The Lances of Lynwood by Charlotte Mary Yonge (i read book TXT) 📕

Two years had passed since the fight of Navaretta, when Sir Eustace Lynwood received, by the hands of a Knight newly arrived from England, a letter from Father Cyril, praying him to return home as soon as possible, since his sister-in-law, Dame Eleanor, was very sick, and desired to see him upon matters on which more could not be disclosed by letter.

Easily obtaining permission to leave Bordeaux, he travelled safely through France, and crossing from Brittany, at length found himself once more in Somersetshire. It was late, and fast growing dark, when he rode through Bruton; but, eager to arrive, he pushed on, though twilight had fast faded into night, and heavy clouds, laden with brief but violent showers, were drifting across the face of the moon. On they rode, in silence, save for Gaston’s execrations of the English climate, and the plashing of the horses’ feet in the miry tracks, along which, in many places, the water was rushing in torrents.

At length they were descending the long low hill, or rather undulation, leading to the wooded vale of Lynwood, and the bright lights of the Keep began to gleam like stars in the darkness—stars indeed to the eager eyes of the young Knight, who gazed upon them long and affectionately, as he felt himself once more at home. “I wonder,” said he, “to see the light strongest towards the east end of the Castle! I knew not that the altar lights in the chapel could be seen so far!” Then riding on more quickly, and approaching more nearly, he soon lost sight of them behind the walls, and descending the last little rising ground, the lofty mass of building rose huge and black before him.

He wound his bugle and rode towards the gate, but at the moment he expected to cross the drawbridge, Ferragus suddenly backed, and he perceived that it was raised. “This is some strange chance!” said he, renewing the summons, but in vain, for the echoes of the surrounding woods were the only reply. “Ralph must indeed be deaf!” said he.

“Let him be stone deaf,” said Gaston; “he is not the sole inhabitant of the Castle. Try them again, Sir Eustace.”

“Hark!—methought I heard the opening of the hall door!” said Eustace. “No! What can have befallen them?”

“My teeth are chattering with cold,” said Gaston, “and the horses will be ruined with standing still in the driving rain. Cannot we betake ourselves to the village hostel, and in the morning reproach them with their churlishness?”

“I must be certified that there is nothing amiss,” said Sir Eustace, springing from his saddle; “I can cross the moat on one of the supports of the bridge.”

“Have with you then, Sir Knight,” said Gaston, also leaping to the ground, while Eustace cautiously advanced along the narrow frame of wood on which the drawbridge had rested, slippery with the wet, and rendered still more perilous by the darkness. Gaston followed, balancing himself with some difficulty, and at last they safely reached the other side. Eustace tried the heavy gates, but found them fastened on the inside with a ponderous wooden bar. “Most strange!” muttered he; “yet come on, Gaston, I can find an entrance, unless old Ralph be more on the alert than I expect.”

Creeping along between the walls and the moat, till they had reached the opposite side of the Keep, Eustace stopped at a low doorway; a slight click was heard, as of a latch yielding to his hand, the door opened, and he led the way up a stone staircase in the thickness of the wall, warning his follower now and then of a broken step. After a long steep ascent, Gaston heard another door open, and though still in total darkness, perceived that they had gained a wider space. “The passage from the hall to the chapel,” whispered the Knight, and feeling by the wall, they crept along, until a buzz of voices reached their ears, and light gleamed beneath a heavy dark curtain which closed the passage. Pausing for an instant, they heard a voice tremulous with fear and eagerness: “It was himself! tall plume, bright armour! the very crosslet on his breast could be seen in the moonlight! Oh! it was Sir Reginald himself, and the wild young French Squire that fell with him in Spain!”

There was a suppressed exclamation of horror, and a sound of crowding together, and at that moment, Eustace, drawing aside the curtain, advanced into the light, and was greeted by a frightful shriek, which made him at first repent of having alarmed his sister, but the next glance showed him that her place was empty, and a thrill of dismay made him stand speechless and motionless, as he perceived that the curtain he grasped was black, and the hall completely hung with the same colour.

The servants remained huddled in terror round the hearth, and the pause was first broken by a fair-faced boy, who, breaking from the trembling circle, came forward, and in a quivering tone said, “Sir, are you my father’s spirit?”

Gaston’s laugh came strangely on the scene, but Eustace, bending down, and holding out his hand, said, “I am your uncle Eustace, Arthur. Where is your mother?”

Arthur, with a wild cry of joy, sprung to his neck, and hid his face on his shoulder; and at the same moment old Ralph, with uplifted hands, cried, “Blessing on the Saints that my young Lord is safe, and that mine eyes have seen you once again.”

“But where, oh! where is my sister?” again demanded Eustace, as his eye met that of Father Cyril, who, summoned by the screams of the servants, had just entered the hall.

“My son,” replied the good Father, solemnly, “your sister is where the wicked may trouble her no more. It is three days now since she departed from this world of sorrow.”

“Oh, had she but lived to see this day,” said Ralph Penrose, “her cares would have been over!”

“Her prayers are answered,” said Father Cyril. “Come with me, my son Eustace, if you would take a last look of her who loved and trusted you so well.”

Eustace followed him to the chamber where the Lady Eleanor Lynwood lay extended on her bed. Her features were pinched and sharpened, and bore traces of her long, wasting sufferings, but they still looked lovely, though awful in their perfect calmness. Eustace knelt and recited the accustomed prayers, and then stood gazing on the serene face, with a full heart, and gathering tears in his eyes, for he had loved the gentle Eleanor with the trusting affection of a younger brother. He thought of that joyous time, the first brilliant day of his lonely childhood, when the gay bridal cavalcade came sweeping down the hill, and he, half in pleasure, half in shyness, was led forth by his mother to greet the fair young bride of his brother. How had she brightened the dull old Keep, and given, as it were, a new existence to himself, a dreamy, solitary boy—how patiently and affectionately had she tended his mother, and how pleasant were the long evenings when she had unwearily listened to his beloved romances, and his visions of surpassing achievements of his own! No wonder that he wept for her as a brother would weep for an elder sister.

Father Cyril, well pleased to perceive that the kindly tenderness of his heart was still untouched by his intercourse with the world, let him gaze on for some time in silence, then laying his hand on his arm said, “She is in peace. Mourn not that her sorrows are at an end, her tears wiped away, but prepare to fulfil her last wishes, those prayers in answer to which, as I fully believe, the Saints have sent you at the very moment of greatest need.”

“Her last wishes?” said Eustace. “They shall be fulfilled to the utmost as long as I have life or breath! Oh! had I but come in time to hear them from herself, and give her my own pledge.”

“Grieve not that her trust was not brought down to aught of earth,” said Father Cyril. “She trusted in Heaven, and died in the sure belief that her child would be guarded; and lo, his protector is come, if, as I well believe, my son Eustace, you are not changed from the boy who bade us farewell three years ago.”

“If I am changed, it is not in my love for home, and for all who dwell there,” said Eustace, “or rather, I love them better than before. Little did I dream what a meeting awaited me!” Again there was a long pause, which Eustace at length broke by saying, “What is the need you spoke of? What danger do you fear?”

“This is no scene for dwelling on the evil deeds of wicked men otherwise than to pray for them,” said the Priest; “but return with me to the hall, and you shall hear.”

Eustace lingered a few moments longer, before,