THE KING'S COLLEGE JUNE, 1842. ELLERTON CASTLE; A Romance. BY "FITZROY PIKE." CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. WILLIE BATS INDULGES IN AN IDEA, AND FINDS IT TO BE A VERY BAD ONETHE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF.-THE HISTORY OF FATHER FRANCIS. WILLIE BATS claims our attention. That worthy has acted upon schemes important in their result, however inefficient in their execution; we hasten, therefore, back to Ellerton, recurring to the period when last we quitted it. Willie Bats walks with Spenton in the fields;-how comes he by him for an associate? and Willie seems intimate with his companion! The cause of this?-Ambition. Willie Bats aspired;-to astonish the world by discovering a treasure, he knew not what, therefore he raked nightly among the bowels of the earth ;-to delight those he loved by discovering a secret, he knew not what, therefore he walked with Spenton. It was no fault of Willie's if his heart was developed at the expense of his brain; true, if his heart was warm, his brain was glowing-ay, on fire with an idea; but then the stock of fuel was but small, and that idea was not particularly brilliant. He had heard of the good service done by Mat Maybird in professing friendship with the foe: he, too, would follow in the profitable path, and scrape acquaintanceship with Spenton. Poor Willie! His thoughts, few and simple as they were, had never yet been denied access to his tongue, and now that he strove to put them in restraint they summarily rebelled, and refused to succumb to the interdiction. "And so," said Spenton, in continuance of their conversation, "thou wilt help me to win Kate Westrill ?” "I betray Mistress Kate!" exclaimed Willie indignantly; then, recollecting himself, "Yes, certainly." Spenton smiled. Willie thought he had exhibited excessive caution; and proceeded to pump with unexampled vigour "Where's Curts?" "In London." Willie was delighted at the mark of confidence expressed in this prompt reply. He knew that Curts really was on the road to London; in fact, had told Spenton of the knowledge he possessed. "What takes him to London ?" "He did not tell me." "Canst not guess ?" inquired Willie, who was determined to gain all he could by a rigorous cross-examination; but a simple negative stopped him in mid career. "Where is Kate Westrill?" asked Spenton in return. Willie was taken aback by the sudden demand upon his inventive powers. "I-I-she-yes; in London," replied he. “In London! When went she thither? eh, Willie?” "Oh," cried Willie,-"ay,"-taking time to reflect,—“ yes.— What saidst thou?" "When went Mistress Westrill to London, if there she be?" "When went she, didst thou ask, or why went she?-Why went she?" "Both. When and why." Suddenly Willie remembered Spenton's answer, and used it in "She did not tell me," exclaimed he eagerly: "that's it! she did not tell me!" default of a better: Spenton grinned from one grizzly whisker to the other. then nothing to betray!" "Hast "I!" cried Willie; "I play false to poor-Oh, no; nothing at present." "Adieu, then, Willie! When thou visit'st the good priest next, after Cicely hath kissed thee, give my love to Kate!" Willie here might have averted suspicion; but the sly, and somewhat public, allusion to his Cicely's kisses completed his confusion. "I never told thee-" "Thou hast told me now. I see it all-I understand thee well. Learn thy part, Willie, ere thou actest hypocrite again !" Thus speaking and chuckling as he went, the satisfied Spenton left the crest-fallen experimentalist. Poor Willie fetched a groan from some corner of his frame, if corner that round body could contain, and stood aghast at the mischief he had made: very often, indeed, as he walked slowly homeward, did he stop on his way to gaze earnestly at nothing, or stray aside from his path, more closely to examine something that he knew full well; for he dreaded the hour of his return, and could not sufficiently linger. At last he could withstand no longer, and throwing his rotund substance upon a bank, groaned and wept in misery; partly, indeed, on behalf of himself and Cicely, but yet more for the sorrow he had occasioned to 66 sweet Mistress Kate." Be our journeying fast or slow, one day the bourne must be arrived at: and, with all his contrivance, Willie could not rob the road to Ellerton of its accustomed end. At length, therefore, he deposited himself in Kate Westrill's presence, and with honest grief and true contrition told, as well as he was able, his unhappy tale. Poor Kate felt sympathy for his sorrow, and appreciated the kind motives that made Willie blunder; while her heart writhed at the thought of the tortures her simple friend had so unwittingly prepared, she was not too selfish to remember that he acted on a warm and kindly impulse; and with a soothing word she calmed the turbulence of his regrets.—But there was Cicely! What would Cicely say? "Beat me the villain soundly! Willie, I will try by this whereat to value thee. Until thou hast soundly cudgelled Master Spenton, seek not a word with me!" "Agreed!" cried Willie; "I will redeem my character! Charmer, I will not give thee a lock of my own hair; a nobler gift, Cicely, shall win back thy smile; one that Sir Edward might not scorn to bring a handful out of Spenton's head.—I'll pummel him!" With this effective speech, and a heroic strut, Willie departed, bent on lofty deeds. Cicely gazed upon his retiring form, and sighed at the contemplation of her lover's courage. Spenton's measures next should occupy our attention; but we will not dwell upon so unprofitable a subject. He visited the priest-encountered the whelming avalanche of Cicely's indignation-demanded Kate Westrill at the old man's hands-and received a mild but firm denial. "Law is against thee," exclaimed Spenton. "In the "Heaven will be with me," replied Father Francis. name of Him who hath mercy on the fatherless, I will detain her from thee." With an angry threat Spenton departed, but it was not for long. Scarcely had the good man's duties called him from the house when he again entered, and demanded an interview with Kate Westrill. Kate thought to move him when she granted it; and the blue eye of the unhappy orphan was raised for a moment in tearful supplication: she appealed to every manly feeling, but Spenton had not one to respond to the invocation; what wonder, then, that he met her with a brutal answer! The noble spirit of the maiden was aroused-her eyes flashed once more as of old— and Spenton once more cowered beneath her gaze. He would have spoken, and looked up to speak, but he dared not meet the eye of outraged innocence; and with a threat, a threat that awe scarce suffered him to utter, he left Kate Westrill's presence. And yet this coward was a thing to fear! The good priest, when he returned, found Kate in tears, and heard the cause of her affliction. "Father, if I stay, I bring ruin upon thy grey head; and—father, good father, I must leave thee! "To wander in a friendless world! My child, art thou a-weary of the old man's love, and wouldst thou break his heart to save him from a doubtful danger?" "Nay," replied Kate, "I have a friend thou know'st not of, and he hath offered me an asylum. I will not name him; it were best, if men ask thee, that thou shouldst not know. Father, the world is not a friendless world!" "I have heard," said the priest, "that there are men abroad who wound beneath the mask of friendship. Daughter, beware of such." "He who conveyed the offer wore a face of truth," replied Kate; "I will trust in this new friend." us; "And I resist not," said the priest; "difficulties now surround this may be a gate that leadeth from them. This unknown friend may have been raised up by Heaven to rescue thee from the hands of thine enemies. Yet," and a tear was in the old man's eye, "I love not, Kate, that thou shouldst leave me. There is a feeling at my heart that binds me to thee; wert thou mine own darling child, that dear daughter of my soul, whose infant guileless spirit rests in heaven, I could not part from thee with greater pain." The old man was evidently touched by some long-cherished recollection, as he passed his hand before his eyes, and sighed in sadness. "My dear Kate," continued he, "if thou but knewest how I love thee "I do know it," replied Kate, taking his hand in hers; "I know thy kind heart loveth all of us.' "Thee, my child, above others," replied the priest, sadly. "I will tell thee my tale, and thou wilt partly understand this feeling. Often hast thou heard me speak of sorrows passed; till now they have never been revealed; locked hitherto within my breast, to thee will I make them known, if only for the sake of thy sweet sympathy.' Kate listened with interest, as the old man continued. "When I was young," said he, "with my mind fresh and active, like all the rest, I loved. Love is, commonly, the master passion in a soul that is maturing; it was so in mine. My passion was returned, unopposed; I married, and was happy. In time a daughter was given to me; and my wife, whom I dearly loved, was taken from this world ere she had been two years mine. This was a heavy blow. On her death-bed lay, nestling beside her mother, my infant Mary. She knew not, in her happy innocence, the sad scene of which she formed a part, as my wife put her arm around the child, and bade me love and cherish it. I needed not words to induce me-words, dying words.-I promised that Mary should find in me father and mother; that she should learn to think of that parent she had never known, and to respect and love her memory. The little babe looked at me, and smiled as I promised; then clung more closely to her mother. A thin arm encircled her little neck, and so my poor wife died. When I took the child from the embrace of that loved corpse, I kissed it fondly; it stretched its little arms to her who was dead-but these, Kate, are sad recollections, the scene is before me now,-forgive me for having dwelt upon it. Little Mary grew, and with her growth my fond love increased; I doted upon her almost to madness. In her were wife and child; all that torrent of a young heart's warm fervent feeling that in me had been arrested so suddenly, fell upon little Mary. Ere she could speak I taught her to love her mother's grave: it is in a sunny corner of the churchyard; and there I used to sit, by hours together, and my love still grew more violent as I looked on the child's gambols, and thought the while of her who slept beneath. She became a scholar, apt for speaking; I taught her then to lisp her mother's name; and oh! there was a mournful pleasure in hearing it fall from the child's little lips! I loved her then still |