



Produced by Marlo Dianne




[Illustration: "These Are My Dearest Children."]




THE
CRYPTOGRAM.


A Novel.


By James De Mille,

Author of
"The Dodge Club," "Cord and Creese," "The American Baron," etc.


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS




New York:
Harper & Brothers, Publishers,
Franklin Square.
1872




CHAPTER I.


TWO OLD FRIENDS.


Chetwynde Castle was a large baronial mansion, belonging to the
Plantagenet period, and situated in Monmouthshire. It was a grand old
place, with dark towers, and turrets, and gloomy walls surmounted
with battlements, half of which had long since tumbled down, while
the other half seemed tottering to ruin. That menacing ruin was on
one side of the structure concealed beneath a growth of ivy, which
contrasted the dark green of its leaves with the sombre hue of the
ancient stones. Time with its defacing fingers had only lent
additional grandeur to this venerable pile. As it rose there--"standing
with half its battlements alone, and with five hundred years
of ivy grown"--its picturesque magnificence and its air of hoar
antiquity made it one of the noblest monuments of the past which
England could show.

All its surroundings were in keeping with the central object. Here
were no neat paths, no well-kept avenues, no trim lawns. On the
contrary, every thing bore the unmistakable marks of neglect and
decay; the walks were overgrown, the terraces dilapidated, and the
rose pleasaunce had degenerated into a tangled mass of bushes and
briers. It seemed as though the whole domain were about to revert
into its original state of nature; and every thing spoke either of
the absence of a master, or else of something more important
still--the absence of money.

The castle stood on slightly elevated ground; and from its gray stone
ivy-covered portal so magnificent was the view that the most careless
observer would be attracted by it, and stand wonder-struck at the
beauty of the scene, till he forgot in the glories of nature the
deficiencies of art. Below, and not far away, flowed the silvery Wye,
most charming of English streams, winding tortuously through fertile
meadows and wooded copses; farther off lay fruitful vales and rolling
hills; while in the distance the prospect was bounded by the giant
forms of the Welsh mountains.

At the moment when this story opens these beauties were but faintly
visible through the fast-fading twilight of a summer evening; the
shadows were rapidly deepening; and the only signs of life about the
place appeared where from some of the windows at the eastern end
faint rays of light stole out into the gloom.

The interior of the castle corresponded with the exterior in
magnificence and in ruin--in its picturesque commingling of splendor
and decay. The hall was hung with arms and armor of past generations,
and ornamented with stags' heads, antlers, and other trophies of the
chase; but rust, and mould, and dust covered them all. Throughout the
house a large number of rooms were empty, and the whole western end
was unfurnished. In the furnished rooms at the eastern end every
thing belonged to a past generation, and all the massive and
antiquated furniture bore painful marks of poverty and neglect. Time
was every where asserting his power, and nowhere was any resistance
made to his ravages. Some comfort, however, was still to be found in
the old place. There were rooms which were as yet free from the
general touch of desolation. Among these was the dining-room, where
at this time the heavy curtains were drawn, the lamps shone out
cheerily, and, early June though it was, a bright wood-fire blazed on
the ample hearth, lighting up with a ruddy glow the heavy panelings
and the time-worn tapestries. Dinner was just over, the dessert was
on the table, and two gentlemen were sitting over their wine--though
this is to be taken rather in a figurative sense, for their
conversation was so engrossing as to make them oblivious of even the
charms of the old ancestral port of rare