University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER IV.

No fatrher words were spoken by the
gay companions; for, indeed, the fiery rate
at which the cavaliers spurred on toward
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 briar
rose flaunted 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.

Every thing 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 chorus
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 every thing.

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 heretofore 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 Tenier
merry-making in the foreground,” added
Spencer, looking at the view with a paint
er's eye, for he was indeed no mean connois
seur in that delightful art.

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

And, with the words, he again touched
his horse with the spur, and gallopped
lightly down the slope, and across the
greensward of the common, toward 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—and, 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 Castleton; 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 game-keeper,
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 Eversly—first,
and most prominently he desired, by basely
pandering to the evil qualities of the young
baronet, to gain such an ascendancy 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 aroused, 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 hawthorn 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 commands 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!