THE LOST BRIDE.

BY GEORGIANA LADY CHATTERTON. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1872. The right of Translation is reserved. LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.

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CHAPTER I. CASTLE HALL, AND ITS BEAUTIFUL GHOST.

AS we drove home Aunt Jane said that she felt sure that Mrs. Lacy had something on her mind, for she had never known her to be so reserved before.

“But we may go there again before Cunigunda arrives, may we not?” asked I, for I longed to ramble over the old ruins, and penetrate, if possible, into those uninhabited and haunted rooms.

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“Yes, we will come here for that purpose; but I see plainly that Mrs. Lacy does not wish to have any visitors.”

So we drove over the next day, but instead of approaching the house by the usual route, we took another road through the park, which led by the river-side, and crossing a bridge, drove up the steep hill by the old road which led to the former entrance to the ancient Castle, and there we wandered about for hours, to our heart’s content.

There is nothing I ever loved more than wandering among ruins and old dwellings. As a child in Italy I used to enjoy it, but the bright south does not seem to harmonize so well with bygone ages as the more mellowed tints of English skies. There was something, too, in the cloudy day that{3} seemed to accord so well with the sight. The very gloom seemed, like moonlight, to harmonize with the mystic spirit of bygone ages which pervaded the old Castle Hall.

I found myself thinking of the people who inhabited it many centuries ago. They seemed to live and breathe around me. How is it that the past tells one more of the future than the present ever does? I suppose that the spirit-world into which the past sends us—the world of shadow, which seems more present with us than the actual things or people we see—has more of permanence about it, and consequently leads us to hope for an eternal hereafter, making one happy with a kind of hallowed, solemn, yet trembling hope. I felt as if all the spirits of the former inhabitants were hover{4}ing protectingly around me, and, except in the darkness, I do not dread to see them. But I suffer from nervous panic fears at night, in most old houses, and cannot get over it. Yet I always find them particularly pleasant by day.

We first walked round the inner court of the ancient Castle, and peeped down into the dungeons and cellars, and tried, from the top of some mounds of earth and stones, to make out the plan of the original building. Then I climbed as far as the broken staircase would allow, inside Cæsar’s Tower, which reached scarcely half-way up that lofty building, and then I penetrated through a dark, narrow passage, into some of the windowless rooms of the wing which wound down the hill towards the present Hall.{5} The floors were partly gone, but I managed to climb along the sides, where stone projections gave me tolerably firm footing.

Part of the carved ceilings still remained in some of them, and I fancied that the rooms overhead must be in a better condition, for I felt sure by the outside appearance, and from the rows of upper windows, that there was a story above. But in vain I searched for a staircase, or some means of getting on to the higher level. After a most diligent search, I was obliged to give up the attempt.

In the part nearest Cæsar’s Tower, I saw there were two stories above the ruinous suite through which I rambled, and that the fourth story must be on a level with the beautiful oriel window of the great tower{6} which overlooked the precipice. Ah! what would I not give to reach that window! I thought I would resolve to try on the outside whether any tower staircase still remained; so I went down to the room underneath, climbed through a ruined window, and found myself on a narrow strip of grass on the precipice side of the walls. The footing was not very safe, but I persevered till I passed round a projecting buttress, which point commanded a splendid view down upon the Hall to the right, and towards Cæsar’s Tower on the left. I had a little sketch-book in my pocket, and as I stood (for there was not room to sit down), I made a sketch of Cæsar’s Tower and the beautiful oriel window. I fancied I could discern some painted glass in one of the{7} upper mullions, and there was certainly glass in all except one compartment. I made a correct sketch

of the window, and endeavoured to copy the coats of arms and red cross of the Rolands, when, just as I was putting the last stroke, I saw something pass inside, and then, for an instant, a beautiful pale face appeared at the open compartment. It was gone in a moment. Could it have been fancy? I thought, so instantaneously was it gone. I waited some time in hopes it would appear again—or had the wind blown something across the open space, in the folds of which I had conjured up a lovely face? I could see that some creepers were growing on the battlements above the window, and there might be some inside on which the light fell, and my vivid imagina{8}tion may have turned it into a lovely face.

Aunt Jane’s voice, proceeding from one of the ruined chambers over my head, calling to me in great alarm, entreated me to return.

“How could you stand in such a perilous position, child?” she said, when I had re-climbed through the ruined gable, and joined her up in the windowless and floorless rooms.

“And how could you get up into this perilous spot?” I retorted, as I saw her perched up on the stone parapet.

“Well, I am a good climber, too,” she laughingly said, “but I could not have stood to make a sketch on that narrow ledge where I saw you; and what a good view you have taken, too!”

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“And I have seen the ghost also,” I said triumphantly. “I am sure it was Lady Alice; nothing but a ghost could appear and disappear so quickly as the beautiful face did in the oriel window, and I don’t wonder now at what we hear!”

“A face!—impossible! Why, there is no entrance. I have been searching everywhere to try and get up to these upper rooms, and there certainly is none.”

We then went into the open courtyard, and looked in all directions.

“Perhaps there may be a way up to them from the old chapel,” said Aunt Jane. “Look! its high roof is just on a level with that second story, and the third story in yonder buildings is on a level with the oriel.”

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We both felt the greatest curiosity to penetrate the mystery, but it was now getting too dark to proceed with the search, and Aunt Jane did not like to delay our drive down the steep hill and through the thick woods any longer, so we woke up our little driver, who had fallen fast asleep on the box, and went home.

We determined, however, to return the next day; but unfortunately the news reached us in the morning that the family were expected to arrive that very day at Castle Hall. So there was an end of our researches and pleasant rambles, for we both determined not to go near it while Cunigunda was there.

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CHAPTER II. REVIVAL OF EARLY IMPRESSIONS.

I FOUND afterwards that Aunt Jane had often heard from Norah during my long illness, or rather stupor, but she carefully concealed the letters from me, lest my attention should have been arrested by the poor girl’s handwriting, and she felt that my self-reproach might endanger my life, if any circumstance awakened the recollection of the grievous wrong I had done to her.

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It was not until Aunt Jane had gladly seen my interest awakened by the strange history of the Roland family, which fortunately diverted my mind from recent events, that she ventured even to allow me to speak or think of anything connected with the exciting events of the last six months; and, above all, she avoided any allusion to Norah.

She used to make me describe the beautiful scenery of my Italian home, and repeat any words of conversation of my father and mother which I could recollect. By inquiring his opinion on various subjects, she seemed to revive long dormant recollections, and words unheeded at the time were, by her comments and the experience my suffering (more than age) had given, enabled me to{13} read his character by a still more attractive light.

My deep affection for him, which had hitherto been more an instinct, thus became not only intensified, but justified by reason and fact. She purposely, though gradually, began to awaken my fears lest his character should suffer in the opinion of the unthinking world, by the imputations thrown out by Mr. Mordaunt—that he had purposely concealed the marriage of his brother and birth of a son. I say purposely, because she was prompted by the kindest motives to do this, in order to excite my interest and prevent my mind from again falling back into its fatal lethargy.

For a time this anxiety about the slur which might be cast on my father seemed{14} entirely to engross my mind, but one fatal morning, when Aunt Jane was confined to her bed with a violent cold, the letters were brought in to me, and I saw one for Aunt Jane in Norah’s handwriting.

It was as if a thunderbolt had been gradually gathering over my head, and now suddenly exploded with annihilating force. All my guilt, the thoughtless perverseness of my conduct, appeared in its true blackness before my startled gaze, and then the remorse I felt seemed to paralyse all my faculties.

How I survived this suddenly awakened and most poignant and stunning grief I never could understand. This thorough awakening to a consciousness of the full guilt and folly of my conduct Aunt Jane had been anxious{15} to postpone till my bodily health became stronger, for she fancied that when I came fully to understand the wrong I had entailed on Norah, remorse would nearly kill me.

It would, she thought, be the great turning-point of my life if I were strong enough fully to feel, and yet survive the shock. I now saw plainly how deeply I had injured the person I loved and venerated most—a character which, from the first moment I became acquainted with it, seemed the embodiment of everything beautiful and good. To think that I had inflicted on her one of the greatest sorrows that one woman can be guilty of towards another!

I now remembered her every look and word during my painful illness—how she{16} actually rescued me from the grave, for I certainly should have died without her judicious efforts and her extraordinary soothing power.

For a time I sat with the letters before me, without moving. I seemed to see nothing but that handwriting. Strange that I never should have felt all this before, except at that moment when Aunt Jane arrived in London, and suddenly made me write the letter to Sir Alfred Rivers. I was even then so full of anger towards him that my compassion for Norah was by no means fully aroused; and the excitement was so great that I became insensible as soon as the letter was gone; and when I partly recovered, Aunt Jane saw that I could bear no more.

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I might have sat for hours looking at that loved handwriting, had not the maid come from Aunt Jane to inquire whether there were no letters for her.

“Ah! yes,” I said, with the kind of emphasis as if I felt that the most important letter in the world had arrived. “Oh! yes, I will take it—I will take them to her myself.”

The moment I opened her door, she scanned me with one of her most searching looks, as if half anticipating some result which she had been labouring to avert. Then she saw it all—the total change in my expression, the conscious horror and dismay, the acute suffering which had replaced the dull, heavy look of passive discontent, alternating with half-conscious enjoyment of the{18} scenes around me and the beauties of nature.

“It must be a letter from Norah,” she said, before she looked at those I held in my hand. “Well, give it—give them to me,” she said, with a solemn voice, “and go and walk in the garden, on your favourite bank by the river, while the sun shines; and when you come in I will see whether I can show you her letter.”

Then she took my hand, and kissed my forehead, as if she were satisfied with the sad expression it wore, and the resignation to bear, as I must, what I had brought upon myself. She afterwards showed me the letter, which I found was full of anxiety about my state. Norah’s father was better, but it was decided that they were to pass{19} the next Winter in a warmer climate, and would probably go to Rome or Naples.

“Ah! how I hope they will meet, then; for Sir Alfred may possibly be there!” I exclaimed.

“So do I,” said Aunt Jane; “for if any one could reclaim him, and develop his naturally good qualities, it is Norah. And to-morrow you may write and tell her how you are yourself—not to-day. You must economise your agonies,” she added, with a smile, “or you will not live long enough to repent.”

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CHAPTER III. THE CASTLE OF HOHENSTEIN.

AMONG the subjects which Aunt Jane, for my own sake, encouraged me to talk about at this time, was that of the character and adventures of my remarkable relation, Countess Rossi, and of her beautiful cousin Dorina, the first betrothed of Count Rossi, who had disappeared the night before her marriage.

In order to make the sequel of my story intelligible, I will here relate what I told{21} Aunt Jane, at that time, in various conversations.

Not far from the celebrated Caves of Adelberg may still be seen one of those ancient castles that remind the traveller of days and customs long passed away. Hohenstein is, or was some twenty years ago, inhabited by the then representative of the ancient family whose name it bears. The Graf von Hohenstein had an only child, Dorina, a young girl who, at the time I was taken by my guardian to Paris, had lately come from the convent at Udine, where she had been educated. Her mother was a Venetian, of the noble family of Rossi, and died a year or two before Dorina had been betrothed to her second cousin, Count Rossi. The young couple were, at the express wish{22} of Dorina’s mother, betrothed a year before she left the convent; but as soon as she attained her seventeenth year, the marriage was to take place at Hohenstein, with great splendour.

While I was at my convent in Paris, I heard all about the projected fêtes from my mother, who, as a near relation of Count Rossi, had been asked to stay at Hohenstein for a couple of months, to be present at the marriage.

The Count Hohenstein’s mother was English, the Countess Bianca (the Lady Blanche Roland, of Castle Hall, the only daughter, and, after her brother’s death, sole heir of the Earl of Roland). Dorina’s great friend and constant companion was Cunigunda, the only child of the Count’s younger brother,{23} consequently her first cousin, and, after Dorina, next heiress to the possessions of the Hohenstein family. She was more than a year older than Dorina, but her parents had arranged that she should remain in the convent until Dorina’s education should be finished.

The brilliant and beautiful Cunigunda was by no means so fond of the convent, or its inmates, as her more gentle and loving cousin, and the extra year of bondage, as she called it, annoyed her so much that she gave vent to her spleen by many practical jokes, to the scandal of the good nuns, and dismay of her confessor. Few women liked Cunigunda except Dorina, who always endeavoured to screen her wild and mischievous cousin from disgrace. Dorina had inherited her mothe{24}r’s delicate constitution, and although her form and features were lovely, yet her paleness formed a contrast to her more brilliant cousin.

My mother told me that Cunigunda’s greatest amusement—in fact, passion—seemed to be to make conquests; and she more than suspected that the object of her ambition was to captivate Count Rossi before the ceremony should take place—to make him give up the heiress, and propose to herself.

From the first day of my mother’s arrival at Hohenstein she began to suspect the game that the dazzling creature was playing, but discarded—at first—the idea as something too dreadful; for Count Rossi was evidently deeply attached to his gentle fiancée, and her changing colour—the joy that seemed to{25} tremble in her eyes whenever he addressed her—gave full evidence of her affection for him.

The chase in the morning was generally succeeded by dancing in the evening; and these dances ended with a polonaise, in which guests of all ages joined, and paraded the long suites of rooms, up and down stairs, and into the old gallery, which extended all over the upper story. Sometimes these were headed by the young fiancés, but more often by Cunigunda and some grandee; and when this was the case, she was sure to lead the procession into all kinds of out-of-the-way and unexpected places.

One night she led them down a remote turret stairs, into a place which had formerly{26} been a prison under the Castle, which she had secretly contrived to make the good seneschal illuminate with brilliant-coloured lamps. Then, to the surprise of even the Count himself, who had forgotten the existence of this entrance into the caves, Cunigunda tapped with a theatrically mysterious air at a small door at the further end, and beckoning to those behind, she bade them follow her into what she laughingly called an enchanted palace. It was at once opened, but the doorway was so small and low that only one person could enter by stooping.

An exclamation of wonder and delight was heard from the numerous guests who followed Cunigunda and her partner. It really looked like a scene of enchantment,{27} for a portion of the celebrated Adelsberg caves, with their brilliant stalactites, was disclosed to the view of the guests, illumined with many torches, held up by people at intervals, who had been stationed there.

The coolness too of the place on that hot Summer night was delicious, and the Count von Hohenstein was so pleased that he determined to give a regular ball to all the neighbourhood in the caves, and said he would light them with coloured lamps, and put down a temporary floor to dance upon.

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CHAPTER IV. A BALL IN THE ILLUMINATED CAVE.

THE grand ball was appointed to take place at Schloss Hohenstein, on the night before the day fixed for the wedding. The Count had placed the carrying out of the fête in the hands of Cunigunda, at her urgent request, and certainly she had more than fulfilled the high expectations already raised. The uneven ground had been boarded over, and lamps of every hue illuminated the brilliant roof and columns,{29} formed of the white and pink incrustations from the roof which, meeting those rising up from the ground, produced a variety of graceful forms, resembling Corinthian pillars and Gothic arches. Behind one large stalactite lights were placed, and being transparent, it shone with a pale pink light, producing a beautiful and magical effect. Garlands of flowers formed a boundary in some places; in others distant vistas, illuminated by chains of coloured lamps, stretched as far, apparently, as the eye could reach; in others curtains of tapestry, or of Aubusson carpets, closed up cavernous depths, which, if left unscreened, would have spoiled the

composition, and produced a feeling of desolation.

It was truly a scene of enchantment, a bit{30} of fairyland, a realization of some of the most graceful dreams of German imagination, such as De la Motte Fouqué loved to paint, and by which he has entranced grown-up children of all nations.

Some of the distant vistas were bordered with what appeared like strings of brilliant emeralds; others with rubies or sapphires; and they were strung in festoons, with a larger light, that resembled a diamond, as a centre brooch.