Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (230 page)

The four walls only of this noble hall marked its former grandeur, not a fragment of either roof, or floor, remaining; the ground, upon which Willoughton immediately looked, having been the foundation of a chamber, or hall, for domestic and inferior guests, under the great one, which was eighty-six feet in length, and forty-five in width.

Those walls, where gorgeous tapestry had hung, showed only the remains of doorways and of beautiful gothic windows, that had admitted the light of the same sun, which at this moment sent the last gleam of another day upon Willoughton, and warned him, that another portion of his life too was departing.

The melancholy scene around him spoke, with the simplicity of truth, the brevity and nothingness of this life. Those walls seemed to say— “Generations have beheld us and passed away, as you now behold us, and shall pass away. They have thought of the generations before their time, as you now think of
them,
and as future ones shall think of you. The voices, that revelled beneath us, the pomp of power, the magnificence of wealth, the grace of beauty, the joy of hope, the interests of high passion and of low pursuits have passed from this scene for ever; yet we remain, the spectres of departed years and shall remain, feeble as we are, when you, who now gaze upon us, shall have ceased to be in this world!”

“Why, here is a stone bench yet in this old window,” said Mr. Simpson; “and a pleasant window it is still. This homely bench has outlived all the trappings of the castle, though, I dare say, it was little valued in their time!”

“You see, Sir,” said the old man, “it belongs to the wall itself; else it would have been carried off long ago.”

Willoughton turned at the now repeated voice of this stranger, whose intrusion he did not entirely like, though his knowledge of the castle might be useful, and his conduct did not appear to be ill-meant. To an inquiry, whether he lived in the neighbourhood, he answered, “Hard by, Sir, in Kenilworth. I saw you was a stranger, Sir, and thought you might like to know a little about the castle here; and, unless you hap to light on such a one as me, you may go away as wise as you came — for, you will know nothing. No offence, I hope, Sir.”

“No, no; no offence at all;” replied Willoughton; “and since you are so well acquainted with this spot, let me hear a little of what you know of it.”

“Ay, let us hear what you have to say,” said Mr. Simpson.

Willoughton, turning as he heard this, perceived his friend seated in the recess he had before noticed. Much remained of the beautiful stone-work of this bay-window, and it now showed itself upon the glowing west, where the sun had just descended, behind the dark woods of the valley. He advanced into it, and looking out upon the scenery, was interested by the stillness and solemnity that began to prevail over it. At some distance down the steep bank on which the castle stands, he could distinguish fragments of the walls that once surrounded it, with here and there some remains of a tower, or a banqueting-house. The ground below seemed marshy, but pasture of a better green stretched up the opposite slopes, and mingled with the woods, that, on every side, shut out the world! This valley seemed the home of a composed melancholy.

“But where,” said Willoughton, “is the noble lake that, in Leicester’s time, surrounded this castle, on which, as you may have heard, Queen Elizabeth was welcomed with pageants and so much flattery?”

“Ay, where is it?” echoed Mr. Simpson, looking at the old man with an air that seemed to say, “Now we have some use for you, and will put you to the test.”

But Willoughton, without giving him time to reply, proceeded: —

“I am doomed to disappointment in Arden. For many miles, I could not discover any thing like a forest-shade, that might have sheltered a banished court, or favourite; and here not a wave of the lake, that delighted a festive one, and which might have supplied me with a floating island, moving to the sound of invisible music, or to the shells of surrounding tritons and sea-nymphs. Nay, I cannot even catch a gleam of the torches, which, on such an occasion, might have thrown their light on the woods and towers of the castle, and have quivered on the waters over which they passed.”

“No, sir,” said the old man, “it would be a hard matter to find any thing of all that now. Cromwell’s people would have knocked all that o’ the head, when they drained off the water, if such things had been there then.”

“Cromwell’s people again! However it is as well to remember them. What had the venerable scenes of Kenilworth to do with politics, or freedom? But thus it is; if even the leaders in political agitations have a better taste themselves than to destroy, for the mere sake of destruction, they let the envy and malice of their followers rage away against whatsoever is beautiful, or grand.”

So said Willoughton to his friend, who smiled, as he perceived that the indignant admirer of antiquity had allowed himself to speak of a military operation, as though it had been a popular commotion.

“Where went the line of the lake, my man of Kenilworth?” asked Simpson.

“Why, Sir, it flowed round two sides of the castle, as I have heard say; it went from the tilt-yard, all along the valley here, for half a mile, and spread out at the foot of these banks, — as wide as to the woods yonder, on the hill side.”

“What a noble sheet of water,” exclaimed Willoughton, “with lawns and woods sloping to its margin and reflected on its surface!”

“Yes, Sir, all that on the opposite side was a deer-park then, as I’ve heard from the account of some book, except that low ground further on, and that was pasture for cattle.”

“For cattle!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson,— “how they would poach such ground as that!”

“But what a beautiful picture they helped to make from the castle windows here,” said Willoughton; “when, on a summer’s noon, they lay under those shades, or stood in the cool waters of the lake.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “to such as did not value the land.”

“It was just opposite the Pleasant, yonder,” said the aged historian.

“The
Pleasant!
”

“Yes, Sir; if you look this way, I will tell you where it stood: — it was a banqueting-house on the lake.”

“O! the
Plaisance!
”

“It stood on the walls there, down in the valley, to the right of John O’Gaunt’s tower here, and not far from the Swan Tower; but it is so dusk now you can hardly see where I mean.”

Willoughton inquired where the Swan Tower stood.

“Further off, a good way, Sir; but there is nothing of it to be seen now. It stood at the corner of the garden-wall, just where the lake came up; but there is nothing to be seen of that garden either now, Sir, though we know the place where it was. Queen Elizabeth used to take great delight in the banqueting-house, as I’ve heard.”

“It was pleasantly seated;” observed Willoughton.

“Yes, Sir; but there was rare feasting and music, too, I reckon. She used to be fond of sitting in this very window, too!”

“How do you know all this, my friend?”

“Why, Sir, the place is called Queen Elizabeth’s turret, to this day, because she took such a fancy to it; and it was pleasant enough to be sure, for it overlooked the widest part of the lake; — this bench had velvet trappings enough then, I warrant.”

“I have no pleasure in remembering Elizabeth;” said Willoughton, as he turned to look for his friend.

“No! — not in remembering the wisest princess that ever reigned?” said Mr. Simpson.

“No: her wisdom partook too much of craft, and her policy of treachery; and her cruelty to poor Mary is a bloody hand in her escutcheon, that will for ever haunt the memory of her.”

“You are too ardent,” observed Mr. Simpson; “much may be said on her conduct on that head.”

“She inspires me only with aversion and horror,” replied Willoughton.

“She gives other people the horrors, too,” said the villager.

“How do you mean, friend?”

“There are strange stories told, Sir, if one could but believe them; — there are old men now in the parish, who say they have seen her about the castle here, dressed in a great ruff about her neck, just as she is in her picture; they knew her by that.”

Here Mr. Simpson, giving Willoughton a look of sly congratulation, on his having met with a person of taste seemingly so congenial with his own, burst forth into a laugh, or rather a shout, that made every echo of the ruin vocal, his friend smile, and the old man stare; who, somewhat gravely, proceeded —

“They say, too, she has been seen sitting there, in that very window, when there was but just light enough to see her by.”

“A ghost in a ruff and farthingale!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, in exultation;— “that is, surely, the very perfection of propriety in the ghost-costume;” and again the roar of laughter rolled round every turret of the castle.

“Why does that strike you as so absurd?” asked Willoughton; “this is only a ghost representing the familiar image of the person when alive. Can it be more ridiculous than the Scotch plaid for the supernatural being, whom we call a witch? And yet, when you and I used to discuss the taste of ghost-dresses, you did not object to that appearance; but justified it, as one with which popular superstition was familiar.”

“Yes,” replied Simpson; “but though the ruff and farthingale accompany our idea of Queen Elizabeth, it is of her, as a living character, not in that of her apparition.”

“And yet,” rejoined Willoughton; “if you remain in this ruin, half an hour longer, till you can scarcely distinguish the walls, you will feel less inclined to laugh at Queen Elizabeth’s ghost in a ruff and farthingale.”

“Perhaps I might,” said Mr. Simpson, “if you had not let me so much into the secret of effect in these cases. Yet I question whether it would have been possible for Elizabeth’s picture, arrayed in that ridiculous court-dress, supposing it actually to appear, to extort from me any thing but laughter.”

“They say, Sir,” said the aged man, “that she looked solemn and stern enough as she sat in that window, just where you do now, leaning her head upon her hand, or something that looked like one. She sat quite still, for some time, and old Taylor sat quite still looking at her, for he could not move; — but when she rose up and turned round, and made a motion with her hand — thus — as much as to say, ‘Go about your business!’ he thought he should have dropped, and would have gone fast enough if he could.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson; “there was the characteristical in manner, as well as in dress. This must be a true history!”

“Well, friend,” said Willoughton, “and what followed?”

“Why, Sir, then she went down this steep place you now stand upon, into the hall there, where
he
could not have gone, in broad daylight, without risk of his neck; she sank down, as it were, and he lost her awhile, it was so dark; but presently he saw her, all on a sudden, standing in that doorway there, — and I can almost guess I see her there now.”

“You are a silly old man,” said Mr. Simpson; and he looked immediately to the door.

“You would not like,” said Willoughton, smiling, “to inquire minutely into the difference between purposely avoiding to look, and purposely looking in the midst of this story;” but — turning to the old man— “what next?”

“Why, Sir, she stood in the arch some time with a very stern look; but I never rightly understood what became of her. Old Taylor said she passed away like a cloud; but then afterwards he was not sure but he saw her again, in a minute or two, in this very window.”

“And have you never been fortunate enough,” said Mr. Simpson, “to see any of those sights?”

“No, Sir, no; I hope I have no need of them; though, if I was that way given, I might have thought
I
saw things too sometimes. Once by Mortimer’s tower, down in the tilt-yard, I as good as thought I saw a man standing with a mask on his face, in a moonlight night, with a drawn sword in his hand.”

“That tower,” remarked Willoughton, “was doubtless named after Mortimer, the paramour of the infamous Isabel?”

“They say, Sir, some king was once shut up there.”

“Ay, Edward the Second, for a short time.”

“And they will tell you a power of stories of what was to be seen about that tower, before it was pulled down, and after too; but I don’t believe a word of them. People are always conjuring up strange tales when they have nothing better to do. I have got an old book at home full of them, enough to make one’s hair stand on end, if one could but make it all thoroughly out. I showed it to Mr. Timothy, the schoolmaster, and he could hardly make it out neither; but he said it was no matter, for it was full of nothing but nonsense. He read me some of it, and I could not get it out of my head again for a week.”

“Ay, it met with a thriving soil,” said Mr. Simpson, “it’s well you got the nonsense out of your head at all. But how happened you to buy a book in a language you could not read?”

“I did not buy it, Sir; and, as to the language, I could understand that well enough, but I could not read the letters; and Timothy himself bungled at the spelling.”

Willoughton inquired where this book was met with; and whether he could have a sight of it?

“Why, Sir, it was dug out of the ground, where an old chapel once stood, belonging to the Priory hard by.”

“O! I remember,” said Willoughton; “there was formerly a monastery of Black Canons at Kenilworth, founded by Geoffrey de Clinton, lord chamberlain to the first King Henry, and the founder of this same castle too: but go on.”