Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/34

26 And all I’ve lost, and all I’ve won, The struggling race that I have run Shall find full record on the stone In these few words of solemn tone,— “Once upon a time.”

was a scene to be contemplated only in the twilight; when the sun has just sunk below the horizon, and the colours of all objects fade into a uniform blending of grey and purple; for then the old abbey towered up gloomy and silent, like a gigantic sepulchre, through the ancestral trees, and seemed as it were a building abandoned by the living to the spell of some enduring curse, or the spectres of the knights and monks whose bones were resting beneath its marble floors. No light streamed from the turret windows, and no sound broke the still air; save the solemn ring of the old clock bell as it tolled off the fleeting hours into eternity. On one side the walls were washed by a lake whose surface, for many a long year, no barque had furrowed; and on the other stood, now fast crumbling into ruin, the skeleton of a strong semi-circle of fortifications. In addition to the gradual devastations of time, however, there were those committed by the late occupant of the dwelling, whose name and character were remembered with superstitious terror by the natives of the district: for they still trembled and spoke in whispers as they pointed to the spot where one of his enemies had fallen in an unwitnessed duel, or passed near a long stake fixed on the banks of the lake, where they said that he had dragged in his wife by the hair and drowned her. Every step, in short, around the abbey was on the scene of some dark tragedy; and the reputation of its present inhabitants-although not sullied by any actual crime—was but little calculated to efface those sombre recollections.

The young lord who now occupied it with his mother was, like her, impetuous, passionate, and eccentric; and indulged, at the early age of seventeen, a morbid aversion from the world in which he was destined afterwards to be strangely conspicuous. A volcano of high-toned passions was even now surging ominously in his breast; and as the power of song was not yet awakened for the expression of those undefinable emotions, they found an outlet in various forms of extravagant caprice. Sometimes it was a gentle and melancholy reverie that led him wandering all day by the shores of that silent lake; sometimes a shadowy day-dream of glory, of perils by flood and field, and hard-fought battles, guided the flights of his fancy. In the absence of real dangers, he mounted a high-mettled horse; and his eye kindled in wild excitement as the breeze went fluttering through his hair and the ground flew away thundering beneath him. Often he found a pleasure in hearing over again the history of his uncle whose heir he had become by the death of an only son; his habit of always wearing arms—a habit which he afterwards himself adopted; his quarrels with his wife, and the duel for which he was arraigned before the House of Lords; and, at the recital of these lawless acts, he felt a sort of involuntary interest in the criminal whose acts were a contemptuous defiance of the laws and conventions of society. Frequently, too, when the rest of the household were long asleep, he paced alone through the wide and dilapidated halls, and the mouldering cells and chapel of the monks; and as the tinted moonlight poured in through the monumental windows, gazed upon the blazonry of departed knights mingled with the emblems of religion, and listened to the whispering of the mysterious presentiment, which told him that his name should alone save all the others from oblivion.

One of those days the silence of the Abbey was broken by a violent ebullition of ill-temper: mother and son flew asunder with fierce and angry words—words hastily uttered, but rankling in the wounded heart through after years—spoken in transient irritation, but sounding to the sensitive ear like the cherished hatred of a life. Wandering a while in silent and agonising fury, he returned to the court-yard, and unchained a large savage dog that obeyed no voice but his; and ordering his fleetest horse to be saddled, mounted and darted away like an arrow. Night was falling fast, and still he sped onward through the gloom, his course marked only by the clattering echoes that started from their sleep as he passed, and the fire struck from the stones. It was late in the morning when he returned, calm and exhausted; for the fire that he had fanned in that headlong speed had burnt itself out. His mother, who had also watched through the night in terror and remorse, was nervously awaiting his return, and the next moment they were clasped in each other’s arms, and mingling their tears of penitence. No words were exchanged yet, for each of those fiery natures understood the other well.

“Why are we not always on these terms, George?” said his mother, as he reclined at her feet, and laid his head upon her knees. “When Providence gave me a son I was grateful for the opening of a sealed fountain of affection; and yet in my anger I have cursed and insulted him! We have both of us frightful tempers, George.”

“At least,” said he, “very unlike those of ordinary mortals.”

“Tell me, George,” she continued, “while we are both calm, why are you more than usually irritable and abstracted for some days past?—Will you not trust me with your vexations?”

“Yes! A cold-hearted, time-serving girl has repulsed and insulted me—a creature without a soul to understand and measure the value of the love I offered her—she answered me with a smile of contemptuous pity—she looked down at this abominable foot, and called me a lame boy!”

“What folly, George, to take a girl’s refusal so much to heart! Her affections are engaged; and, besides, do you not know that a violent death has set a gulf between you?—The blood of her father’s elder brother is upon our house.”

“And why should the crimes or quarrels of ancestors so sever their descendants? The deeds that scare the timid and superstitious have a fascination for the proud and daring. But hers is one