ashamed, began to steal away by twos and threes at a time, until none
of them were left behind. The Baron, who had listened with the utmost
attention to the words of the old harper, now stepped forward and
tenderly embraced his daughters, after which he clasped his recovered
boy to his heart, and vowed that upon that joyous day no one should be
punished, and even the treacherous peasants who had invaded his castle
should be freely forgiven.
The Baroness fell weeping on her husband’s heart, loudly bewailed her
own infirmity of temper, and vowed that she would never fly into a
passion again. At this the {100}Baron, whilst her face was hidden upon
his shoulder, slowly elevated his right hand, placed his forefinger
horizontally against the side of his nose, and winked knowingly at his
daughters.
Presently the Baroness raised her head, and, in tones of some feeling,
asked what had become of that wretched Martha, gnashing her teeth as
she spoke with an air that inspired considerable doubts as to her being’
able to keep her new resolution. This, however, was not put to the test
as far as Martha was concerned. As soon as she perceived that things
were going wrong, but that the harper was not alluding to _her_ in his
verse, that worthy person slipped quietly from the room and the castle,
and sought refuge in the wood where her wehr-wolves usually met her. The
animals were there as at other times, but their reception of her was not
the same. No sooner was she within the wood than the expression of their
countenances grew strange and fierce, so that the woman trembled all
over. In another instant they seized upon her and dragged her, one on
each side, near to where the wood touched the banks of the river. Wildly
she shrieked for aid, and in another moment the form of the River-demon
appeared upon the bank. This time, however, he had no cheering counsel
to give. With a wild and derisive laugh he pointed jeeringly at
the unhappy woman, whom the wehr-wolves held fast, while they
growled-fearfully and savagely all the while.
“Ha, Martha!” he cried, “hast thou come to the end of thy revenge at
last? They who seek demon-help must have demon-punishment, and thine
hour is come to-day. Know this, poor wretch! that those who yield to
their passions cherish within them that which will one {101}day tear and
destroy them as the wehr-wolves are about to do to thee, and those who
wish for a happy end must control and govern themselves on the
journey!” Then, with a fiendish leer and grin, he nodded his head to the
wehr-wolves, and in another moment the wretched Martha was tom limb from
limb, and perished miserably. Folks say that her spirit still haunts
that wood, and that on dark and stormy nights her shrieks may be heard,
accompanied by the growling of the wehr-wolves and the laugh of the
exulting demon. But you and I, Brother Thames, know well how foolish
mortals are with their tales of horror, and how ready they are to
mistake a creaking tree for a shriek and a moonbeam for a spirit.
I have nothing more to say except that when the Baron and Baroness
turned round to bless the old harper for his kindly aid, they saw
nothing where he had been standing save the light of the sweet, pale
moon shining in through the window. The harper had gone without waiting
to be thanked, and they saw him no more. From thenceforth no spirits
troubled the Bandelboots family, save when the Baron took an extra glass
of brandy, which occasionally flew to his toe. The Baroness decidedly
improved in temper, profiting by the example of her son, who grew up to
be one of the most sweet-tempered and agreeable young noblemen that ever
lived upon the banks of my river. Of the three girls, I can only
say that as they made excellent daughters and capital sisters, they
succeeded equally well when they entered upon the cares and joys of
matrimony, and no women, married or single, were more often toasted
in good Steinburgh than the three famous beauties, {102}the swan-like
daughters of the Baron von Bandelboots.
Father Rhine here ceased, and as soon as he had done so Father Thames
struck a tremendous blow upon the table and vowed that the story he
had just heard was one of the best that had ever been told. “I wish,
however,” said he, “that you could have told us a little more upon one
or two points, Brother Rhine. It would be satisfactory to know that the
rascally little scamp of a devilet was well punished when he got home;
but I suppose you know not whether such was the case or what became of
him afterwards?”
“No,” Brother Thames, gravely replied the monarch of the Rhine, “I know
not; and in fact I have always kept as much as possible aloof from the
demons of my river, only showing them that ordinary civility which is
rendered necessary by my position. I have little doubt, however, that
the imp had misery enough in his future existence. No one who habitually
annoys and injures others can ever have any real happiness himself, and,
whether imp or mortal, unkindness and malice always recoil upon those
who practise the one and are influenced by the other.”
“Certainly,” remarked Father Thames, “your words are true. But what
became of the Baroness? Did she outlive the Baron, and was he cured of
his laziness as well as she of her bad temper?”
“Brother,” said his companion in an expostulating tone, “you really ask
more than I can recollect. There are very many castles in the vicinity
of my river, and to remember the details of the family history of all
their inhabitants {103}is more than even I, as a river monarch, can
venture to ‘undertake. I may, however, safely say that the Baroness died
before the Baron, for I happen to be able to recall the circumstances of
her death. She was inordinately fond of dried cherries, and would insist
upon swallowing the stones. For some time this had no effect, but at
last she was taken ill and died of a disease so mysterious that they
determined to have her body opened, when no less than two hundred and
forty-six cherry-stones were found inside her.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Father Thames in great surprise. “But now
tell me what happened to the Baron.”
“I must positively decline,” answered the other. “A legend is a legend,
and I have told you mine. It is now your turn, and I hope you will lose
no time, for I expect the Rhone, the Danube, and the Seine upon a matter
of business to-morrow, and shall be late for my appointment if we waste
our time in unnecessary talking.”
“All right, brother,” shouted Father Thames, and, clearing his throat,
began without further delay the story of--
THE FAMILY FEUD
The Baron Simon de Guerre-à-mort (whose name, considerably transformed
by his Saxon neighbours, was familiarly rendered as “Old Grammar”) was
an individual who, not to belie the said name, was of a somewhat warlike
disposition. His ancestors had come over to these peaceful shores with
“Billy the Norman, that very great war-man,” as the old song calls him,
and very {104}great war-men had _they_ been also from the time of their
first arrival. They warred against the Saxons as long as the latter
showed fight; then they warred with their brother barons; then they went
to the crusades; afterwards they joined Simon de Montfort in his gallant
struggle for English liberties; they had a turn at the Welsh at one
time, and took their share in the Scotch wars at another; in short,
wherever and whenever opportunity for fighting offered itself, the
Guerre-à-mort family or its representative eagerly seized it and rushed
into the thickest of the battle as cheerfully as a duck into water. Nor
was the Baron Simon one whit behind his ancestors in this respect.
On the contrary, he was as ready for war as any of them, and fully
maintained the character and traditions of his house.
In the days of which I write it was very much the fashion for great
families to indulge in the luxury of hereditary foes, and a feud of long
standing between this and that ancient house was such a customary thing
that a nobleman who lived peaceably with all his neighbours was regarded
as a slow kind of fellow, whose acquaintance was hardly worth having.
There were generally wars of greater or less magnitude going on either
within England herself or with some foreign enemy, which, one would have
imagined, might have furnished sufficient employment to the fighting
nobility of the day. This, however, was by no means the case; and though
private feuds were sometimes left in abeyance for a time, when something
more attractive in the way of battle and bloodshed happened to
offer, yet they were never allowed to slumber too {105}long, and were
invariably revived as soon as more peaceful times permitted their
proprietors to indulge their private feelings and natural love of
quarrelling.
The hereditary enemy of Simon de Guerre-à-mort was the house of St.
Aunay, which, like his own, had been first known in England after the
Battle of Hastings had flooded the country with Norman nobility, and
which was at the moment of which we speak represented by Count Horace as
the head of its race. It is difficult to say why or wherefore these
two families should have been at variance, since there was no apparent
reason for such a state of things. Their castles were upon opposite
sides of my dear old river, at no great distance, though neither of
them within sight of it. Their lands stretched down to my waters, which
formed a reasonable and proper boundary, and there was consequently none
of that intermingling of field with field or farm with farm which has in
all ages proved a fertile source of unpleasantness between neighbouring
landed proprietors. Moreover, the two noblemen had never brushed against
each other or differed materially upon any public matters. In fact there
was no probability of their doing so; for Baron Simon was at this time
the wrong side of sixty by several years, whilst Count Horace had not
lived half the years which constitute that respectable age. No: it was a
good, respectable old family feud, and I verily believe that it was
more from family feeling than for any other reason that it was still
cherished by both houses.
It was, according to my firm belief, entirely in consequence of their
private differences that, when the wars {106}of the Roses broke out,
the two Norman noblemen took different sides, the Count of St. Aunay
standing forward boldly for the House of York, whilst the Lord of
Guerre-à-mort was Lancastrian to the backbone. As the latter was
a leader of great repute, and could muster around his standard no
inconsiderable number of retainers, he might probably have rendered
great service to the cause he had espoused if he had acted with those
well-known men who led its armies and managed its councils. But the
Baron greatly preferred going his own way and fighting for his own
hand and as soon as the country was well into the war, and everybody
was harassing and worrying everybody else as much as they could, he
determined that by far the best thing he could do to aid Henry of
Lancaster was to cross the river and demolish the Castle of St. Aunay.
Accordingly, he collected his forces, summoned his vassals and friends
from all quarters and prepared for the expedition.
I remember, as well as if it were but yesterday, when the Baron’s army
was halted along my banks preparatory to their crossing the river early
on the following morning. The old chieftain himself, mounted on his
powerful black charger, from whose eyes and nostrils the fire of war
seemed to stream forth as he impatiently pawed the ground, rode out upon
a hill above his troops, and gazed upon the scene before him. The moon
was rising behind the distant hills, the evening was calm and still;
but the heavens were cloudy, and strange lights from time to time darted
across the sky, as if presaging the days of war and bloodshed which were
about to come upon unhappy England. The old Baron was {107}completely
armed, and his long, straggling beard fell down upon his horse’s mane
before him as he sat erect in his saddle. I saw him elevate his mighty
sword and shield, raising each arm on high as he looked with flashing
eye and threatening gesture upon the country upon the other side of the
river, and then and there he vowed a solemn vow that before he recrossed
the Thames the Castle of St. Aunay should be sacked, his pride lowered,
and his banner trailed in the dust. On high he shook his weapon as he
took the oath, and full well I knew that the proud Norman would not
fail to keep it, unless his foeman (who was probably taking an oath of
a similar character about the same time) should have strength or cunning
enough to prevent its accomplishment.
[Illustration: 121]
But before I proceed any further with my story I am bound to introduce
you to a person who, as you will soon perceive, is the main cause and
reason why I have any story at all to tell. The Baron de Guerre-à-mort
had an only daughter. As, from the beginning of time, it has been the
constant habit of maidens similarly circumstanced to fall in love with
the person most objectionable to their respected father, Mathilde de
Guerre-à-mort formed no exception to this most natural and reasonable
rule. As a matter of course, she was desperately attached to Horace de
St. Aunay, who, for his part, having fallen head over ears in love
with her at their first interview, remained in the same condition with
unwearied resolution. How they first came to meet I cannot say. One
would have supposed that there would have been difficulties, considering
the hostility, existing between the two families; but the young lady’s
mother having {108}been dead for many years, she enjoyed more liberty
than was common to females of her rank and age in those days, and
probably met the Count in some of her country rambles after birds’
nests, violets, or blackberries--three things which all young people who
have lived much in the country find more or less attractive at certain
seasons of the year. However this may be, it is certain that these two
individuals met, took a mutual fancy to each other, and would, in all
human probability, have been thought by their friends to have been
exactly suited, had it not been for the highly respectable feud of which
I have already spoken.
The Baron, who had not the remotest idea of the state of the case,
grieved and afflicted his daughter beyond measure by the manner in which
he abused her lover upon every possible occasion. Mathilde, poor
girl, bore it all with exemplary fortitude, although she invariably
endeavoured to turn the conversation into more pleasant channels. But
when the matter went beyond words, and her father actually commenced to
make preparations to invade his enemy’s country and destroy his castle,
the agony of the poor young lady can be more easily imagined than
described. She came down each morning with eyes red from crying all
through the night; she grew daily paler and paler; lost her appetite;
could scarcely take her five o’clock tea; sat with her hands before her,
doing nothing; and burst out into hysterical fits of sobbing upon the
slightest provocation. This sad condition of his daughter troubled the
worthy baron not a little, and, naturally attributing it to any and
every cause but the right one, he determined to try what change of air
would do for her, and accordingly sent her to stay with {109}his sister,
who was the superior of a convent in Reading. Here it was his hope that
the society of the nuns would cheer the sweet damsel and restore her
spirits, whilst the change of air and scenery might benefit her health.
There were those, indeed, including her faithful old Saxon nurse
Elfreda, who declared that the conversation of nuns was, as a rule,
anything but enlivening, and Reading by no means particularly healthy or
reinvigorating; but as nobody dared question the Baron’s superior wisdom
upon every subject, nothing was said against his plan, and Mathilde de
Guerre-à-mort was safely transmitted to and domesticated in the convent
just before the expedition against her lover’s castle was undertaken by
her respected parent.
Horace de St. Aunay, although he received warning of the coming attack,
was by no means in a condition to offer such resistance as he could
have wished. The Lancastrians were by far the stronger party in his
neighbourhood, and the Baron’s forces greatly outnumbered his own. I
need not dwell upon the particulars of the events which followed. The
Guerre-à-mort army crossed the river, defeated the levies of St. Aunay
in a skirmish on the plain, and drove them in every direction before
their victorious advance. Horace de St. Aunay, wounded by an arrow, was
reported killed, and it was impossible to rally his people under another
leader. The haughty Baron had it all his own way; he plundered the
farmyards, raised a bonfire of what he didn’t want to carry away, and
made himself as unpleasant as possible to the harmless population, who,
naturally and properly enough, no doubt, always have to suffer for the
whims and quarrels of the great. He next {110}marched upon the Castle of
St. Aunay, but found that it was deserted, and, having by that time
had enough of burning and plundering for a time, contented himself with
throwing down the big gates, breaking a few windows, and flaunting
his own banner over the highest turret. Then, having collected all his
booty, he turned homewards, and, having satisfied his private grudge
against his neighbour, felt his interest in the Lancastrian cause
wonderfully lessened, and began to want his daughter back again.
She, poor girl, had passed by no means a happy time in her convent,
where the good nuns devoutly prayed for the Lancastrians, and especially
for her worthy father, upon every possible opportunity, and where she
never had a chance of hearing any news of her lover, or of saying a
kind word for him or any other of his party. At last, one day, the lady
superior informed her with an air of triumph that news had come of the
defeat of St. Aunay’s people by her father, and that the Count had been
killed in the battle. The poor girl turned deadly pale, and swooned away
at this intelligence. Fortunately for her, the Lady Superior, being a
person of extraordinary intelligence, knew at once that such a result
must certainly have been produced by Mathilde’s alarm for her father’s
safety, and gratitude for his success. Having therefore taken the usual
means to recover her from her fainting fit, the good lady loudly praised
her filial affection, and held her up to the rest of the sisterhood
as an example worthy of imitation, Mathilde thought it best to receive
these compliments without taking any steps to alter the opinion of her
worthy relative, but her suspense and anxiety were very {111}great, and
all the more so from the fact that the difficulty of obtaining news of
an authentic character was so considerable, that in all probability
it would be weeks, and perhaps months, before she learned for certain
whether her beloved Horace was alive or dead.
Days rolled on--days of miserable uncertainty, which was scarcely
removed by a missive from her noble sire, which informed her indeed of
the triumph of his arms, but at the same time only casually mentioned
that the head of the rival house of St. Aunay had received a blow from
which he would never recover. Now, it was obvious that this might be
interpreted in two ways--either that the young Count had been grievously
wounded in body, or that the fortunes of his house had been seriously
injured. The latter was undoubtedly the case; but was the former also
true? In this state of things uncertainty became madness, and Mathilde
felt herself almost driven to desperation. This, however, being
a condition of mind hardly suitable to a Norman lady of rank, she
determined not to give way to it, but to take measures to relieve her
anxiety. She resolved that she would, if possible, leave the convent
and obtain, somehow or other, tidings of the being whom she so tenderly
loved. It was not, however, in those days, a very easy thing to leave
convents just when you pleased. If you were rich and well born, you
could enter these institutions with but little difficulty; but quitting
them was a different question altogether. Nor do I believe Mathilde
would have accomplished her purpose had she not chanced to have a great
friend in a worthy person who carried on the trade of a washerwoman
in the town, and was fortunate enough to have secured the convent
{112}custom. Being devoted to the Guerre-à-mort family, and especially
so to the young Baroness, this worthy woman agreed to smuggle her out of
the convent in a large basket of dirty linen, in which pleasant manner
she successfully carried out her project.
Once free, the question which Mathilde naturally had to consider was,
what should she do next? She had forgotten to settle this before leaving
her late abode, and yet it was a question which must certainly be
settled without delay. The poor washerwoman, who had incurred great
peril by assisting the escape of an inmate of a religious house, dared
not keep her a moment longer than she could avoid, and there was no one
in the town to whom she could trust herself. Under these circumstances
she thought that the best thing to be done was to wander forth into the
country, and this she accordingly did, having made such alterations
in her dress as appeared necessary to prevent her being recognised as
something different from the peasant woman for whom she wished to pass.
The police were not very efficient in those days, and there were no
detectives to speak of, so that she was not likely to be discovered by
such agency. Newspapers also had not yet begun, and the advertisement
system was unknown; otherwise her escape might have been attended with
greater difficulties than was actually the case. As it was, she walked
away from Reading without anybody taking the slightest notice of her,
and wandered for many miles perfectly unmolested.
At last, as luck would have it, she reached a large farmhouse, and as
she had by this time become weary and hungry, she followed her natural
instincts, knocked at {113}the door, and asked for victuals and leave to
rest herself. It was an old woman who opened the door, whose husband was
the occupier of the farm, and being kindly-disposed people, they granted
Mathilde’s request, allowed her to sit down in the kitchen, and gave her
a bowl of milk and a large piece of brown bread, which she gratefully
devoured, and felt much the better for it. Then the old couple began
to question her about her condition and ways of life, and when she had
invented some tale about having seen better days, and being driven by
misfortune to seek a living where she could get it, they expressed great
pity, and professed themselves very willing to assist her in any manner
within their power. True, they had not much to offer; but the boy who
kept the pigs had lately gone off to the wars, and if pig-keeping was
not beyond her, why, the place was very much at her service.
Now, if there was anything which Mathilde disliked, it was a pig. The
greediness and dirtiness of the animal she deemed objectionable, and
extended her dislike to it even when cooked and salted. She never
touched roast pork, avoided it all the more when boiled, abhorred
sausages, and looked the other way when anybody offered her bacon. But,
having no very definite idea as to where she could go to if she left
the farm, and thinking that, at all events, it might serve her as a
temporary home until something better should turn up, she determined
upon accepting the generous offer of the worthy couple, and expressed
her gratitude in terms which increased the favourable opinion they had
already formed of her manners and character.