The Tenants of Malory

the cutter was running under a press of canvas that brought her gunwale to the water’s ed

nt with cloaks and rugs. Cleve grew more and more interested as he adjusted the focus of his glass more exactly. On a sudden, from the little door in th

point, and then —“Yes,” he thought, “the

nruthyn Priory is about six miles, and by the time the pursuing cutter was in motion the chas

either to visit the ruins, or for a walk in that wild and lonely park ca

ty little winding lane, the trees overhanging which look centuries old, stooping and mantled in ivy. They may have heard the tinkle of the bells of the prior’s mule, as he ambled beneath their boughs, and the solemn swell of the monkish requiem from the melancholy little churchyard close by, under the old Priory windows.

leve, and climbed the gray rocky hillock that commands an

ursued the path up to the Pri

an active discussion with shrewish old Mrs. Hughes, who was very deaf, and often a little tipsy, and who was now tes

ughes his officer, he walked up to the visitor, and inquired very courteously the object of the application, and forthwith ordered th

region, the old lady, although she did not know to whom she was obliged, w

Margaret!” she called. The young lady turned, and Cleve saw before him once more in flesh

d for a moment her large eyes rested on Cleve with a g

that Booth Fanshawe had married a beautiful Italian, an heiress (a princess — wasn’t she?)— at all events, a scion of one of their proud old houses, whose pedigrees run back into the Empire, and dwarf into parvenus the great personages of Debrett’s Peerage. What made it worse was, that there was no shyness, no awkwardness. She talked a good deal to her companion, and laughed slightly once or twice, in a very sweet tone. The ol

bell-man of Cardyllian had been reading it from a handbill. He had never done anything so well in the House of Commons, and here it was accepted as a piece of commonplace. The worst of it was that there was no finesse in all this. It was in perfect good faith that this beautiful young lady was treating him like a footman. Cleve was in

with the accessible old lady, seeming, in a spirit, I dare say, alto

it to you. It is really very curious — a much older style than the res

eve, acting as porter, opened the ponderous door, and the party entered this dim and solemn Saxon chapel, and th

murmured the girl, as she looked round with a momentary awe and delight. It was

, to be sure, and that goes a long way; but its style is so rough and Cyclopean, that it overcomes one with a feeling of immense anti

were leading him into an oration. But he saw that the young lady looked at him, as

Miss Sheckleton — as I shall fo

odd carving about it, which has puzzled our a

nd ribbed arches, at some distance. The effect was singular. She was placed in the deep chiaroscuro, a strong gleam of light entering through a circular aperture in the side wall, illuminated her head and face with a vivid and isolated eff

too, and Miss Sheckleton observed perhaps some odd vagueness and iteration in his remarks;

ye, that she was now, for a moment, looking at him, believing herself unseen. If

lpably before us; there is nothing there, as amid the clatter and vulgarities of the town, to break our dreams. The beautiful rural stillness is monotony itself, and monotony is the spell and the condition of all mesmeric impressions. Hence young men, in part, are the dangers of those enchanted castles called country houses, in which you lose your heads and hearts; whither you a

ed in the aisle, “is the monument of old Martha Nokes; pray as

in the subdued tone suited to the sacr

woman, for I remember her quite well. I was eight years old when sh

and other virtues, and that “this stone was placed here in testimony of the sincere and merited esteem,

any cares and trials of wedded life, and willing also to remain to the end of her days in the service of the family of Verney, (to whom she was justly grateful,) and in which she had commenced her active and useful, though humble life, in the reign of King George the First.’ So you see she spent all her life with us; and I’ll tell our people, if you should h

her for a moment, and saw her look blank and even confounded. She averted her gaze, and som

funny old woman sh

an inkling of the cause. Cleve looked at the font, and lowered his large eyes to the epitaph of the Virgin Martha Nokes, and bit his lips, but he did la