Freston Tower

CHAPTER L.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

In the midst of the festivities of Christmas, when the various out-door rustic frolics, such as breaking the stoutest stick, sliding the farthest on a piece of ice, snowballing, tracking the hider, and building up the snow man to be shot at, had passed away, and the song and the dance within the mansion were beginning to soften all hearts, a beggar was announced by the porter, as desirous of partaking of the crumbs of the lord's table.

'Make way for the traveller!' was the immediate order of De Freston; 'let the weary-footed man walk in. Go, several of you, and assist him hither. We shall enjoy ourselves the more, the more free the hospitality we offer.'

An old man, with grey, straight, silken locks, came in, supported by others, almost perished from cold; and with shivering limbs and weeping eyes, he was placed near the crackling fire. He sat down, or was rather assisted to be seated, when, opening his eyes, the first thing he fixed them upon was the now animated face of De Freston's bloodhound.

That animal had become on a sudden wide awake, and his full, piercing, lion-like eye, was no longer dull, heavy, and torpid. The dog's whole frame became animated, and he growled with a most discontented grumble at the attention shown to the beggar.

The man was, as most well-initiated beggars are, well versed in words, both of complaint, entreaty, thankfulness, and murmuring, and knew how to adapt his speech to the company he was in. The very instant, however, that he spoke in such a plaintive interceding way, Saracen, the bloodhound, gave such a deep-toned, dissatisfied bark, that, had a lion roared in the hall, the people could not have been more effectually startled.

It had the effect of turning all eyes upon the beggar, who assuredly was more disturbed at the confronting stare of the bloodhound, than at the scrutiny of any of the company before him. His was no dissembled terror at the dog, for he evidently betrayed such a fear of him, both in word and deed, that the Lord De Freston was compelled either to remove the beggar from the dog, or the dog from the beggar.

The latter appeared the most hospitable step, and the one most satisfactory to the beggar, who smiled when he saw his dreaded enemy led off to his kennel. That enemy, however, could not be taken away without giving such an indication of his displeasure as, but for the interference of De Freston, would probably have been of the most serious consequence; for, as the two keepers came to lead him away, before they had fairly secured them, he flew at the beggar, and rolled him off his seat in a moment, and then looked at his master as if for instructions to destroy him.

De Freston struck the dog, who gave such a piteous howl, as pierced the very extreme recesses of the castle, and so touched the heart of Ellen that she flew to soothe her favorite, and succeeded. She, in fact, led him away from the victim of his rage.

There were many in that hall who looked upon the circumstance as ominous of calamity, though the Lord De Freston, despising all such old wives' fables, was above any superstitions of the kind.

The fool, however, though not superstitious, saw something abhorrent in the beggar, and resolved to keep his eye upon him; for he said to himself: 'There are many strangers here to-night; why did not the bloodhound tackle them?'

But the festivities went on; the drum, and flute, and bagpipe did their parts, and groups of merry dancers whirled their partners through the strange hop of the age, much resembling the dance of sailors on board a man-of-war. The more stately set dance of the nobility was not imitated by the people, and in these Christmas frolics no mask was allowed.

As the dance went on, the old beggar revived from his warmth, and fixed his eyes upon Abdil Foley, and somehow contrived to let him see that he claimed his attention. He thought he was unobserved, but the watchful fool had kept him in his eye, and now felt convinced that there was more than one demon in the room. Abdil contrived gradually to draw up to the fire-place, and the beggar dropped his staff.

'Pick it up, young man,' said he; and as he gave it him he said—

'Father Duncan is here.'

The guilty Abdil looked at the beggar narrowly, and saw in a moment, beneath the disguise, the ever watchful priest of St. John the Baptist, Father Confessor to Alice De Clinton, and the craftiest Jesuit who ever set foot into the diocese of Norwich.

'Go and join in the dance, Abdil; shake off thy melancholy; I will set thee free.'

Abdil went; he suddenly shook off his melancholy—for he was bid to do so, and by a priest—so that he became, if not in reality, yet apparently, an altered man.

The fool observed it, and kept his watch the more closely upon him, as his altered behaviour seemed to him entirely owing to the beggar's speech.

Lord De Freston, in his attentions to his people, had for a time forgotten the attack upon the beggar by his bloodhound, and now, seeing the old man interested in the dance, he walked towards his seat, and entered into conversation with him.

'I hope thou hast recovered from the terror which my savage hound occasioned.'

'Thanks to thee, I feel myself better. He is a faithful dog.'

'He is, indeed; and singular in him, he never attempts to attack any one who is not a stranger—quite a stranger to this country. He has never smelt thy foot before.'

'I am a stranger from Lancashire, and poor enough; but I have a vow upon me to visit Latimer's Tower on the Christmas Day after Cardinal Wolsey's death.'

'Ha! how knewest thou that the Tower was ever Latimer's Tower.'

'That is easily explained. Though I am a beggar, a pilgrim, a wanderer from a far country, yet I was a monk at York, who had to do penance for my sin, and the penance laid upon me was that, from the moment that the death of Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop of York, should take place, be it whensoever it might, or I be wheresoever I might be, I should start barefoot for the birth-place of Wolsey, and there remain until Christmas Day next succeeding, and that upon that day I should visit a certain tower, designated, by the Cardinal himself, Latimer's Tower, and affix in the window of the fifth story this illuminated cross.

'That I was to ask permission of thyself so to do the one hour before midnight. I have scarcely had time to walk the distance, as you see me, noble lord; but humbly crave it, as the completion of my vow, to perform the task.'

'Folly though I think all such vows to be, both in those who exact and those who perform them, I cannot forget that the time was when I myself, like thee, thought it part of a good Catholic's devotion to impose such vain works of penance upon myself.

'I pity thee sincerely, stranger, but will aid thee effectually in thy task, though I wish most heartily that thou mayest be enlightened to see thine error.' The pilgrim crossed himself devoutly.

CHAPTER LI.

THE INCENDIARY.

The dance continued merrily and cheerily, and every one enjoyed the Christmas cheer; till at last the castle horn blew, and friends who lived near parted with good humor from those who were to remain the night.

'Friends,' said De Freston, 'farewell! Our love go with you.'

Little did any who departed think they were the last words they should ever hear from the lips of that generous nobleman. The bustle of departure had scarcely been over before Ellen and Latimer, Cavendish and other friends, were surprised to hear Lord De Freston give an order such as they never had heard upon such an occasion before:

'Torches for the Tower!'

'Torches for the Tower, father!' exclaimed Ellen; 'what! on this night?'

'Yes, my daughter, it is but fitting that we should have due regard to the prejudices of strangers:

'Torches for the Tower!

'And, Ellen, wrap thyself well up in thy wintry woollen mantle, and accompany me thereto. This stranger has a vow upon him which we must see performed. It is one enjoined by thine early friend, Thomas Wolsey.'

This was sufficient for Ellen, but Cavendish, his gentleman usher, house secretary, and most humble servant, said—

'Who is the stranger? what is the vow?'

'You may inquire of him anything you will.'

'Old man,' said Cavendish, 'what is thy name?'

'My name is Duncan.'

'Monk of York, who, on a celebrated Palm Sunday, on which we all went in procession to our Lady's Chapel, didst conduct thyself disorderly, licentiously, and insultingly to my Lord Cardinal, and wast ordered to be confined for the lifetime of my master?'

'I am he—the same—and was then to perform the vow which thy master named, and which, now he is dead, I am come to fulfil.'

'I do not remember that part of thy sentence.'

'This was imposed upon me at the suggestion of our Superior, the venerable D'Annerat.'

'It is well—it is well—my poor master is dead, and the Superior might have obtained this penance from my master without my knowledge, and it is not unlike him. Hast thou no proof thereof?'

'This,' said the cunning Duncan, 'this,' and he showed him a glass cross, with the arms of the Cardinal in the centre, and the whole capable of illumination by a phosphoric matter, with which it had been washed inside.

Cavendish asked him so many questions of York, of its monastery, cathedral, neighborhood, palace, castle, and people, that he became convinced he was at York during the time of his master's presence therein. He gave, therefore, implicit credence to the man's words, and intimated to Lord De Freston that he could vouch for the truth of the man's statement.

Torches were brought, two men appointed to attend the aged devotee, and to assist his steps, whilst Lord De Freston, Ellen, and Latimer, with Cavendish, prepared to walk through the snow, which had then fallen deep, to the porch of Freston Tower.

Old Saracen howled most piteously as the torches passed over the drawbridge, and neither the orders for silence, nor the cheerful call of De Freston, could make him cease his piteous moan, as if he were baying the torches which were accompanying his master to his tomb, instead of the light, airy, lofty, cheerful abode of his hours of meditation, recreation, and study.

It was a very unusual thing for his master to proceed by torchlight without his favorite bloodhound, and it might be the being left chained at the castle door at such a time that created Saracen's discomfiture. But his anger at the beggar was sufficient cause for De Freston to decline his services that night.

The attendants were ordered to accompany their lord, but the fool would not go. He had other game in view, for, having seen significant but secret glances pass between Abdil Foley and the beggar, he resolved to watch the former, whom he heard say—

'I must hasten to my son's room for my cloak.'

His young son was one of the undergrooms, who slept in the furthest attic, adjoining the unfrequented apartments of the castle. Reuben Styles was suspicious. The moment he heard his speech he bolted off, and took the nearest passage to the back staircase, leaving Abdil to pursue his way through the crowd; one detaining him to congratulate him upon his recovery; another joking him about the fool; another about his possession of a demon, until Reuben had fairly secreted himself beneath one of the groom's beds, before the wretched Abdil came with his lantern into the room.

He came, and alone; but breathing hard, and yet listening. His cloak lay upon the bed, and its folds were hanging down even before the face of Reuben Styles; so that he was in some trepidation lest his old foe should catch him alone, and give him an additional punishment for his curiosity. He was surprised the cloak did not move, especially as he knew that Abdil would not like to go across the park alone at night, and friends were fast departing from the hospitable roof.

At last he heard him sigh, and speak—

'Come, I must be quick! Away, ye fiends of darkness; torment me not! Now, then, for the Faith. I am glad, however, my lord and lady are not in the house. No matter, if I am revenged upon the fool. I should like to see him burning upon one of the turrets. Now, Father Duncan, thou wilt say I did it well. I must not forget my cloak upon my return. Ha! ha! ye heretics! ye will soon see a blaze!'

Those were fearful words for the fool to hear, who began to think that he was found out, and that he was to be taken wrapped up in the woollen covering of the bed, and to be burnt on the top of the turret, which was only a few winding steps from the place where he then lay.

He was relieved, however, by hearing the bolts of the door leading to the unfrequented apartments undone, and then the lock turn from its hold, and its old rusty hinges grate upon the pivots, and Abdil Foley depart, closing the door again.

'Whatever is the villain at!' thought Reuben. 'Whatever it is, he shall have it all to himself, for I will take good care he shall keep in those apartments all night. He crept from his hiding-place, bolted the door, and finding that the great key was in the lock, he turned that also, and fled down stairs again to the hall, determined to give an alarm to all the house, by saying there was a ghost in the unfrequented part of the house.

He did so, for he went into the very midst of the domestics, and told them all to go and listen, what a strange noise there was.

And, indeed, there was soon heard a strange noise: such a thundering row at the doors, and such a crackling of wood, that the poor creatures shivered with terror, and the fool himself became horrified.

'There is a demon in the house,
    There is a ghost I'm sure;
What strange, unearthly, hideous rows!
    Who can these woes endure?'

CHAPTER LII.

THE CONFLAGRATION.

Poor old Saracen continued his lamentable howl, nor could the warder silence him. De Freston himself, as he entered the porch of the Tower, said to his daughter—

'I lament leaving Saracen behind us, but we must guard this stranger.'

'Dear father, why do you brave the chill air to-night? I do not like your coming. We could surely have shown the stranger to the spot, and have seen him perform his devotions without your running the risk of cold. Pray, dear father, keep your cloak close around you. The chill air blows keenly across the Orwell, and this is a night only for the young, whose blood can be kept in circulation by exercise.'

'Thanks, my dearest child. I shall take no hurt. I have a twofold duty in this visit to the Tower. I shall see the arms of Wolsey in your favorite window, and that will be a pleasing memento of a once-learned but too ambitious man.

'The poor disguised monk, old and infirm, will also see that we have a very scientific room, and I intend to speak a few words of truth to him appropriate to this occasion. Moreover, after all our festivities to-night, I cannot tell you why, but I have feeling, a desire, a sort of indescribable wish, to look upon the tranquil seat of my fathers, from the turret, though it be only by our torches and the stars. There is tranquillity in the thought after the agitations of the hall.'

'I will say no more, dear father, but I am sorry that the night is so cold.'

'Your heart is warm, dear child; proceed with the torches.'

They entered the Tower. The deceitful monk knelt down upon the stone floor, crossed himself devoutly, and followed the torch-bearers through the various rooms to the fifth story. He came to the window. Again he knelt down, took from his bosom the cross, which in another moment, after kissing repeatedly, he affixed to the centre of the window.

Then taking his flask, which hung from his side, he pretended to take the first draught of wine which he had been allowed to touch since the moment of his making the vow until its completion. He laid the carved horn upon the table, and again seemed lost in prayer.

Deceitful villain, at that moment he was making a double signal for the destruction of two of the most magnificent houses in town and country which the banks of the river Orwell owned. But they were the seats of heretics, men adverse to the malignities, views, corruptions, lies, and impositions of the Papal power, and though very learned, very charitable, very wise, opulent, and humble, yet hostile to the hierarchy of Rome, and therefore to be tormented, persecuted, and driven from the land. The illuminated cross shone conspicuous enough to lighten the room.

'Let us leave the pious pilgrim to his own meditations and ascend to the turret, my child, for a few minutes.'

They ascended; they leaned upon the summit; but in a moment De Freston felt a chill come over him, and he said—

'Ellen, I feel dizzy, my child; support me, Latimer.'——

He fell into the arms of his son-in-law and Cavendish, who placed him upon the stone steps of the turret.

'Ellen, fetch the monk's flask of wine!'

She descended. There knelt the dissembling devotee.

'Father, I must take thy flask. My parent is suddenly taken ill.'

She waited not for his reply, nor did she see his smile. But ran hastily up again with the flask, concluding that the man would follow.

He had done his work. He descended slowly, passed through the yet ignorant torch-bearers, made his genuflections and crosses, and gave his blessing solemnly to the men, and desired them to kneel and pray in silence until he walked three times round the outside of the Tower.

The villain was soon gone, soon struck into the shades of Freston, sought the shore, and, with sturdy steps, bade defiance to pursuit. A cry, a lamentable cry, was soon heard, and all rushed from the lowest room into the air. The whole castle was on fire.

Shrieks issued from the distance, and above their heads the lamentations of one voice was heard from the lofty tower. The men were in agony, between the hastening to the castle and the call from above. Six ran toward the mansion; two, with fearful agony, ascended the Tower.

Ellen was so completely engrossed with her parent's state, that she cast not her glance over the battlements, but upon the leads, where her father's serene face was looking up as if his eyes would pierce the skies. She put the flask to his lips; she poured the wine into his mouth—he drank. For a moment he seemed to revive; he felt for his daughter's hands, he placed them in Latimer's, he kissed them; he was speechless; he looked up, and with a gentle smile upon his lips, he breathed his last.

It was at that moment the cry from the castle reached their ears; but had it been a volcanic eruption it would not have attracted the rivetted, deep rivetted devotion of the affectionate beings who then knelt at the dead De Freston's feet.

Cavendish alone, in an agony of horror, exclaimed—

'The castle is on fire!'

Nor had these words, nor the sudden spectacle, power to turn the souls of the true mourners from a greater object of their sorrow. The castle was on fire, and more, Cavendish beheld over the waters in the far distance, a blaze of light illumining the sky, and heard the distant bells of the town of Ipswich sounding their alarm to arouse the country.

It was a spectacle so appalling, that what with the woe around and near him, even he, who had seen more sorrows than his years could have been supposed to have known, was completely unnerved.

Latimer, recovering, bore his Ellen into the room beneath, where servants came screaming in wild dismay to her increased but solemn sorrowing. Latimer ordered De Freston's servants to remove their master's body into the astronomical room, and torches to be there lighted immediately.

There was no occasion for ordering furniture, for the assembling people had been some time bringing across to the Tower whatever goods and chattels could be saved from the conflagration.

Reuben Styles alone seemed to retain wisdom for ordering anything. He knew Abdil was the perpetrator, and he kept his eye upon that wing of the house, and soon saw the desperate fellow in wild and mad despair climbing over the roof, and descending by the spouts from one parapet to another. He had cut his leg severely with some broken glass, and even in the fire, the villain might be seen with bloody clothes trying to escape, and he did descend. So much broken up with the woe were the people, that those who saw him pitied him, and called to him to show him how to escape, none knowing, save the poor fool, that he was the cause of the catastrophe.

Hundreds were employed in breaking the ice and throwing water. Numbers kept arriving, but all—all in vain. Reuben Styles seemed to assume a sudden command—men obeyed him. It was he who let the bloodhound loose. It was he who, when the ruin was complete, which it was by two o'clock that dreadful night—it was he who exclaimed, when he heard that his master was dead, and the rest of his family safe—it was he who exclaimed to the people—

'Let us pursue the incendiary. I know who he is. Dead or alive let us bring him to Freston Tower. Follow me the stoutest of you all. Follow me as many as dare. Bring Saracen along with you!'

The blood-hound was not long before he was on the scent for the blood of Abdil Foley had dropped upon the snow across the moat, and when Reuben took up a portion with the snow, and rubbed it on the nose of Saracen, and tracked him on the slot, the brave dog, with one lift of his head, and a solemn, deep-toned note of recognition, pursued the villain, who, conscience-smitten, fled from the terror of his deeds.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE PURSUIT.

But when did the wicked escape? So will a man's sins follow him, and find him out at last, be they what they may. And whoever has sinned against love, whoever has injured a neighbor, whoever has been vindictive, cruel, unfeeling, or revengeful, the bloodhound of his own conscience will pursue him, and superstition, under the garb of religion, can never more shield him beneath her altars.

Abdil fled to his home. His wife, his sons, his neighbors were all gone to lend a hand, if possible, to quench his fiery work. He had been seen. He must be known. He must be taken. He could not stay there. What must he do? The very solitude of his cottage, and the distant noise of the people, all conspired against him, and the wretched man exclaimed—

'O Father Duncan! O Lady Alice! now—now—now give me absolution. I must fly to you. You must hide me in the sanctuary of your church. You must console me, or my fiery brain will burn more furiously than De Freston's Hall.'

The wretched man rested not a moment, save to drink one bitter draught of liquor which he had in his house, and then fled for Goldwell, or Cold Hall.

He had a long start—an hour's start and more of his pursuers. Ten young men, with undaunted courage, firm hands and feet, led on by Reuben Styles, and the noble bloodhound of De Freston, followed on the track. So still was the night, that Saracen's deep note could be heard for a long while by the mournful listeners at the castle.

The brave dog arrived at the door of the infatuated carpenter.

'He is right,' exclaimed Reuben, 'he is right, my bold companions, Abdil Foley is the man. He is the wretch. Find him, good Saracen, find him, boy!'

In vain they searched the house. They had well nigh been left in the lurch, for Saracen had again tracked that now well-known foot from the house, and was making his way towards the lodge.

Thither they followed with fresh excitement, as the bold dog gave but little further tongue, but seemed to settle down into a certain steady pace of pursuit. It was a longer and a stronger chase than they expected, but the spirit of Reuben was above fatigue, and he exclaimed at the lodge:

'Now, boys, go no further, you who cannot endure a long run; for my belief is, the town' (then four miles off) 'is our destination.'

Never huntsman had a braver field to follow him. Never hound less came to check. As they entered upon the strand they found the snow was less, and the scent more new and powerful, and consequently the fierce delight of Saracen was more lively. His head was higher up, as if he expected to see his victim, or else the scent of the man more recently impregnated the very air with his demoniacal stench.

A bloodhound is not swift, but he is very sure, very untired, always persevering; and though his gallop is slow, comparatively speaking, it is inexpressibly grand. So is vengeance in following the guilty.

On! on! on! Forward! forward! forward! and forward went the party, and at every step they took they could see the heavens brighter and brighter, until the light from behind, where De Freston's castle was blazing, and the lights before them illumining the whole town, might fairly be said to act almost like sunshine.

They approached the town, but Saracen halted not. Though foot-marks crossed, commingled, and became a regular path; on, on, on he kept, nor paused, nor spake, but every now and then dashed his rudder-like tail from side to side to steer him safely to the wind. But now came the proof of his sagacity.

Abdil had been ferried over the ford. In dashed the dog, and, as soon as could be, followed the hunt. Up St. Peter's Street, past the Cardinal's College, through Silence Street, Wolsey's house in St. Nicholas, past Wolsey's Shambles in the market.

On, over the Butcher's Hill, through St. Lawrence, past the Magdalene Hospital, the Pest House, St. Margaret's, St. Helen's: and now the bloodhound opes his mouth; and keeps his jaws working as if he was actually eating the scent. Hundreds joined the cry. 'Pursue the incendiary! Pursue the incendiary!' were the exclamations: and half the town appeared on fire, from the mighty glare of the noble house in Brook Street.

At the gates of Goldwell Hall, Saracen came to a check. He actually seized the handle of the porter's bell, and bit it as if it were the hand of the incendiary. That hand had been but a few minutes on and off the handle; and the rage of the bloodhound might now be seen in contrast with his previous steadiness. He gnawed at the threshold. His deep-toned voice must have echoed in the hearts of the guilty souls within; but no one answered the multitude.

That multitude, in pursuit of a then exciting and righteous cause, tried all they could to obtain a peaceable entry. They were sternly denied, though they heard voices in the Lodge.

Force was resorted to, and at last an entrance gained; but here all track was lost, for the fugitives had been drawn up into a lofty room, and thence conveyed into a secret cavern which led to the little chapel of St. John the Baptist; but the Lady Alice, with an hauteur and cold dignity, confronted and confounded the pursuers, by her calm denial, coolness, and composure.

They could search no further; for that day Abdil and Father Duncan had both escaped, and Saracen returned with his brave huntsmen and field to Freston Tower.

The castle was gone—it was a ruin. The Tower alone remained, and its sorrowful inmates were, for a season, inconsolable.

Friends came from Ipswich, the lodges and cottages were full of the Hall dependants, and the death of De Freston on Christmas Day, on the summit of Freston Tower, was the conversation of thousands until the very name became extinct.

William Latimer and the Lady Ellen lived two years in Ipswich, in the house of Edmund Daundy; Freston Tower became a noted place; Alice de Clinton, soon forgotten. The united couple, who loved each other through all their trials, retired into Worcestershire. William Latimer became a firm Protestant, the estates of De Freston were disposed of and the faithful Saracen went with his mistress to their Midland Counties home.

Cold Hall is now but a farm-house, as many of the old baronial mansions of past ages have become.

CHAPTER LIV.

THE LAST VISIT TO THE TOWER.

Latimer and Ellen visited the scene of their early attachment but once after their long and happy sojourn in Gloucestershire; and, singular enough, that once was to convey to a distant relative, of the name of Goodynge, the estate of Freston, for which he had, with earnest solicitation and very liberal offers, made repeated application.

Ralphe Goodynge, or Gooding, one of the oldest inhabitants of Ipswich, distantly connected with the family of De Freston on the female side, soon after the purchase of Freston, represented the borough of Ipswich, in conjunction with John Sparrowe. It was owing to his liberality that the Tower itself remained one of the pleasantest features of the Orwell, and the place of happy resort for many a wedding party.

In his day it became a sort of privilege for the townsmen of Ipswich to take a marriage trip to Freston Tower. Its pleasant distance from the town, the lovely park in which it then stood, and the still memorable record of the Lady Ellen, and her faithful Latimer, made 'Latimer's Tower,' a bye-word for conjugal felicity. The wonder is, that it should ever have lost this celebrity.

Whether it was that, in the lapse of years, the park became arable land, and lost the traces of hereditary grandeur, or that other possessors succeeded, who did not encourage this right of the free burgesses, and their espousals, the old distich was forgotten which said:

'No burgess on his wedding-day,
Which falls in whitethorn merry May,
Shall happy be in house or bower,
Who does not visit Freston Tower.'

For many years, a venerable old couple of the name of Sage, who had been attached to the family of the Latimers, resided in the lower compartment of the Tower, and with the assistance of their two daughters kept the rooms in such order, that it was said:

'The Sages differ in their ages,
    But all our hearts with love engage;
We pay the Sages marriage wages,
    That we in age may be like Sage.

It was to the house of this old couple, that Latimer and Ellen went after they had conveyed the estate to Mr. Ralphe Goodynge, and paid their last visit to the tower of love. Memory, fresh, clear, and hallowed, can never forget the spot where the enjoyment of that sweet thought, the making another happy, was first imbibed. Whatever cares may arise, whatever troubles may have come upon us, and however much the realities of this dull world, and its daily ploddings, may have made us creatures of circumstances, we still remember, with a holiness never to be effaced, the spot of our first love.

Let stoics say what they will, or mortals without natural affection break every trace of love, every honest man, who had a heart of natural affection in his youth, cannot fail to recal, with satisfaction, the remembrance of that spot where he first became betrothed.

The soldier may have to visit foreign countries; the ambassador, foreign courts; the lawyer, courts of law; the trader, foreign ports; even the Missionary, foreign stations; the Bishop, distant sees; no man, let him be called to whatever employment he may, and be compelled therein to forsake the scenes of his early youth, can fail sometimes to remember the associations of that day, when he first ventured even to think of that partner, with whom he may have afterwards passed the meridian of life.

Everything tends to sanctify the spot. The very duties of life, in which his daily occupations may have engrossed his time, are often broken in upon by the remembrance thereof. The more mental those duties may have been, either in law, physic, or divinity, the keener or clearer will be the reflection or vision of the past. None but those whose hearts are completely given up to the idolatry of money, can forget the place of friendship,

'Where bold and brave, and modest, pure, and bland,
He sought love's friendship both with heart and hand.'

Let his calling be ever so high and sacred, there is no sin in looking back upon that spot and those thoughts of days gone by, though he may well know that he can never enjoy them again. He may even feel thankful that he never can. He may never even desire so to do, and yet never undervalue the heavenly permission which then sanctioned his betrothment, and witnessed his espousals.

If the dear place be gone from him; if others possess it; if fathers, mothers, brothers, and friends, who smiled upon our days of love, and shared their freedom with us, be all departed—can we forget them? No! memory is vivid in love. But are there no sorrows commingled therewith? no remembrances of mortal heart-burnings, affronts, failings, differences, wants of temper, accusations, or disputations? Smooth must have flowed the channel of life, if nothing of this kind can be remembered. But if they can, and the God of mercy has softened the heart with tears of repentance for those past, unruly, or discordant intruders, let not the honest lover repine or despair, that he cannot alter the past. His love is true, though the very earth may banish him from the spot.

But what sensations crept over Latimer and the Lady Ellen as they stood at the foot of the Tower, for the last time!

'Philosophers maintain, dearest husband, that we ought not to encourage any of those sensations which touch upon the melancholy moments of the past. They would have us shake off the memory of anything in which we have once delighted; but they appear to me to think there is no pleasure at all in reflection. Now, though sorrow may sadden the present moment, there is a species of unalloyed pleasure in the remembrance of those days, and in revisiting those scenes where we once imbibed the happiness of conversation with those we loved. What say you, dearest husband?'

'Say, my love, that no hours can be sweeter than those so employed, saving, shall I say, those of which we speak; but would not that be ungrateful? We cannot go back again except in thought; we cannot retread the steps we have trodden years ago with the same objects we then had in view; but that is no reason why we should encourage bitterness in our souls, unless we have some bitter accusations of conscience to afflict us. I do not remember even the building of this Tower with any regret. Here it stands; the object of its erection was one of regard, dearest Ellen, for thyself; but if thou art not more esteemed by me than the Tower, or the domain around it, then should I deeply regret, perhaps, the surrender of our right and title to the estate.'

'I thank thee, dearest—I thank thee; and yet thou canst not quite feel as I may do the vivid recollections of a father's love. I think of him who loved me with a tenderness which seemed to be the deeper because of my mother's early loss. Ah! Latimer, he was as a father and a mother unto me!'

'But he can be no longer such, dearest Ellen, and neither art thou so situated as to require it. The wind was tempered to the shorn lamb.'

'And so is it now; and I do not complain. I do but think; and, as we learn to part with childish trifles without regret as we grow in years, so, dearest husband, must we learn to part with things to which our affections become more attached, inasmuch as they are more powerful objects of attraction.'

'Yes, Ellen, and the more submissively to the Divine will we school our hearts in the course of our journey, the less those pangs of parting afflict us, and the sweeter are our hopes of rest. The mansion itself, which held its lord, is gone; the Tower alone remains. It has lasted until thy father's generation and name are gone, and, in the lapse of a few years more, even the memory of ourselves, and of all we have seen and known here, must pass away.'

'But thou hast not forgotten the stipulation that, as long as the Tower can stand, it shall be preserved.'

'No, our friend Ralphe Goodynge has guaranteed that thou shalt have full right and title, as long as he holds the estate, to a resident, rent-free therein, whomsoever thou mayst appoint, and that he will pay a certain monthly dole unto any person or persons inhabiting the spot, to keep the rooms and furniture in cleanly order for thyself or for thy friends, during the term of thy natural life.

'He binds himself, moreover, to keep the said Tower an repair during his possession of the estate, and that as long as the name of Latimer can be remembered in Ipswich, it shall be designated "Latimer's Tower." So you see, dearest, we shall still have a name and a possession on the banks of the Orwell.'

'Why this should be such a pleasure to me, thou msyest easily guess. Not that we shall often revisit this spot, yet when we speak thereof, the thought of having friends to whom our early days were known, and the father and mother of our faithful servant still resident herein, will be pleasant to us, though we may be away from them. Does Ralphe Goodynge bind his successors?'

'No, not beyond the possession of his right and title to the estate; and this I think but fair. He has no objection, as a relative, to make this spot a pleasant place of remembrance both for friendship and affection's sake; but he will not undertake to bind upon others that which he conceives only to concern himself. I do not think this unreasonable. It is not, Ellen, as if it were a place of public resort, or a place dedicated to any special purpose, either to religion or to the administration of justice, or even to public entertainment. It was built for thee, and unless in future generations it could be devoted to similar purposes, and that is not likely, for it is not his intention to rebuild the mansion, I see no reason why he should be expected to preserve it. There will not be another Ellen De Freston to inhabit it.'

Whether this was gratifying or not to Ellen, she did not reply, but, with a sigh, she leaned upon her husband's arm, as they entered the Tower. There are feelings, sensations, ideas, thoughts, and reflections, which cannot be spoken, and perhaps are never less able to be uttered than when we feel perfectly conscious that we have, even near to us as life, a being who can fully appreciate all we might express. A sigh, if it could be defined, would speak perhaps an eloquence as yet unknown.

There is a spirit speaking in a sigh
Which words convey not unto human ears.
That which it is not, mortal tongues may speak:
That which it is, no words were ever found
To give its meaning to the list'ning world.
The world!—oh no! the world would never hear
The sigh of pure affection in the soul,
Contrition's sigh, or aspiration's sound,
The wish for things unseen, though not unfelt
The thought of being perfect, or of hope
Of gaining that perfection which delights
In joyful innocence, of bliss untold—
I speak not of the sigh of deep regret
For sins innumerable—groans, indeed!
Unutterable groans those sighs become.
And well become the guilty hearts of men;
And if sincere, the Comforter will come
With holy calmness to the troubled soul,
And give it peace. There is a sigh for bliss—
Yes, seraph's blissfulness—to speak with those
With whom we held communion on earth,
On things of Heaven—can that sigh be told?
No, 'tis the thought of immaterial light,
Brighter than sun's most fervid-glowing ray,
In clearest atmosphere of brilliant day.

We may suppose such a sigh to have escaped the heart at Ellen, as she entered the Tower, where she had spent so many happy hours with her affectionate father. It was Latimer's care to improve even those moments of meditation with the language of truth, and his masculine mind then showed itself well worthy of the admiration Ellen had given it. Never perhaps did she feel or own him to be her lord and master so powerfully as during the short converse they had in the favorite room of their favorite Tower.

To strengthen the human mind with words of pious resignation; to point to the wisdom displayed for human reformation and human happiness, was then the duty, and the pleasure, and the comfort of a humble, honest-hearted husband. Perhaps some would sigh to hear that conversation; perhaps it might instruct and improve many a human heart. Let only the effects be told.

Latimer and Ellen descended the steps of the Tower even happier than they ascended; for whilst, like many a faithful couple in this world, descending into the vale of years, conscious of ten thousand blessings which they received, for which they can only be thankful, even whilst they own themselves unworthy thereof, so their calm spirits ascend higher as their years descend. So did Latimer and Ellen proceed on their way to the cottage. At that cottage they learnt a lesson such as they never forgot, which made even this visit to the Tower memorable to their last days.

CHAPTER LV.

THE LAST EVENT.

The last event generally finishes a long series of virtues, blessings, providences, crosses, afflictions, or crimes; and if the last event which can happen to poor mortality be the best, the life must have been one of such tribulation that the event which is to terminate it can only be a submissive and a happy one.

The last chapter of many a hook may afford us pleasure or pain according to the spirit of the foregone narrative. Some think an entertaining book terminates well with a marriage; and most novels, which feed the passions or entertain the fancy, do so terminate. In such case, they begin with the anticipation of the event, and the only novelty is, the varied way in which the thing is wrought up, so as to bring about the sure termination.

There is a taste for style of composition—for variety of incidents—for the parts of speech, and for the sentimentality of a work, which may be very gratifying, but the impressions upon the whole are evanescent. The acme of writing is to improve the heart with such solid good sense as shall make the things written of not easily forgotten. Hence, things true to nature are awakening and striking: whilst things, however marvellous, which are unnatural, being worked up too highly, clog the appetite, and vitiate, if they do not totally destroy, the palate.

Plain matter-of-fact things are, therefore, more startling a great deal than the representations of the most vivid fancy or imagination.

There stand the venerable old Tower by the Orwell's side in the midst of the trees, grown old, and grey, and useless. There it stands as it stood centuries ago; but it may not stand many more. It may stand a long time after the hand which writes the record of these events may be unable to pen a line—but it will not stand a hundred thousandth nor a million of a million parts of the time, compared with the endurance of the spirit which dictates these pages, be they for good or for evil.

When the old Tower shall have fallen, these pages will serve to show that it once existed: but it does exist at this time, and any man may see it who will, and trace its aptitude to the scenes, and the events herein described.

The happy couple who had left their horses in the care of one of the old tenants of the Hall farm, now walked towards the village church, which at that time stood on the verge of the western side of the park palings. Indeed, the knoll upon which the building had been raised, was given by the Lord De Freston, as his offering to the memory of St. Peter, and was subject to the Priory of that name in Ipswich, which had to furnish a priest to discharge the duties thereof.

Their faithful domestic, who lived with them at the time they married, and who was with Ellen in the Tower on the memorable night of St. Ivan's funeral, had married and settled with her sailor husband at the Bourne Ford, at that time the Pilot's Home, close by Bourne Bridge. She had lost her husband in the second year of her marriage, and through the kindness of the Lady Latimer, had been received into her house in Gloucestershire. She had also journeyed with them into Suffolk, and was upon a visit to her parents, Joseph and Ann Sage, who had at that time a cottage near the church.

It was Joseph's occupation to fell timber for repairs, and to see that the boundaries of the estate were well fenced in, and, especially the park and church palings, in good repair. The old man was full of grief at the news brought him by his daughter, that the Lady Ellen was about to convey the estates of her father into the hands of the Goodynge family, not from any distaste to the purchasers, but because the names of De Freston and Latimer were so pleasant to the daily associations of the good old man, that he had flattered himself he should live to serve one of their name and descent.

He was agreeably surprised when informed, by Ellen, of the reservation of the Tower for his residence, and of the monthly sum to be paid, whensoever he should choose to give up the labors of his life to his son, and retire with his two daughters to the Tower.

It was whilst Latimer and Ellen were seated in the old man's neat kitchen, parlor, hall, or keeping-room, and had just made his heart beat for joy at these tidings, that a miserable object of human beggary tapped at the door, and asked if old Joseph Sage lived there.

Joseph himself went out to see him, and not wishing his noble visitors to be disturbed by such a person, he closed the door after him, and stood erect before the beggar.

A pale, thin, haggard, miserable-looking creature, without shoes, or woollen hose, with tattered rags, and torn skin, with a countenance, the lines of agony, more than of age, seemed to have shrivelled into deformity, stood before him.

'What want you with me?' asked the old woodman.

'Pity!' replied the beggar.

'In what shape: in money, food, or raiment?'

'In neither.'

'In what, then?'

'In a coffin.'

Old Sage started, for in verity there appeared more truth in the man's application for this thing, than in the hundreds of petitions which beggars usually made. It made the old man feel conscious, likewise, that there was something more earnest in this beggar's petition, than if he had sought alms at his hand.

It is not often that a man asks for his own coffin, even if he be too poor to purchase one. The very novelty of the thing made the hearer say, and that without any unfeeling intention, 'You must come into the shop, to my son,' and he walked with him.

Scarcely could the beggar totter to the little out-house where the son, who was soon to be the successor of Joseph Sage, was at work.

'I have a singular customer here, my son; a beggar applying to me for his coffin.'

'Send him away, father, he is only an impostor,' replied the son.

'I am no impostor, young man,' replied the beggar. 'Only just let me rest on your bench, and I will soon convince you thereof.'

The beggar entered, but, unable to lift himself to sit upon the bench, he staggered, and fell upon a heap of shavings and chips which lay under the casement of the shop.

It seemed, indeed, that he would want a coffin, for exhausted nature had well nigh extinguished the lamp of life, as the wretched man uttered a groan of distress which no impostor could have imitated.

It was not a loud one; it was not a plaintive, whining, acquired, dissembling one. It was a real faint utterance of the spirit of the wretched actually in the distress of death.

'Run, my son, and ask thy mother for a little of her help; and bring hither my cloak and a good woollen blanket; then to thy neighbor Benns, whose skill as a leech may be of service. The man shakes with cold; but hush, my son, disturb not the Lady Latimer. Be quick.'

His son was off in an instant, and the good old mother, with her bottle of cordial and blanket, soon obeyed the dictates of charity.

The beggar was grateful. He revived. He looked at old Sage, and said—

'Do you not know me?'

'No!'

'I know you both. Ah! father!—ah! mother!—ah! my friends!—ah! my village! 'Tis here! here—here—I was born, and here I die.'

'And who are you?'

'Who? Do you not really know me? I am glad you do not. I am glad you do not. If you did, you would set these shavings on fire, and burn me to death; but I should not be dead. No, I should not be dead; but burn, burn, burn, for ever!'

'Poor man, he is mad.'

'No, mother, I am not mad—I wish I was mad! I wish I could be mad! I wish that my madness could quench my grief, mother. If I were mad, I should not have come here. No, I am not mad!'

'Who art thou, my son? And what is the matter with thee?'

'Hush! mother. I will tell thee who I am, but do not whisper it in the village. Let me die first. Oh! when shall I die? when? when? when?'

'But who are you? Shall I send for our priest to shrive you?'

'Mother, I have been shriven many times. I have been absolved over and over—over and over—for my sins. I have had hours of penance, fasting, and prayer, from morning to night. I have been shut up in the shrine of St. Peter for a month. Priests have prayed with me, talked to me, even extolled me, mother, and told me all my sins were pardoned but if they were, they would not surely burn me as they now do. Oh! how they scorch—how they glare upon me now, more fiercely than ever! Oh! mother, give me a little water. Throw some on my face, my hands, my feet.'

'There, there, my poor soul! do not despair! do not despair! Come, come, be pacified. But who art thou?'

The poor man looked wildly round, and, just at that; moment, Latimer and Ellen, who had heard something of the event, came to see if they could not, like ministering angels, give comfort to the sick.

The instant the beggar saw them, he rose half up from his bed of shavings, lifted up his hands, and gave such a wild, piercing, agonising shriek, as made every heart quail before him. After the shriek succeeded a long stare—a wild, yet fixed eye was rivetted upon the face of Ellen, and then, as they all stood motionless with astonishment, then succeeded that which never, till that very moment, gave the wretched soul of the man relief. It was a tear. It was soon followed by another, another, and another; a stream succeeded, and, as it flowed on, the head fell back, and the dying man was exhausted.

The scene did not destroy the courage or disturb the spirit of Latimer. He knelt down; he beckoned them all to do the same. His Ellen knelt with him, and his quiet prayer was uttered with such truly humble, placid, and composed voice, that the pacified spirit of the dying man seemed lightened up with comfort.

He turned his eyes up toward them, and, with an imploring look, such as showed the depth of the earnestness of his repentance, he said—

'Forgive poor Abdil Foley!'

In one moment all the mystery was solved. Here lay the wretched, dying man, who, worked upon by superstition, bigotry, and malevolence, had destroyed the noble mansion of De Freston, fled to the remorseless Alice De Clinton, and her dark and treacherous flatterers, who had sent him from monastery to monastery throughout the kingdom, with every species of invention and applause, bribe and threat, intimidation and imposition; but who could never obliterate the memory of his guilt, nor satisfy his soul for the injury he had done to his best friends and supporters.

How true is it, that no severities of outward discipline can wash out the stains of guilt within. He who wickedly designs the injury of his benefactor, be he prompted by whom he will, or under whatever promises, or workings of flattery, or delusion, he may either imagine to be lawful, or be taught that it is so, will find that his wicked spirit can have no rest. Repentance must bring him to the confession which no sophistry whatsoever can lull.

It was Latimer's and Ellen's duty now to teach him that forgiveness belonged not to them; though they, as far as they could, forgave him freely for the cruelty he had shown towards them. Nor did they lose the opportunity of pointing out to him the depth of that sin of which he had been guilty, nor the folly of seeking to make his own atonement. They acted the part of the good Samaritan towards him, and though the time of his existence was short, they had the satisfaction of finding that the miserable man received consolation.

He died shortly after their interview, and was buried in Freston churchyard, where the record of the incendiary, his flight, remorse, repentance, and death, formed the subject of many a conversation with old Joseph Sage and his friends in Freston Tower.

Latimer and Ellen returned into Gloucestershire, where they lived beloved, courted, and caressed by many friends, who valued their literary attainments. With the modesty of true greatness, they sought retirement, and were happy in the even tenor of their latter days.

They had endured afflictions, they had seen greatness, and popularity, and ambition, and vain-glory, brought down to sorrow and death. They lived to see pride overthrown in high places, and many in the midst of the fatness of plenty rendered unhappy. They had suffered their portion of persecution, and had borne themselves with uncommon wisdom through the trial. They were not called upon to suffer more.

Freston Tower passed from the hands of the Goodynges to the Wrights, then to the Thurstons, Tarvers, Formereaws, and others. It is now in the possession of Archdeacon Berners, of Wolverstone Park, on the banks of the Orwell.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.