BLACK MERE HOLLOW.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1227, 8 February 1878, Page 3

BLACK MERE HOLLOW.

By H. Barton Baker. {Tinsley) I had gone to Buxton one broiling July in search of the picturesque and the cool. On the day of my arrival I was wandering through one of the beautiful valleys of its vicinity, when, passing round a sharp turn in a high path overlooking a rushing stream, I came with startling suddenness upon a lady who was seated reading on a piece of projecting rock. I drew back a step, raising my hat apologetically, as my foot had brushed against her dress. Her s'ight figure was clothed in black, which brought out in strong contrast the extreme pallor of her delicate and beautiful features, and the pale auburn of her luxuriant hair. Her eyes were dark—a deep violet—large, sunken, and profoundly melancholy. A few months previously I had been fascinated by Guido’s portrait of Beatrice Cenci, which hangs in the Colonna Palace at Rome, and this wonderful picture of an incarnate sorrow had haunted my imagination ever since. It seemed to me that 1 had suddenly fallen upon its living resemblance. The sadness was less awful, less despairing than that upon the countenance of the hapless Italian, but scarcely less pathetic. It was a face with a story in it, and a tragic one; a story that might be of the past, alljtold, could scarcely have counted twenty years—or of the future ; for there are faces upon which God seems to stamp their destiny, upon which Woo casts his shadow in advance. Women far more beautiful had excited in me only a passing admiration ; this stranger fascinated me. A faint blush lit up her cheek as shorose, and in a low sweet voice acknowledged my apologies. To have lingered would have been obtrusive and ill-bred, and yet my feet seemed rooted to the spot, ray eyes spellbound. By an effort I broke the spell, and passed on. That same day I discovered, tomyamazodelight, that she, together with

her mother and father, had apartment* ia the house in which I lodged. Her mm* waa Isabel Clifford. 1 experienced no difficulty ia latrodaeing myself to Mr Clifford; he met a* >»*if way. The mother was a pel* withend woman, a confirmed invalid, who need to be drawn about in a Bath chair. Bhe was th* victim of chronic rheumatism, for which ah* was trying the Spa waters. Her husband was a startling contrast to this image of decrepitude. He was a stalwart man, who stood at least six feet in his boots, His age could not have been much over forty, and his bold handsome face looked even younger; bnt there was a furtive insincere expression in his gray eyes that disagreeably impressed me. His manner was obtrusive, and h% dressed showily and elaborately. Altogether he was the last person in the world whose acquaintance I would have sought under other circumstances. Two days after my introduction, I found myself on quite an easy footing in the family, flattered and caressed by the father and mother with a fulsomeness that almost sickened me. Of coarse 1 saw through it all, but my infatuation rendered me a wulm,! victim. The behaviour of Isabel, however, was quite different; she seemed even t<» shrink from me, as though my presence distressed her, and yet I could feel instinctively that this proceeded from ne repugnance. Perhaps, I thought, it is disgust at the toi obvious arts of her parents j and this supposition greatly raised her in my esteem. One day I was praising the seenoy of the neighborhood in Mr Clifford's presence, when he inquired if I had ever seen the Lake country. I had not. * This is not to be compared with it,* he went on; * I live in one of the most roraantie districts. We return homo in a few days ; pay us a visit a fortnight hence. I shall bo delighted to be your cicerone. What say you ?’ Of course I assented. * * * * » It was on a bright August morning £ started from Windemere for Blaokmero Hollow, that being the address given me by Mr Clifford.

It waa four o’clock in the afternoon when, after ascending for several miles between lofty barren hills, whose stony sided seemed scarcely to fford vegetation sufficient even for the sheep that browsed upon them, a peculiarly wild landscape suddenly broke u pon me. I had arrived at the summit of the mountains ; beneath me lay a vast hollow, in the bottom of which slumbered the dark waters of a lake; clusters of fir trees, expanses of purple heather, stretches of bare rock, and, towards the margin of the mere, patches of bright green meadow, but no sign of human habitation. The day, although fine and warm, was; heavy and cloudy j here and there thick mists curled round the summit of the hills, and rolled down their precipitous sides ; t. single ray of sunlight pierced through a black cloud above our heads, and made i* luminous spot upon the darkness of the lake. The effect of the scene was weird and ghastly. * That is Blaokmere Hollow, sir,’ said the coachman, pointing with his whip. * But where is the house ? * I inquired. * About half a mile or so below, sir,’ he replied. The road, steep and narrow, now wonnd through a dark copse, from which we emerged upon a bare plateau : on the left the woods ,aloped down to the dark motionless waters, which well merited their title, Blackmere; on the right rose a sheer barren precipice three or four hundred feet in height; and beneath this, facing the dark mist-crowned hills, which rose on the other side of the lake, a gray Jstone house, about which no atom of vegetation grew. ‘That’s Mr Clifford’s,’ said the coachman. I had alighted from the chaise at the top of the hill, preferring to trust my own lege rather than those of the horse upon such a road, and I stood still lor a moment gazing upon the scene. Never had my eyes looked upon a solitude so dreary, so sombre, se lifeless. A depression almost boding ill fell upon my spirits. I shivered and passed on to the house. I received a warm welcome from my host, whom I found at home. (To he eontinved.)