THE LADY'S WELL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE UNHOLY WISH."

I.

In a very retired part of Wales, one little frequented and little known, are to be seen the remains of an ancient well, or fountain. Shrubs, withered and stunted now, and dark with age, but once green and beautiful, cluster round the brink, and though it is, and has been for ages, dry, it still bears the name of "The Lady's Well." A stately castle once rose near the spot; all remains of it have long passed away, but that it must have been of some repute and beauty in its time, an ancient guidebook of the locality will bear witness to. A copy of this guide-book is rare now. One fell into the hands of the author, and from that book we will quote, with the reader's permission, part of its description of this same Castle of Chilling water. It must be premised, however, that this account is but the copy of another copy, for the ancient book states that all traces of the Castle of Chilling having long passed away, the compiler had been indebted for his information to some manuscripts of vellum, yellow with age, found in the archives of a neighbouring monastery when it was destroyed in the time of Henry VIII. And so antiquated was the language of this parchment, that much difficulty occurred in translating it into more modern English.

"From the pile of ruins alone visible to us now," quotes the guidebook, "none can form an adequate idea of the strength and might of the Castle of Chilling water, when it was in the height of its glory. Its many turrets and proud battlements; its lofty terraces and well-apportioned halls; its marble-pillared reception rooms and magnificent chambers; its spacious courts and ramparts of defence. Its domains stood unrivalled in the land. Think, children (so runneth the record on the vellum), of the sunny land of the East, whose beauties seem to us but as some gorgeous painting. Picture to yourselves the delicious Cashmere, the described wonders of which lovely valley sound to us but as a fable : where the sweet air is one ineffable essence of perfume, the flowers spread the earth as of an embroidery of many colours, and the nightingales with their sweet voices never tire; where the grateful clime, more generous than Italia's balmy one, is of no capricious brightness, and the ever-blue sky sheds joy around. Not inferior to these foreign fables was the valley of Chilling. It will be well if our poor description can give to posterity an adequate notion of its loveliness; of its orangeries, which had no end; of its conservatories, so extensive that they seemed to have no beginning; its grottoes of curious devices; its intricate mazes, or labyrinths; its splendid aviaries; its groves of pines and acacias; its clusters of Eastern shrubs and flowers, where the brilliantly-plumaged birds, imported from other climes, thinking themselves in their own sunny country, flew not away; and its far-famed Holy Well, the which was said to possess healing properties to those who would drink of its waters. And who shall tell of the splendours of the surrounding landscape, daily rejoicing the eye of the gladdened spectator? The mountains, with the varied hues of their luxuriant herbage, on which the flocks grazed; the dark woods

and the bright-green plains; the cascades and waterfalls that pleased the eye and soothed the ear; and the picturesque cottages of the serfs and vassals! Who shall describe all this for a later age? who shall enlarge upon the glories of the once-famed stronghold of Chilling? Surely the pen of a solitary and humble monk is inadequate to it."

Now this holy monk, however inadequate his pen was to his task, must have been a man of vivid imagination, and must have drawn largely upon it, when enumerating the praises of this long-passed-away Welsh domain. When the reader shall have perused the legend, to which we now pass on, a question may arise in his mind whether the recording monk may not have been Geoffry, the Baron of Chilling water: whiling away the hours of his old age in his long-endured solitude, and garrulous over the glories that once were his.

It was as far back as the twelfth century, at the close of the reign of that Plantagenet whose history is connected, in schoolboys' minds, with Fair Rosamond, a bowl of poison, Queen Eleanor, and the rebellious princes, that a lovely child, scarcely yet twelve years old, reclined on one of the terraces of the Castle of Chillingwater. It was the Lady Ellana de Chilling, the only daughter of that ancient house. She was being reared at home, contrary to the very common custom at that time, of bringing young ladies up in nunneries. Pacing the same terrace, at a distance, were her father and mother, the old baron grey with years, and his still young and handsome wife. Their only son, several years older than the Lady Ellana, was away from home, engaged in some one of the many petty wars that disturbed this period. The baron had opposed his departure, representing that he was yet full young to engage in these fiery conquests, and hinting that some of the nobility had been thus cut off in the flower of their youth. But the lad refused to listen, and had rushed off, boy-like-boy-like !-full of excitement and ardour, his head and his tongue running wild with visions of glory and renown.

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"I shall come home with my sword all reeking with the blood of our enemies, Ella," he had boasted to his sister, when on the eve of departure; "and it shall be hung up in our hall of trophies. I will show them what a De Chilling is made of. Wilt thou not wish me good luck, Ellana?"

"I will wish thee God speed, brother dear," she answered, in a saddened tone. "But who will be my companions when thou art gone?"

"Tush! tush!" returned the hot young warrior; "I am too old to waste my time in companionship with a girl; even with thee, Ella. I am above it now. A youth who goes forth to fight for his king and country, would blush to think of it. Our cousins must be thy companions now."

"But Edgar is always away with his hawks and his falcons," sighed the Lady Ellana.

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Geoffry is not," retorted the lad.

"Geoffry never stirs from that book-reading of his," resumed the maiden, with a curl of her lip. "It would give me the headache only to look at his parchments, Reginald."

The cousins spoken of by the heir of Chillingwater were the orphan sons of the baron's only brother. They were being educated in the

castle, and had no inheritance, save their father's honoured name and his good sword. The younger, Edgar, would, to all appearance, wield it bravely; but the elder, Geoffry, promised to be that most despised character in the barbarous ages, a bookworm. Even the old baron, his uncle, who was by no means of a fierce nature, as natures went then, used to rate him angrily, fling his written-book out of his hand, and tell him he would be fit for nothing but a puny monk. Geoffry, after these scenes, would arouse himself, and for a whole week, perhaps, accompany his brother to his fierce out-door sports: hunting boars, tracking game, or join in his martial exercises; returning then to his clerkly-studies with more zest than ever. You cannot change a boy's nature. Education and circumstances may do much, but they will never wholly change it: and, as it is in these days, so it was in those.

The young baron in prospective departed from his father's house, at the head of his squires and his pages, and his retinue of retainers, as it was the custom for young barons in prospective to do. And the Lady Ellana, sitting on the terrace, as we have seen her, was wondering when they should hear news of him. He had been gone two months, and rumours had reached them of a petty engagement having been fought, in which it was probable he had been engaged. The young girl was picturing to herself happy dreams-of her brother Reginald coming back victorious, thundering across the drawbridge, and waving his sword over his head in token of laurels and victory: dreaming that he flew to her with embraces, whispering that he had had enough of glory for the present, and would stay at home and be her companion as before. Unconsciously she drew to the edge of the terrace, and looked down, perhaps with the hope of seeing him. The strong bridge was drawn securely up, and there were no signs in all the landscape of Reginald and his followers. But in a shady nook of the luxuriant gardens was stretched her cousin Geoffry de Chilling, poring over a roll of his learned parchment; and the good monk, his tutor, looked on by his side. There was a wide difference in the personal appearance of the two brothers. Geoffry was slight and fair, with a mild, thoughtful countenance, and a look of delicate health; whilst Edgar was a tall, active boy, possessing noble features glowing with youth, and eyes dark and brilliant.

The Lady Ellana saw her cousin sitting there, idly studying away his hours: further away, she could catch the form of his brother Edgar, and her eyes and thoughts rested on the latter. He was never still: boys of fourteen being much the same then, that they are now. Now, coaxing his dogs; now, teazing them, till nothing but barks and howls were heard; now, vaulting, leaping, and flinging stones at every object within reach; and now, darting into the stables. With his disappearance, the little girl returned to her thoughts about her brother, and as her eyes once more ranged over the domain, she caught sight of some horsemen advancing at a quick pace. So engaged had she been, watching Edgar, that they had advanced passably near, unperceived. She bent her head down and strained her eyes, for, in the form of the first, she thought she recognised her brother's squire. In another moment, she had darted up to her parents, and taking a hand of each, was dragging them forward that they might see the horsemen.

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They bring news of Reginald! I know they bring news of Re

ginald!" she exclaimed. "Note you not, sir, the device in the squire's helmet? But he rides with his visor down."

The old baron trembled as the horsemen drew near enough for recognition. They were in complete armour, but he saw their badges as retainers of his house. And they still kept their helmets closed! This, in those olden times, was, in some cases, looked upon as a token that the messengers had bad news to tell. Had those gentlemen brought good tidings to the baron, who, they knew, was hoping for them, they would have thrown back their closed helmets, and joyfully waved their swords as they drew near to him.

Poor Reginald de Chilling! he who had gone forth in all the enthusiasm of his youth, had met with death on his first battle-field. The old baron seated himself in his hall of audience, his nephews standing by his side, and his gentlemen-attendants gathered behind him. The baroness had retired with her daughter: she was not less anxious to hear the tidings than her husband, but much needless form and ceremony was observed in the days of the Plantagenets.

The chief of the messengers came in, the instant he left his horse, his armour clanking as he walked, and his visor still down. He raised it as he approached the baron, displaying a face working with emotion. He was a white-haired man of nearly fifty years of age, and had been page to the baron in his early life. He knew not how to break the news to his revered master.

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My son?" gasped the old noble to him, holding out his hand, “what tidings of my son?"

The squire spoke slowly, but he accomplished his sentences at last, and the baron knew the worst. His boy was left dead on the battle-field. With a low moan of pain, he rose from his seat, and laying his hand upon the shoulder of his elder nephew, to support himself, passed from the room, in search of his lady-wife. Edgar followed.

"What of my son?" uttered the baroness, starting forward, and trembling, as she saw the pained countenance of her husband.

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"Madam," was his answer, pushing Geoffry slightly forwards, have no heir now but this. Our glorious boy has died his death on the engagement-field."

The little girl, Ellana, heard the words, and, giving a sudden cry, burst into a passionate fit of weeping. The baron was occupied in soothing his shocked and startled wife; the new heir of Chilling water, bewildered with grief and amazement, wept silently, and chafed the lady's hands; but Edgar de Chilling folded the sobbing girl to his breast, and whispered that he would be her brother now, in the lost one's stead, her loving brother for ever and for ever.

The old baron passed away to his forefathers, dying more of grief than of age, and the castle, with all its honours, became the property of Geoffry, now the Baron of Chillingwater. A very small portion indeed of its revenues demised to the baroness and her daughter, for incomes in that early period could not be bequeathed as they can now. The lady retained her place in the castle as its mistress, constituting herself guardian of the young baron and his brother. As the heir advanced towards manhood, his character and inclination for martial or boisterous pursuits did not seem to strengthen. His mood was invariably so kind and gentle,

his heart so pliant, and his health so fragile, that they would have best become a woman. He would recline for hours together by the side of his cousin, in listless idleness, telling her charming stories, twisting wreaths for her, listening to her girlish songs. But she-oh perverse woman's heart! perverse in those days as in these!-would better value five minutes spent with her by the daring and handsome Edgar, than all the hours wasted with her by his inert brother. The lady-mother had a project in her head-and the reader has no difficulty in divining it. She would have despatched, with all speed, the younger brother from the castle, for she dreaded his influence over the heart of the Lady Ellana, and, when the fitting time came, she would marry her daughter to the baron. But to drive Edgar out of the castle in his boyhood, was more than the Baroness of Chilling water, with all her influence, could accomplish, for the brothers were deeply attached to each other, and the young baron would as soon have thought of turning out her ladyship as of turning out Edgar.

II.

THE years passed on. Richard Coeur de Lion sat on the throne of his father, and England was alive with the excitement of the Crusade war. The king was on his way to join it, and the young and the chivalrous amongst the Anglo-Saxon and Norman nobility were flocking after his steps.

The Baron of Chillingwater had now attained his majority, and the Lady Ellana was growing towards womanhood. The light of a summer's evening shone down upon her parted hair, and its waving curls were reflected in the waters of the Holy Well, on the brink of which she stood, thoughtfully leaning against a tree. What were her thoughts gathering on? On the clerk-like baron, who was now in his room in the western turret, deep in his studies? We cannot say ; but as a quick and light, though manly step, was heard approaching, a colour, as of the richest damask-rose, flew to her cheek. He was a handsome knight, Edgar de Chilling, and as he stood there by her side and rattled on, talking of any subject that took his fancy, it may be fair to infer that Ellana thought him one.

Suddenly, the bell rang out for the evening meal. He gallantly offered her his arm, and they slowly walked together to the castle. The baroness saw them, and her face became black as night.

"What meaneth this inertness ?" suddenly broke forth the ladymother, as the spice-cup went round after supper; "know you not, young sirs, that I shall have to blush for my kinsmen ?"

The baron looked dreamily up, but young Edgar, hot and passionate, asked what he had done that she should blush for him.

"It is what you have not done that I blush for," returned the lady, with a cheek as fiery and a tongue as hasty as his own. "The baron's pursuits lie in a different way, and his place is here, but that a younger scion of the house of Chilling should hold back, when it is the pleasure of the king, and the glory of England, that her youth should engage the holy wars-that you, Edgar de Chilling, should remain here, perhaps in cowardice

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