGRIM STREET.
And sold by all the Booksellers.
1830.
PREFACE.
THE author who opens the mines of his understanding,
and presents their productions before the shrine of public opinion, will
unquestionably strengthen his claim to approbation, by the best exertions which
the powers of his mind are capable of making. If the sphere he has chosen be
that of the moralist, he will summon to the task every energy of his soul; he
will emblazon the standard of virtue with every religious and moral precept,
and will combat vice with the artillery of reason, and the musketry of
ridicule. If he treads the path of the historian, he will banish partiality and
prejudice, rise superior to party rage, and rest his claim to favor solely on
the pillars of integrity, truth, and candour.—The writer who sits down to
compose a work of imagination, engages in a province less important, indeed,
but inconceivably more arduous; to preserve originality, all the powers of
invention must be had recourse to: if he explores the regions of romance, his
ideas must expand to grandeur and sublimity; if his researches are confined to
the less glowing, but perhaps more valuable pages of nature, his pictures must
be portraits—they must be copied from life, or the likeness will never be
striking; he must preserve the nice consistency of his characters; the lights
and shades of passion must be pourtrayed with a skilful hand; the manners and
customs of the age in which his characters are supposed to exist must be
attended to, and the purity of historical truth strictly observed; and in the
localities of place, care ought to be taken that geographical accuracy is never
violated; and beyond all, let the poet, the novelist, the light and puerile
writer, ever remember, that however temporary the subject, however trivial the
work they are employed on, still they are under a sacred obligation to heaven,
on no account to injure, but as far as possible to serve and promote the cause
of virtue, both directly and indirectly. He who pretends to respect morality,
while he is insidiously sapping its foundations, is the worst of hypocrites—an
enemy in the mask of friendship. Dangerous are those mixed characters, wherein
beauty, accomplishments, and politeness, are mingled and incorporated with the
most odious vices, while the latter are excused by the appellation of “Youthful
follies, which Sir Edwin will abjure as he grows older;” or “Fashionable
levities, which positively add such a grace to Lady Albina’s charms, that it will
be almost a pity when the maturity of her judgements points out the propriety
of abandoning them.”
These
are the bane and destruction of young minds; captivated by the fascinations of
personal charms and attractive manners, they adopt the whole character without
discrimination, until the subtle venom, like the poisoned garment of Hercules,
preys on their vitals, and consigns them to ruin and infamy.
To
produce a work adorned with all the beauties, and free from the defects which I
have enumerated, is what the upright heart will aim at, and the able head will
effect; but how shall he acquit himself to whom nature has denied supereminent
abilities, and from whom situation and circumstances have withheld the means of
acquiring extensive knowledge? On what claim shall he presume to approach the
temple of Fame? What offering has he to present to the deity of the place?
Alas! only the humble one of a good
intention. To criticism he dares not appeal; but he raises his trembling
voice to candour. Justice, perhaps, will awe him by her frown, but mercy will
cheer him with her lovely smile.
Let
not the lowly candidate for literary distinction be chilled to despondency, and
condemned unheard. In exercising the functions of an author, he infringes no
one’s rights, for there all are free; the gate by which he enters is open to
another, and if he has gathered a few flowers by the way side, they spring up
afresh to invite the hand of his successor.
Mental
strength, like that of mechanic powers, cannot be ascertained until it is
tried. The being who “hides his light under a
bushel—who wraps his talent in a napkin,” and who suffers his abilities, such
as they are, whether they be formed of strong and massy oak, or slender and
flexible bamboo—to rest dormant and unexercised, frustrates the intentions of
Providence, and is of no use to either himself or others; he is a drone in the
great hive of the community—he neither builds the cells, nor enriches them with
honey, and yet claims from both, shelter and food.
At
the bar of the public, alone, can the literary adventurer have a fair and
impartial trial; friends may be partial; and that principle of self-love, which
is incorporated with our very essence, will lead ourselves to judge
favourably—perhaps too favourably of our own powers; to counteract this
feeling, nature has implanted in our bosoms—and in the bosom of a female writer
it is particularly alive—a diffidence, a timidity, which continually whispers a
doubt of our own abilities:—between these two opposite principles, public
judgment must decide: to it I offer up my humble pretensions; from its decision
there is no appeal.
For
much of the architectural description of the church and castle of Tynemouth, I
have to confess my obligations to “Hutchinson’s View of Northumberland;” and
for part of the historical information, the same acknowledgment is due to
“Brand’s History of Newcastle.” I could not, in its proper place, refer the
reader to the pages from which I made selections, as I did not copy literally,
but compressed the information I derived from them, and blended it with such as
I was enabled to collect on the spot, or elsewhere. Those were the only books I
consulted.
JANE
HARVEY.
Newcastle,
Feb.
12, 1806.
LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.
Anderson Mr. ditto
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Ballany D. esq. Little Green Croft, Durham
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Barras Miss, Gateshead
Barrett Rev. S.
Bell Mr. T. Tynemouth
Blaydon Miss, ditto
Brash James, esq. 82d Regiment
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Brown Mr. T. Jarrow
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ADVERTISEMENT
TO
THE
SECOND
EDITION.
THE
custom of preluding a book with matters which were judged requisite to be known
before the work was perused, seems to have fallen into disuetude in proportion
as books themselves have multiplied. Time was that a three, four, sometimes
sevenfold barricado of dedication, preface, complimentary poem, address, poem,
or advertisement, defended the subsequent pages. Perhaps the modes of life in
days gone by, when science was little cultivated; when many modern arts were
unknown; and when the events of history, with which it is absolutely requisite
that the mind should make itself acquainted, were comparatively few, might
leave such a paucity of occupation that it might be pastime to wade through a
mass of words; but the experience of twenty years amongst readers of all
classes has convinced me that prefatory addresses, under whatever title they
may be presented, are rarely read. Yet as it has been suggested that a preface
to a second edition is usual and proper; and as I cannot better express the
reasons which induced me to re-publish The Castle of Tynemouth than I have
already done in the prospectus which was circulated, and as these volumes may
fall into the hands of many persons who have not seen that prospectus, I shall
briefly recapitulate its contents.
At a
period when the number of new books which are almost daily issuing from the
press exceed all former precedent, the re-publication of a Novel which has been
before the public for twenty-four years, can only be excused on the plea that a
new edition is called for: such in the present instance is the fact. The
antiquity, beauty, and celebrity of the ruins of Tynemouth Priory; the former
consequence of the Castle as a military fortress at the mouth of the Tyne; the
importance of that river and its harbour; and the high character which the
Village of Tynemouth has for so long a period maintained as a delightful resort
for those to whom sea-bathing is pleasant or beneficial, have conspired to make
the brief history contained in the introductory chapter of the work a subject
of constant quest and enquiry amongst the numerous summer visitants of
Tynemouth.
Nor is
the subsequent tale (interwoven of probable incidents connected with the
circumstances which give this place such high claims to notice) perused with
less avidity. It has amused thousands; nor can it justly offend any one in
either a religious or a moral point of view. Doubtless there are those who in
literary, as in all other matters, are offended without just cause; many whose
taste is fastidious; and perhaps a few who deem it a sure mark of superior
acumen to be able to do that easiest of all possible things—find fault. To such
I can only say, in the words of my great cotemporary
“------Little reck I of the
censure sharp----
“May idly cavil at an idle
lay.”
Many
circumstances connected with the history and antiquities of the place have been
added to the historical detail; together with several brief but interesting
notices of recent events and discoveries. The numerous typographical errors
which disgraced the first edition have, in the present one, been carefully
corrected.
I beg
to offer my most grateful acknowledgments to the Subscribers by whose
liberality I have been enabled to attain an object to me so desirable; and to
those amongst my friends who so kindly exerted themselves to promote the
subscription, my warmest thanks are due; and while health shall be allotted to
me, I shall deem myself bound in gratitude to exert my limited abilities to
contribute to their amusement.
JANE
HARVEY.
Tynemouth,
July 17, 1830.
THE
CASTLE
OF TYNEMOUTH.
CHAPTER
I.
“—————————Could tell,
The abbey’s hoary bound,
Or mark where once, ere fate
the chapel shook,
Each father op’d the
brass-embossed book;
Or note the cellar’s space,
to shew how vain
All monkish joys.”
FEW
places in the island of Great Britain are more universally celebrated by both
history and oral tradition, than the ancient monastery, town, and castle of
Tynemouth, situated in the south-east extremity of Northumberland, where the
German ocean receives the river Tyne.—Various are the concomitant causes which
point out this singular and important place to the notice of the warrior, the
mariner, the valetudinarian, the searcher into antiquity, the admirer of
nature, and the votary of pleasure. The noble harbour of Shields, the emporium
of the coal trade; and the strength and importance of its fortifications,
conspire to render it eminently conspicuous in the annals of naval and military
fame. The history, and curious remains of the venerable priory, afford an ample
field for conjecture and inquiry, to those who love to contemplate the
monuments, and search into the records of past ages; while the natural grandeur
of the situation, and the bold, majestic, and sublime scenery by which it is
surrounded, must ever delight the mind, and inspire it with noble sentiments:
and, doubtless, these circumstances had a considerable share in influencing the
first religious settlers in their choice of this place.
Tynemouth
was called by the Britons, Pen Ball Crag—The head of the Rampart upon the rock:
and from this name, some have conjectured, that the rampart raised by the Roman
Emperor Adrian—the wall built by Severus, or at least the fosse, extended
hither: and this belief is strengthened by the traditions scattered throughout
the country; according to which, the Picts’ wall certainly terminated at the
mouth of the Tyne. However, be this as it may, the antiquities lately
discovered furnish unquestionable evidence, that the Romans had a station here,
and it was certainly a place of considerable strength in very remote times.
Under the Saxon heptarchy it was called Tunaeaster, and in succeeding periods
it has been distinguished by the names of Thinemu, Thynemue, Tynemuth,
Tinemouth, Tunaeaster and Tinmouth, under which appellation it is sometimes
confounded with Teignmouth in Devonshire.
From
the long series of years which have passed, and the feeble means by which,
formerly, records were preserved and transmitted, the first accounts of this
celebrated monastery are necessarily involved in dark obscurity; but it appears
undoubted, that Edwin, King of Northumberland, who reigned about the year 617,
built a chapel of wood here, wherein his daughter took the veil. It must be
remarked, however, that some have ascribed its foundation to St. Oswald, the
first Christian king of Northumberland; and others, to king Egfrid; but the
latter probably only repaired and restored it.
On
the 13th of the calends of September, 651, Oswin, king of the Deira, one of the
provinces of the then divided kingdom of Northumberland, was murdered at
Gillingham, or Chillingham, as it is now called, a sacrifice to the treachery
and ingratitude of Hunweld; and the ambition of Oswy, king of Bernicia, the
other province; and his body was brought here for interment, as were those of
many kings, and great men of those times.
Tynemouth
suffered several depredations from the Danes; the hope of plunder generally
inducing those barbarians to turn their arms against places dedicated to
religion. On their second descent, the monks took refuge in their church, as a
sanctuary: but the invaders, far from respecting its holy walls, reduced the
hallowed building, together with its venerable inhabitants, to ashes. The
robbers, however, did not escape the punishment they merited; for they were
pursued by Etheldred, king of Northumbria, and Offa, king of Mercia; who, after
routing them with a dreadful slaughter, forced the survivors to retreat with
the utmost precipitation to their ships, which were wrecked by a succeeding
storm: and thus the lawless plunderers met a death not less dreadful than that
to which they had devoted their fellow-creatures. The church, thus destroyed,
was dedicated to the blessed Virgin; and it is generally supposed, that, at the
first foundation, this monastery was endowed for religious of both sexes.
In
the reign of king Edward, surnamed the Confessor, the royal saint and martyr,
Oswin, was most graciously pleased to make choice of Edmund, the sexton of
Tynemouth, to rescue his precious relics from obscurity; and, accordingly,
visiting that good man in a vision, he pointed out to him the place of his own
interment. Edmund communicated this important discovery to the wife of Tostin,
earl of Northumberland; and the pious lady so powerfully exerted her influence
with her husband, and with Egelwin, bishop of Durham, that the former repaired
and endowed the monastery, to the honour of St. Mary and St. Oswin; and the
latter ordered a search to be made for the royal bones, which were discovered
in the place the saint had pointed out; and after being inclosed in a coffin,
they were, on the 5th of the ides of March, A.D. 1065, recommitted to the
sacred earth.
The
situation of this place, so well adapted for a fortification to command the
mouth of the Tyne, and protect the adjacent shores, induced William the
Conqueror to order that it should be converted into a fortress; and this
command was obeyed by Waltheof, earl and governor of Northumberland, who, A.D.
1073, gave the church of our Lady at Tynemouth, together with the body of St.
Oswin, king and martyr, resting therein, to the monks of Jarrow monastery, on
the south side of the Tyne; of which place, or its neighbourhood, his sainted
majesty was a native; and thither the sacred relics were removed. The
fortifications which were erected here at this period, consisted of a strong
square tower, comprehending an outward and interior gateway. The outward
gateway having two gates, about the distance of six feet from each other; the
inner of which had an open gallery, and was defended by a portcullis. The
interior gateway was also strengthened by a double gate. The space between the
gateways, being a square of about six poles, was open above: and thus, those on
the top of the tower and battlements had an opportunity of annoying assailants
who had gained the first gate. “This tower has been modernized without any
attention to military architecture, and converted into a barrack, capable of
accommodating 240 men; but, during the late war, it contained at one time near
400 men.”* It has since been enlarged;
and the barracks could now accommodate 500 men.
From
this gateway, a double wall of great strength extended, on each side, to the
cliffs on the sea shore, which are of a stupendous height, particularly on the
north-east side, where their altitude is about ten perpendicular fathoms; an
ascent which in those days was deemed inaccessible, more especially, when it is
considered, that the broken rocky shore at their bases effectually prevented
the approach of any vessel on that side.
The
gate, with its walls, was fortified by a deep ditch, defended by moles on each
side.
This
place now took the name of Tynemouth Castle; and from the time of Waltheof, for
several succeeding years, it belonged to the earls of Northumberland. Robert de
Mowbray, who supported that title in the reign of William Rufus, undid the act
of his predecessor; and separating the monastery of Tynemouth from its
connection with Durham, he rebuilt the church and offices, gave it to the abbey
of St. Albans, in Hertfordshire, and placed black canons in it. When this
nobleman rebelled against his sovereign, he was besieged in his castle of
Bamborough, which he quitted in the night, expecting to make himself master of
Newcastle; but finding the gates shut against him, he took refuge in Tynemouth
Castle. Hither, however, he was pursued, and again closely besieged for six
days; when, being wounded in the leg, and unable to hold out against the king’s
army, he withdrew into the monastery, vainly hoping that the sanctuary would be
held sacred and inviolable; but he was dragged from thence and carried to Windsor,
where he was kept in confinement a considerable time, and then put to death.
On
the 13th of calends of September, 1110, the body of St. Oswin was removed from
Jarrow, and once more lodged in the monastery of Tynemouth. The venerable ruin
of this building is perhaps one of the finest specimens of gothic architecture
now remaining in this island. The area which inclosed the church and offices
contains about six acres. Many beautiful arches are still entire, but so
disunited, that it would now be difficult to determine, with certainty, the
particular part to which each belonged. Those which present themselves in
front, on passing the gateway, appear to be the remains of a cloister. On the
south side, adjoining the wall, or rampart, on the brink of the cliff, are the
remains of several spacious vaulted chambers; one of which, from the wide
extension of its fire-place, may be conjectured to have been the kitchen, and
another the prison, with an aperture in the roof, by which the wretched captive
was lowered down into his living tomb. The erection is of a red freestone,
which endures the lapse of time, and the changes of season, in this bleak and
exposed situation. The west gate, entering into the abbey, is in high
preservation; it is composed of circular arches, comprehending several members
inclining inwards, and arising from pilasters.—Among the ruins in this part is
a Saxon arch, with a gothic capital, and a pillar of the very rudest Saxon
architecture, which has probably been a part of the original building. “This is
clearly the most ancient part of the edifice; but Brand is mistaken if he
supposes it bears the characteristics of Saxon architecture.* All the Saxon churches in England,
except in a few rare instances, were plain, square, or rather oblong buildings,
and generally turned circular at the end; but the Normans, in erecting their
sacred edifices, adopted the cruciform with high towers, and ornamented the
interior with columns and arches. The west entrance, which is in the pointed
style, seems to have been formed at a later period. The choir is executed in
what is termed the pointed or English style of architecture. It has been built
after a more elegant and noble plan than the old church. The transcepts have
been extended, and a highly decorated entrance has been formed in the wall of
the old transept, leaving the plain Norman window above. This decorated English
style prevailed from the time of Henry III. The Lady’s Chapel has been built at
a still later period than the choir, and is a beautiful specimen of pure
English. The whole length of this ancient and magnificent structure is 279
feet. The breadth of the nave, or the west and oldest part, inside is 26 feet;
and the length to the transept 126 feet. The old transept is 79 feet in length,
and the side of the tower, which was square, 20 feet. The choir, or east end,
is 31 feet 6 inches wide, but the length of the new transept has not yet been
ascertained.” Two walls of the east end of the church are standing, the
architecture of which is so singularly light, that (without deciding the
controverted question, whether such lightness be a beauty or defect) it cannot
be looked on without exciting the highest astonishment, how a structure of so
little apparent strength, should have withstood, for so many centuries, the
united devastations of time, storms, and sieges. The end wall, to the east,
contains three long windows, the centre one near twenty feet high; the
divisions or pillars between the windows are enriched with pilasters of five
members, with highly finished foliated cornices and capitals; above the centre
window is an oval one with similar mouldings; and on each side are door cases,
which have opened into galleries of most curious construction. Part of the
south-side wall of the choir is still standing, illuminated with four windows,
formed and ornamented like those to the east, though not of the same height;
for above them are an equal number of small windows: the divisions between the
large windows are decorated with pilasters of the same kind as those at the
east end; and it is observable, throughout the whole, that the capitals of the
columns have each of them a different kind of ornament. From the pillars
between the smaller windows, spring the arches, which formed the roof: the
arches of the windows in this part are circular; and the blank arches, which
are thrown upon the wall beneath the windows, are pointed. In this wall are
also remaining three recesses, one of which is supposed to have been the
confessional chair, divided by a stone partition, where there has been a grate;
another of them, it is evident, has been the cavity for containing the holy
water; and the third; the closet for the consecrated host. Many were the
charters given to this monastery, and the privileges granted to its priors, by
several of the kings of England, and numerous were the endowments and donations
it received, insomuch, that no fewer than twenty-seven villas, with their
royalties, in Northumberland, belonged to it, with many other possessions; and
beyond all, the good fathers, doubtless, would find a rich and ample source of
revenue in the offerings brought to the shrine of St. Mary and St. Oswin, by
the mariners who in those days navigated the German ocean.
Tynemouth
was not unfrequently honoured by visits from the kings and queens of England:
and, it is also famous for having given birth to, or been the retreat of, many
eminent men. And, it may be also observed, that in Coquet Island, there was a
cell of Benedictine monks, subordinate to the monastery of Tynemouth. In a
charter of king Edward the first, dated at Westminster, the 20th of February,
1299, the body of St. Oswin is mentioned, as resting in a certain shrine within
the church of Tynemouth. In the year 1315, Tynemouth is mentioned among the
castles of Northumberland. A.D. 1336,*
mention occurs of the new chapel, or oratory of St. Mary, at Tynemouth. This
small, but most elegant and beautiful apartment is still entire, having been
shut up for a considerable time: the entrance is by a door beneath the centre
window of the east-end of the church, already described. On each side of the
door is a human head, cut in a style much superior to the generality of the
sculpture executed in that age; the length of the apartment within, is eighteen
feet, and the breadth and height nine feet: on the south-side, is an entrance
from the open yard, and two windows: on the north-side, three; and to the east,
a circular one, so elevated as to leave room for an altar beneath; at this end
are also two niches for statues, a closet to contain the vessels for sacred
uses, and a basin for holy water. On each side of the window is the figure of a
monk kneeling, and two of the emblematical animals usually depicted with the
evangelists. The side walls are ornamented with pilasters, from whence spring
the groins and arches of stone, which in various intersections form the roof;
the interstices of which are constructed with thin bricks, and its joinings are
enriched with circles of carved work, containing sculptures of the divine
personages and the apostles, exceedingly well executed; each sculpture is
surrounded by a circular belt, containing a sentence in the old English
characters, well raised (viz.) Sanct.
Petrus ora P. nobis. &c. each varied by the name of the personage to
whom it is inscribed. The centre row consists of four circles; in one is the
effigies of John the Baptist, with the like sentence.—In the second, the
effigies of our Saviour, with a monk kneeling.—In the third, the effigies of
the Supreme, with the Lamb bearing an ensign.—And, the fourth a representation
of the last judgement, with the following sentence In die judicii liberare nos. Above the door is the effigies of our
Saviour, with a globe in his hand, with morit
P. nobis, inscribed, and on each side of the door is an emblematical
figure. There are two escutchions, the dexter one charged with bearings of
Vesey, a cross sable: the sinister, the bearings of Brabant and Lucy quarterly.
Many little ornaments are cut on the inferior roses on the arched work, as
croslets, crescents, winged crosses, the old Saxon n, as the emblem of sacred masonry, and the usual characters
disposed over religious buildings, J D C Jesus
hominis conservator. On the outside of this chapel, at the east end, are
two coats of armour supported by cherubs; the one charged with a cross, the
arms of the monastery of St. Albans, and the other with three crowns,
originally the arms of Oswin, king of Northumberland, and afterwards those of
the monastery of Tynemouth.
On
the 20th of February, 1379, Richard the Second, granted a licence of mortmain
to the prior and monks of Tynemouth, to hold possessions to the value of twenty
pounds per annum, to enable them to repair the walls of their fortifications,
which had been damaged by the encroachments of the sea. In this curious grant,
the priory is described as having been; and being, to the then king and his
progenitors, “a certain fortified and walled place for defence against the
enemies of the kingdom.”*
“Among
the most remarkable features of the history of this place, after this time, are
the following:—The churches of Eglingham, Norton, and Hartburn, were given to
the monks, for the purpose of mending their ale, and to enlarge their means of
hospitality. The prior mediated a peace between England and Scotland, in 1244;
and eleven years after, obtained a charter from Henry III. to hold a market in
his ville and manor of Bewicke. He claimed the privilege of a market also at
Tynemouth; but, in a suit on that account, judgement was given against him in
the King’s Bench. The place, however, had certain immunities, which it annually
asked of the judges itinerant, by some great public character, or, by its
bailiffs, at the “Chille” Fountain, in Gateshead, when they came from York; or
at “Faurstanes,” when they came from Cumberland. They returned the king’s writ
within their respective lordships, and were exempted from cornage by king John:
several villages in Northumberland, however, paid cornage both to St. Albans
and to this house. Edward I. In 1299, restored them certain free customs, which
the crown had deprived them of, and granted the prior to have all pleas
concerning his men, lands, and tenements, to be pleased and determined by his
own justices, the king’s justices not being permitted to enter his liberty. A
fair, granted to the place in 1303, was revoked the next year, on the petition
of the town of Newcastle. The prior caused a pillory to be erected in the
village in 1307. King Edward II. and his favourite Gaveston, were at Tynemouth,
on Ascension-day, 1312, from whence they took shipping for Scarborough. A
riotous band of Northumbrians, at the head of whom were Sir William de
Middleton, knt. and Walter de Seleby, ravaged this house in 1316; but being
apprehended, they were sent to London by shipping, and there tried, condemned,
and hanged. The hospital of St. Leonard, at this place, is of uncertain
foundation: it existed in 1320. Ruins of it are still traceable a little to the
west of Tynemouth, on the road to Newcastle.”
At
the dissolution of the monasteries, the prior of Tynemouth, with fifteen
prebendaries, and three novices, surrendered the house on the 12th of January,
1539, in the 30th year of the reign of King Henry VIII. The prior had a pension
of eighty pounds per annum assigned him, and the annual revenues of this
monastery, unconnected with St. Albans, are supposed to have been, on an
average, upwards of four hundred pounds.
The scite of the priory has
since belonged to several different possessors; and, after the dissolution of
the monasteries, the castle appears to have been considered by government as a
place of strength and importance. In 1644, it was besieged by the Scots, and
the garrison was compelled to surrender to the arms of the parliament.
Thirty-eight pieces of cannon, and a considerable quantity of arms, ammunition,
and provisions were delivered up on this occasion; but the fortress suffered so
much in the siege, that the parliament found it necessary to appropriate a
large sum to repair the damage. Sir Arthur Hazelrig was then governor of Newcastle
and Tynemouth Castle; and Colonel Henry Lilburne was appointed deputy governor.
The officer favouring the royal cause, the garrison revolted, and Sir Arthur,
marching from Newcastle to reduce them, took the place by storm; his men
scaling the walls, and entering by the embrazures and the barbacans: the
conflict within was short, but Colonel Lilburne fell in it, and the republican
party triumphed.
In
1665, Tynemouth Castle was repaired on account of the Dutch war: Colonel Edward
Villiers was then governor.
The
celebrated James, duke of Berwick, was created earl of Tynemouth, by his
father, James II. at the same time that the former title was conferred upon
him.
About
the year 1687, Henry Villiers was appointed governor of Tynemouth Castle, and
he obtained a licence from government to build a house on the north side of the
castle-yard, to serve as a habitation for the governor; and also, to erect a
light-house for the benefit of shipping, passing this rocky and dangerous
coast. The scite of the priory had passed through many hands since the
dissolution (as was said before), but none of its former possessors had exerted
themselves in a manner so widely beneficial to the community; he was authorised
to receive one shilling for every British, and sixpence for every foreign
vessel anchoring in Shields harbour, which produced about eighty pounds per
annum: a poor recompence, indeed, for a work of such general utility: but the
sum is since greatly augmented. Much of the priory was pulled down, to convert the
materials to the use of these erections; and the lead was also stripped off the
church, which had been used for divine service until about twenty years before.
Governor Villiers was buried in the castle-yard, A.D. 1707; and, in 1722,
another Henry Villiers was appointed lieutenant governor.
About
the year 1775, the light-house was rebuilt, under the direction of John Wooler,
Esq. the celebrated engineer.
From
the period before mentioned, the fortifications of Tynemouth seem to have been
greatly neglected, until 1782, when a company of the royal artillery, and some
officers of the corps of engineers were stationed at Tynemouth; and under their
inspection the works were thoroughly repaired, storehouses, &c. built, and
a complete arsenal and depository of military stores, formed; and a strong
garrison is always kept here both in peace and war; convenient barracks for the
accommodation of soldiers having been built upwards of forty years ago, and
additional ones since erected in the castleyard: a considerable portion of the
ground, called by this name, is still used as a place of burial; and from its
walls is a wide and extensive prospect of the German ocean, of Prior’s haven,
or harbour, and of the crowded port of Shields, and the batteries which command
its entrance.
“Within
the gates of the castle are two dungeons, which had been long shut up. One of
these places of solitary confinement was explored some years ago by an officer
of the garrison; on one of the walls there is rudely engraved, probably with a
nail— ‘JOHN REDSHAW, 1715,—17 WEEKS PRISONER.’ There are some curious caves in
the rock on which the priory stood. One of them, on the north side of the
precipice, is called by the town’s people the Gingler’s Hole, probably from having been the resort of some
juvenile gamblers. It is now built up. There are, perhaps, several crypts and
vaulted passages beneath the church; for, in digging near the south side of the
ruins of the priory in 1808, an arched tomb was discovered, with human bones
and skulls of a large size. This chamber, which it was supposed had not been
opened since the dissolution of the priory in 1539, was converted into a powder
magazine. Behind the Canteen are buried a row of stone coffins, which range
north and south. The sexton, in 1819, struck his spade against a stone coffin,
which, on examination, was found to contain a perfect skeleton, the bones of
which were covered with leather, curiously cut and ornamented. An adjoining
coffin also contained a skeleton, without a head, and which was in like manner
carefully defended and decorated with leather.”
The town of Tynemouth is
small, but pleasant and well built, and is the resort of a numerous and genteel
assemblage of company during the bathing season. The manor now belongs to his
Grace the Duke of Northumberland.
“It
was lately in contemplation to build a church in Tynemouth; and Mr. John
Dobson, architect, who has often studied among the ruins of the desecrated
structure here, with all the enthusiasm of an architectural antiquary, offered
a plan to the consideration of the projectors. He proposed to pull down the
remains of the choir, preserving the little chapel, and to rebuild it in its
original form. The restoration of this light and beautiful edifice would have
reflected honour on the taste and liberality of those concerned. The design is
not yet abandoned. It is alleged that the government would object to the
erection of a church within the limits of the garrison; but it is not probable
that any attempt would be made to perpetuate a desecration, which is directly
contrary to the repeated decisions of our courts of law.”
Such
an attempt has, however, been made; the Board of Ordnance has tried repeated
efforts to induce the parish of Tynemouth to yield up its claims to the ancient
burying-ground; but, with laudable firmness, the parish has refused to sanction
such an infringement on the rights of posterity, and so painful an outrage on
private feeling.
With
regard to the erection of a church, perhaps the plan proposed might have been
found too expensive for the parish, in the present times of depression, to
adopt; but, surely, a church ought to be built “to God” if not “to fame;” plain
and simple structure is all that the purity of Christian worship requires; and,
in whatever point of view the subject is contemplated, there is certainly no
place where a church or chapel belonging to the Establishment is more wanted.
The extent of the parish to the north, without any church nearer than
Shields—the resort of invalids, in the summer, to Tynemouth, who must
frequently find a walk of such length an impracticable undertaking—the
operation of the same inconvenience on the elderly and infirm part of the
inhabitants in the winter season—and the state of religion and morals in the
village itself, all present unanswerable arguments in favour of the plan; nor
will the projected erection of an additional church at Shields tend, in the
least degree, to remove or mitigate any of the evils just enumerated.
At
the time the claim just alluded to was made by the board of Ordnance, it was
pertinaciously contended, that, the eastern side of the enclosure never had
been a place of sepulture, but always garden-ground. Proof positive to the
contrary, however, unsought, presented itself; for in turning up the ground in
that part for the purpose of making a drain, numbers of stone coffins of the
rudest form, containing bones, both of adults and children, were found; and
that at such a depth as to leave no doubt that the period of their interment
was very remote.
Though
the fortifications of Tynemouth may attract the warrior, its ruins the
antiquarian, and its gaieties the votary of pleasure; few, very few of its
visitants have cast the reverted glance of enquiry back to the private history
of the beings who once inhabited this celebrated place. While they gaze on the
remains of the venerable priory, they think not of those, who there hid the
sorrows of a worthy, or veiled the vices of a corrupt heart, beneath the
monkish cowl. The soldier, who now guards these towers and bulwarks against the
hostile invader, turns not to the records of his predecessors in arms, who
formerly attacked or defended them. And the fair Northumbrian, as she lightly
passes over the consecrated ground,
“Where heaves the turf, in many a
mould’ring heap.”
reflects not, that the ashes they enclose, once,
perhaps, composed a form not less lovely, a heart not less tender, and were
animated by a mind not less intelligent than her own; but when the faithful pen
of the biographer shall trace the story of their sufferings, will the bosom of
courage refuse the sigh of sympathy, or the eye of beauty withhold the tear of
sensibility?
THE
CASTLE
OF TYNEMOUTH.
CHAP.
II.
“With
frequent foot,
Pleas’d have I, in my cheerful morn
of life,
When
nurs’d by careless solitude I liv’d,
And sung of nature with unceasing
joy,
Pleas’d have I wandered through your
rough domain.”
WILLIAM
de NORTON, earl of Wooler, one of the most conspicuous and distinguished
characters in the reign of the seventh Henry, was appointed governor of
Tynemouth Castle, on the decease of Sir Robert Lilburn, in the spring of the
year 1491. This nobleman was at once eminent for his high rank and station, his
military talents and achievements, the opulence of his fortune, and the favor
of his prince, to whom he had been recommended by both his personal services in
the field, and the ardent and faithful attachment of the family of Norton to
the interests of the house of Lancaster. Though his military skill was great,
and his arm generally powerful in the day of battle, yet his understanding,
naturally not one of the brightest, had received little assistance from study
or application; strictly honourable and just in his dealings with men, he was
easily imposed upon by the semblance of virtue; and a rigid observer of truth
himself, he scarcely ever doubted the veracity of others. Mild and good
natured, almost to a fault, he seldom betrayed symptoms of anger, and never for
any length of time. But though he was guilty of no vices, he had errors which
are ever baneful in their consequences, and too frequently fatal in their
effects: he was the slave of superstition, in the fullest extent of the word;
the tool of priests and monks; the implicit believer of all ridiculous notions,
and the bigotted devotee of all the absurd prejudices of that dark age. Twelve
years had now elapsed, since the earl lost a lovely and beloved consort, to
whom he had been united early in life, and who had made him the happy father of
two beautiful and promising children, a son and a daughter. The countess, with
her last breath, recommended these dear objects of her maternal tenderness to
his care; and since that melancholy period, he had faithfully supplied to them
the place of both parents. He had signalized himself at Bosworth Field; and
after the event of that battle, which established Henry of Lancaster on the
throne of England, Wooler abjured public life, and secluding himself almost
entirely at Wooler Park, he devoted his time to the superintendance of his children’s
education. No expence was spared to bestow on them every science and
accomplishment that the times could boast; and the highest extent of the earl’s
hopes and wishes was, to see Ida a faithful son of the church, and a loyal
subject of the house of Lancaster; and to trace in the lovely countenance and
engaging manners of Rosetta, the living image of her lamented mother.
At
the period now under consideration, Lord Ida de Norton had just completed his
seventeenth year; the season of hope, generosity, courage, and benevolence; and
the soul of Ida was compounded of them all, in their most romantic extremes.
With a capacity far more extensive, and an understanding infinitely better
cultivated than those of his father, he inherited his talents for war, and his
passion for military glory. His heart was warm and noble, his disposition open
and sincere; his graceful limbs were braced with youth and strength, his
expressive countenance wore the glow of health and cheerfulness; and good sense
and lively fancy sparkled in his animated dark eyes.
Lady
Rosetta, two years younger than Ida, was all of feminine virtue, grace, and
loveliness, that imagination can form, or language describe. Her unaffectedly
soft and delicate manners were the natural emanations of a tender heart; yet
her gentleness was blended with great dignity of mind and strength of soul, and
enlivened with sportive gaiety and lively wit. The exact symmetry and
proportion of her form and stature, the transparent beauty of her complexion,
the roseate bloom which adorned her lovely face, and the inexpressible
sweetness and intelligence which beamed from her fine black eyes, were perfect
models of female loveliness, and emblems of the soul which gave them animation.
Such
were the children of the earl of Wooler, at the period when that nobleman, at
the express request of the sovereign himself, accepted the government of
Tynemouth Castle. The earl was too much attached to Ida and Rosetta, to think
of residing at Tynemouth unaccompanied by them; and their ardent and inexperienced minds, found a source of
exquisite delight, in anticipating the varied succession of new objects which
their change of residence would present. Hitherto they had never strayed beyond
their native shades of Wooler Park; which, though endeared to them by early
habit, and a thousand recollected circumstances of youthful delight and
happiness, was a scene too narrow for the active and opening powers of Ida’s
mind; his martial spirit sighed for
“———The plumed troops, and
the big war,
That makes ambition virtue,
the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum,
th’ ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all
quality,
Pride, pomp, and
circumstance of glorious war!”
And hence Ida thought, that a residence at Tynemouth
Castle would be felicity itself. They had never yet beheld the sea; for Wooler
Park was at least thirty miles distant from that element; and numberless were
the inquiries which they now made of the earl, their father, and whoever else
could give them information concerning its wonders.
“What
delight I shall take in viewing the ships, and examining the fortifications,”
said Ida to his sister, “and we will
have a barge, Rosetta, and fishing tackle, and make little excursions to sea,
and we shall find a pleasant companion in Mitford Lilburne.”
Rosetta
smiled; but at that moment her eye glanced on the plants which had been
cultivated by her own hands, and those of her brother.
“Oh!
but we must leave our flowers, Ida!” she sighed; “my father says, they will not
grow so nigh the sea.”
“Oh!
never mind the flowers,” cried Ida, “we can try them, you know, and if they
will not grow, let them die!”
But
while he spoke thus—while he gathered one of the fragrant lilies, and presented
it to his sister—his bosom heaved a gentle sigh, as he contemplated the object
of his care, which he had tended every morning, and watered almost every
evening.
“Ah!
I shall have no lambs, no kids, at Tynemouth,” said Rosetta, while she gazed
with pensive earnestness on the enclosures where she had been accustomed to
view the little animals, and amuse herself with their gambols.
Ida
found matter of consolation for this loss also; for he reminded Rosetta, that
the earl had promised her a little white palfrey to ride on the sands; and he
added, that Tynemouth would afford much finer subjects for the display of her
talents in landscape drawing, and descriptive poetry, than any about Wooler
Park.
The
earl of Wooler could quit with little regret, the mansion of his ancestors, the
scene of his former happiness and present tranquillity, to obey the command of
his sovereign, and reside on a spot, where he thought he should be peculiarly
favoured by heaven, within the sacred precincts of St. Oswin’s holy shine. Ida
felt delighted and enraptured with the prospect of being always surrounded by
fortifications, ordnance, ships, and boats; and Rosetta anticipated, with
sensations of pleasure, her rides, her walks, her pictures, her verses, and her
projected collection of shells and sea-weed.
But
there was another inmate of Wooler Park, in whom the very thought of a
residence in Tynemouth Castle excited disgust, dismay, and horror; this was
Mrs. Judith Cresswell, a maiden lady, distantly related to the earl of Wooler,
and who, since the death of the countess, had superintended his domestic
affairs, and assisted him in the education of his children, to whom she was
much attached. Mrs. Judith possessed much good sense, but was extremely formal,
demure, and sententious, and even more ridiculously superstitious than the earl
himself. She had tried every argument, to induce her kinsman to decline
accepting the government of Tynemouth Castle; and when she found they were
ineffectual, she endeavoured to persuade him to leave his children, or at least
his daughter, at Wooler Park: but this too failed of success, for Wooler loved
his Rosetta too well to bear her absence; and as it would have been equally
insupportable to Mrs. Judith, she was at length compelled to yield a reluctant
consent to accompany her friends to Tynemouth: but she did not fail to bitterly
inveigh against it to Ida and Rosetta. “I do not approve of living at
Tynemouth,” she would say, “I think it is a pity your father has accepted the
appointment; I have heard very strange reports about that place; and, though I
believe no one is less inclined to be superstitious than myself, yet there is
seldom so much smoke without some fire.” Ida dearly loved his antiquated
relative, was truly grateful for her cares, and held sacred the precepts of
virtue which she had implanted in his bosom; but he well knew how to appreciate
her character; and though he did not always dare to openly avow his sentiments,
yet in his heart he despised both the bigotted prejudices of his father, and
the ridiculous credulity of Mrs. Judith. At the same time he well knew what
reports she alluded to, and exclaimed “Why, to be sure, my dear madam, the
firing of the cannon is always attended with smoke, and the report, as you
observe, is very loud, but when you are once used to it, it will be nothing at
all!”
“Ida,”
exclaimed Mrs. Judith, in a tone of displeasure, “I do not like this
incredulity: it is fool-hardiness. There are certainly great grounds for the
reports I mention. Do you consider the size and antiquity of the building? You
plead wilful ignorance, child. You cannot but know, that after the sanctuary of
Tynemouth monastry was violated, and our ancestor, Robert de Mowbray, earl of
Northumberland, was dragged from it and murdered, a spell of enchantment was
laid on the Castle of Tynemouth, which has continued ever since; and the ghost
of—”
Here
Ida, no longer able to command his features, ran out of the room; while
Rosetta, though not less diverted than her brother, contrived for once to sit
with a grave face. Mrs. Judith, who was doubtless afraid that the example of
Ida’s incredulity would extend its fatal influence to Rosetta, wisely cautioned
her against its effects, by saying, “Do not mind what your brother says on
these subjects, my dear. It would be wickedness indeed, to disbelieve what I
have advanced, but he knows very well, that it is all true, and only affects to
doubt it, merely to teaze me. I cannot say I like this going to Tynemouth,
Rosey; I have felt a kind of ominous foreboding for some time past; and I have
dreamed some very strange dreams lately. However, if we are to go, I wish we
were there; for we had better have the finger off, than always aching. For my
part, I shall take care not to meddle with any of the mysteries of the place,
nor go out at night, upon any account; for the best way to keep out of danger,
is not to come into it.”
When
the hour of departure from Wooler Park arrived, the earl was thoughtful and
silent, for he could not avoid reflecting, that he was quitting a peaceful
retreat, and entering upon a situation replete with toilsome cares and duties;
and that he was about to introduce his children to a world where they would be
surrounded by dangers and temptations. Mrs. Judith could not abstract her mind
from the ideas of ghosts and enchantments, with which it was haunted. Ida
hailed this day as the most auspicious of his life. And Rosetta, though she
shed the tear of regret, at leaving her happy home, soon resumed her wonted
cheerfulness, and exerted her charming vivacity, to chase the pensiveness which
oppressed her father, and divert the attention of Mrs. Cresswell from the
subject of her apprehensions.
The
earl possessed a house at Newcastle, where he had scarcely ever resided since
his marriage; but he now passed a night there on his road to Tynemouth; and the
next day embarked with his family in his barge on the Tyne, followed by a
number of boats, in which were his retinue. Their voyage down the river was
rapid and pleasant; and the earl not choosing to land at Shields, they passed
through the harbour, and, entering Prior’s haven, sailed up the moat to the
bridge, where the new governor was received by Major Shipperdson, the
deputy-governor, and the rest of the officers and the soldiers of the garrison
under arms; and welcomed by a discharge of artillery. The heart of Ida
responded to the sound of the guns; while the gentle Rosetta, surprised and
agitated by a scene so novel, clung to the arm of her father, and turned her
lovely face from the ardent gaze of the surrounding strangers.
Shipperdson
addressed the earl in the language of flattery and compliment, a language in
which he was indeed a most skilful adept. This officer maintained in the world
the character of a man of honor; but was in reality a designing, unprincipled
villain. A good person, and exquisitely polished manners, had but too
successfully veiled his depraved heart from general observation, and so deeply
was he read in the school of dissimulation, that he could readily assume any
character, and wear it with the most perfect ease as long as it suited his
designs. He possessed the most consummate effrontery, veiled under much seeming
modesty and gentleness of manners; and he had by persevering assiduity
recommended himself to persons high in power, who raised him from mean birth
and obscurity to his present situation: yet was that situation too low to
gratify his ambition, and the income attached to it far inadequate to answer
the expences consequent on the passions and pursuits in which he indulged
himself; but he had hoped for preferment. Stimulated by vanity, he had expected
that his sovereign would promote him to the post vacated by the death of Sir
Robert Lilburne, and now bestowed on the earl of Wooler. And though he received
that nobleman with every appearance of cordiality, respect, and submission, he
secretly execrated him in his heart, for having usurped what he thought his
right, and ardently wished for an opportunity of revenging an injury, of which
the earl was both innocent and ignorant. While Wooler, who was totally
unacquainted with the dark shades of Shipperdson’s character, and only knew him
as a brave officer, gave easy credit to his professions of duty and esteem, and
readily assured him of his regard and friendship. At the second gate, the
governor was met by the prior and brethren of the monastery; and Wooler, as he
knelt to receive the holy father’s benediction, believed himself peculiarly
favored by heaven, and guarded against all evils and dangers. The sentiments of
Mrs. Judith were not perhaps perfectly similar to those of the earl. Rosetta
obeyed the command of her father, and knelt also; and Ida, thinking, with a
certain pope, that an old man’s blessing
could do no harm, followed his sister’s example.
When
this ceremony was finished, one of the monks advanced to the earl, leading a graceful
and elegant youth, habited in a deep mourning dress.
“My
lord,” said he, “you now behold the son of Sir Robert Lilburne, your deceased
friend, who, with his latest breath, charged me to recommend this youth to your
protection; and to entreat you, as the last request of a dying friend, to
undertake the office of guardian to him, during the two remaining years of his
minority.”
The
earl replied to father Vincent with his accustomed gentleness and urbanity.
They had already corresponded on this subject; and Wooler now embracing his
young and amiable ward, promised to faithfully supply to him the place of the
parent he had lost. Lilburne, who possessed much natural dignity of manners,
bowed to Mrs. Cresswell and Rosetta with easy grace, and replied to the earl in
terms of lively gratitude; while Ida, addressing him with fraternal tenderness,
gave and received the most cordial assurances of sincere and lasting
friendship.
The
exterior and interior appearance of the governor’s house, did not serve to reconcile
Mrs. Judith to a residence at Tynemouth. Though commanding a noble and
extensive prospect of the sea, she thought the situation chilling and dreary;
and though it had been fitted up and put in order for the earl’s reception, she
examined the apartments with scrupulous exactness, and passed sentence on them
all in succession.
“I do
not like this hall,” she exclaimed. “It is too near the church-yard, and the
smell of it affects my olfactory nerves like the effluvia from a vault!”
The
little breakfast room adjoining the oak-parlour was forbidden to be entered,
and the door absolutely nailed up, because Mrs. Judith was convinced that the
spell of enchantment extended to it; the rooms in the gallery above underwent
the same scrutiny. Rosetta wished to inhabit an apartment which commanded a
view of the bar, and of every vessel which entered or departed from the harbour
of Shields; but when she intimated her desire to Mrs. Creswell, that lady
replied, “No, my dear, you must not sleep in that room, on any account; for the
furniture is of a most unlucky colour—when
the bed is green, sorrows are soon seen.”
Rosetta
was compelled to acquiesce, and they proceeded in their examination. The
adjoining room was the one which the governor had ordered to be prepared for
himself, and it was passed with little animadversion; Mrs. Judith only
observing, “That it would be much exposed to the wind, when it was in the east,
which neither is good for man nor beast.”
The next subject to which Mrs. Cresswell turned
her attention, was the choice of a chamber for herself; and to fix on one
unexceptionable in all points was indeed a difficult task. Some were enchanted,
and others haunted; in that the furniture was yellow, which she termed a
forsaken colour; and in this it was red, the reflection of which would, she said, disorder the optic system.
Rosetta, however, observing that the view from the windows was nearly the same
as that she had admired in the green room, made choice of this apartment for
her own use, assuring Mrs. Judith, that the colour of the hangings would not
affect her sight in the least; and that lady, after some hesitation, accorded
to her request. After three hours had been spent in this tedious search,
without success, a small room on the north side of the gallery presented
itself, and had the good fortune to please. It was hung with tapestry, and
furnished with a bed, curtains, and chairs of dark blue velvet; and true blue,
Mrs. Judith declared, was the very best of all colours: but many were the forms
of preparation which this apartment was destined to undergo, before it could be
made habitable in her opinion. In the first place, the hangings were all lifted
up, and the wainscot carefully examined, lest any concealed door, or private
passage, should be there. None, however, appeared; and the tapestry was then
fastened down close to the floor, and a horse-shoe nailed on the threshold. On
further examination, however, Mrs. Judith discovered that the bedstead was not
made of mountain-ash, the only wood proof against the power of witchcraft; but,
by making a strict search throughout the house, one was at length found,
composed entirely of that precious material, and fitted up accordingly. She
then dispatched one of the soldiers to the sea-side to bring her a holed stone,
which she suspended with blessed tape over the bed’s head; and having placed
images of St. Mary and St. Oswin on
each side, she piously thanked heaven, that she now had a chamber fit for a
human being to repose in. Yet many untoward circumstances combined to break her
rest, even there. Ida insisted on occupying the rejected green room, though
Mrs. Judith assured him, that such a choice would infallibly draw down
misfortunes on his head; and Mitford Lilburne was no less tenacious in
retaining the apartment where his father died; though it was confidently
whispered about the garrison that the spirit of its late inhabitant nightly
resorted to it. Poor Mrs. Judith was consequently under continual apprehension
for the safety of her two young friends. The dashing of the billows also
disturbed her; and in the continual roar of the winds and waves, she heard the
cries of drowning seamen, and the moaning of the ghosts of those who had
already perished. Besides, she was much afflicted with the cramp during the first
night, though she took the precaution of turning her shoe soles upwards; and
the furniture of the chamber gave loud and repeated cracks, which she
considered as a most unfortunate omen indeed.
But
no cares, no fears, no anxieties, either real or chimerical, disturbed the
tranquil bosoms of Ida and Rosetta; to them Tynemouth was a delightful
residence, and every anticipated pleasure was realised. They soon became
possessed of the promised barge and palfrey; and their excursions to sea, and
their rides in the neighbourhood, opened and enlarged their minds, and proved
inexhaustible sources of both amusement and instruction.—Rosetta was charmed
with the beautiful and romantic subjects which Tynemouth afforded for her
drawings; and delighted when the melody of her harp was echoed and reverberated
by the surrounding rocks; and poetry, her best beloved and favourite art, was
successfully cultivated, amidst scenes calculated to inspire the ardor of
poetic enthusiasm. Nor did Ida and Rosetta pursue these pleasures and
employments alone, they found three amiable companions at Tynemouth in Mitford
Lilburne, Oswald Clifford (a young officer of the garrison), and Elfrida
Thornton, the daughter of a private gentleman who resided in the village.
Mitford
Lilburne was in every respect one of the finest young men of the age in which
he lived. His person was tall and gracefully elegant and majestic; his
complexion fair, but animated by the bloom of health; and his sweet blue eyes
expressed the gentleness, the goodness, and the sympathizing humanity of his
character. His manners were at once plain, noble, sincere, and dignified;
possessing a soul firm and unshaken in virtue, the constant aim of his life was
to obey her precepts, from the practice of which, he neither could be diverted
by the allurements, nor deterred by the sneers of the world. His understanding
was acute, strong, and profound, his judgment clear and solid; the cause of
misery he considered as his own, and his open heart and persuasive lips were
ever ready to assist the unfortunate. Father Vincent, the most learned and
amiable monk of the priory, had for several years past been his preceptor; and,
aided by his instructions, the mind of Mitford Lilburne early in life was
highly cultivated, and adorned with all the learning of that age. Father
Vincent had for ten years been a member of the society of Benedictines settled
at Tynemouth; yet the prior and brethren were ignorant of his name, family, and
connections. They knew him to be a native of Italy, but of what part they could
not ascertain, for he seemed equally well acquainted with every place in that
country and France, and he had never communicated the particulars of his
history to any of them. He was eminently conspicuous for sanctity of life and
manners, and his countenance exhibited the picture of a man worn with years and
sorrows; but the austerities and mortifications which he practised, and a grief
which, doubtless, had its origin in days long past, had probably greatly
augmented his appearance of age, and anticipated the work of time. Yet good and
amiable as was father Vincent, he had few friends in either the convent or
garrison. The prior and monks in general envied his superior erudition, and
secretly hated him, because he saw and reproved their vices. This was also the
case with Major Shipperdson: he had refused absolution to that officer, and
frequently admonished him; but Shipperdson, far from profiting by his
exhortations, highly resented them, and vowed a revenge, which he only waited
for a favourable opportunity to execute. Father Vincent, however, had been high
in the esteem of the late governor;
he attended him on his death-bed, and from the length of time which they
remained in private, and the agitation which appeared on both their
countenances, it was generally believed that Sir Robert then communicated to
him some very important event of his life, but of what nature no one could
guess.
After
the new governor and his family arrived at Tynemouth, the earl expressed a
desire that his children should partake with Mitford Lilburne in the valuable
instructions of the holy monk; a request which father Vincent most willingly
complied with, and stored the minds of his delighted pupils with the treasures
of history, philosophy, and geography. He was much attached to Rosetta, but
Mitford Lilburne observed, or thought he observed, that her presence frequently
excited some painful idea in the mind of father Vincent; for he had frequently
heard him sigh, and even seen him weep, when gazing on her with fixed and earnest attention.
Elfrida Thornton did not possess
either the strength of mind or fine understanding of Rosetta de Norton; but her
soft and gentle manners, and the taste she displayed for music and drawing,
engaged the esteem of that young lady, and she merited it; for Elfrida, with a
disposition timid, retired, and unobtrusive, had many valuable qualities.
Oswald
Clifford was a friendless orphan, who had lost a father and a fortune in the
wars of York and Lancaster; and he had owed both his education and the
commission he held in the garrison of Tynemouth, to the generosity of Mr.
Thornton ; a generosity which found
its reward in the gratitude and good conduct of him on whom it was bestowed.
Brought up from infancy with Elfrida, he regarded her as a friend—a sister; but
he had strictly guarded his heart against the admission of a sentiment more
tender, for the duty and respect he felt for his benefactor were such, that he
would have died rather than have made a clandestine attempt to engage the affections
of his child. Clifford was high in the
esteem of Mitford Lilburne, who recommended him to the favor of the earl of
Wooler, when that nobleman arrived at Tynemouth; and from that hour the five
young friends were scarcely ever asunder. They all shared in the same
pleasures, and constantly composed the same party out to sea, riding, or
walking on the beach; and when the gentlemen were engaged in military
exercises, or hunting, the ladies amused themselves at home with music,
working, and drawing. And Rosetta, the innocent, the lovely Rosetta, was now
more gay, more cheerful, and more
happy than ever. Poor Mrs. Judith, however, was far from been reconciled to her
situation; in addition to her former disastrous prodigies, many similar ones
had occurred to disturb her; she had seen a figure, without a head, cross the
church-yard at midnight, and vanish in the sea. She had heard a bell toll at
the same solemn hour. And some of the soldier’s children had destroyed the
nests which the swallows had built in the eaves of the governor’s house; and
hence Mrs. Judith predicted the destruction of it, and all its inhabitants.
Major
Shipperdson, who chose to keep fair with all the governor’s family, had found
out Mrs. Cresswell’s weak side, and amused her credulity with all the tales of
horror concerning Tynemouth, that he could collect.
“I do
not wonder that you dislike Tynemouth Castle, my dear madam,” he would say; “it
is certainly a very unfit residence for a lady: many deeds of darkness have
been perpetrated here.”
Then
ensued a long dissertation concerning Robert de Mowbray, earl of
Northumberland, after which Shipperdson resumed.—
“But
though that affair doubtless was the foundation of the enchantment, yet I think
that the murder of father Ninian was even more atrocious.”
This
was sufficient to excite the curiosity of Mrs. Judith; and, at her entreaty,
her complaisant informer related a long story, from the substance of which she
learned, that one of the Lilburne family had murdered a monk belonging to the
convent; and no atonement having been made to the church for this sacrilege,
the perturbed spirit of the deceased nightly walked its rounds there.
Shipperdson
then proceeded to hint what was whispered in the garrison concerning the dying
moments of the late governor; and though he did not scruple to mix what he
believed to be false, with what he knew to be true, Mrs. Judith gave implicit
credit to the whole of his information, and felt much consoled by his
assurance—that the ghost of father Ninian never hurt any person.”
However
though the major could impose on the earl and Mrs. Judith, he had no friends
amongst the younger part of the family. The gentlemen despised, and the ladies
disliked him; while he in his turn hated Ida, Lilburne, and Clifford for their
talents and their virtues—regarded Rosetta only as a beautiful child, and had
for some time past entertained designs against Elfrida, which he was resolved
to carry into execution, whenever opportunity offered.
Such
was the situation of affairs at Tynemouth, in the summer of 1492, when
circumstances induced the king to assemble his
forces for the purpose of invading France, the Earl of Wooler received his
majesty’s commands to leave his government to the care of Major Shipperdson,
and join the army, without delay, with his vassels,
and all the troops that could be spared from the garrison.
Alas!
this mandate destroyed the visionary happiness of Rosetta, and she looked
forward with weeping anguish to the mournful parting with her parent and her
brother.
Ida rejoiced
in the thought of accompanying his father to France, and engaging in active
warfare.
Lilburne
and Clifford certainly were not less courageous than Ida, and yet the former
sighed when he reflected, that he also must attend the earl; and the latter
felt a load removed from his breast, when he received orders to remain in the
garrison, while Mrs. Judith already foretold the fate of the war, and saw as
many prodigies in the sky, as attended the siege of Jerusalem.
CHAP.
III.
“But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious cloister’s pale,
And love the high embossed
roof,
With antique pillars massy
proof,
And storied windows richly
dight,
Casting a dim religious
light.”
THE
governor was indefatigably active in obeying the commands of his sovereign. He
visited Wooler Park, to give the necessary instructions for raising and arming
his vassels; and on his return, employed himself in drawing up such orders as
were requisite, to secure the safety and internal quiet of the garrison during
his absence. And it was his intention to confer the dignity of knighthood on
Mitford Lilburne previous to their departure, which he expected would take
place about the middle of September.
The
weather in the beginning of this month was remarkably pleasant, and one evening
Ida proposed a party to sea for the following day, which was readily agreed to
by Lilburne, Clifford, and the two young
ladies.
The
morning rose serene and bright, the mild western breeze scarce dimpled the
ocean, and the refulgent sun beams illumined the gothic towers, and antique
casements of the priory.
The
party assembled at an early hour, and all matters being prepared for their
embarkation at nine o’clock, they passed by the south-west postern to the haven, where the barge waited to receive
them. In all their excursions, whenever the least shadow of danger or
difficulty presented itself, Rosetta had been accustomed to receive the
assistance of both Lilburne and Clifford, and now their ready hands were
extended to conduct her over the rocks, slippery with moss and sea-weed.
Probably the idea of Lilburne’s approaching departure, at that moment rushed to
the mind of Rosetta, and softened her heart in his favor; for whatever might be
the cause she now departed from her former uniform impartiality, and accepting
his aid alone, refused that of the young officer, though in the most gentle
manner, with a smile, and a slight
inclination of her head.
Ah!
what were the sensations which this acceptance, and this refusal excited in
Lilburne and Clifford! Both had long loved Rosetta de Norton, unknown even to
themselves; but this eventful moment brought conviction to their bosoms; and
while hope and extatic delight beamed on the former; jealousy and despair
overwhelmed the latter.
When
Rosetta was seated in the barge, Lilburne placed himself by her side. Ida had
conducted Miss Thornton, and the dejected Clifford took his seat at a distance.
They were rowed by two barge-men, and attended by lord Ida’s servant; and for
some time the diversion of fishing was pursued by the whole party with apparent
earnestness, though with but indifferent success. Lilburne was attentive only
to Rosetta; he conversed but with her, baited her hooks, drew up her line, and
deposited her prey in the basket. Clifford watched them with looks of anxious
solicitude. Elfrida leaning over the side of the barge, seemed lost in silent
dejection, while Ida, ever gay, cheerful, and animated, strove to amuse and
enliven both his friends and himself: he laughed at his own ill fortune, bantered Clifford on his want of skill, and
rallied Elfrida for being so grave, until he called up a smile on her pensive
countenance.—While Ida was thus employed, Lilburne was disengaging Rosetta’s
hook from the breast of a poor unfortunate gurnet.
“How
cruel you are,” she cried,” “to tear it away with such force, and give the poor
captive a death so painful!”
“And,
would lady Rosetta be equally tender to all her captives?” questioned Lilburne,
with an arch smile— “Would she always grieve to behold the pain she inflicts?”
“No,
no, Sir,” she replied with quickness. “I only feel for suffering innocence, if
my captives deserve punishment, I should offer an insult to justice by pitying
them.”
A
deep sigh burst from the bosom of Clifford, and to conceal it, he pretended to
busy himself in counting the fishes they had already caught, while Elfrida
prevented Lilburne’s reply to her friend, by exclaiming with assumed gaiety:—
“I can secure no captives however, for one has
just broken my line and escaped with the hook.”
“Then
he has struggled for freedom, and deserved it,” cried Ida, “the wretch who
tamely submits to his chains is worthy of them.”
“And
are these your sentiments, Norton,” cried Lilburne; “you will make a fine lover
indeed, if you avow them.”
“If
ever I be a lover, I certainly shall avow them,” returned Ida. “A gentle fair
one may bind me with fetters of roses, but the moment she shows her chains, I
am off.”
Miss
Thornton’s line was by this time repaired, but she declined using it any more,
and Rosetta regarding her with a look of tender anxiety, exclaimed, “I fear our
voyage to-day is not agreeable to you, my dear Elfrida—if you feel indisposed,
we will instantly return.”
A
smile from Elfrida, and an assurance that she was perfectly well, quieted the fears
of her friends, or at least stopped all inquiries, but it did not hinder the
lively Ida from exclaiming:— “Oh! no, it is not the sea that affects Miss
Thornton—I know her goodness—the idea of my approaching departure has robbed
her countenance of its wonted gaiety.”
The
word departure had a visible and wonderful effect on all present. Lilburne
sighed deeply, and threw aside his line. A pensive languor overshadowed the
fine features of Rosetta. The dejection of Elfrida was evidently increased, and
she could scarce collect spirits and voice sufficient to assure Ida that she
should indeed regret his departure, though at present, it really was not the
subject of her thoughts. But far different was the expression of Clifford’s
animated eyes—a beam of joy sparkled there, and he now returned the raillery of
Ida, by reminding him that the ladies seemed to support with composure the
prospect of losing his society.
“Very
well,” returned Norton, “just as they please—if no one here will lament my
absence, I do not despair of finding one in France, who will rejoice in my
presence. Lilburne also tells me, that he intends bringing Hartley Hall a fair
mistress from that country. However, Clifford, as you are to be the champion, and knight-errant of these
fair damsels, I would caution you, to beware of Major Shipperdson—take care he
does not rob you of your charming wards, for believe me, he will prove a much
more subtle dangerous enemy, than all the ghosts and enchantments my aunt
Judith talks about.”
This
speech seemed to augment the effect of the former one. Clifford became yet more
animated, and the dejection of the rest increased; and so very unhappy did
Elfrida appear, that an idea now for the first time rushed to the mind of
Rosetta, that what her brother had said in jest, was true in earnest; and that
his approaching departure, or—painful thought!—the departure of Lilburne, was a
source of anguish to Elfrida; yet the candour and good sense of Rosetta, would
not permit her to form hasty conclusions, and she determined to watch her
friend, until either her conjectures were confirmed or destroyed—probably
indeed they were wholly without foundation.
Lilburne
now, with a pretended solicitude to amuse Miss Thornton, but with a real desire
to hear the charming voice of Rosetta, requested a song from that young lady. She gracefully complied,
and with her wonted enchanting softness, and expression, sung the following.
Evening! I love thy pensive hour,
When ocean’s ebbing water’s
flow;
And gentle western breezes
blow,
Sweet is thy magic
power.
Though sunk the glorious orb of day,
The moon displays her mellow
light;
And every radiant star of
night
Unfolds its brightest ray.
And when beneath stern winter’s power,
Wide o’er the sky dark
clouds were cast,
And hoarse waves echo to the
blast,
I love that pensive hour.
Clifford,
attentive only to the thrilling melody of Rosetta’s voice, lost his line
overboard; and Ida throwing his aside, declared he would fish no more; and
commanded Daniel to unpack the refreshments they had brought with them.
While
these orders were obeying, Lilburne, who had listened to Rosette with rapturous
delight, wrote with a pencil the following sonnet, and presented it to that
lady.
Arion’s tuneful harp, and
magic lays,
Could charm the list’ning monsters of the deep,
And Hesiod’s murder’d
corpse, tradition says,
When plunge’d in vengeance from the rocky steep,
Was borne by dolphins
through the yielding sea,
To the fair temple of Neinean Jove.
But greater powers, Rosetta,
wait on thee;---
Thy strains divine, shall hearts immortal move;
Still let it be the boast of
Grecian song,
To please the subjects of wide ocean’s caves,
While round thy potent lyre,
fair nymph, shall throng,
Even they, the mighty rulers of the waves,
And sceptered Thetis, and
her syren train,
With envy’s bitter tears, shall swell their native main.
When
Rosetta read these lines, she held them over the side of the barge, and
exclaimed with a glance of arch meaning at Lilburne, “The only atonement that
can be made to Thetis for the insult you have offered her, will be to sacrifice
this to her resentment.”
“Do
so,” replied Lilburne, with the saucy smile of conscious security.
Rosetta
held it to the surface of the water, and then hastily folding it up, deposited
it in her pocket-book; while Ida and Miss Thornton, who suddenly became more
animated, petitioned in vain to see it; and the look of triumphant gratitude
which Lilburne wore, was a dagger to the heart of Clifford.
It
was now twelve o’clock, and the party intended to return by three, but the wind
suddenly shifted to the north-west, and blew a strong gale. The serene blue of
the sky was covered with black clouds; the billows began to swell, and the
boatmen declared it would be prudent to make the best of their way into port,
as the weather wore every appearance of an approaching storm. Ida had no fears,
but Lilburne and Clifford, who from their long residence at Tynemouth, were
much better acquainted with every symptom which the watermen pointed out,
concurred in their opinion; and the ladies, especially the timid Elfrida, urged
their immediate return. They took in their
anchor, and attempted to gain the harbour, but vain was the effort; the wind
now blew a hurricane, and the ebb-tide ran with such strength, that it was
impossible to approach the shore. Sails and oars were of no avail; and the
barge, driven rapidly along by the fury of the elements, soon lost sight of the
lofty towers of Tynemouth.
Dismay
and anguish now pervaded the whole party. The colour fled from the lovely
cheeks of Rosetta, and she raised her eyes to those of Lilburne, with a look of
hopeless despondency. Elfrida shrieked aloud, and wrung her hands; but the
gentlemen concealed their own apprehensions, and exerted themselves to combat
the fears, and soothe the spirits of their fair companions, with hopes that it
would be possible to make Sunderland harbour, though at the same time, they
were but too sensible, that the same causes which prevented them from approaching
their own haven, would operate with equal force at the mouth of the Wear; and
their apprehensions were verified, for though the boatmen did their utmost to
enter that river, they found it impossible to accomplish their purpose.
Oh!
what was now the situation of the poor forlorn victims! Tossed on the wide
ocean, with no hope, no probability of deliverance from danger, scarce the
least chance of escape from death; for the swelling surge incessantly broke
over the boat, and it pitched so violently, that every moment threatened to
overset it.
Wet,
cold, and exhausted, Rosetta wept on the bosom of her brother, and her heart
seemed to die within her, while her anguished thought turned to her unhappy
parent, who in one fatal hour would be deprived of both his children; nor was
the near prospect of her own inevitable destruction half so torturing to her
agonized soul, as the idea of his sufferings and distraction.
The
timid mind and weak frame of Elfrida were ill calculated to support the
approach of danger, and her fears soon becoming too powerful for both her
strength and her reason, she sunk to the bottom of the barge, the pale image of
death.
Clifford
distressed as he was on Rosetta’s account, felt his affectionate regard for
Elfrida, and his gratitude to her father, too strong to behold unmoved, her
present deplorable situation, and raising her in his arms, he supported her
inanimate form, and used every means in his power to restore her to life.
In
this hour of calamity, Ida remained undaunted and undismayed; he endeavoured to
soothe and re-assure his sister; and resigning her to the care of Lilburne,
gave every assistance in his power to the watermen.
Lilburne
was too well acquainted with maritime affairs, not to be fully sensible of the
imminent perils to which they were exposed; he saw no prospect of escaping
destruction; and though he wore the outward appearance of hope and
cheerfulness, yet the prayer which his secret soul sent up to the throne of
grace, was rather a petition for mercy in death, than deliverance from danger.
His own life, indeed, he considered as of no value, and with happiness, with
transport, would he have sacrificed it to save that of his adored Rosetta; yet
to do that, was, alas! impossible; and while he supported her loved form, he
expected every moment to perish with her.
The
wind now blew with increased vehemence, the rain poured down in torrents, and
the billows broke on their stern, and met their prow with augmented fury; yet
in the midst of the conflicting elements, two persons remained fearless and
undaunted, these were Lord Ida, and Sandy, an experienced old seaman who had
never quitted the helm from the first appearance of danger.
“Dinna
be frightened, lady,” cried he addressing Rosetta, “Aw’s war’nt ye we’ll dee
weel enough presently. Aw’ve been out in mony sick storms i’ maw days, an’ yet,
Lord be praised, Aw’s here yet. Sit about Daniel, ye blinnd goose, dinnit ye
see the weight gangs a’ ti that side of the boat.”
“How
old are you, Sandy,” questioned Ida, willing to lead the attention of his
companions, even for a moment, from the contemplation of their danger.
“Aw’ll
be fourscore years awd cum Cannelmas day,—wheever lives to see’d,
maister—Hollo, Jony, dinnit you see that big wave cuming?”
Rosetta,
whose firm soul could not long droop under calamity, now felt her natural
fortitude revive; and determined to support her fate with dignity, she assumed
a look of composure, and turning to Sandy, begged him to tell her whether he
really thought there was a possibility of their being saved.
“Dinna
be frighten’d, lady, aw’s war’nt ye we’re syafe enough; we’ll get into the Tees
by an’ by; if we can that’s to say, an’ if we cannot, wy, we mun jeust beat
about a bit langer.”
The
sanguine mind of Ida readily adopted Sandy’s idea, that it might be possible to
enter the Tees; but Lilburne knew too well, that such an attempt would be
wholly impracticable; yet unwilling to distress his friends, he seemed to
concur in their opinion and expectations.
Meanwhile
Clifford had succeeded in restoring animation to Elfrida, and prevailed on her
to swallow a small quantity of cordial, but unable to combat her fears, or
support the scene of horror which surrounded her, she continued with her eyes
shut, and her head reclined on Clifford’s bosom.
Rosetta
had now recovered the powers of her firm mind, and resigning herself to the
disposal of Divine Providence, bestowed her whole attention on Elfrida, and
soothed her with affectionate tenderness.
Ida,
still undaunted, encouraged the vain hope that some ship would appear and
rescue them from their perilous situation. But alas! when they were rapidly
driven past the extensive mouth of the Tees, and old Sandy found himself
baulked in his expectations of entering that river, it seemed as if every chance
was annihilated, and their final doom sealed. Even Ida no longer talked of
deliverance; yet he ventured to
mention Whitby, and faintly inquired whether there might be a possibility of
gaining that port.
Lilburne,
who too well knew there was none, remained silent; and the watermen both
agreed, that the very attempt would be fatal.
“No,
maister, that winna dee,” cried Sandy, shaking his head, “there’s ne seck thing
as getten into Whitby win a boat, but when the wayter’s as smooth as new milk;
but dinna be frighten’d—Aw’s war’nt ye we’ll dee weel enough by an’ by—the
swell ‘ill gang doon afore neight yet.”
But
Sandy’s predictions had already failed, and the reliance which the whole party
had hitherto placed on his experience was consequently weakened; and when not
only Whitby, but many little creeks and bays on the Yorkshire coast were passed
like the harbours of Tyne, Wear, and Tees;—when night drew on, enveloped in clouds, and unlighted by moon or star; when
the winds and waves roared with unabated violence; and no ship, no haven, no
deliverance appeared, the last, faint ray of hope expired, and black despair
pervaded every bosom.
Scarcely
less dreadful was the situation of the unhappy earl, when he beheld the rising
storm, and the agonizing remembrance that his children were exposed to it,
rushed to his mind. With anxious steps he paced the rampart during the whole of
the afternoon; sometimes raising his imploring eyes to heaven in fervent
prayer; and sometimes directing them, with a mingled glance of expectation and
despondency, over the wide expanse of troubled waters, where fancy pictured the
barge approaching in almost every swelling wave: alas! hope deceived him, for
night came on with all its dismal horrors, but brought not his Ida and Rosetta.
Yet unable to support the dreadful idea that his children had perished, the
fond parent flattered himself that they had been able to make some port on the
coast; but when darkness drove him to his home for shelter, when the storm howled without, and when he beheld his once
cheerful fire-side, occupied only by the weeping and dejected Mrs. Cresswell,
hope and fortitude forsook him, and almost in the same breath, he blamed
himself for having permitted Rosetta and Ida to go—supplicated heaven for their
safety, and with groans of bitter anguish exclaimed, that he never should see
them more.
Mrs.
Judith, as may readily be supposed, acted the part of Job’s comforters on this
occasion.
“Oh,
this is the fruits of coming to reside here,” she cried. “What but misery could
happen to Ida, when he has slept so long in a green bed—besides, any person
might have foreseen that a storm was coming on; I have observed it for several
days; sea-gulls have screamed violently, and the asses have brayed without
ceasing; the pigs run about all day yesterday with straws in their mouths,
which is a certain sign of wind. I told Mitford last night, that a quantity of
soot had come down the chimney, but he paid no regard to it—none are so blind as those that won’t see:
but had they minded what I said, they might now have been safe.—Oh! what a
night is here—look, my lord, the storm will not subside, for the cat is sitting
with her back to the fire—oh! my Rosey! my Rosey!—I shall never see thee more.”
Thus
passed the night in dismal lamentations, and vain regrets. The morning dawned
serene and fair, and a mild southern breeze smoothed the ocean, but the spirits
of the earl were little revived by the renovated beauty of nature; he had, the
preceding day, combated his fears with the hope that they had got into Sunderland harbour, but alas! had that been
the case, he must long since have heard some tidings of them; yet willing to catch at every possible chance to
ward off the dreadful idea, that he had lost his children for ever, he deluded
himself with a supposition, that they had perhaps been able to enter the Tees,
and that he should hear of them in the course of the day, and in the meanwhile
he dispatched messengers along the coast to make enquiries of the fishermen,
and others who had been off at sea
during the storm. While Mrs. Judith, on the departure of these persons, took
care not to omit the ceremony of throwing an old shoe after them, for good
luck!
The
father of Elfrida was even more unhappy than the earl of Wooler himself, as
from his long residence nigh the
sea, he was much better enabled to judge of the dangers to which his child was
exposed. He measured his anxious steps with those of the governor along the
ramparts of the castle; and questioned the crew of every vessel which entered Shields
harbour, but to no purpose—no one had seen the boat, and the unhappy Thornton,
worn down with years and infirmities, looked forward only to the dreadful
certainty, that the darling of his age, the delight of his heart, his child,
his Elfrida, was buried deep in a watery grave—and Clifford, the noble-minded,
and amiable youth, who he regarded as a son, was gone too.
It
will readily be supposed that on this occasion, the governor did not fail to
prostrate himself before the shrine of St. Oswin, and offer a rich gift, and
many prayers to that holy martyr.
While the prior and monks, in return, soothed him with assurances that the
petition of so good and dutiful a son of the church would certainly be heard.
Father
Vincent, however, did not stay to comfort the earl, but anxiously uneasy for
the fate of his beloved children, he departed himself with the messengers who
went in search of them.
Mrs.
Judith likewise was actively and variously busy. She was this day sanguine in
hope, for she had seen a letter in the candle, and a stranger in the fire; she
felt a sensation in her ear, which, she said, portended news, and she had
dreamed of the deceased countess the preceding night; and she assured the earl,
that to dream of the dead, is to hear of the living: and even when most of the
persons dispatched by the governor returned in the evening, after an
unsuccessful search, she still consoled herself by observing that “no news is
good news.”
Father
Vincent did not return with the messengers, and Major Shipperdson, though he
had all along affected great concern, especially in the presence of the
governor and Mr. Thornton, secretly wished that neither the monk, nor any of
the party he sought after, Elfrida excepted, might ever be heard of more.
Another
sun set, another dawn arose, and witnessed the agonizing uncertainty of the
wretched parent. Hope had gradually
declined in his bosom, its beams had
grown fainter and fainter, and were now almost overshadowed by despair. Even
Mrs. Judith contributed her share to depress his spirits, for this day abounded
with as many bad omens as the preceding one had furnished those of a favorable
aspect; her rest was broken for two hours by the death-watch, and afterwards
she dreamed of eggs, which she said infallibly portended sorrow and mischief;
besides her maid had killed a spider, and neglected to spread oatmeal for the
crickets, crimes which could not fail to draw down vengeance on the whole
house, and to avert their direful effects, she passed the chief part of the day
in fasting and prayer; while at intervals her groans and screams echoed through
the hall and gallery; then on a sudden she would become more calm, and
administer consolation to the earl, by reminding him, that what cannot be
cured, must be endured. But even in the very moment that she delivered this
incomparable maxim, her own example, and the loudness of her lamentations,
destroyed the efficacy of her doctrine.
“Oh!
how I mourn for their return,” she would exclaim; and when the governor or Mr.
Thornton attempted to mitigate the sonorous violence of her sorrow, she would
forget the lesson she had but the moment before been inculcating, and repeat with loud emphasis:— “Patience many a
one can preach, but who can practice what they teach?”
Not a
boat entered the haven, and not a blast was blown on the bugle at the castle
gate, but Mrs. Cresswell flew in breathless expectation to make enquiries; but
she was still left to console herself with her yesterday’s maxim, that, “no news is good news;” for alas! none
arrived.
Many
were the weary visits which she paid to the ramparts and eminences of the
castle; and many were the boats she saw approaching, which turned out to be a
rock, a sand, a sea-gull, a wave, and sometimes nothing at all.
Towards
evening, some person as superstitious as herself, informed her, that there
lived at Cullercoats a wise woman, one who knew every thing—who could restore
lost or stolen goods to their right owners, and who could tell whether the
absent were well or sick, alive or dead. To Cullercoats, therefore, Mrs. Judith
went, having first obtained the consent of the earl, who probably placed as firm a reliance on the oracles of this
female sage, as antiquity did on those of the Cumaen sybil, and her
communications were indeed most wonderful; for the fair magician informed her
astonished and delighted visitor, that the barge had actually been driven
over-sea, and that the whole of the persons it contained were safe and well at
Hamburgh!—Not once did Mrs. Judith doubt the truth of this story—not once did
she give herself leave to reflect on its probability, or even possibility, or
call to mind the direction in which the wind had blown on the night of the
storm, but having amply rewarded her marvellous informant, she hastened back to
Tynemouth, to communicate her joyful tidings to the governor and Mr. Thornton.
She found these gentlemen together in the parlour, with countenances infinitely
more cheerful than when she left them; but so much was she occupied with the
delightful intelligence which she had to relate, that she neither inquired into, nor even wondered at the cause.
Having thrown herself into a chair, to recover her fatigue—folded up her scarf
with the nicest exactness—and prefaced her story, by observing that “matters
are never so bad but they might be worse,” she repeated the oracles of her
friend the sybil.
Thornton
received this information with a loud laugh, and the earl smiling, said, “No,
no, my dear cousin, the wise woman is partly mistaken for once—our children,
blessed be heaven, are safe, but not at Hamburgh, that, you know, is quite out
of the question.”
He
then presented her with a letter he had just received from his son, dated from
Scarborough, at nine o’clock in the evening of the storm, briefly informing him
that they were all well, and that they would return by land to Tynemouth, when
the ladies had recovered their fatigue.
“Aye,
there now,” exclaimed Mrs. Judith, after she had perused and kissed Ida’s’s
letter, “I told you I saw this letter in the candle t’other night.”
“But
my dear Mrs. Cresswell,” cried Thornton, “how widely your friend at Cullercoats
has been out.”
“Nay,
I think she has been very near the matter,” returned Mrs. Judith. “You see they
are all safe, that is the main point, and as to the rest she has only mistaken
the name, there is little difference between Hamburgh and Scarborough.”
“The
breadth of the sea is all the difference, to be sure,” returned Thornton,
drily.
But
all his raillery could not prevent Mrs. Judith from believing and maintaining,
that the wise woman was a person of wonderful knowledge.
CHAP.
IV.
“I scent the well-known air,
and now appear
The distant hills where
first these lights did rise,
That fill’d, while it
pleas’d heaven, my doating eyes
With
love and joy.———”
THE
swelling surge, as the old waterman predicted, subsided towards the close of
day, and enabled the weary and exhausted sufferers to land in safety at
Scarborough.
Rosetta,
who had supported herself with fortitude in the trying hour of danger, was
piously grateful to heaven for their deliverance. But Elfrida was carried from
the barge in a state of insensibility, from which, however, when they reached
an inn, the exertions of Rosetta soon recovered her.
Clifford
recollecting that a Mr. Moorsom, a gentleman of fortune and respectability, and
the intimate friend of Mr. Thornton, resided at Scarborough, dispatched a card
to acquaint him with their situation, and Moorsom, on receiving it, instantly
waited on them, and insisted on conducting the whole party to his house.
Mrs.
Moorsom received her fair guests with maternal tenderness and affection, and
the whole of her amiable family, to whom Elfrida was well known, exerted
themselves to amuse her, and dispel the unpleasant remembrance of her
boisterous voyage; but no entreaties could prevail on any of the party to
remain more than one day at Scarborough; for Rosetta and Elfrida ardently
wished to return home, and relieve the anxiety of their friends; Lilburne and
Ida had many preparations to make previous to their departure for France; and
Clifford could not longer be absent from his military duties.
On
the second morning, therefore, they all departed from Scarborough, but not
until Elfrida had promised Cleora Moorsom to pay her a longer visit the
following summer. On the road they met father Vincent, and the rest of the
messengers. The monk rejoiced and blessed heaven for the safety of his young
friends, who, without meeting any further accident, arrived at Tynemouth.
The
earl and Mr. Thornton received them with the most lively joy. Shipperdson
assured Elfrida, that he could not have survived her loss. And Judith, in the
midst of her caresses and exultations, did not fail to charge them never to stir from home again when the pigs
had foretold a windy day.
This excursion,
unpleasant as it was, discovered to Rosetta two most important secrets: she
felt that her own heart was unalienably attached to Lilburne, and she saw that
Clifford was the object of Elfrida’s tenderest regard, for when that young lady
recovered from her swoon at Scarborough, her first question, on finding herself
alone with her friend was— “Oh! Rosetta, tell me, I implore you, does Clifford
live?”
The
evening after their return to Tynemouth, the young friends all rode on the
beach, to contemplate the rough element where they had so lately been exposed
to danger and death.
Lilburne,
as was his usual custom, quitted his horse to lead Rosetta’s palfry down the
steep and narrow defile, and while she thanked him for his attention, his fine
eyes were alternately bent on her with looks of tender love, and raised to
heaven, in gratitude, for her recent preservation. Clifford also was flying to
assist Rosetta, but remembering the passage of the rocks, and the manner in
which the offer of his services was there received, he checked himself, though
with a sigh of anguish, and turned his attention to Elfrida; who, but too much
delighted with his society, and too weak to combat a passion which she knew was
unreturned, watched the moment when the gentlemen remounted, and drawing in her
horse, rode slowly by the side of Clifford, at a distance from the rest of the
party.
Ida
having some business at Cullercoats, went thither, and Lilburne and Rosetta
were left to themselves.
The
low dashing of the ebb-waves was scarcely heard on the shore, and the winds
breathing on the waters, possessed not the power to ruffle their surface, which
reflected the clear azure of the sky, and the oblique rays of the declining
sun. Striking indeed was the contrast between the present tranquil scene, and
the boisterous violence of the storm; but the serenity of the surrounding
prospect was not in unison with the bosom of Lilburne—that was agitated indeed,
for since the moment in which he had discovered the situation of his heart with
regard to Rosetta, he had been debating with himself, whether to declare his
passion to its fair object, or defer the disclosure until his return from
France; the strength of his affection, and the fears he naturally felt, that
some happy rival, might, during his absence, gain her affections, urged him to
the former; but the goodness, the nobleness of his character, almost inclined
him to bury the secret in his own bosom for the present, and trust to the
uncertain chance of futurity; for reason represented to him that he was now on
the eve of departing upon an expedition from whence it was probable he might
never return, and to win the inestimable heart of Rosetta de Norton, to leave
her to sigh for his safety—perhaps to mourn for his death, was a line of conduct
which he could not wholly reconcile to his own dignified and exalted
sentiments; but on this very morning, a trifling circumstance had occurred,
which by flattering him with the dear hope that he possessed some little
interest in her breast, had put to flight all his cautions and scruples, for
weak indeed, and easily silenced is the voice of reason in the mind of a lover.
Ida, in looking amongst the drawings of his sister, had seen a profile of
Mitford Lilburne, on which it was evident the fair artist had bestowed the
utmost efforts of her talents and skill. Ida, far from keeping his discovery to
himself, with his wonted thoughtless gaiety, instantly communicated it to his
friend; at the same time archly complimenting him on the honor he had received from
the hand of Rosetta; and Lilburne, the delighted, the enraptured Lilburne, from
that moment, resolved, at all events, to urge his suit previous to his
departure for France. The evening seemed to afford him a favorable opportunity,
and while they rode together on the beach, twenty times did his faltering voice
tremble with a sentence which his lips refused to utter—at length, with a
broken sigh, and almost in a half whisper, he pronounced:—“Soon, too soon,
shall I have no consolation but the remembrance of these happy hours—Oh! Lady
Rosetta, shall they ever return?”
Rosetta
felt that the hours she passed in Lilburne’s society were indeed happy ones,
and while his words forcibly impressed on her mind a sad conviction of the
reverse she was doomed soon to experience, she could scarce prevent the tears
from rushing to her expressive eyes; yet she smiled, but could not trust her
voice with a sentence, and Lilburne resumed,— “One short week only remains
until I must leave Tynemouth, and it depends on Lady Rosetta alone, whether it
shall be for ever.”
Rosetta
felt her heart beat violently, but she assumed an indifference foreign to her
feelings, and exclaimed, with seeming vivacity, “On me!—does the chance of war
rest with me?—Can I controul its power, or decide who shall be its victims?—I
wish I could, for then none should fall.”
“Not
the fate of war, but my fate rests solely with you, charming, amiable Rosetta,”
cried Lilburne, with impassioned energy—Oh! loveliest of women, will you pardon
my temerity?—will you allow me to hope?—Will you,” added he, after a pause, in
which he watched her countenance with anxious solicitude—“Will you honor with
your acceptance a heart from which your image never can be effaced.”
Here
he paused again, but Rosetta too much agitated to speak, remained silent. He
resumed— “Pardon me, madam, I am sensible that this is no place for such a
declaration, but time is now precious, and if I had neglected this opportunity,
I might not have enjoyed another; then let me now receive my doom; say, angelic
Rosetta, will you give me leave to apply to the earl, and allow me to encourage
the delightful hope, that if heaven permits my return from France, your
approbation will be the blessed reward of my toils and dangers—or am I
condemned to despair, to misery, to a lasting exile from happiness, and from my
country.”
The
tremor of Rosetta now increased tenfold, but her soul was above disguise, and
abhorring the idea of giving pain to, or trifling with the heart that adored
her, she attempted to reply, but her voice faultering and agitated, could only
articulate— “Be assured, sir, I shall feel most happy in your safe return, but,
till then—” she hesitated.—
“I
know what you would say, generous, most amiable Rosetta,” cried Lilburne, while
his fine eyes sparkled with lively transport, “You wish me to defer any
application to the earl, until we revisit England, but many—many months may
intervene ere that period arrives; and can I tear myself from all my soul holds
dear, uncertain whether my love is sanctioned by her parent! Oh! my Rosetta,
were I but assured that I have no hated rival to dread—that I may hope to live
in your memory, your regard, I should discharge each duty with alacrity, and
meet every danger undaunted.”
“And
what rival do you dread?” questioned Rosetta, with an arch smile, for she had
now, in some degree, rallied her spirits.
“Ten
thousand,” cried Lilburne, with energy, “for that lovely person and angelic
mind must create an admirer in every beholder.”
Lilburne
did indeed dread a rival in almost every gentleman who approached Rosetta. He
reflected with unspeakable anguish, that she would be left to the guardianship,
to the constant society of Shipperdson and Clifford, and he dreaded them both,
for the former was handsome, artful, and insinuating; the later amiable and
good, and, as Lilburne well knew, most tenderly attached to Rosetta, while he
was ignorant both of the preference which Elfrida felt for Clifford, and that
which Shipperdson professed for Elfrida. However he had now little leisure to
revolve all this in his mind, for Rosetta, after gayly thanking him for the
flattering compliment he had just paid her, added, “but I shall have few
beholders in my father’s absence, and I certainly shall not encourage any
addresses while my friends are—my father is far from me.”
Lilburne,
with rapturous gratitude, thanked Rosetta for her condescending goodness; and
availing himself of the tacit permission he had received, he resolved to
address the earl the first opportunity, and to urge the subject no further to
Rosetta at present. However, it must be owned, this delicate forbearance was
rather the effect of necessity than choice, for they had now reached the
extremity of the beach, where the rocks intercepted their progress; and Rosetta
turned her horse into the road leading to Cullercoats, having promised to join
her brother there; and Elfrida choosing to return by the sands, came up to bid
her friend good night; while Clifford, the dejected Clifford, as he turned to
attend her, marked the animated countenance of his happy rival, and sighed in
agony.
Yet
though Clifford loved Rosetta de Norton with romantic ardor, he was at the same
time but too sensible that she preferred Lilburne to every other man, that he
was her equal in fortune, and was high in the favor and esteem of the earl her
father; while himself, a friendless and unportioned orphan, could have no
chance, no expectation, no hope of exciting
any sentiment in her breast but the cold regard of friendship; and though there
were moments when the voice of reason powerfully urged him to combat his
unfortunate love—though he highly esteemed Lilburne, and sincerely wished him
happy, yet he continued to nourish a passion which was undermining his peace;
and suffered his mind for ever to dwell enraptured on the charms of
Rosetta.—Her form, he thought, was beauty itself—her understanding was wisdom
personified—and her heart was the habitation of every feminine virtue; and
while his thoughts were thus occupied with one object, he was totally blind to
the preference with which Elfrida honored him.—He regarded her only as a
sister, and thought the sentiments she felt for him were perfectly similar.
When
Rosetta and her two companions reached the castle, they found the earl engaged
with his steward, who had just arrived from Wooler Park. Mrs. Cresswell had retired somewhat
indisposed, and Rosetta immediately repaired to her chamber; while Ida and
Lilburne, left to themselves, sought the society of a gentleman in the village,
who engaged them for a coursing party the next day.
Lilburne
could find no opportunity of addressing the earl, either that night, or
previous to his departure in the morning; and the indisposition of Mrs. Judith
continuing, Rosetta scarcely ever left her the whole day. Towards evening,
however, she was visited by father Vincent, and Rosetta took that opportunity
of retiring to her own apartment. She took her solitary seat near the window,
and watched the declining rays of the sun; the shades of evening gradually
enveloping the surrounding objects, and the full moon rising in radiant
majesty, and reflecting its broad orb on the waves; and often were her eyes
directed towards the sea banks, along which she knew the sportsmen would
return. She listened to the soft murmuring of the billows, which responded to
the footsteps of the governor, as he paced the
east-rampart, and no other sound broke the silence of the hour. Her mind was in
a pensive and romantic mood, and a thousand visionary ideas passed through it
in fleet succession; her active fancy visited her native shades of Wooler Park,
and recalled every circumstance, every scene of her youth. From contemplations
like these, her mind reverted to the recent storm, the dangers she had passed,
and the ride on the beach the preceding evening; yet even those subjects could
not confine her thoughts, they strayed further, and the departure of her
friends, the perils they would encounter in France, and the long and dreary
months of approaching winter, uncheered by their society, all rose to her
imagination—a tear insensibly fell on her cheek, and she felt a dejection of
spirits which she could not help regarding as the anticipation of evil. Thus
wrapt in meditation, she continued at the window near an hour, unmindful of the
cold, though the chilling and humid dews of autumn and the saline damps
moistened the air; at length she distinguished the light form of Camille,
Lilburne’s favorite greyhound, bounding through the castle yard, and
immediately after, Lilburne himself, and Ida appeared. Rosetta saw the latter
enter the hall door, and the former join the earl, who still remained on the
rampart; and anticipating in idea the substance of their conversation, she
closed the casement, and descended to join her brother.
Lilburne’s
motive in seeking this opportunity of conversing with the earl, certainly was
to avow his passion for Rosetta, and to solicit the sanction and consent of her
parent to his addresses; but when a few trifling monosyllables concerning the
weather and the diversion he had been pursuing, were interchanged, he faltered
and hesitated, and before he could frame the introductory sentence, the earl
said— “To-morrow is the eve of St. Oswin, my dear Mitford, and I think you
cannot take a better opportunity of preparing yourself for the distinction you
are to receive; the prior himself will preside in the confessional chair in the
morning, and you must present yourself in the church and confess your sins,
that you may receive his holy absolution.”
“I
believe I have few sins to confess, my lord,” returned Lilburne, after a
moment’s hesitation— “I am not conscious of any crime.”
“But
you must examine yourself, my dear Lilburne,” said the governor, laying his
hand on the arm of his young friend, and addressing him with serious gravity,
“You must examine yourself, for if you conceal any of your faults, you commit a great sin, and destroy the merit
of your confession; for you can only purchase absolution by performing the
penance which the church requires, and the priest cannot enjoin penance unless
he is acquainted with the extent of your transgressions.”
Lilburne
promised implicit obedience to the earl’s injunctions, and was again preparing
to solicit his permission to address Rosetta, when they were joined by Major
Shipperdson, who continued to converse with the governor so long, that Lilburne
finding it impossible to introduce the subject that night, resolved to defer it
until the feast of St. Oswin, which, he thought would be a fit opportunity to
address the earl.
The
next day, Lilburne, in compliance with the governor’s commands, presented
himself at the grate of confession, and related the events of an almost
blameless life. No act of penance was required, and of course absolution could
not be withheld. He afterwards attended at mass in the church, and prepared to
watch his arms there all night.
Mrs.
Judith exclaimed bitterly against this part of the ceremony, but it could not
be omitted; and when the last vespers were finished, the doors of the church
were all fastened, and Lilburne left inclosed within its dreary walls. His
heart was a stranger to fear of every kind, and he felt no more appalled at the
idea of passing the night in the church of St. Oswin than in his own chamber.
But Rosetta, though in general little inclined to adopt Mrs. Cresswell’s
ominous forbodings, could not help feeling some degree of apprehension for her
lover’s safety, nor could the ease and gaiety he displayed in a momentary
interview, which he contrived previous to the commencement of his nocturnal
vigil, wholly quiet her terrors.
In
the course of the night, the earl received dispatches from court, requiring him
within three days after receiving them, to embark with his troops for Calais.
CHAP.
V.
“———Ye antique towers,
That crown the wat’ry
glade.”
AT the
hour of matins, the governor, deputy-governor, and officers of the garrison,
together with the brethren of the monastery were summoned, by order of the
prior, to be present at the ceremony of bestowing his benediction on Lilburne,
and blessing his sword; all attended except father Vincent, who had been called
in the night to visit a person in the neighbourhood, who, it was said, was
seized with a sudden illness;—this was the wife of Guillaume de Villette, a
Frenchman, who had been the confidential servant of the late governor, and,
since the death of Sir Robert, had resided in a cottage on the sea banks.
When
all were assembled, the procession moved on, while Mrs. Judith, Rosetta,
Elfrida, and several other ladies, richly dressed, awaited their return, in the
great hall of the governor’s house.
The
church gates were opened by the porter of the convent, and the prior entered,
followed by the governor, leaning on the arm of Major Shipperdson, then came
Lord Ida, Oswald Clifford, and the rest of the officers; and the brethren of
the monastery, two and two, closed the train. They proceeded to the middle of
the church, but the candidate for knighthood advanced not to meet them.
Something more than surprise was visibly painted on every countenance present,
but how great was the general consternation, when the senior monk, by the
prior’s order, pronounced aloud the name of Mitford Lilburne, and no voice
responded to the call, no footstep approached, no being, but those who had
entered in the procession appeared!—The arms remained on the spot where they
had been deposited the preceding night, the sword only excepted—that had
vanished with its owner, of whom not a vestige could be seen. To no purpose did
they search every avenue, every corner, every recess of the edifice—in vain did
the lofty roofs echo with loud repetitions of his name.—Lilburne, it was
evident, had quitted the church, but why he had done so, or by what
supernatural means, he had passed through doors and windows barred with the
most scrupulous care, and which were all found in the state they had been left
in the preceding evening, were deep and inexplicable mysteries; yet every one,
as might be expected, declared the opinion they had formed, or at least that
which they chose to avow.
The
prior, bigotted and ignorant, or perhaps willing to encourage the popular
superstitions of the times, expressed his conviction that Lilburne had been
conveyed away by some invisible power, but whether good or evil, he did not
take upon him to determine; but the monks went yet further, for each assigned a
cause for the mysterious disappearance of the unfortunate youth. One supposed
that the spirit of his deceased father had opened the gates and led him from
the church, though for what purpose could not be ascertained. A second,
concluded that the pupil of father Vincent, had purposely concealed some great
offence, which ought to have been disclosed in his late confession; for which
crime, he had been permitted to be punished by an evil angel. And, a third,
pronounced that the ruin, which in consequence of the unatoned murder of father
Ninian had hung suspended over the house of Lilburne, had fallen on the head of
its youthful representative: this last was precisely the opinion of the
governor himself, but not choosing to immediately avow it, he gave orders that
a strict search should be made for Lilburne in every part of the castle; but
such a command seemed needless, for the porter of the convent, a monk, whose
simplicity, integrity, and irreproachable life, made him universally respected,
declared solemnly, that the keys of the church had never been out of his
possession. Shipperdson, with his wonted complaisant versatility, acquiesced in
every opinion that was delivered; but hinted at the same time, that he thought
it highly necessary father Vincent should be interrogated, as the absence of
that holy father at such a time, on any pretence whatever, strongly excited
suspicion; and this hint meeting the approbation of the prior, he commanded a
messenger to be sent to Guillaume’s cottage, to summon father Vincent.
Clifford, though in general little inclined to adopt the sentiments of Major
Shipperdson, felt himself prompted by jealousy to almost believe that Lilburne
had purposely withdrawn from the church of St. Oswin, with the intention of
concealing himself somewhere in the neighbourhood, until after the earl’s
departure, that he might remain at home, near his beloved Rosetta. Yet in the
very moment that he formed this supposition, his heart smote him with a pang of
compunction, for harbouring such an idea of the noble-minded and amiable youth,
who on many occasions had been to him a firm and faithful friend. But the brave
and open soul of Ida, detesting the dark, subtle, and intriguing character of
Major Shipperdson, fixed on him alone the odium of Lilburne’s disappearance,
and scarcely could he await the developement of this mysterious affair, or
refrain from openly accusing the major of either having murdered or imprisoned
his friend.
Soon,
too soon, did the fatal tidings reach Rosetta, and in the first wild moments of
agitation and distress, she almost betrayed the secret of her soul; but she
remembered that Lilburne had breathed his love to her ear alone—that it was
unsanctioned by, and unknown to her parent—and she felt the necessity of
exerting the utmost efforts of her fortitude, and subduing her agonised
feelings, lest any one should discover how dear to her heart was the lost,
unfortunate youth.
Elfrida,
however, easily perceived what her friend strove to conceal, and though such a
discovery ought to have banished all jealousy from her mind, yet she had many
strange, and even ridiculous fears; for but too conscious that Rosetta alone was the object of Clifford’s
affections, she could not avoid feeling a dread, that (whatever might have
caused Lilburne’s absence) he would avail himself of it, to soften the heart of
Rosetta in his favor; yet she endeavoured to abstract her mind from all selfish
considerations, and, like every
other inmate of the castle, busied herself in forming conjectures; but after
every possible investigation of the matter, her suspicions, and those of
Rosetta, fell on the major, as those of Ida had already done. Not so, Mrs.
Judith—she frankly acquitted the governor, deputy-governor, prior, monks, officers,
soldiers, and all other corporeal beings whatsoever, of having any share in
this eventful business, and laid the entire blame on the ghosts of Robert de
Mowbray, father Ninian, and Sir Robert Lilburne!
“But
it is just what I foretold,” she exclaimed— “if people will make themselves so
familiar with ghosts, and pass their nights in the places where they haunt,
they must expect dreadful consequences.”
The
man who had been despatched to summon father Vincent, now returned, and brought
a message to the prior, importing, that the holy father would shortly return to
the convent; but hour after hour wore away, and no father Vincent appeared.
Meanwhile,
the feast which was annually celebrated on St. Oswin’s day, at which the prior
of the monastery and the governor of the garrison were always present, was
served up. All the persons of distinction in the neighbourhood attended; and
Rosetta, who in this season of suspense and anguish, would gladly have sought
the solitude of her chamber, was compelled to entertain the ladies—to veil her
bleeding heart, and to express only a common interest in the fate of Lilburne,
though almost every word which was spoken concerning him struck daggers to her
soul. Nor did Mrs. Judith, discomposed as she was, absent herself from the
party; for in truth, she was by this time so much terrified with the idea of
ghosts and enchantments, that she did not dare to remain by herself. Yet,
though she associated with the company, she could support no conversation; and
so much did she dwell on the subject of her fears, that her distracted
imagination fancied a spirit approaching in every sound, every shadow, and
almost every object.
The
earl, most anxiously uneasy concerning his ward, was spiritless and dejected.
His daughter, though she wore the outward appearance of composure, was visibly
ill; and, in short, almost every one present was more or less affected by the
sad catastrophe of the morning. The customary evening ball was of course
declined; and most of the guests departing at an early hour, the governor and
his family, Mr. Thornton and his daughter, Shipperdson, Clifford, and another
officer were left together.
When
the vesper bell rang, Mrs. Judith, who never missed the evening service,
prepared to go, and desired Rosetta to accompany her; but fatigued with the
efforts she had already made, she excused herself; and Elfrida offering to
attend Mrs. Cresswell, she was about to retire to her own apartment, when
Clifford, who had gone out to give some orders to the soldiers, hastily returned
with the intelligence, that father Vincent was just then entering the church;
and the earl, who greatly wished to converse with him, immediately rose to go
thither. Shipperdson had a double motive for attending him, both to hear the
replies of father Vincent to the questions of the prior, and to escort Elfrida;
though that young lady always received his attentions with not only coldness, but marked contempt.
The
other gentlemen were too much interested in the fate of Lilburne to stay away;
and Rosetta, wishing, yet dreading, to hear the communications of father
Vincent, resolved once more to exert her fortitude, and accompany them. When
they reached the church, the service was already begun, and of course no time
was then allowed to converse with father Vincent. Scarce could Rosetta sustain
her fainting frame during vespers, but what was the surprise, the agitation,
the tumult of her soul, when just as they were concluded, she beheld Lilburne
himself enter the church. For a moment her feelings were awake only to joy, but
the appearance of Lilburne was little calculated to excite it. A deep
expression of distress, of anguish, nay of agony, was pictured on his
countenance—his face, on which Rosetta had been wont to contemplate the glow of
health and cheerfulness, was pale and ghastly—his fine eyes, which but two days
before, at that very hour, had beamed with animation with energy, with the most
fervent love, were now fixed on the object of that love with a look of
indescribable horror—and his habit, the same he had worn the preceding evening,
was neglected; disordered, and
stained in many places with blood.
The
audience, struck with mute astonishment, maintained a profound silence, while
Lilburne advanced to the altar, where stood the superior, surrounded by his
monks. Father Vincent immediately stepping forward, took the hand of his young
friend, and addressed himself to the prior, in the following words, spoken in a
solemn and audible voice— “Holy father, I demand, in the name of this youth,
that the ceremony which has been interrupted by his absence, may now proceed.”
In a
haughty tone, the superior replied, “By deserting his arms in this sacred
place, he has forfeited all claim to the dignity which was meant to be
conferred on him; and I shall suspend all further proceedings until I am fully
informed of both the cause of that desertion, and the means by which he passed
these walls.”
“I repeat
my demand,” said father Vincent, in a tone, and with a look which evidently
conveyed some very particular meaning to the prior—he certainly understood it,
for his countenance instantly changed, and with a faltering voice, he said to
Lilburne, “Approach, my son, and place your sword on the altar.”
Lilburne
obeyed, but trembled in agony. He did indeed place his sword upon the altar;
but in the very moment that the prior stretched forth his hand to take it from
thence, the youth snatched it away with a look of frenzy, and exclaimed with
distracted and incoherent wildness, “Oh! never, never! my guilty hand shall not,
must not pollute this holy place, with the accursed weapon, stained in the
blood of my—.”
“Beware
what you say, rash young man,” cried father Vincent, in a voice, and with a
look, to which it is impossible to do justice by description— “If you accuse yourself
of guilt, you will augment it tenfold, by a discovery which involves every
thing dear and sacred?—Will you blast the memory of your parent?—Will you
insure the death, the violent death of an unfortunate being, who, it is
possible, may yet live?—Will you destroy a wretched mother, already worn down
with many sorrows, and who now lives but in her child?—Remember, Mitford, that
your crime, whatever may be its consequences, was an involuntary one—and,
remember also, that the expedition to France is the only means by which you can
possibly atone for it.—You must not linger in Northumberland—the governor
departs on the morrow, and you must accompany him. Approach then, my son, place
your sword again on the altar, receive the blessing of our holy father, and
comply with every rite of the church, that you may be prepared for the
distinction with which his lordship means to honor you.”
“Oh!
no, no,” cried Lilburne, in a tone of desponding anguish, “I cannot conform to
the rites of the church, I am not worthy to approach its altars.—I will attend
you to France, my lord,” added he addressing the governor, “and I implore you
to permit the ceremony to be deferred until—”
Here
he broke off the sentence with a start of horror, and glancing on Rosetta
another look of wild agony, he rushed out of the church.
“Poor
unfortunate young man,” said father Vincent, as his pupil passed out at the
portal; “the crime of another has drawn down misery on thy head!”
The
greater part of the audience cast the glance of inquiring wonder on the monk;
but the prior, it was evident, was awed to silence, and did not ask a single
question. However, the earl at length ventured to hint his wish for
information, and father Vincent immediately replied, “My lord, it pains me to
withhold any secret from you; but I cannot, at present, disclose the least
circumstance of this affair, as by so doing, I should violate the most sacred
obligations, and insure the very miseries which I am trying to avert; but when
the moment arrives in which I can speak openly, you, my lord, and you, holy
father,” added he, turning to the prior, “shall know all.”
With
these words father Vincent quitted the church; while the visage of the prior
lowered with sullen discontent, and those of Shipperdson and the monks expressed
the sneer of disappointed malignity.
The
governor and his party now returned home, whither Rosetta, agitated and
distressed, could scarce support her trembling frame, with the assistance of
Elfrida’s arm. The first inquiry of the earl, on reaching his house, was for
Mitford Lilburne; but with augmented surprise and concern, he learned that he
had never been there, and that none of the servants had seen him.
Rosetta
no longer able to conceal her anguish, buried it in the solitude of her own
chamber; while Ida, anxiously uneasy for the safety of his friend, wandered
every where in search of him.
Miss
Thornton returned home with her father, attended by Clifford. Shipperdson and
the other officer retired to their apartments; and the earl and Mrs. Judith were
left to themselves; the latter, now more disgusted and terrified than ever with
Tynemouth Castle, had all day been importuning her kinsman to permit her and
Rosetta to retire to Wooler Park, and reside there during his absence, and she
took this opportunity of renewing the subject. But the earl was deaf to all she
could urge; for he thought his child could be no where so safe as with the
monks of St. Oswin. Besides, such was the reliance he placed on the friendship
and honor of Shipperdson, that he felt no repugnance to leaving Mrs. Cresswell
and Rosetta under his protection; and indeed he had nothing to fear, for the
major seldom bestowed a thought on either beyond the present moment.
Meanwhile,
Rosetta in the pensive solitude of her own apartment, sat revolving in mind the
strange occurrences of this eventful day, and busying herself with wild
conjectures, few of which wore the least shadow of probability. From these
distressing contemplations, she was roused by the entrance of her maid, who
came to summon her to supper, and brought the intelligence that Lord Ida had
returned from his unsuccessful search. Rosetta excused herself from going down,
and dismissing her attendant, again resigned herself to the full indulgence of
her agonized feelings.
Clifford
passed the evening with Mr. Thornton and Elfrida, and their conversation
naturally turning on the wonderful events of the day, the interesting subject
detained them in discourse so long, that the great clock of the monastery
tolled eleven, the usual hour of closing the gates, soon after the young
officer had taken leave of his friends.
Mr.
Thornton’s house was situated at a very short distance from the castle. The
night was calm, still, and pleasant; the moon shone with more than usual
brightness; and Clifford quickened his pace, in the hope of reaching the bridge
before it was drawn up. He had arrived within a few yards of the outworks, when
he perceived the tall figure of a man, much muffled up, hastily approaching
from the road which leads to the left; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and
he did not see Clifford, who, somewhat surprised, retreated a few paces to
observe him. Meanwhile, the stranger advanced to the first gate, and speaking
in a low voice to the sentinel, was about to enter; when Clifford, recognising
the form and air of Lilburne, sprang forward. The sound of his steps alarmed
Lilburne—he looked up, and beholding his friend, instantly started away, and
attempted to retrace the path he had just passed; but Clifford following,
seized his arm.
“Lilburne,
my friend,” he exclaimed, “why do you fly me
thus? Speak to me, I conjure you—come let us enter the gate together.”
“Unhand
me, sir!” returned Lilburne, in a voice of anger, at the same time making a
violent effort to disengage himself.
“Oh!
Mitford, how have I deserved this?” cried Clifford, in a mournful voice, at the
same time quitting his hold. But in the very moment that he spoke, his heart
smote him; for conscience reflected the suspicions he had formed in the
morning—that Lilburne had purposely withdrawn himself from the church, that he
might conceal himself, and remain at home near Rosetta; suspicions, which the
scene at vespers had clearly proved were founded only in jealousy; and in that
direful passion, the present behaviour of Lilburne to Clifford certainly
originated. His heart was torn by a sorrow, an anguish, for which he had but
too much reason. He was on the very point of quitting his country, with
scarcely the most faint hope of ever returning to it, or beholding Rosetta more.
Clifford, he well knew, loved her with the most ardent affection; and he could
not help reflecting on the possibility, the probability, that he was destined
to be her happy husband; while himself, should wander a cheerless exile, or
wear out the sad remains of his life in some lonely cell—yet the native candor
and nobleness of his mind reproached him for dashing away the hand of
friendship, and repelling the voice of sympathy. He walked aside for a few
moments to collect his scattered ideas and calm the feelings of his agonized
soul; and then following Clifford, who had turned away, (hurt by his frigid and
repelling manner,) and presenting his hand, he exclaimed,— “Forgive me,
Clifford, I scarce know what I say—my heart is almost broken, and I am neither
master of myself nor my actions.”
Clifford
took the offered hand, and drawing it under his arm, they passed the gate, and
crossed the bridge in silence, interrupted only by the deep breathing of
Lilburne’s stifled groans, and the moment they entered the castle-yard, he
faintly articulated, “Good night,” and made an effort to go, but Clifford,
alarmed by the wild distraction of his manner, forcibly detained his arm,
saying at the same time, “You shall not, must not, leave me thus.—Oh! Lilburne,
you are distressed and unhappy, why,
why will you refuse me your confidence?”
“Confidence!
Oh gracious heaven!” groaned Lilburne: then with assumed composure, he added,
“I will not detain you from your rest, I shall—probably I shall see you in the
morning, good night! good night!”
“Lilburne,
you shall not go, until you are more composed. Whither are you hurrying thus?”
“I am
going home,” returned Lilburne. “I see your fears, but they are needless. Oh!
Clifford, can you suppose I mean to injure myself?”
“The
family is retired to rest,” said Clifford; “there are no lights in the windows,
you shall share my bed tonight.”
“My
servant will sit up for me,” replied Lilburne; “he will admit me; but I must
first see father Vincent.”
“I
will accompany you to the door of his cell,” rejoined the young officer— “you
will not refuse my company,” he added, with assumed cheerfulness, “for I should
think you unfriendly indeed, if you left me alone at such an hour.”
Lilburne
stood a few moments silent, and as the moonbeams fell on his countenance,
Clifford read there the workings of his agonized soul; at length, grasping the
hand of his friend, he exclaimed— “Oh! Clifford, why would you wish me with
you?—is it not your interest to wish me gone for ever?—are we not rivals?—you love
Rosetta de Norton!”
This
address so sudden, so unexpected, for a time took from Clifford all power of
reply. But when he had recalled his scattered ideas, he said, with assumed
gaiety, “My rivalship ought to give you little uneasiness, for Lady Rosetta will
not bestow a thought on me—you alone—”
“But
you love her,” interrupted Lilburne, with vehement agony; “and when I am a
wandering exile, you will attempt to gain that heart, which I hoped to claim at
my return—but why do I repine?” added he, again starting to wild frenzy. “Will
not the consequences of my own guilt banish me for ever from Rosetta, and from
my country? “Oh! Clifford, may you be happy,”—and he was rushing away, when Clifford, wholly subdued by the deplorable
situation in which he beheld the man he so fondly esteemed, once more seized
his arm, and exclaimed in a tone which admitted of no denial, “Stay one moment,
I conjure you, Lilburne, and hear what I have to say.”
All
the gates were now fastened, and every being in the garrison, themselves and
the soldiers on duty excepted, had retired to rest. Clifford led his friend to
the north rampart, the most private and retired part of the castle, where no
sound broke the silence of the night but the low murmur of the waves, as they
dashed against the bases of the rocks; and there taking his hand between his
own, he addressed him in the following words— “Sir, whatever may have caused
the anguish, which with sincere regret I see you endure, be assured, that no
act, no intention of mine shall augment it; and here, in the face of heaven, I
solemnly swear to abjure for ever all hope, all expectation, all—,” wish, he
would have added, but the last word died on his faltering lips, “of ever being
united to Rosetta de Norton. And, now my friend,” he continued, “can further
assurance of mine contribute to make you easy?”
“Oh!
Clifford, generous Clifford!” cried Lilburne, grasping his hand, “would to
heaven I could repay your noble, your exalted friendship with my whole
confidence—yet every secret of my heart, that I dare disclose, you shall know.”
He then took his arm, and traversing the rampart together, Lilburne related to
his friend all that had ever passed between Rosetta and himself on the subject
of his love—the consent she had given to his proposed application to her
father, and the trivial incidents by which that application had been delayed—
“But now,” added he, in a tone expressive of the deepest anguish, “now all
application is needless, for I cannot, I dare not hope ever to behold Rosetta
more.”
A
momentary pause of silence now ensued, and then Lilburne resumed. “Oh!
Clifford, Clifford, I have committed a deed, the dreadful consequences of which
still hang in suspense. Oh! that I
might open my whole soul to you, but that cannot be; you heard what father
Vincent said to-night—at all events I must go to France; and if fatal
consequences shall follow my undesigned crime, I am cut off for ever from
peace, from happiness, and from my country; and must devote my days to
penitence, in some foreign monastery.”
“No,
no! my dear Lilburne,” interrupted Clifford, “I trust that no fatal
consequences will ensue; and that I shall see you return in safety, to enjoy
the happiness you merit. But at all events, if your crime, as you too harshly
term it, was an undesigned one why should any consequences that may result from
it deprive you of peace? Heaven, you know, my dear Mitford, attaches punishment
only to wilful guilt; why then would you throw away your happiness for what
could not be avoided, and what cannot be remedied?”
“Alas!
alas! though I can acquit myself of premeditated guilt, I cannot of
inconsiderate rashness,” returned Lilburne, whose eyes were fixed with a gaze
of wild horror on some object to the north of the castle; though what that
object was Clifford could not conjecture; “but should that happen which I
dread,” added he, “I never can return to society; I should draw down vengeance
on all connected with me, and bring a curse, a heavy curse on my posterity—no
Clifford, if I am doomed to misery, the oath you have just taken is
absolved—and may Rosetta be yours.”
The
last words were spoken in a faint voice; but Clifford instantly, and firmly
replied, “No Lilburne! no! my vow is unconditional, and here I renew it—Rosetta
never can be mine.”
Before
Lilburne could reply, the bell tolled for midnight prayers, and the monks
passing from the cloisters to the oratory of St. Mary, the friends retired to a
distant part of the rampart to escape observation.
Lilburne
then said, “I must now go to father Vincent’s cell, and wait there until he
returns from chapel.”
“But
you will come back and sleep with me?” said Clifford.
“No,
my friend, you will excuse me,” said Lilburne, with a deep sigh. “I shall pass
the remainder of the night with father Vincent, for I have much to say to him,
and I must leave the castle the moment the gates are open in the morning. I
cannot bear to see, or take leave of
any one here; and I shall embark in a boat previous to the earl’s departure,
and join him at sea.”
“You
certainly will not depart without seeing Rosetta?” said Clifford— “surely you
will bid her adieu?”
“No,”
returned Lilburne, with an anguished groan, “I could not support the agony of
such a parting; to the goodness and friendship of father Vincent I must commit
the dreadful task of preparing her for our everlasting separation, if it is the
will of fate—should the event which I anticipate, with shuddering horror, take
place, the holy father will tell you that my misery is sealed; and should
heaven in its mercy avert it, he will, I trust, acquaint you with the whole.
And then, my Clifford, far from wondering at the state of anguish and
distraction in which you have beheld your poor friend, you will rather be
surprised how, at this moment, he could talk and act thus calmly. Oh! would to
heaven I could recal the hour in which I entered the church of St. Oswin—but,
alas! that is impossible. I wish the expedition to France could have been
delayed for a few days, for then, probably, my suspense would have been ended;
but that cannot now be done. Oh! Clifford, Clifford!” continued he, grasping
his hand in wild agony, “to your friendship and protection I commit my adored
Rosetta, save her, guard her, shield her from every danger—and let every word I
have breathed to you to-night, be buried deep in your own breast.”
Clifford
replied, “They shall descend with me to the grave. And now receive my solemn
assurance, that, whatever events may happen, I shall ever consider Lady Rosetta
as the wife of my friend, and hold myself bound to risk my life in her service
and defence.”
Lilburne
folded him to his heart, and exclaimed— “Farewell, Clifford, my noble, my ever
beloved friend, farewell! may the Almighty grant that I may one day embrace
thee under happier circumstances!”
He
then rushed down the declivity, and disappeared amongst the cloisters. Clifford
watched his receding form until it was no longer visible, and then turned his
pensive steps to his own apartment. He retired to his solitary couch, but rest
was no longer there—he had just resigned Rosetta for ever—had beheld the friend
for whose sake that resignation was made, suffering under the keenest anguish,
without being able to mitigate it—and had parted from him too, probably, never
to meet again. Yet he endeavoured to calm his agitated spirits, with the
reflection, that he had done what he considered his duty; and while he strove
to banish the image of Rosetta from his heart, he fervently prayed for such a
degree of fortitude, as might enable him to fulfil every promise he had made.
The
unhappy Lilburne passed the intervening hours in close consultation with father
Vincent, and left the castle of Tynemouth with the first faint beam of the
morning.
Father
Vincent visited the governor’s house about eight o’clock, and found the earl
and his son suffering the greatest inquietude on Lilburne’s account; for they
knew not that he had returned to the castle the preceding night, and quitted it
early in the morning. But when the monk informed them of both these
circumstances, and added that Lilburne did not mean to return, but would join
them at sea, Ida did not hesitate to openly express his astonishment, and
father Vincent replied, “My son, I cannot wonder that you are thus
surprised—this is indeed a strange and mysterious affair, and I fear will be a
most melancholy one to our unfortunate young friend. I have now to entreat,
that you will never drop the least hint on the subject to Lilburne: the very
mention of it, at present, drives him almost to distraction; but when affairs
shall have attained such a crisis as may enable him to speak openly, he will
have no concealments from his friends.”
The
earl and Lord Ida gave the desired assurance, and after some further
conversation, went out to superintend the embarkation of the troops.
Mrs.
Cresswell was gone to bathe, as was her usual morning custom; and father
Vincent left to himself, sent a message which brought Rosette to the
parlour.—Oh! what were her feelings, on finding that Lilburne had left
Tynemouth, without breathing a sigh, one tender adieu, one vow of love and
constancy. The tears gushed from her lovely eyes, in despite of her utmost
efforts to restrain them, and clasping her hands, she exclaimed, “Oh! my
father, has Lilburne then left England for ever?”
Father
Vincent had little consolation to offer his fair pupil. He could not inspire
her with confidence, he dared not bid her hope; for he was conscious that
Lilburne was gone, too probably, never more to return: he had only the cold and
cheerless precepts of philosophy to pour into her wounded and suffering heart;
yet he exhorted her to exert her fortitude in the trying hour of separation
from her parent; and counselled her, that as the earl was unacquainted with the
attachment which subsisted between Lilburne and herself, he should be permitted
to still remain ignorant of it; as such a discovery at present would serve only
to distress him.
Rosetta
placed the firmest reliance on the wisdom, goodness, and friendship of her
preceptor; she promised to be guided by his instructions; and though her bosom
was lacerated by the most poignant anguish, she endeavoured to call forth the
utmost energy and strength of her soul, and to bid adieu to her parent and
brother, with at least the appearance of composure.
The
embarkation of the troops was completed by one o’clock—in two hours the tide
would serve to take them out to sea. The earl, accompanied by Ida, now returned
to the castle, to embrace his Rosetta, receive the blessing of the prior, and
give his last orders to the deputy-governor.
All
these, together with Mrs. Cresswell and father Vincent, were assembled in the
hall; where the earl, after finishing his military directions and kneeling to
the superior, saluted and took leave of Mrs. Judith; and then clasping Rosetta
to his parental bosom, he exclaimed,— “Farewell! my beloved child—may the
Almighty shield and bless you!—and if heaven permits my return to England, may
I find my darling safe and happy!”
He
then fervently recommended her to the protection of the prior, father Vincent,
and Major Shipperdson; while Ida, the noble minded Ida, conscious that he had
injured the deputy-governor by unjust suspicions concerning Mitford Lilburne,
felt his heart softened in his favor, and tacitly saw his lovely sister
resigned to his care; but while she hung weeping on his neck, he whispered,
“Trust me, my Rosetta, Lilburne will return safe—I believe he is now the dupe
of priestcraft; but I will bring him to himself when we get to France.”
Then
disengaging himself from her arms, he followed his father, who had already
quitted the hall, which the further they receded from, it resounded the more
with the lamentations, prayers, blessings, and forebodings of Mrs. Judith.
CHAP.
VI.
“And when my wand’ring days are fled,
I’ll seek again my native stream;
If
kind affection be not dead:
And fancy yield no pleasing dream!”
THE
unsuccessful siege of Boulogne, and the subsequent peace between England and
France, have frequently been the subjects of the historian, and need not be
detailed here. When the treaty was finished, the earl had thoughts of returning
to England and resuming his government; but Ida, disappointed by the speedy
termination of the war, in which he had hoped to reap early laurels, could not
settle his mind to the idea of so soon re-visiting his native country, and
solicited his father’s permission to make the tour of France.
Lilburne,
it was evident, still continued a prey to the most corroding anguish; he
exerted himself indeed in the discharge of his military duties, but he
sedulously shunned all intercourse with the officers of the army, and even
seldom associated with the earl and his son. The letters he received from
England, alone seemed to possess the power of rousing him from the lethargy of
despondence in which he was plunged. Whenever the time of their arrival
approached, he watched for them with the most anxious solicitude; but they
afforded him no permanent relief; for no sooner were they read, than he
relapsed into all his former gloom. When, however, Ida mentioned his intended
tour, Lilburne hinted a desire of accompanying him; and the earl, cheerfully,
according to their wishes, obtained permission of his royal master, to remain
some time longer in France, that he might himself accompany them to Paris, and
superintend their conduct during their residence in that gay city.
Yet
Wooler had nothing to apprehend from the introduction of these young men into
the world. Pleasure, however varied and alluring its forms, could not penetrate
the veil of abstraction which enveloped Lilburne; while Ida in all his
pursuits, possessed the rare and happy faculty of knowing when to stop.—But the
legislator who frames laws; the magistrate, in whom is vested the power of
putting then in execution; and the soldier, whose duty it is to defend them—are
sometimes their gross violators; and thus it was with the earl himself, for
while he was cautioning his young friends to avoid the temptations of Paris,
and guard against the seductive influence of the French ladies, himself became
a complete dupe to the most artful of her sex.
Our
travellers received many polite attentions from the Duke de la Var, at whose
hotel they were introduced to the Countess de Montmiril, the intimate friend of
the duchess. Madame de Montmiril was the handsomest and the gayest woman in
Paris. But as two very different accounts were given of this lady, it may be
proper to transcribe both.
“My
friend,” said the Duchess de la Var, in answer to some indirect inquiries made
by the Earl of Wooler,— “is now in her twenty-ninth year, she is descended from
a noble family in Italy, and early in life was married—I ought to say
sacrificed to the Count de Montmiril. Soon, too soon, did my dear Narcisse
behold the hopes of her youth blasted, and the fair prospects of life fading
away! Ah! my lord, she had bestowed her lovely person and immense property on a
man, who neglected the one, and dissipated the other!”
“Here
the duchess entered on a long detail of the infidelity, worthlessness, and
extravagance of the deceased count and then proceeded— “But though the sensible
heart of my friend keenly felt its unmerited injuries, conscious innocence
enabled her to bear them; while her exalted virtue preserved her from
practising what most wives in her situation would have had recourse to—retaliation.
Death,” she added, “dissolved this ill-fated connection about two years since,
and the countess has not made a second choice, which I think is much to be
lamented; for her beauty, fine understanding, and sweet disposition, would
confer supreme felicity on the happy mortal to whose lot they should fall. I
have sometimes ventured to hint my wish of seeing her happy in another
election; but I find she has made a vow, never to give her hand to a Frenchman;
and, partial as I am to my countrymen, I cannot blame such a resolution, when I
consider what she suffered in her union with the count.”
Such
was the information, for which the earl’s acknowledgments were paid to the
duchess, nor could he be otherwise than captivated with a lady so amiable, so
lovely, and so injured.
But
widely different was the account which Ida received from the Chevalier de
Balsac, a lively French officer, who was well acquainted with every event of
the countess’ life during the last ten years.— “Madame de Montmiril,” said the
chevalier, “is only six years more than twenty-nine; and I should do her the
highest injustice, if I did not acknowledge that she is at once graceful as
Juno, and as lively as you. After losing her character in Italy she gained a
husband in France. Montmiril was a simple, easy, good-tempered fellow, and the
lady found it no difficult matter to convert the fervent admirer into the
passive dupe. Their summers were passed at the countess’ villa, three leagues
from Milan; their winters at Paris; and between the two places they soon
dissipated the whole of the count’s fortune, and as much of madame’s as was not
settled on herself.—And now,” continued the chevalier, dropping the tone of
levity in which he had hitherto spoken, “it grieves me to relate the cause of
poor Montmiril’s death, for though a weak, he was really a worthy man. I know
it was given out that he was murdered by robbers in the gardens of his Italian
villa, but the truth is, he died in consequence of a wound which he received in
a rencounter with a favourite gallant of the countess.”
Ida
could not doubt the veracity of de Balsac, who had been intimate with
Montmiril, and who he knew was little disposed to exaggerate facts to the
prejudice of any one; but he felt himself deeply pained by the account he gave
him, for every succeeding day served to strengthen the suspicion, that his
father intended to confer on Madame de Montmiril the title of Countess of
Wooler.—Nor was the countess herself either slow to perceive, or backward to
profit by the ascendency she had gained over Wooler’s worthy heart; he was a
daily visitor at the hotel de la Var, where Madame de Montmiril almost
constantly resided; and the duchess was too polite, too considerate, and too
anxious to promote her friend’s happiness to either interrupt their têtes à têtes herself, or permit the
intrusion of others. These frequent interviews of course produced long
conversations, some of which naturally reverted to the family and native
country of the earl, and when he talked of his beloved Rosetta, the soft sigh
of parental solicitude was reverberated from the gentle bosom of Madame de
Montmiril.
“Ah!
my lord,” she exclaimed, “how happy should I be to embrace your charming
daughter, and cultivate an interest in her invaluable esteem; for I am prepared
to love her by both your lordship’s description, and the lovely miniature which
is in your son’s possession.”
This
miniature was constantly worn by Ida, and had at his father’s request been
exhibited to Madame de Montmiril, who instantly and repeatedly noticed the
extreme resemblance she thought it bore to the earl; and consequently the term lovely, which was now so unequivocally
bestowed upon it by the rosy lips of madame, could not sound otherwise than
highly pleasing on his enamoured ear; not less so indeed, than was his reply to
that of the countess; “Consent then, most charming of women, to honor England
and Rosetta with your presence.”
The
downcast look, the sweet confusion, the heaving sigh, and the languishing
smile, were all necessary, and all practised on this occasion; and lastly, the
evasive answer, meant to draw forth a still more explicit proposal, was given
in the following words, “Yes, my lord, I do indeed wish to behold your island,
and no part of it more than the castle of Tynemouth; but I fear it will be long
before it is in my power to accept your obliging invitation, and have the
felicity of being introduced to your amiable Rosetta; for my dear duchess
cannot leave Paris, and I do not know another lady with whom I could be happy
as a travelling companion.”
“Confer
then that honour on your adoring Wooler, divine, angelic Narcisse; deign to
accept his hand and heart, and permit him to conduct you to England, and
happiness!”
It is
almost needless to say, that after the hesitation and confusion indispensible
on such an occasion, the proposal was accepted; and when the consequent
raptures of the happy lover had in some degree subsided, the hour which was to
complete his felicity was fixed at no great distance.
The
following morning when breakfast was ended, Lilburne retired as usual to his
own room; and the earl being left alone with his son, after a short silence
spoke of the route the young men were to pursue on their tour through France.
And then, reverting to his own design of soon returning to England, he added,
with a smile, “And it is my intention to carry home with me a mother for my
children.”
Though
Ida was but too well prepared for this information, he regarded his father with
a look of incredulity, and said, “Am I to believe you in earnest, my lord,
surely you do but banter me?”
The
earl’s reply confirmed the worst apprehensions of his son, by informing him,
that Madame de Montmiril was to become Countess of Wooler in a few days.
“Good
heaven! my lord!” he exclaimed, “have you considered! A woman destitute alike
of principle and character—” and he repeated what de Balsac had told him,
concealing, however, the name of his informant.
The
eyes of Wooler flashed with a degree of rage that Ida had never before seen in
them— “It is an accursed falsehood!” he cried, “I insist on knowing from whom
you had this infamous tale; the honor of Madame de Montmiril is now mine; it is
at once my duty and pleasure to defend her from every vile aspersion, and I
will make the villain retract his slanders, or punish him with my sword.”
“If
such are your lordship’s determinations,” returned Ida, “I should act a most
unjustifiable part, by giving up to your resentment, a person, who, from the
purest motives of friendship, warned me against that artful and dangerous
woman, who has but too successfully imposed upon you: and pardon me, my lord,
if I so far infringe on the respect I owe my father as to hint, that with a
daughter arrived at my sister’s age, and a housekeeper so careful of your interest
as Mrs. Cresswell certainly is, the world will be apt to censure you, for
introducing Madame de Montmiril into your family.”
The
visage of the earl glowed with augmented rage; and in a voice of fury he
exclaimed, “Insolent boy!—do you dare to brave me with the world’s censure?
quit my presence, and remember that you approach me no more, until you are
prepared to pay to Madame de Montmiril that duty and respect, which, as my
wife, she will have a right to demand from my children.”
Poor
Ida, finding that his arguments were wholly without effect, willingly obeyed
the order of departure, and went in search of Lilburne, to communicate to him
the unpleasant intelligence of the approaching marriage. On Rosetta’s account,
Lilburne felt the deepest concern at such an event, and joined Ida in severely
blaming the earl; but as he had for some time been prepared to expect it, and
could not assume the privilege of remonstrating with his guardian, he soon
ceased to comment upon it, and relapsed into his accustomed gloomy abstraction;
indeed, these fits were now so long and frequent, and his general behaviour so
strange, that Ida was almost inclined to suspect his friend’s mind to be
disordered. Whenever the time came at which he might look for letters from
England, he could watch their arrival whole nights together, nor could any
entreaties prevail on him to seek repose. The slightest mention of Tynemouth,
or of any circumstances that had formerly passed there, seemed to excite in him
the most poignant anguish; and whenever the sanguine mind of Ida formed some
plan of future happiness, the dejected Lilburne invariably exclaimed, “May
every felicity be yours, my friend; but for me, my sad prospects terminate at
some obscure convent in Italy, where I must wear out my wretched life in
mortification and penance.”
Ida
next unburthened his full heart, in a letter to his sister, and though he did
not say all he knew, all he believed, and all he feared, concerning their
parent-elect, he hinted enough to convince Rosetta, that the object of their
father’s choice would neither bring honor nor happiness into the bosom of the
family she was entering.
CHAP.
VII.
Where rising cliffs, and
rocks extensive spread
Along the coast, majestic,
at the last,
The ancient abbey lifts its
ruin’d head;
And braves the power of
winter’s wasting blast:
Below, the German ocean,
wide and vast,
Pours its full tide; and
from the neighb’ring cave,
Responsive echo sounds; and
sail-clad mast
Of vessel gliding o’er the
placid wave,
Thro’
ether’s blue expanse seems the slow way to lave.”
DREARY
indeed were the long months of winter at the castle of Tynemouth, and Rosetta
thought their heavy hours the most cheerless she had ever known. No tender
parent was now there to embrace and bless her at the hour of rest, and to greet
her in the morning with a smile that at once spoke approbation, and promised
protection—no dear brother to share those trivial cares and anxieties which his
participation could always lessen, and his soothing voice often remove—and, no
Mitford Lilburne, to give an unspeakable charm to every scene: while he was an
inmate of the governor’s house
“————————The desart smil’d,
And Paradise was open’d in
the wild.”
But now the enchantment was dissolved, and the magic
of Lilburne’s presence would never again revive it. While she lamented the
absence of her father and Ida, she could beguile the present and illumine the
future with an ardent hope of their safe return, and a firm assurance of their
unabated affection; but her lover—she never expected to behold more; she had
not received either letter of or message from Lilburne since his departure.
Ida, when he wrote, scarcely mentioned him, and father Vincent never uttered
his name. The conversation of that amiable monk, ever mild, sensible, and instructive,
was now the chief—indeed almost the only pleasure Rosetta knew, yet she could
seldom obtain it. Religious duties, literary avocations, and visits of charity
to the sick and afflicted, employed the greatest part of his time; and either
the last mentioned pious office was considered enlarged, or some other cause
occupied much of his attention, for it was reported amongst the brethren, that
those hours which father Vincent had once dedicated to mediation in his cell,
were now passed elsewhere; but whither he went, or when he returned no one
could ascertain; though many conjectures were formed on the subject. However,
he continued to give Rosetta the accustomed instructions, and she accompanied
him as usual on those errands of mercy, when this venerable minister of peace
restored the rose of health and the glow of contentment, to the cheek hollowed
with want, and blasted by disease—when he soothed the tortured form racked on
the bed of pain—and, when he poured into the penitent soul the divine doctrines
of atonement and redemption. And, oh! while Rosetta attended like a ministering
angel—while she supported drooping age with the reviving cordial—strengthened
infant weakness with wholesome viands—and supported the expiring head which was
raised from the pillow of death, to embrace the cross—while the children of
poverty blessed her footsteps—and the sons and daughters of affliction implored
the divine benediction on her head, she felt a source of comfort within
herself, to which she could turn and find consolation, whenever the loss of her
lover, and the absence of her dear relations pressed heavy at her heart. Few
indeed of the occupations that once pleased her, now retained the power of
beguiling the heavy hours; though she might have pursued the exercise of riding
on the sands even during the rigors of winter; she now derived no pleasure from
it; for could she traverse the beach, without tracing in tears the idea of the
beloved companions whose remembrance was forcibly recalled by every surrounding
object? Her books could afford her no abstraction; her pencil, when meant to
sketch the landscape, unconsciously traced the well-known features of Ida and
Lilburne, and her harp could only reverberate the trembling cadence of sorrow.
Neither could find in society, that relief, which her other occupations failed
to afford her. Elfrida Thornton was her frequent guest, but she was so
woe-begone, so dejected, so perpetually occupied with the idea of Clifford, and
with efforts to conceal her unfortunate attachment, that Rosetta found her
company only augmented the weight on her own spirits. She was, it is true, ever
gentle, tender, and affectionate; but while Rosetta at once admired and pitied
her extreme sensibility, she could not avoid blaming the weakness that nourished
a passion, which it was evident, was unreturned, and which certainly would
never receive the sanction of her father; for Clifford, however deserving,
could only be considered as the child of his bounty; having almost from infancy
owed to Mr. Thornton both education and the very means of subsistence.
Yet
however highly Rosetta censured her friend’s conduct, she felt herself actually
precluded from remonstrating on the subject, for she had uniformly discouraged
any hints which Elfrida seemed disposed to drop concerning her attachment to
Clifford; being well convinced, that if she accepted Miss Thornton’s confidence
that young lady, far from being benefited by any admonitions that Rosetta’s
friendship might induce her to give, would make Clifford the perpetual theme of
their private conversations, and thus rivet an image on her heart, which ought
to be expelled from thence by every exertion of reason and fortitude.
Clifford, faithful to the promise he had made
to Lilburne, unceasingly combated his own unfortunate passion, he scarce ever
paid his compliments at the governor’s house; nor trusted himself to behold
Rosetta, except when a short cessation of the wintry storm invited her rambles
amongst the rocks and then he felt himself bound by the same sacred promise to
attend her steps—and to shield her from open or hidden danger. To know that
Clifford was the companion of these walks, was a sufficient inducement for
Elfrida to share them with her friend; and though Rosetta would have infinitely
preferred to wander pensive and alone, she could not decline their society;
though the misery she saw them endure augmented that of her own suffering
breast; silent and cheerless then were these melancholy rambles on the
sea-shore, and though the tenderest affection cemented them all three to each
other, yet there were motives which precluded conversation, and produced
silence which was scarce ever broken by any of them.
Rosetta
highly esteemed Clifford, both for his own merits, and as the beloved friend of
her brother and Lilburne; but she plainly saw the partiality he felt for
herself; and, ignorant of the solemn vow he had made to her lover, she had
recourse of a degree of reserve in her manner towards him, which, however
repugnant to her feelings, she felt herself justified in adopting rather than
give the slightest shadow of encouragement to a passion that must ever be
hopeless.
The
never-failing efforts of Clifford were certainly directed to fulfil the
engagement he had made to Lilburne, and when absent from Rosetta, he flattered
himself that he had gained a victory over his heart; but in her presence the
vanquished traitor always rebelled. Wholly unconscious of the preference with
which Elfrida honored him, he regarded her only as a beloved sister; but every trifling
sentence that breathed from the lovely lips of Rosetta was melody to his soul,
and every sigh which the remembrance of Lilburne drew from her bosom, was
reverberated by the agonized Clifford.—Elfrida, the pensive slave of love and
jealousy, silently beheld all this, and alternately feared and pitied her
lovely but unhappy rival. And thus these amiable devoted victims, with hearts
lacerated by the most painful and conflicting emotions, would frequently wander
together a mile from home, and return to it again without enterchanging three
sentences.
Shipperdson, sanctioned by the trust which
the earl reposed in him, frequently visited the ladies, and met a polite
reception from Mrs. Cresswell; but his presence was always disagreeable to
Rosetta: though to do him justice, she could not accuse him of having in any
instance, behaved to her otherwise than with the most respectful politeness.
Mrs.
Cresswell, ever the slave of superstition, was perpetually diving into
futurity; and now that her residence in a place she disliked, and the absence
of her kinsman had diffused a degree of melancholy over her mind, all her
predictions and prognostics were tinctured with a sombre shade. Time was, when
the admiring circle assembled round her breakfast table, were edified by
interpretations of happy dreams—about fire, the infallible type of love—and
veal, which always foretold good fortune—when those who had the honor to
accompany her on the noon day walk, were charmed by the certain forerunners of
luck, which appeared in the shapes of four-leaved clover, hairy worms, and
perforated pebbles; and when the smiling party seated by the evening fire, were
instructed to observe the purse that bounded from it and the ring which adorned
the candle; but those days of tranquillity were now no more—and Mrs. Judith
dreamed only of roast beef, the unerring harbinger of disappointment; while her
path was perpetually crossed by intrusive pigs; and coffins, instead of purses,
issued from the fire.
However
free from superstition the mind of Rosetta might be, yet the depression of her
spirits was insensibly augmented by the conversation of this antiquated sybil;
and thus excluded on all sides from finding comfort in the society which
surrounded her, she passed the chief part of her melancholy hours in her own
apartment, listening to the deep-toned sounds of the wintry elements, and
watching the desolating tempest fermenting in the loaded sky. Impressed with
awful astonishment, she beheld the extensive waters of the German sea, agitated
by the mighty north-east hurricane, the billows urged onwards by its
irresistible force, and bursting with tremendous noise on the rocky shore, from
whence they rebounded with such fury, that the white spray flew over the lofty
roof of the church, and fell considerably beyond the castle.—In the transient
pauses of the storm, when the wild elemental conflict ceased for a moment, and
the mist partially subsided, Rosetta could discern an unfortunate bark, which
unable to weather the whirling blast, was tossed abroad on the ocean, the sport
of its merciless rage. Vain are the efforts of human skill, opposed to the
powerful spirit of the tempest, when not restrained by an Almighty hand. The
reeling vessel, no longer under the controul of her crew, was driven from side
to side, and bending, received the proud waves, now on the starboard, and now
on the larboard quarter; until Rosetta saw surged rise with Alpine swell, and
overwhelm the hapless ship; but while the shriek of horror for the mariner’s
safety, yet hung on her trembling lips, the bark rose again on the ridgy
billows, and in another moment the briny mist once more veiled every object
from sight. Nor on such occasions as these, did Rosetta fail, to urge every
liberal offer, every forcible argument in her power to procure assistance to
the unhappy sufferers; and when assured that no aid could be given them, for
that no boat could possibly put to sea, her agony was unspeakable, and
returning to the window, she would watch the lurid atmosphere, and mark the
surcharged and heavy clouds, which driven rapidly along by the sweeping gust,
almost wholly obscured the moon. When the black shadows of midnight enveloped
the horizon, Rosetta retired to her couch, from whence, however, rest was
banished by the ceaseless howling of the blast; the noise of the flood-tide
waves re-echoed from the excavated rocks; the screams of the sea-fowl; and the
rain beating, or the hail pattering against the casements of her chamber; and
yet more by the sad image of the poor perishing sailors belonging to the bark,
whose cries Rosetta fancied she heard mingled with the horrors of the night,
and most fervently did she recommend them to the protection of that
all-powerful Being, whose awful voice sounds in the tempest, whose majestic
steps walks on the troubled waters, and who rides on the mighty wings of the
wind. She would rise with the first faint beam of the morning, anxious, yet
dreading, to know the fate of the ship; and though perhaps its scattered wreck
strewed the shore at the foot of the castle, or the sand on the opposite side,
the moment which enabled Rosetta to administer assistance, comfort, and
consolation to the shipwrecked sufferers, was to her one of the most exquisite
delight. It was after such a scene as this, that she beguiled a pensive hour,
by composing the following verses:
While here at evening’s
pensive fall,
I watch the varying tempest’s strife,
Past hours of pleasure I
recal,
Fraught with the joys of polish’d life.
When music gave her warbling
song,
To aid the ever-charming nine,
And let the mazy dance
along,
Where love and joy and hope were mine.
Stern winters desolating
powers
May wither nature’s vivid bloom;
May blast the woods, the
fields, the flowers,
And wrap the cheerful day in gloom:
May rend the strong majestic
tree,
And bow to earth the lofty pine—
Congenial are its storms to
me,
For mental winter now is mine.
The howling winds, the
roaring waves,
The long night veil’d in blackest cloud;
Wild echo murmuring thro’
the caves,
The sailor’s cries, and sea-gull loud;
The driving snow, the
whirlwind’s roll,
And all that horror can combine,
Are typified in my sad soul,
Bereft of all that once was mine.
Against the mighty
north-east gale,
In vain the toiling seaman strives,
With broken mast and
tattered sail
Before the storm his vessel drives;
Till dash’d upon the hidden
reef
The guards the dangerous mouth of Tyne
No aid, no comfort, no
relief,
His last fond hopes are wreck’d---like mine.
I see the shiv’ring sufferer
roam;
I hear him mourn his shatter’d bark;
Ah! thus I weep my happy
home,
The peaceful shades of Wooler Park;
My Ida!---brother of my
heart!
Thy cherish’d image must entwine,
With every scene that found
a part,
In days of bliss, that once were mine.
When memory traces later
years,
I see more tender visions rise---
Ah! cease to flow, my
fruitless tears;
Be hush’d, my unavailing sighs!---
Oh, Lilburne! if no more we
meet,
If in some convent’s sacred shrine,
Thou find’st from grief a
last retreat,
The peaceful nunnery shall be mine.
Happy
is that being, who, possessing a heart, blessed in conscious innocence and
rectitude, and a mind and talents stored and cultivated with sufficient to
afford him employment and amusement, can hold communion with himself, and
beguile the hour of retirement and solitude. Such was Rosetta; and indeed the
pensive seclusion of her own chamber was soon the only place where she could
enjoy peace and quiet.
About
this time a stranger arrived at the castle, and took up his abode there; this
was the nephew of Major Shipperdson, on whom, since the death of his parents,
which happened about six years back, he had depended for support and
protection.
Edward
O’Bryen, for so he was called, had been educated for the profession of surgery,
and had passed the last two years on the continent, from whence he was now
recalled by his uncle, with the ostensible motive of introducing him to public
life, as a surgeon to the garrison of Tynemouth; and the concealed one of
effecting a union between him and the Earl of Wooler’s lovely daughter.
O’Bryen
possessed a fine person, and a very weak understanding; the former circumstance
rendered him insufferably vain; and in consequence of the latter he was
entirely subjected to the guidance of his artful relative, whose will and word
were his own laws, and Shipperdson, who ever depended upon his own powers for
carrying his schemes into execution, on the present occasion required nothing
from his nephew but an implicit observance of his directions. The major was one
of those men who entertain no very exalted opinion of female stability. His
penetration had long since discovered the attachment which subsisted between
Rosetta and Lilburne, but he concluded it certain that all their engagements
were now dissolved for ever. It was a maxim with him, that the moment in which
a woman feels herself necessitated to withdraw her heart from one object, is of
all others the most proper for another to solicit the prize; and in this view
he had introduced his nephew at Tynemouth; never doubting that Edward’s
attractions would be as successful in gaining the affections of Rosetta, as his
own machinations in securing the earl’s consent to their union.
Nor
while he thus laboured to promote the interests of his young relation, was the
artful deputy-governor regardless of his own; his plans concerning Elfrida he
now considered as sufficiently en train
to begin his manœuvres; and not repulsed by the invariable coldness of her
manner towards him, he made formal proposals to her father; which were very
coldly received by that gentleman. Yet whatever repugnance Mr. Thornton might
feel to the idea of bestowing his daughter on a man whose rank, fortune, age,
and principles were so inadequate to secure her happiness; he would not give
him a decided negative until he had consulted the inclinations of Elfrida; and
finding that her sentiments coincided entirely with his own, he gave the major
a determined refusal. This indeed, was only what Shipperson expected. When he
made his overtures, he had never encouraged the smallest hope of success, but a
refusal furnished a plausible pretext for acting the part of a despairing
lover, which was a necessary prelude to other plans he had formed; and in
consequence of the resolutions he had taken; he pursued Miss Thornton like her
shadow, whenever he could do so unobserved by her father; supporting to
admiration the character of a rejected, but still adoring swain. And while the
major thus harassed the persecuted Elfrida, his docile pupil, following his
example and instructions, assailed Rosetta with the whole artillery of sighs,
protestations, vows, and entreaties. In company, his attentions were so marked
and decided, that it was scarcely possible to suppose any man could have the assurance
to pay them, unless well convinced that they were perfectly agreeable to their
object. And whenever chance left them a few moments in private, his assiduities
were troublesome and even impertinent. Nor could Rosetta find any adequate
means to check his insolence. If she was angry, and threatened to acquaint her
father by letter, O’Bryen swore not to live under her frowns, and awed her to
momentary silence, by pointing a sword or pistol to his own breast.
Remonstrances he answered by pleading the violence of his passion, which he
declared could end but with his life; and silent contempt he chose to construe
into encouragement. At length Rosetta unable any longer to endure his
persecutions in silence, complained to Mrs. Cresswell, who warmly remonstrated
with the deputy-governor on his nephew’s behaviour; and though he essayed by
every insinuating art in his power to mollify her resentment, and win her over
to favour his designs, his efforts were vain; for, besides that the birth and
fortune of O’Bryen were far inferior to what the Earl of Wooler’s daughter had
a right to expect in a partner for life, Rosetta, on valentine-day, had drawn
the name of Mitford Lilburne, a circumstance from which Mrs. Judith augured the
certainty of his safe return; and consequently to become accessary to bestowing
the hand of Rosetta on another, would, she thought; be impiously thwarting the
will of heaven.
However,
as no method had power to produce a change in O’Bryen’s conduct, Rosetta felt
compelled to confine herself almost wholly to her own apartment, where Elfrida
also frequently took refuge, from the disgusting assiduities of Shipperdson;
and thus, the fair friends had at least one subject of mutual confidence, in
bewailing the persecutions they suffered from two wretches, who were alike the
objects of their contempt and abhorrence.
The
dreary months of winter wore away, without any other material event; and
returning spring, freshening the verdure of the sea-banks, enamelled them with
a countless variety of weeds and wild flowers. The desolating blast no longer
agitated the ocean, but breathed in whispering zephyrs on the placid surface of
its waves; and the vernal sun-beams diffused life and cheerfulness over the
renovated face of nature.
Early
one morning, towards the latter end of March, the inhabitants of the castle and
monastery were alarmed by an unusual bustle, occasioned by the sudden and
dangerous illness of the prior, who had been seized with spasms in the stomach.
The monks all quitted their cells, some to attend on the sick couch of the
superior, and others to prostrate themselves before the shrine of St. Oswin,
and implore the good offices of the holy martyr.
O’Bryen,
as the nearest medical practitioner, was called in, and a message was
dispatched to Mrs. Judith, requesting the assistance of her matronly skill, in
preparing the remedies which he prescribed. She rose with alacrity, but while
putting on her shoes she happened to sneeze, and had the lives of all the
people of England been at stake, it would not have prevented her from returning
to bed when those two circumstances happened in conjunction. Conceiving,
however, that half an hour would be time sufficient to secure the good luck
that her sneeze portended, she rose again at the end of that period, and
proceeded to dress herself in such haste that she forgot to turn her robe,
which had been folded wrong side out, and being now put on in that state,
exhibited the lining to the gaze of the beholders, and thus it was suffered to
remain: for to throw away the good fortune which such a happy mistake promised,
by putting it off again, would, in the opinion of its fair wearer, be a piece
of folly equal to his, who, when a purse of gold were offered to his
acceptance, should wilfully dash it into the sea.
Being
at length equipped, she hastened to prepare the medicines; and in addition to
those ordered by O’Bryen, she prescribed cataplasm for the soles of the
patient’s feet, composed of black snails and saffron, pounded in a mortar, and
mixed together with that finger of the left hand on which ladies wear the
wedding ring; for Mrs. Judith was convinced that nothing of a poisonous or
hurtful nature could adhere to that finger without communicating itself
immediately to the heart: but, alas! in using it, she discovered that she had
omitted cutting her nails the preceding Friday, and mournfully prophesied that
a most dreadful paroxysm of the tooth-ache would infallibly result from so
culpable a neglect.
The
weather was remarkably serene for the season, and nature already wore the light
and flowery mantles which she generally assumes a month after. Rosetta devoted
this evening to a solitary ramble on the sea-shore; for it was an hour in which
she might commune with her own sad thoughts without fear of interruption; every
person with whom she was accustomed to associate being engaged beyond a
possibility of accompanying her. The robe, wrong side out, kept Mrs. Cresswell
in the house; Elfrida was on a visit at Monkseaton, where she was to remain a
week at least; Shipperdson was engaged in military business; Clifford was on
duty; father Vincent was with the prior who had received no benefit from the
snail plaisters; and her old tormenter, O’Bryen, could not leave his patient.
Rosetta pursued the road along the top of the cliffs until she had gained a
considerable distance from the castle, and then descending a steep and narrow
path which led to the beach, she retraced her way homewards by the margin of
the sea. The last faint beam of day which trembled on the waves yielded gradually
to the deepening shadows of twilight, until they also were chased by the moon.
Rosetta, seating herself on a projection of rock, watched the rising luminary:
the flaming curve first appearing on the verge of the ocean, and enlarging, by
almost imperceptible degrees, to the full orb, ascending in radiant majesty
through the cloudless vault of heaven. She inhaled the fresh sea breeze, and
for some time amused herself with counting the billows, and making the
augmented force with which every third wave dashed its white foam on the shore.
But the calm silence and solitude of the hour and place were little calculated
to abstract her mind from objects on which it was accustomed to dwell; and,
while active fancy wandered to her friends in France, her intention was
insensibly withdrawn from the surrounding scenes, and she sat in deep
meditation until the shadow of a human figure, reflected in the moonbeams,
passed slowly along the beach, and a footstep sounded on her ear. Rosetta
looked round, and saw what appeared to be a phantom, rather than a corporeal
being, gliding amongst the rocks. Somewhat startled, but not intimidated, she
raised her eyes to the countenance, and beheld—ah! what terms, what language,
can describe her sensations when she beheld, or thought she beheld, the
features of Lilburne!—yet they were so pale and wasted—they wore such an
expression of mournful suffering—and the hollow eyes were so devoid of
animation, that they seemed but to belong to an inhabitant of the grave. An
involuntary scream escaped from the trembling lips of Rosetta; and the figure
approached as if with an intention of addressing her, but in that moment a
quick step sounded as if descending the path; and, starting away, it
disappeared in a cleft or hollow of the rock. Almost overcome by a mingled
sensation of astonishment and horror, Rosetta could scarce support her agitated
frame; and before she could sufficiently recal her scattered faculties to
reflect seriously whether she had probably witnessed a supernatural appearance—whether
she had beheld Lilburne himself—or whether her imagination had given the
features, ever present to it, to some passing object, Clifford appeared on the
beach. Attributing the agitation in which he beheld Rosetta solely to surprize
at his sudden appearance, he apologised for it by saying, that at the moment he
was relieved from duty, letters from France had arrived, which Mrs. Cresswell
finding to be of great importance, had commissioned him to come in search of
Rosetta.
On
receiving this intelligence at such a moment, her trembling ears naturally
suggested the worst, and yielding for moment to superstitious terrors, she
believed that Lilburne was dead, and that she had seen his apparition.
Breathless almost expiring, she faintly articulated—
“Is
my father?—is Ida?” she could add no more; but Clifford anticipated the whole
of her inquiry, and replied, “They are both well, madam. I have received a
letter from Mr. Lilburne, dated the same day as those from your father, and he
is well also.”
This
intelligence calmed in some degree the terrors of Rosetta, and enabled her to
exert her reasoning powers; but while she discarded all superstitious fears she
could not help reflecting, that though Lilburne was in France when the letters
were dated, yet the same period of time which had conveyed them into
Northumberland might have brought him thither also. However a thousand reasons
prevented her from mentioning to Clifford, either what she had seen, or what
she conjectured; and, with the silence that usually characterised their walks,
they proceeded together to the castle.
CHAP.
VIII.
“—————————Loveliest village
of the plain,
Where health and plenty
cheer’d the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its
earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s
lingering blooms delay’d:
Dear lovely bowers of
innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when
every sport could please.”
THE
letters now arrived, were that which has already been mentioned, as having been
written by Ida, immediately after his father had acquainted him with his
intended marriage, and two from the earl himself, to Rosetta and Mrs. Cesswell,
containing the same information; and adding, that when the ceremony was over he
should embark, with the countess, for England; she being, as he expressed it,
“impatient to embrace her dear daughter.”
The
earl’s letters also mentioned, that Lilburne was well, and would proceed with
Ida on their tour, after having been present at the nuptials. This, together
with what Clifford had said, soothed for the present Rosetta’s fears on her
lover’s account; or rather, perhaps, they yielded for a time to intelligence so
strange, unexpected, and distressing, as that of her father’s marriage.
Prepared by Ida’s letter to find her new parent unamiable, she anticipated much
unhappiness to herself from the connection; but she had now little leisure to
indulge painful reflections; the wind having been fair for some time past,
there was every reason to expect the governor and his bride in the course of a
few days; and in consequence Rosetta was much engaged in giving the necessary
orders for their reception, Mrs. Judith being incapacitated from affording any
assistance; for she was so much affected with the intelligence of her kinsman’s
approaching marriage, that she actually took to her bed. Yet to clear Mrs.
Cresswell from any unjust imputation, it is proper to declare, that there was
not the least spark of jealousy or any such passion in the case: her disorder
arising partly from concern on Rosetta’s being subjected to the tyranny and caprice
of a mother-in-law, and partly from chagrin at resigning the chief
superintendence of the earl’s household. The whole affair was distressing
enough, but it was attended with so many prodigies, that poor Judith was driven
almost to madness. The earl had embarked for France on a Friday, and it is a
received maxim amongst all the sybil in Europe, that no undertaking commenced
on that day can possibly end well. Besides, she had dreamed that a monstrous
large cat seized her in its paws, and there could not remain the shadow of a
doubt, that the savage animal represented the new countess, in whom, of course,
she should find a bitter and dangerous enemy. But notwithstanding all this, she
was so far recovered in the space of two days, as to be able to leave her
chamber.
In
the midst of the bustle of preparation, the figure amongst the rocks frequently
recurred to Rosetta’s thoughts, and she earnestly wished to confer with father
Vincent on the subject; but the prior, though somewhat recovered, was still in such
a state, that the attendance of the monks could not be dispensed with. Of
course, Rosetta would find no opportunity of conversing with her preceptor in
private, even for a moment. Recollecting, however, that the cleft in the rock,
where the supposed Lilburne disappeared, was the subject of many superstitious
tales, she felt a desire to be made acquainted with them; and for this purpose
applied to Mrs. Judith, who was certainly well qualified to instruct her; yet
she did not give the least hint of what had prompted her inquiry; for she well
knew, that to mention the figure she saw on the sands to Judith, would be to
spread the report of a ghost through the whole garrison: her questions drew
from her sage kinswoman the following information, doubtless, no less authentic
than important. “The rock you inquire about, my dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “is
the seat of the enchantment which was
laid upon this castle, in consequence of the murder of our ancestor, Robert de
Mowbray, Earl of Northumberland. Awful are the mysteries which it contains; but
he who is fated to break the spell, must first penetrate is most secret
recesses. Many indeed have already explored them, but none have returned to
describe what they saw; yet I have made such minute researches into the affair,
that I am enabled to give a circumstantial account of both their unhappy fate,
and the mysteries they witnessed there.”
Here
Rosetta could scarce refrain from laughing and asking Mrs. Judith how she
obtained her information, since no person had escaped from this wonderful cave
to describe its contents. However, she suppressed the question, and with a
composed countenance, listened to the following surprising narration.
“He
who is courageous enough to enter the rock, finds himself in a narrow dark
passage, and if he carries a light, it is of no avail, for it always expires
about ten yards from the mouth of the cave; and the adventurer is left to grope
his way along by the walls, which exhale a damp vapor. If his courage does not
fail him, he proceeds in this manner for about three hours, when he feels his
passage impeded by water; here he naturally hesitates; and while he stands,
considering whether he shall endeavour to ford it, or explore his way back, a
faint flame rises as it were from the bottom of the pool, and gleaming along
the surface discovers a narrow path on one side, which with infinite danger and
difficulty he passes. Here the light suddenly rises and goes before him, about
the same height from the ground as a lanthorn would be if carried in the hand
of a man; indeed it is evidently carried by some invisible being; for although
nothing is seen but the flame, the adventurer distinctly hears the sound of
other footsteps besides his own, and a continual clanking or jingling rings in
his ears. The cause which produces this noise has been the subject of much
speculation, and many conjectures have been formed about it; but I shall not
take upon me to determine positively which of them is right. I have heard it
affirmed that the invisible figure being unquestionably the ghost of Robert de
Mowbray, is clad in the very same armour which he wore in his life-time, and
which as it moves, produces a clashing sound. Some suppose that the spirit
carries a chain ready to bind the unfortunate victim in a spell of enchantment. Others believe that a bell is tolled to warn
him of his fate. Nor are there wanting those who contend, that what is heard is
the tinkling of keys; though here again opinion is divided, for while one party
asserts that they are the keys of the cells or dungeons, where persons are kept
in a state of enchantment; another maintains them to be those which guard the
immense treasure buried in a secret recess of that rock, and which will be the
reward of him who is destined to break the enchantment.
However, be this as it may, the adventure is led on by the jingling sound and
the light that accompanies it and in his way he is appalled with the sight of
several miserable wretches, who having ventured thither like himself, and being
unable to perform the conditions requisite for dissolving the spell, are now stretched on couches in a state of enchantment. But as yet the
weary length of his journey is only commencing, for it is generally believed,
that this subterraneous road is extended beneath the foundations of the Picts’
wall the whole length to that stupendous boundary, nor does it stop there, but
passing under the bed of the Irish sea, terminates in the bowels of the earth
below the very heart of Ireland, and here he suddenly finds himself in a small
apartment, hung round with black, and paved with jet; in the middle is a table
of ebony, on which a sword and a trumpet are laid; the flame resting on the
table, gleams faintly over the room, and a voice is heard, which audibly
pronounces these words,
“Bless’d be the day on which
thou wast born,
If thou canst either draw
the sword or sound the horn.”
Hitherto, however, no person has been able to do
either; the weapon cannot be unsheathed, neither will the trumpet produce any
tone; and after three unsuccessful efforts, the unfortunate wretch attempts to
retreat; but before he can reach the mouth of the cavern, he is fixed like a
statue by the spell of enchantment,
and is fated to remain in the situation I have described until the charm is
finally dissolved.—I flattered myself,” added Mrs. Judith, “that it would be
the lot of Ida to break this enchantment,
and possess himself of the immense wealth which is thus hid in the bowels of
the earth; but that unlucky green bed has cut the thread of his good fortune,
and I would be the last to advise him ever to enter the cavern, for I am sure
he would be enchanted there.”
This
harangue, delivered with as much gravity of countenance as a judge wears when
giving his charge to the jury, yielded little information to Rosetta, who
remained as much in the dark as ever concerning the hollow rock, and the figure
which entered it; neither could she obtain satisfactory information from any
one on the subject; and indeed it was for the present suspended in her mind by the
hourly expectation of her father’s arrival. How often did she trip from the
hall into the castle yard—how frequently did her light footsteps pace the
ramparts, and with what looks of anxious solicitude were her lovely eyes
directed over the blue main; yet it was only the dear hope of seeing her
beloved and indulgent parent that her heart anticipated with pleasure; from the
contemplation of an interview with her mother-in-law, she shrunk with horror
and fear.
At
length the long-expected bark entered the haven, the governor and his bride
landed, and were received with military honors. Major Shipperdson met them at
the gate, and conducted them to the governor’s house, where Rosetta, at once
overjoyed and agitated, flew to the arms of her father: the fondness with which
he pressed her to his paternal breast, and the glow of delight which animated
his features, recalled in some degree her spirits, and when he presented her to
her new mother, she was sufficiently composed to pay her the respect which was
due to the wife of her father; while the countess, embracing her with apparent
rapture, called her, her charming daughter.
Mrs.
Judith welcomed her new relation with formal politeness, and when they were
seated, entertained her alternately with the praises of Rosetta and the history
of the enchantment.
The
prior now hovered on the brink of existence, but the senior monks left him for
a short time to visit the governor on his arrival: he advanced with his bride
to receive their blessing; but Rosetta saw with surprize and consternation,
that when father Vincent beheld the features of her new parent, his countenance
changed to an expression of indescribable horror. The countess, however,
neither by word or look, discovered the least knowledge or recollection of father
Vincent; and Rosetta, though shocked and terrified by his manner, had no
opportunity of requesting an explanation; for the monks were obliged to return
almost immediately to their dying superior, who survived the governor’s arrival
but two days, and it was some weeks ere Rosetta again saw her preceptor; but
she found one source of consolation in the intelligence she received from her
father that Lilburne and Ida were both well, and that after assisting at his
nuptials, they proceeded on their tour the same day on which himself and the
countess left Paris. This was indeed most soothing intelligence to her, for it
seemed to convey a certainty that the emaciated figure she saw amongst the
rocks could not be her lover; and by degrees the circumstances faded for the
present from her mind.
All
the principal families in the neighbourhood visited Tynemouth to congratulate
the earl and the countess on their marriage and return. The governor’s house
became the resort of gaiety and entertainments. Balls and excursions to sea
constantly succeeded each other; the fair Rosetta was the queen of every
circle; and limited indeed was the admiration which the bride excited, compared
to that which every where attended her lovely daughter; while the countess,
totally unused to be thus eclipsed, nourished the bitterest envy, the most
rancorous hatred, against the sweet unsuspecting girl; and resolved to seize
the earliest opportunity of ridding herself of so formidable a rival. The
likeliest way that seemed to present itself of doing which, was, by effecting a
union between her and O’Bryen, and persuading the earl to send them to reside
at Wooler Park. For this, perhaps, another motive besides the superior charms
of Rosetta might be alleged. The new countess had resided but a very few weeks
at Tynemouth, when the voice of fame began to talk aloud of the great degree of
intimacy that appeared to subsist between her and Major Shipperdson. He was her
partner in the dance and at cards, and her constant attendant in all her
walking, riding, and sailing parties; while Wooler, open and unsuspicious,
believed his friend and his wife equally faithful and amiable, gave himself no
concern, however frequent and long were their interviews—and was ever happy
when her ladyship appeared so. And thus another reason might be adduced why the
countess was desirous to forward the interest of the major’s nephew. Her
consummate art soon enabled her to gain a complete ascendency over the earl,
and she found little difficulty in persuading him to promise the hand of his
daughter to O’Bryen. It will be remembered, that he had always been ignorant of
the affection which subsisted between Lilburne and Rosetta; but when with
surprise and grief she found her father thus persuaded to favor O’Bryen’s
insolent pretensions, with her accustomed frankness, she acquainted him with
the whole affair, and besought him to permit her to await the event of her
lover’s mysterious behaviour; and either to fulfil her engagements with him, if
he claimed her promise, or to retire to a nunnery and take the veil.
The
earl listened with a mingled sensation of surprize, pleasure, and grief; most
happy would he have been to bestow his daughter on Lilburne, both on account of
his own merit and the regard he cherished for his father’s memory; but from the
events which happened when he watched his arms in the church, and his whole
behaviour during the time they remained abroad together; he thought there was
little probability of his ever returning to England and claiming Rosetta’s
promise; yet, unable to support the idea of seeing his beloved child secluded
for life in a convent, he tried to compromise matters, by proposing, that if
Lilburne returned in a situation to fulfil his engagements, he would retract
the word he had given O’Bryen’s favor, and consent to their union, on condition
Rosetta would agree to marry O’Bryen, if her favored lover resigned his
pretensions: but no entreaty could prevail on her to alter her resolution; and
she expressed so strong an aversion to O’Bryen, that the earl, who loved her
with the fondest affection, and had never been accustomed to oppose even the
least of her wishes, gave her the most positive assurance, that she never
should be persecuted on the subject.
When
the countess understood what turn affairs had taken, she was at once astonished
and exasperated to the highest degree; more especially, when she found that her
lord adhered to the promise he had given his daughter, with a steadiness rather
unusual to him. However, as he had no hesitation in disclosing to her the whole
matter concerning Lilburne, she was soon determined how to act. Rosetta’s union
with O’Bryen, was ever with her but a secondary consideration, the chief motive
that promoted it—indeed her first wish—was to remove a formidable and hated
rival, who engaged the homage of every heart around her, and eclipsed her as
much in grace and beauty, as in every amiable quality; and since she could not
effect this in the way she had at first intended, she resolved to try other
methods; and her fertile brain, assisted by her worthy friend the major, soon
devised the means, which, as they hoped, would not only seclude Rosetta for the
present, but eventully forward the interests of O’Bryen. Nor were their schemes
directed against Rosetta alone; Mrs. Cresswell, who could not be blind to what
was notorious to the whole garrison—the partiality which the countess
manifested for the deputy-governor—lectured her ladyship on the subject, with
much freedom and severity; and from that moment was marked out as the victim of
her vengeance; for it is certain property of vice, to influence its votaries to
detest those who would lead them back to the path of virtue.
The
only other events which occurred at this period, worth relating, were the
election of a new prior—a man of some talents, subtle, malignant, and the
avowed enemy of father Vincent,—and the departure of Elfrida Thornton, on the
promised visit to Yorkshire, whither she was escorted by Clifford; who, at her
father’s request, had obtained leave of absence for the purpose, and was not
yet returned. Rosetta thus deprived of her friend’s society, passed many
melancholy hours: she had, indeed, many causes for unhappiness—she was
compelled to witness the distressing certainty, that her father was the dupe of
an artful abandoned woman, who had given up every principle of honor and
decency, and plunged into a course of guilt, which must lead to the most
dreadful consequences. The look of horror, too, with which father Vincent
regarded the countess, were never absent from her mind; and the long silence of
her brother and Lilburne, from neither of whom any letters had been received
since the earl’s return, filled the cup of her anxieties and distresses.
END
OF FIRST VOLUME.
Newcastle upon Tyne:
Printed
by E. Mackenzie, Jun.
*The passage distinguished by inverted commas are from Mackenzie’s
History of Northumberland.
*It is difficult
to distinguish the Saxon from the early Norman mode of architecture. The
difference, it is admitted, consists more in the form than in the ornaments.
But there is no ecclesiastical building in England which can, on clear and
decisive authority, he ascribed to the Saxons. However, the little chapel of
Seaton Delavel has been, by good judges, pronounced older than the Conquest.
The old church at Tynemouth, in form, dimensions, and style of execution,
resembles that at Lindisfarn.
* “John
Wethemstede, abbot of St. Albans, was a canon here. He was a learned and
voluminous historian. On his preferment, he presented to the alter at Tynemouth
a
chalice of gold.---John of Tynemouth, an eminent sacred biographer, flourished
here about the year 1336. ‘He was born in this place, and is said to have been
the vicar of it, but afterwards became a Benedictine monk in the abbey of St.
Albans. He was a most virtuous person, and excellently learned, entirely
addicted to the study of the holy scriptures, and of sacred history. He
gathered the lives and actions of the saints of England, Wales, Scotland, and
Ireland, into two volumes, with great judgment and indefatigable labour, which
work he entitled, Sanctiologium Servorum
Dei, i.e. the Sacred History of the Servants of God. Nor did he deserve
less commendation for his Exposition of the Holy Scripture, in which he did not
only explain the literal sense, but the moral, allegorical, and tropological.
His commentaries were upon all the books from Genesis to the Kings inclusive.
He wrote also other books, as Church Lessons, the Golden History, and a
Supplement to the same; also an ‘Appendix to his Martyrology,’ &c. His
Golden History is still extant in library at Lambeth.”
*In the year 1818, in
repairing the wall on the south side, a bag of nut-shells was found in one of
the towers; every shell was perforated by a small hole, made doubtless by a
worm which had fed on the kernel. At the same time two stones were discovered,
one sculptured with the representation of Noah’s ark, the other with armorial
bearings: they were replaced in the wall.