University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The scenes upon the archery ground, at castle
Monteagle, which closed so painfully, and almost
tragically, as narrated in the chapter preceding,
had been passed full three weeks, when
Radnor Cathcart, now Lord Cranstown, by the
recent death of his father, rode towards the gate.
He was arrayed in deep mourning, and his
haughty countenance was subdued, partly, it
may be, with grief at his father's decease, partly,
perhaps, with shame and regret at the disgraceful
part he had enacted on the day of the fete.

He had, immediately on the occurrence of the
calamity which had stricken the lovely Agnes
with total loss of sight, after a confused and
brief attempt to apologize, mounted his horse
and galloped off, followed by the excerations of
the people. He did not believe that she was
blind, and with arrogant confidence, said, half
aloud, as he dashed farther from the scene:

“She will see well enough, to-morrow. It is
only a temporary shock of the nerve!”

Nevertheless, he was uneasy, and the following
morning despatched a messenger to learn her
condition. The reply was in a note by the hand
of the countess:

“Unhappy young man! Your uncontrollable
temper has ruined Agnes forever. She is pronounced
by the surgeon totally blind. Heaven
and your own conscience have mercy upon you!
Agnes forgives—but the earl will not hear your
name.”

Upon reading this, Radnor became nearly insane.
He was deeply attached to Agnes, and
loved her with more ardor than he ever manifested
towards any earthly object. His father,
being at this time rapidly declining, drew off his
thoughts in some degree from Agnes; and his
death, two weeks after the fete, overwhelmed
him with grief.

At length, having paid the last filial honors to
the noble dead, he determined to present himself
at the castle and solicit the pardon of the earl
and countess, and in person receive the forgiveness,
scarcely to be realized by hope, of the
lovely girl whom he had deprived of sight. It
was late in the afternoon when he drew rein
near the gate, and the evening sun was casting
the long shadows of the trees far across the level
lawn. Between the gate and a group of oaks
was a shaded rock, from beneath which gushed,
cool and clear, a spring of water, which flowed
across the park in a bubbling brook, and finally
lost itself, six miles distant, in the sea not far
from the tower. In the shade of the rock sat an
old woman, with gray hair hanging loosely
about her shoulders, and dressed in a sort of
Spanish style. Her head was bound about,
above her hard and wrinkled temples, by an

orange colored shawl. Her eyes were deep-set
and bright as stars, while an expression of cunning
in them was in keeping with the subtlety
about her mouth. Her looks were evil and misanthropic;
and if she ever loved her kind, such
emotions seemed now altogether extinguished in
her soul.

The young nobleman regarded her with surprise
and curiosity. The road led by the spring,
which was within a hundred yards of the castle
wall. As he drew near and was riding past, on
a slow walk, with his eyes fixed upon her, she
rose from the spring side and advanced quickly,
so as to intercept his path. His horse stopped
and turned half round with alarm at so wild an
apparition.

“Who and what are you, and why do you
stand thus in my way? Aside! or I will spur
over you!” he cried, between anger and superstitions
dread.

“Nay, my lord, a young and new lord will not
stain his fresh and noble name with maiming a
poor old woman.”

“You know me, but I never saw thee! Thou
art a witch, at the very least, or thy looks belie
thee.”

“Men think old age and witchcraft in woman
go together, my lord,” she said, with a sneer
and laugh. “I can tell fortunes, nevertheless.”

“I want not mine! Begone!”

“Thine is already told! A titled lord and a
blind bride!”

“Out upon thy foul tongue!” he exclaimed,
with a fierce cry, as he attempted to reach her
with his riding whip.

“Nay, my good lord! You need not foam
and fret. It becomes not thy sable garments nor
thy nobility. Hear me patiently! I will tell
thee what, after thou art wedded to this blinded
bride—”

“Witch—silence!”

“Peaceful, my lord! After thou art wedded
and learn the secret I can now tell thee, thou
wouldst give half thy gold that thou hadst listened
to me now.”

“Ah, what then? what hast thou to tell?” he
cried, eagerly.

“Thou lovest her?” she asked, or rather asserted.

“Well!”

“Blind?”

“Woman, you will madden me! Yes, blind.
I love her—for I made her so!” Here his face
suddenly paled, and he seemed deeply moved.

“And you go now to cast yourself at he
feet, I dare say! But what wilt thou with a
sightless wife. She will ever be a present reproof!
You will by-and-by hate her rebuking
eyes that never look out of their darkened windows.
All who see her, will talk of thy deed of
passion! Thou canst not take her to court—
thou canst never love her! She will be a fixed
column in thy hall, and thou canst never stir
from her side! Thy days will be those of a
captive; and by-and-by you will say, with Cain,
`my punishment is greater than I can bear.' ”

“Woman, what picture is this you so maliciously
paint?”

“The prophetic future!”

“I begin to fear to make her my bride! Your
words impress me.”

“You believe her to be the daughter of the
noble lord of this castle!”

“And truly so!” he said with surprise.

“Falsely so!” she answered, significantly.

“What is it thou sayest?”

“That the fair Agnes, now blind Agnes, is not
the daughter of this noble house!”

“What do you tell me? What evil speech is
this?”

“Ask them!” added the woman firmly.

Lord Cranstown appeared impressed by her
manner, and said:

“Whose daughter is she, if thou sayest truly
she is not their's?”

“Mine!”

“Thy child!”

“Ay. Am I not a woman? May I not be a
mother as well as the noblest countess in the
land? The girl is mine!” added old Alice,
with a loud and determined voice.

“What you say is false!”

“Go in and ask my lord and my lady!” she
answered, scornfully.

“And if thou liest, I will have thee hanged,”
he cried, as he rode rapidly towards the gate of
the castle.

“And if I speak truly, wilt thou wed her and
become my brave son-in-law?”

“Never—though she saw with the eyes of an
archangel,” was the young nobleman's haughty
response.

“There is one sweet act I have done for my
beloved! He will cease to trouble her! for, by
going down on his knees and humbling himself
before the earl and countess, he might have yet
won her; for who would marry a blind wife!
But I have well rid her of him, with all his

greatness. He would not wed her, though she
saw with angel's eyes! So, good—she will yet
be mine! I will have her all to myself; for the
earl will not care to have her long, when he shall
know all! Then, I will keep her in my own
house. I will watch her, and be eyes to her.
She can't see how old and ugly I am, and wont
hate me! O, it will be so pleasant to be loved
by some one who cannot know how unloving I
look. They call me a witch—but I have not
quite given up all my human nature. I love
that child I took out o' the sea, and because she
is blind, I love her more, because she cannot see
me and hate me! No bridegroom, noble or
peasant, shall take her from me! Already she
loves me, and when, last night, I secretly found
my way by the terrace and stood by her bed, and
while her attendants were asleep, told her her
whole history, how I risked my life to take her
from the roaring sea, and how I was robbed of
her, and how they brought her to this castle and
reared her as their own child, and how I had
been for years thinking only one thought, and
that about her, having only one object and that
to find her again, loving only one thing and that
her sweet image, she shed tears out of her beautiful,
but sightless eyes. She could not see how
old and ugly I was, and as my voice was kind, I
might have been an angel, for all she knew!
There enters the young lord! He will soon
learn the truth, and then I shall have only the
earl and countess between me and the possession
of her.”

So soliloquized the old dame, as she re-seated
herself by the spring and continued her occupation
of washing certain medicinal plants which
she had gathered in the forest.

The young nobleman was ushered by a servitor
into the room where the earl of Monteagle
sat with a sad and troubled countenance. He
had only half an hour before come from the darkened
room where the countess kept almost ceaseless
watch, by day, with Agnes. She had sent
for them to unfold to them what had been revealed
in the midnight interview which Dame
Alice had had with her.

When they entered, she was seated in an arm-chair
by the lattice. A faint ray of light fell
upon her brow, which was pale as alabaster.
Above the right temple was visible a slight scar
Her eyes appeared perfectly natural, and perhaps
were more bright than was natural, but
they were like eyes exquisitely made by art.
There was in them no expression—out of them
looked forth no soul. Her face was touchingly
lovely, and upon her features was impressed sad
and gentle submission.

It was a touching spectacle. The earl's eyes
filled with great tears, and sitting down by her,
he took her hand in his and kissed her with deep
affection.

“My noble and good lord—” began Agnes.

But she was interrupted quickly and with surprise:
“It is I, your father, dear child!”

“I know it, dear father—you are my father
and you my mother indeed! but I know my
story! I am not your child!”

Both the noble pair started and exchanged
glances of inquiry and of pain.

“How did you learn this? Who hath told
you the secret we would forever have sealed?”
asked the countess, earnestly.

“You shall know, my dear parents—my more
than father and mother! Last night, I was laying
awake, for a slight pain within my eyes kept
me from sleeping. I told my watchers to sleep,
and if I needed them, I would call. I lay between
waking and sleeping, and seemed to be
carried in my thoughts to a beautiful land, where
I saw birds of the most beautiful plumage, such
as I never saw before, and trees of the strangest,
yet most glorious description, and flowers of fragrance
and beauty that were unknown to me.
There were fields and woodlands and a noble
villa—but all unlike anything I ever saw. Even
the skies were bluer and more lovely, and the soft
air did not appear like the air I knew before. I
was gazing upon this scene, it seemed to me,
from a rosy cloud, not far above it, when an indescribably
lovely being, with four wings, all of
gold and blue and purple feathers, appeared suddenly
before me. The face of this noble angel,
as I thought it was, looked backward continually,
and could not turn her face forwards. This
did not appear to surprise me in the least, nor
did I consider it a deformity, but on the contrary
regarded her as the most wonderfully lovely
creature imagination could conceive of.

“She addressed me, saying:

“ `Daughter of men, I am the angel of Memory!
Now that thine eyes to view the present
around thee are closed, I am sent to open thine
eyes of the past! Behold! what thou seest beneath
thee is a scene in the world of the past,
from which I come. We call Time in that world
Memory, the younger sister of Time, and ever
following in her path.'

“The angel then left me, and I contemplated

with delight the lovely scene revealed below,
and which I have described. It gradually seemed
to me as if I had seen it before, and while I
was wondering, I was recalled to myself and the
present by a low voice near me. I started, and
felt a soft touch upon my forehead.

“`Agnes, be not alarmed! I am come to see
thee, for I love thee, and dearer art thou to me
than all on earth.'

“`Who are you that speak?' I asked, not being
able to see her.

“She then proceeded to relate to me how that
I had been shipwrecked when four years old, and
that she had rescued me, and taken me to the
tower on the cliff, when a naval captain took me
by violence from her, and conveyed me here, as
she has since learned; for she was carried a
great way over sea, and only after years of
search has found me. She said I was given her
by Providence, that she has a mother's claim
upon me, and that now I am blind no one will
care for me, and she will take me to a home
where she will spend her days in making me
happy. I have sent for you to know from your
own lips, my dear father, if this tale is true.”

“It is,” answered the earl. “This woman
must have arisen from the dead, for she was
surely drowned.”

“No, she was saved by a boat. You confess
that I am the child she saved, do you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Nay, my dear father; but if it be so, this
woman has indeed a claim upon me; and—”

“Not one word, dearest Agnes! You are and
shall ever be to us, our child!”

“Yes, you have shown the same affection to
me as if I were, and I wish I could show you
my gratitude. I am now blind and helpless.
You can have no pleasure or hopes in me now!
I have sent for you to let me go with this good
woman, who saved my life, for I shall only be a
constant burden and care to you—”

“Agnes,” cried the countess, weeping and
interrupting her, “dearest daughter of our
hearts, do not agonize us by thus calmly talking
of leaving us, and of being a burden to us!
You are nearer and dearer to us than ever!”

“But my lord is soon going to Spain, as minister
from the king, and you and I were to accompany
him. I, helpless, as I am, cannot go,
and you, my dear mother, must not remain behind
for me. I cannot mar your pleasure.”

“We will make any sacrifice for you, self-sac
rificing girl,” said the earl, impassionately. “I
will abandon the position, and—”

“No, my dear lord, no! Already I see I am a
bar to your movements; since I am not of your
name, consider me as a stranger. I willingly
will go with the good woman who saved my
life!”

“This may not be,” said the earl. “Knowing
you were an orphan we loved you, and this
discovery, which is only one to you, does not
affect us. When did this woman visit you?”

“Last night; and left as secretly as she came.
Do you know who my parents are, my father?”

“No, my dear child.”

“Nor my country?”

“No. It must be England, for you spake the
purest English when we received you at the
hands of Captain Manners, my brother-in-law.”

“The good woman who claims me must become
my mother,” said Agnes, sadly, but firmly.
“I cannot mar your visit to Spain. You must
make no such great sacrifice for me.”

Both of them embraced the lovely girl, and
shed tears freely. At length the earl said:

“This woman must be found! She must not
trouble you again. You are our daughter, and
we will not part with you.”

“But by-and-by my birth may prove to be too
lowly, and—”

“Not wert thou as low-born as Philip the
shell-gatherer,” answered the earl.

“He has been here again to-day to ask after
my welfare,” she said, in a tone full of grateful
emotion; “and he insists on bearing all the
blame. He says that if he had not presumed to
enter the lists, it would never have happened!
He blames only himself, and suffers as if he
were indeed the real cause of my misfortune.
He is so noble and feeling!”

“Yes, and I feel a deep interest in him,” said
the earl. “He shall always see you when he
comes, for I have observed how much happiness
it gives him.”

“And me, also,” she answered, artlessly.

The countess looked at her husband, and
smiled.

Soon afterwards, not wishing to weary the
lovely patient, the earl retired, resolved, as well
as was the countess, that she should be removed,
as soon as it could be done, from beyond the influence
of the “weird woman,” as he termed
Dame Alice. He was found by Radnor pacing
his room, and reflecting upon what had passed;
for truly as she had said, her calamity would

stop his journey to the court of Madrid, to be
undertaken in a few days, by the king's command.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and
beheld the young lord Cranstown. He regarded
him with a fixed look of displeasure, which,
however, was instantly removed from his face,
which assumed a cold, grave expression.

“Good even, my lord. I condole with you
upon your loss. Your father I well knew.
Peace to his memory!”

Thus speaking, the earl coldly waved his hand
towards a chair.

“No, my lord, I will not sit. I have been so
bold as to call to inquire for lady Agnes.”

“Blind, sir, blind—stone blind!”

“Your lordship's tone is severe,” said Lord
Cranstown, with a reddening cheek.

“So is her misfortune. What would you
more?” and Monteagle turned almost fiercely
upon him.

“To ask forgiveness, and to offer to atone—”

“Atone!—atone for extinguishing the light
of heaven from a human brain! Hast thou
fetched with thee, my lord, new eyes, that she
may see? In no other way can thy words have
meaning.”

“I see I am not welcome! But I hoped to
show you that I felt my guilt. I came to assure
your lordship that I will still take her to wife;
and try by my devotion to her, to atone—”

“You will marry her, eh?”

“I repeat it; and since she is sightless, you
will appreciate—”

“O—ah—yes—I appreciate! You have taken
the jewels, and would have me toss you the casket.
But, pardon me, my lord. I have felt
this calamity. I may, by-and-by, talk with you
more favorably. But first I have a duty to perform.
Agnes is not my daughter—she is a
foundling!”

“Then the tale I heard is true indeed!” exclaimed
the young man.

“What tale hast thou heard?”

“That she was the child of an old peasant
woman.”

“Where heard you this?”

“From her own lips.”

“Well, we know not who is her mother! She
is equally dear to us. She may have a better
mother than the woman you speak of.”

“Is she noble, my lord? Think you Agnes
is noble?”

“Made so by our love and adoration!”

“I cannot marry unless it be ascertained who
she is. This woman may have stolen her; yet
she says she is her own offspring.”

“It matters not. She is blind and helpless;
and she is God's offspring, committed to our
keeping.”

“My lord, pardon me if I withdraw my obligation.”

“What obligation?”

“That I would wed her.”

“My lord Cranstown, you add insults to deep
injuries! Your horse waits his rider! I know
you now, and beg that the acquaintance here
end!”

Thus speaking, the earl turned from him. The
young man, pale as marble, and with livid lips,
haughtily took his departure, leaped into his
saddle, and spurred madly away towards the
forest.

“How, my lord? What news? Is it not all
true?” cried the weird woman, stepping from
behind a tree, as he dashed past.

He gave her no other reply than a look of desperate
fury, and was soon lost to sight in the
depths of the wood.

Without question, Radnor Cathcart loved
Agnes; but his pride of birth could not stoop to
one who might be ignoble. A sense of honor
might have induced him to marry one whom he
had deprived of sight, but no considerations
would have led him to unite to his name and
house an unknown girl. If we could look into
his thoughts as he rides homewards, more slowly
as he increases the distance between him and
the castle, we should detect a secret satisfaction,
an undefinable feeling of relief that he was not
bound to marry Agnes! for though he had been
willing to make her his wife, blind as she was,
in some sort to atone, as an honorable man, for
the calamity he had brought upon her, yet now
that the obscurity of her origin afforded him a
favorable way of escaping, he gladly embraced
it; for, in his heart, even were she the daughter
of the Earl and Countess of Monteagle, he felt
no disposition to clog his life, upon which he
was just entering, with a blind and helpless wife.
Therefore, Lord Cranstown, as he rode on, became
more and more calm, and by the time he
reached his own home, he felt very lightly reconciled
with the issue of his visit to castle
Monteagle.

“And this accounts for her looks of regard
cast upon that low-born shell-gatherer—being
low-born herself; as every bird mates with its

fellows! I have made an escape; and but for
this accident—yet it was her own fault, in arresting
my arm to save the serf's life,—but for
this lucky accident, I should, perhaps, have
taken to wife the daughter of a peasant; nay,
this old woman may have had the Earl of Cranstown
as her son-in-law!”

Thus gratulating himself, the young and subtle
noble resolved to banish Agnes from his
thoughts, with a feeling of resentment against
himself for loving one so obscure, and against
Lord Monteagle for permitting him to remain in
ignorance of her history.

After the departure of the young nobleman
from his castle, the Earl of Monteagle, following
with his eye from his window his rapid pace,
had seen the weird woman appear from among
the trees, and address him as he galloped past
her. Instantly he left the castle by a postern on
that side, and rapidly made his way to the forest.
He beheld the gray figure of the old woman
moving swiftly in the direction of the ancient
church. He followed, and saw her disappear
within the church-yard, under the shadows of
the yews. He hastened forward, and came
upon her as she was entering the tower, the
door of which was broken from its hinges, and
could not be quite closed by the old sexton.
He was upon her steps, and found her just in
the act of descending beneath the chancel into
the crypt of tombs. The interior of the venerable
church was solemnly gloomy, and at this
evening hour, when the shadows of the closing
day were everywhere spreading and deepening,
it had an awe-awakening aspect. He paused in
the aisle as he saw her disappear; and recollecting
that she had once been cast into the sea for
dead, he began almost to believe that it was a
spirit he had followed, rather than a living being.
But he was not superstitious. He was
quite convinced that this person must be the
woman who had secretly visited Agnes by night;
and as he had seen Dame Alice years before,
when she dwelt in the tower, he had been satisfied
of the identity when he beheld her hail Lord
Cranstown in the forest.

He now moved swiftly and noiselessly, and
found the door of the crypt open. But he need
not have been so careful to conceal his approach.
She had seen him following her from the first,
and had purposely led him to the church. As
he was gazing down to see where she was, she
struck a light, which cast a strange glare about
her, as he discovered her in the empty tomb.

“Come down, my lord! This must be your
home one day, and you may as well familiarize
your eyes with it! Enter, my lord of Monteagle.
Nay, shrink not back! It is not death
that invites you, but the living. This is my
home!”

“Art thou the woman—the—”

“I am the woman you seek.”

“Wherefore do you haunt my house? What
wicked notion can urge you to mar the peace of
the dear child—”

“Because,” she interrupted, sternly, “because
the child is as dear to me as to you. She is
mine, Lord Monteagle! Heaven sent her to
take the place of my own fair-haired one, which
died when I was a young wife. I snatched the
child from the waves and became its mother.
Your brother robbed me of her. I would recover
her! I will take her, blind as she is, for
now you care not for her. Give her to me, my
lord!”

“You ask in vain. Rather would I come and
lay her dead in this tomb, than give her into thy
hand!” answered the noble.

“Dead shall she be laid in this tomb, unless
thou givest her into my hand!” answered the
weird woman.

“Dost thou threaten her life?”

“Nay. But her life is mine! Thou hast
loved her and had her smiles for ten years,
while I have wandered the world desolate. The
past is thine—the future must be mine!”