University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Ten years have passed since the scenes in the
foregoing chapter transpired, and we once more
return to the tower upon the cliff, but not with
the same characters. The evening sun glances
its arrows of gold and crimson along the rippling
sea, and is reflected richly from the wooded
cliffs and rocks, tinging them with a ruby glow.
Far and wide expands the ocean, its line unbroken
by isle or sail, until it meets the rosy
horizon.

A boat lay moored in the little cove by the
sand-bar, at the foot of the steep path leading
from the tower to the sea-side, at the place where
Dame Alice had so bravely rescued, ten years
before, this very night, the lovely little girl
wrecked with the barque. The boat is that of a
fisherman, and over its side hang nets, a-drying;
its brown sail is furled to the low, black mast.
It contains no one; but ascending the steep
steps of the cliff-side is a youth and an old man,
who have just landed from her. They soon
reach the top, the latter laden with shining fish,
while the other carries across his shoulder a dipnet,
through the interstices of which shone, with
divers bright tints, a number of beautiful sea-shells,
of all sizes.

“It is a steep climb, lad,” said the old man,
setting down his strings of fish, as he reached
the top; “I once had limb and wind to mount
it, and not mind it no more than a hare! But
I be getting old a-now! I am well on to sixty-seven,
and that is pretty close on the threescore
an' ten!”

“I will take the fish for you, father! you go
and lay down under the old tower wall till I get
back,” said the youth, with affection, while a
noble look of benevolence lighted up his handsome,
though sun-burned, face.

“Nay, Philip, my son! I am not yet good
for nothing!” said the old man, stoutly. “You
have enough weight with your shells, and the
quality ladies will rather buy them than my fish.
When I was a lad, ne'er a penny could a man
have got for a sea-shell; but now it is a better
trade than fishing. I will rest me here a bit,
and then will trudge for the houses o' the
gentry.”

“Father,” said the lad, gazing upon the tower,
“while you are resting, I will go and look over
this old place; for I never yet had time to see
more than the outside.”

“Nay, boy, thou art best outside o' it,” answered
the fisherman, in a grave tone. “The
place has an evil name, and I have reason to
know it is no place for an honest Christian to set
foot in.”

“Is it haunted, father?” asked the youth with
interest, and lively curiosity evidently awakened.

“I have heard the cry and wail of ghosts or

devils, no one knoweth which; and I do not
want to hear such sounds again.”

“Where was it, father? I recollect that last
year, when we came down here from the hamlet
where we live, you said that robbers were haunting
here.”

“Yes, robbers and ghosts, and Sathan, it may
be. It is a bad old place, and I ne'er heard good
come o't. Once it was dwelt in, some dozen
years or so ago, by an arrant witch, Dame
Alice; and one night, in a storm, the devil flew
off with her from the tower top and dropped
her, shrieking awful, in the sea! Some say she
believed that she could fly, and so jumped
off, in her folly, and was drowned at the bottom
of the cliff. Her ghost haunts the place ever
since! Sometimes she is seen dancing a top o'
yon rock, and sometimes skipping about o'
moonlit nights on the sea below!”

“Hast seen her, father?”

“Many a time! But I always gave her a
wide berth; for I could hear her scream long
before she was in sight.”

“Perhaps it was a curlew, father?”

“It sounds a very deal like one, boy; but a
witch can imitate any sound. But this is not
the worst. There has been heard most awful
cries coming out from under the tower. They
seemed to be in the very bowels of the rock.
One might, it may be ten years ago, this very
month, or thereabout, I was catching mackerel
off the tower. There had been a great storm,
two nights before, and a ship was wrecked, and
not a soul saved, and by that token I remember
the night well. Jacob, my brother, and I were
in the boat. All at once the stillness was broke
by a terrible cry that seemed to come from the
mid-air. We were well frightened, and Jacob's
line slipped through his fingers into the sea, and
I lost the best hook I owned, and a line sixty
fathoms long.”

“But the cry, father? What was it?”

“It sounded like some fiend shut up in the
bowels of the cliff. It was a most dreadful
sound as ever human ears heard. It seemed to
cry for help—and then it would roar and yell
like a wild beast. We were so near the cliff that
we pulled out, as fast as we could use our oars,
and came to our comrades in two other boats,
who also were frightened at the noise; and
though most of us believed it to be one of the
evil ones said to haunt the tower, two of the
boldest proposed landing, to see if it might not
be some human being in great distress. So
their courage gave us courage, and we landed,
and armed with our boat hooks and fish knives,
seven of us in all, we got up to the tower.”

“You were very bold, father!”

“We were very scared, boy, and a hare crossing
our path, would have made us run away
back again. When we got near the tower, just
about where you see that larch tree, we were all
startled by the cries again; for we had not heard
them since we landed. They now seemed to
come from below and out in the air. The
bravest men drew close to the cliff edge and
said the sounds were not from the tower, but
were from the middle air—and that it was not
from an earthly being. We trembled, but still
listened, till we were assured that they were not
in the air, but far below. This discovery not a
little amazed us, and as they grew more and
more horrible, we did not long delay in returning
to our boats. When we got to them, we
could hear the shriek above us! By-and-by
they ceased, and we pulled off, and for my part,
I have never fished there again by night.”

“I think I would not have feared, father,”
answered the youthful Philip.

“Youth is ignorant, and ignorance is rash,
boy! But see! what brave cavalcade have we
here?”

The youth turned his head, and saw galloping
forward, towards the tower, a party of four or
five gay riders, evidently an excursion from
some one of the country-seats of the noblemen
or gentry within the vicinity.

“They are Lord and Lady Monteagle, lad!
Doff thy cap, when they pass!” said the old
man, setting him the example of deference “to
one's betters” by uncovering his rough, white
head, while yet they were a hundred yards off.

But the lad did not hear. His eyes were
fixed upon an apparition of loveliness such as
only visit the dreams (if even these) of the
lowly born. It was a fair, child like maiden of
fourteen or fifteen, not older, dressed in a green
hunting jacket, with gold buttons, a broad
brimmed straw hat, hanging by the ribbon
around her neck upon her shoulders, over which
waved and flashed in the sun rays, as she cantered
rapidly along, a cloud of golden brown
hair. Her charming and expressive face was
full of animation, and richly roseate with the
excitement of motion. She was laughing merrily,
and her voice was an alembic, in which all
sweet sounds were fused, to make a voice that
was melody, even though mocking-birds sang

around in rivalry of its cadences. This voice
caused to vibrate a chord of emotion untouched
before in the heart of the young shell-gatherer!
while he gazed upon her face, as she flew past,
on a fleet, snowy white pony, with the air of one
fascinated!

“You have made a conquest there, fair
Agnes,” said laughingly a young man who
rode by her rein, as he pointed with the silver
whistle of his riding whip at Philip, who, with
his bag of shells across his shoulder, stood with
his dark eyes rivetted in homage upon her.

The young girl looked towards the fisher's
son, and seeing his handsome face, his dark
locks uncovered and finely waving about his
open and noble brow, his piercing eye, she
heeded not his coarse garb nor his bag of shells,
but blushing at his ardent looks, which met fully
her eyes, she looked more beautiful than before,
and turning to the young man, said gaily:

“How handsome he is! It is indeed a rare
conquest!” She looked back again, and seeing
Philip still following her with bright eyes and a
crimsoned cheek, she dropped her eyes.

“Upon my word,” answered her companion,
“he has made one also!”

“Made what, Radnor?” she asked, archly.

“A conquest also,” was the reply, with a
slight motion of the frowning muscles, and a
scarcely perceptible hiting, with very white
teeth, of the nether lip.

“Ha, old George, are you here?” said the
elder of the party, reining up a large chestnut
colored English horse near the fisherman, who
tood cap in hand, with his son near him. “Is
am glad to see you hearty. You have had luck
on the water, I see! Take those fine fish up to
the castle! Here is a half-sovereign—that will
pay thee for thy fish and buy thee something for
the good dame.”

“You are very kind, my good lord,” answered
the old man, gratefully.

“And who is this? I have never seen him?”
added the countess of Monteagle, a youthful and
pretty woman, with an air and manner of great
sweetness, smiling as she spoke, as if to encourage
him.

“My—my son—my lady! When he has been
with me to the castle, your lordship and ladyship
have always been up to London, or to
court; he sells shells, as you see, to the neighboring
gentry's ladies, and hearing your ladyship
had come home, we were going to your
ladyship's house with them, hoping your ladyship
would find some to your liking among 'em.”

While he was speaking, she was regarding the
face of the youth, and so steadily, that he turned
his head and looked confused, and of course, being
handsome by nature, looked handsomer still.
Educated and refined people do not notice the
dress, but the face, expression, air, tone, bearing.
The vulgar regard costume, and so judge;
while to cultivated minds, costume is lost sight
of in the superior claims of the “human face
divine.” Lady Monteagle knew how to separate
the face from the apparel. She turned to her noble
husband, whose naturally proud bearing was
only apparent to his peers, for to the poor and
humble he always seemed humble as they, and
said, in a low voice:

“That face is not that of a peasant! That
eye is like a prince's, and so is the native carriage
of the head. It cannot be that he is indeed
this old man's child!”

“You are ever seeking for romance, Eleanora,”
answered the earl, smiling. “Believe
me, when he gets old, he will be as commonplace
a fisherman as George here! Youth always
is attractive!”

“You are so practical, Conyers. But let us
go on after Agnes and Radnor. What a graceful
pair they make, for Agnes has now the height
of a woman. I trust that they will take to one
another, for my heart is on the union of our
house with that of my cousin, Lord Cranstown.
Radnor is now nearly of age, and will soon, as
Lord Cranstown, be one of the most desirable
matches in England.”

“Wait awhile, dear wife! Agnes will be too
young yet, for four years, to think of husbands,
and by that time Lord Cranstown may have
been taken captive by some other fair dame!”

“It is not injudicious to begin in time to
make moves for so important an issue as I hope
to see brought about. There they are reined up
on the very verge of the cliff! They are rash!
Any sudden alarm would cause their horses to
leap off! Agnes, child! Draw back!” cried
the countess, as she came near.

“We are only gazing, from this height, upon
the noble expanse of sea, my dear mother. Is
it not sublime! See! far in the distant a white
sail is visible, like a speck of down!”

“And would you like to be on board, Agnes?”
said Radnor Cathcart.

“O, no! I shudder at the idea of being in a
vessel! The sea is beautiful as a spectacle from

this safe place; but I cannot hear it roar without
a secret and indefinable dread! If I ever
dream of the sea, I behold it lashed with a tempest,
and seem to be on board of a ship imperilled,
and always wake struggling with the billows
and gasping for air!”

“How strange!” said the young noble. “I
never dream but pleasant dreams, for you always
mingle with them!”

This was said with gallantry and in an under
tone. The countess exchanged a glance with
her husband, but evidently with relation to the
words spoken by the young girl.

“Come, let us alight and walk through the
ruins,” said the earl.

The equerry in attendance, who wore the
livery of the Monteagle family, took the horses
of the countess and his master, and was about to
take the bridle of the pony, from which Agnes
Monteagle had bounded, refusing the proffered
aid of the young man, when the latter, who was
also on his feet, called haughtily to Philip:

“Ho, boy! come hither and hold these animals;
and see you, walk my hunter about—
keep him in motion, for he's warm—hark ye!
do ye hear!”

There was something in the manner and voice
of the young nobleman that must have offended
the fisher's lad, for he coldly smiled and turning
from them, with his bag of shells, walked away.

“What, dog of a peasant? Do you refuse?”
cried Radnor Catchcart, with anger. “Obey
me, and hold my horse!”

“I am not thy servant—I am free to consent
or refuse, as it pleases me,” was the reply of the
shell-gatherer.

“But I will teach thee civility to thy superiors,
an it please me!” responded the youthful
nobleman, red with ice; and advancing towards
him with his riding-whip, would have struck
him, but for the voice of the earl.

“Hold thy ready hand, Radnor,” he said, in
a slight tone of reproof. “Thou forgettest, so
long hast thou been in India, that English peasants
are not Hindostanee slaves. He is free,
and will freely obey, of request, but not of command.”

“See, Radnor, how I will nule him,” said
Agues, with a smile. “Come hither, fair youth,
and please hold my horse, while I go and see the
tower!”

In an instant, Philip was at her rein! In the
next moment, he felt the hand of the young noble
upon his throat, and found himself flying
ten feet from him. He did not fall! Quickly
recovering himself, he drew his fish knife and
bounded towards him, caught him by the breast,
hurled him to the earth, and with his foot upon
his chest, and the knife waved in the air, stood
over him, the master of his life!

The countess shrieked! The earl sprang forward,
but before he reached the spot, the shell-gatherer
had removed his foot, sheathed his
short knife, and walked away with the slow,
proud, self-possessed tread of a young Indian
warrior. The earl's fine countenance betrayed
his own view of the affair, and plainly he felt
that Cathcart had been wrong, and that the fisherman
had only acted with commendable spirit.

“I did not look for such high blood in a cliff-side
sailor's lad,” he said to the countess, who,
pale at the sudden crisis just passed, was watching,
with half-terrified interest, the receding
Philip.

“He is no son of the old fisher, my lord!
Never did I witness such courage, pride, chivalry,
all at once, in the best born of the realm!”

“He is a base lout, and shall suffer for this
infamous insult,” muttered Radnor Catchcart,
as he rose to his feet.

“Without doubt, such conduct in a peasant
ought not to be borue,” said the earl. “These
people must know their place, and what is due
to rank. George, thou art to blame in bringing
thy boy up with such a temper.”

“Nay, my lord, but he's always gentle hitherto!
This 'bout of his amazeth me! I know
not what evil spirit hath broke out o' the boy.
I ne'er knew the like before in him!”

“Teach him not to show the like again! He
has made a deadly foe, I fear, in this young lord.”
This was said aside, and in an under tone: “Tell
me truly, is this lad thy own child?”

“What, my lord?”

“Nay, answer me!”

“But, my lord, he is my only stay! I am old
and stricken, and he is of great help to me.
When the times are hard, and the fish are scarce,
he gathers shells, and makes me many a shilling
for winter comfort.”

“But you evade my question. Is he your
son?”

“My good lord, everybody will tell you he is!
He bears my name—he will tell you so himself.”

“George, you are not candid and open. Once
more I ask you to say whether he is your child.”

The old man looked troubled! He bent down
his eyes, as if he were counting his fish. He

looked every way but in the nobleman's face.
At length he said:

“My lord, I am too near the grave to lie,
especially to so great a man as your lordship. If
your lordship will tell me when I can see his
lordship, and no one is near, I will tell the whole
matter.”

“To-morrow, at breakfast, be at the castle and
ask for me!”

“I will not fail, your lordship,” reluctantly
answered the old man, as the nobleman turned
away to rejoin the countess, who had overheard
all that was said.

“You will find I am right, Conyers,” said the
countess, smiling. “The boy will prove to
have been some estray, picked up, perhaps from
a wreck.”

“Like our dear Agnes,” answered the earl,
with a smile. “Because there is one child of
the sea, you think there must be a score of them.”

“Mark me, Conyers, that that old man will to-morrow
tell you that he is no blood relation to the
youth. A plough horse and my Arabian might
as well be kindred, as these two.”

“I am sorry to see that Radnor's early India
life has made him imperative and fiery for our
colder climate. The lad ought to have held his
horse, and—”

“Any other would have done so, gladly, but
this youth, who being, doubtless, as high born
as Cathcart—”

“Upon my word, Eleanora, you jump at conclusions
famously.”

“I am assured that only an instinctive consciousness
of being an equal could have led to
this shell-gatherer's haughty refusal.”

“You have odd fancies. But let us join them.
Agnes and he seem to be at pouts, for they walk
about.”

They joined the yoathful pair, who were at
the tower's entrance. Cathcart was gloomy,
and seemed to have some cause of dissatisfaction
with the maiden, who said:

“You need not be angry, Radnor. If the
young shell-gatherer is handsome, and very
brave, I cannot help it.”

“But you can help saying so. I have no
doubt you would have been amazingly pleased
if he had buried that knife in my heart!”

“This is rather severe on Agnes, my young
friend,” said Lord Monteagle, who now came
up. “But let us go about the tower, and from
the top get a view of the fine sea aspect, for
which we have ridden hither.”

As they wandered about the ruin, Cathcart's
good disposition returned; and the earl entertained
them with stories and legends of the
place.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked the lovely
Agnes, as he concluded a legend in which these
mysterious beings played a part.

“I cannot say. There are unaccountable
things told of many old castles. As to the awful
sounds heard about this, there seems to be
no doubt.”

While thus talking, they came to the end of a
passage, into which opened a side avenue; but
as the arched ceiling above had fallen in, there
was plenty of light to disclose its whole length.

“Let us follow this passage, Radnor,” said
Agnes, “and see where it leads.”

“Perhaps into some old dungeon,” pleasantly
answered the young noble, as he followed her.
The earl and countess also went after them.

“Here the passage ends against the rock, and
there is no going farther,” said Agnes, who was
in advance.

“That is odd,” remarked the earl. “The
passage could not have been constructed to lead
no where but against the face of this rock.”

While he was speaking, Radnor exclaimed,
drawing his hand quickly from the rock over
which he had been passing it, to feel for a door:

“I have wounded my hand! Here is the
steel point of a dagger, or knife, sticking out of
the rock.”

All drew near; and the earl, feeling the object,
perceived clearly that it was the rusted
fragment of a dagger.

“But how sticking out of the solid rock?” he
exclaimed.

“Here is a crevice above and below it, dear
father,” said Agnes, whose brighter eyes had
been able to detect what in the obscurity the rest
did not perceive.

With the aid of a pocket-knife, the earl traced
and irregular crevice for several inches, and then
lost it.

“This must be a secret entrance into some
cavern in the rock. If we had a torch, we might
make some rare discovery!”

“I have flint and steel with me,” answered
the young man; “and with some dry sticks that
we passed a while ago, I can make a bright
light.”

“Do so, Cathcart,” said the countess; “I am
full of curiosity.”

In a few minutes the young nobleman re-appeared

with the light, and by its aid the crevice,
or joint, was soon traced for length enough
to show them that an irregularly formed block
of stone concealed the entrance to some subterranean
chamber. After some time and close
inspection, Agnes detected the stone bolt, almost
hid by mould. This discovery was hailed with
joy.

The earl and Radnor with their united strength,
forced it back, and then pried open the door.

“I shudder at what may be revealed!” cried
the countess. “I will not look till I know!”
and she drew back.

Upon opening the heavy door, the earl, who
looked first in, started back with an exclamation
of horror. The countess echoed it with a shriek.
Agnes trembled, and clung to the earl, who called
to Radnor to thrust in the torch; for he had
looked in without it, and seen only obscurely
what had so deeply moved him.

“Behold!—it is a human skeleton upright!”
he cried. “Some wretched prisoner, left here
to perish by some tyrant of the tower! Let us
go in and examine.”

He entered, followed by Radnor; and Agnes
shrunk back with the countess.

“What is it, Conyers?” asked the latter,
shuddering.

“There is a cavern here, made for a prison,
and in it is the skeleton of a man. He seems to
have perished standing by this little hole or window,
looking out for air or aid! See, his long
hands are clasped through it, and keep the body
in its place! There is some secret history of
crime written here! The last day only will
reveal it.”

“Here is the broken dagger,” said Radnor,
stooping, to raise something from the floor.

“The same that had the point,” exclaimed
the earl, “for they fit.”

“He has tried to pry open his prison door,
and broken it in the attempt,” said Cathcart.

“Poor prisoner!” said Agnes, venturing in.
“How much he must have suffered!”

And she timidly surveyed the suspended skeleton,
as it glared white and bleach by the torchlight.

“See, father,” she suddenly called out, “it
has a ring upon one hand!”

“I see it! It may reveal something.”

The earl approached to remove the ring, which
was a signet; in doing so, at his touch, the fingers,
hand, bones, arms, and whole frame, fell in
pieces, and the skeleton lay in fragments upon
the floor, the skull rolling across the dungeon.
There was a momentary consternation, which
soon passed by.

The earl secured the ring, and holding it to
the torch, after a moment's scrutiny, gave utterance
to an excited exclamation of amazement,
and raising his eyes with reverence to Heaven,
said solemnly:

“There is divine justice and retribution still
on earth!”

“What, my lord?” asked the countess.

“Who is he?” inquired Cathcart, eagerly.

“This captive, who has so miserably perished,
is none other than the renegade and parricide,
Lord Robert Clan William! Though he escaped
the scaffold by flight, Heaven suffered
him not to live. This solves all mystery! Ten
years ago, I knew he was pursued to this tower,
where he was said to hide himself; but he baffled
pursuit. Without doubt, in shutting himself
in here to escape his foes, he unintentionally
buried himself alive; for we see by his broken
dagger, by his attitude at the window, how he
was seeking escape. He poisoned his noble and
venerable father for title, and also betrayed a
trust committed to him by the crown. He fled,
an outlaw, and concealing himself here, was
punished by God, as we see!”

The countess withdrew from the spot under
emotions of horror, and the earl, after examining
the dreadful place to see what more he might
find, closed the stone door, and the whole party,
slowly and silently, with solemn reflections, returned
to the upper apartments.

The sun was now low, and they were soon in
saddle, but deeply impressed with what had been
so strangely revealed to them.

A mile from the tower they overtook the old
fisherman and the young shell-gatherer. As
they cantered by the foot travellers, the two
stopped and raised their caps.

“Good even, ladies; a fair ride,” said the old
man.

“A good even of fair fishing for thee,” answered
the merry Agnes; “and if thou wilt come
to the castle, I will buy all thy shells,” she added
to the youthful Philip, who, hat in hand,
stood gazing admiringly, and with the deepest
awe, upon her.

At this, Cathcart, who seemed to have taken
a bitter dislike to the shell-gatherer, either because
he was too handsome, or too independent,
or too kindly spoken to by Agnes, with an ugly
light in his eye, rode so close to the youth as

violently to knock the net of shells from his
shoulders upon the ground. The marine treasures
were scattered over the road, and Radnor,
with a mocking laugh of satisfaction, galloped
on. Agnes, not suspecting design in the act,
reined up, and said:

“We will help thee gather them up!” and in
a moment was on the ground, and her bridle
thrown to the old man.

“Agnes!” cried Cathcart, with an angry surprise.

“Nay, Radnor, Agnes is always for doing
kindnesses. She will soon remedy thy awkwardness.”

This was said pleasantly by the earl.

Agnes soon completed her task, and was re
warded, not only by a few words of grateful
thanks from the surprised youth, but a gift of
the most beautiful shell in his possession, and
which she had admired as she picked it up. She
accepted it with a smile, and was soon in her
saddle, and on her way homeward, followed by
Cathcart, in the worst possible mood for a young
man to be in who would make himself agreeable
to a fair girl. It was already starry night when
they reached Castle Monteagle, and trotted
through the ancient gateway.

Two hours afterwards, the fisherman and his
son appeared, and, for the night, took up their
abode in a peasant's house, outside of the walls,
ready to enter early to dispose of their fishes and
shells.