University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

No further words were spoken by the gay
companions; for, indeed, the fiery rate
at which the cavaliers spurred on towards
the manor, precluded the possibility of
conversation—the thick beating clang of
their horses' hoofs on the country road
drowning all words pitched in tones
lower than a shout.

It was, indeed, a charming—a delicious
morning; the soft south wind which
fanned their brows and fluttered their
hair, as they cut through it rapidly, came
laden with the fresh odor of the new
mown hay, and the mingled perfumes of
a thousand wild flowers; for all the hedge-row
banks were studded, as thickly as
the parterres of a well kept garden, with
primroses and cowslips, and dark clustering
violets,—the scent of which pervaded
the whole atmosphere. The tall
hedges, bordering the road on either
hand, with their green buds just bursting
into leaf, were actually sheeted with
white bloom; while many a brier rose
flaunting with its red blossoms, and many
a honey-suckle hung its rich clusters
over brake and thicket.

Myriads of larks were pouring their
clear merry notes into the cool air, as they
floated far beyond the reach of human
vision, at the very gates of Heaven; one

soaring upward as another dropped, faint
and exhausted with the sweetness of his
own melody, to repose himself on the
fresh greensward, and meditate another
hymn.

Everything in the sounds and sights of
nature, that spoke to the senses of the
young men, was pleasant and exhilarating;
and from a distance, as if to swell
the chorns of general rejoicing, the chime
of a village church came pealing down
the wind with notes, as it were, of mirthful
invitation. Their hearts, too, were
glad and jocund; no selfish thoughts, or
interested motives, were at that time alive
within bosoms too generally the slaves to
such evil feelings. They had come down
into the free, blithe country to divest their
spirits of the cares and half toilsome
pleasures, the din and rivalry, the jealousy
and turmoil of the great city; and having
come they were prepared and willing to
be pleased with almost everything.

After they had galloped a few miles on
their road, the lane which they had followed
hitherto turned off almost at right
angles to the left hand, another pathway
coming in from the opposite direction.
Here the young baronet pulled up his
horse, and pointing straight forward, over
a high wattled fence, dividing a large
pasture field from the highway, he called
out—

“That is our nearest way, gentlemen,
by three miles; and over as pretty a line
of country as you ever rode across.
There is not one ploughed field or meadow
in the range; all good firm pasture
land, with fair stand-up fences, and one
ten foot brook—nothing more; what do
you say to a lark?”

“By all means! by all means!” cried
St. Maur, giving his horse the spur, and
sweeping over the fence cleverly; “which
is the way?”

“Straight for the tall oak tree on the
hill, in the third hedge-row; thence
you will see the top of the old castle
on my grounds; steer straight for that,
boys!”

And away they went, with whoop and
halloa, skimming the bright green fields,
and swinging over the easy fences with
scarce an effort of their mettlesome and
high-bred horses. It was not long, however,
before the headlong pace at which
they rode brought them to the summit of
the hills commanding the scene which has
been heretofor described; and so extraordinary
was the beauty of that scene,
with its tranquil landscape, and gay
grouping, that the three guests of the
young lord of the manor pulled up, as it
were by a common impulse, their hot
horses, and uttered a simultaneous expression
of surprise and admiration.

“Is that your place? By Heaven! you
are a luckier fellow than I fancied, Ned,”
cried St. Maur.

“Give us your hand, old boy; long may
you live to enjoy this fair manor!” said
Harbottle, yet more cordially.

“By the Lord! what a lovely picture.
A Poussin in the distance, and a Teniers
merry-making in the foreground,” added
Spencer, looking at the view with a painter's
eye, for he was indeed no mean connoisseur
in that delightful art.

“It is a fine old place,” Hale answered,
gratified much by the pleasure of his
friends and college comrades; “but come
along, and you shall see the place and its
inhabitauts more nearly.”

And, with the words, he again touched
his horse with the spur, and galloped
lightly down the slope, and across the
greensward of the common, towards a
large and gaily decorated tent, with
several flags and streamers fluttering in
the summer air above it, which had been
erected during his temporary absence, at
a short distance from the May-pole.
About the entrance of this grand marquee,
a dozen or more of Sir Edward's servitors
were clustered, and flinging his rein to
the foremost of these as he alighted, he
bade the others look to the horses of his
friends, and lead them to the stables of the
manor.

Loud rang the plaudits of the tenantry,
as the young master of their destinies, accompanied
by his distinguished looking
friends—for they were all finely made and
handsome men, and all, as I have said,
superbly dressed in the rich mode of the
day, with gold embroideries, and rich lace,
and fluttering shoulder-knots, and waving
feathers—walked through the merry
throng, now pausing for a moment to
shake hands with some sturdy yeoman,
whom he remembered as his play-fellow
of yore; now listening to the tedious, but
not, for that, insincere or unwelcome gratulations
of some hoary-headed farmer;
now giving brief directions to his steward
or serving men concerning the ale butts to
be broached, and the ox to be roasted
whole by noon; now chucking some
bright-cheeked demure looking damsel
under the chin, with a light laugh; till all
pronounced him the most affable and
kindest-hearted landlord in the county,
and augured years of peace and comfort
under his patriarchal sway.

But it was acting all—sheer acting!—
natural acting indeed, and such as might

have imposed on the shrewdest judge of
human nature; and for this reason—that
Edward Hale but enacted, at that time,
what would have been his own instinctive,
natural conduct at another, had his
mind been at ease, and his thoughts disengaged;
and even while he was thus
acting, he was almost if not entirely unconscious
of the fact; for he was not a
hypocrite—not even a dissembler—,
though full many a gay licentious vice
might have been laid with justice to his
charge, he never had committed any very
serious, or at least any premeditated wrong
—and was not, in the least degree, a hardened
or habitual sinner. But now all the
worse portions of his nature were aroused
within him.

Voluptuous by nature, and not, perhaps,
disinclined to sensuality, his attention had
been struck at first sight by the singular
beauty of Rose Castleron; and a keen, although
vague desire of possessing her had
occupied his mind for a moment. A little
thought, however, had quickly brought
him back to his better senses; and while
he was thus fluctuating between the influences
of his good and evil genii, a single
admonition from a wise and sincere friend
would have drawn the black drop from
his heart. But in the place of the sage adviser,
Edward had met the tempter. The
question which he asked of his ill-disposed
gamekeeper, in curiosity, and from the
want of any other interesting topic, had
been so answered by that artful man as to
inflame the nascent passions of his master;
and, by creating a doubt of Rose's
mental purity, to palliate to his mind the
offence which he soon began to meditate
against her.

Twofold was the design of Eversley—
first, and most prominently, he desired, by
basely pandering to the evil qualities of
the young baronet, to gain such an ascendency
over his mind as might contribute
to his own advancement—second, to
wreak his vengeance on a girl who had
rejected his addresses, and on the man
who had won the love of her whom he
once courted. With his heart burning yet
at the hints and instigations of that bad
servant, he had been thrown into the
whirl and vortex of licentious merriment
which characterized the conversation of
his companions; and thus his passions
were excited, and his dormant vanity
aroued, until by degrees he worked himself
into a resolute determination to make
Rose Castleton his victim and his mistress.

It was on this account that he walked
with an absent mind among his shouting
peasantry; uneasy that he could not discover
the object of his burning passion,
and unwilling to inquire her whereabouts,
lest he should prematurely wake suspicion.

Suddenly, as he passed the May-pole,
and neared the hawthoru bush and pastoral
throne beneath it, his glad eye fell
upon the rustic beauty. She had been
chosen Queen of the May, and sat on high,
surrounded by the prettiest of the village
maidens, upon the grassy seat—her bright
eye sparkling even more brightly than its
wont, with gratified ambition—her dark
cheek flushed with the quick lustre of
successful vanity.

A crown of gorgeous flowers had now
supplanted the humble cottage bonnet,
and many a dewy bud was mingled with
her long curled tresses; the modest kerchief
that had veiled her sloping shoulders
and fair neck was gone, and was but insufficiently
replaced by a gay wreath
which crossed her bosom like a baldric
and twined around her waist A tall
white lily, meet sceptre for so beautiful a
queen, graced her right hand, as with
young artless mirth she issued her commamds
to the blithe crowd around her.

Why does her cheek so suddenly turn
pale—why flush to so hot a crimson?
Alas! poor maid! her eye met Edward
Hale's, as he drew nigh, and again noted
the strong and passionate expression of
delighted admiration, which it had noted
once before. And yet she loved Frank
Hunter—ardently, truly loved him! And
yet—and yet—oh woman! woman! well
said the great Magician of the North, noting
thy changeful mood, well did he paint
thee—

for thou, Rose Castleton, loving—most
truly and most singly loving—Frank Hunter,
and caring nothing for Sir Edward, all
for a poor brief triumph of thy sex's passion,
and therewithal to punish Frank for
his short jealous fit that morning, didst
meet the eye of the young baronet, with
that half bold, half bashful glance of thine
—half innocent, half conscious—that made
him fancy thee half won already—made
him strain every nerve to win thee.

Fair face and graceful form, and eloquence
so warm and wily, as never peasant
maiden listened to without dread
peril, and rare skill in the mazes of the
dance, and sumptuous garb, and dignity,
and rank! Beware! beware! Rose Castleton.

All day he danced with her upon the

green; his gay companions selecting for
their partners the prettiest three of her attendant
nymphs, and, like Sir Edward,
monopolizing them the live-long day—
and at the noonday feast she sat beside
him, her little heart high fluttering with
vanity and pleasure and ambition.

She had listened to his vows of love,
how delicately syllabled to her fond foolish
ear—his arms had been about her
waist—his lips had snatched a kiss before
they parted—and she had promised too—
promised to meet him in the Monk's coppice,
ere the moon set the following night
—and yet, weak fool! she dreamed not
that she did any real wrong—and laid the
flattering unction to her soul, that she
would forgive Frank soon—when she had
made him soundly jealous. Beware! Rose
Castleton, beware! Heaven succor thee!
or thou art but a lost one!