THE

KING'S COLLEGE MAGAZINE.

NOVEMBER, 1842.

ELLERTON CASTLE;

A Romance.

BY "FITZROY PIKE," or "HAL."

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH.

CONCLUDES ALL MYSTERY.

MAT MAYBIRD hath led Annette de Vermont to a very secluded part of the wood around Ellerton, that there they may dispute in

peace.

"Nay, nay, my merry maiden," exclaims Mat, "be silent now, for I will speak! Didst thou not say, no longer since than yesternoon, didst not say, that if in aught I persevered, I should deserve it for my pains? Deny it not, Mademoiselle !-Dost blush ?-didst not blush then also, when I made promise to remind thee of the sentiment."

"True, Master Maybird, that I said so," replied Annette; "and what, sir, if I faithfully abide thereby?"

"I should have that in which I have persevered? Thou wilt abide by this, Mademoiselle?"

"Ay, verily! Let me but hear wherein Mat Maybird can have been steady?"

"So will I tell thee," replied Mat ;-" in love.-Name not Marie Santelle,-I speak of love. In France, Annette, I loved thy merry eyes,-ay, too, and I have seen thee sad-I have seen thee kiss pale Esther's forehead, so were thy sweet lips hallowed in my sight; I have seen thee tend on an imprisoned father-and, above all else

Annette-above all, have I not seen thee smile? and to have seen thee smile, Annette,-to have seen thee smile, and not to love; to see thee daily smiling, and not to persevere in loving, is philosophy I cannot comprehend. Thus then I have persevered in loving, and persevered in desiring that which-Nay, now, no answer, Mademoiselle!—that which you have told me I so well deserve." Perfidious indeed would the historian be who stayed not at such a point as this his hand, however pleasant might be all that followed. Certain vows and certain protestations, certain merry accusations, besides certain kisses and certain blushes, are doubtless upon record in a certain court, but the secrets of that court, like court-secrets generally, it is danger, if not desecration, to betray.

Kate Westrill was daily recovering, and happiness seemed now dawning upon all. The night of trouble had been broken, but there was no dawn to Willie Bats. Poor Willie grew very uneasy at contemplating the close of all misfortune. The days of wedding seemed to be drawing nigh; Cicely's smiles appeared more lavish than of old; a change too was come over them; she was more bashful, he thought, yet she was less coy; he thought he might have kissed her had he tried, and yet he thought he had no right to try. His tribulations increased daily; as he laboured still, and still no treasure would appear; he had wasted his life in treasure hunting, and now had not a mark for a new cap on his wedding day. What little money Cicely owned, she had, in the fulness of her faithful heart, secretly expended upon Kate. Willie would work, but he must work on a foundation-he could till no land until he had found means to purchase it. True, he had a small garden full of cabbages, but out of cabbages who could obtain bread? So Willie grew a little-but a very little-thinner, and sighed and slept, and loved and laboured more incessantly than ever, and all his days and all his nights were spent among the castle ruins.

One evening, he rushedhurriedly into the old priest's cottage. He had been running all the way from the end of the village, and yet he was pale as its white cliff.

"It is coming!" he exclaimed; "It is coming down the hill!— it will be here directly!"

"What is it, Willie?"

"The ghost, Master Maybird; the ghost, Sir Edward—Father, good father, cross thyself,-pray, pray-for hear you not—she is at hand!-listen to its groans !-ha!-Ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria!"

Willie's Latin was provoked by the sudden cessation of the groans,

and their renewal immediately without the old priest's door, where the apparition seemed to have made halt. Father Francis opened his door: upon the threshold had sank an old and palsied woman, her face contorted with pain, supporting with one hand a broken arm, from whence her sufferings proceeded. She looked up into the good man's face.

"Ay, father," murmured she, "it is long since I saw thee, but I know thee still; a little more silver on thy hoary locks—and I— I too am older. Dost thou remember Jessamine ?"

The old priest looked at her with surprise: "Jessamine, once housekeeper at the castle? Jessamine, thus ?"

"Even so; Jessamine of the castle, who has many a fearful tale thereof to tell; and Jessamine thus, thus as she has come to tell them!"

They carried her in and tended her. The good man's house was ever open to the distressed; he knew well to tend upon the sick; he had learned the virtues of the healing herbs to soothe a suffering body; and by the healing virtue of another Power, he could soothe as well the suffering soul. But the soul of Jessamine was hardened, and the sickness of her body was beyond all cure.

The next day she begged of the old priest that he would call all to her bed-side, for she could tell them things that they would gladly hear.

"Ye think," muttered she, as they stood around her, “that ye stand here to hear the outpourings of a wounded conscience !—that I repent, amend on my death bed,-even as ye yourselves, that live a life of wickedness, and then piously give away your garment when you know it will be taken from you! Poor, simple fools! Your hand is weak and bloodless, the pulse flutters, and ye will not kill!—Oh righteous self-denial!—The death rattle is in your throat, your teeth are locked together in the last convulsion, and your black lips quiver. Ye will avoid the wine cup!-Oye virtuously repentant !—Your eye is dim and glazed, and the treasures of earth fade before your view; ye charitable misers, ye will succour the widow and the orphan; ye will bless the poor! Death snatches your gold-bags from your quivering clutch-ah, ye good death's men, ye cast off all ye have, and bestow it all upon the needy! Ha! ha! ha !" Shrieks mingled with her wild laughter, and she was silent with pain and with exhaustion. As Father Francis uttered prayers beside her ear," Be silent," she exclaimed; "for all but the past my memory is gone-I can remember that—but it is too late to

learn prayers now. If I need prayers, they should have been learned in childhood! But I too have a creed, and my creed also leads me to confess-to confess crimes whose knowledge may call vengeance down on him who laid me thus. Not a word!" she cried, as Father Francis was about to interrupt; "think, if it suit you, I do charity ;-but I am becoming weak, and if I haste not, I may yet die unavenged.—Oh, a brave vengeance!—Sir Hubert, dost remember thy sister, thy Beatrice? What! weep!-Ha! ha! -Beatrice used to weep-she often wept when I was near. I hated her—I was her nurse, I hated her. It is a fine thing to hate— a noble, an engrossing feeling:-wine to the fool-dice to the knave -hate to a woman such as I! When she married Richard Benstone, thou camest oft to see her, and with thee a young knight, the fair Sir Lionel-with locks of blond, and eye of blue, that looked so full of love; too full, for it was that very look of love that put the brave device into my head, the groundwork of the noblest edifice a hating woman ever built. I told Sir Richard that the brave young Lionel loved his fair Beatrice. I told him that the Baroness looked down on his low birth, and saw in Lionel her equal. I contrived proofs of more than was enough to sting his pride and fire his jealousy. He led the young knight into a lonely path and slew him."

Sir Hubert started, and paced the room with a flushed face; then there came over him the memory of his Lionel, he who had been the inseparable companion of his youth, his friend, the sharer of his hopes and dreams-it was bitter to recall his memory.

"Then came Sir Richard home," continued Jessamine, "and he went and stood before Beatrice, his hands yet red with the young noble's blood, and told her the deed he had committed, and reproached her with her perfidy. I knew well she would protest in vain; for she could not disguise her horror at her husband's deed, and shunned and feared the murderer; and while she mourned her misery, Sir Richard thought she mourned alone for Lionel, and hated him. But I desired her death, and goaded him still on; I had nearly gained my end, when a male child was born, and a new bar arose to my designs. If his wife died, all that she had would be the child's: his wife he could destroy, but not with the same blow, his wealth. It was in vain I urged that he would slay the mother and the child—he was faint-hearted-trembled— fool!-so was I nearly cheated of my game!"

Again the pain of her broken limb impeded utterance, and

Jessamine sunk back exhausted; all were looking down upon the bed in mute terror: it was a tale of crime that may coolly be repeated, but was fearful in the mouth of Jessamine.

"Ha! ha!" continued she, suddenly raising herself, " 'twas but a piece to lose, and then the game was mine. It was no new thought, but an old worn-out scheme, that quickly came into my mind, to make the child a changeling. There was a man named Heringford in the village, whose wife had also newly borne a child. The man was poor-we paid him freely-the children were to be exchanged until the end of twenty years, then he should have his own son back, educated, rich, and he should meanwhile receive payment for the other's maintenance. He demanded written record of the fact. In vain we sought to give him other satisfaction : we had no time to lose, and were compelled to be content with the precaution of binding him by solemn vows to secrecy. The rest was easy. Sir Richard's scruples were at rest. That child I smothered. It was then given out that the son of Beatrice was dead, and her husband, though the estate and title fell then to the crown, became the master of her property. Old Heringford believed his son had died in the fair course of nature, and was more than satisfied by permission to retain in its place the changeling he had already learned to love. Then came the last stroke at which all had aimed. 'Twas a fair, bright morning, when I gathered herbs from among the dewy grass. Sir Richard was beside me,-like the dew drops on the grass was the sweat upon his brow, as I told the slow corroding qualities of each,-I taught his hand to mix the poisoned cup, but-ha! ha! ha! it was my hand that gave it. It was slow, but sure. Sir Richard did not stay to see the end—he crossed the sea to France. Was not the game well played? Ha! what are wine and dice to woman's hate to stir the soul! And think ye I am telling this for idle boast ?-no, it is the great game stillhate! vengeance! Ay, Richard Benstone, now thy shame is public, now is thy name dishonoured: thou hast paid me for the blow! I tell no more. My end is already answered.-Cowards! why stand ye still thus trembling at the sound of deeds I trembled not to do! Go now, work happiness out of this.—Discover the new ties that bind you, laying the foundation to new bitterness. Young man, the bar is removed now from thy love. Sir Hubert, thou hast found thy sister's child; and if it make you dearer, then it is well ; for then may the unkindness that springs up out of every breast on earth henceforth torture you with a yet deadlier sting."