Chapter VIII: Part 8

“Brave boy;” and as the palmer spoke, he took the youth’s hand and shook it, as a warrior would the hand of his brother, “you will not disgrace his name. But let us sit down beneath this tree, for I am wearied with a long pilgrimage.”

He had before walked slowly, and now proposed to be seated, as if he wished to delay the time. And who does not pause, when, after a long absence, he returns home, and fortify his bosom to know the worst. We dare not open the door, as if that would disclose too wide a scene to our view; but we gaze in at the small lattice, just to recognize one object, and know that all is not lost. We refuse the light of day to shew us home, and eve is the time of our welcome to all its hallowed joys--if these still survive.

He took the bow from the hands of the elder boy, and examined it long.

“It is my father’s bow,” said the youth, “and, at a long distance, he could pierce the first arrow with the second. My mother loves it. See, their names are carved upon it.”

The palmer laid it down, and leaned against the tree.

“Father, art thou weary? Alas, Haigh Hall, now cannot afford thee a shelter. Sir Osmund Neville--”

“Who is he?” said the holy palmer, starting up. His cowl fell from his face, and gave to view a calm and manly forehead, with auburn locks curling on it. It was pale, but commanding. “Who is Sir Osmund Neville?”

The boys looked with astonishment.

“Hast thou been a warrior?” asked the younger. “Thou resemblest what my mother tells us our father was; and he was a brave warrior. But, holy man, Sir Osmond is my mother’s--”

“Husband!”--exclaimed the palmer with a faint shriek. He turned aside. “Good God!--what a return! My own halls cast me forth. My wife’s pillow refuses to give rest to my wearied head! Sir William is a stranger in Haigh! Would that the report had been true. Yet now I will dare the worst.” He replaced his cowl. “Where is Sir Osmund?”

“He is now a hunting, and has confined my mother to an apartment where none can visit her. He struck me wantonly, but I shall yet repay him for my mother’s wrongs.”

“Couldst thou conduct me to thy mother, to give her holy comfort?”

“Thank thee, heaven thank thee! I know a secret passage to the picture gallery, where she is now in durance. All the retainers keep to their duties, and they love me for my father’s sake. They would not inform Sir Osmund. Come on, holy father, the brow of the hill is soon passed!”

They hastened their steps, and soon arrived at the hall.

“There my mother stands at the window.”

The palmer gave a quick glance upwards, in the direction, and then turned away.

The boys took each a hand, and led him to the left tower, where was a small entrance, communicating by a long and intricate passage with the staircase which led to the gallery. Before them, a few of Sir Osmund’s men were lying, with their faces, broad and bluff, turned upwards. They were sunning themselves, in imitation of the cattle in the park, and, certainly, there was no reason why they should not follow such an excellent example, especially for kindred’s sake. Their large eyes were shut, but had just as much expression as when they were open. Their mouth, however, the use of which they were not altogether so lazy as to abandon, was stretched out, covering their cans of ale, which, by no common strength of suction, they were fast emptying. Their breasts were heaving with the zeal of the application, and the delight of the fermentation. At length a pause was made. They turned to each other. They spoke not by words, and yet their thick, ruddy lips, bedewed with the liquor, were very expressive. A loud laugh followed, which was feelingly responded to, and prolonged by, the lowing oxen. They looked round upon the holy palmer, as his steps were heard.

“Ho!--ho! take a cup,” exclaimed one of them. “Drink on Sir William’s birth-day, a long health to his ghost! Here,” and he thrust an empty cup into the palmer’s hand.

For a moment the holy man’s cowl was raised from his flashing eyes, as if to make some discovery, and his arm was stretched forth from the cloak in which he was so closely muffled, with the hand clenched, and the veins almost leaping through the thin dried skin which covered them. The next moment, he courteously declined the Welshman’s proffer. But his cheek was deadly pale, and a livid hue flitted over his lips. The elder boy started forward, and grasped one of the short swords lying naked beside the men, and, like their masters, sunning themselves.

“Cowards,” the youth white with rage cried out, “insult the holy man but again, and I shall fill the empty cups with your blood.”

But his arm was arrested by the palmer.

“Nay, nay,” said he meekly, “thou art headstrong and rash. But our Holy Mother inflicts a penance upon these men, for their irreverent and unbecoming treatment of her humble son and servant. What! profane wretches, do you laugh? Beware. If this crucifix brand the curse, woe, woe unto you. Boy, lead them to the penance room, and I myself will release them. Come.”

They dared not disobey; for then, every man, noble, or knight, or menial, was the priest’s retainer. The ministers of the altar were more powerful than the satellites of the throne, and beneath the single pall and crosier of the one, lurked a vengeance which could scathe and destroy the proud tiara of the other. How mysterious and yet real was the influence concealed in the slightest external of the Church!

The Welsh retainers groaned as they were compelled to rise, and proceed into the dark and cheerless apartment, which, in later times, served for a dungeon. The palmer turned the key, and fastened it to his belt.

“They are safe,” he whispered to himself. They were now met by some of Sir William’s old retainers, who bowed low to the holy man, and seemed inclined, by their looks and haltings, to ask concerning their dead lord.

Feudal times might be the times of slavery on the part of retainers, but they were those also of fidelity and strong attachment. These retainers might be treated as brutes, but if so, they were treated like dogs, and in return they yielded a service which no hire could have extorted. Their love for their lord was powerful, and yet instinctive; their happiness was genuine, and yet animal,--far from the happiness of man. Their privileges were extensive; not scullions of the kitchen, they were the genii of the old halls. Their attachment to places and domains,--was that of the dog. As they were fond of loitering in old paths, or glancing at the proud mansion, or seated at the porch, their feelings were those of that animal, licking every part of the house, and lying down on favourite spots. And when their lord departed they drooped and pined; not as men sorrowing.

These reflections might have been awakened at a sight of the old servants of the Bradshaigh family, as they gazed so anxiously and inquiringly. Go to a house where the master has been long absent. An affectionate dog answers to your knock, and whines so piteously, and looks so fondly, as if begging to know tidings of him who has gone. Such was the appearance of the aged retainers of Haigh.

The palmer blessed them, in low tones, but feelingly, and then passed on with the boys.

They crept through the entrance, and were soon threading their way through the dark labyrinth. They gained the staircase. The palmer had taken the lead, evidently familiar with the place. He paused, and listened to the gentle tread of Lady Mabel. He strained his ears, as if expecting to hear the music of the voice, as well as of the foot; not for the sake of the future, but of the past. The setting rays, rich from the golden west, were streaming brightly on a little lattice, which lighted a recess in the long gallery, and meeting those which entered by the wide casement, they threw a dull haze around. They prevented him from seeing distinctly, as he looked through it; but the fluttering of a white robe, and the soft motion of a fair hand at the further extremity could be perceived. At that moment a horse was heard approaching the hall.

A suppresed shriek arose from within.

“It is Sir Osmund,” exclaimed the boys.

“Well,” returned the palmer in firm accents, and he seemed to unbuckle some of his garments, whilst unconsciously he stamped in fury.

The boys tapped at the lattice.

“Mother, open unto us. Here is a holy priest, and he will comfort thee. He hath already blessed us, and so kindly. He hath wandered in far-off lands, and his voice speaks a foreign tale, and speaks it gently.”

Her small white hands opened the lattice.

“Stay for a moment, and the holy man shall be admitted. Long is it, since religion was allowed to enter mine apartments, to cheer my sadness; and now it has come to my cell. Cell!”

The lattice closed. The palmer stood in strange bewilderment. Her face seemed to be a vision, and her voice a song of other days, and all--not a dream. And why should _he_ think of other and former days? Have priests and palmers boyhood and youth? Are they not trees without a leaf, on which no bird of heaven alights to charm the solitude? Do they know of the earthly transports of love and hope? Beautiful is the holy Virgin--but cold and hard are the stones where they kneel to worship her. And why should England be the country to excite his feelings? He had travelled through lands more fair. Greener was the earth’s bosom, and more beautiful the sky’s face. Why should he be moved at the sorrows of the noble matron? At the same hour of twilight, when bathing his wearied feet in the little stream, afar from the glistening tents on the mountain tops, he had listened to the mournful song of the wandering Hebrew maid. He had passed by her and laid his hands upon the high and noble brow blessing her beauty and her sorrows. And why should he feel the ideal presence of romance, as he looked upon the woody hills of Haigh. From the gorgeous mosques he had beheld the Mount of Olives, and the feet of the prophet-girls dancing there, while their light scarfs were hung, floating on the trees which crowned the summit, like the garments of angels--the airy clouds.

The door was slowly opened. Lady Mabel, as they entered, greeted her boys, and kindly welcomed the holy man. As he took her extended hand, a shuddering seized him; he averted his face, and caught a glimpse of Sir Osmund dismounting, under the casement. For a few moments, overcome by some strong emotions, he leaned upon his palmer’s staff.

Meanwhile, gentle readers, be pleased to shut the door of the gallery behind you, and walk down, leaning, as gently as possible, on the Chronicler’s palsied arm. Do not extinguish the light,--else we are left in total darkness, on the dangerous corridor. Let us approach to serve the Welsh knight, who is now shouting lustily for his servants to appear, and take his horse.

“Ho! my Welshmen,” and he blew his hunting horn; but they appeared not.

“My other hounds,” he muttered, as he turned the horse, and lashed it away to bound forth at perfect liberty, “my other hounds know the horn. I shall see, presently, if these do not understand the whip.”

He entered the porch, and was there met by Parson Cliderhoe. The knight bowed reverently, and would have passed him.

“Sir Osmund Neville, will you grant me a short interview, upon a matter of importance to both of us?”

“Please your reverence,” rejoined the knight, with a mixture of humility and haughtiness--“is it to breathe a pater-noster over my hunting expedition? You cannot return thanks for my success, as I have run down nothing.”

Cliderhoe took him by the hand, and led him into a private apartment. As they entered, Sir Osmund, who was fretted by his bad luck in the chase, could ill brook the authoritative air which the parson had assumed; and when he was angry, he usually expressed himself in light blasphemy.

“Adam Cliderhoe, although your namesake Adam, was placed at the head of the creation, and had all power and authority over it, still, you have not the same, and have, therefore, no right to lead me about wherever you list. And, reverend father, (by the way, although you are sworn to celibacy, you have got, by some means or other, a very large family of children, for every one calls you father,) you, I say, have the advantage over Adam. Ah! then there were no church lands. A pretty comfortable place that paradise--but then he had to work, and it could not afford him a better fleece than a few dry leaves. Now, father, these are warm robes of yours.”

“Child, do not blaspheme. You have done very little, you know, to merit Haigh Hall, and yet you are the owner.”

“Not altogether,” returned the knight. “There is one exception. Your very large demands.”

“We’ll speak of that further, Sir Osmund. Are we safe from ears and listeners? because these do not suit secrets. Well, be seated,” and he fastened the door.

Parson Cliderhoe was then dreaded throughout all the country. By wiles and deceits he laid a firm hand upon property. But he was as intriguing as he was avaricious, and his plots had been treasonable in the highest degree. These would have involved him in utter ruin, had not gold, that potent being, redeemed him. In consideration of large sums of money, he had been released from prison, and restored to his living and life, when both had been justly forfeited.

He had lately become an inmate of Haigh Hall, and might have been considered its master. Sir Osmund Neville, it is true, could make the parson the subject of jest: but the knight, in return, was the subject of rule and command. To Lady Mabel and the boys, Cliderhoe paid no attention, either in the shape of flattery or scorn.

On securing the door, he laid aside his priestly robes, drew the table back from the view of the window, nearer to the Welsh knight’s chair, and seated himself opposite. He was of tall stature, and nature, in this specimen of her architecture, had not been sparing of materials, although, certainly, she might have put them better together. If we may be allowed the expression, she had not counted the cost with arithmetical accuracy. The head bore no proportion to the other parts, as if her extravagance in these had caused her to be penurious to that. Although the bones were well cemented by fat, yet the structure was far from being elegant. It was difficult to decide upon the true figure; and Euclid himself must have abandoned the problem in despair. His head, which was not shaven, but clipped closely, could not be compared to a globe; neither was it like Atlas’s, between his shoulders. It moved backwards and forwards with such velocity, and describing such a large parabola, that one moment it seemed to be a few feet in advance of the breast, and the next, its retreat was as distant. His large ears (a true mark of villainy and vulgarity) were left altogether exposed, stretching their wide shelter over his flabby cheeks. His legs were not elastic, they might have been glass; but his arms were electric, and they jerked about at every roll and wriggle of his mis-shapen trunk. He took large strides, as if his feet were not friendly to each other, save at the distance of two yards. His complexion was dark. His eye, when it gazed on vacancy, was dull; it only became bright from the reflection of gold. But still, in spite of all these deformities, there was a conscious power breathed over the appearance of Father Cliderhoe; and, although villainy, deceit, and guile, are generally allied to a more dwarfish form, you could not hesitate, upon seeing the man, to pronounce that he was a habitation for such dark spirits.

Sir Osmund Neville looked suspiciously towards him, as he sat silent on his chair, occasionally moving it about, as if anxious for something which might introduce the subject he wished to be considered.

“Father,” said the knight, “the room is but poorly lighted. Shall I order the chandeliers to be trimmed?”

“Nay, Sir Osmund,” returned the parson with a hideous leer and smile; “nay, we have light enough. You could sign your name by this light, Sir Osmund? I can read my prayers then. Eh? You could sign your name?”

“Sign my name!” furiously exclaimed the knight, whilst he arose and stood upon the hearth. “Sign my name!”

“Sir Osmund, you are not, surely, ashamed of your name,” meekly returned Cliderhoe. “A valiant knight is proud of it.”

“But to what, good father, must I give my name?” inquired the knight, who, after the flash of first passion was over, thought it most prudent to be calm, for he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal.

“To this little document. Written in a fair clerk’s hand; is it not? Ah! but you warriors write in blood! Yet, which is most durable? Read the papers. You appear exhausted, Sir Osmund. Ah! hunting is so fatiguing; to be sure, to be sure. Who can doubt it? The couch, brave knight, should receive your wearied limbs forthwith. Nay, nay, I will not trouble you with listening to these papers. Just sign your name; a few strokes of the pen, and then you may retire. I must have a care, brave knight, over your body: you are so reckless, and should any accident occur, chivalry would lose its brightest lance, and the church its firmest prop. Sir Osmund, here is a pen; affix your name below that writing.”

In speaking, the parson had come nearer and nearer to the chair of the knight. The latter started, as from the coil of a serpent.

“Never, never, Cliderhoe:--thou hypocrite,--base born!”

“Hush, hush,” said the parson, in tones which struck terror, from their very whisper, into the knight’s soul, “do not give me any more names than my natural father, and my spiritual mother the church, have conferred. Beware. _I have never absolved one sin against myself, during a lifetime! Beware!_”

Sir Osmund took the papers. His eye glanced quickly over them. He laid them aside, and arose to leave the room.

“Father Cliderhoe, next time make proposals a little more extravagant, and you shall precede me in my exit from this room!”

“Well,” thundered forth Cliderhoe, “bid adieu to Haigh Hall. Your rejection of my proposal makes it necessary. But hear me, before you go to ruin. I would yet spare you. Without my favour, you never can lay claim to one tittle of this property. Hush, come hither,” and he whispered earnestly, and smiled as he saw Sir Osmund’s cheek grow pale.

“What!” Sir Osmund exclaimed, “Sir William was not slain! Then he may return?”

“He may--he may; nay, he _will_! Haigh Hall is too goodly a mansion for him to leave to strangers. False was the word which reported him dead. But sign this document, giving to me the half of the estate--and let him return--we are safe. The pilgrim shall find a resting place, though I should be compelled to take my sword, and secure it for him. Sir Osmund, there’s light enough to sign the name. You are a knightly scholar; spell it quickly, else, you know, you know. Every letter will be a security against Sir William. Ha! the large O of your christian name will be his grave!”

Sir Osmund complied, and Father Cliderhoe added,

“Now, knight, you must get Lady Mabel’s name too. I’ll come in an hour--have her signature by that time. Adieu for the present, Sir Osmund.”

* * * * *

Let us return to the gallery. We have already noticed the overpowering emotions which shook the frame of the palmer, as he turned from Lady Mabel, and his eye fell on Sir Osmund, dismounting at the porch.

“Holy pilgrim,” said the lady, “thou art fatigued, Be seated. Alas! now, Haigh Hall is no home for the weary and the aged;--aye, not even for its lawful owners. For me, it is now a cell. In other days, there was not a room, however dark and gloomy--so happy was I,--that I did not call my bower. Then you would have found rest and refreshment, and your blessing in return, might have been felt to be no mockery. Now, the ministers of religion and charity are driven forth. But where hast thou been wandering?”

A long gaze, and a short verbal answer was the reply,

“Lady,--in the Holy Land.”

Mabel’s paleness, which had hitherto expressed so beautifully her resignation to sorrow, was now indicative of that breathless fear which longs to know more of danger and evil, or good and happiness; and yet dares not. Its sweet light seemed doubtful whether or not it should be turned upon the palmer to know more. She shaded her face, whilst in low and trembling accents she meekly inquired,

“And in all thy wanderings didst thou ever hear of a gallant English knight, who fought beneath the banner of the Holy Cross? He was once the lord of this mansion, and my--”

“Brother?” interrupted the palmer, in a tone of melancholy, mingled with scorn and severity, as he supplied the word “your brother?”

“Brother!” exclaimed the lady, “no, no. Nearer he was than the twin brother of infancy, childhood, and youth. Yes, for we were ever One,--One! Holy Father, thou knowest not the meaning of these words; but every moment I have realized their truth. The marriage of the heart, no earthly ceremony can constitute. Our relationship was formed in heaven, and Heaven dropped down bands upon the holy altar, to encircle and bind us to each other for ever and ever.”

“For ever, lady, dost thou say? And who dropped Sir Osmund’s bands upon the altar? Nay, noble lady, be not offended, for I know that all affection is changeable, and short-lived, dying with a glance or a word; and husband is but a fashion, which to suit your taste may be changed, like any other part of your apparel. Changes are pleasant. Sir William to-day, Sir Osmund to-morrow! Woman’s love is not like man’s. Man’s love is the sea, infinite and exhaustless. It may ebb, and its sands be discovered, but soon the wave rolls over, and again there is the mighty deep. Far down, in unfathomable waters, are the crystal caves, for the heart’s whispers and embraces. Woman’s love is the streamlet. Bathe in its pure waters to-day;--return to-morrow, and it is dried up. Let the husband leave his halls, and in ten years he is forgotten, and his spirit would be driven from his own hearth!”

Mabel’s eye had flashed with indignation, and her majestic form had become erect, and commanding. There was the proud heaving of her bosom, and the compressed resolution of her lips. But all symptoms of anger passed away, as a sigh escaped the palmer, and as his hand was raised to brush away a tear.

“Holy man, these words are unkind; they are not the balm of comfort. I have not been faithless to Sir William. He is enshrined in my heart still, the holiest earthly image, which death alone can break. And oh! in penance how I worship him now, as sincerely as once I did in joy. Gaze upon all the little knolls of green, where we sat together, on summer days. I know them, and there I have gone, and asked pardon of my beloved, many a cold and dreary night. But here, in this room, I suffer agonies which might atone even for a wife’s infidelity to a living lord. The night before he left for the Holy Land, our noble mother told us of an ancestor’s perjury to the maiden of his troth. That is her portrait, holy father, on which you are gazing. In my waking moments, for past weeks, I have seen Magdalene Montfort (that was the beautiful maiden’s name) walking with Sir William. They were both sad, and looked upon me scornfully, for my treachery. They had been unfortunate, and, therefore, were in each other’s company. I knew that it was but fancy, but it had all the power of reality. Oh! is not this penance enough! But, say, holy palmer, didst thou ever see Sir William Bradshaigh?”

The palmer sighed and shook his head. “Many a gallant knight I have known, who never reached his home. Some died, others were reported to be dead, and their noble heritage, aye, and their beautiful wives, became the property of strangers.”

“_Reported_ to be dead! Reported! Were they not dead? Was _he_ not dead?”

“Mabel. Mabel Bradshaigh--_is_ he dead?”

And the palmer’s cloak was removed, and there stood Sir William Bradshaigh!

“Come to mine arms, my faithful wife, dearer to me than ever. Come! Thank God that we meet, never more to part. Awfully have our dismal forebodings, the last time we were in this gallery, been fulfilled.”

“Sir William--reject me. I am unworthy. Nay, let me kneel at thy feet.”

“Both together then, and at the feet of the Most High. Hush, Mabel, here come the children. My boys, do you not know your father? Kiss me. _I am_ your long-lost father.”

After the embrace, the boys exclaimed in terror, “Sir Osmund comes.”

Lady Mabel shrieked. Sir William unloosed a garment which was closely wrapped round him, and unfurled a Paynim standard which his arm had won.

“Stay, Mabel, I escape here, by this door. My old servants will rally round me. Yet no, I cannot leave thee defenceless. William, my brave boy, fly with this to my servants. Tell them that Sir William is returned. Bid them arm for me. Haste.”

The boy disappeared through the concealed door, and Sir William stationed himself beside his lady, his sword drawn.

“Ho, lights,” exclaimed Sir Osmund. “Must I fall, and break my neck? Mab, take hold of my hands, and bring me to thee.”

The next moment he entered. But the twilight was so shady, that he saw not the presence of the returned knight.

“Mab, sign this paper. Cliderhoe, come hither.”

“Here’s one,” replied Sir William, “who can do it. Ruffian, do you know me. I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”

“Indeed,” sneeringly responded the parson. “You have got the name.”

“And the sword, thou hypocrite.”

“Very likely,” was the retort, “very likely. That proves thee a thief, and not Sir William.”

“Sir Osmund Neville, I challenge thee to deadly combat for the wrongs thou hast done me, and for thy cowardly and cruel treatment to Mabel and our children. Come forth, else I will smite thee to the death. Equal weapons, if thou willest: if not, I will stab thee where thou standest.”

He rushed forward as he spoke, but instantly the door was secured on the outside, and he and Lady Mabel were alone. The wily parson and the Welsh knight had fled. The door resisted both foot and sword, and stubbornly refused to give way to any forcible attempts. Sir William distinguished the clattering of hoofs in the distance becoming fainter and more faint, and he burned for the pursuit. Mabel led him to the window, and gazed long and fondly upon his noble features. Age had scarcely touched them. The bloom of youth had, indeed, passed away, but there was the calm and mellow hue of manhood. The locks were not as profusely clustered over his brow as before, but the expansive forehead was more dignified when unshaded. Tears came into her eyes, for, although he was but slightly changed from the husband of her youth, and although no feature was a stranger, still she thought why should she not have been allowed to witness all the daily changes effected upon him. It is painful, after a long absence, to return to the home of other days. It is no longer a home; for new inmates have introduced new arrangements. Humble may have been the household gods: only an old chair standing in a corner, and a small table at the patched window; yet they were the gods of the heart, and, although they may have been replaced by the most costly and splendid furniture, we refuse to call the house our home. Cover the bird’s nest with leaves of gold, and after its flight and wanderings, would it then take up its abode any more than it would although there were no nest at all? But more painful is it when the loved one has changed. The features may be more beautiful than before, but if all their former peculiarity be gone, they are those of a stranger; and as we would refuse to cross the threshold, much more to sit down in the house, once our home, but now altogether changed, so we cannot take hold of the hand, we cannot kiss the lips, we cannot embrace the form of that one, once the idol of our heart, but now a stranger. But Lady Mabel’s feelings were not akin to these; although they were painful as well as extatic. He whom she now gazed upon was Sir William Bradshaigh, every look, every movement, every accent told her. Soon, however, loud steps were ascending the corridor, and louder shouts announced them.

“Sir William! Sir William! welcome to Haigh Hall!”

The bar was removed, and a cordial greeting took place between the returned palmer and his faithful retainers.

“Thanks, thanks my men. But the cowardly knight has fled. Help me to horse! Haste! Mabel, my love, I return as soon as the wretch is slain. Thou art more beautiful than ever, my own wife. But how can you love the aged palmer? Farewell, Mabel.”

Proud were the retainers, when their lord stood among them with his sword.

“Now,” as he mounted his steed, “follow me not. Alone I must be the minister of vengeance. Hark! the Welshman’s horse has gained the eminence. There is the echo of his hoofs. He must be passing the steep descent.”

He dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and without a curvet or a vault, it bounded forward. The influence of twilight is mysterious, both upon man and beast. It gives speed and energy to body as well as mind. In advance before him, there was a part of the horizon beyond the trees which seemed rings of molten gold. The sunset had not yet left it. Against its bright and radiant surface, in haste, a horse plunged on. The rider, Sir Osmund, was lashing it, for the motions of his arm were seen. The next moment it had passed. Sir William furiously spurred his steed through the dark wood, and, as a flash of his eye was shewn by some concealed light of the sky bursting upon it, he seemed the very spirit of revenge riding on the storm. His horse’s head was stretched forward, eagerly and impatiently. He himself crouched down to the very mane, and his eyes gleamed wildly upon the place where he supposed the Welsh knight would be passing.

Swiftly did the noble courser paw the leaves, strewn on the path, and soon he reached the highway, steep and rugged. The lights were now reflected from Wigan, upon the air around. He drew near the gate. The guards started up with their torches, and fixed them against the wall.

“Stay, who art thou?” and they presented their halberds, whilst they seized the reins of his horse. “Who art thou, thus pursuing Sir Osmund Neville to the devil? He’ll lead thee wrong.”

“Stay me not, I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”

They started back. They had heard of spectre horsemen, who rode so furiously, and they trembled. Taking advantage of their terror, he struck up their halberds with his sword. The gate was open, and he spurred through. A few of the townsmen who were loitering at their doors, and in the streets, shouted after him; but none attempted to prevent his course, and soon he had left Wigan far behind. The moon arose brightly; he leaned forward anxiously, and thought that he could descry the object of his pursuit, long before he heard the hoofs of the steed. But soon, he had both heard and seen him. Fleet was the Welsh knight’s courser, but that of Sir William gained at every turn in the road, and their voices were heard by each other, urging them on. Sir Osmund at an angle, avoided the highway, and leapt his horse over into the large park, at Newton. Sir William followed, and soon the sword of Bradshaigh revenged his own, and Lady Mabel’s wrongs.

The dead knight was thrown from his horse, as it dashed on. As soon as the deed of vengeance was over, Sir William’s enthusiasm began to leave him. While in the act of striking, the happiness which should now be his of once more being the lord of Haigh, the husband of his Mabel, and the father of his gallant boys, passed vividly before his mind, and forbade him to spare. But when the blow was given, so strange is man’s nature, all these prospects faded. He seemed to feel that now he had agreed to a miserable compact. He almost wished that he had never returned to claim the little which was left. Death as the arm of vengeance, could not bring him back the past, although it had taken away the cause of change. Sir Osmund Neville lay lifeless before him, never more to claim ought;--but polluting traces were upon all he held dear. As long as Mabel lived, there lived also the evidences. Nay, when she must die, and repose along with him in the tomb, calumny might say, “it was not always thus, for, side by side, when alive, she lay with another.” As long as Haigh Hall stood, the family disgrace would survive.

He writhed in agony at the thought.

“Mabel,” he exclaimed, as if she were present, “I cannot forgive thee! Thou hast been faithless. I must touch thy hand, and know that it was another’s, long after it had been pledged in love, and given in marriage. Thy couch a ruffian’s kennel! This Welsh bullock’s blood cannot wash out the stains which rest upon my name. Oh! can it even purify my Mabel’s lips? Whenever they touch mine, I feel that they have been polluted. My children alone survive for me. Ha! merciful God, thanks unto thee, thanks most sincere, that Mabel has no children, who cannot call me father. But when I call her wife, methinks this Welshman’s spirit comes between us, and breathes the same word;--and to whom will she then cling?”

The air was balmy, and the moonshine rested gently upon the green meadows where he stood, and lambs, aroused from their slumbers by the prancing of the horses, bounded past him. But they bleated not to disturb the silence, and Sir William heard the violent beating of his heart. Gradually, however, he relapsed into a state of tranquility,--not the tranquility of joy, but of deep grief. And as before, when under the excitement of intense revenge, he spurred his steed to keep pace with his fiery spirit, so now, when his feelings were different, he curbed the animal to a slow walk, as he began to return. But he soon discovered that it was jaded and weary, from the speed of the furious pursuit. He dismounted, and led it for a mile or two. In the distance, so flat was the surrounding district, then unbroken, save by towers and halls, rising aginst the pure silvery vault of the moonlight sky, he beheld lights in his own mansion at Haigh. He thought that he heard sounds of mirth borne thence on the airy breezes.

“_She_ may rejoice,” he bitterly said, “but can I? She may be merry, for I return the same, as when I departed, ten long years since; though beautiful maidens there have been, who tried my fidelity in Palestine. Ah! this night has made me an old man! Would that my days had been spent amidst the holy tombs at Jerusalem, and I might there have prayed for Mabel, my Mabel, all ignorant of her frailty. But I must remount my steed. Poor Mabel, she has done penance for me, and cannot that atone? Forgive her? Yes, and she shall receive my blessing in a few minutes.”

He vaulted upon his horse, but in vain did he spur and lash. The animal staggered, and but for great caution, would have fallen. He again dismounted, and slowly led it to Wigan. The lights in the town were extinguished. He passed the church. He stood, for a moment, to gaze upon the venerable structure. The clock was striking the hour of one, and within the low and grey cloisters, which are now destroyed, a late vesper was tuned. The notes seemed to be sung by some virgin-spirits. Heaven bless those whose sweet, sweet voices are heard by none else, for oh, none else can bless them; whose soft knees which a gallant husband might have gartered oft and oft, in pride and sport, bend on the cold stones, at no domestic altar, through the long night.

What a holy calm fell upon Sir William’s troubled spirit!

“Here Mabel and I may sleep peaceably together in death, if we cannot in life. God bless our union then. No blood will be the seal of the renewed covenant. If we cannot live happily now, since she has been--no, I cannot say faithless, but oh! frail, frail;--why the grave may hush our discords.”

He turned into the Hall-gate, with the purpose of leaving his horse at an hostelrie, for he knew that it could not proceed to Haigh hall forthwith. He still kept his eye upon the holy place, when he was suddenly seized by two armed men. They were the sentries of the gate.

“So, nightingale,” exclaimed the stoutest, “we have caught thee. Resist not. We have orders to bear thee to the Mayor, and, by and by, you may expect to be caged.”

“Stand back, knaves, and keep your distance. What would ye with me?”

“Aye, aye, bold enough,” was the reply. “Thou art the horseman who passed our fellows at the other gate, in pursuit of Sir Osmund Neville. They called thee a ghost. Ho, ho. But” and he brought the lamp which he carried to bear closer upon the person of Sir William; “here is blood, blood. Come in, else we strike thee to the ground.”

It was in vain, the knight saw, to remonstrate; vainer still, on account of his weakness to assault. He gave his horse to the charge of one of the guards, who soon obtained accommodation for it; and allowed himself to be conducted, without resistance, to the house of the mayor.

At that moment his worshipful worship was fast asleep, all save the nose, which buzzed as if it were filled with flies. His slumbers were so deep that his worthy rib might have been taken from his side without his knowledge, and a noted shrew given to some man. But, gentle reader, why hast thou broken into the Mayor’s house, and entered the private chamber of him and his dear spouse? Let us make a speedy retreat, else we may be tried for burglary.

The house stood solitary, and at the door two halberds were bravely stationed, either to assist or repel thieves or murderers. The guards knocked; after a short interval, voices in loud dispute, were heard, and a window on the second story was thrown up. A long bright sword, slowly peeped out of it, very politely inquiring what was wanted! A female head (the gender was known, _a priori_ by the cap on it; and _a posteriori_ by the volubility of the tongue within it) followed, and after reconnoitering for some length of time, good substantial shoulders ventured out to assist the head.

“Madam,” humbly said one of the guards, “is my Lord Mayor at liberty, to examine this man, whom he gave orders to take into custody and bring hither?”

The sword was brought into a dangerous line with the anxious inquirer’s head; but he started more at the shrill voice which greeted him.

“Impudent rascals, begone. At liberty! No,” and she exhausted a pretty good stock of abuse which she had acquired with all a woman’s skill, and expended with all a woman’s generosity.

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed another voice, without a head however, “I am at liberty.”

The sword was drawn in, and it remains a matter of doubt until this day, whether it was not called upon to exercise its functions against the last speaker. At least the noise of a considerable bustle was made, which ended in the door being opened; and Sir William, with the guards, was shewn into a room by a servant boy.

An hour had almost elapsed before the wig had been arranged, and the spectacles disposed on the frontispiece of the Mayor, so properly as to allow him to be seen. He entered with a slow step to convey notions of a solemn dignity, and a pretty strong calf was by no means a bad interpreter. After mounting the glasses on the higher regions of the head, he rubbed his eyes as hard as if they were flint, and as if he wished them to strike light, in order to enable him to see. His face was good-humoured, and had no more expression than a well-stuffed pudding. He then looked gravely upon Sir William, when the knight addressed him,

“Why am I brought here? I had no desire to be regaled with a breeze of thy far sounding nose,” (the mayor, be it observed, was snoring even then) “nor to behold thee in undress.”

The Mayor started at the sounds of the knight’s voice;

“Sir William Bradshaigh thou art. It was no ghost. I know thee well; and no wonder that thou pursued the Welsh knight. Where is he?”

Sir William slowly unsheathed his sword, all bloody.

“That is the best answer; is it not intelligible?”

The worthy Mayor held up his hands in nervous terror.

“Come up with me to my own apartment, Sir William. We must consult upon your safety. You will be outlawed for murder. Come, and allow me to introduce you to my lady. She wont frighten you as she does--.”

The look which accompanied the pause and omission well supplied the personal pronoun.

“You cannot return to Haigh Hall until the morning. Guards, you may depart. Do honour to Sir William.” They raised a loud shout, which brought the lady down in a quick dance.

Early in the morning, after an hour’s sleep, Sir William left the Mayor’s house. It was dull and rainy, and his spirits were more melancholy than on the previous evening. There was none of that longing desire to see a home and a wife, although for many years they had both been strangers. The atmosphere was oppressive. Nature had neither beautiful sights, nor fragrant scents to please him. The street was muddy, and the houses were darkened with the overhanging clouds.

He had passed the gate leading to Standish, when his attention was arrested by a female kneeling at the Cross which De Norris had erected. She looked upwards with an eye of sorrow, and prayer. He started as he recognized the beautiful features of Mabel Bradshaigh. Heedless of the rain, and exposed to the cold, she had assumed the lowly posture. He heard the words breathed earnestly,

“Oh! heaven, and Sir William, forgive me, and accept of this my penance!”

She raised herself as his steps were nearer. What deep delight, tinged however with penitence, glowed on her countenance as she beheld her returned lord.

“Thank heaven! but oh! let me kneel to thee. Wilt thou forgive me, Sir William? This cross, was raised by a faithless ancestor to the shades of the maid whom his perjury had destroyed, and here I must do penance thus. But oh, look not upon me, exposed as I am,”--and she blushed as her eyes fell upon her naked legs and feet.

“Mabel, this penance is cruel to both of us. What! those beautiful legs, and small feet, must they trample upon the mud and the stones! Remember, Mabel, that I will wash them myself this morning, in the fountain. Nay, no more penance.”

“It must not be, Sir William. I have made a vow that every week I will travel thus, from Haigh, to this Cross. And oh, do not prevent me;--you must not, otherwise I cannot be happy in your company. Penance is necessary for love injured.”

Mabel spoke the truth. Injured love requires it, though it only be paid with a tear, a sigh, or a sorrowful look. Yes, penance, thou art holy, and necessary; for where is the love which is not injured?

All the discontent and melancholy of Sir William passed away. He loved Mabel more fondly than ever, even for the self imposed penance. She might have decked herself in splendid attire to meet her lord, but the lowly garb secured his affections more firmly. The rich sandals of the time might have confined her feet, but naked as they were, Sir William gazed more proudly upon them.

They walked on together. Mabel knew Sir Osmund’s fate, by the very air of Sir William, but she questioned him not. A full bright cloud now began to widen and widen over the stately towers of Haigh Hall. Sir William in silence pointed to it as a happy omen, and as its deep tints were reflected upon the structure, glory and fortune seemed to hover over it. They were passing a narrow winding, into the plantations, when their younger boy rushed forth.

“Father, father, bless your little son.”

“Hugh, my beautiful and brave boy, dost thou know me?”

The knight looked oft, in sorrow as well as pride, on the boy’s countenance; it was so delicately fair, that the very life seemed trembling on it.

“Father, I could die this morning, I am so happy.”

The knight started.

“Die! my little Hugh. No, no, you will live to be a warrior.”

Loud were the acclamations raised by the retainers, as Sir William and his lady appeared. A whole week was devoted to festivity and merriment, and all were happy.

Regularly every week, Mabel repaired barefoot and bare-legged to the Cross, which still stands associated with her name. The penance gave happiness. For months she had her sad moments, and Sir William, with all his love and attention, could not wile away the dark spirit of grief and remorse. But, by degrees, time and religion banished the evil spirit, and even in her solitary moments, no longer did it haunt her.

In a few weeks after the brave knight’s return, little Hugh Bradshaigh was taken from earth. One morning, as the sun was shining brightly, and the birds were merry of note, his mother went to awake him to receive her blessing; but he had already received the blessing of angels, and Jesus:--he was dead. The treatment and the sorrows which had befallen him, in his former years, had been too much for his young soul; and as a bird, which has with difficulty braved the sternness of winter, dies when genial spring comes, with its blossoms and hymns, and its last note is faintly raised from its green bed of leaves, up to the laughing sky; so, as soon as happiness visited him, little Hugh pined away, as if every touch, every voice of affection raised him from earth. So strange is life, that he might not have died so soon, but for his father’s return. Yes, affection kills the mournful young. Every gentle stroke, as his mother sheds the fair hair of the boy, is a touch of death; languid and slow, but sure. Hugh Bradshaigh’s pillow was, ever after, unpressed by any head, and for hours Sir William and his lady sat by the little white couch, as if his spirit were there.

He lay in no cloister, chancel, or vault. Verdant was his grave. An evergreen was the curtain of his little bed, and the feet of birds were all that trod upon the flowery sod.

* * * * *

Reader, wilt thou for the sake of the aged Chronicler, pay one visit to “Mab’s Cross?” If so, go at earliest morn, or latest eve, and all noise and bustle being hushed, your thoughts may pass over centuries, and return invested with the remembrance of Magdalene Montfort, and Mabel Bradshaigh. The cross stands apparently no greater object of interest, than an indifferent structure of three stones. Yet, when the beautiful Mabel did penance there, flowers were growing around its sides. And even, for four generations after, a small plot of grass was trimmed and cultivated around it. But when Wigan became the seat of the civil wars in Lancashire, Mab’s Cross being considered as a popish relic, a tooth of the beast, suffered at the hands of Roundheads. It has since been reconstructed, but stands entirely destitute of ornament, on or around it.

LANCASTER CASTLE

“A TRADITION PREVAILS THAT THIS FORTRESS HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY TAKEN BY CROMWELL, AND THAT HE PLANTED HIS CANNON ON A CIRCULAR MOUNT AT THE SOUTH-WEST SIDE OF THE TOWN, ON HILL MEADOW.”--_Baines’s History of Lancashire._

Well does Lancaster deserve the name which the Romans gave to it, of the green city; and the beautiful scenery, for many miles around, may be considered as its delightful gardens. There are no huge rocks frowning, like tyrants, in the country which they have ruined, and blighting with sickness and poverty, all that is healthful and rich. Such mountain scenery only affords an observatory, whence we may gaze into the distance, upon other and more charming spots,--the home-glens of the happy and free--where every noise, even of the world, is hushed into sweetness, and the forest of the recluse and the hunter, where light and shade, all the day, agree to make a religious twilight. Often has the wanderer, on the majestic hills of Cumberland, looked down in rapture upon the north coast of Lancashire, stretching out like a gentle surface and web of ether, on which, at sunset, the shades fall, as if they were kindred to each other.

Nor is the scenery around Lancaster tame. There are beautiful eminences, which may be termed the voluptuous breasts of Nature, on which thin mists from the river float for a covering. Amidst all the undulations of the glens also, harsher features may be seen, which the deep woods have not altogether concealed. At the distance of five miles from the town, there is a rugged mountain, at the foot of which a cave, called Dunald Mill Hole, formed of natural rock, and vaulted with great strength, may well attract the curiosity of the stranger. A brook falls into it;--in one part it forms a terrific cascade, and in another, small lakes in the cavities. Above it, on a cliff, stands a mill, to which a neat cottage was attached. In the vale below, sheep were browsing, and no human feet ever disturbed the solitude, except those of some wandering patriarch coming to Dunald Mill upon business, or walking out, on Sabbath eve, in a holy, contemplative mood, and treading gently for the sake of the flowers, which taught him of the Great Being who gave them beauty.

But why should we speak of beautiful scenes, when civil war has been let loose, and when the dew, falling there at morn and night, is blood, the blood of brethren? Cannot spring and summer be barren, when they are only to weave garlands for war? Why speak of a delightful retreat, when the tramp of soldiers, the clash of arms, and the fierce engagement have chosen it for their theatre? Let the altar of home be dashed down, when it can no longer give a shelter to the holiest worshiper! Let the holy shade become a waste heath. Oh! if war is a game which must be played, let it be in large cities. There its ravages may please the Antiquary of after ages. The mark of a cannon ball may become and dignify the noble fortress, and the splendid palace; but, when it is found on the wall of a white cottage, it is sad and disfiguring. Curse him who launched it there! Send forth soldiers among the rabble and mob of a town; but keep them from the patriarchs of the vale.

* * * * *