HILDEBRAND.
NEW WORK, BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_Preparing for Publication, in 3 vols. 8vo._,
THE OLD TEMPLE:
AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “HILDEBRAND,”
_&c. &c._
“Within the Temple hall we were too loud,
The garden here is more convenient.”
SHAKSPEARE.
LONDON:
JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
HILDEBRAND:
OR,
THE DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.
AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “THE KING’S SON.”
Frugal and wise, a Walsingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee mistress of the sea,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then flamed thy spirit high; but who can speak
The numerous worthies of the maiden reign?
In Raleigh mark their every glory mix’d;
Raleigh, the scourge of Spain! THOMSON.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
MDCCCXLIV.
LONDON: PRINTED BY HENRY RICHARDS,
BRYDGES-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
HILDEBRAND.
CHAPTER I.
It was on the same evening that closed the preceding chapter of
this history, and while the dusk was hardly yet apparent, that
the maiden Abigail passed up the principal staircase of the
mansion of Master Shedlock, known as New Bethlehem, to a chamber
on the upper floor.
Whatever might be her reason, she affected to step forward with
excessive gentleness; but her shoes, being of the very strongest
material, and hobnailed withal, were not the best adapted to
give her purpose effect, and, in her way upward, her foot made a
heavy stamp at every step. But, judging from the expression of
her face, she appeared to be insensible of this, and to consider
that her progress was unattended by any intimation of her tread.
On reaching the summit of the stairs, she hastened along the
passage beyond, on which the stairs opened, to a neighbouring
door, leading to an inner chamber. She opened the door with great
caution; and after a moment’s pause, as if for the purpose of
listening, made a step forward, and passed into the chamber.
It was a bed-room, and, from various appearances around, was
evidently occupied by an invalid. Indeed, such a person was, on
a close survey, observed to be in possession of the bed; and
her peculiar head-gear announced her to be a woman. It was Dame
Shedlock.
That poor lady’s ardent powers of endurance had been overwhelmed,
at last. And what powers, of mere earthly constitution, could
bear up unshaken against one uninterrupted tide of oppression
and persecution? Since she last appeared on the stage of our
history, her trials had, in point of bitterness and violence,
even increased, and she was now subject to even more galling
mortifications. The temper and habits of the hypocritical
Shedlock had become more tyrannical than ever, and, as his
passive and uncomplaining victim, she was the only object on
which his spleen could fall.
We are told, that “the wicked shall flourish,” not only in a
great degree, but with such marked and decided vigour, that their
progress shall be compared to the rapid growth and prosperity
of “a green bay-tree.” We see this remarkable declaration so
effectively and exactly fulfilled, on looking out on the open
stage of the world, that, if borne well in mind, it must lend
the troubled heart the most soothing assurance. If the wicked
are so to flourish here, how inconceivably happier must be the
portion of the good man, relying on perfect equity, and love
beyond the apprehension of human sense, in the world to come!
The future reward is promised as surely, as decidedly, and as
distinctly, as the present advantage; and we have, even in a
temporal respect, a more attractive incitement to virtue, than
all the glory and riches of the world can insure to vice.
But, in our progress onward, we often see the man of crime,
after a long course of prosperity and success, suddenly checked
in his career, and overwhelmned with disaster even in the
present life. His subtlety, his craft, his cunning, and his
shrewd calculations, on which he had relied with such advantage
hitherto, all at once fail of their end; one after the other, his
schemes and pursuits bring him only disappointment; and events
which fall with lightness on others, and the general effect of
which is scarcely noticeable, act with surprising accuracy to
work his utter ruin.
Shedlock’s course of uninterrupted prosperity had seemed to meet
a sudden and sensible check. From the moment that, in the manner
described heretofore, he had sought to effect the destruction
of Sir Edgar de Neville, his fortunes had taken a new turn,
and had brought him nothing but crosses. Instead of advancing
in favour of the minister, which he conceived that his show
of zeal would certainly prefer him to, and which, indeed, was
the expectation that led to his interference, the part he had
taken in the affair of Sir Edgar appeared to have given offence;
and he had, moreover, the mortification to see the prosecution
quashed, and Sir Edgar cleared from all imputation. His vexation
at this result was increased, if possible, by other incidents.
Sir Edgar had hardly returned to the Grange, when one of the
new functionaries called _concealers_, appointed to investigate
suspected tenures, challenged him to show by what right and
authority he held possession of Clifford Place. Although, after
considerable trouble, he appeared to satisfy the official of
the integrity and validity of his possession, the fact of his
tenure being even questioned, when no claimant to it seemed to
have come forward, showed him to be a marked and doubted holder.
Some serious losses in his commercial pursuits, from which he
had expected to reap an enormous profit, happened about the same
time; and, altogether, his affairs assumed a very gloomy and
unpromising aspect.
Shedlock’s temper was not of the kind that would be subdued by
these reverses. The adverse influence that they involved, instead
of arousing in him the voice of remorse, only rendered him
more stubbornly vile; and he became more morose, violent, and
tyrannical at each visitation. His bitter temper was a torment
to all who were any way connected with him; at home, it plagued
his household; abroad, it haunted his tenants; but more than all,
sleeping or waking, day or night, it dealt its fullest violence
on his loving and patient wife.
Dame Shedlock sank under it fast. Long suffering, through years
of unmitigated tribulation, had already introduced disease into
her delicate frame; and increased persecution gave it strength
and root. As it continued to press upon her, she gradually grew
feebler and more feeble; and ultimately, yet without drawing from
her one complaint, or any way impairing that abject love and
submission which she invariably rendered its heartless minister,
it reduced her to the melancholy and cheerless helplessness of a
sick-bed.
At the moment that it has been deemed necessary to recall her
to the stage of our history, she was lying awake, yet perfectly
still, with her eyes turned towards heaven. Her general
complexion was deadly pale; but on either cheek, crowning the
surrounding whiteness, there was a bright spot of red, looking
more like fever than genuine bloom. Her eyes, too, though
wearing a serene expression, sparkled like fire, and, on a close
inspection, seemed to ache with their own light.
She retained the rapt look described for a full minute, when,
hearing a step approach, she turned her glance towards the door,
and discerned Abigail. That eccentric domestic, having continued
her progress, had by this time made good way, and come close to
the bed. She caught the glance of her mistress on the instant;
and in a manly voice, and with her accustomed brevity, but more
kindness than her face promised, proceeded to explain what had
brought her to her presence.
“The man’s come,” she said.
“What man?” asked Dame Shedlock, anxiously. “Ah! I remember me!
Thou meanest Bernard Gray?”
Abigail nodded her head, affirmatively. “And where is _he_?”
faltered the dame.
“A-reading the Word,” answered Abigail.
“The Lord lend him light!” ejaculated the dame, in faint accents.
“Be thou watchful, Abigail; and bring the man hither!”
Abigail, merely nodding her head in reply, hereupon turned
away, and stepped slowly from the chamber. In a few minutes she
returned, and, in the same cautious manner, ushered into the room
the already announced visiter.
Bernard Gray--for it was no other--did not wear his usual aspect.
There was, indeed, still a degree of sadness on his brow; but his
air of profound melancholy, which formerly he presented at all
times, and which was far from becoming, had quite disappeared.
Moreover, his eyes, if regarded closely, revealed a softer
expression, and, in their more natural and subdued light, looked
kindlier and more gentle. An improvement was also visible in his
attire. Though his habits, if examined attentively, were still
very unpretending, they were arranged with more taste, and had
evidently been put on with some regard to appearance. For all
this, he still looked mournful; and as he entered fairly into the
room, and observed the position of Dame Shedlock, the expression
of his face became heavier, and seemed even more sad and gloomy.
He waved Abigail to retire after he had glanced at the bed; and
that ancient maiden, though somewhat sulkily, accordingly passed
out, and left him alone with her mistress.
Having carefully closed the door, Bernard turned round, and
advanced silently to the bed.
Dame Shedlock, though still lying down (for, as there was no
drapery to the bed, the view was uninterrupted), had kept her
eyes upon him from the first moment of his entry, and, to all
appearance, without being the least disturbed. As he drew nigh,
however, her serenity gave way, and she became visibly agitated.
“No! no!” she said, in faltering accents: “not now! I cannot tell
thee now!”
“Well, well, mistress, be it anon, then,” answered Bernard,
mildly. “Whatever it affect, give thyself no care, I prithee. How
is it with thee?”
“Grievous! grievous!” rejoined Dame Shedlock. “I am dying!”
“Alack!” exclaimed Bernard.
“’Tis even so,” resumed the dame. “The Lord calls me; and must
not I, his servant, give his voice good heed? So be it; for as
grass we are green in the morning, and at night are cut down, and
withered.”
Bernard’s eyes brightened. “Set thy lamp in order, then,” he
said, “that, when the bridegroom comes, thou be not like the
foolish virgins, but have thine oil ready.”
“’Twas for that I bid thee hither,” replied the dame, faintly.
“And, verily, I must despatch, while life yet serves me, or I
shall be as the condemned of the parable.”
She paused here; and the short, strained breaths which she
exhaled, with her increased paleness, showed that she had exerted
herself beyond her powers. After a brief interval, however,
during which Bernard regarded her anxiously, but made no oral
observation, she appeared to recover herself, and resumed.
“The boy--the man, now,” she said--“Hildebrand Clifford; ’twas of
him I would speak.”
“He is well,” answered Bernard, “and, as I am advised, in
England--in Lantwell.”
Though she had hitherto seemed quite helpless, his auditor, on
hearing this unexpected intelligence, abruptly raised herself in
the bed, and gazed doubtingly in his face.
“In Lantwell?” she said.
“Even so,” returned Bernard.
“Then, can I not ease my poor conscience,” observed the dame,
feebly wringing her hands. “No! no! ’twere a greater sin to wrong
_him_, old and lonely as I shall leave him.”
“Yet wrong not thyself, or thy precious soul,” suggested Bernard,
with his wonted sternness.
The dame shuddered.
“Take comfort!” said Bernard, more kindly.
“I have it!” resumed the dame, eagerly, yet in subdued accents.
“An’ I give thee that will establish young Clifford’s rights,
wilt thou suffer _him_, who is now old, and near his time, to
hold them till he depart?”
“By my soul, will I!” exclaimed Bernard. “But what canst thou
give me will do this?”
“I will tell thee,” answered the dame; “yet first swear the
offence shall be held secret!”
“I swear it, by the Lord!” said Bernard, devoutly.
“Old Master Clifford, as thou knowest, held his dame in lawful
wedlock,” replied the dame, “but there is no record thereof in
the parish book. The page that did record it was torn out.”
“Ah!” cried Bernard.
“Forbear a while,” pursued the dame. “’Twas torn from the book
by--by _him_. The Enemy urged him to ’t; and in an evil hour,
when the Lord had forsaken him, he sought to destroy it.”
“Is it lost?” cried Bernard vehemently.
“’Twas in the blue chamber,” continued the dame, in a less
distinct and more tremulous voice; “and as he raised it to the
lamp, the man Zedekiah, on some errand, called him to the door.
The Lord put it into his heart to lay the folded paper on the
table; and while he conferred with Zedekiah at the door, I caught
it up, and placed in its stead one of no import. The change
passed, and he burned the false paper.”
Bernard breathed more freely. “The Lord reward thee!” he said.
The dame, breathless and exhausted, paused a space, when, with
a convulsive effort, but in a very low and agitated tone, she
resumed.
“I hold the right one still,” she said.
And, as she spoke, she raised her hand, and pointed tremulously
over her shoulder. With this last effort, all her strength, if
such it might be called, was exhausted, and she fell gasping to
her pillow.
Bernard, who had been watching her intently, and was now greatly
alarmed, sprang forward a pace, and sought to raise her head
in his arms. But before he could accomplish his purpose, the
chamber-door, which was right opposite to where he stood, was
suddenly thrown open, and Abigail rushed in.
“The master’s coming!” she said to Bernard.
“He comes at an ill time,” answered Bernard. “I fear me, the
mistress hath swooned.”
“An’ he see thee, he will kill her,” cried Abigail, hastily
stepping up to him.
Thus speaking, she glanced anxiously round the room; and her
eye, after running over several objects, rested on the door
of a closet, or wardrobe, behind the bed-head. Her sulky and
ill-natured-looking features, which had just before appeared so
anxious, contracted a broad grin as she discerned this covert;
and she pointed it out to Bernard.
“Get thee in there,” she said. “I will look to her.”
Albeit, as the approaching step of Shedlock was now audible,
there was no time to be lost, Bernard still paused to glance
anxiously at the face of Dame Shedlock; and it was not till
Abigail again warned him of his peril, and the greater peril
in which he involved the dame, that he turned to his retreat.
Scarcely had he entered the wardrobe, and closed the door in his
front, when Shedlock made his appearance.
Abigail, no longer apprehensive of a surprise, had just placed
one of her arms under the dame’s neck, and was gently raising her
head, when Shedlock entered. The dame, it now appeared, was not
in a swoon, and, as Abigail raised her head, and thus facilitated
her respiration, she looked up. There was, however, no sense in
her gaze, or thought in her aspect.
“Art better?” asked Abigail.
“I have it safe!” cried the dame, hysterically. “I have it safe!
He burned it not!”
Shedlock, who had paused at the chamber-door, here sprang
forward, and rushed to the side of the bed.
“What says she?” he demanded. “Verily, her name is Legion, and
she hath a devil.”
He sought to push Abigail aside as he spoke, but that individual,
to his great surprise, turned round on him, and maintained her
position unmoved.
“What wouldst thou?” she inquired.
“Back, woman!” cried Shedlock; “and tempt me not!”
“Back thou, man!” answered Abigail. “Seest thou not she be
distract?”
“Verily, an’ thou move not aside, the Lord shall make thee
as chaff in my hands, and as beaten stubble,” said Shedlock,
threateningly.
“Go to!” cried Abigail. “Thou art as the Levite in the parable,
which left the wounded man on the way-side.”
“I will have thee burned for a witch,” cried Shedlock, furiously,
and, at the same time, pushing violently against her.
Abigail, throwing all her strength into her hold, caught him by
both his arms, and, apparently with but little effort, thrust him
bodily back.
“An’ thou be not gone, I will noise thy doings abroad,” she said.
“She will be dead anon; and, verily, her ghost shall haunt thee,
like thine own shadow, all the days of thy life.”
Shedlock’s pale visage quivered at these words. Though he was an
atheist, and believed neither in GOD nor hereafter, but conceived
that the beautiful world, and all its perfect and universal
animation, with the thousands of occult worlds above, were the
work and offspring of chance, his soul was bound in the grossest
superstition. He fairly shuddered at the horrible image with
which Abigail had threatened him; and though his rage, in the
main, was no way abated, it was not equal to his base fear, and
he shrank back appalled.
“Take off the curse, and I will be gone,” he said.
“Begone, then!” exclaimed Abigail; “and repent, for the kingdom
of heaven is at hand!”
The hypocrite, with his heart burning with malice, yet afraid to
speak a word, turned slowly away, and passed in silence from the
chamber.
Meantime, his helpless and suffering wife, left to herself, had
remained in the same state of delirium, and continued to give
utterance to her incoherent ravings. When he had passed out of
sight, Abigail turned to her; but quickly discerned, from her
haggard and unconscious aspect, and the burning fever of her
eyes, that she could afford her no relief. She then turned to the
neighbouring wardrobe, and, drawing open the door, called forth
Bernard.
“Get thee hence, now,” she said; “and be wary, on thy way out,
that he sees thee not. I must tarry here with _her_.”
“I would I could speak a word more with her,” answered Bernard.
“I covet some paper she told me of, of great import, that she
hath hidden away.”
“Hear’st thou not how she raves?” returned Abigail. “Get thee
gone!”
Bernard, whether because he saw that his staying would be of no
avail, or feared to offend Abigail, said no more; but, though
with evident reluctance, turned silently away. Softly crossing
the chamber, he passed into the passage without; and thence,
after a cautious _reconnoissance_, proceeded to the staircase,
and descended to the porch without being observed.
Abigail remained in the chamber with Dame Shedlock. After a
time, the dame, though she seemed to be still insensible, ceased
to rave; and Abigail ventured to leave her for a while, and
descend to the kitchen for a light. When she returned, she found
the dame lying in the same position; but, to her mind, looking
less unconscious, and more at ease. Seemingly much pleased at
this, the eccentric servant, as a precaution against accidents,
set the light down on the hearth, and then threw herself into a
contiguous chair. She had sat thus but a short time, when she
fell into a profound sleep.