"A pilgrim came from o'er the sea;
_Benedicite! benedicite!_
And he brought a ring to that proud ladye.
His grave is wide, his grave is deep;
On that bosom cold he shall quietly sleep:
_Benedicite!_"
The following extract from the genealogical roll of the Bradshaighs is
the principal source from whence this tale has originated:--
"Sir William Bradshaighe, second son to Sir John, was a great traveller
and a souldger, and married to Mabell, daughter and sole heire of Hugh
Norris de Haghe and Blackrode, and had issue," &c.
Of this Mabel is a story by tradition of undoubted verity, "that in Sir
Wm. Bradshaghe absence (beinge 10 years away in the holy wars), she
married a Welsh knight. Sir William, returning from the wars, came in a
palmer's habitt amongst the poor to Haghe, who, when she saw and
congetringe that he favoured her former husband, wept, for which the
knight chastised her; at which Sir William went and made himself known
to his tenants; in which space the knight fled, but neare to Newton
Parke Sir William overtook him and sleu him. The said Dame Mabell was
enjoined by her confessor to doe penances by going onest every week
barefout and bare legged to a crosse ner Wigan from the Haghe, wilest
she lived, and is called Mabb ++ to this day; and ther monument lyes in
Wigan church, as you see them ther portry'd."
Sir William Bradshaigh was outlawed during the space of a year and a day
for this offence; but he and his lady, it is said, lived happily
together afterwards until their death. Their effigies on the tomb now
exist but as rude and unshapely masses; time and whitewash, the two
great destroyers of our monumental relics, having almost obliterated
their form, the one by diminishing, and the other by adding to, their
substance.
That Sir William was at the "Holy Wars," must, it is evident, be a
corruption of the story, seeing he was born about the year 1280, ten
years after the last of these unfortunate expeditions. The first
croisade was undertaken by Peter the Hermit, 1095; a second, by Louis
VII of France, 1145; a third, under Richard I of England, 1190; a
fourth, under Philip II of France, 1204; a fifth, under Louis IX,
against Egypt, 1248; and the last, under Louis IX., against Tunis,
where he lost his life, 1270. Consequently, the perpetration of these
"Holy" murders, which it is supposed were to the amount of two hundred
millions of human beings, without the acquisition even of Jerusalem to
the Church, must have ceased ere the birth of our "pilgrim." That he was
at "the wars," however, is pretty certain, but they were nearer home.
The machinations of that powerful noble, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster,
together with the disastrous campaign of Edward II. against the Scots,
are sufficiently important events to account for the long absence of Sir
William Bradshaigh, who is supposed to have been taken prisoner during
these unhappy troubles.
Our engraving represents the cross as it exists at present. Some
attention having been drawn to it of late, we may hope this interesting
relic will be suffered to remain uninjured, and not be subjected any
more to those levelling improvements for which this age is so
distinguished.
In the borough of Wigan, near one of the four gates, called
Standishgate--which gates are now removed, and their places occupied by
some undignified-looking posts called "toll-bars"--stands a ruined stone
cross; in appearance, by no means either interesting or remarkable: it
would scarcely be noticed by a casual observer. Yet to this mean-looking
memorial of our faith is attached an eventful story, at which
"The sad might laugh; the merry weep."
It is a tale of which our brief limits will only allow a rapid sketch.
This we have thrown together in the dramatic and narrative form, a
combination more calculated than any other, we believe, to awaken
attention, and bring forth the subject before the mind with truth and
distinctness.
One stormy night, in the autumn of the year 1324, mine host of the Merry
Maypole, a tavern of great resort by the market-cross in the good
borough of Wigan, was awakened from a laborious slumber. The door which
opened into a low porch projecting from the thatch, was shaken with a
vehemence that threatened some fearful catastrophe. Giles, no longer
able to endure these thundering appeals to his hospitality, desired his
wife to ascertain the cause of the disturbance.
"Gramercy! An' I be to unlatch for every graceless unthrift that chooses
to pummel at Giles Dauber's wicket, I shall have but sorry bedding wi'
an old husband."
"Old, quotha!--Old! I tell thee, dame, that I'm less by a good score of
winters than Dan o' the higher Wient, when he wed old Simon's
daughter.--Humph!--She was a merry and a buxom lass; but thou"--
How far this interesting dialogue between the tavern-keeper and his
newly-wedded spouse might have extended it is impossible with any degree
of accuracy to set forth, inasmuch as another loud and desperate lunge,
extenuated to an inaudible mutter the testy rejoinder of "Giles o' the
Maypole;" this being the cognomen by which he was more familiarly
designated.
"Anan!" shouted he, "what the---- Save us!" he continued in a low
whisper, crossing himself, "I had nigh slipped an ugly word over my
tongue; and if it should be--Dame, I say, get up, and"--
"Nay, thou hast gotten thee two as nimble legs, by thine own reckoning,
as any knave i' the borough. I shall e'en keep to my bed, goodman,
though these guzzle-throats hammer till cock-crow.--They are at the
right side of the door, I trow."
Now, mine host of the Merry Maypole having taken to himself that last
and worst of all possible plagues for the remnant of his days, to wit, a
young and somewhat handsome-looking wife, thought it no less meet than
reasonable, and no less reasonable than a duty, at all times incumbent,
that the before-named helpmate should, if need were, get out of bed and
unlatch the wicket whenever good customers were astir; more particularly
as the first Dame Dauber, having the fear of a short but tough cudgel
upon her, did, at certain times and seasons, when there was the
requisite occasion, leave her liege lord to the enjoyment of his warm
and luxurious couch, and spread a table for the entertainment of many a
night-betrayed traveller.
It was the first exigency of the kind, since the marriage of Giles
Dauber to Madge Newsome of the Deercote, in which the discussion of a
point so knotty and important had occurred. Giles dreamt not of the vast
difference that exists in the nature and docility of divers women. He
heard with a sort of incredulous surprise the first incipient grumblings
in contravention of his authority; but when these had fairly shaped
themselves into open defiance, he started agape with wonder. Recovering
himself, with a stern and portentous silence, he jumped out of bed and
drew on his doublet and hose. While thoughts of relentless import were
brooding, he groped his way down the ladder that communicated with the
lower apartment, for the purpose of ascertaining the quality and
condition of the stranger. The latter still manifested a noisy
impatience at being suffered, in so inhospitable a manner, to linger
without. The night was rainy and tempestuous--Giles shivered to the
backbone as he trod on the wheezing rushes strewed over the floor; they
were yet damp and dirty, by reason of the many visitors who had that
night loitered long at the Merry Maypole.
"Holloa, friend!--thy name?" shouted Giles, placing his hand on the
latch.
"Open the door, for the love of mercy!" cried a strange voice. Giles
drew back; he liked not this salutation--more, by token, from the
adjurement being for the love of mercy, in lieu of an appeal to the
tinkling angels that generally lined a traveller's pouch.
"Some sturdy beggar or mendicant friar," thought he, "that knocks at my
door because the chantry gates are shut. I care not to open my door to
every losel that knocks," cried he aloud. "Hence! I know thee not."
"Goodman, give me a night's lodging, and I will reward thee"--the door
flew open at this intimation--"with a palmer's benison," continued the
stranger, advancing towards the wan embers that yet flickered on the
hearth. Had Giles awaited the finishing of this sentence ere the latch
was loosened, some other and more hospitable roof had enjoyed the
benefit of that night's adventure.
"Thanks are not over meet for a cool stomach," growled the disappointed
tapster; whilst his guest roused the decaying faggots into a faint and
unsteady blaze.
Giles surveyed the new-comer with no very sanguine prepossessions in his
behalf. The figure that met his scrutiny was clad in a dark cloak. The
hood, partly thrown back, showed a somewhat "frosty poll," though the
vivacity of a wild and restless eye, peering from under his dark and
luxuriant brow, would scarcely have betokened an age at which the coming
winter of life usually scatters these chill warnings of its approach.
His features were finely moulded. A weather-beaten cheek, mingling with
a complexion evidently sallow, gave a rich autumnal hue to his visage: a
slight furrow, extending from the outer angle of the nostril around each
corner of a narrow and retreating mouth, gave a careless expression of
scorn to the countenance when at rest; but, as he smiled, this sinister
aspect disappeared, and the soft gleam of benevolence which succeeded
looked the brighter from the portentous scowl that had just passed. His
beard was grey, and of a most reverent equipment, well calculated to
excite veneration and respect. He was above the middle size: his humble
garb but ill concealed a majesty of deportment indicating a disposition
rather to command than to solicit favours. He seated himself on a low
stool, and honest Giles, whose courage did not feel sufficiently
invigorated, in the presence of this proud palmer, to dare an open
warfare, began hostilities covertly, in manner as follows:--
"What ails ye, to disturb honest folks i' their beds at these hours? You
might ha' tarried in your last baiting-place--at any rate till the kye
were astir. I wonder the guard let you pass at the gate. But since these
evil days have o'ershadowed the land, every braggart has licence to do
as he list; and the monks and the friars, with their whole crew of dubs
and deputies, are the worst of all. Old Cliderhow here, the parson,
thought to have waged war with his betters; but he was a slight matter
mistaken: we whipt him up by the heels for his treason."
"Is Cliderhow alive?" inquired the stranger.
"Save us, pilgrim! where had you knowledge of the traitor?"
"Our good king Edward," continued the guest, apparently not attending to
Giles's question in reply, "is still sorely beset with his enemies. Had
a score of knaves such as Master Cliderhow been hanged long ago, his
reign had been less burdensome both to prince and people."
"It's twelve years--ay, twelve," said Giles, reckoning the lapse on his
fingers; "I know it by the great wind that beat down Master Markland's
barn wall at the Meadows, since Cliderhow's sermon, inciting the whole
parish to rebellion."
"I know it," replied the palmer: "he was in prison when I last knew of
the matter."
"Ay, ay," returned Giles knowingly; "but threescore marks, disbursed
discreetly to our good and loyal burgesses, made the doors as easy to
open as my wicket--that is, at timely hours, ye understand."
"Is he at large?" inquired the other.
"They say he bides at Haigh," answered Boniface, "roistering it with
that Welsh knight there, Sir Osmund Neville. I warrant Sir William's
substance runs gaily down the old parson's throat."
Here the palmer threw the hood over his brows. Suddenly he arose:
striding across the chamber with considerable speed, he twice repeated
the name of Sir Osmund Neville in a subdued tone, but with a bitterness
of spirit that ill accorded with the outward habit of meekness which he
had assumed.
"Giles Dauber! what keeps ye so long there a-gossiping?" shouted a
shrill voice from above. It was the vocal substitute of Mistress Dauber,
who, resolutely determined not to budge at her husband's bidding, had,
as she lay, listened, but to little purpose. Finding it was no everyday
guest, she crept to the ladder-head and gave ear for a while; but soon
discovering it to be an unthrifty sort of intercourse that was going on,
not likely to bring either gain or good-will to the house, and fearing
that Giles might fall into some snare from his ready-mouthed opinions
regarding the unsettled temper and aspect of the time, she thought fit
to break abruptly on the discourse ere it should lead to some dangerous
or forbidden subject. He had, however, hit upon a favourite topic, in
addition to which, he was now evidently loth to leave his guest ere he
had learnt the nature of his errand to these parts. An "o'er-sea
pilgrim," as they were generally styled, was too choice an arrival for a
petty hostel--especially in those times, when newspapers and posts were
not circulating daily and hourly through the land--to let slip an
opportunity of inquiring about the king of Scotland, as Robert Bruce was
then called, or about his majesty, the Sultan Solyman--two personages
who were very frequently confounded with each other in mine host's
political hemisphere, and whose realms formed the great pandemonium
whence issued all that was dire and disastrous to plague and perplex
unhappy England.
"To bed! to bed!--Thou art ready enough to rise when thou art not
bidden. To bed, I say!" angrily shouted the disturbed Benedict.
"Hast _thou_ a wife?" sternly inquired the pilgrim.
"A wife!--marry have I!" exclaimed Giles; "and here she comes."
Finding there was no likelihood of a speedy termination to this
interview, our hostess of the Maypole conceived it to be a matter of
duty that she should at least take her full share in the discussions and
disclosures that might ensue. For this purpose she descended, making a
deep acknowledgment to the generally supposed sanctity of the pilgrim's
vocation. So much occupied, however, did he appear by other concernments
that he scarcely noticed her approach, but continued to pass with hasty
and irregular steps across the chamber.
"By what quality or appearance may Sir Osmund Neville be distinguished?"
he abruptly inquired.
"A right goodly person, and a brave gentleman! He gave me a sousing
kiss, and a pair of mittens to boot, the last choosing of knights to the
parliament," said the Dame.
"Hold thy tongue, Madge!" angrily exclaimed Giles. "Good father, heed
not a woman; they are caught by the lip and the fist, like my lord's
trencher-man. This Sir Osmund is both lean and ill-favoured. I wonder
what the Lady Mabel saw above his shoe to wed with an ugly toad spawned
i' the Welsh marshes. Had ye seen her first husband, Sir William
Bradshaigh--rest his soul! he was killed in the wars--you would have
marvelled that she drunk the scum after the broth."
"Lady Mabel and Sir Osmund are now at Haigh?" cautiously inquired the
palmer.
"You have business there, belike?" sharply interrogated the
indefatigable host.
"I have slight matters that require my presence at the hall. Does the
knight go much abroad, or keeps he close house?"
"Why, look ye, it is some three months or so since I smelt the fat from
her ladyship's kitchen. Dan Hardseg smutted my face, and rubbed a
platterful of barley-dough into my poll, the last peep I had through the
buttery. I'll bide about my own hearth-flag whilst that limb o' the old
spit is chief servitor. I do bethink me though, it is long sin' Sir
Osmund was seen i' the borough. Belike he may have come at the knowledge
of my misadventure, and careth not to meet the wrath of a patient man."
Here the malicious dame burst into a giddy laugh.
"Thee! why Sir Osmund knoweth not thy crop from thy crupper, nor careth
he if thy whole carcase were crammed into the dumpling-bag. I'feck, it
were a rare pastime to see Sir Osmund, the brave Welsh knight, give the
gutter to Giles of the Merry Maypole."
Giles was speechless with dismay at this aggravating insult; but the
dame continued:--
"I think, good stranger, the knight does keep house of late. Grim told
me that last week he was a-sporting once only by way of the higher park;
and he appears something more soured and moody than usual. If thou
crave speech with him though, to-morrow being almonsday at the hall, the
poor have free admission, and thou mayest have a sight of him there:
peradventure, as thou art strange in these parts, it will be needful
thou hadst a guide."
"And just ready for the job thyself, I'se warrant," bitterly snarled the
exasperated husband. The storm, long threatening, was about to burst
forth; but the palmer, with holy and beseeching words, soothed for
awhile the angry disputants, at the same time intimating that a guide
was unnecessary, the situation of the house being sufficiently obvious
from whatever quarter he might direct his steps.
The stranger seemed not solicitous of repose, and Giles was too sulky to
inquire his wants. The dame, however, drew a bundle of clean straw from
a huge heap, and threw it beside the hearth. A coarse and heavy rug,
over which was thrown a sheep-skin with the wool innermost, constituted
a warm but homely couch. A horn cup filled with cider and a burnt
barley-cake were next exhibited, of which the palmer made a healthful,
if not a sumptuous repast. Giles growled off to the loft above; and the
dame, caring little for the sequel of her husband's humours, soon found
a resting-place by his side.
Morning shone brightly and cheerfully through the chinks and crevices of
both door and lattice; but the pilgrim's couch was yet unsought. His
vigils had been undisturbed, save when the baying of some vagrant and
ill-disciplined dogs, or the lusty carol of some valiant yeoman, reeling
home after a noisy debauch, startled him from a painfully-recurring
thought, to which, however, the mind involuntarily turned when the
interruption had ceased.
It was late ere Giles awoke. Breathless with expectation, he hastened
below, anticipating a rich budget of news from his guest; but he had
departed.
It was one of those fresh and glittering mornings which autumn alone can
produce. Keen, pure, and exhilarating, the air seemed all buoyant and
elastic, tinging the cheeks with ruddy health, and animating the whole
frame with renewed vigour.
A slight hoar-frost yet lay on the thatched roofs. Calm and undisturbed,
a gem-like brightness twinkled from every object; whilst the vapours
that covered them looked not as the shroud, but rather as a pure mantle
of eider, hiding the fair bosom to which it clung.
The pilgrim entered a narrow street leading to the postern or gate,
called Standish-gate. In those days it was not, as now, a wide and free
thoroughfare for man and beast. At the accustomed fairs, toll is, to
this time, demanded on all cattle changing owners at the several
outlets, where formerly stood four gates; to wit, Wall-gate, Hall-gate,
Mill-gate, and Standish-gate. Each gate where the toll-bars now stand
was once, in good sooth, a heavy barrier of stout beams, thickly studded
with iron. Through the night they were generally bolted and guarded by a
company of the mayor's halberdiers. An irregular wall encompassed the
town, save on the eastern side, where the river Douglas seemed, in the
eyes of the burghers, to constitute a sufficient defence, a low abbatis
only screening its banks. The walls were covered, or rather uncovered,
by a broad ditch: a bridge of rough-hewn planks, at three of the
entrances before named, allowed a free communication with the suburbs,
except during seasons of hostility, which unhappily were not rare in
those days of rapine and rebellion. Before the Mill-gate a wider and
more substantial structure, mounted on huge wooden props, facilitated a
passage over the river. This edifice could be raised in cases of siege,
effectually separating the inhabitants from their enemies.
The first beams of the sun began to peep through the angles of the
wooden gable fronts, projecting nearly midway across the street,
streaming athwart the frosty air, and giving a beautifully variegated
and picturesque appearance to the grotesque vista bounded by the
Standish-gate.
The stranger paused not; mounting the hill with an alertness and agility
that scarcely seemed compatible with his age and appearance. On arriving
at the gate, his garb was a sufficient passport, without the necessity
of a challenge. Three or four of the guards were loitering and laughing
on a couple of benches built in a sort of arched recess on each side of
the gateway. As the pilgrim passed they became silent, bowing reverently
as he pronounced the accustomed benison.
Outside the barriers, the road lay through an open and uninclosed
country. It was a matter of but slight moment what line of direction the
narrow and uneven pathways might describe, provided their termination
was tolerably accurate; all traffic and intercourse, being necessarily
limited, was mostly carried on through the medium of saddles and
horse-furniture.
The most inaccessible part of a hill was the site generally chosen; the
road ascending and descending in a meandering sort of zig-zig on its
side. Rarely did our timid ancestors tempt the valley, often preferring
a roundabout course over a line of hills, if by so doing the perils of
the lower ground could be avoided.
The pilgrim followed a narrow and beaten track: it was bordered on each
side by a deep ditch, nearly overgrown with weeds and brambles. He
traversed the intricate windings of the road with considerable facility;
but an hour had nearly elapsed ere he gained the brow of an eminence of
no very conspicuous height, though it commanded a pretty extensive view
of the country adjacent. From the east, a rich flood of glory blended
the whole into one broad mass of light, melting away the beauteous
frost-work, as the rays of morning dissipate the unreal visions that
have their existence only in darkness and repose. Southward lay the
borough, distinguishable only by the broad tower of All-Saints rising
from the mist, as if baseless and suspended. A bell boomed heavily
through the quiet atmosphere: its long and lingering echoes came on the
pilgrim's soul like the voice of other years--of hopes and anticipations
that had for ever departed.
Westward might be seen a curl of blue smoke from the newly-dignified
priory at Upholland, recently invested with that honour through the
grants and intercessions of Sir Robert de Holland, a proud knight in the
train of Thomas Earl of Lancaster. It was northward that the pilgrim
turned, with a look of more intense anxiety. The mansion of Haigh stood
at the extremity of a broad slope, surmounted by shady woods, now fading
into the warm and luxuriant tints of autumn. Dark and cumbrous turrets,
projecting from the wings, grimly caught the first gleam of the morning;
whilst a tower of considerable strength and elevation rose above what
could only be surmised as the principal gateway. It was apparently
designed to overlook the whole fabric, serving as a refuge to the
besieged, and a stronghold in case of attack. Narrow loopholes might be
traced, irregularly disposed in the heavy masonry; and at the summit
stood a small turret resembling a large chair, from which, at stated
occasions, waved the richly-emblazoned escutcheon of the Norris and the
Bradshaigh. The staff was just visible, but unaccompanied by its
glittering adjunct. It was this circumstance principally that seemed to
engage the attention of the stranger. He broke into a loud and
involuntary exclamation:--
"Sir William's birthday is forgotten!--That staff opened a rich blossom
to the breeze ten years agone. It is the day--the very hour of Sir
William's birth!"
He smote his forehead, scarcely able to contain the violence of his
emotion.
"Let that day darken!--let it be cursed with storms and tempest!--let
the shadows of death brood over it, and the teeming night bring tenfold
horrors!--Yet how calm, how peacefully yonder sun approaches in his
strength! Nature is the same--bright, joyous, and unchanging!--Man, man
alone, is mutable--his days are full of mourning and bitterness!"
He bowed his head, crouching almost to the dust, in that overwhelming
agony.
Suddenly he was aroused, and in a manner as unceremonious as unexpected.
A smart blow on the back announced a somewhat uncourteous intruder,
whilst a loud and discordant laugh struck shrilly on his ear. Starting,
he beheld a figure of a low and unshapely stature, clothed in a light
dress, fantastically wrought. A round cap, slouched in front, fitted
closely to his head, from which depended what the wearer no doubt looked
upon as a goodly aggregate of ornaments. These consisted of ear-tassels
and rings of various dimensions, that jingled oddly as he twisted his
head from side to side with a knowing and important grin. A pair of
large leathern boots, slipped on for travelling purposes, with ample
flaps turning down from the knee, formed the lower costume of this
strange being. Round his neck he wore an iron collar: its import,
whether in the shape of punishment or decoration, is at this time
doubtful. A visage of more than ordinary size projected from between a
pair of shoulders that nearly overlooked the lower rim of his cap. A
sort of dubious leer was its predominant expression, heightened ever and
anon by a broad laugh, the eldritch shout of which first announced
itself to the ear of the pilgrim. Matted and shaggy, the twisted locks
hung wildly about his brow, whilst a short and frizzled beard served as
a scanty covering to his chin. A "Sheffield whittle" stuck in his
baldric; and in a pouch was deposited the remnant of a magnificent
pasty. From oft and over replenishment this receptacle gaped in a most
unseemly manner, showing the shattered remains, the crumbling fragments,
of many a huge mountain of crust.
With arms akimbo stood this prepossessing personage before the pilgrim,
in all his native rudeness and disorder. The latter tightened his cloak
about him, and withdrew some three or four paces from his companion.
"Nuncle," said the jester--for such was in fact his vocation--"I wonder
for what property master keeps a fool?--I bethink me 'tis for his wit:
more wit and less honesty, though." The palmer was silent.
"Art going to the hall?" continued he. "The fool is whipt there for
being honest. Have a care, nuncle; if Sir Osmund catch thee, thou hadst
as good bequeath thy bones to the Pope to make into saint's gear.--I'm
very sad, nuncle!"
"Sad!" said the pilgrim; "in good troth, an' thou be sad, the cock of
the hall yonder is but in sorry plight."
"'Tis more wholesome to cry to-day," said the dolorous knave, "knowing
ye shall laugh to-morrow, than to laugh to-day, and to-morrow's dool
somehow making your mirth asthmatic:
"Be merry to-morrow; to-day, to-day,
Your belly-full fill of grief;
When sorrow hath supp'd, go play, go play,
For mirth I wot is brief.
"Ay, grandam, ye are wise; and an old woman's wit best becomes a fool:
"When sorrow hath supp'd, go play, go play,
For mirth I wot is brief."
He drew out the last notes into one of those querulous cadences, much in
vogue as an _ad libitum_ on all fitting occasions: even the sad features
of the pilgrim were provoked into a smile.
"Art bound for the hall?" again inquired the inquisitive hunchback.
"Yes, friend--whither else? Is it not almous-day, and thinkest thou the
houseless and wandering pilgrim will not share of the largess?"
"Beggars and friars thrive--treason and corruption wed, and these be
their children belike. Hast brought the Lady Mabel her old husband's
bones from heathenrie?--her new one is like to leave her nought else,
poor soul, for her comfort. She'll make her up a saint out o'them."
"If she has gotten another husband," said the pilgrim, "the old one's
bones would have a rare chance of her worship."
The facetious impertinent here gave a sort of incredulous whistle. He
eyed the palmer with a keen and scrutinising glance, but suddenly
relapsing into his accustomed manner, he burst into a wild and
portentous laugh.
"I tell thee, if Sir Osmund catch thee carrying so much as a thumb-nail
of Sir William's carcase, he 'll wring thy neck as wry as the chapel
weathercock. My lady goes nigh crazed with his ill humours. I warrant
thee, Sir William's ghost gaily snuffs up the sport. I have watched him
up and down the old stairs, and once i' the chapel; and he told
me"--whispering close to the pilgrim's ear--"a great secret, nuncle!"
"Ay--what was that, Motley?"
"Why, said he, if so be Sir William comes home again, he'll find his
wife has got a cuckoo in her nest." Here he burst from the stranger with
a malicious shout, and descending a by-path, was soon lost amidst the
intricacies of a deep wood, skirting the verge of an extensive forest.
The traveller's brow gathered a heavier gloom. With unconscious haste he
soon gained a gentle ascent, which led by a narrow and deep path to the
mansion. Nigh to the bridge over the moat stood a blacksmith's hovel,
conveniently situated for all job-work emanating from the armoury and
the kitchen, which at that time afforded full exercise for the musical
propensities of Darby Grimshaw's great anvil. This hut was a general
resort to all the idlers in the vicinity; Grim, as he was generally
styled for the sake of abbreviation, discharging the office of "preses,"
or chief moderator, in all debates held therein. He was a shrewd fellow
and a bold one. A humorous and inquisitive cunning lurked in the corner
of his grey and restless eye. His curiosity was insatiable; and as a
cross-questioner, when fairly at work, for worming out a secret he had
not his fellow. His brain was a general deposit for odd scraps, and a
reservoir in which flowed all stray news about the country. He was an
abstract and chronicle of the time; and could tell you where the Earl of
Lancaster mustered his forces, the day of their march, and the very
purposes and projects of that turbulent noble. Even the secrets of my
lady's bower did not elude the prying of this indefatigable artist; at
any rate, he had the credit of knowing all that he assumed, which
amounted very much to the same thing as though his knowledge were
unlimited: a nod and a wink supplying the place of intelligence, when
his wondering neophytes grew disagreeably minute in their inquiries.
Towards this abode did the pilgrim bend his steps. A thick smoke hovered
about the thatch, that appeared very ingeniously adapted for the
reception and nurture of any stray spark that might happen to find there
a temporary lodgment. Several times had this Vulcan been burnt out, yet
the materials were easily replaced; and again and again the hovel arose
in all its pristine ugliness and disorder.
Darby was just kindling his fire: a merry-making overnight had trenched
upon morning duties, and daylight found him still stretched on his
pallet. Subsequent to this a noisy troop from the hall had roused him
from a profound slumber.
"St George and the Virgin protect thee, honest friend!" said the
pilgrim, as he stood by an opening, just then performing the functions
of both door and chimney. Darby's perceptions being much impeded by the
smoke, he hastily approached the door. His surprise manifested itself
aloud, yet did he not forget a becoming reverence to the stranger, as he
invited him into the only apartment, besides his workshop, of which the
roof could boast. It served for parlour, bedchamber, and kitchen; where
the presiding deity, Grim's helpmate, carried on her multifarious
operations.
The officious housewife fetched a joint-stool, first clearing it from
dust, whilst her husband added a billet to the heap. She was just
preparing breakfast. A wooden porringer, filled to the brim with new
milk, in which oatmeal was stirred, a rasher of salted mutton, and a
large cake of coarse bread, comprised the delicacies of their morning
repast. To this, however, was added a snatch of cold venison from the
hall. "But this, you see," said the old woman, "is not of our own
killing; St Gregory forbid!--it comes from Dan there, who has the care
of the knight's buttery."
"Rot him for a churl!" said the smith; "Sir Osmund grudges every mouth
about him; but"--and here he looked wondrous knowing--"he may happen to
be ousted yet, if Earl Thomas should come by the worst in this cabal."
"Sir Osmund, I find, is no favourite with his neighbours."
"Hang him!" replied Grim, first looking cautiously into the shop;
"there's not a man of us but would like to see him and his countrymen
packed off to-morrow upon ass-panniers. They were spawned from the Welsh
ditches to help that overgrown Earl against his master. If Sir William
had been alive I had spoken out without fear. He was a loyal knight and
a true--he ever served his country and his king. But I bethink me that
peradventure ye may have heard of our late master's death, and who knows
but ye bring some token, pilgrim, to his lady?"
"Thou hast shrewdly guessed--I bear the last message that Sir William
sent to his lady; thinkest thou it may be delivered without the knight's
privity?"
"Save thee, father! peril betides him who would hazard a message to my
lady without her husband's leave."
"Is the Lady Mabel in health?--and the children?" inquired the stranger.
"Sorely did she grieve when tidings came of Sir William's death in the
great battle; but sorer still rues she her wedding with Sir Osmund
Neville. Poor soul! It would melt the nails out of a rusty horse-shoe to
see how she moans herself, when she can steal privily to her chamber.
They say the knight caught her weeping once over some token that
belonged to Sir William, and he burnt it before her face, ill-treating
her into the bargain."
"How came she to wed this churl?"
"Oh, it's a sorry history!"--The speaker paused, and it was at the
pilgrim's entreaty that he thus continued:--
"Parson Cliderhow had his paw in the mischief. She was in a manner
forced either to wed, or, in the end, to have found herself and her
children with never a roof-tree above their heads."
"How?--Sir William did not leave her portionless?"
"I know not; but Sir Osmund had, or pretended he had, got a grant from
the Earl of Lancaster for possession of all that belonged to Sir
William, as a reward for his great services; and unless she wed
him--why, you may guess what follows, when a lone woman is left in a
wooer's clutches. I shall never forget their wedding-day; it should
rather have been her burying, by the look on't. Her long veil was more
like a winding-sheet than a bride's wimple."
During this recital the palmer drew his seat closer to the hearth. He
leant him over his staff, absorbed in that conscious stupor which seems
at once shut out from all connection with external objects, and yet
intensely alive to their impressions. Suddenly he rose, tightened his
sandals, and looking round, appeared as if about to depart.
"It is our late master's birthday," said the loquacious informant: "ten
years ago there was free commons at the hall for man and beast. Now,
save on almous-days, when some half-dozen doitering old bodies get a
snatch at the broken meat, not a man of us thrusts his nose into the
knight's buttery but by stealth. Sir William's banner has not been
hoisted, as it was wont on this day, since he left, with fifty armed men
in his train, to help the king, then hard pressed in the Scottish wars.
Ye may get an alms among the poor to-day, but have an eye to the Welsh
bowmen: these be the knight's privy guard, and hold not the quality of
his guests in much respect."
Here the smith's angry garrulity was interrupted by Daniel Hardseg, a
sort of deputy house-steward, whose duty it was to look after all
business not immediately connecting itself with any other department in
the household. He was prime executive in most of the out-door duty, and
a particular crony at the hovel. His "Hilloa!" was terrific.
"Why, a murrain to thee, goodman Grim, thy fire is colder than my
halidome; the sun is so high it puts it out, I reckon. Here have I two
iron pots, a plate from my master's best greaves, and a pair of spurs
that want piecing, and I'm like to tinker them as I list on a cold
stithy. Get out, thou"--Here he became aware of an additional inmate to
Grim's dwelling; and this discovery for a while checked the copious
torrent of Dan's eloquence. Shortly, Darby drew him aside, and from
their looks it might be gathered that some scheme was negotiating for
the pilgrim's safe admission at the hall. To an entreaty, more
strenuously urged on the part of our diplomatist, Dan replied, in a
louder tone--
"Why, look thee, gossip, it were as much as my lugs were
worth--but--I'll e'en try."
"We shall hear some news about Sir William, depend on't, an' thou get
him a word with my lady."
"And what the better shall I be of that?--dead men make no porridge
hot," simply retorted Dan.
"Go to," replied the other; "it's but setting Maude on the scent--I
warrant thee, she'll sharpen her wits for the work. It will be a
grievous pity should he depart, and whisper not his message to her
ladyship. Maude's thin ears, as thou knowest, can catch a whisper, and
thou wilt soon squeeze the secret out of her; then comes Darby's
turn--by to-morrow, at the latest."
The news-doting artisan rubbed his dark fists with ecstacy. "Go, knave,"
said he; "thou art a teasing little varlet."
Here Grim seemed ready to hug his comrade in the extremity of his
delight; but Dan was rather sullen, evidently ruminating on peril and
mischance, wherein the tempter had no share, though participating in the
profits of the adventure. Eventually, the stranger was placed under the
patronage of Daniel Hardseg, who, to do him justice, was well affected
towards the enterprise he had undertaken.
Passing by a low wall to the north-east of the mansion, they were soon
hidden by a projecting terrace or platform, which, in cases of siege,
could be converted into a sort of breastwork to cover the sallies of the
besieged. At the salient angle of this curtain stood a small postern, to
which Dan applied a heavy key, and beckoning to his companion, they
ascended a narrow staircase. A succession of dark passages led to the
great hall, from which a small arched doorway communicated by a private
entrance to the chapel. As they passed the half-closed door, a gruff
voice was heard reciting the appointed service for the day. Dan slept
cautiously by, and motioned the stranger to tread softly. The latter
paused, listening with a look of anxiety, and pressed his staff across
his bosom;--soon, drawing his hood closer over his brow, he quickly
followed the retreating footsteps of his companion.
"Praised be old Cliderhow's tough pipe!" said Dan, when fairly out of
hearing. "Ha, ha!--sit down, sit down, good father," opening a
half-door, as he laughed, and thrusting in the pilgrim; "nobody can hear
aught besides, when he's fairly agoing."
The apartment into which this unceremonious conductor ushered his guest
was Dan's store-room.
A most whimsical assemblage of materials were here huddled together.
Pans, wooden bowls, and matters of meaner import, entered into close
familiarity with broadswords and helmets; boots of home manufacture in
their primitive clothing; saddles with their housings; knives, and brown
bottles of coarse pottery, were intermingled with many a grim-looking
weapon of bloodthirsty aspect. From the walls depended a heterogeneous
mass of apparel--cloaks, hats, and body-gear of unimaginable shape and
appearance. Dan was steward of the wardrobe, or furniture-keeper to most
of the retainers and other idle appendages to the hall; and as, in those
days, the sciences dependent on order and classification had not spread
their beneficial influence through society at large, it frequently
happened that more time was consumed in rummaging amidst this unexplored
chaos than would have sufficed to transact the whole affair for which
any article was required. A round stool in the middle of this
"_Thesaurus"_--the only unoccupied place except the ceiling--was the
throne of our friend, Dan Hardseg, when dispensing out his treasures
with stately munificence;--on this scanty perch was the stranger duly
installed, and favoured with a benignant and knowing wink from Dan as he
departed.
Waiting for the return of his patron, the pilgrim was roused from a fit
of reverie by the well-remembered greeting of the jester, Humphry
Lathom, or "Daft Humpy," as he was mostly called.
"Eh, nuncle! But if Dan catch thee, he'll be sure to give thee a lift i'
the stocks."
This strange creature cautiously opened the door, and was speedily
engulfed in all that fearful accumulation of sloth and disorder. By his
manner, it did not seem to be his first irruption into this vast
magazine; whilst, from the cautious and fearful glances he from time to
time cast through the door, it would appear that he had been detected in
his expeditions, and in all probability punished for the offence. He was
evidently in search of some object from amidst the various heaps of
lumber he overthrew; an inarticulate mutter, accompanying every fresh
attack, indicated impatience and disappointment. Suddenly he exclaimed,
drawing forth a large roll, with ludicrous expressions of delight--
"I have thee, now! The buck's horns shall soon butt this great Welsh
goat from his pen."
He opened the banner. It was the pennon of the Bradshaigh, thrown aside
to rot in dust and decay.
"Don't tell Dan, nuncle, and thou shall see rare sport."
He said this with his usual familiarity of tone; but suddenly putting
his mouth to the stranger's ear, he whispered. The words were inaudible,
save to him for whom they were meant; and in an instant he darted from
the spot, concealing the spoil amidst the folds of his apparel. Shortly
afterwards Dan made his appearance. With wonder and dismay did he
behold the ravages committed in his treasure-house--"confusion worse
confounded."
"Beshrew me, but thou art a restless tenant. I did not tell thee to
tumble my wardrobe into haycocks."
"I was long a-watching," said the pilgrim; "and, in good troth, I became
over curious to know the capacity of thy sty. What tidings from my
lady's chamber?"
"A plague on her husband's humours! Maude says it were as much as a
Jew's thumb were worth to get thee privily to an audience, but she hath
urged my lady to distribute the alms herself to-day; so betake thee to
the kitchen; Maude will contrive thou shalt have some token of approach.
St Anthony! but thou hast bestirred thee bravely; such another guest,
and I might as well set fire to the whole budget. If thou be'st bent on
such another rummage in the kitchen, the cook will whack thy pate with
the spit, holy and hooded though it be."
Dan led the way to this arena of gigantic gastronomy. It was a vast and
smoky den, such as could only exist in those days of feudal
magnificence. An immense furnace was fed by huge blocks of wood, which
the ravening flame seized and in a moment enveloped in its embrace.
Forms, grisly and indistinct, flitted past this devouring blaze, by the
sputtering and crackling of which, mingled with the hissing delicacies
before it, and the shrill scream of the presiding fury, a stranger might
be warned of his approach to this pandemonium some time ere its wonders
were visible. The pilgrim seated himself in an accessible corner,
anxiously awaiting the promised signal.
On a long stone bench lay heaps of broken meat, ready for distribution
to the groups of mendicants who were now clamouring without the gate.
From the low and ponderous rafters hung dried mutton, bacon, and deer's
tongues, wreathed in curls of smoke, that might seem to render an
introduction to the chimney unnecessary for completing their flavour.
It was not long ere a pert waiting-maid approached. She drew up her
short linsey-woolsey garments from the contaminations beneath her feet.
Raising her chin, she thus addressed the servitors:--
"My lady bids ye bring the dole quickly into the great hall--She attends
to-day in person. When the bell rings," looking towards the pilgrim as
she spoke, "my lady leaves her chamber."
Maude departed with the same supercilious deportment. The bell was
immediately heard, and the stranger, making the best of his way into the
hall, found the doors wide open, and an indiscriminate assemblage of
supplicants, displaying to the best advantage a variety of modes and
manifestations of distress, unhappily not confined to those unhallowed
days of wretchedness and misrule. Their chief attention seemed to be
directed towards a side wicket, in the upper part of which was a slide
for the more convenient distribution of the accustomed largess, when the
Lady Mabel did not superintend the apportioning of her beneficence.
It was soon whispered amongst the crowd that she, who had for a
considerable time kept aloof from all intercourse, would that day
distribute her own bounty.
The tinkling of the bell ceased, and suddenly the door flew open. Lady
Mabel and her maidens entered. The crowd fell back as she approached. Of
a commanding form and deportment, she seemed a being of some superior
creation; whilst, with slow and majestic steps, she passed on to the
upper division of the hall, where the dais raised her slightly above the
multitude.
She was habited in deep mourning: her heavy train swept gracefully over
the dark pavement; her veil, in cumbrous folds, reached almost to her
feet, effectually concealing her face from the eyes of the spectators. A
number of servitors, now entered, bearing the allotted viands, together
with sundry articles of winter apparel. The upper table was filled, and
a profound silence showed the awe and respect which her presence
inspired. She raised her veil. Grief, long subdued, yet deep and
irremediable, hung heavily on her pallid features, but their form and
character was untouched by the destroyer. Not a ringlet was visible. Her
brow, bare and unornamented, threw an air of severe grandeur on her
whole countenance. Around the lip fell a deeper shade of sorrow; but
sweet, inexpressibly sweet and touching, was the expression. Though the
rose had faded, yet, lovelier in decay, it seemed to mingle more
gracefully with the soft hues by which it was surrounded.
She waved her hand: singly the mendicants approached, proffering their
simple tale of suffering and privation. To every one she administered
comfort; consoling the wretched and reproving the careless; but each had
a share of her bounty ere he withdrew.
The hall was nearly cleared; yet the palmer sat, as if still awaiting
audience, behind a distant pillar, and deeply pondering, as it might
seem, the transactions he had witnessed. The last of their suppliants
had departed ere he rose, bending lowly as he approached. The eye of the
noble dame suddenly became rivetted on him. She was leaning in front of
her maidens, beside a richly-carved canopy of state, underneath which,
on days of feudal hospitality and pomp, presided the master of the
banquet. Behind, a long and richly-variegated window poured down a
chequered halo of glory around her form. She seemed an angel of light,
issuing from that fountain of splendour, and irradiating the whole group
with her presence.
"Reverend pilgrim, thy behest?" She said this with a shudder of
apprehension, as if dreading an answer to her inquiry. The pilgrim spoke
not, but advanced.
The attendants drew aside. A silence, chill and unbroken as the grave,
pervaded the assembly. He took from his vest a silver ring. The Lady
Mabel grasped the well-known signet. With agony the most heartrending
and intense she exclaimed--
"My husband's signet!--Where?--Whence came this pledge?--Speak!"
A pause ensued. It was one of those short ages of almost insupportable
suspense, when the mind, wound up to the keenest susceptibility of
endurance, seems vibrating on the verge of annihilation,--as if the next
pulse would snap its connection with the world for ever.
"Lady," the pilgrim answered, in a low sepulchral tone, "it is a bequest
from thy husband. It was his wife's last pledge--a seal of unchanging
fidelity. He bade me seek his dame, and say, 'His last sigh was to
her--his last wish to heaven.'"
Lady Mabel listened--every tone sunk like a barbed arrow to her heart.
The voice resembled not that of her deceased husband, yet such was the
deceptive influence arising from the painful irritation which her
spirits had undergone, that, if reason had not forbidden, her fancy
would have invested it with supernatural attributes--listening to it as
though it were a voice from the tomb.
"For the love I bore and yet bear to his most honoured name, tell me--I
conjure thee, tell me--his earthly resting-place. My last pilgrimage
shall be thither. I will enshrine his hallowed relics, and they shall be
a pledge of our union where we shall no more part."
The last words were spoken with a solemnity of expression awful and
thrilling beyond the power of language to convey:
"What recks it, lady? thou hast gotten thee another," said the pilgrim.
"Another!--Oh name him not. Never, never!--most base, most cruel. He
took advantage of my bereavement--a moment of weakness and maternal
terror. By what long ages of suffering and wretchedness has it been
repaid! Better I had beheld my babes wasting with hunger, than have
mated with this unpitying husband for a home and a morsel of bread!"
A flush of proud scorn at her own weakness overspread her features. It
was but momentary. She bade the attendants withdraw. Looking round for
this purpose, she was aware, for the first time, of the hated presence
of Roger de Cliderhow, watching, with considerable surprise, for the
result of this unexpected interview. He departed with the retinue,
leaving Lady Mabel and the pilgrim for a while unobserved.
"Thou art a holy and a heaven-destined man, yet surely thou hast been
taught to share another's sorrows--to pour the oil of compassion over
the wounds of the penitent and broken-hearted." The lady turned aside
her head--she leaned over the chair for support, whilst one hand pressed
her throbbing temples.
"_Mabel Bradshaigh!_" It was the voice of Sir William. She started as at
a summons from the tomb. No other form was visible but that of the
pilgrim bending over his staff. Her eye wandered wildly around the hall,
as if she expected some phantom to start from its recesses. A
richly-fretted screen, behind which the minstrels and lookers-on
occasionally sat at the festival, stood at the lower end of the
apartment. A slight rustling was heard; she was about to rush towards
the spot, when the voice was again audible, and apparently at her side.
Slowly the hood of the pilgrim was uplifted. He threw off his disguise;
but oh, how changed was the once athletic form of Sir William
Bradshaigh! With a wild and piercing shriek she flew towards the
outstretched arms of her husband; but ere they met, a figure stepped
between, barring their approach. It was the ungainly person of Sir
Osmund Neville.
"Nay, nay, seek thy leman elsewhere, thou gay palmer. It were a brave
honour, truly, to graft me with thy favours." With this brutish speech
he was proceeding to lay hands on the lady, who stood stupefied in
amaze, and bereft of power to offer the least resistance.
"To me this insult! I'll chase thee from thy lair!" exclaimed the
incensed Sir William.
Roger de Cliderhow at this moment suddenly approached, and in great
alarm. He whispered Sir Osmund.
"'Tis Sir William!--Thou hast no time for parley. If his coming get
abroad we are undone. Call thy men hither, and let him be conveyed away
privily. The dungeon will tell no tales. I'll summon them. If the
servants get a whisper of the matter, I'll give out he is an impostor."
Fearful of encountering the glance of his injured lord, this worthy
withdrew in great precipitation.
It was but the work of a moment. Sir Osmund had taken the precaution to
prevent all egress, so that Sir William and his lady were, in fact,
prisoners, at the mercy and discretion of a cruel and cowardly foe.
Sir William had thrown off his cloak and the remainder of his disguise.
He now stood proudly erect before the supplanter, who was somewhat
stunned by this unexpected issue.
"I defy thee to the combat; hast thou the grace to give me a weapon, or
art thou as cowardly as thou art presuming?" tauntingly inquired Sir
William.
"Impostor! wouldst have me believe every wish that folly genders? To the
proof!" sullenly replied Sir Osmund.
"What says the Lady Mabel? Let her decide," returned the other.
"She!" cried the ingrate, with a contemptuous sneer; "her wits are so
set upon it, that she would worship any ill-favoured lout that should
call himself her husband."
"'Tis false! unblushing as thou art." The lightning kindled in the
lady's eye as she spoke. Sir Osmund quailed beneath her glance.
"Am I mad?" she continued; "ay, if thy wish could have goaded me to it.
Thou hast heaped on me tortures, indignities, cruel as thy relentless
nature could devise; but I have been spared for this!" Her lips
quivered. Shuddering, she spoke with amazing energy and distinctness. "I
_have_ repented, day and night, but they were unavailing tears. Oh, if I
have wronged thee"--she covered her face with her hands--"it was not
even in thought that I grew unfaithful to thy trust. My babes, in a
moment of weakness I looked on them, smiling as they lay. I could not
dash the cup from their lips ere they had well nigh tasted. I could not
behold them so soon doomed to misery and want."
She made a convulsive effort to repress her sobs.
"Can years of suffering atone for my crime?"
She drew back as she continued, "I abhor, I loathe the very existence I
am forced to prolong. The cloister alone can hide my wretchedness and my
shame."
"I forgive thee: nay, shrink not from my embrace," cried the distracted
Sir William; "I blame thee not in my regret. Pure, and as free from
guilt as when first I knew thee, do I now receive thee to my arms."
Sir Osmund smiled in contempt; at the same time casting a furtive glance
towards the side entrance, where, true to his word, Roger De Cliderhow
had summoned a guard of Welsh bowmen, their master's accomplices in many
a deed of violence and rapine.
Sir Osmund heard their approach. He cautiously undrew the bolts, and,
pointing to his foe with a signal they but too well understood, the
latter was immediately seized, and with such rapidity, that almost
before Sir William was aware of their design, he found himself a
prisoner and incapable of resistance.
"Traitor, thou wilt rue this foul despite! I here proclaim thee a craven
knight and a dastard!" exclaimed Sir William.
"False pilgrim," growled his adversary, "didst think to foist thy
fooleries upon me! The dungeon walls will give thee a patient hearing.
Boast to them of thy descent, and when they acknowledge thee, so will I.
Guards, to your duty."
Lady Mabel, with a loud and appalling shriek, fell senseless on the
pavement.
In vain did Sir William endeavour to free himself from the rude grasp of
his conductors. He was hurried along, nor did there appear the remotest
possibility of escape. Just as they turned into a sort of corridor,
leading to the passages more immediately connected with the place of
their destination, they encountered Humphry Lathom. The same
half-stupid, half-knavish expression of face was now lighted up by a
grin of apparently inexplicable amazement.
"Eh, nuncle," said he, stroking his beard, "but you're in mighty grace.
The Welshman always mounts his he-goats for guard on them he delighteth
to honour." With one of his more than ordinarily elvish and malicious
shouts he scampered past the enraged sentinels, and was heard rapidly
ascending the steps of the great tower, beneath the massive foundations
of which lay the dark and cheerless abode so unexpectedly destined for
the reception of its owner.
Whilst these occurrences were passing within the walls Grim's curiosity
was in prodigious exercise without. His anxiety increased in a compound
ratio with the time elapsed, and inversely as the hope of intelligence
was decreasing. Every spare moment his eye was directed towards the
hall; but no tidings came, no scout, no messenger from the scene of
action, from whom the slightest inkling of the result could be gathered.
It seemed as though all intercourse had ceased, all transit and
communication were cut off. It was mighty strange! some rare doings were
afloat, no doubt, and not a soul would remember honest Grim in his
thrall. He tied and untied his apron, beat the iron when it was cool,
and let it cool when it was hot. "It will be noon presently." He looked
at the sun; it seemed to have crept backward for the last half-hour: at
any rate, he was morally certain that useful appendage to this great and
troublesome world had stood still, if not retrograded. The mendicants
were all gone--no tidings to be gained from them--matters were more than
usually contrary and provoking--and if it had not been for some recent
disgrace which his prying disposition had occasioned at the hall, he
would long ago have satisfied himself by a personal inquiry into the
present posture of affairs.
"Hope deferred" was just on the point of being attended with the usual
consequences, when, taking another peep through a crevice, constructed
for putting into effect a more efficient system of examination, he
beheld a phenomenon as unlooked for as it was incomprehensible. He
rubbed his eyes, strongly persuaded that some rigorous discipline was
necessary. He pinched his fingers, shook himself--was he really awake?
or--he took another peep, still it was there; nor crossings,
ejaculations, nor other established contrivances had any effect. The
vision that caused all this disturbance was the great banner of the
Bradshaigh on the tower, curling full and stately in the breeze. Wonders
and misfortunes rarely come unattended. Grim's appetite for the
marvellous was now in danger of suffering as much from repletion as
before from inanity, and he had just summoned his dame for a special
council, when his ears were assailed by a furious ding-dong. Stroke
upon stroke, huge, heavy, and unceasing, followed each other in rapid
succession. It was the great bell, used only on occasions of emergency
and importance, the hoarse tongue of which had been silent since the day
of Sir William's departure. There was no time to waste in conjecture.
Grim rushed from his dwelling. Convinced that some catastrophe was at
hand, his intention was to climb the hill behind his little hovel, in
order to reconnoitre the premises with greater facility. Sallying forth,
he saw numbers of the peasantry on the same errand. All was bustle and
inquiry; each giving his neighbour credit for the possession of some
intelligence whereby the mystery might be unravelled.
"Sir William cannot have returned!" said one.
"No," replied another, "or the buck would soon butt the Welshman out of
his stall."
"Ha, ha!" said a neighbouring gossip, "those horns are big enough,"
pointing to the device upon the banner--a buck _passant_.
As they drew nearer to the great gate the bell had ceased, when suddenly
appeared, perched on a corner of the tower, the well-known form of "Daft
Humpy." He threw up his cap, caught it, and whirled it round his head
with every demonstration of joyous extravagance. "Hurrah!" shouted he,
with a distinct and shrill enunciation, which might be heard to the very
extremities of the crowd. "Hurrah for Sir William Bradshaigh!--he is
come again!--hurrah, neighbours!--in, in!"
He ran round the battlements with unceasing vociferation. On hearing
this news, numbers entered the gate pell-mell, carrying with them some
who would fain have acted with more discretion, by watching the issue
warily and out of harm's way. Of this class was our stout-fisted friend
Darby Grim, who, though of a well-composed valour when fairly tested,
was yet slow to move, and cared not to thrust his fingers uselessly into
a broil.
The first party that entered was met by Humphry.
"Pick-axes and spades!" cried he, flourishing a stout staff. "To the
dungeon!--come along, come along!" So far from accelerating their speed,
this address seemed at once to suspend all further progress. They gazed
at each other; none wist what to do, naturally not overburdened with
confidence in the discretion of their guide. Suddenly checking himself,
he stood as erect as the nature of his form would admit, before the
astonished auditors.
"Ye lazy caterpillars! ye cowardly scum of humanity! if ye follow me
not, I'll rouse the Welsh bull-dogs. Sir Osmund hath ta'en him to the
dungeon, I tell ye; and who is there that will not lend a hand to the
rescue of Sir William Bradshaigh?"
Grim was among the foremost of the invading army; on hearing this news,
a latent spark enkindled his courage most opportunely into a blaze.
Seizing a cudgel, he brandished it in front of his comrades, like one
half-frantic, crying, "It is, it is; I have seen him this blessed
day!--Hurrah for Sir William!"
"Hurrah!" shouted the crowd, whose courage, augmenting with their
numbers, soon manifested itself in an immediate attack on the cell,
whence they speedily extricated their lord. Intoxicated with joy, they
vowed a summary vengeance on the discourteous knight who had so vilely
entreated him.
Sir William's first care was for the rescue of his lady. She almost
forgot her own sorrows on witnessing his joy when once more folding the
children to his embrace. A short interval elapsed ere he sought his
adversary; but he had fled, along with his unworthy followers. Such was
the wrong Sir William had suffered, that his yet untamed spirit deemed
it an offence too foul to be expiated by aught but the blood of his
merciless foe. Armed, and with but few attendants, he hotly pursued him,
and, as old chronicles tell, at a place called Newton, he overtook and
slew him in single combat. Returning in safety, he lived happily with
his lady to a good old age. They lie buried in the chancel of All
Saints, Wigan, where, carved on the tomb, their effigies still exist,
the rarest of the monumental antiquities in that ancient edifice.
The Lady Mabel's spirit had been too sorely wounded to recover its
tranquillity. For the purpose of what was then deemed an expiation to
her unintentional offence, she performed a weekly penance, going
barefooted from Haigh to a place outside the walls at Wigan, where a
stone cross was erected, which bears to this day the name of "MAB'S
CROSS."