"At your pleasure," said Rose; "and yet, methinks, the bearing in
your solitary bosom such a fearful secret will only render the
weight more intolerable. On my silence you may rely as on that of
the Holy Image, which hears us confess what it never reveals.
Besides, such things become familiar to the imagination when they
have been spoken of, and that which is familiar gradually becomes
stripped of its terrors."

"Thou speakest with reason, my prudent Rose; and surely in this
gallant troop, borne like a flower on a bush by my good palfrey
Yseulte--fresh gales blowing round us, flowers opening and birds
singing, and having thee by my bridle-rein, I ought to feel this a
fitting time to communicate what thou hast so good a title to
know. And--yes!--thou shalt know all!--Thou art not, I presume,
ignorant of the qualities of what the Saxons of this land call a
_Bahrgeist_?"

"Pardon me, lady," answered Rose, "my father discouraged my
listening to such discourses. I might see evil spirits enough, he
said, without my imagination being taught to form, such as were
fantastical. The word Bahr-geist, I have heard used by Gillian and
other Saxons; but to me it only conveys some idea of indefinite
terror, of which I never asked nor received an explanation."

"Know then," said Eveline, "it is a spectre, usually the image of
a departed person, who, either for wrong sustained in some
particular place during life, or through treasure hidden there, or
from some such other cause, haunts the spot from time to time,
becomes familiar to those who dwell there, takes an interest in
their fate, occasionally for good, in other instances or times for
evil. The Bahr-geist is, therefore, sometimes regarded as the good
genius, sometimes as the avenging fiend, attached to particular
families and classes of men. It is the lot of the family of
Baldringham (of no mean note in other respects) to be subject to
the visits of such a being."

"May I ask the cause (if it be known) of such visitation?" said
Rose, desirous to avail herself to the uttermost of the
communicative mood of her young lady, which might not perhaps last
very long.

"I know the legend but imperfectly," replied Eveline, proceeding
with a degree of calmness, the result of strong exertion over her
mental anxiety, "but in general it runs thus:--Baldrick, the Saxon
hero who first possessed yonder dwelling, became enamoured of a
fair Briton, said to have been descended from those Druids of whom
the Welsh speak so much, and deemed not unacquainted with the arts
of sorcery which they practised, when they offered up human
sacrifices amid those circles of unhewn and living rock, of which
thou hast seen so many. After more than two years' wedlock,
Baldrick became weary of his wife to such a point, that he formed
the cruel resolution of putting her to death. Some say he doubted
her fidelity--some that the matter was pressed on him by the
church, as she was suspected of heresy--some that he removed her
to make way for a more wealthy marriage--but all agree in the
result. He sent two of his Cnichts to the house of Baldringham, to
put to death the unfortunate Vanda, and commanded them to bring
him the ring which had circled her finger on the day of wedlock,
in token that his orders were accomplished. The men were ruthless
in their office; they strangled Vanda in yonder apartment, and as
the hand was so swollen that no effort could draw off the ring,
they obtained possession of it by severing the finger. But long
before the return of those cruel perpetrators of her death, the
shadow of Vanda had appeared before her appalled husband, and
holding up to him her bloody hand, made him fearfully sensible how
well his savage commands had been obeyed. After haunting him in
peace and war, in desert, court, and camp, until he died
despairingly on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, the Bahr-geist, or
ghost of the murdered Vanda, became so terrible in the House of
Baldringham, that the succour of Saint Dunstan was itself scarcely
sufficient to put bounds to her visitation. Yea, the blessed
saint, when he had succeeded in his exorcism, did, in requital of
Baldrick's crime, impose a strong and enduring penalty upon every
female descendant of the house in the third degree; namely, that
once in their lives, and before their twenty-first year, they
should each spend a solitary night in the chamber of the murdered
Vanda, saying therein certain prayers, as well for her repose, as
for the suffering soul of her murderer. During that awful space,
it is generally believed that the spirit of the murdered person
appears to the female who observes the vigil, and shows some sign
of her future good or bad fortune. If favourable, she appears with
a smiling aspect, and crosses them with her unbloodied hand; but
she announces evil fortune by showing the hand from which the
finger was severed, with a stern countenance, as if resenting upon
the descendant of her husband his inhuman cruelty. Sometimes she
is said to speak. These particulars I learned long since from an
old Saxon dame, the mother of our Margery, who had been an
attendant on my grandmother, and left the House of Baldringham
when she made her escape from it with my father's father."

"Did your grandmother ever render this homage," said Rose, "which
seems to me--under favour of St. Dunstan--to bring humanity into
too close intercourse with a being of a doubtful nature?"

"My grandfather thought so, and never permitted my grandmother to
revisit the house of Baldringham after her marriage; hence
disunion betwixt him and his son on the one part, and the members
of that family on the other. They laid sundry misfortunes, and
particularly the loss of male heirs which at that time befell
them, to my parent's not having done the hereditary homage to the
bloody-fingered Bahr-geist."

"And how could you, my dearest lady," said Rose, "knowing that
they held among them a usage so hideous, think of accepting the
invitation of Lady Ermengarde?"

"I can hardly answer you the question," answered Eveline. "Partly
I feared my father's recent calamity, to be slain (as I have heard
him say his aunt once prophesied of him) by the enemy he most
despised, might be the result of this rite having been neglected;
and partly I hoped, that if my mind should be appalled at the
danger, when it presented itself closer to my eye, it could not be
urged on me in courtesy and humanity. You saw how soon my cruel-
hearted relative pounced upon the opportunity, and how impossible
it became for me, bearing the name, and, I trust, the spirit of
Berenger, to escape from the net in which I had involved myself."

"No regard for name or rank should have engaged me," replied Rose,
"to place myself where apprehension alone, even without the
terrors of a real visitation, might have punished my presumption
with insanity. But what, in the name of Heaven, did you see at
this horrible rendezvous?"

"Ay, there is the question," said Eveline, raising her hand to her
brow--"how I could witness that which I distinctly saw, yet be
able to retain command of thought and intellect!--I had recited
the prescribed devotions for the murderer and his victim, and
sitting down on the couch which was assigned me, had laid aside
such of my clothes as might impede my rest--I had surmounted, in
short, the first shock which I experienced in committing myself to
this mysterious chamber, and I hoped to pass the night in slumber
as sound as my thoughts were innocent. But I was fearfully
disappointed. I cannot judge how long I had slept, when my bosom
was oppressed by an unusual weight, which seemed at once to stifle
my voice, stop the beating of my heart, and prevent me from
drawing my breath; and when I looked up to discover the cause of
this horrible suffocation, the form of the murdered British matron
stood over my couch taller than life, shadowy, and with a
countenance where traits of dignity and beauty were mingled with a
fierce expression of vengeful exultation. She held over me the
hand which bore the bloody marks of her husband's cruelty, and
seemed as if she signed the cross, devoting me to destruction;
while, with an unearthly tone, she uttered these words:--

   `Widow'd wife, and married maid,
    Betrothed, betrayer, and betray'd!'

The phantom stooped over me as she spoke, and lowered her gory
fingers, as if to touch my face, when, terror giving me the power
of which it at first deprived me, I screamed aloud--the casement
of the apartment was thrown open with a loud noise,--and--But what
signifies my telling all this to thee, Rose, who show so plainly,
by the movement of eye and lip, that you consider me as a silly
and childish dreamer?"

"Be not angry, my dear lady," said Rose; "I do indeed believe that
the witch we call Mara [Footnote: Ephialtes, or Nightmare] has
been dealing with you; but she, you know, is by leeches considered
as no real phantom, but solely the creation of our own
imagination, disordered by causes which arise from bodily
indisposition."

"Thou art learned, maiden," said Eveline, rather peevishly; "but
when I assure thee that my better angel came to my assistance in a
human form.--that at his appearance the fiend vanished--and that
he transported me in his arms out of the chamber of terror, I
think thou wilt, as a good Christian, put more faith in that which
I tell you."

"Indeed, indeed, my sweetest mistress, I cannot," replied Rose.
"It is even that circumstance of the guardian angel which makes me
consider the whole as a dream. A Norman sentinel, whom I myself
called from his post on purpose, did indeed come to your
assistance, and, breaking into your apartment, transported you to
that where I myself received you from his arms in a lifeless
condition."

"A Norman soldier, ha!" said Eveline, colouring extremely; "and to
whom, maiden, did you dare give commission to break into my
sleeping chamber?"

"Your eyes flash anger, madam, but is it reasonable they should?--
Did I not hear your screams of agony, and was I to stand fettered
by ceremony at such a moment?--no more than if the castle had been
on fire."

"I ask you again, Rose," said her mistress, still with
discomposure, though less angrily than at first, "whom you
directed to break into my apartment?"

"Indeed, I know not, lady," said Rose; "for beside that he was
muffled in his mantle, little chance was there of my knowing his
features, even had I seen them fully. But I can soon discover the
cavalier; and I will set about it, that I may give him the reward
I promised, and warn him to be silent and discreet in this
matter."

"Do so," said Eveline; "and if you find him among those soldiers
who attend us, I will indeed lean to thine opinion, and think that
fantasy had the chief share in the evils I have endured the last
night."

Rose struck her palfrey with the rod, and, accompanied by her
mistress, rode up to Philip Guarine, the Constable's squire, who
for the present commanded their little escort. "Good Guarine," she
said, "I had talk with one of these sentinels last night from my
window, and he did me some service, for which I promised him
recompense--Will you inquire for the man, that I may pay him his
guerdon?"

"Truly, I will owe him a guerdon, also, pretty maiden," answered
the squire; "for if a lance of them approached near enough the
house to hold speech from the windows, he transgressed the precise
orders of his watch."

"Tush! you must forgive that for my sake," said Rose. "I warrant,
had I called on yourself, stout Guarine, I should have had
influence to bring you under my chamber window."

Guarine laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. "True it is," he
said, "when women are in place, discipline is in danger."

He then went to make the necessary inquiries among his band, and
returned with the assurance, that his soldiers, generally and
severally, denied having approached the mansion of the Lady
Ermengarde on the preceding night.

"Thou seest, Rose," said Eveline, with a significant look to her
attendant.

"The poor rogues are afraid of Guarine's severity," said Rose,
"and dare not tell the truth--I shall have some one in private
claiming the reward of me."

"I would I had the privilege myself, damsel," said Guarine; "but
for these fellows, they are not so timorous as you suppose them,
being even too ready to avouch their roguery when it hath less
excuse--Besides, I promised them impunity.--Have you any thing
farther to order?"

"Nothing, good Guarine," said Eveline; "only this small donative
to procure wine for thy soldiers, that they may spend the next
night more merrily than the last.--And now he is gone,--Maiden,
thou must, I think, be now well aware, that what thou sawest was
no earthly being?"

"I must believe mine own ears and eyes, madam," replied Rose.

"Do--but allow me the same privilege," answered Eveline. "Believe
me that my deliverer (for so I must call him) bore the features of
one who neither was, nor could be, in the neighbourhood of
Baldringham. Tell me but one thing--What dost thou think of this
extraordinary prediction--

   'Widow'd wife, and wedded maid,
   Betrothed, betrayer, and betray'd'

Thou wilt say it is an idle invention of my brain--but think it
for a moment the speech of a true diviner, and what wouldst thou
say of it?"

"That you may be betrayed, my dearest lady, but never can be a
betrayer," answered Rose, with animation.

Eveline reached her hand out to her friend, and as she pressed
affectionately that which Rose gave in return, she whispered to
her with energy, "I thank thee for the judgment, which my own
heart confirms."

A cloud of dust now announced the approach of the Constable of
Chester and his retinue, augmented by the attendance of his host
Sir William Herbert, and some of his neighbours and kinsmen, who
came to pay their respects to the orphan of the Garde Doloureuse,
by which appellation Eveline was known upon her passage through
their territory.

Eveline remarked, that, at their greeting, De Lacy looked with
displeased surprise at the disarrangement of her dress and
equipage, which her hasty departure from Baldringham had
necessarily occasioned; and she was, on her part, struck with an
expression of countenance which seemed to say, "I am not to be
treated as an ordinary person, who may be received with
negligence, and treated slightly with impunity." For the first
time, she thought that, though always deficient in grace and
beauty, the Constable's countenance was formed to express the more
angry passions with force and vivacity, and that she who shared
his rank and name must lay her account with the implicit surrender
of her will and wishes to those of an arbitrary lord and master.

But the cloud soon passed from the Constable's brow; and in the
conversation which he afterwards maintained with Herbert and the
other knights and gentlemen, who from time to time came to greet
and accompany them for a little way on their journey, Eveline had
occasion to admire his superiority, both of sense and expression,
and to remark the attention and deference with which his words
were listened to by men too high in rank, and too proud, readily
to admit any pre-eminence that was not founded on acknowledged
merit. The regard of women is generally much influenced by the
estimation which an individual maintains in the opinion of men;
and Eveline, when she concluded her journey in the Benedictine
nunnery in Gloucester, could not think without respect upon the
renowned warrior, and celebrated politician, whose acknowledged
abilities appeared to place him above every one whom she had seen
approach him. His wife, Eveline thought, (and she was not without
ambition,) if relinquishing some of those qualities in a husband
which are in youth most captivating to the female imagination,
must be still generally honoured and respected, and have
contentment, if not romantic felicity, within her reach.




CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH


The Lady Eveline remained nearly four months with her aunt, the
Abbess of the Benedictine nunnery, under whose auspices the
Constable of Chester saw his suit advance and prosper as it would
probably have done under that of the deceased Raymond Berenger,
her brother. It is probable, however, that, but for the supposed
vision of the Virgin, and the vow of gratitude which that supposed
vision had called forth, the natural dislike of so young a person
to a match so unequal in years, might have effectually opposed his
success. Indeed Eveline, while honouring the Constable's virtues,
doing justice to his high character, and admiring his talents,
could never altogether divest herself of a secret fear of him,
which, while it prevented her from expressing any direct
disapprobation of his addresses, caused her sometimes to shudder,
she scarce knew why, at the idea of their becoming successful.

The ominous words, "betraying and betrayed," would then occur to
her memory; and when her aunt (the period of the deepest mourning
being elapsed) had fixed a period for her betrothal, she looked
forward to it with a feeling of terror, for which she was unable
to account to herself, and which, as well as the particulars of
her dream, she concealed even from Father Aldrovand in the hours
of confession. It was not aversion to the Constable--it was far
less preference to any other suitor--it was one of those
instinctive movements and emotions by which Nature seems to warn
us of approaching danger, though furnishing no information
respecting its nature, and suggesting no means of escaping from
it.

So strong were these intervals of apprehension, that if they had
been seconded by the remonstrances of Rose Flammock, as formerly,
they might perhaps have led to Eveline's yet forming some
resolution unfavourable to the suit of the Constable. But, still
more zealous for her lady's honour than even for her happiness,
Rose had strictly forborne every effort which could affect
Eveline's purpose, when she had once expressed her approbation of
De Lacy's addresses; and whatever she thought or anticipated
concerning the proposed marriage, she seemed from that moment to
consider it as an event which must necessarily take place.

De Lacy himself, as he learned more intimately to know the merit
of the prize which he was desirous of possessing, looked forward
with different feelings towards the union, than those with which
he had first proposed the measure to Raymond Berenger. It was then
a mere match of interest and convenience, which had occurred to
the mind of a proud and politic feudal lord, as the best mode of
consolidating the power and perpetuating the line of his family.
Nor did even the splendour of Eveline's beauty make that
impression upon De Lacy, which it was calculated to do on the
fiery and impassioned chivalry of the age. He was past that period
of life when the wise are captivated by outward form, and might
have said with truth, as well as with discretion, that he could
have wished his beautiful bride several years older, and possessed
of a more moderate portion of personal charms, in order to have
rendered the match more fitted for his own age and disposition.
This stoicism, however, vanished, when, on repeated interviews
with his destined bride, he found that she was indeed
inexperienced in life, but desirous to be guided by superior
wisdom; and that, although gifted with high spirit, and a
disposition which began to recover its natural elastic gaiety, she
was gentle, docile, and, above all, endowed with a firmness of
principle, which seemed to give assurance that she would tread
uprightly, and without spot, the slippery paths in which youth,
rank, and beauty, are doomed to move.

As feelings of a warmer and more impassioned kind towards Eveline
began to glow in De Lacy's bosom, his engagements as a crusader
became more and more burdensome to him. The Benedictine Abbess,
the natural guardian of Eveline's happiness, added to these
feelings by her reasoning and remonstrances. Although a nun and a
devotee, she held in reverence the holy state of matrimony, and
comprehended so much of it as to be aware, that its important
purposes could not be accomplished while the whole continent of
Europe was interposed betwixt the married pair; for as to a hint
from the Constable, that his young spouse might accompany him into
the dangerous and dissolute precincts of the Crusader's camp, the
good lady crossed herself with horror at the proposal, and never
permitted it to be a second time mentioned in her presence.

It was not, however, uncommon for kings, princes, and other
persons of high consequence, who had taken upon them the vow to
rescue Jerusalem, to obtain delays, and even a total remission of
their engagement, by proper application to the Church of Rome. The
Constable was sure to possess the full advantage of his
sovereign's interest and countenance, in seeking permission to
remain in England, for he was the noble to whose valour and policy
Henry had chiefly intrusted the defence of the disorderly Welsh
marches; and it was by no means with his good-will that so useful
a subject had ever assumed the cross.

It was settled, therefore, in private betwixt the Abbess and the
Constable, that the latter should solicit at Rome, and with the
Pope's Legate in England, a remission of his vow for at least two
years; a favour which it was thought could scarce be refused to
one of his wealth and influence, backed as it was with the most
liberal offers of assistance towards the redemption of the Holy
Land. His offers were indeed munificent; for he proposed, if his
own personal attendance were dispensed with, to send an hundred
lances at his own cost, each lance accompanied by two squires,
three archers, and a varlet or horse-boy; being double the retinue
by which his own person was to have been accompanied. He offered
besides to deposit the sum of two thousand bezants to the general
expenses of the expedition, to surrender to the use of the
Christian armament those equipped vessels which he had provided,
and which even now awaited the embarkation of himself and his
followers.

Yet, while making these magnificent proffers, the Constable could
not help feeling they would be inadequate to the expectations of
the rigid prelate Baldwin, who, as he had himself preached the
crusade, and brought the Constable and many others into that holy
engagement, must needs see with displeasure the work of his
eloquence endangered, by the retreat of so important an associate
from his favourite enterprise. To soften, therefore, his
disappointment as much as possible, the Constable offered to the
Archbishop, that, in the event of his obtaining license to remain
in Britain, his forces should be led by his nephew, Danxian Lacy,
already renowned for his early feats of chivalry, the present hope
of his house, and, failing heirs of his own body, its future head
and support.

The Constable took the most prudent method of communicating this
proposal to the Archbishop Baldwin, through a mutual friend, on
whose good offices he could depend, and whose interest with the
Prelate was regarded as great. But notwithstanding the splendour
of the proposal, the Prelate heard it with sullen and obstinate
silence, and referred for answer to a personal conference with the
Constable at an appointed day, when concerns of the church would
call the Archbishop to the city of Gloucester. The report of the
mediator was such as induced the Constable to expect a severe
struggle with the proud and powerful churchman; but, himself proud
and powerful, and backed by the favour of his sovereign, he did
not expect to be foiled in the contest.

The necessity that this point should be previously adjusted, as
well as the recent loss of Eveline's father, gave an air of
privacy to De Lacy's courtship, and prevented its being signalized
by tournaments and feats of military skill, in which he would have
been otherwise desirous to display his address in the eyes of his
mistress. The rules of the convent prevented his giving
entertainments of dancing, music, or other more pacific revels;
and although the Constable displayed his affection by the most
splendid gifts to his future bride and her attendants, the whole
affair, in the opinion of the experienced Dame Gillian, proceeded
more with the solemnity of a funeral, than the light pace of an
approaching bridal.

The bride herself felt something of this, and thought occasionally
it might have been lightened by the visits of young Damian, in
whose age, so nearly corresponding to her own, she might have
expected some relief from the formal courtship of his graver
uncle. But he came not; and from what the Constable said
concerning him, she was led to imagine that the relations had, for
a time at least, exchanged occupations and character. The elder De
Lacy continued, indeed, in nominal observance of his vow, to dwell
in a pavilion by the gates of Gloucester; but he seldom donned his
armour, substituted costly damask and silk for his war-worn
shamois doublet, and affected at his advanced time of life more
gaiety of attire than his contemporaries remembered as
distinguishing his early youth. His nephew, on the contrary,
resided almost constantly on the marches of Wales, occupied in
settling by prudence, or subduing by main force, the various
disturbances by which these provinces were continually agitated;
and Eveline learned with surprise, that it was with difficulty his
uncle had prevailed on him to be present at the ceremony of their
being betrothed to each other, or, as the Normans entitled the
ceremony, their _fiancailles_. This engagement, which
preceded the actual marriage for a space more or less, according
to circumstances, was usually celebrated with a solemnity
corresponding to the rank of the contracting parties.

The Constable added, with expressions of regret, that Damian gave
himself too little rest, considering his early youth, slept too
little, and indulged in too restless a disposition--that his
health was suffering--and that a learned Jewish leech, whose
opinion had been taken, had given his advice that the warmth of a
more genial climate was necessary to restore his constitution to
its general and natural vigour.

Eveline heard this with much regret, for she remembered Damian as
the angel of good tidings, who first brought her news of
deliverance from the forces of the Welsh; and the occasions on
which they had met, though mournful, brought a sort of pleasure in
recollection, so gentle had been the youth's deportment, and so
consoling his expressions of sympathy. She wished she could see
him, that she might herself judge of the nature of his illness;
for, like other damsels of that age, she was not entirely ignorant
of the art of healing, and had been taught by Father Aldrovand,
himself no mean physician, how to extract healing essences from
plants and herbs gathered under planetary hours. She thought it
possible that her talents in this art, slight as they were, might
perhaps be of service to one already her friend and liberator, and
soon about to become her very near relation.

It was therefore with a sensation of pleasure mingled with some
confusion, (at the idea, doubtless, of assuming the part of
medical adviser to so young a patient,) that one evening, while
the convent was assembled about some business of their chapter,
she heard Gillian announce that the kinsman of the Lord Constable
desired to speak with her. She snatched up the veil, which she
wore in compliance with the customs of the house, and hastily
descended to the parlour, commanding the attendance of Gillian,
who, nevertheless, did not think proper to obey the signal.

When she entered the apartment, a man whom she had never seen
before advanced, kneeling on one knee, and taking up the hem of
her veil, saluted it with an air of the most profound respect. She
stepped back, surprised and alarmed, although there was nothing in
the appearance of the stranger to justify her apprehension. He
seemed to be about thirty years of age, tall of stature, and
bearing a noble though wasted form, and a countenance on which
disease, or perhaps youthful indulgence, had anticipated the
traces of age. His demeanour seemed courteous and respectful, even
in a degree which approached to excess. He observed Eveline's
surprise, and said, in a tone of pride, mingled with emotion, "I
fear that I have been mistaken, and that my visit is regarded as
an unwelcome intrusion."

"Arise, sir," answered Eveline, "and let me know your name and
business I was summoned to a kinsman of the Constable of Chester."

"And you expected the stripling Damian," answered the stranger.
"But the match with which England rings will connect you with
others of the house besides that young person; and amongst these,
with the luckless Randal de Lacy. Perhaps," continued he, "the
fair Eveline Berenger may not even have heard his name breathed by
his more fortunate kinsman--more fortunate in every respect, but
_most_ fortunate in his present prospects."

This compliment was accompanied by a deep reverence, and Eveline
stood much embarrassed how to reply to his civilities; for
although she now remembered to have heard this Randal slightly
mentioned by the Constable when speaking of his family, it was in
terms which implied there was no good understanding betwixt them.
She therefore only returned his courtesy by general thanks for the
honour of his visit, trusting he would then retire; but such was
not his purpose.

"I comprehend," he said, "from the coldness with which the Lady
Eveline Berenger receives me, that what she has heard of me from
my kinsman (if indeed he thought me worthy of being mentioned to
her at all) has been, to say the least, unfavourable. And yet my
name once stood as high in fields and courts, as that of the
Constable; nor is it aught more disgraceful than what is indeed
often esteemed the worst of disgraces--poverty, which prevents my
still aspiring to places of honour and fame. If my youthful
follies have been numerous, I have paid for them by the loss of my
fortune, and the degradation of my condition; and therein, my
happy kinsman might, if he pleased, do me some aid--I mean not
with his purse or estate; for, poor as I am, I would not live on
alms extorted from the reluctant hand of an estranged friend; but
his countenance would put him to no cost, and, in so far, I might
expect some favour."

"In that my Lord Constable," said Eveline, "must judge for
himself. I have--as yet, at least--no right to interfere in his
family affairs; and if I should ever have such right, it will well
become me to be cautious how I use it."

"It is prudently answered," replied Randal; "but what I ask of you
is merely, that you, in your gentleness, would please to convey to
my cousin a suit, which I find it hard to bring my ruder tongue to
utter with sufficient submission. The usurers, whose claims have
eaten like a canker into my means, now menace me with a dungeon--a
threat which they dared not mutter, far less attempt to execute,
were it not that they see me an outcast, unprotected by the
natural head of my family, and regard me rather as they would some
unfriended vagrant, than as a descendant of the powerful house of
Lacy."

"It is a sad necessity," replied Eveline; "but I see not how I can
help you in such extremity."

"Easily," replied Randal de Lacy. "The day of your betrothal is
fixed, as I hear reported; and it is your right to select what
witnesses you please to the solemnity, which may the saints bless!
To every one but myself, presence or absence upon that occasion is
a matter of mere ceremony--to me it is almost life or death. So an
I situated, that the marked instance of slight or contempt,
implied by my exclusion from this meeting of our family, will be
held for the signal of my final expulsion from the House of the De
Lacy's, and for a thousand bloodhounds to assail me without mercy
or forbearance, whom, cowards as they are, even the slightest show
of countenance from my powerful kinsman would compel to stand at
bay. But why should I occupy your time in talking thus?--Farewell,
madam--be happy--and do not think of me the more harshly, that for
a few minutes I have broken the tenor of your happy thoughts, by
forcing my misfortunes on your notice."

"Stay, sir," said Eveline, affected by the tone and manner of the
noble suppliant; "you shall not have it to say that you have told
your distress to Eveline Berenger, without receiving such aid as
is in her power to give. I will mention your request to the
Constable of Chester."

"You must do more, if you really mean to assist me," said Randal
de Lacy, "you must make that request your own. You do not know,"
said he, continuing to bend on her a fixed and expressive look,
"how hard it is to change the fixed purpose of a De Lacy--a
twelvemonth hence you will probably be better acquainted with the
firm texture of our resolutions. But, at present, what can
withstand your wish should you deign to express it?"

"Your suit, sir, shall not be lost for want of my advancing it
with my good word and good wishes," replied Eveline; "but you must
be well aware that its success or failure must rest with the
Constable himself."

Randal de Lacy took his leave with the same air of deep reverence
which had marked his entrance; only that, as he then saluted the
skirt of Eveline's robe, he now rendered the same homage by
touching her hand with his lip. She saw him depart with a mixture
of emotions, in which compassion was predominant; although in his
complaints of the Constable's unkindness to him there was
something offensive, and his avowal of follies and excess seemed
uttered rather in the spirit of wounded pride, than in that of
contrition.

When Eveline next saw the Constable, she told him of the visit of
Randal and of his request; and strictly observing his countenance
while she spoke, she saw, that at the first mention of his
kinsman's name, a gleam of anger shot along his features. He soon
subdued it, however, and, fixing his eyes on the ground, listened
to Eveline's detailed account of the visit, and her request "that
Randal might be one of the invited witnesses to their
_fiancailles_."

The Constable paused for a moment, as if he were considering how
to elude the solicitation. At length he replied, "You do not know
for whom you ask this, or you would perhaps have forborne your
request; neither are you apprized of its full import, though my
crafty cousin well knows, that when I do him this grace which he
asks, I bind myself, as it were, in the eye of the world once
more--and it will be for the third time--to interfere in his
affairs, and place them on such a footing as may afford him the
means of re-establishing his fallen consequence, and repairing his
numerous errors."

"And wherefore not, my lord?" said the generous Eveline. "If he
has been ruined only through follies, he is now of an age when
these are no longer tempting snares; and if his heart and hand be
good, he may yet be an honour to the House of De Lacy."

The Constable shook his head. "He hath indeed," he said, "a heart
and hand fit for service, God knoweth, whether in good or evil.
But never shall it be said that you, my fair Eveline, made request
of Hugh de Lacy, which he was not to his uttermost willing to
comply with. Randal shall attend at our _fiancailles_; there
is indeed the more cause for his attendance, as I somewhat fear we
may lack that of our valued nephew Damian, whose malady rather
increases than declines, and, as I hear, with strange symptoms of
unwonted disturbance of mind and starts of temper, to which the
youth had not hitherto been subject."




CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.


   Ring out the merry bell, the bride approaches,
   The blush upon her cheek has shamed the morning,
   For that is dawning palely. Grant, good saints,
   These clouds betoken nought of evil omen!
     OLD PLAY.


The day of the _fiancailles, or espousals, was now approaching;
and it seems that neither the profession of the Abbess, nor her
practice at least, were so rigid as to prevent her selecting the
great parlour of the convent for that holy rite, although
necessarily introducing many male guests within those vestal
precincts, and notwithstanding that the rite itself was the
preliminary to a state which the inmates of the cloister had
renounced for ever.

The Abbess's Norman pride of birth, and the real interest which
she took in her niece's advancement, overcame all scruples; and
the venerable mother might be seen in unwonted bustle, now giving
orders to the gardener for decking the apartment with flowers--now
to her cellaress, her precentrix, and the lay-sisters of the
kitchen, for preparing a splendid banquet, mingling her commands
on these worldly subjects with an occasional ejaculation on their
vanity and worthlessness, and every now and then converting the
busy and anxious looks which she threw upon her preparations into
a solemn turning upward of eyes and folding of hands, as one who
sighed over the mere earthly pomp which she took such trouble in
superintending. At another time the good lady might have been seen
in close consultation with Father Aldrovand, upon the ceremonial,
civil and religious, which was to accompany a solemnity of such
consequence to her family.

Meanwhile the reins of discipline, although relaxed for a season,
were not entirely thrown loose. The outer court of the convent was
indeed for the time opened for the reception of the male sex; but
the younger sisters and novices of the house being carefully
secluded in the more inner apartments of the extensive building,
under the immediate eye of a grim old nun, or, as the conventual
rule designed her, an ancient, sad, and virtuous person, termed
Mistress of the Novices, were not permitted to pollute their eyes
by looking on waving plumes and rustling mantles. A few sisters,
indeed, of the Abbess's own standing, were left at liberty, being
such goods as it was thought could not, in shopman's phrase, take
harm from the air, and which are therefore left lying on the
counter. These antiquated dames went mumping about with much
affected indifference, and a great deal of real curiosity,
endeavouring indirectly to get information concerning names, and
dresses, and decorations, without daring to show such interest in
these vanities as actual questions on the subject might have
implied.

A stout band of the Constable's spearmen guarded the gate of the
nunnery, admitting within the hallowed precinct the few only who
were to be present at the solemnity, with their principal
attendants, and while the former were ushered with all due
ceremony into the apartments dressed out for the occasion, the
attendants, although detained in the outer court, were liberally
supplied with refreshments of the most substantial kind; and had
the amusement, so dear to the menial classes, of examining and
criticising their masters and mistresses, as they passed into the
interior apartments prepared for their reception.

Amongst the domestics who were thus employed were old Raoul the
huntsman and his jolly dame--he gay and glorious, in a new cassock
of green velvet, she gracious and comely, in a kirtle of yellow
silk, fringed with minivair, and that at no mean cost, were
equally busied in beholding the gay spectacle. The most inveterate
wars have their occasional terms of truce; the most bitter and
boisterous weather its hours of warmth and of calmness; and so was
it with the matrimonial horizon of this amiable pair, which,
usually cloudy, had now for brief space cleared up. The splendour
of their new apparel, the mirth of the spectacle around them, with
the aid, perhaps, of a bowl of muscadine quaffed by Raoul, and a
cup of hippocras sipped by his wife, had rendered them rather more
agreeable in each other's eyes than was their wont; good cheer
being in such cases, as oil is to a rusty lock, the means of
making those valves move smoothly and glibly, which otherwise work
not together at all, or by shrieks and groans express their
reluctance to move in union. The pair had stuck themselves into a
kind of niche, three or four steps from the ground, which
contained a small stone bench, whence their curious eyes could
scrutinize with advantage every guest who entered the court.

Thus placed, and in their present state of temporary concord,
Raoul with his frosty visage formed no unapt representative of
January, the bitter father of the year; and though Gillian was
past the delicate bloom of youthful May, yet the melting fire of a
full black eye, and the genial glow of a ripe and crimson cheek,
made her a lively type of the fruitful and jovial August. Dame
Gillian used to make it her boast, that she could please every
body with her gossip, when she chose it, from Raymond Berenger
down to Robin the horse-boy; and like a good housewife, who, to
keep her hand in use, will sometimes even condescend to dress a
dish for her husband's sole eating, she now thought proper to
practise her powers of pleasing on old Raoul, fairly conquering,
in her successful sallies of mirth and satire, not only his
cynical temperament towards all human kind, but his peculiar and
special disposition to be testy with his spouse. Her jokes, such
as they were, and the coquetry with which they were enforced, had
such an effect on this Timon of the woods, that he curled up his
cynical nose, displayed his few straggling teeth like a cur about
to bite, broke out into a barking laugh, which was more like the
cry of one of his own hounds--stopped short in the explosion, as
if he had suddenly recollected that it was out of character; yet,
ere he resumed his acrimonious gravity, shot such a glance at
Gillian as made his nut-cracker jaws, pinched eyes, and convolved
nose, bear no small resemblance to one of those fantastic faces
which decorate the upper end of old bass viols.

"Is not this better than laying your dog-leash on your loving
wife, as if she were a brach of the kennel?" said August to
January.

"In troth is it," answered January, in a frost-bitten tone;--"and
so it is also better than doing the brach-tricks which bring the
leash into exercise."

"Humph!" said Gillian, in the tone of one who thought her
husband's proposition might bear being disputed; but instantly
changing the note to that of tender complaint, "Ah! Raoul," she
said, "do you not remember how you once beat me because our late
lord--Our Lady assoilzie him!--took my crimson breast-knot for a
peony rose?"

"Ay, ay," said the huntsman; "I remember our old master would make
such mistakes--Our Lady assoilzie him! as you say--The best hound
will hunt counter."

"And how could you think, dearest Raoul, to let the wife of thy
bosom go so long without a new kirtle?" said his helpmate.

"Why, thou hast got one from our young lady that might serve a
countess," said Raoul, his concord jarred by her touching this
chord--"how many kirtles wouldst thou have?"

"Only two, kind Raoul; just that folk may not count their
children's age by the date of Dame Gillian's last new gown."

"Well, well--it is hard that a man cannot be in good-humour once
and away without being made to pay for it. But thou shalt have a
new kirtle at Michaelmas, when I sell the buck's hides for the
season. The very antlers should bring a good penny this year."

"Ay, ay," said Gillian; "I ever tell thee, husband, the horns
would be worth the hide in a fair market."

Raoul turned briskly round as if a wasp had stung him, and there
is no guessing what his reply might have been to this seemingly
innocent observation, had not a gallant horseman at that instant
entered the court, and, dismounting like the others, gave his
horse to the charge of a squire, or equerry, whose attire blazed
with embroidery.

"By Saint Hubert, a proper horseman, and a _destrier_ for an
earl," said Raoul; "and my Lord Constable's liveries withal--yet I
know not the gallant."

"But I do," said Gillian; "it is Randal de Lacy, the Constable's
kinsman, and as good a man as ever came of the name!"

"Oh! by Saint Hubert, I have heard of him--men say he is a
reveller, and a jangler, and a waster of his goods."

"Men lie now and then," said Gillian dryly.

"And women also," replied Raoul;--"why, methinks he winked on thee
just now."

"That right eye of thine saw never true since our good lord-Saint
Mary rest him!--flung a cup of wine in thy face, for pressing over
boldly into his withdrawing-room."

"I marvel," said Raoul, as if he heard her not, "that yonder
ruffler comes hither. I have heard that he is suspected to have
attempted the Constable's life, and that they have not spoken
together for five years."

"He comes on my young lady's invitation, and that I know full
well," said Dame Gillian; "and he is less like to do the Constable
wrong than to have wrong at his hand, poor gentleman, as indeed he
has had enough of that already."

"And who told thee so?" said Raoul, bitterly.

"No matter, it was one who knew all about it very well," said the
dame, who began to fear that, in displaying her triumph of
superior information, she had been rather over-communicative.

"It must have been the devil, or Randal himself" said Raoul, "for
no other mouth is large enough for such a lie.--But hark ye, Dame
Gillian, who is he that presses forward next, like a man that
scarce sees how he goes?"

"Even your angel of grace, my young Squire Damian" said Dame
Gillian.

"It is impossible!" answered Raoul--"call me blind if thou wilt;--
but I have never seen man so changed in a few weeks--and his
attire is flung on him so wildly as if he wore a horse-cloth round
him instead of a mantle--What can ail the youth?--he has made a
dead pause at the door, as if he saw something on the threshold
that debarred his entrance--Saint Hubert, but he looks as if he
were elf-stricken!"

"You ever thought him such a treasure!" said Gillian; "and now
look at him as he stands by the side of a real gentleman, how he
stares and trembles as if he were distraught."

"I will speak to him," said Raoul, forgetting his lameness, and
springing from his elevated station--"I will speak to him; and if
he be unwell, I have my lancets and fleams to bleed man as well as
brute."

"And a fit physician for such a patient," muttered Gillian,--"a
dog-leech for a dreamy madman, that neither knows his own disease
nor the way to cure it."

Meanwhile the old huntsman made his way towards the entrance,
before which Damian remained standing, in apparent uncertainty
whether he should enter or not, regardless of the crowd around,
and at the same time attracting their attention by the singularity
of his deportment.

Raoul had a private regard for Damiah; for which, perhaps, it was
a chief reason, that of late his wife had been in the habit of
speaking of him in a tone more disrespectful than she usually
applied to handsome young men. Besides, he understood the youth
was a second Sir Tristrem in silvan sports by wood and river, and
there needed no more to fetter Raoul's soul to him with bands of
steel. He saw with great concern his conduct attract general
notice, mixed with some ridicule.

"He stands," said the town-jester, who had crowded into the gay
throng, "before the gate, like Balaam's ass in the Mystery, when
the animal sees so much more than can be seen by any one else."

A cut from Raoul's ready leash rewarded the felicity of this
application, and sent the fool howling off to seek a more
favourable audience, for his pleasantry. At the same time Raoul
pressed up to Damian, and with an earnestness very different from
his usual dry causticity of manner, begged him for God's sake not
to make himself the general spectacle, by standing there as if the
devil sat on the doorway, but either to enter, or, what might be
as becoming, to retire, and make himself more fit in apparel for
attending on a solemnity so nearly concerning his house.

"And what ails my apparel, old man?" said Damian, turning sternly
on the huntsman, as one who has been hastily and uncivilly roused
from a reverie.

"Only, with respect to your valour," answered the huntsman, "men
do not usually put old mantles over new doublets; and methinks,
with submission, that of yours neither accords with your dress,
nor is fitted for this noble presence."

"Thou art a fool!" answered Damian, "and as green in wit as gray
in years. Know you not that in these days the young and old
consort together--contract together--wed together? and should we
take more care to make our apparel consistent than our actions?"

"For God's sake, my lord," said Raoul, "forbear these wild and
dangerous words! they may be heard by other ears than mine, and
construed by worse interpreters. There may be here those who will
pretend to track mischief from light words, as I would find a buck
from his frayings. Your cheek is pale, my lord, your eye is blood-
shot; for Heaven's sake, retire!"

"I will not retire," said Damian, with yet more distemperature of
manner, "till I have seen the Lady Eveline."

"For the sake of all the saints," ejaculated Raoul, "not now!--You
will do my lady incredible injury by forcing yourself into her
presence in this condition."

"Do you think so!" said Damian, the remark seeming to operate as a
sedative which enabled him to collect his scattered thoughts.--"Do
you really think so?--I thought that to have looked upon her once
more--but no--you are in the right, old man."

He turned from the door as if to withdraw, but ere he could
accomplish his purpose, he turned yet more pale than before,
staggered, and fell on the pavement ere Raoul could afford him his
support, useless as that might have proved. Those who raised him
were surprised to observe that his garments were soiled with
blood, and that the stains upon his cloak, which had been
criticised by Raoul, were of the same complexion. A grave-looking
personage, wrapped in a sad-coloured mantle, came forth from the
crowd.

"I knew how it would be," he said; "I made venesection this
morning, and commanded repose and sleep according to the aphorisms
of Hippocrates; but if young gentlemen will neglect the ordinance
of their physician, medicine will avenge herself. It is impossible
that my bandage or ligature, knit by these fingers, should have
started, but to avenge the neglect of the precepts of art."