University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The Earl of Monteagle slowly returned towards
his castle, from the old church where he
had talked with the weird woman. The interview
between them lasted full half an hour; and
resulted in a conviction on his part, that, though
he would not surrender Agnes to her appeals, he
might permit her to visit her and remain with
her in her apartment, to watch over her.

“This much, I feel, is due to her singular affection
for her,” he said to the countess as he entered
her room on his return, after having given
an account of his interview with Dame Alice.
“She is no witch—but a strong hearted woman
who has been more abused by the superstitious
hatred of ignorant people than she merits. I
am satisfied that she will make a faithful nurse
to the dear child; and she will need, in her helplessness,
all the aid we can give her.”

“But she is so old and hideous, my dear lord,”
objected the countess.

“Agnes is blind and cannot know it!”

“True. But may she be trusted?”

“Without doubt. Her affection for her
is her security, dear wife! And we owe this
to her; for truly she has a higher claim to her,
than we ourselves have. Besides, it is imperative
upon me to proceed to Madrid. I must
leave London in two days. It will be impossible
to leave you behind to watch over her, and
as impossible to take Agnes, helpless as she is.
It would be dragging her through a tour of
misery.”

“But with whom, besides this Dame Alice,
who perseveres in calling her her child, shall we
leave her?”

“My brother-in-law, Manners, will return to-morrow;
and is to remain on furlough, you are
aware, for several months, until his new frigate
is completed. He remains here!”

“I had forgotten it. We can leave Agnes
in his good hands, and that of the marchioness
his amiable wife.”

“Until our return. This is settled.”

“I only object to this old dame.”

“Consult Agnes. I have confidence in her,
and to say truth I would gladly see her about
Agnes; for I believe we should render both happy.
Do not forget that if she is dear to us, we
owe her to the courage of this woman.” At
this moment a page entered.

“I will see what Agnes says,” answered the
countess; and the earl sat down to open and
read some letters, brought by the page, from
London, while the Countess Eleanora sought the
chamber of the blind maiden. At the door her
ear was arrested by low voices. She paused
and recognized in one of the speakers Philip;
the other was Agnes. She was seated in the

window that opened upon the terrace. The moonlight
revealed the young shell-gatherer standing
outside and leaning in over the very spot where
she had in imagination written in air his name
with the point of the golden arrow.

“I am alone to blame, Lady Agnes,” he said,
in tones of self-reproof. “I shall never forgive
myself. If I could return your sight by giving
up my own life, I would not hestitate a moment
to sacrifice it.”

“You are not to blame at all, Philip,” she
answered, very earnestly; and she extended her
fair hand to feel for his, to grasp it in token of
her confidence in his innocence. He was timid
and would not touch it! he had not boldness
enough to put his hand into her warm clasp.
He felt himself but a fisher's lad, while she was
a highborn maiden—invested by her birth and
beauty, in his lowly view, with the superiority of
a goddess. It was bold in him, it is true, to
steal to her window and whisper her name as he
had done; but it was from anxiety, from a desire
to see her and ask her forgiveness, and to
know how she was; and if there was no hope
that she could see again. She appreciated his
kindness, and her grateful accents thrilled
through and through his soul. He felt he could
have lingered there all night to listen to her
musical voice, and gaze down upon that angelic
face, the glorious eyes of which, in the moonlight,
seemed seraphically bright.

The countess now entered, when the youthful
shell gatherer embarrassed would have fled.
But innocent of all evil, and having been aforetime
suffered by the countess to come into the
castle to ask after Agnes, he checked the impulse
and remained.

“So, Philip, you are not content with seeing
Agnes by day, but you must come by night.”

“I came, lady, to tell her good-by. I am
going away.” This was spoken sadly but with
decision.

“Wither? not out of the country, I trust,”
said the countess, smiling at his manner.

“I am going to London, lady!”

“And why there?”

“To seek my fortune. I am done with shell-gathering,
since Agnes can see and admire them
no more.”

“But I can feel their shape and smoothness,
Philip,” she said, pleasantly; “and you can tell
me all about the beautiful tints.”

“I am resolved to go!”

“And leave your old father?”

“He is not my father. He found me on a
wreck at sea! This I have been told by him.
He consents that I may go; for he hopes I may
find my parents.”

“Have you any clue?”

“Only a silver cup and an iron-rimmed compass
which were taken by him from the wreck.”

“And how will these aid you?”

“They have initial letters, and the compass
the maker's name and number. I hope to learn
by them what ship was wrecked, and then who
were the passengers. My father, that is George,
says I shall find the record in the port it sailed
from, and if I can only discover what ship the
compass was sold to, or what person the silver
cup was sold to. It bears the maker's stamp,
and was made in the Strand in London.”

“These may indeed aid you; and I trust they
will. But you go on a forlorn hope: yet you
may find employment, and yet do well in London,”
added the countess, who felt disposed to
encourage the departure of one who was evidently
too deeply interested in Agnes for his own or
her happiness.

“Good-by, Lady Agnes!” said Philip, now
taking her hand. “Forgive me your blindness!
“I shall not return until—”

Here his emotions overcame his voice, and
touching his cap to the countess he vanished in
the shadow of the buttress and the next moment
letting himself down by the ring on the
wall by which he had ascended, he was soon
rapidly moving across the moonlit lane, towards
the king's highway, which wound through the
ancient forest, surrounding the castle.

After he had thus suddenly taken his leave,
the countess approaching Agnes, took her hand
and found her weeping, great drops of tears
chasing one another down her cheeks.

“What, my child! tears for a peasant boy!”
said the countess, smiling, and gently wiping them
away.

“Mother, he is more than a peasant boy!
He is so noble, so frank, so good, so kind!”

“Yet it becomes you not to think of him
again.”

“Mother, I have no other occupation,now I
am shut out from the beautiful world, but to
think of those whose voices are kind. Philip is
not the son of a fisherman. He may be well-born,
as I believe he is! Yet high or lowborn,
he is kind and he loves me, and I cannot but be
grateful! Now that I am so helpless, I shall
have few to love me; and I must cherish every

heart. The blind are often dependent on the
attachment and faithfulness of a little dog. Reprove
not my tears, dear mother.”

“I am rebuked, sweet daughter! I like Philip
almost as well as you do; and so does my lord
think much of him. Have you any idea how he
is going to London?”

“On foot, he told me.”

“He must have need of gold! I will send a
well-filled purse after him.”

“Nay, mother, I asked him if he would take
from me ten gold pieces; but he looked hurt,
and declined them—proudly, too.”

“He is above his seeming, evidently. George
has well taught him; for I see he is well-accomplished.”

“Yes. The old man has many books he
picked up in chests from wrecks, and all these
Philip says he has read, and that makes him talk
like one of better position. I am so sorry he is
gone! for he would have been so much company
to me,” she said, with artlessness.

“It is better he go, child! Better for both of
you. Without doubt, he felt it so, and therefore
departed. But I have come to ask you, my
dear child, if it is your wish to have the old
Dame Alice about you? She entreats to be allowed
to serve you.”

“Then by all means suffer her to come. It
will gratify me, for I owe her my life! Have
you consented to please me, my dear mother,
and go with my lord to Spain?”

“It is a sore question for my heart.”

“But the good, noble captain and his lady will
be here.”

“Yes. To their care I could commit you
without anxiety, if I leave you; but—”

“Leave me you must! The earl will have to
go, and you must accompany him for his own
happiness and your own.”

“I will please you, then,” answered the countess,
with a smile struggling through her tears.

“A thousand thanks, dearest mother!” cried
Agnes, embracing her. “Now I shall bear my
affliction easier, since it does not involve the
happiness of those I love most. Here I shall be
happy. You will often write to me, and Dame
Alice, my second mother, will read your letters
to me.”

The next day Dame Alice came to the castle,
and applied for admission to see the earl. Her
whole appearance was changed. She wore her
hair smooth, and a cap above it, neatly tied.
Her gown was plain but neat, and her whole air
was that of a respectable village matron. The
change of costume had produced a corresponding
improvement in her face, and she wore a
look of dignified repose. Lord Monteagle did
not at first recognize her. The countess, who
now beheld her for the first time, was prepossessed
in her favor. Willing to recognize the debt
due to her, as the rescuer of Agnes, they now
fully consented to give her the position near her,
which she sought, and she was led to her room,
and forthwith installed, greatly to her joy, in her
new vocation.

The ensuing day, the naval nobleman and his
wife arrived at the castle, and the following day,
Lord and the Countess of Monteagle took their
departure for London—not without a sorrowful
parting from the lovely and unfortunate Agnes.

We will now follow the fortunes of the youthful
Philip, on his way to seek his fortune, after
his departure from Agnes and the castle.

He had left the sea-side home of old George
that day with the purpose in view of going to
London. The old man had reluctantly given
his consent; but he had become so proud of him
after his victory on the archery ground that he
was willing to indulge him in anything he
asked.

“But, my son,” said the aged fisherman,
“London is far away from hence; and it is a
world of wickedness and woe, they tell me,
where men know not each other, and no one has
a neighbor. Yet I will not keep you here to
waste your youth in shell-fishing. I know you
are fitted for better things. But you cannot go
without money. Here is a purse of gold. Use
it with caution, as a man without money in the
big world may as well be without eyes! Ah,
you groan! You are thinking of the poor child,
Lady Agnes. A sad misfortune!”

“And the surgeon, whom I met coming from
the castle, and asked about her, yesterday, told
me,” answered Philip, with emotion, “that she
can never see again!”

“A pitiful accident!” said the old man, shaking
his white head, sorrowfully. “So fair, and
young, and noble!”

“She is so good, and kind, and gentle, and
suffers so patiently, that I cannot but weep when
I see her.”

“She seems to think mightily of you, my
boy; and the earl and countess praised you to
me till my heart rose right up with joy. But
you are not fastening on your pack! You will
not go to day?”

“Yes, dear father. I am ready to go now.
But, as I promised, I will send you a letter from
London; and you shall often hear how I get on.
But you will not forget to write to me once every
month how Lady Agnes is.”

“I am but a poor hand at pen and ink, lad;
but I will send you what news I can.”

“Farewell, my dear father! I know not how
to thank you for all your kindness to me. If I
thought I could not do and serve you better by
going away to get riches for you, I would remain.
But I hope ere long to return. All our
friends at the hamlet have promised me if you
get sick, to take the best of care of you; and I
will ask the kind Lady Agnes to inquire about
you often. Good-by, my dear father! I hope
soon to send you good news, for I shall try at
once to find who my parents were!”

The parting between this noble young man
and the old fisherman who had fostered him
from boyhood was touching and affecting. The
old man wept on his shoulder, and, giving him
a last embrace, commended him to the protection
of Heaven.

With his pack slung over his shoulder, Philip
left the lowly cabin of his childhood, and took
his way to the castle, and there, as we have
seen, bidding Agnes adieu, he started on his
solitary way, “the world before him all to
choose.”

His way lay past the church-yard, which
stood, solemn and obscure, within the heavy
shadow of its overarching yew-trees. He paused
a moment, as he passed the porch, to offer up a
silent prayer that God would prosper his journey
with the success his heart desired. As he
moved on, with a lighter spirit, he felt a touch
upon his shoulder. He quickly turned, and beheld
Dame Alice, not now attired in the wild
costume of the weird woman, but in the grave
and decent apparel with which we saw her half
an hour later present herself at the castle, towards
which she was now making her way.

“Young man, whither goest thou, that thou
hast need to preface thy journey with a holy
prayer to Heaven?” she said, in a kindly voice.

“To London,” he answered.

“Thou art Philip, the foster-son of George,
the fisherman?”

“Yes.”

“I knew thee! I saw thee on the day of the
archery sports. Thou wert victor, and didst
win the golden arrow; but it cost the eyes of
the fairest maiden thine own eyes ever beheld!”

“I would willingly lose my own to restore
hers!” answered Philip, earnestly.

“Thou wert not to blame! It was the fierce
wrath of the Lord Cranstown which did the deed
of guilt. His day will come! I saw all, and
understand it all. Thou wert his successful
rival, not only in the lists but in love.”

“I do not know what you say, woman,” answered
Philip, blushing, yet with instinctive and
happy consciousness.

“Can the eye, the lip, the cheek of him who
loves tell tales contrary to the true heart? I
watched thee and her. She loves thee, and
thou regardest her with a greatness of love that
thou darest not own even to thy own soul!”

“I am but an humble person, and I dare not
love one like Lady Agnes,” answered Philip.
“I pity and feel sad for her, and—but—that is,
I do not—at least, I may not look to her with
love! She is to me as yonder fair star hanging
in the western sky tremulous in the light of its
own beauty. I gaze upon it with wonder and
admiration, but I never hope to approach it!
So with Lady Agnes. I gaze afar off, content
to be far off, so that I may be permitted only to
gaze!”

“Thou art not a peasant, young man.
This is not the language and the thoughts of
a fisherman's son!”

“I am a foundling. I am not his son! He
rescued me from the sea—found me a child
upon a deserted wreck, and raised me as his
son. You speak to me so kindly, you have
won my confidence, and so I tell you these
facts freely.”

“This is strange. Both children of the sea,
and both loving one another with all their
young hearts' fervor! This is a providence!
I must not,” she continued, to herself, “cross-purpose
Heaven's decrees. Then thou knowest
not thy true parentage?” she asked, with
deep interest.

“No, mother. A few books, a compass, and
a silver cup, are all that were taken from the
wreck. She was so deeply sunk in the water,
that George could not see her name.”

“And that compass! that cup! Have you
them?”

“Here, in my pack!”

“Let me see them.”

“There is hardly light enough for you to
read the names on them.”

“Then there are names!”

He placed the cup in her hand. She closely

examined it and the stamp of the maker, “Hamel,
London.”

“I see what takes you up to London. You
seek your parentage by these.”

“Yes, but—not only this! I have a higher
motive—but—but —”

“Nay, do not hesitate. I am thy friend for
Agnes's sake. Wouldst thou make a great
name, or hopest thou to find thyself noble, that
thou mayst come back and win her?” she said,
smiling.

“Not this only!”

“Then what more eanst thou have in view?
What more beside this?”

“To see if there be not skill on earth, mother,”
he answered, with startling emphasis and
deep feeling manifested in his fine face; “to see
if there be not skill on earth to restore sight to
her!”

“This is noble and worthy thy nature, young
man,” cried Alice, warmly regarding him as he
stood before her, his whole form dilated, and his
bearing elevated by his one great thought.
“And this, then, takes you to London!”

“All else is secondary. I thought not of going
until she became sightless. At first I could
not keep from believing she would soon see.
But as week after week her sight remained
sealed up, and as the surgeons declare her blind
for life, I could not calmly consent to the abandonment
of all hope. The surgeon who pronounced
her incurable was from Windsor, and
served the queen's household; and from his decision
the countess said there could be no appeal,
for there was no higher authority in the
realm!”

“Then what do you hope for?”

“I know not! I must go forward and see
what I can do! France has men skilled in the
eye, and I will go there! Nay, I have put a
vow upon my soul never to rest or cease my
search, until I can discover the skill, if it be on
earth, that will give her back her sight again!”

“Heaven bless you, my dear youth! This is
an angel's mission you are started upon. But
you cannot travel from land to land and over
sea without gold!”

“I have money”'

“Not much, I fear. Let me see what thou
hast!”

“Great store, for a long journey, given me by
my foster-father, George.”

Here he opened his old leathern purse, and
showed her a handful of small gold pieces.

“This is but little, my friend! Wait you
here a few moments!”

Thus speaking, she disappeared in the rear of
the church, and shortly after came back with a
black belt in her hand.

“Take this, and buckle it about your waist,
beneath your frock. I have worn it many a
year over sea and land. It will do thee good
service.”

Philip took it as she forced it into his hand.
He was surprised at its weight.

“Is this money?” he asked, with amazement.

“Yes. One hundred pounds in golden guineas.
And there are in it, besides, many silver
crowns. Buckle it about you, and make no
words of refusal. It is for Agnes!”

“For her I take it, then, and may blessings
follow you, good woman. I know you not,
only that you are her friend! If you see her,
tell her you met me on my way, and that I
sent my humblest homage to her; but betray
not for what object I go on my journey! I
may fail; and then, if she cherishes hopes,
these would perish also!”

“I will keep your secret. Know you that I
will give your message to her. I am appointed
to be one of her attendants, for now she may
never be left alone. I will see that she forgets
you not; for I will so speak of you whom
she regards, as that she will love me for your
sake!”

“I must now proceed on my way, as evening
is advancing,” said Philip. “Farewell,
and may Heaven one day bring me back with
one in my company skilled to give her back
her sight.”

“Be courageous and persevere, and we know
not what may come to pass.”

Here the young man gave his hand to the
woman who had, to his surprise, manifested
such interest in Agnes and in his mission, and
they moved off different ways, she towards
the castle and he into the forest, over which
the shadows of night were darkly gathering.

Late in the afternoon on the ninth day after
leaving the neighborhood of Castle Monteagle,
Philip was slowly threading his way through
the streets of London towards the Strand. He
was weary and foot-sore, for he had journeyed
the whole distance walking, desirous of saving
every penny of his hoard for the actual needs
of the future. No one regarded the youthful
traveller, as he made his way amid the throng

on the sidewalks. Every face, every voice, was
new and strange. But he pressed on with the
one idea—“sight for Agnes”—in his mind!
This thought had sustained him through all
his fatigues and voluntary privations. This
holy purpose gave him strength above his own.
He went on towards the Strand, inquiring his
way every little while of such civil looking people
as he met. His object in seeking the Strand
was that there his cup was made; and from
often thinking of this name, it seemed to his
imagination to be the soul of London. It was
the only name in London he ever heard, and
so for the “Strand” he pressed forward. At
length he came in sight of the Thames, with its
forests of ships, and was soon told he was also
in the great street he sought.

Attained his object so far, he began to feel his
fatigues, and sat down upon one of the lower
steps of a large edifice whereon were seated
many women and children with baskets of fruit
to sell to passers-by. Like a river full to the
flood of living beings the crowd rolled past, the
body of the stream flowing one way and an eddy
the other. The noise, motion, multitude, novelty
and wonderfulness of the scene awed and
amazed him. He saw no one speak to another!
Thousands passed and met thousands, but he
perceived take place no word or nod or look of
recognition between any! The universal brotherhood
of the race seemed disselved and no
longer recognized!

“And this is the great world of which good
old George spoke,” he reflected, as he gazed on
the vast crowd. “Men in it are isolated, and
seem to have no common nature! Doubtless I
might perish here and no eye regard me with
pity, but with a hurried glance rush on. What
is the death of one in such a million! What is
a grain of sand dropped from a shell filled with
it! But I must seek some lodging for the
night, and to-morrow begin my work which I
came hither to do.”

He rose from the step, and, resuming his
walk, came to a narrow alley, a short distance
a down which he saw a sign showing that it was
an inn. To the door he made his weary way,
and entering a low room neatly kept, with the
floor sprinkled with white sand, he laid his
pack on a chair, and, exhibiting a half-crown
in his hand, asked if he could be accommodated
for the night.

“Surely, my good youth,” answered the
landlady, with a welcome smile in her eyes;
“you shall have a nice supper and a good,
clean bed. You have travelled far to reach
London town, by your looks!” and, regarding
with satisfied approbation his fine figure and
handsome face, she poured out a tankard of
foaming ale, and handed it to him.

Philip felt at once at home, rejoicing that in
the great desert of London he had found so delightful
an oasis.