THE 9 MYSTERIES OF THE CASTLE. BY EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, AUTHOR OF THE "HIDDEN HAND," "BRANDON OF BRANDON," &c., &c., &c. TO BE CONTINUED MONTHLY.-LONDON: E. F. HYDE, 334, STRAND. THE 29 MYSTERIES OF THE CASTLE. A DOMESTIC ROMANCE, CHAPTER I. It was many and many a year ago, In a castle by the sea, That a lady lived, with no other thought, "I'll tell'ee all what and about it, Old Hastings, the feyther o' this young man was his late ludship's friend, and were left guardeen by his late ludship's will to this young lady. Well, old Hastings was a knowing 'un, and made the match. There's where it is; and so they're to be married to-morrow." и "Hoigh! Harken! Coome along wi' I; here's the coach," suddenly interrupted the smith, starting from the archway into the street, just as the horn was heard signalling the approach of the Bristol coach, that presently rumbled down the street, and drew up with great noise before the hostelry gate. All the servants of the house and yard rushed out to receive it. EDGAR A. POE. Ir was the first year of the present century,-ere yet steamships, railways, gaslight, insurance companies, telegraphic wires, and detective policemen had expelled nearly all possibility of vicissitude, peril, and adventure from civilised society. It was while clumsy sailing vessels were the only means of ocean travel, and heavy stage coaches lumbered slowly along every public road in the country; it was while footpads still lurked in the shadows of the city streets, to start forth upon the belated pedestrian, and highwaymen, under the veil of night, sprang out to commit their lawless depredations upon the unguarded traveller; while the First came from the interior of the coach an elderly fires of the gipsy's tent still lighted up the heath and gentleman, whose tall, spare, and stooping figure was glen; while the spirit of romance hovered around old clothed in a suit of clerical black, and whose pale, thin, buildings, and superstition lingered in secluded neigh-long face was surrounded by hair and whiskers prebourhoods, that the strange events of our story transpired. It was early in the morning of a lovely day in June that a rather large group of idlers gathered in front of the Etheridge Arms, a quaint old hostelry in the ancient little town of Swinburne, situated in one of the most picturesque and beautiful counties in the West of Eng land. "Now, good people, room, here, room! You are in the way!" exclaimed the landlord, dispersing the idlers, and issuing forth in person to receive the passengers. maturely grey. He was closely attended by a young man, whose Roman features, olive complexion, jet black hair, and deep, dark eyes, bespoke him of the Celtic race, while his plain dress and subordinate position could not disguise the grace and dignity of his air and manner. In this last he was such a contrast to his employer, that he might have been taken for a prince of the blood, attended by an old gentleman in waiting. They were standing within the arched gateway, or "I say, Broding, yon's old Hastings.and his secreleaning against the solid masonry of the side walls, tary. I've seen un before doon here," said the old that looked strong enough and old enough to have been labourer, addressing the smith, as these two travellers those of some ancient keep. They stepped out occa-issued from the coach, and passed before the bowing sionally to look anxiously up the village street, where it stretched into the turnpike road, leading far away over the hills. By their looks and conversation, it was evident that some event of unusual importance was expected to come off. "The coach will be late; what wull be keeping her?" inquired Broding, the village smith, as he returned disappointed from one of these surveys. "What do'ee think; wull the bridegroom be doon for sure?" he asked, turning to an ostler who had left the stable-yard for the same purpose. "Wull the young squoir be doon? Of course he wull! Dunnot he send down his groom to speak rooms in the house, with orders to have fires kindled? Why, mun, the young squoir wull never be late at such a time," replied the ostler, in contemptuous tones. "A good job if un never coom at all. The loikes of yon cooming to marry our lady, and lord it over our castle. When wur it ever known that a Lord Etheridge, of Swinburne, married wi' a cummuner? But we've ay heard tell that a house is done fur whon it falls to the distaff," said an old labourer from Swinburne Chase. "Well, feyther, an what wull no the lady please herself, sen she's got noan else to please. Sure this Muster Hastings is noa such a high match for Lady Etheridge, of Swinburne; but whoat's the use of a young 'oman being a baroness in her own right, if un cannot do as un likes, same as a milkmaid ?" asked the ostler. and smirking host into the house. Next came forth a young gentleman, whose handsome person and haughty manner at once attracted general attention. His form was tall, and finely proportioned, crowned by a haughty head and face, with high, aquiline features, fair and fresh complexion, light blue eyes, and very light flaxen hair. His expression of countenance, in keeping with his whole manner, was stern almost to repellant severity. Great beauty of person, with great dignity of manner, forms a combination very attractive to most young women, and perhaps it was this that fascinated the young heiress of Swinburne Castle, for this was Albert Hastings, the bridegroom elect. He was followed into the house by his valet, bearing his dressing-case. Colonel Hastings was immediately shown into his private parlour, where he was soon joined by his son. The landlord stood bowing at the door, and waiting for orders. "Breakfast, immediately, and the post-chaise at the door in half an hour," was the brief order of Colonel Hastings. "Yes, your honour. What would your honour like for breakfast ?" "Anything that is at hand, only be quick." |