University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

It was a sharp clear evening, some two months
later than the undecided action of Edgehill, while
both the armies were lying in their winter quarters
—that of the king at Oxford, whither he had immediately
retired after his treacherous violation of
the truce at Brentford, and consequent repulse
from London; that of the parliament in the metropolis
and its vicinity—when a small group, composed
of individuals the most discordant both in
character and outward show, was gathered in the
oriel parlour of the old manor-house of Woodleigh,
affording to the eye a combination singular and
picturesque. Sir Henry Ardenne stood in the centre
at the oaken table, on which a standish was
displayed of massy silver, with implements for
writing, and a long scroll of parchment, carefully
engrossed, and decked with several broad seals, to
which, as it would seem, he was preparing to affix
his signature. His figure, still erect and stately,
was clad in a rich military suit of buff, splendidly
laced with gold, booted, and spurred, and girt with
the long rapier of the day; his snow-white locks
hung down on either cheek, uncovered, for an attendant
held in readiness for instant use his high-crowned
beaver, with its drooping feather, and his

sad-coloured riding cloak. His noble features were
knit firmly with an evident expression of resolve,
although a teardrop might be seen to twinkle in his
dark eye as he looked down upon his niece, grovelling
in the dust before him, prostrate, and clinging
to his knees, with her rich hair in its dishevelled
volumes half covering her lovely form—with
her hands clasped, her eyes uplifted to his face,
her lips apart but motionless, in agony of tearless
supplication. A hoary-headed servant watched, at
an easy distance, the development of the sad scene,
with every wrinkled feature telling of his affectionate
concern; while a stout, stolid-looking yeoman,
summoned, it might be, to attest a signature,
lounged at his elbow, staring in rude indifference
on the display of passions with which his boorish
nature vainly sought to sympathize; a small man,
meanly clad in a black buckram doublet, with an
inkhorn and a penknife in lieu of weapons at his
girdle, of an expression impudently sly and knavish,
was the last person of the group within the
manor; but without, plainly to be discovered from
the casements, there was assembled a fair company
of horsemen, gayly equipped in the bright fluttering
garb affected by the cavaliers, with the old
banner of the house of Ardenne unfurled and
streaming to the wintry wind, and a groom leading
to and fro the favourite charger of the head of that
high name.

“No! no!” cried Sibyl, in tones that quivered
with excitement till they were barely audible, resisting
the slight force which the old man put forth
to raise her—“no! no! I will not rise. Here!
here at your feet will I remain till I prevail in my
entreaty! Oh, you were wont to be wise, generous,
and just! Temperate in your youth, as I
have heard them tell, and calm—be then yourself,

my noble uncle, be then once more yourself, nor
sully, by this deed of unconsidered rashness, a
whole long life of wisdom and of honour.”

“It may not be,” he answered, quietly, though
not without an effort, as he compelled her to arise
—“it may not be. The time allotted to our race
hath now run out!—the house of Ardenne is extinct
with the old miserable man who stands before
you!—the lands that have been subject to my
name for centuries shall never know it more!
The Lord gave—the Lord hath taken away—blessed
be the name of the Lord! But would—oh,
would to Heaven that his corpse had mouldered on
some foreign battle-field—that his bones had been
entombed deep in the caverns of the sea—that he
had died by any death, how terrible soever—that
he had dragged out any life, however wretched and
intolerable! Better, far better had it been so to
have mourned for him, than to have seen him thus
—a blot—a single blot!—on an unblemished name!
a traitor to his king—a foeman to his country—a
curse to him from whom he drew his being! No!
plead to me no more; for never, never shall a traitor—a
fanatic and hypocrite traitor—inherit aught
from me save the high name he hath disgraced.
I have—and I bless Heaven that I have it—through
his own act of treason, the right to sunder this entail,
and sundered shall it be ere sunset! He hath
no corner of my heart—no jot of mine affections;
himself he hath cut out his path, and—rue it as he
may—by that path must he travel now unto the end
—dishonoured—outcast—disinherited—accur—”

“Oh, no, no, no!” she shrieked, in frantic tones,
drowning his utterance of a word so terrible when
coming from a parent's lips; “curse him not!—
curse him not! or never shall you taste of peace
again. Father, curse not your son—you firstborn,

and your only! Sinner, curse not your fellow!
Christian, curse not a soul, whose hopes are thy
hopes also! Curse not, but pray!—pray—not for
your erring child—but for your rash and sinful
self! Pray, uncle, pray for penitence and pardon!”

Affected somewhat by her words, but yet more
by the fearful energy of her demeanour than by
the tenour of her speech, Sir Henry paused—but
not to doubt, much less to bend from his revengeful
policy.

“In so far, at the least, fair niece—in so far, at
the least,” he said, with a smile evidently forced
and painful, “you have the right of it. 'Tis neither
Christianlike to curse, nor manly. But to
this gear, good Master Sexby,” he continued, turning
to the lawyer, who had gazed with hardened
coldness on the affecting scene; “this deed, you
tell me, is complete and firm in all the technicalities?”

“As strong as law can render it, Sir Henry,”
returned the mean attorney, “else know I nothing
of mine own profession. Since Master Ardenne,
being last of the entail, and now declared a traitor
by proclamation of his majesty at Oxford, could
scarce inherit, even without this deed of settlement
on Mistress Sibyl and her heirs—”

“Never!” she answered, in a calm, low voice,
the more peculiar from its contrast to the fiery vehemence
she had before displayed; “never would
I receive the smallest share, the least particular of
that which is another's—that other Edgar Ardenne,
too!—though I should perish of starvation
—never! And heirs—what tell ye me of heirs?
Think ye that I—I, the affianced bride of such a
man—would deign to cast myself away on his inferior?
No, no! your testament is nothing worth.

Heirless will I die, or die the wife of Ardenne!
What, then, avail your crafts and subtleties of law?
I spurn their false and fickle toils before me, as
the free hawk would rive asunder with his unfettered
wing the trammels of the spider's web!”

“Peace! for your fame's sake, peace! degenerate
girl,” the old man sternly answered; “would
you disclose to these your miserable weakness—”

“To these? To every dweller of the universal
earth would I avow the strength—the constancy—
the immortality of my legitimate and hallowed
love! Affianced in my youth, by thee affianced,
to one whom both my reason and my heart prefer,
why should I shrink to own it! Weakness?—I
tell you, uncle, that I am no whit less strong—nay,
ten times stronger than yourself—in faith, in loyalty,
in conscience, in resolve. If I may not approve
his actions—and of a truth I do not—I may
not but revere his motives! and if those actions
must half sever the strong links that join us, and
render me for very conscience' sake a widowed
maiden, his motives, pure, and sincere, and fervent
as an angel's faith, shall at the least forbid me to
misjudge, much more to wrong him. Weakness?
—I tell you I adore him—adore him even more
for this his constancy to what he deems the better
cause, when every fibre of his heart is tugging him
to the other—when loss of name, and fame, and
fortune must be the guerdon of his unflinching and
severe devotion to a mistaken creed! Yet, deeply,
singly as I love him, never will I wed Edgar Ardenne
while he unsheaths a rebel blade or prompts
a rebel council. I tell you I adore him, yet will I
die a maiden! unless—” and she paused, for a
space, in her most eloquent appeal, as if to mark
what influence it might have had upon the mind of
her stern relative—“unless, by this your madness,

you drive me to do that my conscience shrinks from.
Suffer your broad lands to descend to him who
justly heirs them, and rest assured that sooner will
I die than marry with a rebel! Leave them to me
—as in the madness of your passion you propose
—leave them to me, and instantly will I make restitution
to the rightful owner, if by no other means,
at least by sacrifice of mine own conscience—
mine own person!”

“Go to!—you will not, Sibyl!” exclaimed the
old man, vehemently; “I know you better than
you know yourself—you would not do so, were
things a thousand times more precious than these
miserable lands dependant on your action!”

“And wherefore not?” she cried; “have I not,
at the dictates of my conscience, cast from me the
affections of the warmest and the highest heart that
ever beat for woman? Have I not sacrificed unto
my sense of loyalty—a sense, perchance, fantastic
or mistaken—my every hope of happiness on earth?
And wherefore shall I not obey the voice of the
same counsellor, and to a sacrifice less grievous?
Think you the love of a justice is a less eloquent
or weaker advocate than the mere love of kings?
But, since you may not be convinced by argument,
nor won by any pleading, hear me then swear, and
hear me Thou,” she added, solemnly turning upward
her bright eyes, flashing with strong excitement,
and dilated far beyond their wonted size—
“that sittest on the wings of cherubim—Thou that
hast no regard for kings, nor any trust in princes,
receive my vow!” She paused an instant as if to
recollect her energies, and as she paused a deep
voice broke the silence—

“Swear not, my gentle cousin,” said the slow,
harmonious voice; “and, above all, swear not for
me!”

Instantly every eye was turned in the direction
whence sounded those unusual accents; and in the
sight of all, upon the threshold of the open door,
there stood a tall and stately figure, wrapped in a
horseman's cloak of some dark colour, and wearing
a slouched hat and falling plume, which veiled effectually,
in that dim, uncertain light, the features of the
speaker; but their concealment mattered not, for
every heart at once, and, as it were, instinctively,
knew Edgar Ardenne, whose arrival, with the
slight bustle that accompanied it, had passed unnoticed
during the all-engrossing interest of the
scene in which those present were engaged.
“Swear not in my behalf, dear Sibyl,” he continued,
doffing his high-crowned beaver, and displaying
his fine lineaments, haggard and pale from
violent emotion, “nor, if you love me, thwart my
father's will. In good time, I perceive, have I
come hither, since something of your purpose
reached my ears ere you beheld my presence—”

“And wherefore,” his father fiercely interrupted
him, laying his hand upon his rapier's hilt—
“wherefore have you presumed, traitor and villain,
thus to defile these honourable halls with the pollution
of your footstep? Have you come sword in
hand, leading your canting and psalm-singing hypocrites,
to spoil, and slay, and lead into captivity?
or have you come, forsooth, with oily words and a
God-fearing countenance, to preach to the old man
the error of his ways, that he too may unsheath the
sword of Gideon, and go down with the chosen of
the Lord to strive against the Philistines in Gilgal!
Such is the style of your new comrades, and thou
canst mouth it with the best of them, I warrant
me! Canst thou not preach and pray? canst
thou not quote the Scriptures of the Lord to justify
the doings of the devil?”

“For none of these things have I come, my
father,” he replied, in sad and humble tones, sinking
upon his knee, “nor yet for anything that may
offend or grieve you. Hear me, I do beseech
you;” for, by the angry gesture of Sir Henry, he
perceived that his speech was like to be cut short
—“hear me but for a short while, and I will cease
to pain you with my presence.”

“Be it, then, for a short while,” answered the
other, nothing mollified by the calm patience of his
son, “if be it must at all—as I suppose it must, for
I can well believe that you have some five hundred
fighting men of the saints to back you, else had
you never ventured hither. Let it be for a short
while, sirrah, for even now I look to see the roof-tree
of my father's house topple and crush the
wretch that has brought infamy on all it shelters!”

“Not a soldier—not a follower—not a groom,”
said Edgar, sorrowfully rising—“though I look
not that you will credit me, is with me, nor yet
within ten miles of Woodleigh. Alone I have
come hither, once more to say adieu, and crave—
what I have nothing done to forfeit—a father's
blessing!”

“'Tis well,” Sir Henry interrupted him in a
cold strain of the most cutting irony ere he had fully
ended, “excellent well, indeed! So get you on with
what you have to say, as I in turn will presently
do somewhat. Anthony, get you hence and fetch
us lights; it hath grown dark betimes; and you,
good Master Hughson,” he continued, turning toward
the yeoman, “will wait our leisure in the buttery.
Now!—get you on, son Edgar.”

“I did hope,” sadly replied the partisan, “that
your resentment, sir, had in so far abated that you
might have endured without disgust my passing
visit. To offer you the reasons for my conduct

were, in your present mood, I fear, of no avail:
suffice it, therefore, to inform you that, though I
may lose much, I can gain nothing by the part I
have espoused—that neither power, nor place, nor
bribe of woman's love, nor proffered rank, nor yet
the baser meed of gold, hath tempted me—that neither
gift nor guerdon will recompense my service,
nor aught else save the inward quiet of an innocent
heart, and the most high approval of Him who can
alone interpret it. But of this enough. This deed,
if I mistake not, which now but waits your signature,
is destined to deprive me of my heritage.
My father, as the last save me in the entail, and I
proclaimed a traitor,” he continued, turning toward
the lawyer, “hath, as you deem it, the power to
alienate this property. Hold! interrupt me not;
it may be that he hath—provided always that the
party which proclaimed me traitor shall come off
victorious in the end, and masters! If not, your
deed is nothing. But think not”—and he turned
again toward his father—“think not, I do beseech
you, sir, that I would for one moment condescend
so to inherit what you would not that I should possess.
Annul this futile deed, and I, the last in tail,
will join with you to sever that entail for ever!
Let this man execute the papers, and, whensoever
needed, my signature shall be forthcoming! So,
whether king or commons win the day, shall you
be sole disposer of your broad possessions. The
son whom you abhor would freely barter all for one
short word of kindness—for one last blessing from
a father, at whose command how gladly would he
sacrifice all save his conscience and his honour!”

“I take you at your proffer,” rejoined the baronet,
without one symptom of relenting in his hard eye
—without one sign of soft or kind emotion at the
devoted generosity of his discarded son; “base

knaves although they be with whom you have descended
to consort, I can rejoice you have not lost
all your nobility of soul. I take you at your proffer.
Affix your signature and seal to this blank
parchment—for it may well be we shall never
meet again—and here I pledge to you my knightly
word of honour that it shall be applied as you
have said, and to no other end.”

A large tear stood on either cheek of Edgar as,
with a steady hand, and firm though darkened
countenance, he signed his name in bold, free characters,
and so surrendered for himself and for his
heirs the title to that noble patrimony which for
so many ages had been graced by the high virtues
of his ancestry. But the tear flowed not, nor was
the brow o'ercast for any selfish thought—by any
sorrow for the wealth thus forfeited—by any fond regret
for the old home of happier days thus lost for
ever. At other times such feelings would have,
perhaps, been busy at his heart—would have, perhaps,
excluded every other sentiment; but now it
was the coldness of the father's tone, the stern and
firm resolve of hatred which had possessed the father's
heart, that clouded the broad forehead of the
son and dimmed his eye. Quietly he replaced the
pen upon the standish, and once more sinking on
his knee, “Father,” he said, in faltering and husky
tones, “I never yet, save in this one respect, have
disobeyed or grieved you; your blessing, oh my
father!”

“My blessing to a rebel—to a hypocrite—a
traitor!—not though my life should pay for my refusal!”
thundered the pitiless old cavalier. “Be
grateful that I curse you not—be grateful, not to
me, but to yon pale and suffering angel, whom
your false villany hath blighted, for she alone with-holds
it. Begone!—why tarry you? Begone, and

never let me look upon you more! Begone, an
outcast from my heart for ever!”

For a minute's space he stood, fixed as the eldest-born
of Niobe, pierced by the arrow of the
vengeful god—pale, motionless, and voiceless!—
the wretched girl had sunk, at the last fearful words,
mercifully deprived, for a short space, of sentiment
and reason; his father stood between them, with
flashing eyes and arms extended, as if he wanted
but a pretext to launch upon his head the awful
terrors of a paternal curse. It was but for a minute
that he stood doubtful and unresolved; his
pulse beat hurriedly, his sinews quivered, his lip
paled with anguish—yet in one little minute was
the paroxysm ended. “Bless you, my father, bless
you!” he exclaimed, in piteous and heartrending
tones; “may the great Ruler of the universe protect
and bless you! Oh, may you never know the
anguish you have this day heaped, fiercer than the
coals of fire, on the heart of a despairing child!
Farewell—farewell!”

He turned, and, ere a word could be pronounced
—a motion made to intercept him, vanished into
the darkness of the hall. Then, and not till then,
did the hot anger of the old man's heart relent;
“Edgar,” he gasped, in faint and faltering tones,
“my boy—my boy!” but so low was the intonation
of his voice that it reached not the ears of
him who would have welcomed those half-uttered
words even as a voice from heaven. The aged
servant, who had watched the scene in silent agony,
sprang forth as to recall him—but again it
was too late! The angry clatter of his horse's hoofs
upon the pavement of the court alone announced
the keenness of the goad that rankled in the bosom
of the rider; and ere an effort could be made to
overtake his flight, the demon pride had once more

gained ascendency, and with a darker frown and
colder accents than before, Sir Henry now forbade
all further care—consigned his hapless niece
to her attendants—gave brief directions to the lawyer
for the fulfilment of his cruel policy—mounted
his horse, and rode away, self-satisfied and stern,
through the chill darkness of the wintry night, to
join the king at Oxford ere he should raise the
standard for his second sad campaign.