University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Early the morning following the events related
in the last chapter, the old fisherman brought
his merchandize to the gate outside of which he
and Philip the shell-gatherer had lodged the
preceding night. It was not yet sunrise, though
the pencilled rays of morning shot across the
east like an open fan.

“You are full early, Uncle George,” said the
drowsy porter, opening the lattice. “Give me
thy fish, and here, take thy silver pay! You
fishermen are too early risers for gentlemen on
land.”

The fisher handed his basket in at the window,
and having counted the money, said:

“Master Simon, the good earl bade me come
and see him in the castle, for he hath some questions
he would put to me touching certain
matters.”

“What can my master have to ask such a low
monger as thou art? Get thee gone, and let me
sleep till the sun be up. Dost thou think lords
rise at thy hours? a noble's sunrise is when he
is over a peasant man's head, at high noon.”

“Nay, but—”

“No buts. Get thee gone; and if thou hast
ought to say to my lord, come six hours hence.”

“Sir porter,” exclaimed the voice of the earl,
who was visible upon the wall over the gate,
where he had been walking to breathe the morn
ing air; “thou art going beyond thy place. Unbar,
and let the old man enter; and see that
thou be civiler to plain folk when they come to
my gate, or I will speedily give thy office to
another.”

Upon hearing the voice and these words of
reproof from his master, the fat keeper of the
gate colored, and with apologies replete with
confusion, he undid the gate, and admitted old
George and his son; the latter of whom had
been too much occupied in surveying the towers,
bastions, high wall and turrets of the castle, to
heed what was passing at the gate.

Upon entering the court, old George, by the
command of the earl, was conducted by a servitor
to his own rooms. Philip remained behind,
and was suffered to roam about the castle-yard at
his pleasure.

The earl, walking around the wall, met the old
fisherman at the head of the stairs by the door of
his private room.

“My rogue there would have thee think,
George, that we are late risers here; but I do
more work before sunrise than after, among my
books. Come in! Sit down. Now I will hear
from thee what thou hast to say touching this lad,
Philip, I think you called him?”

“Philip, your lordship,” answered old George,
with hesitation; “but, my lord, if I tell you the

truth, I trust your lordship will remember that
I have raised him, and that now he is repaying
me for my care; and that it would go hard with
an old man to have him taken away from him;
besides, no one can have a better right to him
than I, who took him out of the jaws of death!”

“Then he is not your son?” said the earl,
looking at the fisherman, who sat, hat in hand,
on a stool by the door, rubbing down his gray
locks.

“No, not exactly, my lord; but I have adopted
him.”

“Be frank—you shall not be a loser, whatever
be the narrative you have to give.”

“Then, my lord,” answered George, brightening
up, and with a more cheerful manner,
“you shall hear how I came by him. It is thirteen
years this next shad season, I was out in
my skiff fishing. It was a hard year, and the
schools kept far out a' sea. There had been a
three days' storm, and I was anxious to get the
first advantage, for fish always are caught easiest
after a gale o' wind. It might have been about
three o'clock in the afternoon, and having got my
boat full, I hoisted sail to run in landward home,
I was at least twelve miles a' sea.

After running about a mile, I saw some large
object floating on the water, at least half a league
to the south of my course. The man who was
with me, said it was a wreck dismasted, for there
was no rock there. I thought the same, and
steered for it.”

“And it proved to be a wreck?” said the earl,
interrupting the details.

“Yes, my lord, not a stump standing; and the
sea rolling her about like a log. It had been a
very large ship, and had many guns overturned
on her decks. But not a soul could we see.
So—”

“And you boarded her?” said the earl.

“Yes, and found in her cabin seven dead
bodies, which had been drowned there, for the
cabin was full of water to within a foot of the
deck. We were looking about to see what we
could find, when we discovered in a berth over
the companion-way a little boy, five or six years
old, asleep. We waked him, and took him up
and put him into our boat.”

“And this Philip—is he the same child?”

“Yes, your lordship. No one ever appeared
for him, and I raised him as mine. The ship
sunk in an hour after we took him off.”

“The name of the ship? Do you know it?”
asked the earl, eagerly.

“No, your lordship. It was sunk too low for
me to read it; and she was settling so fast we
hastened out of her.”

“I see—but got you nothing from the ship at
all, by which she might be guessed at?”

“A silver cup, your lordship, and a compass,
and some canvass.”

“Where is the cup?”

“At my cabin, your lordship's earl,” answered
the old man—“that and the compass.”

“How was the boy clad?”

“Scarcely at all—but was wrapped in a shawl.”

“Have you the shawl?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring the cup, compass and shawl to the
castle, the next time you come, good George,”
said the earl. “This youth may have a mother
and father living, and it is right every means
should be used to discover them! You shall not
be a loser if they are found and he is restored to
them. Come on Saturday with fish, and bring
these articles.”

“Your lordship's wish is a command,” answered
the old man, bowing low, and hobbling
out of the earl's library.

“Well, Eleanora,” said the earl, at the breakfast-table,
“you are not so far out of the way,
after all! This handsome shell gatherer is not
old George's son. He picked him up at sea
some fourteen years ago, from off a wreck, and
adopted him!”

“I was well convinced there could be no blood
lineage!” said the countess. “How odd it
would be, if he should turn out to be of high
rank.”

“That denouement occurs only in novels,
dear wife,” said the earl, smiling.

“How singular that there should be two such
instances! Look, my lord! There both are!
Both taken from the sea—orphans alike! See,
Agnes is merrily bargaining with him on the terrace
for his shells.”

It was a fair sight to which she directed her
lord's eyes.

Upon the upper step of the broad terrace,
Philip sat, with his shells all arranged in harmony
of shape and colors. As Agnes went by
to the breakfast-room, attracted by the display,
she lingered and began to select the fairest from
among them. He seemed perfectly happy at her
presence, and with constant blushing heard her
praises of their beauty, and replied to her questions
as to their names.

“And what is this superb one, all pink and

orange, with pearl intermingled, and curved like
a lotus?”

“That is a sea-fairy's shell,” he answered.
“Hold it to your ear, and you will hear the roar
of the sea.”

“Indeed, I do, plainly enough,” she cried,
with delight. “Where do you find all these?”
she asked, fixing her beautifully lingering eyes
upon his face, as if wondering at his beauty;
but if he rested his full gaze upon hers, she would
drop their eyelids at the same instant, while the
conscious blood would mantle their temples.
Neither, in truth, could look at or speak to the
other without embarrassment—a confusion of
the senses, pleasing as it was bewildering.

Fortunately, Radnor Cathcart was not at the
castle to see this, or his ireful jealousy would
have been roused to some purpose.

Suddenly their eyes met, over a gorgeous
shell as she was asking its name, and such was
the effect of his upon her, that she said, hastily:

“I must not stay here—I will buy them all!
Take this gold piece.”

And putting it into his hand, she laughed she
knew not why, and ran away and seated herself
at the table as roseate as a caruation pink.

“You and the fisher-lad seem to have made
quite an acquaintance, Agnes;” said the earl,
with a smile.

“I hardly said ten words, dear father—”

“But looked ten-score! If Radnor could get
from you such glances as you showered upon
Philip, he would feel himself happy.”

“Why, my dear father!”

“Agnes is young, Conyers, you should not
make her blush so!” said the countess.

“The blush was on her face when she came
in. It was the shell-gatherer put it there!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the countess, quickly.
“What did he say to you, Agnes?”

“Nothing, mother—he only—only—”

“Only what—speak!”

“Only looked, that is all! But then his eyes
are so handsome and piercing.”

At this the earl laughed aloud, and the countess
slightly frowned, as she said:

“Agnes, you must not notice the eyes of young
men, especially of those you know nothing of.”

“I wont, my dear mother!” answered the
maiden, demurely.

“Agnes has handsome enough eyes of her
own,” answered the earl, “without thinking of
other folks. How many shells did you buy?”

“All he had, dear father?”

“Marry come up! But he brings his wares to
a good market!” Did you bid him bring more?”
asked the smiling nobleman.

“As many as he pleased; but I would like to
ride to the same sea-beach, dear papa, and gather
for myself. He says that there are more
beautiful ones there!”

“We will ride there some day,” said the earl.
“But when is your archery party coming off?”

“Soon! On the first of May, dear father.”

“And the prize arrow is to be of gold?”

“Yes, papa! Radnor has ordered it from
London.”

“Radnor is very kind and thoughtful,” said
the countess. “I hope you will show him, Agnes,
you appreciate his thought for your happiness.”

“I would like Radnor, if he would not tease
and annoy me so,” answered the maiden. “He
watches my words and looks, and wont let me
smile at anything only when he speaks. He
would be a blue-beard to me, I believe, if he had
me in his castle.”

“Don't talk in this manner, Agnes,” said the
countess; “he thinks so much of you, that—”

“That he wont let any one else look at her,”
said the earl, laughing. “Well, I dare say it
was just so when I was young, fair wife! I was
a miser of your looks and glances, and could
have crossed lances with any other young man
who caught one of them.”

While they were talking, a gentleman entered,
whose arrival was hailed with transports of
welcome. The earl shook him heartily by both
hands. The countess kissed him and called him
“brother,” while Agnes was folded in his arms.

It was Captain Manners. Ten years had
made but little more alteration in his appearance
than to turn his whiskers gray, and give him
more fullness in person.

“When did you leave London, Manners?”
said the earl.

“Three mornings ago. I have come to say
good-by, before sailing for the Mediterranean;
and have three days to spare.”

“Four days, and you will be at our archery
party, uncle,” cried Agnes, who sat by him holding
him by the hand.

“Archery! You have arrows enough in your
eyes, girl, to pierce the best target a man ever
placed in front of his heart.”

“It is my birthday, uncle; I shall be fifteen,
and—”

“Your birthday— Why, Conyers, sister!
How did you find out, wh—”

A glance from the countess stopped the naval
officer, while the earl said:

“The first of May, you know is her—”

“O, yes, that is right, I understand,” answered
the captain, with an intelligent return of the
earl's look. “How the sweet thing has grown.
Why she is as tall as the queen, and that is tall
enough for any loyal English girl, hey, Agnes?
By the bow of Dan Cupid! If I were a score of
years junior, I would be sure to fall in love
with your eyes, girl!”

“You couldn't fall in love with a niece, you
know, uncle?” said Agnes, naively.

“Niece! ah—yes—I—I forget! True, it
would not answer,” answered the captain, in a
blundering way.

After breakfast was over, the earl and his
brother-in-law were seated together in his library.

“And so she is ignorant of her birth, and believes
herself to be your own daughter?” said
the captain, continuing a conversation.

“Yes.”

“And the day I brought her here on horseback
from the old tower, you celebrate as her
birthday?”

“Yes, the first of May. On the occasion of
her fifteenth birthday, we give her an archery
party. Some score of the young maids and
youths of the vicinity are invited, and an arrow
of gold is to be the prize to be shot for.”

“I will stay, and maybe I will shoot for it,
too,” cried the captain. “What would I not
give to know who her parents were? I have
long ago given up my fruitless inquiries to learn
what barque was lost that night off the tower.
But I love her, as if she were my own child.”

“And we share your love for her, captain!
Never was so fair a daughter given to parents—
fair in temper, in form, in face, in voice, in manners.
Such a winning art of loving—she has a
winning love.”

“Were ever such superb eyes! I have seen
Spanish girls and Circassian, and maids of Ind
and the South Sea, but never such a pair of eyes.”

“You were always running wild with beautiful
eyes, brother,” said the countess, entering.
“Has Conyers told you what horrible discovery
we made at the old tower, yesterday?”

“No, what was it? Not the ghost of that
witch, who leaped from its top!”

“No, but the skeleton of the outlaw and parricide,
whom you sought to take captive!”

“What—of Lord Clan William?” exclaimed
the captain, with eager surprise.

“Yes.”

“He had evidently sought shelter in one of
the dungeons—a secret cavern—where we found
his ghostly remains! This ring which I removed
from his bony finger, identifies him. He
must have perished miserably.”

“What a wonderful discovery!” mused the
captain. “I fancy that the woman knew of
his concealment, and having been killed, he was
left unapproached by any human foot, and so
died by slow torture.”

“I think it probable. What a chapter of horror
would his last days there unfold.”

“Surely there is one who rules above!” ejaculated
the captain, with emphasis. “What did
you do with the skeleton?”

“Left it there in its dungeon-tomb, and closed
the door upon it as we found it.”

“I would like to ride over there.”

“Yes, while you are here, we will visit the
place to gratify your curiosity.”

Not far from the castle was the parish church
buried in a group of venerable oaks. Towards
this sacred spot, Captain Manners slowly took
his way, during the evening of the day of his
arrival at Monteagle. The doors were open, and
uncovering his head, he reverently entered and
took his way up the aisle towards the chancel.
Ancient marble effigies of the noble dead reclined
on tombs erected above the crypt. To one of
these he advanced, and kneeling by it covered
his face for a few moments as if in silent prayer.

Upon it was inscribed the names of the earl
and countess of Beverley. They were his parents.
He came, with filial piety to pay his respects to
their revered memories, before going into a foreign
land. The latter had died since his last
visit home. Ten years before, she was the dowager
mistress of the castle, and it was to her he
conveyed in the saddle, the child which he had
rescued from the power of Dame Alice. The
countess had with her at the time her daughter
and husband, the Earl of Seafield, now Monteagle,
who adopted the “orphan of the sea,” and
took her to their own residence. On the death
of the aged countess soon afterwards, the Earl of
Seafield removed to Monteagle Castle, and took
the title of Monteagle, to that of Seafield. Captain
Manners, whose true title was now Lord
Beverley, after having paid this tribute of his
respect for the memory of his noble mother,
arose from his knees and unconscious of the tears
that stood on his sea-tanned cheek, turned to
walk out of the church, when he was startled by

seeing before him the form of a woman in gray,
who was leaning upon her elbows with her face
in her hands, and fixing upon him keen and
watchful looks from her haggard eyes. The
church was obscure with evening twilight, and
he could only perceive indistinctly her face.

“In the name of Heaven, what art thou?” he
cried with a changing countenance, and stepping
back as if he had seen a spirit.

“Thou shouldst know me, Lord Beverley,”
answered the woman, mockingly.

“If I had not seen thee killed by a fall of two
hundred feet into the sea!”

“The sea opens its bosom to its children, and
dashes them not to atoms like mother earth.”

“You did not survive that descent! Is it
possible?”

“I am no ghost!”

“It seems incredible; but since thou art alive
it was possible!” said the sailor. “What do
you here among these graves, as if thou wert a
restless soul?”

“I had last night a house among the dead!
an empty tomb shelters well the living. My
lord,” she suddenly added, “I demand of thee
my child.”

“Then thou hast not seen her?”

“I look to thee for her. She is mine! Does
she live?”

“Yes—but—”

“Then she is mine! I have travelled half
the globe to get hither, to find what became of
her. I last saw her in thy arms ten years ago.”

“Where hast thou been?”

“Over the sea. Wouldst thou know? I
was driven to sea on a fragment of the barque's
wreck. After being a day upon the deep, I was
picked up by a ship bound to the distant shores
of Brazil. Only yesterday did I reach this place,
seeking my child!”

“What is she to thee?”

“I have had only one thought in all my absence—to
get back to England to hunt up
my child! I have come thus far. I believed
you took her to your own home. I shall know
to-night, whether she was sheltered by yon
castle wall. Tell me, my lord! She is naught
to you. Does the child live?” asked the woman,
with almost a menacing air.

Captain Manners was troubled. He felt that
a serious evil had crossed the path of Agnes, in
the sudden re-appearance of this woman—whose
passions ten years had increased and made
fiercer. He felt that it was important that she
should be ignorant of the child's fate, whether it
were living or dead. He resolved that she should
not see her if he could prevent it.

“Dame Alice, if this be thy name, this is no
place for thee! Begone from this estate, or I
will have thee arrested as a vagrant.”

“Thou wilt, eh? No, no! I fear no such
thing. I go not away, until I have seen the inside
of yonder castle.”

“Wilt thou take gold and begone?”

“Gold. Look ye! Hark!” and she shook
before his eyes a bag that she drew from her
girdle, and then opening the mouth of it, showed
him that it was filled with gold. “This
comes from Brazil, where it grows. Think ye
I was ten years in that land, and got not wealth?
I have hoarded it up for my child.”

“What child?” asked the captain.

“The child I drew from the sea, and of which
thou hast robbed me.”

Lord Beverley for a few moments was undecided
how to act. To let her visit the castle
would be to cast a firebrand into it, and destroy
the peace of mind of the earl and countess, and
the happiness of Agnes, who was ignorant of her
orphanage.

At this moment, he saw passing on the road,
one of the bailiffs with two other men, on their
way to the village two miles off. He called to
them; and not without a struggle was Dame
Alice borne off by his command as a vagrant.

He returned to the castle ill at ease in his mind,
but resolving to have the old woman sent the
next day out of the parish, to her own, he concluded
not to speak of his having met her in
the church to any one, trusting no more would
ever be heard of her. The ensuing day he appeared
before the justice, and making his complaint,
she was banished beyond the bounds of
the parish, which would place two leagues and a
half between her and the castle at the least.

Preparations were now made with great activity
for the coming trial at archery. A lawn in
front of the castle, between the chief gateway and
the church was enclosed, and seats provided for
spectators, and tents made ready to be pitched on
the coming morning. Booths for refreshments
for the peasantry, and Maypoles and ground for
sport of ball, were prepared for them beyond the
lists for the archers. Some of the noble guests
commenced arriving the evening before; youths
and maidens followed by retainers bearing bows,
arrows and targets. All was cheerfulness and

confusion, hurrying to and fro, and getting ready
for the momentous morrow.

Captain Manners, in his excitement, quite forgot
his interview with old Alice.

“You must feather that arrow nicer than that,
uncle,” said Agnes; “for I intend to win the
golden arrow with that one!”

“I had best feather it with humming-bird
wings,” said the sailor, laughing.

“No, with the eagle's feathers!”

“Are these eagle's plumes?”

“Yes, and they are very hard to get! Radnor
said it was impossible to shoot an eagle.”

“How then came you by these?”

“Why, when I said yesterday that I would
give anything if I could only beard my arrows
with eagle's feathers, for they are the truest, the
young shell-gathered said he would capture me
an eagle!”

“A brave promise?”

“And he redeemed it. This morning he
brought to me a live young eagle, and it is now
a captive on the other side of the courtyard; and
these are some of the kingly bird's plumage.”

“This shell gatherer must be a man of courage,”
said the captain.

“He is only a youth—scarcely nineteen!”

“Handsome as well as brave, I dare say?”
said the captain, with a mischievous twinkle in
his hazel eyes.

“Very!”

“Fine teeth?”

“Perfect.”

“Raven hair?”

“Like the very raven's plumes.”

“Tall and well-shaped?”

“Princely.”

“A real hero, hey? in canvass jacket and bare
feet!”

“Now you are laughing at me, dear uncle.”

“At your earnestness and romance. It is well
this youth is a poor peasant, or Radnor Cathcart
would fare badly, I am of opinion.”

“I don't think Radnor near so handsome!”

“No?”

“Nor so—so kind-looking!”

“Ah, indeed!”

“Nor so—he hasn't such fine eyes!”

“I see how it is; Radnor has a formidable
rival. I must warn him,” said the captain, trying
to look grave.

“He knows it already, and hates Philip, and
quarrels with me!”

Here the captain laughed heartily, and nearly
spoiled the arrow; while Agnes laughed and
blushed, and finally ran from the apartment.