Chapter VII: Part 7

In one of the squares at the extremity of Liverpool, some sixty years ago, there resided a young orphan, called Elizabeth Woodville. She had no relations surviving; her parents had long been dead, and an only brother, a few weeks previous, had, by youthful excesses, been brought to an untimely end. The latter event preyed upon her spirits and constitution, not only from the mere fact itself of his death, but also from the horrible circumstances connected with it. He had been conveyed home a corpse, after his nightly revel; and at the moment when Elizabeth was dreaming of her parents, in the far off happy land, she was awoke to listen to the awful tidings, and view their confirmation in the ghastly features of one who, whatever, and how many his faults and crimes were, had always loved her. She seemed now to be alone in the world, with no acquaintances save the flowers which her fair hands fostered every morning, and the toys of her brother, when a boy, which were all collected and arranged before her. There was the pencil, with which he and Arthur Govenloch alternately sketched her own features, in puerile art; and along with it were the silken cords which bound her to a seat, when she was refractory. That seat was still there, with the green faded cushion, and in it, for hours, she often sat, held by the illusions of memory. His fishing rod and basket kept their old places, fixed to the ceiling. Even the marbles of the boy had been preserved, and she thought of their sports in the garden, and remembered a long and successful chase, through amidst the trees and over the grass plot, into the arbour, which Arthur, followed by her brother, had after her, when she stole away their marbles. His Holy Bible, too, with the three names inscribed on the fly leaf, lay with its gilt edges; and she pictured once more to her fancy, the beautiful and happy sabbath eves, in summer, out on the flowery lawn, when their young minds drank in the holy words of peace and life. She fondly hoped that the solemn, yet sweet truths of mercy therein contained, would have been so strongly impressed upon her brother’s heart, that all the infidel thoughts which had latterly sprung up, and effected his temporal ruin, must have failed to uproot them. It had never been conned by them as a task book, but had always been opened by them as a holy romance of truth from heaven, pointing to Eden as the cradle, and the skies as the home, of our race; with the lovely and the wise Jesus as the hero of every scene, reflected above or below. Her whole heart was among these objects of remembrance, and her happiness was in the past. She played delightfully, and her sweet voice accompanied the harp, but only the songs and hymns which had pleased her brother, and his friend. She often thought of that friend. There was only one of the dead who engrossed all her thoughts, and that one was her brother, even to the entire exclusion of her parents; and there was only one of the living, and he was Arthur Govenloch. Since boyhood he had been in a foreign country, but he had never gone from the affections of Elizabeth Woodville.

It was May day, towards sunset, as she took her seat on the terrace. She was engaged in working a piece of embroidery,--a history of the family, and of her childhood; and the last rays fell sweetly upon the names of those she loved. An unusual buoyancy had been imparted to her spirits, and she leaned over to view the sports of children, as crowned with the first flowers of summer, they gaily and enthusiastically tripped about the door. They all departed, save one beautiful boy, who sat down beside an old statue, on the grass plot, and by turns, for very happiness, sung, clapped his hands, and shouted. He started as he heard footsteps near, and seeing Elizabeth, ran up the outer flight of stairs, leading to the terrace. She came down to meet him, when a stranger appeared. He suddenly halted, and became deadly pale. He turned round, for a moment, to conceal his agitation, when he heard a half-suppressed shriek.

“Arthur Govenloch!”

Although many, many years had elapsed, and foreign climes had embrowned his features, Elizabeth recognized him. She had loved the boy, and when he was absent her imagination had pictured the man, and there stood the living resemblance, unchanged. On hearing his own name pronounced, he rushed forward. There was a beautiful lady in mourning. Could it be his own Elizabeth? There was the same slight figure, which he had so often clasped, as a boyish dream, and the deep light of her soft blue eyes, which he had so often braved for hours, when lying on the grass, and could he forget it?

“My own Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, “in mourning? But hast thou been faithful and true, as I have been? There, there, that boy again.--A shudder passed over me, as I first beheld him here. Art thou the wife of another? That boy,”--

“Arthur, I know him not, he is the child of a neighbour. Oh! hast thou come at last! Arthur, I am alone. My brother is--”

“Hush, dearest, _now_ thou art not alone. But let us enter the house, where I have been so happy, and tell me all.”

Their love had been preserved through many years. It had commenced early, and was hallowed by memory, as well as brightened by hope. Innocence had lighted it, and the daring boy, and the gentle girl, would leave their task to romp with each other, but not for romping’s sake; for when the sport was ended, then came the soft look, the soft touch, and the soft confession. Boys and girls are the quickest, the warmest, the holiest, and the most successful lovers. The God of love plays best with children; and,--mischievous urchin--when the little scholars are rambling about, or seated, teaching each other their tasks, taking hold of fingers, to point out letters, or words, figures, or sums, then he lets fly the arrow, touching their young and pure blood. Such lovers had Elizabeth Woodville and Arthur Govenloch been, and their affection was preserved, warm and strong, until the present. Both wept over the death of their old companion, and all his books were, once more, affectionately handled and looked at. They walked out together upon the terrace, and brightly did the stars shine upon them, like the glorious and happy types of that future, concerning which they spoke. Happy were they now in each other, and long ere Arthur left her, Elizabeth’s face was beautiful with smiles. She accompanied him to the garden gate, leaning confidingly upon his arm.

“Elizabeth--I must introduce the custom of the country which I have left; and the square is so retired, and the nights, of late, have been so beautiful, that I must come and serenade you beneath your window. But arise not; only for a moment awake to listen to my lute, and then, dearest, dream of me.”

He looked upon her, and saw that she was pale. Her slight frame trembled. He pressed his hand against her heart, and it beat violently.

“Nay, Arthur, do not.”

“I will not disturb your rest. No, Elizabeth; but the night is so beautiful, that I cannot refrain from coming to the house where my own love dwells, and serenading, in company with the angels, the abode of the beautiful Orphan. You know that I won’t serenade you, when you are my dear little wife. Henry, your brother, will thank and bless me for coming.”

She became still paler, and leaned for support on the gate.

“You are not well. Walk back to the house. Come. Now, farewell dearest,” and he fondly embraced her. Her brow was cold as he kissed it, and she softly said,--

“Oh! Arthur, come not to night.”

But he thought that, although he might not serenade her, there could be no harm in passing, at the hour of midnight, and looking at the house, as it lay in the pale moonshine. For, be it observed, that lovers are not so very unreasonable as some represent; and the mere sight of the house where the adored one lives, can satisfy them.

A little before midnight, Arthur was once more in the street, on his way to the abode of his mistress. All was silent and lonely. The glare of lamps was feeble and sickly, mingling with, while yet distinguishable from, the light of the moon. The breezes blew gently, and carried perfumes, as tranquilizing as they were sweet. Few persons were abroad: and save the light dress of the unfortunate and the guilty, revealing itself occasionally, at a corner of the street, as he passed, and the song of the bachanalian, coming from cellars, and greeting him, Arthur found nothing to turn his attention from the thoughts and love which he cherished to the fair Orphan. All boyish feelings, save one, had been forgotten, and, as he trod his native town, he felt that in it he was a stranger. But the brother shared his thoughts, as well as the sister, and he wished that he had enquired of Elizabeth where his grave was, that even there he might pay an early visit, after his return, to the friend and companion of his boyhood. He reached the lane which opened into the square. It was a dark, close, and filthy way. Trees were on every side, but the leaves appeared to be beds of worms and reptiles, and a sharp breeze coming from the harbour, blew some of them against Arthur’s cheek, and they were damp and polluting to the touch.

Suddenly he heard shouts of revelry behind, and the sound of a coach starting. The whip was loudly urging on the steeds, and their hoofs clattered fast and furious. He looked back, and to his astonishment and terror, saw nothing. Still the noise came near and nearer, and at length he distinctly heard a coach dash past him. At that moment a loud shout was heard, and the whip was cracked close to his ears. The blood curdled within him. He could not be deceived. He ran on, and the nearer he came, he heard the rolling of the wheels, the pawing and breathing of the horses, the cracking of the whip, and even the oaths and tones of those who sat in it, with greater assurance. He seemed close upon it, when all at once it stopped, and then he found himself at the house of Elizabeth Woodville, and there, horrible to think, the Spectre Coach was waiting, unseen! He moved backwards and forwards, and fancied that he heard whispers near the place, and occasionally the stroke of a hoof, on the flinty road. A flavour of wine and tobacco was in the air around. In a little, the door of the house was half opened: a light and merry step was on the pavement, and instantly a loud holloo, in the tones of one, quite familiar to his ear, arose, and once more the coach dashed away. Arthur stood motionless, what could this awful prodigy mean? He looked at the door, and there stood Elizabeth! He rushed forward. Her eyes fell upon his form, enveloped in a cloak, and shrieking, she fell. He raised her from the earth, bleeding and senseless. He shouted for the domestics, and committed her to their care. He entered another room. In a short time, one of them returned, and announced that her mistress had recovered, and was desirous of speaking with him.

“My young lady,” she added “every night watches for that coach. It comes for her brother regularly, as usual. Oh! Sir, would you persuade her to retire before the hour? It renews her grief.”

Arthur started at these words: and truths of an awful nature flashed across his mind. But he heard Elizabeth’s voice, and he hurried into her apartment. She sat, reclining on a sofa; her countenance was pale; her eyes bright, but an expression of horror and wildness in them.

“Did you not, Arthur,” she exclaimed, as she wrung her hands, and with them covered her face, “did you not hear Henry’s voice, so free and merry. What an awful apparition of his last ghost! I have gazed for months, and hoped that I would see him, but in vain. The tale is one of horror, and one which I have realized.”

She paused, and leaving her seat, went to the window, and listened eagerly.

“It comes not yet--no--it is not the appointed time, and I may proceed with the relation. But for God’s sake, Arthur, if you hear a noise, if you hear the rolling of the coach, interrupt me not! I must answer his call. Nay, rise not. I am calm, dear Arthur. You knew my brother Henry--None could be more innocent and happy. But after you left us, he listened to wicked men, and imbibed their poisonous doctrines, and Henry Woodville, the beautiful and the good, became a dark infidel! In place of the Holy book, from which you read to us--was the accursed text book of the wretch, Paine. You knew that when he read, he placed a chair for me, and with his cheek against mine, invited me, laughingly, to examine whether he read correctly. One evening, out on the terrace,--thus we sat down to read, and mine eyes fell upon the words before he uttered them; “There is no God, and christianity is all priests’ fables.” I warmly told him to throw away such blasphemy. He laughed, and added that it was his bible, and that he would sell the old one for a penny! From step to step he went on, and became a drunkard and a debauchee. He was so entangled with companions, that he would not abandon their society. Still he loved me, wept as I wept, and said that he was sorry for his conduct, and then laughed like a fiend. Every night his associates came, in a coach, and took him away to their foul orgies. In the outskirts of the town,--for, Arthur, I have followed, though concealed--they lighted a fire, burned the Bible, and then drove to the haunts of depravity. Henry’s handsome form became emaciated, and almost loathsome; but I embraced him more fondly than ever. His full bright eyes were sunk and bloodshot. One night, he promised to stay with me at home, and all my hopes revived. What happy hours we spent! He led me to my apartment, and kissed me. He even implored God’s blessing upon me. I saw him kneel before his Maker. I heard him plead love for his sister, aye, and forgiveness for himself. I sank to sleep, overpowered with a delirium of joy! And yet, Arthur, he deceived me. He joined his companions, and in the coach, they repaired to a vale, and there began to make a sacrament to the devil! Prayers and praises to him were made in the midst of mirth and wine; and they literally took the cup of damnation in their hands, and quaffed it off. They invoked the enemy. The inhabitants of the suburbs were aroused from their repose by awful noises. They went to the place whence they seemed to proceed, and my brother, and two of his associates, were found dead, and horribly mangled. A black form was said to hover near them. What a corpse Henry was! And yet, I watched every minute beside it, kissed the hideous lips, until he was taken to the grave. Every night that coach comes for him as usual. It is a Phantom Coach. On a beautiful night, it has the sound of a light coach; and on a stormy one, that of a heavy coach. The first night after his funeral, it came. I started up, thinking that his associates had resolved to insult me. I rushed to the window, but saw nothing. It tarried the usual time, and then dashed away. I heard my brother’s voice distinctly! I stood for hours, unable to move,--when it was heard returning. It halted, the door opened, and a light step mounted the staircase, close by this window, and struck against Henry’s door. In mad phrenzy I followed, but saw nothing! All his associates have died; still, the Phantom Coach calls regularly upon them, and takes them to their place of rendezvous!”

She again arose, and went to the window.

The horrible tale had fallen like a nightmare upon the energies and happiness of Arthur Govenloch. He sat motionless;--when his mistress returned, and resumed the subject.

“One night--this is the anniversary of it, the first of May,--he went out early, and told me to admit him when he knocked, without delay. Long I watched. Mine eyes, or the bright moon, became pale; and, at last, I fell asleep. In the midst of happy dreams I was awoke by a loud knocking at the door. I rushed to the staircase, and, in my hurry, fell down. I could scarcely arise to open the door, but my love prevailed, and as Henry entered, he struck me! yes, struck his sister! cursed my delay, and threatened worse punishment for the next offence. This is the night when I should have been asked to watch for and admit him, and those awful words follow me! I knew that he afterwards wept over his cruelty--but these words!”

In vain did Arthur attempt to turn away her thoughts from the subject, and when he failed, he requested permission to bear her company until the morning. Often did she express a wish that she could only see the coach and her brother.

“I hear his voice, and sometimes it sounds like the tones of his boyhood, happy and free; and yet, I cannot see him!”

The night was far advanced, and they went to the window. The sky was dark and clouded. The moon could no longer be seen.

“Arthur!” Elizabeth exclaimed in a voice of terror, “I hear the coach; it dashes furiously along. Nay, do not hold me.”

The noise was distinctly heard;--it became loud and louder. Henry’s voice was above all, laughing, shouting, cursing. It halted. A knocking was instantly made at the house door.

“It is my brother; I cannot delay. Arthur, I must go alone. I will speedily return to you. But I must admit Henry. Will he give me worse than before?”

She rushed out of the door as the knocking was redoubled. The door opened, and the next moment a step was mounting the stairs. Arthur tarried for a time; still, Elizabeth came not. He snatched a light, and when he reached the door, there she was lying with her head on the pavement,--dead! dead!

The Spectre Coach of the Infidels, at the hour of midnight, stopping at their old abodes, is said still to be heard. Coachmen have anxiously looked before them, expecting to come into collision with it. Dogs commence to howl, and yet are frightened; and many a traveller has heard, but none ever seen “the Spectre Coach.”

THE CROSS AND LADY MABEL.

THE CHRONICLER, IN THE FOLLOWING LEGEND, ADHERES TO THE STATEMENTS OF THE GENEALOGICAL ROLL OF THE BRADSHAIGH FAMILY, IN REFERENCE TO THE KNIGHTLY HERO’S EXPEDITION TO THE HOLY LAND.

The banner was waving over the goodly mansion of Haigh Hall, on the twenty-sixth anniversary of Sir William Bradshaigh’s birth, and all the retainers, from the scullion to the seneschal were boisterously enjoying themselves, in a hearty eating, drinking, and laughing. On every eminence in view, small flags had been placed, and some of these sported their colours on the loftiest trees, in the adjoining woods. But, although much good cheer had been placed near these, to attract a small company, they were left solitary, as tokens to strangers, for all the knight’s men were assembled at the porch of the Hall, quaffing the foaming goblet to his honour and prosperity, and to his success in his intended expedition as a Crusader. With earliest morn the appropriate demonstrations had commenced, but they became more ardent and joyous towards sunset. A chair was then placed on the threshold, for the minstrel whose chivalrous strains were to be heard by all, in praise of his noble master. One burst of merry applause greeted him, as the aged man took his seat, and as he gently touched the strings to Sir William’s glory, within, the fair bosom of Lady Mabel, heaved with answering sympathy. She embraced her children, and looking upwards, prayed that they might be good, and brave as their father; and when Sir William joined her, she added, as handsome and beautiful.

Sir William Bradshaigh, in person, enjoyed the aristocracy of nature, as well as of birth. His stature was not tall, neither was his frame muscular; yet not a limb, not a feature, seemed out of keeping with the impress of his mind. His was the true nobility of face and form, and as he appeared sheathed in armour, with the cross embroidered on the scarf over his breast, he brought along with him ideas of the mournful and weeping spirit of Palestine, trusting to his arm for relief, from the scourge and the tread of the daring Infidel. On gazing at some persons, you feel convinced that they are entirely fitted by nature for that which has given them fame. The very hands, as well as the features, seem to be stamped with it, and the soul, visibly looks through every part and limb. Thus was it with Sir William. You could not doubt, on beholding his form, that he was a knight of unequalled bravery and skill, although young and slender. The small white hands were locked in those of his beautiful Mabel, but they seemed as well fitted for grasping the sword.

Well might Lady Mabel be his match. The faultless symmetry of her majestic person, added to her raven tresses, and brightly glowing eye, were for the wife, a perfect counterpart to the husband. A meek beauty rested upon her countenance, which every thought and feeling, gently disturbed. She was naturally pale, and this circumstance tended to make her features better interpreters of her mind; for colour, although it be the most pure and delicate, frequently hides under its roses the play and change of the passions. She was now emerging from the sprightliness of the maiden, into the holy serenity of the matron; and as the mother of his babes, the knight loved her more than as his young mistress. Her locks were braided simply over her brow.

“My own Mabel,” said the knight, “where are thy jewels? Shame on their beauties that they dread a comparison with the light of those eyes!”

“Sir William,” answered the lady with a sigh, “would you have a widow deck herself with the mimicry of gladness?”

“Yes, love, in order that she may wile another to take away the dark veil of her loneliness.”

“Another,” shrieked Mabel faintly. “Cruel.”

“Nay,” returned Sir William, “you are not yet a widow;--you are my wife. Nor will I doubt your constancy when I am gone to the wars. These” embracing his children as he spoke, “are the pledges of your faith. But, Mabel, where are the jewels for your forehead? ’Tis meet that for the banquet you appear among the other ladies as the most beautiful.”

“Give my brow a few kisses,” replied his lady, as she threw her arms around his neck, “these Sir William, are my jewels.”

“But for thine absence, love, I would have been completely happy in Palestine, with all the dreams of its former loveliness and greatness haunting me, beside its still fountains and on its heavenly hills. Could the breezes of the Holy Land but fan my Mabel’s cheek as they will do mine, there I could die. But we must go forth, and greet our trusty retainers. Ho! hither, page, and lead my children!”

Lady Mabel took her husband’s arm, and the page followed with the children. She appeared fonder than ever, and frequently gazed on the Cross which Sir William wore, with something of pride, but more of sorrow; and at this, many of the retainers were for a moment silent, and passed a rough hand across their eyes, to wipe away the tears which had gathered there. But the minstrel’s lay became loud and thrilling, and they rushed forward, with less respect than otherwise, and took their master by the hand. He warmly responded to this expression of their attachment. He passed them and wandered on to the highest peak on the range of elevated ground adjoining. Nature, too, kept her holiday, and revelled in smiles. She was attired in her richest dress of summer. Her music, filling the air, was sweet, and echoed from her very throne, amidst the depths of the grove and vale; and her breath was bland. Before them, and around them were deep glens, and towering mountains in miniature. Ay, there seemed to be the miniature of the world itself; for the prospect of many counties was stretched out, and the far off sea, with its blue waves, leaping to the sun.

But night’s curtain fell over the scene, and to it Sir William then pronounced his farewell, and to ease his heart lifted up his youngest child in his arms, and fondled him playfully.

All was song and mirth in the evening banquet. The minstrel assayed his art, and ladies fair crowded around him, whilst lords gazed upon their wine-cups unemptied, as they listened to his strains. He played of the dark eyes, gazing in the pale light of the moon at the lattice, for the expected lover. But as he met the downcast and pensive eye of Lady Mabel, he changed his notes, and the harp tuned the following ditty to her praise.

Age, quit the strings: a vesper song--all sweet,
Not for the dance, let moonlight’s spirits wake,
With wild, yet modest touch, from snowy feet,
As they fly o’er, with music-shells the lake
Has coloured and attuned, to Mabel fair,
Sounding of happiness beyond all care--
And let the song be given,
To pure Reserve--the child of heaven.

In the gay hall of dazzling light,
There is a seat apart from all;
Where radiance, soothing, yet not bright,
And music soft, so gently fall;--
It is the calm recess:--no nerve
Is needed for the light, and sound;
Such is to love--the heart’s reserve,
Where truth and peace are ever found.

Reserve is the heart’s own home,
Where music oft for One has swelled,
Where the heaving bosom breathes “come,”
Although the fair hand was with-held
From a stranger: it is the veil
Over Love’s holy temple, I wist,
Through which no bright eyes look a Hail
To any save to the high-priest!

It gives a dole to the pilgrim lone,
And to him a threshold seat;
It turns an ear to his troubled moan,
And stoops to bathe his aching feet!
But its sanctuary is for one,
For one! Sir William of Haigh Hall,
And Mabel there leads you alone!
Gentles, God’s blessing on you all.

Mabel arose from her seat, and with her own hands poured forth a cup of the rosy wine, and placed it in the hands of the minstrel, as his grateful reward. Meanwhile, the proud dame, Sir William’s mother, had entered. She motioned him out of the room. He followed her into the large winding gallery. The window at the eastern extremity, seemed of the moonshine, and the rays mingled with the dim light of the tapers. There were all the portraits of his ancestors, and their faces were turned upon their youthful heir.

“My son,” said the dame, “thou hast now to leave a mother, a wife, and a home, for the Holy Land. Gaze upon these faces of your race, whilst I recount the deeds for which they have been distinguished. Catch courage, from the tale, and let a mother rejoice in her boy.”

“Mother,” the knight replied, “I am my father’s son, and I wear my father’s sword; but more, I am Sir William Bradshaigh! I need not to seek, at present, courage from the valour of my forefathers. I have long known their faces, and can sum up their achievements. I have played here in boyhood, but, in their hallowed presence, never could I play with any thing save a sword. From all their stern array of features, I have turned to look upon that sweet lady, who, so I have heard the worthy friar say, was not one of our race.”

“My son, wouldst thou know her history? But see here, Mabel has followed thee. God bless ye both, my children.”

“Sir William, why hast thou uncourteously left the feast and me?” asked Mabel, in a fond and chiding tone.

“Hush, Mabel, our mother is to rehearse the fate of the beautiful girl.”

He led them to the middle of the gallery, and pointed to the portrait of a young female. There was nothing but enthusiastic beauty and love, beaming on her countenance, and her bosom was exposed, after the fashion of the times. Her brow was noble and open, and although the ringlets were thrown back all around, there was nothing stern; all was so gentle and sweet. Her lips seemed to open a promised heaven, and the moonbeams flickered around and gleamed upon them like the fiery cherubim at the gates of Paradise, to guard the sweet fruit of the knowledge of good and love. There was a mingled expression of archness and simplicity, and the bright head seemed to toss itself in coquetry, and deny what the loving eyes confessed. A light drapery covered the arms, to the elbow, and the under part was naked, whilst the pretty fingers might have been thought to be playing with the rays, which danced upon the canvass. Oh! Beauty! how powerful are thy charms, even by the painter’s art! Whilst living in thyself, thou commandest the worship of genius, wisdom, and valour, and all their trophies are laid at thy feet. Their hand is placed upon the sounding harp, their hand turns over the records of old sages, their hand is died in blood, only to win a smile from thee! The Angel of death, is heaven’s painter of thee, and he sketches thine undecaying form, in the light of our dreams. And even in the illusion of a noble art, for ages thou receivest homage, as free from hypocrisy, as from sinister motives, and in the sigh and the tear, accompanying our glance, thy memory speaks and moves!

Sir William and his lady, could have knelt and prayed for happiness on the fate of that young female, as if it were yet in the future. Their mother, after a short pause, seated herself opposite, and began the tale.

‘When the lion-hearted Richard of England went to the Holy Land, not a braver and more handsome knight was in his train, than the youthful De Norris, your grandsire, Mabel. He was accomplished in all the arts of peace and war. His trophy of the one, is that Paynim standard, which hangs on the wall in decayed tatters; and of the other, the love and the heart of that beautiful girl, Magdalene Montfort, his young cousin.

‘Her residence, since her orphan childhood, had been the hall, and William De Norris, her sole companion. Often have they wandered together in this gallery, by moonlight, and the ghosts of the warriors of her race, could not frighten their young love.’

“Mabel,” softly whispered Sir William Bradshaigh to his lady, “is not this our own tale?”

The dame proceeded, ‘He took her to the neighbouring woods, and there they passed whole days--he the shepherd, and she the rustic maid. She often sat on his knee, while he combed her long golden locks. But the crusade inspired in De Norris’s mind, thoughts and desires for glory. He dreamt of nothing but the lakes and holy mountains of Palestine, where the daring Richard should pitch his camp, afterwards to become his court. The cross was ever before him, and a warrior’s arms were glorious to behold, dipped in the Saviour’s blood, and consecrated to his cause. Was the licentious prophet to hold the inheritance of the meek and lowly Jesus? In vain did Magdalene weep, and by tears and caresses, entreat her William to stay in his father’s halls. He vowed that the cross must seal their marriage, and that he would be faithful to his love. Yet, proud was she, as the morn of parting came, and De Norris mounted his fiery charger. He was so beautiful and gallant! He had pronounced the tender farewell, as the trumpets sounded, and his followers rallied around him. But a sudden thought brightened over his features, and he spurred back to Magdalene, and sprang from his steed.

‘“My own Magdalene, give me thy portrait that hangs in my apartment, that in my tent, before and after our engagements, I may think of thee, and implore thy blessing.”

‘“Nay, William De Norris,” she replied, with a feint sigh, “should you be faithless, how would that silent resemblance, recall to thee our past vows, and bitterly chide thee for thy falseness. I would not even then, give thee uneasiness. But William, think of me as fondly, as I will of you! Farewell!” and she threw her arms around him, and wept on his neck.

‘Cœur De Lion, honoured your ancestor by marks of his favour, and once embraced him in the royal tent, after a victory, in which De Norris had distinguished himself. Four years he had been absent, but Magdalene forgot him not, and as every palmer appeared at the hall, she kindly led him into her own bower, expecting to hear of the Holy Land, and her lover. She became sad, and pale, spoke of none but William, and of nothing but his return.

‘One evening towards sunset, the family banner was suddenly raised, for news was afloat that De Norris had returned, and was on his way to the hall with a bride! Magdalene heard it, and from that very moment became a maniac. She rushed out to meet him, among the retainers.

‘Through the shady wood she beheld De Norris approaching. Banners were floating over his head; and by his side rode a beautiful lady, in white bridal robes. They were conversing together, yet was the knight’s cheek deadly pale, and his lips quivered, as he cast furtive glances around, which told that he expected to meet One whom he had forsaken. But trees concealed her. To change his emotions, he dashed the spurs into his furious steed, in order that his spirit might be chafed in curbing it, when a loud shriek was given, and the horse plunged madly on. A rush was made to the place by his immediate attendants; and on looking back De Norris saw his own Magdalene prostrate and mangled. He leaped down; a shudder of despair and frenzy passed over his whole frame, and he flung himself beside her. He called her by her name, kissed the bloody brow, and threw back her disordered tresses.

‘“My own Magdalene, forgive me; still am I thine!”

‘Her eyes opened upon him. A convulsive heave of her panting breast, a sudden grasp of her false lover’s hand, and then a wring of bodily torture followed. The cold sweat of death was already upon these beautiful features. They were not in the least distorted. The hoofs of the horse had left their mark on the neck and bosom torn and bloody! She cast one look upon him, raised her head, and faintly muttered,

‘“William--am I faithful? Tell me so.”

‘She heard not the mad reply, and De Norris spoke to the dead!

‘His bride had fainted, and was, forthwith, carried to the hall. Hours had passed, and the retainers dared not approach their lord. But those stationed at the porch, at length beheld him approach, with the shattered corpse of Magdalene in his arms.

‘“My bridal couch! Shew me the way. Dost hear me, knave. Oh no, what sorry attendants on hymeneal delights!”

‘His bride met him. She kissed the cold features of the dead, and forgave the living. William knelt at the feet of his wife, and sought pardon for his treachery.

‘Again there were sounds of revelry, and by all, save the bridegroom, poor Magdalene was forgotten! To a late hour the banquet and the dance inspired them with pleasure, and wine and song made them gay and merry.

‘De Norris and his bride retired to their apartment. The tapers were extinguished, when a dim and beauteous light filled the room, and Magdalene stood at the foot of their couch, attired in the same dress as when William parted from her for the Holy Land. She stood, her fair hands clasped together, as if earnestly imploring them for some favour. Her air was slightly reproachful; but deep, unending love was expressed. De Norris, in tones of horror, addressed her,--

‘“Spirit of my Magdalene, why tormentest thou me and my innocent bride? I have been faithless, but she saved my life, and how could I repay her kindness, but with my heart’s love! Still Magdelene I have not forgotten you--nor can I ever!”

‘“William,” a low and sweet voice uttered, and De Norris felt a cold, yet loving kiss, upon his trembling lips--“William, grant me but one favour, and I will bless you both. My portrait, which hangs in the gallery, take it down, and every night when you retire to rest, oh! lay it between you! Do this William, and I am yours in the other world!”

‘He started from the couch, and sought the gallery. A strange light glowed on the portrait. He knelt, and prayed to heaven. Deep peace descended upon his troubled mind, and he arose, calm and happy. He took the portrait down, kissed the mimic lips, and then sought his bridal chamber. Magdalene’s request was complied with most devoutly, and they were happy; but they did not forget Magdalene. The retainers affirmed that they had seen her wandering through the wood, and singing, as in other days, when De Norris was by her side. Her light step was occasionally recognized, ascending the corridor, and dancing in her own apartment.

‘De Norris, to perform fitting penance for his treachery, erected a Cross, at the eastern gate of Wigan, where Magdalene had often sat, and there he paid his stated pilgrimages. That, my children, is the portrait: the light over the features seems prophetic!’

Lady Mabel shuddered at the tale, and some dark forebodings crept over her soul. Yet these were not fears lest Sir William Bradshaigh should prove false; something more criminal on her part, which she dared not think of.

They left the gallery, and once more entered into the mirth of the banqueting scene.

* * * * *

Ten years have passed; and in that epoch, what changes visit man! Wisely did the ancient dramatists give to tragedy, the unity of time, the briefness of a day; to denote that a few hours are sufficient for the developement of awful, and unexpected consequences! How much more will the lapse of ten years mark the mutability of every lot, but that of the dead; and the altered condition of every home but the grave! Time decays not; it is only man. Speak of “Old Father Time:”--but is his step more sober, than when he rode over the unformed chaos of earth’s materials, or flew over the fragrant shade of Paradise? Does his pulse beat more slowly? Do moments become days; or days, years?

Ten years have elapsed, and Lady Mabel had arisen early. She sat alone in a room, which might have been more appropriately called a cell. Grief had anticipated the silvery touch of time, and grey hairs were visible amidst her raven locks. Yet, there was the same sweet and majestic countenance as before. Bathe the human countenance in heaven’s own dew, or in the gentle and clear stream, and it will beam joyfully; but bathe it in the heart’s tears, and it beams so sweetly! She counted her beads, and then looked up for pardon, as fondly and anxiously as a wife numbers the minutes before her lord’s return. She heeded not the fragrance which stole in at the small casement; it neither assisted nor marred her devotions. The sun was bright, and joyous, still she turned not her pale face to its cheering influence. She laid aside her rosary, and sat like a statue of sorrowful thought, if statues can be stamped with such an expression. At length she slowly arose and looked out of the casement into the deep wood, and sighed. Overpowered by disagreeable reflections, she wished to fly from the place, where she had no other view. But the door refused to give way to her repeated attempts. It was early noon, and all the day, so long and weary, must she remain there! She clasped her hands together, and bitterly exclaimed, whilst she gasped for breath, at the discovery,

“Gracious heaven! why, am I then a prisoner, and in mine own mansion! Ha! the very banner of my family waves over this tower, proudly; and yet I, the mistress of Haigh, must be confined, and denied the privilege of the meanest servant! It is but just, though I deserve it not from Sir Osmund. But hush, I hear footsteps. My soul, rise brave within me, and tell the usurper what he is, although he may be my--husband,” and she raised an hysterical laugh at the word, and drew herself proudly up.

A hasty scuffle was made in the passage, and an angry voice was heard; it was Sir Osmund Neville’s.

“Dost hear me, boy! Back to thy crib! Dost wish to suck thy dam--the wolf? Back--” and a heavy stroke enforced the words. But no cry of pain was raised; it might have fallen on the wall, but for the loud laugh of joy, raised by the tormentor. The scuffle continued, when a weak, but firm voice was heard--

“Strike on, Sir Osmund; strike hard. I care not, for I _will_ see my mother! This is a Bradshaigh’s resolution!”

“A Bradshaigh!” was the reply, “I have put horns upon the noble head of the family, and have written Sir William a cuckold, by marrying Mab!”

“Hold,--not a word,” returned the boy, in tones fierce and daring, “a few years make me a knight, and then chastisement for the fat and cowardly Welsh! Stand back, Sir Osmund, and let me see my mother.”

The voice had gradually heightened until all the boy had vanished, and the accents sounded manly and defying.

Lady Mabel shrieked, and exclaimed--

“My brave boy, the son of his father! Heaven bless and protect him, to plead my cause, in fitting time and mode, and assert his own rights!”

But the voice of the knight became louder and louder,

“Boy, minion! son of an ape! whose father pretended to bear the cross, when he should have hung for his villanies, on the highest in England! Go to my groom, and learn thy duty to my horse. He reports to me that you are refractory. Well, your wages are due. Take that, and that, and that,” and thrice the lash fell fiercely on the noble boy. “Well” he resumed, “dost hear thy mother’s voice? You know a mother’s shriek; that is her only tone! Oh fond fool! Well, you wish to see your mother, fillial fool: my strokes have given you a prettier face than a father’s art could patch up. Come beautiful child, and shew yourself to the proud gaze of a mother, on your cowardly father’s birthday.”

“Cowardly! He would have driven you, Sir Osmund, from this nest. Cowardly!”

The door was burst open, and Lady Mabel beheld her eldest son (a youth of fifteen) dragged in by the Welsh knight, her husband; his face was bloody, and there were marks of a livid hue on his cheeks and neck.

“Mother,” exclaimed the knight, laughing at his blasphemy,--“mother, behold your son.” He approached, bowed his unwieldy form in mock reverence at her feet, whilst his sinister eye attempted to express sarcastic admiration and love. His hair hung, matted, over his Welsh outline of a face, and his ill-formed mouth, in smiling, became a hideous gash--gash!

The boy rushed to his mother, and fondly placed his hand beneath her chin, to raise her countenance from the knight, kneeling in mockery. She kissed his forehead, and with her lips wiped off the blood, and hugged him to her bosom. He was a noble boy, and never had he crouched to his mother’s husband.

“Mother, now I am safe.”

“It is the fool’s birth-day,” said Sir Osmund, as he left his recumbent posture, “yes, it is, my sweet Mab. Rejoice, rejoice; shall I send my jester to help thee to a laugh?”

“If in doing so” replied the spirited boy, “you send away yourself.”

Once more he was struck to the ground, by the enraged knight.

“Oh! Sir Osmund”--exclaimed Mabel, “save him! I shall tutor him to love thee fondly!”

“That would be a difficult task, dear mother” answered the boy, with great indifference, as he arose and fixed a stern look of defiance upon Sir Osmund.

The knight paced the room in boiling wrath, but his rage dared not meet the glance of that boyish eye, so powerful is innocence. He turned abruptly upon Lady Mabel, and said,

“Harkee, Lady. Here you must be confined; these are my jailors, four in number, trusty fellows,” and he pulled out four keys, as he spoke. “Content yourself, good wife, and pray to Sir William to be relieved from Sir Osmund.”

Mabel threw herself down on her knees, humbly before him.

Her locks fell from the slight silken band, which passed across her forehead, as if to strengthen the power of her supplications. They concealed the noble expansion of her brow, as if dignity ought then to be lost in condescension. Her eyes were raised so mournfully, although no tears were visible. But she might as well have addressed herself to the stones, and the echoes would have given a kinder reply. The knight stamped furiously, and impatiently, as Mabel spoke.

“Sir Osmund, confine me not here. It is too, too near the picture gallery, and I have been lately visited by such awful dreams and sights there, that I shudder. For your own sake, my wedded--nay, Sir Osmund, I will not speak falsehood; I cannot call you husband;--Sir William, forgive me!”

In a moment, she forgot that she was supplicating a favour from the ruffian knight. Her eyes were turned upon vacancy, but with such an earnest expression! Her bosom heaved, her lips slightly quivered, and a strange light gleamed from her eyes. In a hollow voice she whispered, whilst her hands were clasped together,

“Spirit of the departed! forgive me for my treachery to thy memory. No--no; I have not been faithless to thee for ten long years, if silent and lonely vigils can conjure up what thou wert; if penance dark and painful can change me to thee, from what I am, to what I once was! Oh! cannot that which withers all the bloom and freshness of my youth, on the cold, cold stones, likewise efface every other name but Mabel Bradshaigh: dear, dear name! Our noble mother was gone to thee before I consented to be another’s, in name; and even then, but for our children, thy grave should have been my second nuptial couch!”

“Would that you would hasten to its delights, then” interrupted the brutal knight, as he approached and patted her head in scorn. “Call on your torch bearers, for Hymen’s light; bid them be quick, and consummate the ceremony. But to turn from this fine reverie of your’s, sweet Mab, you must leave this room and follow me into that frightful gallery. You may then make orisons to all the painted heroes; and improve yourself so much as to become a holy father. But, methinks that you are here visited also by strange sights, and you will have more space, in the other room to fly from them. Come, not a moment’s disobedience, and there dream of Sir William. It is his birthday, and he ought to appear unto you, as a matter of courtesy. And oh, do not be faithless, and treacherous to him! Go after him, and leave me Haigh! Ha, ha! And as for the young fry, it matters not where he be confined; he may go to the devil, and dance on the holiday of his father’s birth. Come Mabel; aye, you may kiss the boy, wipe the blood from off his face, and he wont pollute the clear fountains before the porch. Come, sweet Mab.”

Mabel embraced her son, and followed Sir Osmund into the gallery, and as he retired she heard the heavy bar secured on the outside.

Meantime, the boy found his younger brother, and they wandered forth, together, into the wood. They sat down and gazed upon the window of the room, where their lady mother was confined, and long and affectionately they spoke of her wrongs. The younger, clapped his hands and shouted, as he beheld her handkerchief waving from the casement; a sure proof that she had observed them. It was a pleasant day, in the most pleasant season; and soon their young hearts became free and happy, and they thought of some knight of romance spurring forward on a black steed, with glorious and shining arms, to free their mother from her shameful durance. They found their bows, and gay archers, shot through the wood, making it resound with their gladness. Oh what a blessing a young heart is! It has in itself a balm for all its grief! Spring and summer have many flowers, but childhood and youth have as many hopes; and they even descend from a mother’s arms into the grave without being withered.

They rambled, hand in hand, down the steep hill, which by a circuitous rout, leads to Wigan. The way was then romantic, and all around, beautiful glens were lying in the arms of majestic eminences, and every thing bore the stamp of feudal and chivalrous days. The Church turrets were seen against the cloudless sky like the pencillings of Hope, and Charity; whilst the quiet vales were sprinkled over with tamed lambs. The boys, at intervals, on their way looked back to the hall of their ancestors, admiring the broad pendant which floated over the stately tower. At length they reached the Cross, erected on the outside of Standishgate. There the town guards were in conversation with a holy palmer. He seemed to speak little, and only put a few questions. His piercing eyes glanced from beneath his large cowl. His hands played with the crucifix which was suspended from his neck; and on his sable cloak were embroidered Peter’s keys.

“Here, reverend father,” said one of the guards, “here are Sir William’s boys; they will shew thee the way to the hall.”

The palmer started at the words. He eagerly looked upon the boys, and raising his hands above their heads, implored a blessing.

“Yes, yes,” they both exclaimed, and took hold of his hands.

“Is it near the hour of vespers at the Haigh?” inquired the palmer. “Many, many years have elapsed since they were chanted there in my hearing. How sweetly the hymn stole up through the little echoes. Who, then, sat beside me? Ha! who now will? But, boys, how is your lady mother?” and he waited breathlessly for the answer, with his eyes intently fixed upon their countenances.

“Holy father,” the eldest replied, “she is well, but needs comfort.”

The noble mansion of Haigh was now seen through an opening in the woods. Long and anxiously did the palmer look thereon; yet his was not the gaze of a stranger; for many emotions, arising from many recollections, were marked in the motions of his head.

“My boys, why does the banner float over Haigh?”

“It is our father’s birth-day,” was the reply, “and oh, in your nightly orisons, pray for his gallant soul,--he was slain in battle.”

“Slain in battle!” exclaimed the palmer, with a fierceness half concealed. “Who bore the message:--who told you that you were orphans?”

“A friar had shrived the soul of one of his retainers, who confessed that he had seen his noble master die, and a Welsh knight confirmed it.”

The holy men paused, and struck his hand violently against his breast.

“But your mother--how did she receive the news of your father’s death?”

“Oh, father, do not ask me to think of her sorrows. For a year she walked not forth with us, as before, to speak of Palestine and him. We were clasped to her bosom: still we dreaded the embrace, for there was a violent heaving of her heart, which made us shudder, and the black, black robes of her widowhood, were close upon our cheeks: we could not endure her kisses, for, as she raised us to her lips, tears fell upon our faces.”

The reverend palmer put his arms kindly around them.

“Oh,” cried the elder boy, “you pity my mother and us. Heaven bless your affectionate heart! I was not old enough, when he departed, to tell him how brave I would be, and perhaps he died in doubts, lest I might disgrace his name.”