morning her duties were pointed out to her, and she wandered forth upon
the side of the hill near the farm, in close attendance upon a herd
of pigs, to watch whom would be her daily duty. Although Mathilde’s
objection to the creatures may have been foolish and unreasonable,
it will probably be conceded that the pig is not an animal which the
majority of mankind would choose as a special pet or favourite; and to
a person nurtured in the luxurious habits of a baronial castle,
and trained in the intellectual refinement of conventual life, the
occupation of keeping pigs on the side of a hill could hardly ever be
congenial. It is, therefore, not surprising that Mathilde found it
first monotonous, secondly tiresome, thirdly exceedingly disagreeable.
She would sit for hours together, grasping in both hands her pig-driving
stick, and musing upon things far removed from considerations of pigs or
pork.
At nights she would return to the farmhouse, heavy and dispirited,
so that the old farmer and his wife would rally her on her dejected
appearance, and declare to each other that she must either be in love,
or have committed some offence over which she now brooded with remorse.
Yet her youth appeared to contradict the probability of the latter
supposition, and she looked them both so straight in the face when she
spoke, that the old man remarked that no one who did _that_ could be
guilty of anything serious.
Meanwhile, it may be supposed that the Baron was not very well pleased
when the news reached him that his daughter had disappeared. He hurried
off at once to the convent, and refused for some time to believe that
it {115}could really be the case. If he had lived a little later there
would have been plenty of people to suggest to him that Mathilde’s
disappearance was only an invention of the Lady Superior’s, and that
the poor girl was certainly either bricked up alive, or immersed in some
dungeon below the convent.
[Illustration: 130]
As it was, however, that age being comparatively ignorant, the Baron
was told the simple truth, and actually believed it. His daughter
had disappeared, and no one was more distressed thereat than the Lady
Superior herself. The discipline of her convent was so good, and the
sisterhood were all so much attached to her, that it was with difficulty
that she could {116}bring herself to believe that any of them had
assisted the runaway to escape; and as to the washerwoman, no thought
of her connivance ever entered the Lady Superior’s head. Had it done so,
indeed, she would never have believed that a daughter of the noble house
of Guerre-à-mort would have so far demeaned herself as to hide in a
box of dirty clothes, or wander forth, alone and unattended, into the
country. The good Lady, never having admitted the god of love into her
well-regulated breast, did not know his powers, which experience has
proved to be such as are able to overcome all considerations of rank and
dignity, and occasionally to make people do things even more strange and
incongruous than hide in dirty-linen boxes or keep pigs on a hill-side.
The Baron was easily convinced that no blame was to be attributed to his
saintly relative, but this by no means put an end to his trouble.
His daughter had gone, and he had no clue whatever to her place of
concealment. Under these circumstances, he determined that the best
thing he could do was to consult the powers of magic, who in those
days were the substitute for our present Rural Police, and occasionally
discharged their functions in a manner equally satisfactory. Those were
not days in which witches and warlocks were so common as in earlier
ages; but, scattered about the country, there were a goodly number of
the creatures; and the Baron had little difficulty in determining whom
to consult.
The Witch of Salt Hill was a famous personage in those days. The
vicinity of Eton and Slough was at that time a favourite resort of
witches, who used to flit about {117}through Windsor Forest at
nights, and, I suppose, preferred to have their day-residences not
inconveniently remote therefrom. It is not improbable that they would
have continued to frequent the neighbourhood down to the present day,
but for the establishment of the sacred foundation of Eton College.
There, as we know, the Provost and Fellows have, from the very earliest
days of the college, been a body of men of singularly holy as well as
learned reputation. Their blameless and saintly lives have driven evil
far from the locality in which they dwell, and in the days of which
I tell their power was already beginning to be felt. It gradually
increased until, as I say, all witches and warlocks left the
neighbourhood, although one of the last of them is said to have uttered
a prophecy that the powers of evil should again return when Eton should
be governed by others than her own children; and if what I have lately
heard be true--namely, that the ancient government by Provost and
Fellows has been superseded, and a new authority instituted, of which
a portion is non-Etonian--it may be that the days of witchcraft will
return, and the powers of darkness once more inhabit the neighbourhood.
All this, however, has nothing to do with my present story.
No sooner had the Baron made up his mind that this was the best course
to pursue than he rode off to Salt Hill to consult the celebrated
witch whom I have mentioned. He found her with very little trouble,
principally from knowing exactly where to look for her, which it is
always well to ascertain, if you can, before you go in search of any one
whom you wish to find. There was a very large thorn-tree, growing near
a spring {118}at the side of a hill, close to which a species of rude
cottage had been built into the hill, so that it had the appearance of
being--and perhaps was--the way by which those who had the right, and
the will to do so, could enter into the bowels of the earth. When the
witch chose to come forth, she sat under the thorn-tree; at other times,
those who sought her had to approach the door of the cottage, and strive
to attract her attention in the best way they could.
When the Baron arrived near the place, with some dozen of retainers, he
left his horse with the latter at a short distance from the spot, and
walked up to the spring alone. The witch was not to be seen outside, so
the anxious father strode up to the cottage, and would have knocked at
the door, only there did not happen to be any. The place was built of
huge stones, and the entrance was through a large hole, left open as if
for a door, which had never been put up. It was as dark as pitch
when you looked in, and the Baron, fearless as he was, felt a kind of
unpleasant sensation stealing over him as he stood opposite the hole.
However, he had come on business which could not be delayed; so, after a
moment’s hesitation, he shouted out at the top of his voice, “Halloa!
is any one within?” and waited for a reply. As none came, the Baron
presently tried again, saying, in an equally loud voice, “I am come to
consult the wise woman of Salt Hill. Is it here she dwells?” Still no
answer came from within, and the haughty Norman stamped impatiently on
the ground, chafing at the delay which his imperious spirit could have
ill brooked at any time, but which was more than ever galling at the
present moment, when his anxiety about his {119}daughter had thrown him
into a state of feverish irritation and excitement. He doubted as to the
next step which he should take, and was just considering whether he had
omitted any form which ought to have been observed in approaching such a
person as a witch, when a voice suddenly spoke from within the cottage,
saying, in a somewhat gruff voice--
“Who comes to Salt Hill’s ancient dame?
Tell both thine errand and thy name.”
Now the Baron was little accustomed to be addressed so unceremoniously,
or to be asked his name in this manner, so his first impulse was to
refuse to reply, or at least to rebuke the speaker for the incivility
of the question. However, as he had come on important business, and was
really desirous of obtaining information as to his beloved daughter, a
moment’s reflection convinced him that it would be an act of folly on
his part to fly into a passion about a trifle, or to stand upon ceremony
with a power which might be able to assist him, and willing to do so or
not according to his own behaviour. So he made up his mind to tell his
name and errand at once, and was about to do so, when, even whilst he
hesitated, the voice spoke again:--
“Our Norman lords are men of war,
And love their foemen to defy;
But, come he here from near or far,
Who with the Guerre-à-mort can vie?”
At this unexpected mention of his own name, the Baron started back, but
immediately recovering himself, he spoke in as reverential a tone as
he could manage to find for the occasion. “Since thou knowest who I
am, good {120}dame,” said he, “mine errand is very likely also known to
thee. I want my beloved daughter, who has disappeared from the convent
at Reading, and can nowhere be found. If thou canst find her for me and
restore her to mine arms, I will grudge thee no reward that my castle
can give.”
At these words a low sigh proceeded from the interior of the cottage,
as if the offer of a bribe had given pain to its virtuous inmate, or
the Baron’s request had been of an unexpected and afflicting character.
However, after a few moments’ pause, the same voice again spoke:--
“Whi’st on this earth we live and move,
Some sweetness in our lives is found;
But what more sweet than children’s love,
Our very heart-strings twined around?
Yet to each parent comes an hour
(Though fain he would the same delay)
When other and resistless power
Will steal the youthful heart away.
And when a father here inquires
For daughter lost; then, let him learn
That daughters, though they love their sires,
To other loves some day will turn;
Nor convent rules nor home’s own charms,
Will keep them from a lover’s arms.”
As the voice uttered these strange and not altogether consoling words,
the Baron stroked his beard, pulled his moustache, and racked his brains
in the vain endeavour to bring to mind any lover with whom it was at all
likely that his daughter should have eloped. The idea of her eloping
at all was unpleasant; but those were strange times, and he knew well
enough that such things had happened before, and would not improbably
happen {121}again. The puzzle to him was as to the happy-individual upon
whom Mathilde could possibly have placed her affections. He thought
of all their acquaintances, turning over in his mind the circumstances
under which his child had met them, and, one after the other, he
rejected the possibility of any one of them being the favoured
individual. There was Baron Eau-de-vie, who lived within calling
distance, but his habits of intemperance put him at once out of the
question; then the lord of Burnham was a worthy man, but being past
eighty, and totally blind, was scarcely likely to have become the object
of a maiden’s affection; these and various others he thought over, and
remained musing for a short time before he spoke again.
Then it came into his head that perhaps it was all false after all, and
the witch was either chaffing him, or knew nothing about it at all,
and was making a guess at a solution of his difficulty, which, however
likely to be correct as regarded the generality of young ladies, was
most improbable with respect to a damsel of high degree, so well and
carefully brought up as he considered his child to have been. As this
thought struck him, he spoke out aloud at once. “What meanest thou?” he
cried. “Men will woo, and girls will have lovers, as we all know full
well; but to suppose that the young Baroness of Guerre-à-mort would fly
from her convent with any lover that ever was born is an error and an
insult to boot. Trifle not with me, then, whoever thou art, but tell me
truly, an thou knowest, what has really become of my daughter?”
A low laugh issued from the cottage as the same voice replied to this
appeal with the following words:--
“Oh mighty are Barons in battle array,
Full swift are their steeds and full sharp are their swords;
But the heart of a maiden must have its own way,
And Love is far stronger than Barons and Lords.
He climbs the high walls of the castle so strong,
In vain your defences your treasure to shield;
To words which are whispered by lover’s true tongue,
The peeress and peasant will equally yield.”
This {122}reply was by no means more satisfactory to the Baron than
the first had been, and he saw that there was evidently but little
information to be obtained from the Witch of Salt Hill. Turning away,
therefore, with a moody air, he rejoined his servants, mounted his
steed, and returned to his castle, very much disgusted with his want of
success. Scarcely had he left the place before the head of an old woman
peered forth from the entrance of the cottage, and presently the whole
figure followed. It was that of an aged crone, clad in a long grey
cloak, with a strange head-covering of handkerchiefs twined in the form
of a turban, from which a few grey locks escaped and fluttered in the
wind around the venerable head. She held in her hand a strong staff,
upon which she leaned, whilst she carefully looked right and left
to make sure that her visitors had all departed. As soon as she had
convinced herself of this fact, she turned round again to the entrance
of the cottage and called in a low voice--“It is quite safe; come forth,
my lord, come forth!” Upon this there was a movement inside the place,
and there presently stepped forth a young man, the pallor of whose
handsome countenance betokened recent illness, and who supported himself
upon a stout oaken staff. Had the Baron stood where he had been standing
but a few {123}minutes before, he would scarcely have departed so
easily, for in this individual he would have seen the hereditary enemy
of his house standing close beside him.
In truth, Brother Rhine, the witch of Salt Hill had been, somehow or
other, greatly indebted to the St. Aunay family; and after Count Horace
had been wounded in his skirmish with the Baron, he had found a secure
retreat in her abode at Salt Hill. There, carefully nursed, and perhaps
doctored by some wondrous charms of which mortals who do not happen to
be witches know nothing, the young nobleman had rapidly recovered from
the effects of his wound. The country, however, was still so much under
the control of the Lancastrian party, that Count Horace deemed it his
wisest plan to remain for some time in concealment, especially since
he found that the report of his death had evidently so far softened the
Baron that he had not pursued his work of devastation as he probably
would have done if he had believed that the head of the house of St.
Aunay was still alive and likely to take the field against him upon a
favourable opportunity. This, then, was the reason of the Count’s being
in the cottage of the witch upon the very day of the Baron’s visit, and
as soon as the latter had departed, the wise woman began to discuss the
subject of his daughter and her supposed elopement. Whether or not her
arts had enabled her to discover the direction of Mathilde’s flight, and
her present place of abode, is a question we need hardly pause to ask.
It is very likely that her statement to the Baron had been little more
than a shrewd guess that if a young lady fled secretly from a convent,
there was in all probability {124}a gentleman in the case, in which
surmise she was certainly not far wrong. But if she had known where
Mathilde was she certainly would not have disclosed it to the anxious
father whilst St. Aunay was close by, nor indeed under any circumstances
without the consent of the latter. He had informed her fully of the true
state of the case between the young Baroness and himself, and after the
Baron had gone off, eagerly inquired of her as to where the fair lady
was really to be found.
Now witches, although exceedingly wise, cannot tell more than they
know, and are not obliged to tell all that they _do_ know, except under
extraordinary circumstances, therefore the witch of Salt Hill thought it
best to assume a very grave and solemn air, and mysteriously assured her
friend that all would be right, and that he would know everything that
ought to be known as soon as the proper time for knowing it had arrived.
This assurance was scarcely satisfactory to the young man, who pressed
hard for an answer which should at least give him some indication of the
course which he had better pursue in order to obtain tidings of the lost
one. No such answer, however, could he obtain; and all that the old dame
would tell him was to “keep his heart up,” and to “have patience”--two
pieces of advice which are excellent in themselves, but little
calculated to allay the impatience of a young man who has lost his
sweetheart and wants to find her as soon as possible. Patience the young
Count found it impossible to have, and, finding himself very much better
the next day, he determined to set out and see what he could accomplish
by his own exertions.
It {125}was a lovely morning, and as St. Aunay walked through the
fields, he felt new life rising in his’ veins, and his whole being
seemed reinvigorated by the bright sun and fresh air. He walked for
miles without any very definite idea as to where he was going or what
he should do, in which it will be observed he strongly resembled the
condition of his beloved Mathilde. Still, disguised in the garb of a
peasant, he wandered on, and towards evening reached no other place than
the very farm at which the young Baroness was employed as a pig-keeper.
Nor was this his only piece of good fortune, for, as luck would have it,
he came upon the fair damsel herself, disconsolately sitting by the side
of her pigs, and wishing herself anywhere else. This wish, as may easily
be imagined, was immediately changed when she found that the strange
peasant who approached was no other than her own Horace. She flew into
his arms with the smallest possible delay, and he was forthwith able
satisfactorily to explain to her that he was by no means dead, and
almost entirely recovered from his wound.
The prospects of the two lovers did not, however, seem particularly
bright even after they had thus met; and after a long discussion they
could hardly make up their minds what would be the best course to
pursue. Mathilde had the greatest objection to returning home, where
she should hear nothing but abuse of her Horace and his family, not
improbably coupled with reproaches directed against herself for having
quitted the convent. To return to the latter was out of the question,
and equally so to accompany the Count, who had no home to which he
could take her. The only conclusion, therefore, at which {126}they found
themselves able to arrive was that the lady had better continue
her pig-keeping at least for a time, and that they should both wait
patiently until better days. This arrangement though not exactly
pleasant to either of them, seemed most expedient upon the whole, and
having finally come to the determination that such was the case, they
took an affectionate leave of each other, and again separated.
From that day Mathilde passed several months of weary suspense, being
quite unable to content herself with the unusual pastime of looking
after pigs, although she found some consolation in reading and
writing--two accomplishments in which she had become tolerably perfect
during her stay in the convent. Books, however, were, not in those days
what they now are, and those young ladies who depend for their literary
amusement upon circulating libraries and sensation novels, may thank the
good fortune which decreed that they should come into the world some few
centuries later than the days I speak of. Mathilde had one vast book of
curious manuscript, which she had discovered in the farmhouse, and which
was her constant companion. I am not sure as to the subjects of which
it treated, but as it was probably of monkish compilation, it is most
likely that it dealt either with the lives of saints or the theories of
cookery, which were two subjects much in favour with the Eccelesiastical
fraternities of that day. Whatever it was however, Mathilde made it the
subject of her constant study, and varied her amusement by the use of
the quill pens which she manufactured, from the good farmer’s geese. You
must not ask me questions, Brother Rhine, as to the manner in which she
obtained paper and {127}ink. None of these particulars have ever been
handed down, and I have never cared to inquire. I can only say that in
a certain noble family a huge scroll, covered with curious writing, has
been long preserved, which tradition attributes to the ancestress who
once kept pigs on that. Berkshire hill-side; and if the tradition is
not strictly true, I would merely observe that it is just as provable as
many another, upon the veracity of which the scoffer has never ventured
to cast a doubt.
During this time the Baron de Guerre-à-mort was not sitting idly at
home. He made every inquiry for his daughter, and was exceedingly vexed
at his total want of success in discovering where she was. It is likely
enough that he would have found her if she had been further off or
more carefully concealed. But it may be observed as a rule which obtains
pretty generally, that the things which are immediately under our noses
escape our observation more than those which require a careful search. A
hare sometimes squats-securely in the middle of a ploughed field whilst
the sportsman is seeking her in the thick wood; the nest of the grey
thrush, built in the bare cleft of a laurel-tree, often escapes the eye
of the school-boy more easily than the nest more carefully hidden in
the thick bushes; or, to take another comparison an elderly gentleman
sometimes makes entirely ineffectual search for the spectacles which
he has pushed up from his nose to his forehead, whereas, had they been
hidden among papers, or left in some unusual place, he would quickly
have discovered them. So it was, at any rate, that the Baron sought far
and wide for his daughter without success, whilst she, poor girl,
was keeping pigs on the hill-side all the time, a very {128}few miles
distant from the castle of her respected parent.
The good man, however, found that before long he had other business
to attend to than the agreeable occupation of daughter-hunting. The
fortunes of the two great parties in the state underwent a considerable
change. Instead of being any longer in the ascendant, the Lancastrians
experienced heavy reverses, and those who had espoused the cause of the
House of York gained ground continually on every side. In those times it
was not so easy to change one’s politics or one’s party as has been the
case in some later periods of the history of this country, especially if
one had supported one’s opinions by the carrying of fire and sword into
the territory of one’s opponents. Therefore the old Baron, who, as we
have seen, had adopted this old-fashioned method of proceeding, would
have found it somewhat difficult to change sides even if he had wished
to do so. Nothing, however, could have been further from his intention.
He believed the cause of the House of Lancaster to be just and right,
and even if he had thought otherwise, I do not believe that he would
ever have deserted a cause which he had once thoroughly espoused. So he
remained loyal to the Lancastrian standard, and was as ready to fight
for it in adversity as he had ever been when it seemed likely to
triumph. The consequences, however, were not likely to be agreeable.