‘“Why, soldiers, whyShould we be melancholy, boys?Why, soldiers, why?Whose business——”
Holloa, there, François, ain’t they stirring yet? Why, it’s past six o’clock!’
The person addressed was a serving-man, who in the formidable attire of an English groom—in which he was about as much at home as a coronation champion feels in plate armour—was crossing the garden towards the stables.
‘No, sir; the count won’t start before eight.’
‘And when do we breakfast?’
‘At seven, sir.’
‘The devil! another hour—
“Why, soldiers, why Should we be——-”
I say, François, what horse do they mean for Mademoiselle Laura to-day?’
‘The mare she rode on Wednesday, sir. Mademoiselle liked her very much.’
‘And what have they ordered for the stranger that came the night before last—the gentleman who was robbed——’
‘I know, I know, sir; the roan, with the cut on her knee.’
‘Why, she’s a mad one! she’s a runaway!’
‘So she is, sir; but then monsieur is an Englishman, and the count says he ‘ll soon tame the roan filly.’
‘“Why, soldiers, why——-”’
hummed the old colonel, for it was Muddleton himself; and the groom pursued his way without further questioning. Whereupon two thoughts took possession of my brain: one of which was, what peculiar organisation it is which makes certain old people who have nothing to do early risers; the other, what offence had I committed to induce the master of the château to plot my sudden death.
The former has been a puzzle to me all my life. What a blessing should sleep be to that class of beings who do nothing when awake; how they should covet those drowsy hours that give, as it were, a sanction to indolence; with what anxiety they ought to await the fall of day, as announcing the period when they become the equals of their fellow-men; and with what terror they should look forward to the time when the busy world is up and stirring, and their incapacity and slothfulness only become more glaring from contrast! Would not any one say that such people would naturally cultivate sleep as their comforter? Should they not hug their pillow as the friend of their bosom? On the contrary, these are invariably your early risers. Every house where I have ever been on a visit has had at least one of these troubled and troublesome spirits—the torment of Boots, the horror of housemaids. Their chronic cough forms a duet with the inharmonious crowing of the young cock, who for lack of better knowledge proclaims day a full hour before his time. Their creaking shoes are the accompaniment to the scrubbing of brass fenders and the twigging of carpets, the jarring sounds of opening shutters and the cranking discord of a hall door chain; their heavy step sounds like a nightmare’s tread through the whole sleeping house. And what is the object of all this? What new fact have they acquired; what difficult question have they solved; whom have they made happier or wiser or better? Not Betty the cook, certainly, whose morning levée of beggars they have most unceremoniously scattered and scared; not Mary the housemaid, who, unaccustomed to be caughten déshabillé, is cross the whole day after, though he was ‘only an elderly gentleman, and wore spectacles’; not Richard, who cleaned their shoes by candle-light; nor the venerable butler, who from shame’s sake is up and dressed, but who, still asleep, stands with his corkscrew in his hand, under the vague impression that it is a late supper-party.
These people, too, have always a consequential, self-satisfied look about them; they seem to say they know a ‘thing or two’ others have no wot of—as though the day, more confidential when few were by, told them some capital secrets the sleepers never heard of, and they made this pestilential habit a reason for eating the breakfast of a Cossack, as if the consumption of victuals was a cardinal virtue. Civilised differs from savage life as much by the regulation of time as by any other feature. I see no objection to your red man, who probably can’t go to breakfast till he has caught a bear, being up betimes; but for the gentleman who goes to bed with the conviction that hot rolls and coffee, tea and marmalade, bloaters and honey, ham, muffins, and eggs await him at ten o’clock—for him, I say, these absurd vagabondisms are an insufferable affectation, and a most unwarrantable liberty with the peace and privacy of a household.
Meanwhile, old Colonel Muddleton is parading below; and here we must leave him for another chapter.
I wish any one would explain to me why it is that the tastes and pursuits of nations are far more difficult of imitation than their languages or institutions. Nothing is more common than to find Poles and Russians speaking half the tongues of Europe like natives. Germans frequently attain to similar excellence; and some Englishmen have the gift also. In the same way it would not be difficult to produce many foreigners well acquainted with all the governmental details of the countries they have visited—the policy, foreign and domestic; the statistics of debt and taxation; the religious influences; the resources, and so forth. Indeed, in our days of universal travel, this kind of information has more or less become general, while the tastes and habits, which appear so much more easily acquired, are the subjects of the most absurd mistakes, or the most blundering imitation. To instance what I mean, who ever saw any but a Hungarian dance the mazurka with even tolerable grace? Who ever saw waltzing except among the Austrians? Who ever beheld ‘toilette’ out of France? So it is, however. Some artificial boundary drawn with a red line on a map by the hand of Nesselrode or Talleyrand, some pin stuck down in the chart by the fingers of Metternich, decides the whole question, and says, ‘Thus far shalt thou dance and no farther. Beyond this there are nopâtés de Perigord. Here begin pipes and tobacco; there end macaroni and music.’
Whatever their previous tastes, men soon conform to the habits of a nation, and these arbitrary boundaries of the gentlemen of the red tape become like Nature’s own frontiers of flood or mountain. Not but it must have been somewhat puzzling in the good days of the Consulate and the Empire to trim one’s sails quick enough for the changes of the political hurricane. You were an Italian yesterday, you are a Frenchman to-day; you went to bed a Prussian, and you awoke a Dutchman. These were sore trials, and had they been pushed much further, must have led to the most strange misconceptions and mistakes.
Now, with a word of apology for the digression, let me come back to the cause of it—and yet why should I make my excuses on this head? These ‘Loiterings’ of mine are as much in the wide field of dreamy thought as over the plains and valleys of the material world. I never promised to follow a regular track, nor did I set out on my journey bound, like a king’s messenger, to be at my destination in a given time. Not a bit of it. I ‘ll take ‘mine ease in mine inn.’ I’ll stay a week, a fortnight—ay, a month, here, if I please it. You may not like the accommodation, nor wish to put up with a ‘settle and stewed parsnips.’ Be it so. Here we part company then. If you don’t like my way of travel, there’s the diligence, or, if you prefer it, take the extra post, and calculate, if you can, how to pay your postillion in kreutzers—invented by the devil, I believe, to make men swear—and for miles, that change with every little grand-duchy of three acres in extent. I wish you joy of your travelling companions—the German who smokes, and the Frenchman who frowns at you; the oldvrauwho falls asleep on your shoulder, and thebonnewho gives you a baby to hold in your lap. But why have I put myself into this towering passion? Heaven knows it’s not my wont. And once more to go back, and find, if I can, what I was thinking of. I have it. This same digression of mine wasaproposto the scene I witnessed, as our breakfast concluded at the château.
All the world was to figure on horseback—the horses themselves no bad evidence of the exertions used to mount the party. Here was a rugged pony from the Ardennes, with short neck and low shoulder, his head broad as a bull’s, and his counter like the bow of a Dutch galliot; there, a great Flemish beast, seventeen hands high, with a tail festooned over a straw ‘bustle,’ and even still hanging some inches on the ground—straight in the shoulder, and straighter in the pasterns, giving the rider a shock at every motion that to any other than a Fleming would lead to concussion of the brain. Here stood an English thoroughbred, sadly ‘shook’ before, and with that tremulous quivering of the forelegs that betokens a life of hard work; still, with all his imperfections, and the mark of a spavin behind, he looked like a gentleman among a crowd of low fellows—a reduced gentleman it is true, but a gentleman still; his mane was long and silky, his coat was short and glossy, his head finely formed, and well put on his long, taper, and well-balanced neck. Beside him was a huge Holsteiner, flapping his broad flanks with a tail like a weeping ash—a great massive animal, that seemed from his action as if he were in the habit of ascending stairs, and now and then got the shock one feels when they come to a step too few. Among the mass there were some ‘Limousins’—pretty, neatly formed little animals, with great strength for their appearance, and showing a deal of Arab breeding—and an odd Schimmel or two from Hungary, snorting and pawing like a war-horse; but the staple was a collection of such screws as every week are to be seen at Tattersall’s auction, announced as ‘first-rate weight-carriers with any foxhounds, fast in double and single harness, and “believed” sound by the owner.’
Well, what credulous people are the proprietors of horses! These are the great exports to the Low Countries, repaid in mock Van Dycks, apocryphal Rembrandts, and fabulous Hobbimas, for the exhibition of which in our dining-rooms and libraries we are as heartily laughed at as they are for their taste in manners equine. And in the same way exactly as we insist upon a great name with our landscape or our battle, so your Fleming must have a pedigree with his hunter. There must be ‘dam to Louisa,’ and ‘own brother to Ratcatcher’ and Titus Oates, that won the ‘Levanter Handicap’ in—no matter where. Oh dear, oh dear! when shall we have sense enough to go without Snyders and Ostade? And when will Flemings be satisfied to ride on beasts which befit them—strong of limb, slow of gait, dull of temper, and not over-fastidious in feeding; whose parentage has had no registry, and whose blood relations never were chronicled?
Truly, England is the land of ‘turn-out.’ All the foreign imitations of it are most ludicrous—from Prince Max of Bavaria, who brought back with him to Munich a lord-mayor’s coach, gilding, emblazonry, wigs, and all, as the true type of a London equipage, down to those strange merry-andrew figures in orange-plush breeches and sky-blue frocks, that one sees galloping after their masters along the Champs Élysées, like insane comets taking an airing on horseback. The whole thing is absurd. They cannot accomplish it, do what they will; there’s no success in the endeavour. It is like our miserable failures to get up apetit dîneror asoirée. If, then, French, Italians, and Germans fail so lamentably, only think, I beseech you, of Flemings—imagine Belgiumà cheval! The author ofHudibrasdiscovered years ago that these people were fish; that their land-life was a little bit of distraction they permitted themselves to take from time to time, but that their real element was a dyke or a canal. What would he have said had he seen them on horseback?
Now, I am free to confess that few men have less hope to win the world by deeds of horsemanship than Arthur O’Leary. I have ever looked upon it as a kind of presumption in me to get into the saddle. I have regarded my taking the reins as a species of duplicity on my part—a tacit assumption that I had any sort of control oyer the beast. I have appeared to myself guilty of a moral misdemeanour—the ‘obtaining a ride under false pretences.’ Yet when I saw myself astride of the ‘roan with the cut on her knee,’ and looked around me at the others, I fancied that I must have taken lessons from Franconi without knowing it; and even among the moustached heroes of the evening before, I bore myself like a gallant cavalier.
‘You sit your horse devilish like your father; he had just the same easydégagéway in his saddle,’ said the old colonel, tapping his snuff-box, and looking at me with a smile of marked approval; while he continued in a lower tone, ‘I ‘ve told Laura to get near you if the mare becomes troublesome. The Flemings, you know, are not much to boast of as riders.’
I acknowledged the favour as well as I could, for already my horse was becoming fidgety—every one about me thinking it essential to spur and whip his beast into the nearest approach to mettle, and caper about like so many devils, while they cried out to one another—
‘Regardez, Charles, comment il est vif ce “Tear away.” C’est une bête du diable. Ah, tiens, tiens, vois donc “Albert.” Le voilà, c’est, “All-in-my-eye,” fils de “Charles Fox,” frère de “Sevins-de-main.”’
‘Ah, marquis, how goes it? Il est beau votre cheval.’
‘Oui, parbleu; he is frère aîné of “Kiss-mi-ladi,” qui a gagné le handicap à l’Ile du Dogs.’
And thus did these miserable imitators of Ascot and Doncaster, of Leamington and the Quorn, talk the most insane nonsense, which had been told to them by some London horse-dealer as the pedigree of their hackneys.
It was really delightful amid all this to look at the two English girls, who sat their horses so easily and so gracefully. Bending slightly with each curvet, they only yielded to the impulse of the animal as much as served to keep their own balance; the light but steady finger on the bridle, the air of quiet composure, uniting elegance with command. What a contrast to the distorted gesture, the desperate earnestness, and the fearful tenacity of their much-whiskered companions! And yet it was to please and fascinate these same pinchbeck sportsmen that these girls were then there. If they rode over everything that day—fence or rail, brook or bank—it was because thechasseto them was lessau cerfthanau mari.
Such was the case. The old colonel had left England because he preferred the Channel to the fleet; the glorious liberty which Englishmen are so proud of would have been violated in his person had he remained. His failing, like many others, was that he had lived ‘not wisely, but too well’; and, in short, however cold the climate, London would have proved too hot for him had he stayed another day in it.
What a deluge of such people float over the Continent, living well and what is called ‘most respectably’; dining at embassies and dancing at courts; holding their heads very high, too—most scrupulous about acquaintances, and exclusive in all their intimacies! They usually prefer foreign society to that of their countrymen, for obvious reasons. Few Frenchmen read theGazette. I never heard of a German who knew anything about the list of outlaws. Of course they have no more to say to English preserves, and so they take out a license to shoot over the foreign manors; and though a marquis or a count are but ‘small deer,’ it’s the only game left, and they make the best of it.
At last the host appeared, attired in a scarlet frock, and wearing a badge at his button-hole something about the shape and colour of a new penny-piece. He was followed by above a dozen others, similarly habited, minus the badge; and then came about twenty more, dressed in green frocks, with red collars and cuffs—a species of smaller deities, who I learned were called ‘Aspirants,’ though to what they aspired, where it was, or when they hoped for it, nobody could inform me. Then there werepiqueursand grooms and whippers-in without number, all noisy and all boisterous—about twenty couple of fox-hounds giving tongue, and a due proportion of the scarlet folk blowing away at that melodious pipe, thecor de chasse.
With this goodly company I moved forward, ‘alone, but in a crowd’; for, unhappily, my want of tact as a sporting character the previous evening had damaged me seriously with the hunting youths, and Mademoiselle Laura showed no desire to accept the companionship her worthy father had selected for her. ‘No matter,’ thought I, ‘there’s a great deal to see here, and I can do without chatting in so stirring a scene as this.’
Her companion was the Comte d’Espagne, an admirable specimen of what the French call ‘Tigre’; for be it known that the country which once obtained a reputation little short of ludicrous for its excess of courtesy and the surplusage of its ceremony, has now, in the true spirit of reaction, adopted a degree of abruptness we should call rudeness, and a species of cold effrontery we might mistake for insolence. The disciples of this new school are significantly called ‘Young France,’ and are distinguished for length of hair and beard, a look of frowning solemnity and mock preoccupation, very well-fitting garments and yellow gloves. These gentlemen are sparing of speech, and more so of gesture. They give one to understand that some onerous deed of regeneration is expected at their hands, some revival of the old spirit of the nation; though in what way it is to originate in curled moustaches and lacquered boots is still a mystery to the many. But enough of them now; only of these was the Comte d’Espagne.
I had almost forgotten to speak of one part of our cortége, which should certainly not be omitted. This was a wooden edifice on wheels, drawn by a pair of horses at a brisk rate at the tail of the procession. At first it occurred to me that it might be an ambulant dog-kennel, to receive the hounds on their return. Then I suspected it to be a walking hospital for wounded sportsmen; and certainly I could not but approve of the idea, as I called to mind the position of any unluckychasseur, in the event of a fall, with his fifteen feet of ‘metal main’ around him, and I only hoped that a plumber accompanied the expedition. My humanity, however, led me astray; the pagoda was destined for the accommodation of a stag, who always assisted at thechasse, whenever no other game could be started. This venerable beast, some five-and-twenty years in the service, was like a stock piece in the theatres, which, always ready, could be produced without a moment’s notice. Here was no rehearsal requisite if a prima donna was sulky or a tenor was drunk; if the fox wouldn’t show or the deer were shy, there was the stag, perfectly prepared for a pleasant canter of a few miles, and ready, if no one was intemperately precipitate, to give a very agreeable morning’s sport. His perfections, however, went further than this; for he was trained to cross the highroad at all convenient thoroughfares, occasionally taking the main streets of a village or the market-place of a bourg, swimming whenever the water was shallow enough to follow him on horseback, and giving up the ghost at the blast of agrand maître’sbugle with an accuracy as unerring as though he had performed at Franconi’s.
Unhappily for me, I was not fated to witness an exhibition of his powers; for scarcely had we emerged from the wood when the dogs were laid on, and soon after found a fox.
For some time the scene was an animated one, as every Fleming seemed to pin his faith on some favourite dog; and it was rather amusing to witness the eagerness with which each followed the movements of his adopted animal, cheering him on, and encouraging him to the top of his bent. At last the word ‘Away’ was given, and suddenly the dogs broke cover, and made across the plain in the direction of a great wood, or rather forest, above a mile off. The country, happily for most of us (I know it was so for me), was an open surface of gentle undulation, stubble and turnips the only impediments, and clay soft enough to make a fall easy.
The sight was so far exhilarating that red coats in a gallop have always a pleasant effect; besides which, the very concourse of riders looks well. However, even as unsportsmanlike an eye as mine could detect the flaws in jockeyship about me—the fierce rushings of the gentlemen who pushed through the deepest ground with a loose rein, flogging manfully the while; the pendulous motions of others between the mane and the haunches, with every stride of the beast.
But I had little time for such speculations; the hour of my own trial was approaching. The roan was getting troublesome, the pace was gradually working up her mettle; and she had given three or four preparatory bounds, as though to see whether she’d part company with me before she ran away or not. My own calculations at the moment were not very dissimilar; I was meditating a rupture of the partnership too. The matrix of a full-length figure of Arthur O’Leary in red clay was the extent of any damage I could receive, and I only looked for a convenient spot where I might fall unseen. As I turned my head on every side, hoping for some secluded nook, some devil of a hunter, by way of directing the dogs, gave a blast of his brass instrument about a hundred yards before me. The thing was now settled; the roan gave a whirl of her long vicious tail, plunged fearfully, and throwing down her head and twisting it to one side, as if to have a peep at my confusion, away she went. From having formed one of the rear-guard, I now closed up with the main body—‘aspirants’ all—through whom I dashed like a catapult, and notwithstanding repeated shouts of ‘Pull in, sir!’ ‘Hold back!’ etc, I continued my onward course; a few seconds more and I was in the thick of the scarlet coats, my beast at the stretch of her speed, and caring nothing for the bridle. Amid a shower ofsacrésthat fell upon me like hail, I sprang through them, making the ‘red ones’ black with every stroke of my gallop. Leaving them far behind, I flew past thegrand maîtrehimself, who rode in the van, almost upsetting him by a side spring, as I passed—a malediction reaching me as I went; but the forest soon received me in its dark embrace, and I saw no more.
It was at first a source of consolation to me to think that every stride removed me from the reach of those whose denunciations I had so unfortunately incurred;grand maître, chasseurs, and ‘aspirants’—they were all behind me. Ay, for that matter, so were the dogs and thepiqueurs, and, for aught I knew, the fox with them. When I discovered, however, that the roan continued her speed still unabated, I began to be somewhat disconcerted. It was true the ground was perfectly smooth and safe—a longalléeof the wood, with turf shorn close as a pleasure-ground. I pulled and sawed the bit, I jerked the bridle, and performed all the manual exercise I could remember as advised in such extremities, but to no use. It seemed to me that some confounded echo started the beast, and incited her to increased speed. Just as this notion struck me, I heard a voice behind cry out—
‘Do hold in! Try and hold in, Mr. O’Leary!’ I turned my head, and there was Laura, scarce a length behind, her thoroughbred straining every sinew to come up. No one else was in sight, and there we were, galloping like mad, with the wood all to ourselves.
I can very well conceive why the second horse in a race does his best to get foremost, if it were only the indulgence of a very natural piece of curiosity to see what the other has been running for; but why the first one only goes the faster because there are others behind him, that is a dead puzzle to me. But so it was; my ill-starred beast never seemed to have put forth her full powers till she was followed.Ventre à terre, as the French say, was now the pace; and though from time to time Laura would cry out to me to hold back, I could almost swear I heard her laughing at my efforts. Meanwhile the wood was becoming thicker and closer, and thealléenarrower and evidently less travelled. Still it seemed to have no end or exit; scarcely had we rounded one turn when a vista of miles would seem to stretch away before us, passing over which, another, as long again, would appear.
After about an hour’s hard galloping, if I dare form any conjecture as to the flight of time, I perceived with a feeling of triumph that the roan was relaxing somewhat in her stride; and that she was beginning to evince, by an up-and-down kind of gait, what sailors call a ‘fore-and aft’ motion, that she was getting enough of it. I turned and saw Laura about twenty yards behind—her thoroughbred dead beat, and only able to sling along at that species of lobbing canter blood-cattle can accomplish under any exigency. With a bold effort I pulled up short, and she came alongside of me; and before I could summon courage to meet the reproaches I expected for having been the cause of her runaway, she relieved my mind by a burst of as merry and good-tempered laughter as ever I listened to. The emotion was contagious, and so I laughed too, and it was full five minutes before either of us could speak.
‘Well, Mr. O’Leary, I hope you know where we are,’ said she, drying her eyes, where the sparkling drops of mirth were standing, ‘for I assure you I don’t.’
‘Oh, perfectly,’ replied I, as my eye caught a board nailed against a tree, on which some very ill-painted letters announced ‘La route de Bouvigne’—‘we are on the highroad to Bouvigne, wherever that may be.’
‘Bouvigne!’ exclaimed she, in an accent of some alarm; ‘why, it’s five leagues from the château! I travelled there once by the highroad. How are we ever to get back?’
That was the very question I was then canvassing in my own mind, without a thought of how it was to be solved. However, I answered with an easy indifference, ‘Oh, nothing easier; we ‘ll take acalècheat Bouvigne.’
‘But they ‘ve none.’
‘Well, then, fresh horses.’
‘There’s not a horse in the place; it’s a little village near the Meuse, surrounded with tall granite rocks, and only remarkable for its ruined castle, the ancient schloss of Philip de Bouvigne.’
‘How interesting!’ said I, delighted to catch at anything which should give the conversation a turn; ‘and who was Philip de Bouvigne?’
‘Philip,’ said the lady, ‘was the second or third count, I forget which, of the name. The chronicles say that he was the handsomest and most accomplished youth of the time. Nowhere could he meet his equal at joust or tournament; while his skill in arms was the least of his gifts—he was a poet and a musician. In fact, if you were only to believe his historians, he was the most dangerous person for the young ladies of those days to meet with. Not that he ran away with them,sur la grande route.’ As she said this, a burst of laughing stopped her; and it was one I could really forgive, though myself the object of it. ‘However,’ resumed she, ‘I believe he was just as bad. Well, to pursue my story, when Philip was but eighteen, it chanced that a party of warriors bound for the Holy Land came past the Castle of Bouvigne, and of course passed the night there. From them, many of whom had already been in Palestine, Philip heard the wondrous stories the crusaders ever brought back of combats and encounters, of the fearful engagements with the infidels and the glorious victories of the Cross. And at length, so excited did his mind become by the narrations, that he resolved on the spot to set out for the Holy Land, and see with his own eyes the wonderful things they had been telling him.
‘This resolution could not fail of being applauded by the rest, and by none was it met with such decided approval as by Henri de Bethune, a young Liégeois, then setting out on his first crusade, who could not help extolling Philip’s bravery, and above all his devotion in the great cause, in quitting his home and his young and beautiful wife; for I must tell you, as indeed I ought to have told you before, he had been but a few weeks married to the lovely Alice de Franchemont, the only daughter of the old Graf de Franchemont, of whose castle you may see the ruins near Chaude Fontaine.’
I nodded assent, and she went on.
‘Of course you can imagine the dreadful grief of the young countess when her husband broke to her his determination. If I were a novelist I’d tell you of tears and entreaties and sighs and faintings, of promises and pledges and vows, and so forth; for, indeed, it was a very sorrowful piece of business, as she didn’t at all fancy passing some three or four years alone in the old keep at Bouvigne, with no society, not one single friend to speak to. At first, indeed, she would not hear of it; and it was only at length when Henri de Bethune undertook to plead for him—for he kindly remained several days at the château, to assist his friend at this conjuncture—that she gave way, and consented. Still, her consent was wrung from her against her convictions, and she was by no means satisfied that the arguments she yielded to were a whit too sound. And this, let me remark,en passant, is a most dangerous species of assent, when given by a lady; and one she always believes to be something of the nature of certain Catholic vows, which are only binding while you believe them reasonable and just.’
‘Is that really so?’ interrupted I. ‘Do you, indeed, give me so low a standard of female fidelity as this?’
‘If women are sometimes false,’ replied she, ‘it is because men are never true; but I must go on with my tale.—Away went Count Philip, and with him his friend De Bethune—the former, if the fact were known, just as low-spirited, when the time came, as the countess herself. But, then, he had the double advantage that he had a friend to talk with and make participator of his sorrows, besides being the one leaving, not left.’
‘I don’t know,’ interrupted I at this moment, ‘that you are right there; I think that the associations which cling to the places where we have been happy are a good requital for the sorrowful memories they may call up. I ‘d rather linger around the spot consecrated by the spirit of past pleasure, and dream over again, hour by hour, day by day, the bliss I knew there, than break up the charm of such memories by the vulgar incidents of travel and the commonplace adventures of a journey.’
‘There I differ from you completely,’ replied she. ‘All your reflections and reminiscences, give them as fine names as you will, are nothing but sighings and repinings for what cannot come back again; and such things only injure the temper, and spoil the complexion, whereas—— But what are you laughing at?’
‘I was smiling at your remark, which has only a feminine application.’
‘How teasing you are! I declare I ‘ll argue no more with you. Do you want to hear my story?’
‘Of all things; I ‘m greatly interested in it.’
‘Well, then, you must not interrupt me any more. Now, where was I? You actually made me forget where I stopped.’
‘You were just at the point where they set out, Philip and his friend, for the Holy Land.’
‘You must not expect from me any spirit-stirring narrative of the events in Palestine. Indeed, I’m not aware if theChronique de Flandre, from which I take my tale, says anything very particular about Philip de Bouvigne’s performances. Of course they were in accordance with his former reputation: he killed his Saracens, like a true knight—that there can be no doubt of. As for Henri de Bethune, before the year was over he was badly wounded, and left on the field of battle, where some said he expired soon after, others averring that he was carried away to slavery. Be that as it might, Philip continued his career with all the enthusiasm of a warrior and a devotee, a worthy son of the Church, and a brave soldier—unfortunately, however, forgetting the poor countess he had left behind him, pining away her youth at the barred casements of the old château; straining her eyes from day to day along the narrow causeway that led to the castle, and where no charger’s hoof re-echoed, as of old, to tell of the coming of her lord. Very bad treatment, you ‘ll confess; and so, with your permission, we’ll keep her company for a little while. Madame la Comtesse de Bouvigne, as some widows will do, only become the prettier from desertion. Her traits of beauty mellowed by a tender melancholy, without being marked too deeply by grief, assumed an imaginative character, or what men mistake for it.’
‘Indeed!’ said I, catching at the confession.
‘Well, I’m sure it is so,’ replied she. ‘In the great majority of cases you are totally ignorant of what is passing in a woman’s mind. The girl that seemed all animation to-day may have an air of deep depression to-morrow, and of downright wildness the next, simply by changing her coiffure from ringlets to braids, and from a bandeau to a state of dishevelled disorder. A little flattery of yourselves, artfully and well done, and you are quite prepared to believe anything. In any case, the countess was very pretty and very lonely.
‘In those good days when gentlemen left home, there were neither theatres nor concerts to amuse their poor neglected wives; they had no operas nor balls nor soirées nor promenades. No; their only resource was to work away at some huge piece of landscape embroidery, which, begun in childhood, occupied a whole life, and transmitted a considerable labour of background and foliage to the next generation. The only pleasant people in those times, it seems to me, were thejongleursand the pilgrims; they went about the world fulfilling the destinies of newspapers; they chronicled the little events of the day—births, marriages, deaths, etc.—and must have been a great comfort on a winter’s evening.
‘Well, it so chanced that as the countess sat at her window one evening, as usual, watching the sun go down, she beheld a palmer coming slowly along up the causeway, leaning on his staff, and seeming sorely tired and weary——
‘But see,’ cried Laura, at this moment, as we gained the crest of a gentle acclivity, ‘yonder is Bouvigne; it is a fine thing even yet.’
We both reined in our horses, the better to enjoy the prospect; and certainly it was a grand one. Behind us, and stretching for miles in either direction, was the great forest we had been traversing; the old Ardennes had been a forest in the times of Caesar, its narrow pathways echoing to the tread of Roman legions. In front was a richly cultivated plain, undulating gently towards the Meuse, whose silver current wound round it like a garter—the opposite bank being formed by an abrupt wall of naked rocks of grey granite, sparkling with its brilliant hues, and shining doubly in the calm stream at its foot. On one of the highest cliffs, above an angle of the river, and commanding both reaches of the stream for a considerable way, stood Bouvigne. Two great square towers rising above a battlemented wall, pierced with long loopholes, stood out against the clear sky; one of them, taller than the other, was surmounted by a turret at the angle, from the top of which something projected laterally, like a beam.
‘Do you see that piece of timber yonder?’ said Laura. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘it’s the very thing I’ve been looking at, and wondering what it could mean.’
‘Carry your eye downward,’ said she, ‘and try if you can’t make out a low wall connecting two masses of rock together, far, far down: do you see it?’
‘I see a large archway, with some ivy over it.’ ‘That’s it; that was the great entrance to the schloss; before it is the fosse—a huge ditch cut in the solid rock, so deep as to permit the water of the Meuse, when flooded, to flow into it. Well, now, if you look again, you ‘ll see that the great beam above hangs exactly over that spot. It was one of the rude defences of the time, and intended, by means of an iron basket which hung from its extremity, to hurl great rocks and stones upon any assailant. The mechanism can still be traced by which it was moved back and loaded; the piece of rope which opened the basket at each discharge of its contents was there not many years ago. There’s a queer, uncouth representation of thepanier de la mort, as it is called, in theChronique, which you can see in the old library at Rochepied. But here we are already at the ferry.’
As she spoke we had just reached the bank of the Meuse, and in front was a beautifully situated little village, which, escarped in the mountain, presented a succession of houses at different elevations, all looking towards the stream. They were mostly covered with vines and honeysuckles, and with the picturesque outlines of gable and roof, diamond windows and rustic porches, had a very pleasing effect.
As I looked, I had little difficulty in believing that they were not a very equestrian people—the little pathways that traversed their village being inaccessible save to foot-passengers, frequently ascending by steps cut in the rock, or by rude staircases of wood which hung here and there over the edge of the cliff in anything but a tempting way, the more so, as they trembled and shook with every foot that passed over them. Little mindful of this, the peasants might now be seen leaning over their frail barriers, and staring at the unwonted apparition of two figures on horseback, while I was endeavouring, by signs and gestures, to indicate our wish to cross over.
At last a huge raft appeared to move from beneath the willows of the opposite bank, and by the aid of a rope fastened across the stream two men proceeded slowly to ferry the great platform over. Leading our horses cautiously forward, we embarked in this frail craft, and landed safely in Bouvigne.
‘Will you please to tell me, Mr. O’Leary,’ said Laura, in the easy tone of one who asked for information’s sake, ‘what are your plans here; for up to this moment I only perceive that we have been increasing the distance between us and Rochepied.’
‘Quite true,’ said I; ‘but you know we agreed it was impossible to hope to find our way back through the forest. Everyalléehere has not only its brother, but a large family, so absolutely alike no one could distinguish between them; we might wander for weeks without extricating ourselves.’
‘I know all that,’ said she somewhat pettishly; ‘still my question remains unanswered. What do you mean to do here?’
‘In the first place,’ said I, with the affected precision of one who had long since resolved on his mode of proceeding, ‘we ‘ll dine.’
I stopped here to ascertain her sentiments on this part of my arrangement. She gave a short nod, and I proceeded. ‘Having dined,’ said I, ‘we’ll obtain horses and a calèche, if such can be found, for Rochepied.’
‘I ‘ve told you already there are no such things here. They never see a carriage of any kind from year’s end to year’s end; and there is not a horse in the whole village.’
‘Perhaps, then, there may be a château near, where, on making known our mishap, we might be able——’
‘Oh, that’s very simple, as far as you ‘re concerned,’ said she, with a saucy smile; ‘but I’d just as soon not have this adventure published over the whole country.’
Ha! by Jove, thought I, there’s a consideration completely overlooked by me; and so I became silent and thoughtful, and spoke not another word as we led our horses up the little rocky causeway towards the ‘Toison d’Or.’
If we did not admire the littleaubergeof the ‘Golden Fleece,’ truly the fault was rather our own than from any want of merit in the little hostelry itself. Situated on a rocky promontory on the river, it was built actually over the stream—the door fronting it, and approachable by a little wooden gallery, along which a range of orange-trees and arbutus was tastefully disposed, scenting the whole air with their fragrance. As we walked along we caught glimpses of several rooms within, neatly and even handsomely furnished—and of one salon in particular, where books and music lay scattered on the tables, with that air of habitation so pleasant to look on.
So far from our appearance in a neighbourhood thus remote and secluded creating any surprise, both host and hostess received us with the most perfect ease, blended with a mixture of cordial civility very acceptable at the moment.
‘We wish to dine at once,’ said I, as I handed Laura to a chair.
‘And to know in what way we can reach Rochepied,’ said she; ‘our horses are weary and not able for the road.’
‘For the dinner, mademoiselle, nothing is easier; but as to getting forward to-night——’
‘Oh, of course I mean to-night—at once.’
‘Ah, voilà,’ said he, scratching his forehead in bewilderment; ‘we’re not accustomed to that, never. People generally stop a day or two; some spend a week here, and have horses from Dinant to meet them.’
‘A week here!’ exclaimed she; ‘and what in Heaven’s name can they do here for a week?’
‘Why, there’s the château, mademoiselle—the château of Philip de Bouvigne, and the gardens terraced in the rock; and there’s the well of St. Sèvres, and the Ile de Notre Dame aux bois; and then there’s such capital fishing in the stream, with abundance of trout.’
‘Oh, delightful, I’m sure,’ said she impatiently; ‘but we wish to get on. So just set your mind to that, like a worthy man.’
‘Well, we’ll see what can be done,’ replied he; ‘and before dinner’s over, perhaps I may find some means to forward you.’
With this he left the room, leaving mademoiselle and myselftête-à-tête. And here let me confess, never did any man feel his situation more awkwardly than I did mine at that moment; and before any of my younger and more ardent brethren censure me, let me at least ‘show cause’ in my defence. First, I myself, however unintentionally, had brought Mademoiselle Laura into her present embarrassment; but for me and the confounded roan she had been at that moment cantering away pleasantly with the Comte d’Espagne beside her, listening to hisfleurettesand receiving his attentions. Secondly, I was, partly from bashfulness, partly from fear, little able to play the part my present emergency demanded, which should either have been one of downright indifference and ease, or something of a more tender nature, which indeed the very pretty companion of my travels might have perfectly justified.
‘Well,’ said she, after a considerable pause, ‘this is about the most ridiculous scrape I’ve ever been involved in. Whatwillthey think at the château?’
‘If they saw your horse when he bolted——’
‘Of course they did,’ said she; ‘but what could they do? The Comte d’Espagne is always mounted on a slow horse:hecouldn’t overtake me; then themaîtrescouldn’t pass the grand maître.’
‘What!’ cried I, in amazement; ‘I don’t comprehend you perfectly.’
‘It’s quite clear, nevertheless,’ replied she; ‘but I see you don’t know the rules of thechassein Flanders.’
With this she entered into a detail of the laws of the hunting-field, which more than once threw me into fits of laughter. It seemed, then, that the code decided that each horseman who followed the hounds should not be left to the wilfulness of his horse or the aspirings of his ambition, as to the place he occupied in the chase. It was no momentary superiority of skill or steed, no display of jockeyship, no blood that decided this momentous question. No; that was arranged on principles far less vacillating and more permanent at the commencement of the hunting season, by which it was laid down as a rule that thegrand maîtrewas always to ride first. His pace might be fast or it might be slow, but his place was there. After him came themaîtres, the people in scarlet, who in right of paying double subscription were thus costumed and thus privileged; while the ‘aspirants’ in green followed last, their smaller contribution only permitting them to see so much of the sport as their respectful distance opened to them—and thus that indiscriminate rush, so observable in our hunting-fields, was admirably avoided and provided against. It was no headlong piece of reckless daring, no impetuous dash of bold horsemanship; on the contrary, it was a decorous and stately canter—not after hounds, but after an elderly gentleman in a red coat and a brass tube, who was taking a quiet airing in the pleasing delusion that he was hunting an animal unknown. Woe unto the man who forgot his place in the procession! You might as well walk into dinner before your host, under the pretence that you were a more nimble pedestrian.
Besides this, there were subordinate rules to no end. Certain notes on thecor de chassewere royalties of thegrand maître; themaîtrespossessed others as their privileges which no ‘aspirant’ dare venture on. There were quavers for one, and semiquavers for the other; and, in fact, a most complicated system of legislation comprehended every incident, and I believe every accident, of the sport, so much that I can’t trust my memory as to whether the wretched ‘aspirants’ were not limited to tumbling in one particular direction—which, if so, must have been somewhat of a tyranny, seeing they were but men, and Belgians.
‘This might seem all very absurd and very fabulous if I referred to a number of years back; but when I say that the code still exists, in the year of grace, 1856, what will they say at Melton or Grantham? So you may imagine,’ said Laura, on concluding her description, which she gave with much humour, ‘how manifold your transgressions have been this day. You have offended thegrand maître, maîtres, and aspirants, in onecoup; you have broken up the whole “order of their going.”’
‘And run away with the belle of the château,’ added I,pour comble de hardiesse. She did not seem half to relish my jest, however; and gave a little shake of the head, as though to say, ‘You’re not out ofthatscrape yet.’
Thus did we chat over our dinner, which was really excellent, the host’s eulogy on the Meuse trout being admirably sustained by their merits; nor did his flask of Haut-Brion lower the character of his cellar. Still no note of preparation seemed to indicate any arrangements for our departure; and although, sooth to say, I could have reconciled myself wonderfully to the inconvenience of the Toison d’Or for the whole week if necessary, Laura was becoming momentarily more impatient, as she said—
‘Dosee if they are getting anything like a carriage ready, or even horses; we can ride, if they’ll only get us animals.’
As I entered the little kitchen of the inn, I found my host stretched at ease in a wicker chair, surrounded by a little atmosphere of smoke, through which his great round face loomed like the moon in the grotesque engravings one sees in old spelling-books. So far from giving himself any unnecessary trouble about our departure, he had never ventured beyond the precincts of the stove, contenting himself with a wholesome monologue on the impossibility of our desires, and that great Flemish consolation, that however we might chafe at first, time would calm us in the end.
After a fruitless interrogation about the means of proceeding, I asked if there were no château in the vicinity where horses could be borrowed.
He replied,’ No, not one for miles round.’
‘Is there no mayor in the village—where is he?’
‘I am the mayor,’ replied he, with a conscious dignity.
‘Alas!’ thought I, as the functionary of Givet crossed my mind, ‘why did I not remember that the mayor is always the most stupid of the whole community?’
‘Then I think,’ said I, after a brief silence, ‘we had better see the curé at once.’
‘I thought so,’ was the sententious reply.
Without troubling my head why he ‘thought so,’ I begged that the curé might be informed that a gentleman at the inn begged to speak with him for a few minutes.
‘The Père José, I suppose?’ said the host significantly.
‘With all my heart,’ said I; ‘José or Pierre, it’s all alike to me.’
‘He is there in waiting this half-hour,’ said the host, pointing with his thumb to a small salon off the kitchen.
‘Indeed!’ said I; ‘how very polite the attention! I ‘m really most grateful.’
With which, without delaying another moment, I pushed open the door, and entered.
The Père José was a short, ruddy, astute-looking man of about fifty, dressed in the canonical habit of a Flemish priest, which from time and wear had lost much of its original freshness. He had barely time to unfasten a huge napkin, which he had tied around his neck during his devotion to a great mess of vegetable soup, when I made my bow to him.
‘The Père José, I believe?’ said I, as I took my seat opposite to him.
‘That unworthy priest!’ said he, wiping his lips, and throwing up his eyes with an expression not wholly devotional.
‘Père José,’ resumed I, ‘a young lady and myself, who have just arrived here with weary horses, stand in need of your kind assistance.’ Here he pressed my hand gently, as if to assure me I was not mistaken in my man, and I went on: ‘We must reach Rochepied to-night; now, will you try and assist us at this conjuncture? We are complete strangers.’
‘Enough, enough!’ said he. ‘I’m sorry you are constrained for time. This is a sweet little place for a few days’ sojourn. But if,’ said he, ‘it can’t be, you shall have every aid in my power. I ‘ll send off to Poil de Vache for his mule and car. You don’t mind a little shaking?’ said he, smiling.
‘It’s no time to be fastidious,père, and the lady is an excellent traveller.’
‘The mule is a good beast, and will bring you in three hours, or even less.’ So saying, he sat down and wrote a few lines on a scrap of paper, with which he despatched a boy from the inn, telling him to make every haste. ‘And now monsieur, may I be permitted to pay my respects to mademoiselle?’
‘Most certainly, Père José; she will be but too happy to add her thanks to mine for what you have done for us.’
‘Say rather, for what I am about to do,’ said he, smiling.
‘The will is half the deed, father.’
‘A good adage, and an old,’ replied he, while he proceeded to arrange his drapery, and make himself as presentable as the nature of his costume would admit.
‘This was a rapid business of yours,’ said he, as he smoothed down his few locks at the back of his head.
‘That it was,père—a regular runaway.’
‘I guessed as much,’ said he. ‘I said so, the moment I saw you at the ferry.’
Thepèreis no bad judge of horse-flesh, thought I, to detect the condition of our beasts at that distance.
‘“There’s something for me,” said I to Madame Guyon. “Look yonder! See how their cattle are blowing! They’ve lost no time, and neither will I.” And with that I put on my gown and came up here.’
‘How considerate of you,père; you saw we should need your help.’
‘Of course I did,’ said he, chuckling. ‘Of course I did. Old Grégoire, here, is so stupid and so indolent that I have to keep a sharp lookout myself. But he’s themaire, and one can’t quarrel with him.’
‘Very true,’ said I. ‘A functionary has a hundred opportunities of doing civil things, or the reverse.’
‘That’s exactly the case,’ said thepère. ‘Without him we should have no law on our side. It would be allsous la cheminée, as they say.’
The expression was new to me, and I imagined the good priest to mean, that without the magistrature, respect for the laws might as well be ‘up the chimney.’
‘And now, if you will allow me, we ‘ll pay our duty to the lady,’ said the Père José, when he had completed his toilette to his satisfaction.
When the ceremonial of presenting thepèrewas over I informed Laura of his great kindness in our behalf, and the trouble he had taken to provide us with an equipage.
‘A sorry one, I fear, mademoiselle,’ interposed he, with a bow. ‘But I believe there are few circumstances in life where people are more willing to endure sacrifices.’
‘Then monsieur has explained to you our position?’ said Laura, half blushing at the absurdity of the adventure.
‘Everything, my dear young lady—everything. Don’t let the thought give you any uneasiness, however. I listen to stranger stories every day.
‘Taste that Haut-Brion,père,’ said I, wishing to give the conversation a turn, as I saw Laura felt uncomfortable, ‘and give me your opinion of it. To my judgment it seems excellent.’
‘And your judgment is unimpeachable in more respects than that,’ said thepère, with a significant look, which fortunately was not seen by mademoiselle.
Confound him, said I to myself; I must try another tack. ‘We were remarking, Père José, as we came along that very picturesque river, the Château de Bouvigne; a fine thing in its time, it must have been.’
‘You know the story, I suppose?’ said the père.
‘Mademoiselle was relating it to me on the way, and indeed I am most anxious to hear the dénouement.’
‘It was a sad one,’ said he slowly. ‘I’ll show you the spot where Henri fell—the stone that marks the place.’
‘Oh, Père José,’ said Laura, ‘I must stop you—indeed I must—or the whole interest of my narrative will be ruined. You forget that monsieur has not heard the tale out.’
‘Ah!ma foi, I beg pardon—a thousand pardons. Mademoiselle, then, knows Bouvigne?’
‘I ‘ve been here once before, but only part of a morning. I ‘ve seen nothing but the outer court of the château and thefosse du traître.’
‘So, so; you know it all, I perceive,’ said he, smiling pleasantly. ‘Are you too much fatigued for a walk that far?’
‘Shall we have time?’ said Laura; ‘that’s the question.’
‘Abundance of time. Jacob can’t be here for an hour yet, at soonest. And if you allow me, I’ll give all the necessary directions before we leave, so that you ‘ll not be delayed ten minutes on your return.’
While Laura went in search of her hat, I again proffered my thanks to the kindpèrefor all his good nature, expressing the strong desire I felt for some opportunity of requital.
‘Be happy,’ said the good man, squeezing my hand affectionately; ‘that’s the way you can best repay me.’
‘It would not be difficult to follow the precept in your society, Père José,’ said I, overcome by the cordiality of the old man’s manner.
‘I have made a great many so, indeed,’ said he. ‘The five-and-thirty years I have lived in Bouvigne have not been without their fruit.’
Laura joined us here, and we took the way together towards the château, the priest discoursing all the way on the memorable features of the place, its remains of ancient grandeur, and the picturesque beauty of its site.
As we ascended the steep path which, cut in the solid rock, leads to the château, groups of pretty children came flocking about us, presenting bouquets for our acceptance, and even scattering flowers in our path. This simple act of village courtesy struck us both much, and we could not help feeling touched by the graceful delicacy of the little ones, who tripped away ere we could reward them; neither could I avoid remarking to Laura, on the perfect good understanding that seemed to subsist between Père José and the children of his flock—the paternal fondness on one side, and the filial reverence on the other. As we conversed thus, we came in front of a great arched doorway, in a curtain wall connecting two massive fragments of rock. In front lay a deep fosse, traversed by a narrow wall, scarce wide enough for one person to venture on. Below, the tangled weeds and ivy concealed the dark abyss, which was full eighty feet in depth.
‘Look up, now,’ said Laura; ‘you must bear the features of this spot in mind to understand the story. Don’t forget where that beam projects—do you mark it well?’
‘He’ll get a better notion of it from the tower,’ said thepère, ‘Shall I assist you across?’
Without any aid, however, Laura trod the narrow pathway, and hasted along up the steep and time-worn steps of the old tower. As we emerged upon the battlements, we stood for a moment, overcome by the splendour of the prospect. Miles upon miles of rich landscape lay beneath us, glittering in the red, brown, and golden tints of autumn—that gorgeous livery which the year puts on, ere it dons the sad-coloured mantle of winter. The great forest, too, was touched here and there with that light brown, the first advance of the season; while the river reflected every tint in its calm tide, as though it also would sympathise with the changes around it.
While the Père José continued to point out each place of mark or note in the vast plain, interweaving in his descriptions some chance bit of antiquarian or historic lore, we were forcibly struck by the thorough intimacy he possessed with all the features of the locality, and could not help complimenting him upon it.
‘Yes, ‘ma foi,’ said he, ‘I know every rock and crevice, every old tree and rivulet for miles round. In the long life I have passed here, each day has brought me among these scenes with some traveller or other; and albeit they who visit us here have little thought for the picturesque, few are unmoved by this peaceful and lovely valley. You’d little suspect, mademoiselle, how many have passed through my hands here, in these five-and-thirty years. I keep a record of their names, in which I must beg you will kindly inscribe yours.’
Laura blushed at the proposition which should thus commemorate her misadventure; while I mumbled out something about our being mere passing strangers, unknown in the land.
‘No matter for that,’ replied the inexorable father, ‘I’ll have your names—ay, autographs too!’
‘The sun seems very low,’ said Laura, as she pointed to the west, where already a blaze of red golden light was spreading over the horizon: ‘I think we must hasten our departure.’
‘Follow me, then,’ said thepère, ‘and I ‘ll conduct you by an easier path than we came up by.’
With that he unlocked a small postern in the curtain wall, and led us across a neatly-shaven lawn to a little barbican, where, again unlocking the door, we descended a flight of stone steps into a small garden terraced in the native rock. The labour of forming it must have been immense, as every shovelful of earth was carried from the plain beneath; and here were fruit-trees and flowers, shrubs and plants, and in the midst a tinyjet d’eau, which, as we entered, seemed magically to salute us with its refreshing plash. A little bench, commanding a view of the river from a different aspect, invited us to sit down for a moment. Indeed, each turn of the way seduced us by some beauty, and we could have lingered on for hours.
As for me, forgetful of the past, careless of the future, I was totally wrapped up in the enjoyment of the moment, and Laura herself seemed so enchanted by the spot that she sat silently gazing on the tranquil scene, apparently lost in delighted reverie. A low, faint sigh escaped her as she looked; and I thought I could see a tremulous motion of her eyelid, as though a tear were struggling within it My heart beat powerfully against my side. I turned to see where was thepère. He had gone. I looked again, and saw him standing on a point of rock far beneath us, and waving his handkerchief as a signal to some one in the valley. Never was there such a situation as mine; never was mortal man so placed. I stole my hand carelessly along the bench till it touched hers; but she moved not away—no, her mind seemed quite preoccupied. I had never seen her profile before, and truly it was very beautiful. All the vivacity of her temperament calmed down by the feeling of the moment, her features had that character of placid loveliness which seemed only wanting to make her perfectly handsome. I wished to speak, and could not. I felt that if I could have dared to say ‘Laura,’ I could have gone on bravely afterwards—but it would not come. ‘Amen stuck in my throat.’ Twice I got half-way, and covered my retreat by a short cough. Only think what a change in my destiny another syllable might have caused! It was exactly as my second effort proved fruitless that a delicious sound of music swelled up from the glen beneath, and floated through the air—a chorus of young voices singing what seemed to be a hymn. Never was anything more charming. The notes, softened as they rose on high, seemed almost like a seraph’s song—now lifting the soul to high and holy thoughts, now thrilling within the heart with a very ecstasy of delight. At length they paused, the last cadence melted slowly away, and all was still.
We did not dare to move; when Laura touched my hand gently, and whispered, ‘Hark! there it is again! And at the same instant the voices broke forth, but into a more joyous measure. It was one of those sweet peasant-carollings which breathe of the light heart and the simple life of the cottage. The words came nearer and nearer as we listened, and at length I could trace the refrain which closed each verse—