Farewell | Page 3

on a wound that seemed not yet healed.
"Some day I will tell you my story," Philip said at last, wringing his
friend's hand, while he acknowledged his dumb repentance with a
heart- rending glance. "To-day I cannot."
They walked on in silence. As the Colonel's distress passed off the
Councillor's fatigue returned. Instinctively, or rather urged by

weariness, his eyes explored the depths of the forest around them; he
looked high and low among the trees, and gazed along the avenues,
hoping to discover some dwelling where he might ask for hospitality.
They reached a place where several roads met; and the Councillor,
fancying that he saw a thin film of smoke rising through the trees, made
a stand and looked sharply about him. He caught a glimpse of the dark
green branches of some firs among the other forest trees, and finally,
"A house! a house!" he shouted. No sailor could have raised a cry of
"Land ahead!" more joyfully than he.
He plunged at once into undergrowth, somewhat of the thickest; and
the Colonel, who had fallen into deep musings, followed him
unheedingly.
"I would rather have an omelette here and home-made bread, and a
chair to sit down in, than go further for a sofa, truffles, and Bordeaux
wine at Cassan."
This outburst of enthusiasm on the Councillor's part was caused by the
sight of the whitened wall of a house in the distance, standing out in
strong contrast against the brown masses of knotted tree-trunks in the
forest.
"Aha! This used to be a priory, I should say," the Marquis d'Albon
cried once more, as they stood before a grim old gateway. Through the
grating they could see the house itself standing in the midst of some
considerable extent of park land; from the style of the architecture it
appeared to have been a monastery once upon a time.
"Those knowing rascals of monks knew how to choose a site!"
This last exclamation was caused by the magistrate's amazement at the
romantic hermitage before his eyes. The house had been built on a spot
half-way up the hillside on the slope below the village of Nerville,
which crowned the summit. A huge circle of great oak-trees, hundreds
of years old, guarded the solitary place from intrusion. There appeared
to be about forty acres of the park. The main building of the monastery
faced the south, and stood in a space of green meadow, picturesquely
intersected by several tiny clear streams, and by larger sheets of water
so disposed as to have a natural effect. Shapely trees with contrasting
foliage grew here and there. Grottos had been ingeniously contrived;
and broad terraced walks, now in ruin, though the steps were broken
and the balustrades eaten through with rust, gave to this sylvan Thebaid

a certain character of its own. The art of man and the picturesqueness
of nature had wrought together to produce a charming effect. Human
passions surely could not cross that boundary of tall oak-trees which
shut out the sounds of the outer world, and screened the fierce heat of
the sun from this forest sanctuary.
"What neglect!" said M. d'Albon to himself, after the first sense of
delight in the melancholy aspect of the ruins in the landscape, which
seemed blighted by a curse.
It was like some haunted spot, shunned of men. The twisted ivy stems
clambered everywhere, hiding everything away beneath a luxuriant
green mantle. Moss and lichens, brown and gray, yellow and red,
covered the trees with fantastic patches of color, grew upon the benches
in the garden, overran the roof and the walls of the house. The
window-sashes were weather-worn and warped with age, the balconies
were dropping to pieces, the terraces in ruins. Here and there the
folding shutters hung by a single hinge. The crazy doors would have
given way at the first attempt to force an entrance.
Out in the orchard the neglected fruit-trees were running to wood, the
rambling branches bore no fruit save the glistening mistletoe berries,
and tall plants were growing in the garden walks. All this forlornness
shed a charm across the picture that wrought on the spectator's mind
with an influence like that of some enchanting poem, filling his soul
with dreamy fancies. A poet must have lingered there in deep and
melancholy musings, marveling at the harmony of this wilderness,
where decay had a certain grace of its own.
In a moment a few gleams of sunlight struggled through a rift in the
clouds, and a shower of colored light fell over the wild garden. The
brown tiles of the roof glowed in the light, the mosses took bright hues,
strange shadows played over the grass beneath the trees; the dead
autumn tints grew vivid, bright unexpected contrasts were evoked by
the