Chapter 37

So, splendid dreams, and slumbers sweet, To each and all--Good Night.

WILLIAM E. HURLOUT.

Here might this tale be permitted to end, were it not that a doubt has arisen in my mind whether some particulars do not need explanation. Doubtless the nimble wits of the sagacious have fathomed to their satisfaction all that seemed mysterious; but there may be others who, either less imaginative or more indolent, would like an elaborate elucidation. These latter I invite to accompany me across the blue Atlantic to the pleasant town of Exeter, in the lovely county of Devon, in England.

In the nave of the splendid old cathedral of that town, two men, engaged in conversation, are walking backwards and forwards, one of whom we recognize as the Knight of the Golden Melice; the other is a stranger. Through the stained glass, the dim light of a winter's afternoon falls indistinctly on the stone floor, while from behind the screen which separates the open area where they are pacing from the portion devoted to religious worship, the solemn tones of an organ (for it is the time of evening service) are floating around the massy pillars and among the sculptured arches, as if imploring saintly rest for the high born nobles and reverend bishops who, for hundreds of years, have lain in their marble tombs around. None are present save the two, and, as with reverent feet they tread, they seem dwarfed into children by the huge proportions of the building.

"Two beings more blessed with mutual affection than the young Earl of Cliffmere and his lovely countess I know not," said the Knight, continuing the conversation. "Three weeks remained I with them in their magnificent palace at London, the attractions whereof were tenfold heightened by his courteous bearing and her graciousness. Nor could I without difficulty tear myself away, so lovingly they delighted to dwell upon the time when, as Miles Arundel, he wooed Eveline Dunning, or hunted with me, in the wilds of America, and so sweet were their attentions to my chafed spirit. With them is my trusty Philip, whose trials are now over, while he basks in the favor of the Earl and the smiles of the pretty Prudence, his wife, undisturbed save by her occasional coquetry, which only serves, I suppose, to make his love more piquant."

"A pleasing episode in your romantic life," said the stranger; but know you perfectly how you came to leave America so suddenly?"

"There is a mystery connected therewith which hath ever puzzled me," replied the Knight.

"How felt you in reference to the plan of converting an English into a French colony?"

"I did never either feel therefor inclination, or give it the approbation of my judgment. I cannot forget that I am an Englishman."

"And did Sister Celestina know your sentiments?" inquired the stranger.

"Surely. Wherefore should I have hesitated to bestow on one so devoted my absolute confidence?"

"_Ne crede principibus_," said the stranger, "is no more worthy of acceptance than _ne crede feminis_."

"Chosen friend of my soul, sworn brother of my heart," exclaimed the Knight, "I conjure thee to tell me what thou knowest or dost suspect of these mysterious circumstances."

"Thou hast borne, beloved friend, a cross, whereof thou knewest not. You were betrayed, like him whose name you bear even in the house of your friends."

"A light begins to dawn upon my mind. And Sister Celestina--"

"Aye, Sister Celestina, or, as she must now be called, the Abbess of St. Idlewhim, was the traitress. Yet, why call I her so? She did but obey her vow."

"May it please thee, Albert, to be more explicit?"

"Know, then," said the stranger, "that it was in consequence of representations from Sister Celestina thou wast recalled."

"How knowest thou this to be true?"

"Ask me not, for that I dare not reveal; but I swear, by the bones of Loyola, and by our mutual friendship, that it is the sincere truth. Father ---- (I will not breathe his name, he added, looking cautiously around,) loves thee not. Thou wert in his way, and he had thee removed from England. He is strong now and fears thee no longer, and has had thee sent ignominiously home, seizing hold of the idle suspicions of a woman as a pretext."

"I see now," said the Knight, "reasons for her conduct, which at the time seemed inexplicable. But what reported Celestina to him?"

"Recollect you your offer to join the congregation?"

"It was but a stratagem."

"But so could she not understand it. Besides, she mistrusted thine intimacy with Winthrop, and his influence over thee."

"I loved the man for his gracious qualities, heretic though he be; but he never influenced me."

"The intense zeal of Celestina, guided only by her womanly instincts, was unable to comprehend thy feeling. She communicated her suspicions to the Father, and it was his pleasure to receive them as truths and act accordingly. It was the father who wrote the letters, signing thereto feigned names, and charging thee with crimes as feigned. It was he who, to avert suspicion from our order (for news had come that the jealousy of the prick-ear'd heretics was aroused, and that they were on sharp look-out for Catholics,) hesitated not to slander the Sister, his own confidential agent, trusting, by the magnitude and foulness of the charges, so to fill the minds of your judges, that other surmises would be thrust out, and thus the ground be preserved for further operations."

"I understand," said the Knight, "that my successor has departed."

"He has gone. Sister Celestina, in her elevation, forgets her temporary humiliation, and Sir Christopher Gardiner--"

"Is the victim of a woman's suspicions and of a monk's policy. Albert, I thank thee; my mind is now at ease, and I shall no longer beat the air in vain attempts to discover my accusers; unsubstantial figments of the Father's imagination. But why told you me not on my arrival in London, when I did so eagerly search for the infamous varlets who had attempted to attaint my honor, and when vain, of course, were my exertions?"

"I was not then permitted. And now, I rely upon thy discretion to bury the secret in thy breast. Any other course might be fatal to us both."

"Fear me not," said Sir Christopher. "I have been examining my heart, and find I bear no malice against the holy Father. It was time we should be removed, and the means, though harsh, were politic; for suspicions of our being Catholics were rife, and what may sound strangely, our friendship, Albert, served to confirm them."

"Explain thy meaning."

"Out of my love to thee, and as a remembrancer for myself, I had made a note in my pocket-book of the time and place of thy admission into the holy Catholic Church, of the taking of thy scapula, and of thy degrees, whereunto I had appended no name. This book escaping from my pocket, was found and delivered to my judges, and considered pregnant proof against me."

"The writing was a great imprudence," said the stranger.

"_Confiteor_, and whatever shame I may have endured I accept as the fitting punishment of my sins. Alas! my individual sorrows are swallowed up in grief at the thought of the condition of the Church. How doth she sit like a widow in affliction! The flood-gates of error are opened, and the world is deluged with impure streams. When I look on the marble images of the crusaders, lying with crossed legs upon their tombs around us, and on the cold faces of the abbots and mitred bishops, standing in solemn dignity in their niches, they seem saddened and indignant at a reverse that hath changed the very temple erected by Catholic piety over their ashes, and wherein the incense of acceptable worship was offered unto the Lord, into a place of resort for impious and deluded heretics with their tasteless rites. Here, with these mournful monitors around me, I cannot indulge in private resentment while my heart is breaking for the sufferings of my people."

"It is a holy and a commendable frame of mind, my brother," said the stranger. "O, if the spirit that animates thee were universal in our order, how might the wilderness of the world be made to blossom as the Rose of Sharon, and the lamentations of Sion be converted into songs of deliverance!"

* * * * *

THE LOST HUNTER:

A TALE OF EARLY TIMES.

_By the Author of_ "THE KNIGHT OF THE GOLDEN MELICE."

12_mo_. $1.25.

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