The Star-Chamber, Volume 1 An Historical Romance

CHAPTER XVIII.

How the promise was can­celled.

It was a large gar­den, once fair­ly laid out and plant­ed, but now sad­ly ne­glect­ed. The broad ter­race walk was over­grown with weeds; the stone steps and the carved balus­ters were bro­ken in places, and cov­ered with moss; the once smooth lawn was un­con­scious of the scythe; the parter­res had lost their quaint de­vices; and the knots of flow­ers--tre-​foil, cinque-​foil, di­amond, and cross-​bow--were no longer dis­tin­guish­able in their orig­inal shapes. The labyrinths of the maze were in­ex­tri­ca­bly tan­gled, and the long green al­leys want­ed clear­ing out.

But all this ne­glect passed un­no­ticed by Jo­ce­lyn, so com­plete­ly was he en­grossed by the fair crea­ture at his side. Even the noise of the May Games, which, tem­porar­ily in­ter­rupt­ed by Hugh Calve­ley, had recom­menced with greater vigour than ev­er--the ring­ing of the church bells, the shouts of the crowd, and the sounds of the mer­ry min­strel­sy, scarce­ly reached his ear. For the first time he ex­pe­ri­enced those de­li­cious sen­sa­tions which new-​born love ex­cites with­in the breast; and the en­chant­ment op­er­at­ed up­on him so rapid­ly and so strong­ly, that he was over­pow­ered by its spell al­most be­fore aware of it. It seemed that he had nev­er re­al­ly lived till this mo­ment; nev­er, at least, com­pre­hend­ed the bliss af­ford­ed by ex­is­tence in the com­pan­ion­ship of a be­ing able to awak­en the trans­ports he now ex­pe­ri­enced. A new world seemed sud­den­ly opened to him, full of love, hope, sun­shine, of which he and Ave­line were the sole in­hab­itants. Hith­er­to his life had been de­void of any great emo­tion. The one feel­ing lat­ter­ly per­vad­ing it had been a sense of deep wrong, cou­pled with the thirst of vengeance. No ten­der­er in­flu­ence had soft­ened his al­most rugged na­ture; and his breast con­tin­ued arid as the desert. Now the rock had been strick­en, and the liv­ing wa­ters gushed forth abun­dant­ly. Not that in Nor­folk, and even in the re­mote part of the coun­ty where his life had been passed, fe­male beau­ty was rare. Nowhere, in­deed, is the flow­er of love­li­ness more thick­ly sown than in that favoured part of our isle. But all such young damsels as he had be­held had failed to move him; and if any shaft had been aimed at his breast it had fall­en wide of the mark. Jo­ce­lyn Mounchensey was not one of those high­ly sus­cep­ti­ble na­tures--quick to re­ceive an im­pres­sion, quick­er to lose it. Nei­ther would he have been read­ily caught by the lures spread for youth by the de­sign­ing of the sex. Im­bued with some­thing of the an­tique spir­it of chival­ry, which yet, though but slight­ly, in­flu­enced the age in which he lived, he was ready and able to pay fer­vent homage to his mis­tress's sovereign beau­ty (sup­pos­ing he had one), and main­tain its suprema­cy against all ques­tion­ers, but ut­ter­ly in­ca­pable of wor­ship­ping at any mean­er shrine. Heart-​whole, there­fore, when he en­coun­tered the Pu­ri­tan's daugh­ter, he felt that in her he had found an ob­ject he had long sought, to whom he could de­vote him­self heart and soul; a maid­en whose beau­ty was with­out peer, and whose men­tal qual­ities cor­re­spond­ed with her per­son­al at­trac­tions.

Nor was it a delu­sion un­der which he laboured. Ave­line Calve­ley was all his imag­ina­tion paint­ed her. Pu­ri­ty of heart, gen­tle­ness of dis­po­si­tion, in­tel­lec­tu­al en­dow­ments, were as clear­ly re­vealed by her speak­ing coun­te­nance as the in­ner­most depths of a foun­tain are by the pel­lu­cid medi­um through which they are viewed. Hers was a vir­gin heart, which, like his own, had re­ceived no pre­vi­ous im­pres­sion. Love for her fa­ther alone had swayed her; though all strong demon­stra­tions of fil­ial af­fec­tion had been checked by that fa­ther's ha­bit­ual­ly stern man­ner. Brought up by a fe­male rel­ative in Cheshire, who had tak­en charge of her on her moth­er's death, which had oc­curred dur­ing her in­fan­cy, she had known lit­tle of her fa­ther till late years, when she had come to re­side with him, and, though de­vout by na­ture, she could ill rec­on­cile her­self to the gloomy no­tions of re­li­gion he en­ter­tained, or to the as­cetic mode of life he prac­tised. With no de­sire to share in the pomps and van­ities of life, she could not be per­suad­ed that cheer­ful­ness was in­com­pat­ible with righ­teous­ness; nor could all the rail­ings she heard against them make her hate those who dif­fered from her in re­li­gious opin­ions. Still she made no com­plaint. En­tire­ly obe­di­ent to her fa­ther's will, she ac­com­mo­dat­ed her­self, as far as she could, to the rule of life pre­scribed by him. Aware of his per­ti­nac­ity of opin­ion, she sel­dom or ev­er ar­gued a point with him, even if she thought right might be on her side; hold­ing it bet­ter to main­tain peace by sub­mis­sion, than to haz­ard wrath by dis­pu­ta­tion. The dis­cus­sion on the May Games was an ex­cep­tion to her or­di­nary con­duct, and formed one of the few in­stances in which she had ven­tured to as­sert her own opin­ion in op­po­si­tion to that of her fa­ther.

Of late, in­deed, she had felt great un­easi­ness about him. Much changed, he seemed oc­cu­pied by some dark, dread thought, which par­tial­ly re­vealed it­self in wrath­ful ex­cla­ma­tions and mut­tered men­aces. He seemed to be­lieve him­self cho­sen by Heav­en as an in­stru­ment of vengeance against op­pres­sion; and her fears were ex­cit­ed lest he might com­mit some ter­ri­ble act un­der this fa­tal im­pres­sion. She was the more con­firmed in the idea from the ea­ger­ness with which he had grasped at Jo­ce­lyn's rash promise, and she de­ter­mined to put the young man up­on his guard.

If, in or­der to sat­is­fy the read­er's cu­rios­ity, we are obliged to ex­am­ine the state of Ave­line's heart, in ref­er­ence to Jo­ce­lyn, we must state can­did­ly that no such ar­dent flame was kin­dled with­in it as burnt in the breast of the young man. That such a flame might arise was very pos­si­ble, nay even prob­able, see­ing that the sparks of love were there; and ma­te­ri­al for com­bus­tion was by no means want­ing. All that was re­quired was, that those sparks should be gen­tly fanned--not heed­less­ly ex­tin­guished.

Lit­tle was said by the two young per­sons, as they slow­ly paced the ter­race. Both felt em­bar­rassed: Jo­ce­lyn long­ing to give ut­ter­ance to his feel­ings, but re­strained by timid­ity--Ave­line trem­bling lest more might be said than she ought to hear, or if obliged to hear, than she could right­ly an­swer. Thus they walked on in si­lence. But it was a si­lence more elo­quent than words, since each com­pre­hend­ed what the oth­er felt. How much they would have said was pro­claimed by the im­pos­si­bil­ity they found of say­ing any­thing!

At length, Jo­ce­lyn stopped, and pluck­ing a flow­er, ob­served, as he prof­fered it for her ac­cep­tance, “My first of­fer­ing to you was re­ject­ed. May this be more for­tu­nate.”

“Make me a promise, and I will ac­cept it,” she replied.

“Will­ing­ly,”, cried Jo­ce­lyn, ven­tur­ing to take her hand, and gaz­ing at her ten­der­ly. “Most will­ing­ly.”

“You are far too ready to promise,” she re­joined with a sad, sweet smile. “What I de­sire is this. Re­call your hasty pledge to my fa­ther, and aid me in dis­suad­ing him from the en­ter­prise in which he would en­gage you.”

As the words were ut­tered the Pu­ri­tan stepped from be­hind the al­ley which had en­abled him to ap­proach them un­per­ceived, and over­hear their brief con­verse.

“Hold!” he ex­claimed in a solemn tone, and re­gard­ing Jo­ce­lyn with great earnest­ness. “That promise is sa­cred. It was made in a fa­ther's name, and must be ful­filled. As to my pur­pose it is un­change­able.”

The en­thu­si­ast's in­flu­ence over Jo­ce­lyn would have proved ir­re­sistible but for the in­ter­po­si­tion of Ave­line.

“Be not con­trolled by him,” she said in a low tone to the young man; adding to her fa­ther, “For my sake, let the promise be can­celled.”

“Let him ask it, and it shall be,” re­joined the Pu­ri­tan, gaz­ing steadi­ly at the young man, as if he would pen­etrate his soul. “Do you hes­itate?” he cried in ac­cents of deep dis­ap­point­ment, per­ceiv­ing Jo­ce­lyn wa­ver.

“You can­not mis­un­der­stand his wish­es, fa­ther,” said Ave­line.

“Let him speak for him­self,” Hugh Calve­ley ex­claimed an­gri­ly. “Jo­ce­lyn Mounchensey!” he con­tin­ued, fold­ing his arms up­on his breast, and re­gard­ing the young man fixed­ly as be­fore, “son of my old friend! son of him who died in my arms! son of him whom I com­mit­ted to the earth! if thou hast aught of thy fa­ther's true spir­it, thou wilt rigid­ly ad­here to a pledge vol­un­tar­ily giv­en, and which, ut­tered as it was ut­tered by thee, has all the sanc­ti­ty, all the bind­ing force of a vow be­fore Heav­en, where it is reg­is­tered, and ap­proved by him who is gone be­fore us.”

Great­ly moved by this ap­peal, Jo­ce­lyn might have com­plied with it, but Ave­line again in­ter­posed.

“Not so, fa­ther,” she cried. “The spir­its of the just made per­fect--and of such is the friend you men­tion--would nev­er ap­prove of the de­sign with which you would link this young man, in con­se­quence of a promise rash­ly made. Dis­charge him from it, I en­treat you.”

Her en­er­gy shook even the Pu­ri­tan's firm­ness.

“Be it as thou wilt, daugh­ter,” he said, af­ter the pause of a few mo­ments, dur­ing which he wait­ed for Jo­ce­lyn to speak; but, as the young man said noth­ing, he right­ly in­ter­pret­ed his si­lence,--“be it as thou wilt, since he, too, wills it so. I give him back his promise. But let me see him no more.”

“Sir, I be­seech you--” cried Jo­ce­lyn.

But he was cut short by the Pu­ri­tan, who, turn­ing from him con­temp­tu­ous­ly, said to his daugh­ter--“Let him de­part im­me­di­ate­ly.”

Ave­line signed to the young man to go; but find­ing him re­main mo­tion­less, she took him by the hand, and led him some way along the ter­race. Then, re­leas­ing her hold, she bade him farewell!

“Where­fore have you done this?” in­quired Jo­ce­lyn re­proach­ful­ly.

“Ques­tion me not; but be sat­is­fied I have act­ed for the best,” she replied. “O Jo­ce­lyn!” she con­tin­ued anx­ious­ly, “if an op­por­tu­ni­ty should oc­cur to you of serv­ing my fa­ther, do not ne­glect it.”

“Be as­sured I will not,” the young man replied. “Shall we not meet again?” he asked, in a tone of deep­est anx­iety.

“Per­haps,” she an­swered. “But you must go. My fa­ther will be­come im­pa­tient. Again farewell!”

On this they sep­arat­ed: the young man sor­row­ful­ly de­part­ing, while her foot­steps re­treat­ed in the op­po­site di­rec­tion.

Mean­while the May games went for­ward on the green with in­creased spir­it and mer­ri­ment, and with­out the slight­est hin­der­ance. More than once the mum­mers had wheeled their mazy rounds, with Gillian and Dick Tav­ern­er foot­ing it mer­ri­ly in the midst of them. More than once the au­da­cious 'pren­tice, now be­come des­per­ate­ly en­am­oured of his pret­ty part­ner, had ven­tured to steal a kiss from her lips. More than once he had whis­pered words of love in her ear; though, as yet, he had ob­tained no ten­der re­sponse. Once--and once on­ly--had he tak­en her hand; but then he had nev­er quit­ted it af­ter­wards. In vain oth­er swains claimed her for a dance. Dick re­fused to sur­ren­der his prize. They break­fast­ed to­geth­er in a lit­tle bow­er made of green boughs, the most de­light­ful and lover-​like re­treat imag­in­able. Dick's ap­petite, fu­ri­ous an hour ago, was now clean gone. He could eat noth­ing. He sub­sist­ed on love alone. But as she was pre­vailed up­on to sip from a foam­ing tankard of Whit­sun ale, he quaffed the re­main­der of the liq­uid with rap­ture. This done, they re­sumed their mer­ry sports, and be­gan to dance, again. The bells con­tin­ued to ring blithe­ly, the as­sem­blage to shout, and the min­strels to play. A strange con­trast to what was pass­ing in the Pu­ri­tan's gar­den.