The Ruined Cities of Zululand Part 38

To Isabel it was all very strange, but as the sun sank to rest among the ocean waves, she joined in the rites of her husband's creed with a simple, and confiding faith, not understanding them, and night gradually gathered round the crew of the raft. Inured to danger, and now fully armed, one after another of the little party lay down to sleep, and soon all was quiet on board.

The wind had fallen, and with it the sea, the motion of the spars becoming less and less. The night was warm, the stars were s.h.i.+ning brilliantly, and the moon, in her first quarter, was rising over the ocean, making a long narrow strip of silver on the waves. The sail was raised at the opening of the cabin, and on the planking before it sat Isabel. Her husband's arm was round her, and her head leaned back on his breast, the long hair uncared for, falling on the planks which formed the deck, while the starlight shone on her face, and twinkled in her black eyes. The sail of the raft just drew, but barely so.

"How quiet all seems, Enrico; except the splash of the waves, there is not a sound abroad."

"Yes, many years hence we may talk of this. Does it not seem strange to be floating about on a few sticks in the middle of the ocean? Hark! do you hear that?"

A loud noise, like the blowing off of steam, was heard.

"It is a whale, Isabel."

"I did not know there were many of them here," said the fair girl, again leaning back, for she had started up in alarm at the noise.

"There are plenty of an inferior description to those caught further north, and further south," replied Hughes. "But tell me of your own country, Isabel, a land I do not know."

"No; we will have it the other way about, Enrico. Tell me of our home among your native mountains, and of the strange customs and manners of the people."

"But they are not strange, and there is no difference between them and others, save that they are of more ancient race and speak an older tongue than the English. True tradition lives among the time-worn mountains of the Cymri."

"Well, tell me one of them, Enrico mio."

With that faculty of enjoying the present, without thought of the future, inherent to the Spanish and Portuguese nature, Isabel seemed to have forgotten her position, even the dread peril which menaced them from the evil humour and greed of the dissatisfied seamen. All was merged in the present, in the quiet beauty of the night, the starlight which glistened in her eyes, the long thin quivering strip of moonlight dancing over the calm ocean waves, and the presence of him she loved best.

The soldier was well armed. From his childhood he had been accustomed to scenes of danger; his manhood had been spent in a country where the European carries his life in his hand, and all on board the raft seemed quiet. The men might have renounced their treacherous purpose.

"Well," said he, falling into the humour of the moment and drawing the thick cloak so as to cover Isabel more completely, while he looked down on the fair face turned up to meet his gaze, "I had an ancestor, who, for the sake of his religion, which was yours, lost lands and property that ought to have descended in direct line to us. Shall I tell you of this?"

"Do, Enrico mio," replied Isabel, nestling nearer to him.

"There is an old mansion near the sea sh.o.r.e in North Wales. It is a small farm-house now, Isabel, and though many hundreds of people who go year after year to the two well-known towns of Conway and Llandudno pa.s.s it often, though they remark its old Elizabethan windows, its twisted chimneys, and queer odd look, none ever take much notice of it, because near it stands the lordly house of Gloddaeth, surrounded by its sweeping woods and n.o.ble park. Yet it is just of this old farm-house I am going to tell you."

"Don't talk of trees and parks, Enrico; it makes me feel such a longing for land," said Isabel.

"It was a curious pile in the days of which I speak, that old house of Penrhyn, with its uncouth rambling style of architecture, belonging to no age in particular, but a little to all. The princ.i.p.al part of it, however, had been built in Queen Elizabeth's time, and, as I have said, many of the queer gables and twisted chimneys yet remain. Before it lies the sea, and away to the right a chain of magnificent mountains, sweeping into the very heart of Snowdonia. The Denbighs.h.i.+re range, and the long low hills trending away to the mouth of the Dee, give a charm to the landscape, while the broad lands of Penrhyn lie stretched around.

The woods of Gloddaeth and Bodysgallen add to the beauty of the scene, and close to the house a chapel, in good repair, the ruins of which still stand, then told of the religious faith of the Pughs of Penrhyn.

"Between them and the powerful family of the lords of Gloddaeth a feud existed, and the Sir Roger Mostyn of that day had added to it by forcing his neighbour to remove the stone cross which formed the only ornament of the chapel. The owner of the place, Robert Pugh of Penrhyn, was old, and a mere tool in the hands of a wily priest, Father Guy. This latter was a dangerous man. Bred in the Jesuit 'Collegio dei n.o.bili' at Rome, he had by accident inherited his brother's t.i.tles and part of his estates. The rank Sir William Guy never publicly a.s.sumed. Wholly absorbed in his religious views he had visited many countries, and had in his fanaticism longed even for the crown of martyrdom.

"The small Catholic community, existing by sufferance only in the heart of this wild Welsh land, had attracted his attention, and he had asked and obtained the small chaplainry of Penrhyn, soon acquiring a complete ascendancy over the owner.

"The tenants of the place, as well as those of Coetmore, were at his disposal, old Robert Pugh's only son and heir, Henry, being affianced to Lucy Coetmore. Help had been promised by the Earl of Shrewsbury and other Catholic n.o.bles in England, so the fanatic priest had determined to raise the standard of revolt, and thought he saw his way to success."

"And Lucy Coetmore, Enrico, was she beautiful?"

"You shall see her picture yourself, Isabel. It hangs in the entrance of Plas Coch, on the banks of the Conway;" and Hughes paused, for the memory of the quiet valley and the flowing river, with its grey ruins and old Roman remains, came over him as he glanced at the waste of waters, while their helpless position struck him in contrast with a sickening sensation.

"What a curious red star that is down in the horizon!" he remarked. "I could almost fancy it goes out sometimes; but to continue--

"Lucy was a tall stately heiress; her hair was not like yours, Isabel, but of a golden brown, and her eyes blue and full of melancholy softness, her complexion of that transparent white and red so seldom seen united with strong const.i.tutions. The white was the enamelled white of ivory, and the red was the blush of the wild rose. The charm of her beautiful face and well-turned head was heightened by the graceful neck and slender figure. Lucy was a Saxon beauty."

"And did she die young?" languidly asked Isabel.

"She did; leaving one daughter, who married my great grandfather, and through whom the property came into my family; but now we must leave Penrhyn for a time, dearest.

"It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Sir Roger Mostyn sat in the great hall of Gloddaeth. There was the ample fireplace with its old-fas.h.i.+oned dogs, the panelled and carved oaken walls and roof. There was a balcony at the further end, where the white-haired harpers played, and sang tales of war and love; curious antique mottoes were blazoned on the walls in old Welsh characters. There, too, were the arms of the Mostyns and the Royal device of the Tudors, with the red dragon grinning defiance to the world. Sir Roger seemed uneasy as he threw open the latticed window and let in a glorious flood of suns.h.i.+ne and fresh air into the ancient hall. On the terrace beyond several children were playing, while before him, for many a mile, lay his own broad lands.

The woods of Bodysgallen and of Marl were waving in the wind. There were the grey towers of Conway Castle and the glancing river, the n.o.ble background of the Snowdonian Mountains closing the view, with the splendid outline of old Penmaenmawr as it sank with one sheer sweep into the sea."

"I don't want to hear of all that, Enrico," said Isabel, slipping her hand into her husband's. "I don't care for waving trees, old ruins, and rivers--at least not here."

"Well, I don't think Sir Roger Mostyn did either at that moment, for his face was clouded with care.

"'And so, Griffith,' he said to a man who was standing near the door, 'that was all you learned?'

"'It was, Sir Roger; but not all I saw. Susan was as close as a miser with his gold, and though I slept in an out-house and only returned half an hour since, she would tell me nothing.'

"'And you say great preparations were on foot for the reception of guests?'

"'Messengers were coming and going, Sir Roger, the whole night long; the butchers were busy slaughtering; all was bustle and excitement.'

"Thou art a poor lover, Griffith, if this is all thou couldst obtain.

"'About twelve o'clock, Sir Roger,' continued the fellow, reddening, 'I heard the tramp of men, and looking out, I saw a company of about fifty.

They appeared to obey a word of command, were dressed in grey frieze, and armed. The windows of the chapel were a blaze of light. I learned that they were Irish from the Isle of Man.'

"'Very well, Griffith; send the steward here;' and Sir Roger leaned on the sill of the latticed window in deep thought. The children called to him in their play, but he did not see them; the birds sang and the leaves rustled, but he did not hear them.

"There you are, Enrico, with your birds and trees again, and we on the broad ocean, with the sea below us, and the blue sky overhead.

"Yes, but there is love in both cases. As to who is in love on board the raft, you know as well as I do," and the speaker bent over the form nestled on his bosom, and kissed the fair forehead.

There was a moment's silence, and one of the apparently sleeping men lifted his head, glanced around, and then, as Hughes continued his tale, dropped again on the deck, uttering a heavy curse.

"Father Guy had brought over a strong body of the Catholic peasantry from Ireland, the cutter which landed them lying in a snug little bay near the farm. It is such a beautiful spot that bay, Isabel, formed by the hills dying away into the sea, and the rugged sides of the Little Orme."

"Now, Enrico, I won't have it. Tell me of anything except rocks, trees, and birds," murmured Isabel.

"Well, night had set in. The stars were gleaming round the twisted gables and chimneys of Penrhyn, but the windows of the little chapel were a blaze of light. Inside it some twenty n.o.blemen were a.s.sembled, the last relics of the Catholic religion among the mountains of North Wales. The altar was decked out for ma.s.s, the long tapers lighted, the fragrant incense floated on the air, while, in the full splendour of his robes, stood Father Guy.

"He was speaking eloquently and earnestly, just as a man, wearing a heavy horseman's cloak, glided in through the doorway of the chapel.

"His audience were so wrapped up in the words they heard, and in the powerful appeal to their feelings so carried away by his eloquence, that he only remarked and recognised the intruder, who was no other than Sir Roger Mostyn.

"'Yes, my sons,' concluded the old priest, 'prompted by the Master of Iniquity, they would deny us the wors.h.i.+p of our G.o.d, they would destroy religion by the introduction of schismatic doctrines. They would make the tenets of an ancient and holy Church subservient to the will of an earthly king, putting off and on its principles at pleasure, like to a raiment. I say unto you, that death is a meet reward for these usurpers of our Church--that he who aids not in the holy work set on foot this night belongs not unto us. Go forth, my sons, uphold the banner of the Church: let its enemies perish from the face of the earth, and, as a sign unto you that the G.o.d of our fathers is with you, turn, and behold whom he has delivered into your hand.'

"The long, white, transparent fingers pointed towards the doorway, where Sir Roger Mostyn stood.

"It was a strange scene that chapel blazing with light, as, dropping his cloak, Sir Roger strode into its centre, dressed in the uniform of his own regiment of Yeomanry.