Buchanan enquired of the boy, if they might see the Priory. “I suppose so,” was his reply. And without further preamble, they alighted. “It must be rather melancholy to live here during the winter months,” said Calantha to the boy, as she passed him. “And summer too,” he answered. “We are told,” said Frances, “that this Priory is haunted by ghosts: have you ever seen any?” He shook his head. “I hears them sometimes, an’ please your honour,” he said; “but I never meddle with them, so they never comes after me as I see.” “Are you going to shew us the house?” cried Sir Everard advancing; “or, if not, why do you keep us waiting in this dark passage? go on: we are in haste.” The boy, proceeding towards an inner apartment, knocked at the door, calling to the housekeeper, and telling her that there was company below who wished to take the round of the castle. The old dame courtesying low in a mysterious manner led the way: the boy immediately retreated. Calantha was much tired; her spirits had undergone a severe shock; and the sight of Linden and St. Clara, as she was still called, made an impression upon her she scarcely could account for. The gaiety of the dresses, the fineness of the evening, the chorus of voices laughing and singing as they marched along, indifferent apparently to their future fate—perhaps hardened and insensible to it—all made an impression which it is impossible the description of the scene can give; but long it dwelt in her remembrance. Unused to check herself in any feeling, she insisted upon remaining in front of the Castle, whilst the rest of the party explored its secret mysteries and recesses. “I am sure you are frightened,” said Lord Trelawney; “but perhaps you will have more cause than we: it looks very gloomy without, as well as within.” They went, and she remained upon the cliff, watching the calm sea, and the boats at a distance, as they passed and repassed from the fair. “And can a few short years thus harden the heart?” she exclaimed, “was St. Clara innocent, happy, virtuous? can one moment of error thus have changed her? Oh it is not possible. Long before the opportunity for evil presented itself, her uncontrouled passions must have misled her, and her imagination, wild and lawless, must have depraved her heart. Alice was innocent: he who first seduced her from peace, deceived her; but St. Clara was not of this character. I understand—I think I understand the feelings which impelled her to evil. Her image haunts me. I tremble with apprehension. Something within seems to warn me, and to say that, if I wander from virtue like her, nothing will check my course—all the barriers, that others fear to overstep, are nothing before me. God preserve me from sin! the sight of St. Clara fills me with alarm. Avondale, where art thou? save me. My course is but just begun: who knows whither the path I follow leads? my will—my ungoverned will, has been hitherto, my only law.”