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It has been gravely stated by an Italian writer of celebrity,
that “the very atrocity of the crimes which are therein committed,
proves that in Italy the growth of man is stronger and
more vigorous, and nearer to the perfect standard of manhood
than in any other country.”

A strange paradox, truly, but not uningenious—at least
for a native of that “purple land, where law secures not life,”
who would work out of the very reproach, an argument of honor
to his country. If it be true, however, that proneness to the
commission of unwonted and atrocious crime is to be held a
token of extraordinary vigor—vigor of nerve, of temperament,
of passion, of physical development—in a race of men, then
surely must the Anglo-Norman breed, under all circumstances
of time, place, and climate, be singularly destitute of all those
qualities—nay, singularly frail, effeminate, and incomplete.

For it is an undoubted fact, both of the past and present history
of that great and still increasing race, whether limited to
the narrow bounds of the island realm which gave it being, or

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extended to the boundless breadth of isles, and continents, and
oceans, which it has filled with its arms, its arts, its industry, its
language—it is, I say, an undoubted fact, that those dreadful and
sanguinary crimes, forming a class apart and distinct of themselves,
engendered for the most part by morbid passions, love,
lust, jealousy, and revenge, which are of daily occurrence in the
southern countries of Europe, Asia, and America, are almost
unknown in those happier lands, where English laws prevail,
with English liberty and language.

It is to this that must be ascribed the fact, that, in the very
few instances where crimes of this nature have occurred in England
or America, the memory of them is preserved with singular
pertinacity, the smallest details handed down from generation to
generation, and the very spots in which they have occurred,
how much soever altered or improved in the course of ages,
haunted, as if by an actual presence, by the horror and the
scent of blood; while on the other hand the fame of ordinary
deeds of violence and rapine seems almost to be lost before the
lives of the perpetrators are run out.

One, and almost, I believe, a singular instance of this kind—
for I would not dignify the brawls and assassinations which have
disgraced some of our southern cities, the offspring of low principles
and an unregulated society, by comparing them to the
class of crimes is question, which imply even in their atrocity a
something of perverted honor, of extravagant affection, or at
least of not ignoble passion—is the well-known Beauchamp
tragedy of Kentucky, a tale of sin and horror which has afforded
a theme to the pens of several distinguished writers, and the
details of which are as well known on the spot at present, as if
years had not elapsed since its occurrence. And this, too, in a
country prone above all others, from the migratory habits of its
population, to cast aside all tradition, and to lose within a very

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few years the memory of the greatest and most illustrious events
upon the very stage of their occurrence.

It is not, therefore, wonderful that in England, where the
immobility of the population, the reverence for antiquity, and
the great prevalence of oral tradition, induced probably at first
by the want of letters, cause the memory of even past trifles to
dwell for ages in the breasts of the simple and moral people, any
deed of romantic character, any act of unusual atrocity, any
crime prompted by unusual or extraordinary motives, should
become, as it were, part and parcel of the place wherein it was
wrought; that the leaves of the trees should whisper it to the
winds of evening; that the echoes of the lonely hills should
repeat it; that the waters should sigh a burthen to its strain;
and that the very night should assume a deeper shadow, a more
horrid gloom, from the awe of the unforgotten sin.

I knew a place in my boyhood, thus haunted by the memory
of strange crime; and whether it was merely the terrible romance
of the story, or the wild and gloomy character of the
scenery endowed with a sort of natural fitness to be the theatre
of terrible events, or yet again the union of the two, I know
not; but it produced upon my mind a very powerful influence,
amounting to a species of fascination, which constantly attracted
me to the spot, although when there, the weight of the tradition
and the awe of the scene produced a sense of actual pain.

The place to which I allude was but a few miles distant from
the celebrated public school, at which I passed the happiest
days of a not uneventful life, and was within an easy walk of
the college limits; so that when I had attained that favored
eminence, known as the sixth form, which allows its happy occupants
to roam the country, free from the fear of masters, provided
only they attend at appointed hours, it was my frequent
habit to stroll away from the noisy playing-fields through the

[figure description] Page 378.[end figure description]

green hedgerow lanes, or to scull my wherry over the smooth
surface of the silver Thames, towards the scene of dark tradition;
and there to lap myself in thick-coming fancies, half sad, half
sweet, yet terrible withal, and in their very terror attractive,
until the call of the homeward rooks, and the lengthened
shadows of the tall trees on the green sward, would warn me
that I too must hie me back with speed, or pay the penalty of
undue delay.

Now, as the story has in itself, apart from the extraneous
interest with which a perfect acquaintance with its localities
may have invested it in my eyes, a powerful and romantic character;
as its catastrophe was no less striking than un-English;
and as the passions which gave rise to it were at once the
strongest and the most general—though rarely prevailing, at
least among us Anglo-Normans, to so fearful an extent—I am
led to hope that others may find in it something that may
enchain their attention for a time, though it may not affect
them as it has me with an influence, unchanged by change of
scene, unaltered by the lapse of time, which alters all things.

I propose, therefore, to relate it, as I heard it first from an
old superannuated follower of the family, which, owning other
though not fairer demesnes in some distant county, had never
more used Ditton-in-the-Dale as their dwelling-place, although
well nigh two centuries had elapsed since the transaction which
had scared them away from their polluted household gods.

But first, I must describe briefly the characteristies of the
scenery, without which a part of my tale would be hardly comprehensible,
while the remarkable effect produced by the coincidence,
if I may so express myself, between the nature of the
deed, and the nature of the place, would be lost entirely.

In the first place, then, I must premise that the name of
Ditton-in-the-Dale is in a great measure a misnomer, as the

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house and estate which bear that name, are situated on what a
visiter would be at first inclined to call a dead level, but on what
is in truth a small secondary undulation, or hollow, in the
broad, flat valley through which the father of the English rivers,
the royal-towered Thames, pursues, as Gray sang,


The turf, the flowers, the shades among,
His silver-winding way.
But so destitute is all that country of any deep or well defined
valleys, much less abrupt glens or gorges, that any hollow containing
a tributary stream, which invariably meanders in slow
and sluggish reaches through smooth, green meadow-land, is
dignified with the name of dale, or valley. The country is,
however, so much intersected by winding lanes, bordered with
high straggling white-thorn hedges full of tall timber trees, is
subdivided into so many small fields, all inclosed with similar
fences, and is diversified with so many woods and clumps of
forest trees, that you lose sight of the monotony of its surface,
in consequence of the variety of its vegetation, and of the limited
space which the eye can comprehend at any one time.

The lane by which I was wont to reach the demesne of Ditton,
partook in an eminent degree of this character, being very
narrow, winding about continually without any apparent cause,
almost completely embowered by the tall hawthorn hedges, and
the yet taller oaks and ashes which grew along their lines,
making, when in full verdure, twilight of noon itself, and commanding
no view whatever of the country through which it ran,
except when a field-gate or cart-track opened into it, affording
a glimpse of a lonely meadow, bounded, perhaps, by a deep
wood-side.

On either hand of this lane was a broad, deep ditch, both of
them quite unlike any other ditches I have ever seen. Their

[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]

banks were irregular; and it would seem evident that they had
not been dug for any purposes of fencing or inclosure; and I
have sometimes imagined, from their varying width and depth—
for in places they were ten feet deep, and three times as broad,
and at others but a foot or two across, and containing but a few
inches of water—that their beds had been hollowed out to get
marl or gravel for the convenience of the neighboring cultivators.

Be this as it may, they were at all times brimful of the clearest
and most transparent water I ever remember to have seen—
never turbid even after the heaviest rains; and though bordered
by water-flags, and tapestried in many places by the broad,
round leaves of the white and yellow water-lilies, never corrupted
by a particle of floating scum or green duckweed.

Whether they were fed by secret springs I know not; or
whether they communicated by sluices or side-drains with the
neighboring Thames; I never could discover any current or
motion in their still, glassy waters, though I have wandered by
their banks a hundred times, watching the red-finned roach and
silvery dace pursue each other among the shadowy lily leaves—
now startling a fat yellow frog from the marge, and following
him as he dived through the limpid blackness to the very
bottom—now starting in my own turn, as a big water-rat would
swim from side to side, and vanish in some hole of the marly
bank—and now endeavoring to catch the great azure-bodied,
gauze-winged dragon-flies, as they shot to and fro on their
poised wings, pursuing, kites of the insect race, some of the
smaller ephemera.

It was those quiet, lucid waters, coupled with the exceeding
shadiness of the trees, and its very unusual solitude—I have
walked it, I suppose, from end to end at least a hundred times,
and I never remember to have met so much even as a peasant

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returning from his daily labor, or a country maiden tripping to
the neighboring town—that gave its character, and I will add
its charm, to this half pastoral, half sylvan lane. For nearly
three miles it ran in one direction, although, as I have said,
with many devious turns and seemingly unnecessary angles,
and through that length it did not pass within the sound of one
farm-yard, or the sight of one cottage chimney. But to make
up for this, of which it was, indeed, a consequence, the nightingales
were so bold and familiar that they might be heard all
day long filling the air with their delicious melodies, not waiting,
as in more frequented spots, the approach of night, whose dull
ear to charm with amorous ravishment; nay, I have seen them
perched in full view on the branches, gazing about them fearless
with their full black eyes, and swelling their emulous throats in
full view of the spectator.

Three miles passed, the lane takes a sudden turn to the northward,
having previously run for the most part east and west;
and here, in the inner angle, jutting out suddenly from a dense
thicket of hawthorns and hazels, an old octagonal summer-house,
with a roof shaped like an extinguisher, projects into the
ditch, which here expands into a little pool some ten or twelve
yards over in every direction, and perhaps deeper than at any
other point of its course.

Beyond the summer-house there is a little esplanade of green
turf, faced with a low wall towards the ditch, allowing the eye
to run down a long, narrow avenue of gigantic elm-trees, meeting
at the top in the perfect semblance of a Gothic aisle, and
bordered on each hand by hedges of yew, six feet at least in
height, clipped into the form and almost into the solidity of a
wall. At the far end of this avenue, which must be nearly
two-thirds of a mile in length, one can discern a glimpse of a

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formal garden, and beyond that, of some portion of what seems
to be a large building of red brick.

At the extremity of the esplanade and little wall, there grows
an enormous oak, not very tall, but with an immense girth of
trunk, and such a spread of branches that it completely over-shadows
the summer-house, and overhangs the whole surface of
the small pool in front of it. Thenceforth, the tall and tangled
hedge runs on, as usual denying all access of the eye, and the
deep, clear ditch all access of the foot, to the demesnes within;
until at the distance of perhaps a mile and a quarter, a little
bridge crosses the latter, and a green gate, with a pretty rustic
lodge beside it, gives entrance to a smooth lawn, with a gravel-road
running across it, and losing itself on the farther side,
in a thick belt of woodland.

It is, however, with the summer-house that I have to do principally,
for it is to it that the terror of blood has clung through
the lapse of years, as the scent of the Turkish attar is said to
cling, indestructible, to the last fragment of the vessel which
had once contained it.

When first I saw that small lonely pavilion, I had heard nothing
of the strange tradition which belonged to it; yet as I
looked on the plastered walls, all covered with spots of damp
and mildew, on the roof overrun with ivy, in masses so wildly
luxuriant as almost to conceal the shape—on the windows, one
in each side of the octagon, closed by stout jalousies, which
had been once green with paint, but were now green with damp
and vegetable mould, a strange feeling, half of curiosity and
half of terror, came over me, mixed with that singular fascination
of which I have spoken, which seemed to deny me any
rest until I should have searched out the mystery—for I felt
sure that mystery there was—connected with that summer-house,
so desolate and so fast lapsing into ruin, while the hedges

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and gardens within appeared well cared for, and in trim cultivation.

I well remember the first time I beheld that lonely and deserted
building. It was near sunset, on as lovely a summer
evening as ever shed its soft light on the earth; the air was
breathless; the sky cloudless; thousands of swallows were
upon the wing, some skimming the limpid surface of those old
ditches, others gliding on balanced pinions so far aloft in the
darkening firmament that the eye could barely discern them.

The nightingales were warbling their rich, melancholy notes
from every brake and thicket; the bats had come forth, and
were flitting to and fro on their leathern wings under the dark
trees; but the brilliant dragon-flies and all the painted tribe of
butterflies had vanished already, and another race, the insects
of the night, had taken their places.

The rich scent of the new-mown hay loaded the air with
fragrance, and vied with the odors of the eglantine and honeysuckle,
which, increased by the falling dew, steamed up like
incense to the evening skies.

I was alone, and thoughtful; for the time, although sweet
and delicious, had nothing in it gay or joyous; the lane along
which I was strolling was steeped in the fast increasing shadows,
for although the air aloft was full of sunshine, and the
topmost leaves of the tall ashes shimmered like gold in the
late rays, not a single beam penetrated the thick hedgerows, or
fell upon the sandy horse-road. The water in the deep ditches
looked as black as night, and the plunge of the frogs into their
cool recesses startled the ear amid the solitude and stillness of
the place.

It was one of those evenings, in a word, which calls up, we
know not why, a train of thought not altogether sad, nor wholly
tender, but calm and meditative and averse to action. I had

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been wandering along thus for nearly an hour, musing deeply
all the while, yet perfectly unconscious that I was musing, much
more what was the subject of my meditations, when coming
suddenly to the turn of the lane, the old summer-house met my
eyes, and almost startled me, so little did I expect in that place
to see anything that should recall to my mind the dwellings
or the vicinity of man.

The next minute I began to scrutinize, and to wonder—for it
was evident that this building must be an appendage to the
estate of some gentleman or person of degree, and, knowing all
the families of note in that neighborhood, I was well assured
that no one dwelt here of sufficient position to be the owner of
what appeared at first sight to be a noble property.

Anxious as I was, however, to effect my entrance into that
enchanted ground, I could discover no means of doing so; for
the depth of the water effectually cut off all access to the
hedgerow banks, even if there had been any prospect of forcing
a passage through the tangled thorn-bushes beyond. Before I
could find any solution to my problem, the fast thickening
shadows admonished me that I must beat my retreat; and it
was only by dint of redoubled speed that I reached college in
time to escape the consequences of absence from roll-call.

An early hour of the evening found me at my post on the
following day; for having a direct object now in view, I wasted
no time on the road, and the sun was still some distance above
the horizon when I reached the summer-house.

It had been my hope, as I went along, that I might find
some shallow spot, with a corresponding gap in the hedge, before
reaching the place, by means of which I might turn the
defences, and take the enemy in the rear; but it was all in vain;
and I came upon the ground without discovering any opening

[figure description] Page 385.[end figure description]

by which an animal larger than a rat could enter the forbidden
ground.

Difficulty, it is well known, heightens desire; and, if I wished
before, I was now determined that I would get in. Quickening
my pace, I set off at a smart run to reconnoitre the defences
beyond, but having found nothing that favored my plans in
some half mile or so, I again returned, now bent on forcing my
way, even if I should be compelled to undress, and swim across
the pool to the further side.

Before having recourse to this last step, however, I reconnoitred
my ground somewhat more narrowly than before, and
soon discovered that one of the main limbs of the great oak
shot quite across the pool, and extended some little distance on
my side over terra firma.

It is true that the nearer extremity of the branch was rather
of the slenderest, to support the weight even of a boy, and that
the lowest point was a foot or two above my head. But what
of that? I was young and active in those days, and somewhat
bold withal; and without a spice of danger, where were the
pleasure or excitement of adventure?

It did not take me long to make up my mind, and before I
had well thought of the risk, I had swung myself up into the
branches, and was creeping, with even less difficulty than I had
anticipated, along the great gnarled bough above the mirrored pool.

Danger, in fact, there was none; for slender as the extremities
appeared, they were tough English oak; and the parent
branch once gained, would have supported the weight of Otus
and Ephialtes, and all their giant crew, much more of one slight
Etonian.

In five minutes, or less, I had reached the fork of the trunk,
and, swarming down on the further side, stood in the full fruition
of my hopes, on that enchanted ground.

[figure description] Page 386.[end figure description]

It was, as I had expected to find it, a singular and gloomy
spot; the tall elm trees which formed the avenue, and the
black wall of clipped yew which followed their course, diverging
to the right and left, formed a semicircle, the chord
of which was the low wall and hawthorn hedge, the summer-house
standing, as I entered, in the angle on my left
hand.

Although, as I have said, the sun was still high in heaven,
the little area was almost dark already; and it was difficult, indeed,
to conjecture for what end the wisdom of our ancestors
had planted a sun-dial in the centre of the grass-plat, where it
seemed physically impossible that a chance sunbeam should
ever strike it, to tell the hour.

If it had not been for the narrow open space between the oak
tree and the summer house, the little lawn would even now
have been as black as night; as it was, a sort of misty-grey
twilight, increased, perhaps, by the thin vapors rising from the
tranquil pool, filled all its precincts; and beyond these, stretching
away in long perspective until the arch at the further end
seemed dwindled to the size of a needle's eye, was the long aisle
of gloomy foliage, as massive and impenetrable to any ray of
light as the stone arches of a Gothic cloister.

The only thing that conveyed an idea of gaiety or life to
the cold and tomb-like scenery, was the glimpse of bright sunshine
which lay on the open garden at the extremity of the
elm-walk, with the gaudy and glowing hues, indistinctly seen
in the distance, of some summer flowers.

Yet even this was not all unmixed with something of melancholy,
for the contrast of the gay sunbeams and bright
flowers only rendered the gloom more apparent, and like a convent-garden,
seemed to awaken cravings after the joyous world
without, diminishing nothing of the sorrow and monotony within.

[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]

But I was not in those days much given to moralizing, or to
the investigation of my own inward feelings.

I had come thither to inquire, to see, to learn, to find out
things—not causes. And perceiving at one glance that my
first impression was correct, that the grass-plots were recently
mown, the gravel-walks newly rolled and spotless of weeds, the
tall yew hedges assiduously clipped into the straightest and
most formal lines; that everything, in short, displayed the
most heedful tendance, the neatest cultivation, with the exception
of the summer-pavilion, which evidently was devoted to
decay, I became but the more satisfied that there was some
mystery, and the more resolute to probe it to the core.

It was quite clear that when that garden was laid out, and
that avenue planted, how many years ago the giant size of the
old elms denoted, the summer-house was the meaning of the
whole design. The avenue had no object but to lead to it, the
little lawn no purpose but to receive it. Doubly strange, therefore,
did it seem that these should be kept up in all their trimness—
that suffered to fall into decay.

It was the tragedy of Hamlet, with Hamlet's part omitted!

I stood for a little while wondering, and half overcome by a
sort of indescribable fanciful superstition. A cloud had come
over the sun, the nightingales had ceased to sing, and there
was not a sound of any kind to be heard, except the melancholy
murmur of the summer air in the tree-tops.

In a moment, however, the transitory spell was shaken off,
and, once more the bold and reckless schoolboy, I turned to the
performance of my self-imposed task.

The summer-house, as I have said, was octagon, three of its
sides, with a window in each, jutting out into the clear pool,
and three, with a door in the centre, and a window on each
side, fronting the little lawn. But, alas! the windows were all

[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]

secured with jalousies, strongly bolted and barred from within,
and the door was secured by a lock, the key of which was
absent.

A short examination showed, however, that the door was
held by no bolts at the top or bottom; and the rusty condition
of both lock and hinges rendered it probable that it would not
stand a very violent assault.

Wherefore, retreating some twenty paces, I ran at it more
Etonensi, at the top of my speed, planted the sole of my foot
even and square against the key-hole, with the whole impetus
of my charge, and had the satisfaction of feeling the door fly
open in an instant, while a jingling clatter within showed
that my entrance had been effected with no greater damage
to the premises than the starting of the staple into which the
bolt of the lock shot.

Having entered thus, my first task was to repair damages,
which was effected in five minutes, by driving the staple into
its old place by aid of a great stone; my second, to provide
means for future visits, which was as speedily managed by
driving back the bolt of the lock with the same great stone;
and my third, to look eagerly and curiously about me. To do
this more effectually, I soon opened the two windows looking
upon the lawn, and let in the light, for the first time, I
fancy, in many a year, to that deserted room.

If I had marvelled much before I entered, much more did
I marvel now; for although everything within showed marks
of the utmost negligence and decay, though spiders had
woven their webs in every angle, though mildew and damp
mould had defaced the painted walls, though the gilding was
black and tarnished, though the dust lay thick on the furniture,
still I had never seen anything in my life, except the
state-rooms at Hampton Court and Windsor Castle, which

[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]

could have vied with this pavilion in the splendor of its original
decoration.

Its area was about thirty feet in diameter, and in height
nearly the same, with a domed roof, richly fretted with what
had once been golden scroll-work upon an azure ground.
The walls were painted, as even I could discover, by the
hand of a master, with copies from Guido and Caracci, in
compartments bordered with massive gilded scroll-work, the
ground between the panels having been originally, like the
ceiling, of bright azure. The window-frames had been gilded;
and the inside of the door painted, like the walls, in azure,
with pictures of high merit in the panels. Every side of the
octagon but two, the opposite walls to the right and left,
was occupied by windows or a door; but that to the right
was filled by a mantel-piece, exquisitely wrought with Caryatides
in white Carrara marble, with a copy of the Aurora above
it, while the space opposite to it had been occupied by a
superb mirror, reaching from the cornice of the ceiling.

Nearly in the centre of this mirror, however, there was a
small circular fracture, as if made by a stone or bullet, with
long cracks radiating, like the beams of a star, in all directions
over the shivered plate: and when I looked at it more closely,
I observed that it was dashed in many places with large drops
of some dark purple fluid, which had hardened with time into
compact and solid gouts.

I thought little of this at the time, and only wondered why
people could be so mad as to abandon so beautiful a place;
and why, since they had abandoned it, they did not remove
the furniture, of which even a boy's eye could detect the
value.

There was a centre-table of circular form, the pedestal of
which, curiously carved, had been wrought, like all the rest,

[figure description] Page 390.[end figure description]

in gold and azure, while the slat, when I had wiped away
with some fresh green leaves the thick layer of dust which
covered it, positively astonished my eyes, by the delicacy and
beauty of the designs with which it was adorned. Besides
this, there were divans and arm-chairs of the same fashion and
colors, with cushions which had been once of sky-blue damask,
though their brilliancy, and even their hues, had long been
defaced by the dust, the dampness, and the squalor of that neglected
place.

I should have mentioned, that on the beautiful table I discovered
gouts of the same dark substance which I had previously
observed on the broken mirror; and that there were
still clearly perceptible on one of the divans, dark splashes, and
what must, when fluid, have been almost a pool of the same
deep, rusty hue.

At the time, it is true, I paid little attention to these things,
being busily employed in the boy-like idea of putting my
newly discovered palace of Armida into a complete state of
repair, and coming to pass all my leisure moments, even to the
studying my Prometheus Bound, and composing my weekly
hexameters and Alcaics, in this sweet sequestered spot.

And, in truth, within a week I had put the greater part of
my plan into execution; purloined dusters from my dame's
boarding-house, green boughs of the old elms for brooms, and
water from the ditch, soon made things clean at least; and the
air, which I suffered so long as I was there, daily to blow
through it in all directions, soon rendered it, comparatively
speaking, dry and comfortable; and when all its windows
were thrown wide, it would be scarcely possible to find a more
lightsome or delicious spot for summer musing than that old
English summer-house.

Thus things went on for weeks—for months—unsuspected;

[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]

for I always latched the door, and secured the windows from
within, before leaving my fairy palace for the night; and as all
looked just as usual without, no one so much as dreamed of
trying the lock, to ascertain if a door were still fastened, the
threshold of which, as men believed, no human foot had
crossed since the days of the second James.

I could often, it is true, discover the traces of recent labor
in the immediate neighborhood of my discovery; I could
perceive at a glance where the grass had been newly shorn,
the yew hedges clipped, or the gravel-walks rolled, but never,
in the course of several months, during which I spent every
fine evening, either reading, or musing, or composing my boy
verses, in that my enchanted castle—for I began really to
consider it almost my own—did I see any human being on the
premises.

The cause of this, which I did not suspect until it was revealed
to me, after chance had discovered my visits to the
place, was simply this, that my intrusions were confined solely
to the evening; whereas, so great was the awe of the servants
and the workmen for that lonely and terror-haunted spot, that
nothing short of absolute compulsion, or the strongest necessity,
would have induced them to go near the place after the
sun had turned downwards from the zenith.

In the meantime, gratified by the complete success of my
first inroad, and the possession of my first discovery, I felt no
inclination to push my advances further, or to make any incursion
into the body of the place.

Every evening, as soon as I could escape from the college
walls, I was at my post, and lingered there as late as college
hours would permit. It was a strange fancy in a boy, and
stranger yet than would at first appear in this, that there was
a very considerable admixture of something nearly approaching

[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]

to fear, and that of a painful kind, in the feeling which made
me so assiduous in my visits to that old pavilion.

There was, it is true, nothing definite in my fancies. I knew
nothing—I cannot say even that I suspected anything—concerning
the mysterious closing of the place; and often, since I
have been made acquainted with the tale, I have marvelled at
my own obtuseness, and wondered that a secret so transparent
should have escaped me.

So it was, however, that I suspected nothing, although I
felt sure that mystery there was; and being of somewhat an
imaginative temper, I used to amuse myself by accounting for
it in my own mind, weaving all sorts of strange and wild
romances, and inventing the most horrible stories that can be
conceived, until, as the shadows would fall dark around me,
daunted by my own conceptions, I would make all secure and
fast with trembling fingers, swing myself back across over the
pool by my accustomed oak-branch, and run home as hard as
my legs could carry me, haunted by indistinct and almost
superstitious horror.

Thus things went on, until at the end of summer I was at
last detected in my stolen visits, and the whole mystery was
cleared up.

I remember as clearly as if I heard it now, the exclamation
of terror and dismay uttered by the old gardener, who, having
left some implement behind him on the lawn during the
morning labors, had been forced to bend his unwilling steps
back to the haunted ground to recover it.

I could not but smile afterwards, when he recounted to me
his astonishment and terror at seeing the old summer-house,
which never had been opened within the memory of man,
with all its windows wide to the free air and evening sunshine,
when he told me how often he turned back to seek aid from

[figure description] Page 393.[end figure description]

his fellows— how he almost believed that fiends or evil spirits
were holding their foul sabbath there, and how he started
aghast with horror, not now for himself, but for me, as he
beheld the young Etonian stretched tranquilly upon the bloodstained
couch— for those dark stains were of human gore—
conning his task for the morrow.

I rushed out of the place at his horrid outery; a few words
told my story, and pleaded my excuse— with the good, simpleminded
rustic little excuse was needed—but it was not till
after many sittings, and many a long afternoon's discourse,
that I learned all the details of the sad event which had converted
that fair pavilion into a place as terrible to the ideas of
the country folks as a dark charnel-vault.

“Ay,” said the old man, as he gazed fearfully about
him, after I had persuaded him at length to cross the dreaded
threshold, “Ay! it is all as they tell, though not a man of
them has ever seen it. There is the glass which the bullet
broke, after passing right through his brain; and there is his
blood all spattered on the mirror. And look, young master,
those spots on the table came from her heart; and that couch
you was lying on, is where they laid her when they took her
up. See, it's all dabbled yet; and where your head was resting
now, the dead girl's head lay more than a hundred years
since! Come away, master! come away! I never thought to
have looked on these things, though I know all about them.”

“Oh, tell me—tell me about them!” I exclaimed; “I am
not a bit afraid. Do tell me all about them.”

“Not now—not now—nor not here,” said the old man,
gazing about as if he expected to see a spirit stalk out of some
shady nook of the surrounding trees. “I would not tell you
here to be master of all Ditton-in-the-Dale! But come up, if
you will, to the great house to-morrow, and ask for old

[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]

Matthew Dawson, and I'll show you all the place—the family
never lives here now, nor hasn't since that deed was done—
and then I'll tell you all about it, if you must hear. But if
you're wise, you'll shun it; for it will chill your young blood
to listen, and cling to your young heart with a gloom for
ever.”

“Oh, I will come, be sure, Matthew! I would not miss it
for the world. But it is getting late, so I'll fasten up the old
place and be going;” and suiting the action to the word, I
soon secured the fastenings, while the old gardener stood by,
marvelling and muttering at the boldness of young blood, until
I had finished setting things in order, when I shook hands
with the old man, slipping my one half-crown into his horny
palm, and saying,

“Well, good-night, Matthew Dawson, and don't forget to-morrow
evening.”

“That I wo'nt, master,” he replied, greatly propitiated by my
offering. “But which way are you going?”

“Oh, I'll soon show you,” I replied; and swinging myself up
my tree, I was beyond the precincts of the haunted ground
almost in a moment.

“The very way he came the time he did it,” cried the old
gardener, with upturned hands and eyes aghast. But I tarried
then to ask no further questions, being quite sufficiently
terrified for one night; although my pride forbade my displaying
my terrors to the old rustic.

The next day I was punctual to my appointment; and then,
for the first time, I heard the melancholy tale which, at length,
I purpose to relate.

It was a proud and noble Norman family which had held
the demesnes of Ditton-in-the-Dale since the reign of the last
Plantagenet; a brave and loyal race, which had poured its

[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]

blood, like water, on many a foreign—many a native battle-field.
At Evesham, a Fitz-Henry had fought beside Prince
Edward's bridle-rein, against the great De Montfort and his
confederate barons; and afterwards, through all the long and
cruel wars of the Roses, on every field a Fitz-Henry had won
honor or lost blood, upholding the claims of the true sovereign
house—the house of York—until at fatal Bosworth the house
itself went down, and dragged down with it the fortunes of its
bold supporters.

Thereafter, during the reign of the Tudors, the name of Fitz-Henry
was heard rarely in the court or on the field; impoverished
in fortune by fines and sequestrations, suspected of disloyalty
to the now sovereign house, the heads of the family had
wisely held themselves aloof from intrigue and conspiracy, and
dwelt among their yeomen, who had in old times been their
fathers' vassals, staunch lovers of field-sports, true English country
gentlemen, seeking the favor and fearing the ill-will of no
man—no, not of England's king.

Attached to the old religion, though neither bigots nor zealots,
they had escaped the violence of bluff Harry, when he
turned protestant for Bullen's eyes; and had—though something
to leeward of her favor, as lukewarm romanists and no lovers
of the Spaniard—passed safely through the ordeal of Mary's
cruel reign.

But with the accession of the man-minded Elizabeth, the fortunes
of the house revived for a while. It was the policy of that
great and gracious queen to gather around her all that were
brave, honest, and manly in her realm, without regard to family
creeds or family traditions. Claiming descent as much from
one as from the other of the rival houses of Lancaster and York,
loyalty to the one was no more offence to her clear eyes than
good faith to the other. While loyalty to what he honestly

[figure description] Page 396.[end figure description]

believed to be the true sovereign house, was the strongest recommendation
to her favor in each and every subject.

The Fitz-Henry, therefore, of her day—a young and gallant
soldier, who visited the shores of the New World with Cavendish
and Raleigh, fought for his native land, although a catholic,
against the terrible armada of the Most Catholic King, with
Drake, and Frobisher, and Howard, waged war in the Low
Countries, and narrowly missed death at Zutphen by Philip
Sidney's side—stood as high in the favor of his queen as in the
estimation of all good and honorable men. It is true, when the
base and odious James succeeded to the throne of the lionqueen,
and substituted mean and loathsome king-craft for frank
and open English policy, the grey-haired soldier, navigator,
statesman—for he had shone in each capacity—retired, as his
ancestors had done before him, during the reigns of the seventh
and eighth Henries, to the peaceful shades and innocent pleasures
of Ditton-in-the-Dale.

So true, however, was he to the time-honored principles of
his high race, so loyally did he bring up his son, so firmly did
he strengthen his youthful mind with all maxims and all laws
of honor, linking the loyal subject to the rightful king, that no
sooner had the troubles broken out between the misguided monarch
and his rebellious Parliament—although the veteran of
Elizabeth had fallen asleep long before, full of years and honors,
than his young heir, Osborn Fitz-Henry, displayed the cognizance
of his old house, mustered his tenantry, and set foot in
stirrup, well nigh the first, to withdraw it the very last, of the
adherents of the hapless Charles. So long did he resist in arms,
so pertinaciously did he uphold the authority of the first Charles,
so early did he rise again in behalf of the second, that he was
noted by the parliament as an incorrigible and most desperate
malignant; and, had it not been that, by his gallantry in the

[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]

field, and his humanity when the strife was ended, he had won
the personal good-will of Cromwell, it is most likely that it
would have gone hard with his fortunes if not with his life.

After the restoration, he was of course neglected by the
fiddling, gambling, wenching, royal buffoon, who succeeded the
royal martyr, and whose necessities he had supplied, when an
outcast pauper exile in a foreign land, from the proceeds of
those very estates which he had so nearly lost in fighting for
his crown.

Osborn Fitz-Henry, too, was gathered to his fathers. He
died little advanced beyond the prime of life, worn out with the
toil he had undergone in the camp, and shattered by the
wounds he had received on almost every battle-field from Edge-Hill
to Dunbar and Worcester.

He had, however, married very young, before the breaking
out of the rebellion, and had lived to see not his son only a
noble and superior man, ready to fill his place when vacant, and
in it uphold the honor of his family, but his son's children also
advancing fast towards maturity.

Allan Fitz-Henry, the son of Charles's stout partisan, the grandson
of Elizabeth's warrior, was the head of the house, when my
tale commences.

He, too, had married young—such, indeed, was the custom
of his house—and had survived his wife, by whom he had two
fair daughters, but no heir; and this was a source of vexation
so constantly present to his mind, that in the end it altered the
whole disposition of the man, rendering him irritable, harsh,
stern, unreasonable, and unhappy.

Fondly attached to the memory of his lost wife, whom he
had loved devotedly while living, it never entered his mind to
marry a second time, even with the hope of begetting an heir
by whom to perpetuate the honors and principles of his house;

[figure description] Page 398.[end figure description]

although he was continually on the fret—miserable himself, and
making others miserable, in consequence of the certainty that
he should be the last of his race.

His only hope was now centred in his daughters, or to speak
more correctly, in his eldest daughter—for her he had determined
to constitute his heiress, endowing her with all his landed
property, all his heirlooms, all that could constitute her the
head of his house; in return for which he had predetermined
that she should become the wife of some husband of his own
choosing, who should unite to a pedigree as noble as that of the
Howards, all qualifications which should fit him to represent
the house into which he should be adopted; and who should
be willing to drop his own paternal name and bearings, how
ancient and noble soever, in order to adopt the style and the
arms of Fitz-Henry.

Proud by nature, by blood, and by education—though with
a clear and honorable pride—he had been rendered a thousand
times prouder and more haughty by the very circumstances
which seemed to threaten a downfall to the fortunes of his house—
his house, which had survived such desperate reverses; which
had come out of every trial, like pure gold, the better and the
brighter from the furnace—his house, which neither the ruin of
friendly monarchs, nor the persecutions of hostile monarchs, nor
the neglect of ungrateful monarchs, had been able to shake, any
more than the autumnal blasts, or the frosts of winter, had
availed to uproot the oak trees of his park, coeval with his name.

In the midst of health and wealth, honor and good esteem,
with an affectionate family, and a devoted household around
him, Allan Fitz-Henry fancied himself a most unhappy man—
perhaps the most unhappy of mankind.

Alas! was it to punish such vain, such sinful, such senseless,
and inordinate repinings?

[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]

Who shall presume to scrutinize the judgments, or pry into
the secrets of the Inscrutable?

This much alone is certain, that ere he was gathered to his
fathers, Allan Fitz-Henry might, and that not unjustly, have
termed himself that, which now, in the very wantonness of pampered
and insatiate success he swore that he was daily—the
most unhappy of the sons of men.

For to calamities so dreadful as might have disturbed the
reason of the strongest minded, remorse was added, so just, so
terrible, so overwhelming, that men actually marvelled how he
lived on, and was not insane.

But I must not anticipate.

It was a short time after the failure of the Duke of Monmouth's
weak and ungrateful attempt at revolution, a short time
after the conclusion of the merciless and bloody butcheries of
that disgrace to the English ermine, the ferocious Jefferies, that
the incidents occurred, which I learned first on the evening subsequent
to my discovery in the fatal summer-house.

At this time Allan Fitz-Henry—it was a singular proof, by
the way, of the hereditary pride of this old Norman race, that
having numbered among them so many friends and counsellors
of monarchs, no one of their number had been found willing to
accept titular honors, holding it a higher thing to be the premier
gentleman than the junior peer of England—at this time,
I say, Allan Fitz-Henry was a man of some forty-five or fifty
years, well built and handsome, of courtly air and dignified presence;
nor must it be imagined that in his fancied grievances
he forgot to support the character of his family, or that he
carried his griefs abroad with him into the world.

At times, indeed, he might be a little grave and thoughtful,
especially at such times as he heard mention made of the promise
or success of this or that scion of some noble house; but

[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]

it was only within his own family circle, and to his most familiar
friends, that he was wont to open his heart, and complain of
his ill-fortune, at being the first childless father of his race—for
so, in his contempt for the poor girls, whom he still, strange
contradiction! loved fondly and affectionately, he was accustomed
in his dark hours to style himself; as if forsooth an heir
male were the only offspring worthy to be called the child of
such a house.

Though he was fond, and gentle, and at times even tender to
his motherless daughters—for, to do him justice, he never suffered
a symptom of his disappointment and disgust to break out
to their annoyance, yet was there no gleam of paternal satisfaction
in his sad eye, no touch of paternal pride in his vexed
heart, as he looked upon their graceful forms, and noted their
growing beauties.

And yet they were a pair of whom the haughtiest potentate
on earth might have been proud, and with justice.

Blanche and Agnes Fitz-Henry were at this time in their
eighteenth and seventeenth years—but one summer having
passed between their births, and their mother having died within
a few hours after the latter saw the light.

They were, indeed, as lovely girls as the sun of merry England
shone upon; and in those days it was still merry England,
and famous then as now for the rare beauty of its women, whether
in the first dawn of girlhood, or in the full-blown flush of
feminine maturity.

Both tall, above the middle height of women, both exquisitely
formed, with figures delicate and slender, yet full withal, and
voluptuously rounded, with the long taper hands, the small and
shapely feet and ankles, the swan-like necks, and classic heads
gracefully set on, which are held to denote, in all countries, the
predominance of gentle blood; when seen at a distance, and

[figure description] Page 401.[end figure description]

judged by the person only, it would have been almost impossible
to distinguish the elder from the younger sister.

But look upon them face to face, and never, in all respects,
were two girls of kindred race so entirely dissimilar. The elder,
Blanche, was, as her name denotes, though ladies' names are
oftentimes misnomers, a genuine English blond. Her abundant
and beautiful hair, trained to float down upon her snowy shoulders
in silky masses of unstudied curls, was of the lightest golden
brown. There was not a shade of red in its hues, although her
complexion was of that peculiarly dazzling character which is
common to red-haired persons; yet when the sun shone on its
glistening waves, so brilliantly did the golden light flash from
it, that you might almost have imagined there was a circlet of
living glory above her clear white brow.

Her eyebrows and eyelashes were many shades darker than
her hair, relieving her face altogether from that charge of insipidity
which is so often, and for the most part so truly, brought
against fair-haired and fair-featured beauties. The eyes themselves,
which those long lashes shrouded, were of the deepest
violet blue; so deep, that at first sight you would have deemed
them black, but for the soft and humid languor which is never
seen in eyes of that color. The rest of her features were as near
as possible to the Grecian model, except that there was a slight
depression where the nose joins the brow, breaking that perfectly
straight line of the classical face, which, however beautiful to
the statue, is less attractive in life than the irregular outline of
the northern countenance.

Her mouth, with the exception of—perhaps I should rather
say in conjunction with—her eyes, was the most lovely and
expressive feature in her face. There were twin dimples at
its corners; yet was not its expression one of habitual mirth,
but of tenderness and softness rather, unmixed, although an

[figure description] Page 402.[end figure description]

anchorite might have been pardoned the wish to press his lips
to its voluptuous curve with the slightest expression of sensuality.

Her complexion was, as I have said, dazzlingly brilliant;
but it was the brilliance of the lily rather than of the rose,
though at the least emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, the
eloquent blood would rush, like the morning's glow over some
snow-crowned Alp, across cheek, brow, and neck, and bosom,
and vanish thence so rapidly, that ere you should have time to
say, nay, even to think,

“Look! look how beautiful, 'twas fled.”

Such was the elder beauty, the destined heiress of the
ancient house, the promised mother of a line of sons, who
should perpetuate the name and hand down the principles of
the Fitz-Henries to far distant ages. Such were the musings
of her father,

Proh! cœca mens mortalium!

Her sister Agnes, though not less beautiful than Blanche—
and there were those who insisted that she was more so—was
as different from her, in all but the general resemblance of
figure and carriage, as night is from morning, or autumn from
early summer-time.

Her ringlets, not less profuse than Blanche's, and clustering
in closer and more mazy curls, were as black as the raven's
wing, and, like the feathers of the wild bird, were lighted up

[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]

when the sun played on them with a sort of purplish and
metallic gloss, that defies alike the pen of the writer and the
painter's pencil to depict to the eye.

Her complexion, though soft and delicate, was of the very
darkest hue that is ever seen in persons of unmixed European
blood; so dark that the very blood which would mantle to her
cheek at times in burning blushes, was shaded, as it were, with
a darker hue, like damask roses seen through the medium of a
gold-tinted window-pane.

Her brows and lashes were as black as night, but, strange
to say, the eyes that flashed from beneath them with an almost
painful splendor, were of a clear, deep azure, less dark than
those of the fairer sister, giving a singular and wild character
to her whole face, and affecting the style of her beauty, but
whether for the better or the worse it was for those who admired
or shunned—and there were who took both parts—to
determine. Her face was rounder and fuller than her sister's,
and in fact this was true of her whole person—so much so,
that she was often mistaken for the elder—her features were
less regular, her nose having a slight tendency to that form
which has no name in our language, but which charmed all
beholders in Roxana, as retroussé. Her mouth was as warm,
as soft, as sweetly dimpled, but it was not free from that expression
which Blanche's lacked altogether, and might have
been blamed as too wooing and luxurious.

Such were the various characters of the sisters' personal
appearance—the characters of their mental attributes were as
distinctly marked and as widely different.

Blanche was all gentleness and moderation from her very
cradle—a delicate and tender child, smiling always but rarely
laughing; never boisterous or loud even in her childish plays.
And as she grew older this character became more definite,

[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]

and was more strongly observed; she was a pensive, tranquil
creature, not melancholy, much less sad—for she was awake
to all that was beautiful or grand, all that was sweet or gentle
in the face of nature, or in the history of man; and there was,
perhaps, more real happiness concealed under her calm exterior,
than is often to be found under the wilder mirth of
merrier beings. Ever ready to yield her wishes to those of
her friends or companions, many persons imagined that she
had little will, and no fixed wishes or deliberate aspirations;
passionless and pure as the lily of the vale, many supposed
that she was cold and heartless. Oh! ignorant! not to remember
that the hearts of the fiercest volcanoes boil still beneath
a head of snow; and that it is even in the calmest
and most moderate characters that passion once enkindled
burns fierce, perennial, and unquenchable! Thus far, however,
had she advanced into the flower of fair maidenhood, undisturbed
by any warmer dream than devoted affection
towards her parent, whose wayward grief she could understand
if she could not appreciate, and whom she strove by every
gentle wile to wean from his morbid fancies; and earnest love
towards her sister, whom she, indeed, almost adored—perhaps
adored the more from the very difference of their minds, and
for her very imperfections.

For Agnes was all gay vivacity, and petulance, and fire;
so that her young companions, who sportively named Blanche
the icicle, had christened her the sunbeam; and, in truth, if
the first name were ill chosen, the second seemed to be an
inspiration; for like a sunbeam that touched nothing but to
illuminate it, like a sunbeam she played with all things, smiled
on all things in their turn—like a sunbeam she brought mirth
with her presence, and after her departure left a double gloom
behind her.

[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]

More dazzling than Blanche, she made her impression at
first sight, and so long as the skies were clear and the atmosphere
unruffled, the sunbeam would continue to gild, to charm,
to be worshipped. But if the time of darkness and affliction
came, the gay sunbeam held aloof, while the poor icicle, melted
from its seeming coldness, was ever ready to weep for the sorrows
of those who had neglected her in the days of their
happiness.

Unused to yield, high-spirited when crossed, yet carrying off
even her stubbornness and quick temper by the brilliancy, the
wit, the lively and bold audacity which she cast around them,
Agnes ruled in her circle an imperious and despotic queen;
while her slaves, even as they trembled before her half sportive
but emphatic frown, did not suspect the sceptre of the tyrant
beneath the spell of the enchantress.

Agnes, in one word, was the idol of the rich and gay;
Blanche was the saint of the poor, the lowly, the sick, and
those who mourn.

It may be that the peculiarity of her position, the neglect
which she had always experienced from her father, and mediately
from the hirelings of the household, ever prompt to
pander to the worst feelings of their superiors—the consciousness
that born co-heiress with her sister, she was doomed to
sink into the insignificance of an undowered and uncared-for
girl, had tended in some degree to form the character which
Agnes had ever borne, and which alone she had displayed,
until the period when my tale commences.

It may be that the consciousness of wrong endured, had
hardened a heart naturally soft and tender, and rendered it
unyielding and rebellious; it may be that injustice, endured
at the hands of hirelings in early years, had engendered a
spirit of resistance, and armed her mind and quickened her

[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]

tongue against the world, which, as she fancied, wronged her.
It may be, more than all, that a secret, perhaps an unconscious
jealousy of her sister's superior advantages, not in the
wretched sense of worldly wealth and position, but of the love
and reverence of friends and kindred, had embittered her
young soul, and caused her to cast over it a veil of light and
wild demeanor, of free speech and daring mirth, which had by
degrees grown into habits, and become part and parcel of her
nature.

If it were so, however, there were no outward indications
that such was the case; for never were there seen two sisters
more united and affectionate—nor would it have been easy to
say on which side the balance of kindness preponderated. For
if Blanche was ever the first to cede to her sister's wishes, and
the last in any momentary disappointment or annoyance to
speak one quick or unkind word, so was Agnes, with her expressive
features and flashing eye, and ready, tameless wit,
prompt as light to avenge the slightest reflection cast on
Blanche's tranquillity and coldness; and if at times a quick
word or sharp retort broke from her lips, and called a tear to
the eye of her calmer sister, not a moment would elapse before
she would cast herself upon her neck and weep her sincere
contrition, and be for hours an altered being; until her natural
spirit would prevail, and she would be again the wild mirthful
madcap, whose very faults could call forth no keener reproach
than a grave and thoughtful smile from the lips of those
who loved her the most dearly.

Sad were the daughters of Allan Fitz-Henry—daughters
whom not a peer in England but would have regarded as the
brightest gems of his coronet, as the pride and ornament of
his house; but whom, by a strange anomaly, their own father,
full as he was of warm affections and kindly inclinations, never

[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]

looked upon but with a secret feeling of discontent and disappointment,
that they were not other than they were; and
with a half-confessed conviction that fair as they were, tender
and loving, graceful, accomplished, delicate, and noble-minded,
he could have borne to lay them both in the cold grave, so
that a son could be given to the house in exchange for their
lost loveliness.

In outward demeanor, however, he was to his children all
that a father should be; a little querulous at times, perhaps,
and irritable, but fond, though not doting, and considerate;
and I have wandered greatly from my intention, if anything
that I have said has been construed to signify that there
existed the slightest estrangement between the father and his
children; for had Allan Fitz-Henry but suspected the possibility
of such a thing, he had torn the false pride like a
venomous weed from his heart, and had been a wiser and a
happier man. In his case it was the blindness of the heart
that caused its partial hardness; but events were at hand that
should flood it with the clearest light, and melt it to more than
woman's tenderness.