voice was above all, laughing, shouting, cursing. It halted. A
knocking was instantly made at the house door.
“It is my brother; I cannot delay. Arthur, I must go alone. I will
speedily return to you. But I must admit Henry. Will he give me
worse than before?”
She rushed out of the door as the knocking was redoubled. The door
opened, and the next moment a step was mounting the stairs. Arthur
tarried for a time; still, Elizabeth came not. He snatched a light,
and when he reached the door, there she was lying with her head on
the pavement,--dead! dead!
The Spectre Coach of the Infidels, at the hour of midnight,
stopping at their old abodes, is said still to be heard. Coachmen
have anxiously looked before them, expecting to come into collision
with it. Dogs commence to howl, and yet are frightened; and many a
traveller has heard, but none ever seen “the Spectre Coach.”
THE CROSS AND LADY MABEL.
[Illustration]
THE CHRONICLER, IN THE FOLLOWING LEGEND, ADHERES TO THE STATEMENTS
OF THE GENEALOGICAL ROLL OF THE BRADSHAIGH FAMILY, IN REFERENCE TO
THE KNIGHTLY HERO’S EXPEDITION TO THE HOLY LAND.
The banner was waving over the goodly mansion of Haigh Hall, on the
twenty-sixth anniversary of Sir William Bradshaigh’s birth, and all
the retainers, from the scullion to the seneschal were boisterously
enjoying themselves, in a hearty eating, drinking, and laughing. On
every eminence in view, small flags had been placed, and some of
these sported their colours on the loftiest trees, in the adjoining
woods. But, although much good cheer had been placed near these,
to attract a small company, they were left solitary, as tokens to
strangers, for all the knight’s men were assembled at the porch of
the Hall, quaffing the foaming goblet to his honour and prosperity,
and to his success in his intended expedition as a Crusader. With
earliest morn the appropriate demonstrations had commenced, but
they became more ardent and joyous towards sunset. A chair was then
placed on the threshold, for the minstrel whose chivalrous strains
were to be heard by all, in praise of his noble master. One burst
of merry applause greeted him, as the aged man took his seat, and
as he gently touched the strings to Sir William’s glory, within,
the fair bosom of Lady Mabel, heaved with answering sympathy. She
embraced her children, and looking upwards, prayed that they might
be good, and brave as their father; and when Sir William joined
her, she added, as handsome and beautiful.
Sir William Bradshaigh, in person, enjoyed the aristocracy of
nature, as well as of birth. His stature was not tall, neither was
his frame muscular; yet not a limb, not a feature, seemed out of
keeping with the impress of his mind. His was the true nobility
of face and form, and as he appeared sheathed in armour, with the
cross embroidered on the scarf over his breast, he brought along
with him ideas of the mournful and weeping spirit of Palestine,
trusting to his arm for relief, from the scourge and the tread of
the daring Infidel. On gazing at some persons, you feel convinced
that they are entirely fitted by nature for that which has given
them fame. The very hands, as well as the features, seem to be
stamped with it, and the soul, visibly looks through every part
and limb. Thus was it with Sir William. You could not doubt, on
beholding his form, that he was a knight of unequalled bravery
and skill, although young and slender. The small white hands were
locked in those of his beautiful Mabel, but they seemed as well
fitted for grasping the sword.
Well might Lady Mabel be his match. The faultless symmetry of her
majestic person, added to her raven tresses, and brightly glowing
eye, were for the wife, a perfect counterpart to the husband.
A meek beauty rested upon her countenance, which every thought
and feeling, gently disturbed. She was naturally pale, and this
circumstance tended to make her features better interpreters of
her mind; for colour, although it be the most pure and delicate,
frequently hides under its roses the play and change of the
passions. She was now emerging from the sprightliness of the
maiden, into the holy serenity of the matron; and as the mother of
his babes, the knight loved her more than as his young mistress.
Her locks were braided simply over her brow.
“My own Mabel,” said the knight, “where are thy jewels? Shame on
their beauties that they dread a comparison with the light of those
eyes!”
“Sir William,” answered the lady with a sigh, “would you have a
widow deck herself with the mimicry of gladness?”
“Yes, love, in order that she may wile another to take away the
dark veil of her loneliness.”
“Another,” shrieked Mabel faintly. “Cruel.”
“Nay,” returned Sir William, “you are not yet a widow;--you are my
wife. Nor will I doubt your constancy when I am gone to the wars.
These” embracing his children as he spoke, “are the pledges of your
faith. But, Mabel, where are the jewels for your forehead? ’Tis
meet that for the banquet you appear among the other ladies as the
most beautiful.”
“Give my brow a few kisses,” replied his lady, as she threw her
arms around his neck, “these Sir William, are my jewels.”
“But for thine absence, love, I would have been completely happy
in Palestine, with all the dreams of its former loveliness and
greatness haunting me, beside its still fountains and on its
heavenly hills. Could the breezes of the Holy Land but fan my
Mabel’s cheek as they will do mine, there I could die. But we must
go forth, and greet our trusty retainers. Ho! hither, page, and
lead my children!”
Lady Mabel took her husband’s arm, and the page followed with the
children. She appeared fonder than ever, and frequently gazed on
the Cross which Sir William wore, with something of pride, but more
of sorrow; and at this, many of the retainers were for a moment
silent, and passed a rough hand across their eyes, to wipe away the
tears which had gathered there. But the minstrel’s lay became loud
and thrilling, and they rushed forward, with less respect than
otherwise, and took their master by the hand. He warmly responded
to this expression of their attachment. He passed them and wandered
on to the highest peak on the range of elevated ground adjoining.
Nature, too, kept her holiday, and revelled in smiles. She was
attired in her richest dress of summer. Her music, filling the
air, was sweet, and echoed from her very throne, amidst the depths
of the grove and vale; and her breath was bland. Before them, and
around them were deep glens, and towering mountains in miniature.
Ay, there seemed to be the miniature of the world itself; for the
prospect of many counties was stretched out, and the far off sea,
with its blue waves, leaping to the sun.
But night’s curtain fell over the scene, and to it Sir William
then pronounced his farewell, and to ease his heart lifted up his
youngest child in his arms, and fondled him playfully.
All was song and mirth in the evening banquet. The minstrel assayed
his art, and ladies fair crowded around him, whilst lords gazed
upon their wine-cups unemptied, as they listened to his strains.
He played of the dark eyes, gazing in the pale light of the moon
at the lattice, for the expected lover. But as he met the downcast
and pensive eye of Lady Mabel, he changed his notes, and the harp
tuned the following ditty to her praise.
Age, quit the strings: a vesper song--all sweet,
Not for the dance, let moonlight’s spirits wake,
With wild, yet modest touch, from snowy feet,
As they fly o’er, with music-shells the lake
Has coloured and attuned, to Mabel fair,
Sounding of happiness beyond all care--
And let the song be given,
To pure Reserve--the child of heaven.
In the gay hall of dazzling light,
There is a seat apart from all;
Where radiance, soothing, yet not bright,
And music soft, so gently fall;--
It is the calm recess:--no nerve
Is needed for the light, and sound;
Such is to love--the heart’s reserve,
Where truth and peace are ever found.
Reserve is the heart’s own home,
Where music oft for One has swelled,
Where the heaving bosom breathes “come,”
Although the fair hand was with-held
From a stranger: it is the veil
Over Love’s holy temple, I wist,
Through which no bright eyes look a Hail
To any save to the high-priest!
It gives a dole to the pilgrim lone,
And to him a threshold seat;
It turns an ear to his troubled moan,
And stoops to bathe his aching feet!
But its sanctuary is for one,
For one! Sir William of Haigh Hall,
And Mabel there leads you alone!
Gentles, God’s blessing on you all.
Mabel arose from her seat, and with her own hands poured forth a
cup of the rosy wine, and placed it in the hands of the minstrel,
as his grateful reward. Meanwhile, the proud dame, Sir William’s
mother, had entered. She motioned him out of the room. He followed
her into the large winding gallery. The window at the eastern
extremity, seemed of the moonshine, and the rays mingled with
the dim light of the tapers. There were all the portraits of his
ancestors, and their faces were turned upon their youthful heir.
“My son,” said the dame, “thou hast now to leave a mother, a wife,
and a home, for the Holy Land. Gaze upon these faces of your race,
whilst I recount the deeds for which they have been distinguished.
Catch courage, from the tale, and let a mother rejoice in her boy.”
“Mother,” the knight replied, “I am my father’s son, and I wear my
father’s sword; but more, I am Sir William Bradshaigh! I need not
to seek, at present, courage from the valour of my forefathers. I
have long known their faces, and can sum up their achievements. I
have played here in boyhood, but, in their hallowed presence, never
could I play with any thing save a sword. From all their stern
array of features, I have turned to look upon that sweet lady, who,
so I have heard the worthy friar say, was not one of our race.”
“My son, wouldst thou know her history? But see here, Mabel has
followed thee. God bless ye both, my children.”
“Sir William, why hast thou uncourteously left the feast and me?”
asked Mabel, in a fond and chiding tone.
“Hush, Mabel, our mother is to rehearse the fate of the beautiful
girl.”
He led them to the middle of the gallery, and pointed to the
portrait of a young female. There was nothing but enthusiastic
beauty and love, beaming on her countenance, and her bosom was
exposed, after the fashion of the times. Her brow was noble and
open, and although the ringlets were thrown back all around, there
was nothing stern; all was so gentle and sweet. Her lips seemed
to open a promised heaven, and the moonbeams flickered around and
gleamed upon them like the fiery cherubim at the gates of Paradise,
to guard the sweet fruit of the knowledge of good and love. There
was a mingled expression of archness and simplicity, and the bright
head seemed to toss itself in coquetry, and deny what the loving
eyes confessed. A light drapery covered the arms, to the elbow, and
the under part was naked, whilst the pretty fingers might have been
thought to be playing with the rays, which danced upon the canvass.
Oh! Beauty! how powerful are thy charms, even by the painter’s art!
Whilst living in thyself, thou commandest the worship of genius,
wisdom, and valour, and all their trophies are laid at thy feet.
Their hand is placed upon the sounding harp, their hand turns over
the records of old sages, their hand is died in blood, only to win
a smile from thee! The Angel of death, is heaven’s painter of thee,
and he sketches thine undecaying form, in the light of our dreams.
And even in the illusion of a noble art, for ages thou receivest
homage, as free from hypocrisy, as from sinister motives, and in
the sigh and the tear, accompanying our glance, thy memory speaks
and moves!
Sir William and his lady, could have knelt and prayed for happiness
on the fate of that young female, as if it were yet in the future.
Their mother, after a short pause, seated herself opposite, and
began the tale.
‘When the lion-hearted Richard of England went to the Holy Land,
not a braver and more handsome knight was in his train, than the
youthful De Norris, your grandsire, Mabel. He was accomplished
in all the arts of peace and war. His trophy of the one, is that
Paynim standard, which hangs on the wall in decayed tatters; and of
the other, the love and the heart of that beautiful girl, Magdalene
Montfort, his young cousin.
‘Her residence, since her orphan childhood, had been the hall, and
William De Norris, her sole companion. Often have they wandered
together in this gallery, by moonlight, and the ghosts of the
warriors of her race, could not frighten their young love.’
“Mabel,” softly whispered Sir William Bradshaigh to his lady, “is
not this our own tale?”
The dame proceeded, ‘He took her to the neighbouring woods, and
there they passed whole days--he the shepherd, and she the rustic
maid. She often sat on his knee, while he combed her long golden
locks. But the crusade inspired in De Norris’s mind, thoughts and
desires for glory. He dreamt of nothing but the lakes and holy
mountains of Palestine, where the daring Richard should pitch his
camp, afterwards to become his court. The cross was ever before
him, and a warrior’s arms were glorious to behold, dipped in the
Saviour’s blood, and consecrated to his cause. Was the licentious
prophet to hold the inheritance of the meek and lowly Jesus? In
vain did Magdalene weep, and by tears and caresses, entreat her
William to stay in his father’s halls. He vowed that the cross must
seal their marriage, and that he would be faithful to his love.
Yet, proud was she, as the morn of parting came, and De Norris
mounted his fiery charger. He was so beautiful and gallant! He had
pronounced the tender farewell, as the trumpets sounded, and his
followers rallied around him. But a sudden thought brightened over
his features, and he spurred back to Magdalene, and sprang from
his steed.
‘“My own Magdalene, give me thy portrait that hangs in my
apartment, that in my tent, before and after our engagements, I may
think of thee, and implore thy blessing.”
‘“Nay, William De Norris,” she replied, with a feint sigh, “should
you be faithless, how would that silent resemblance, recall to thee
our past vows, and bitterly chide thee for thy falseness. I would
not even then, give thee uneasiness. But William, think of me as
fondly, as I will of you! Farewell!” and she threw her arms around
him, and wept on his neck.
‘Cœur De Lion, honoured your ancestor by marks of his favour, and
once embraced him in the royal tent, after a victory, in which De
Norris had distinguished himself. Four years he had been absent,
but Magdalene forgot him not, and as every palmer appeared at the
hall, she kindly led him into her own bower, expecting to hear of
the Holy Land, and her lover. She became sad, and pale, spoke of
none but William, and of nothing but his return.
‘One evening towards sunset, the family banner was suddenly raised,
for news was afloat that De Norris had returned, and was on his
way to the hall with a bride! Magdalene heard it, and from that
very moment became a maniac. She rushed out to meet him, among the
retainers.
‘Through the shady wood she beheld De Norris approaching. Banners
were floating over his head; and by his side rode a beautiful
lady, in white bridal robes. They were conversing together, yet
was the knight’s cheek deadly pale, and his lips quivered, as he
cast furtive glances around, which told that he expected to meet
One whom he had forsaken. But trees concealed her. To change his
emotions, he dashed the spurs into his furious steed, in order that
his spirit might be chafed in curbing it, when a loud shriek was
given, and the horse plunged madly on. A rush was made to the place
by his immediate attendants; and on looking back De Norris saw his
own Magdalene prostrate and mangled. He leaped down; a shudder
of despair and frenzy passed over his whole frame, and he flung
himself beside her. He called her by her name, kissed the bloody
brow, and threw back her disordered tresses.
‘“My own Magdalene, forgive me; still am I thine!”
‘Her eyes opened upon him. A convulsive heave of her panting
breast, a sudden grasp of her false lover’s hand, and then a
wring of bodily torture followed. The cold sweat of death was
already upon these beautiful features. They were not in the least
distorted. The hoofs of the horse had left their mark on the neck
and bosom torn and bloody! She cast one look upon him, raised her
head, and faintly muttered,
‘“William--am I faithful? Tell me so.”
‘She heard not the mad reply, and De Norris spoke to the dead!
‘His bride had fainted, and was, forthwith, carried to the hall.
Hours had passed, and the retainers dared not approach their lord.
But those stationed at the porch, at length beheld him approach,
with the shattered corpse of Magdalene in his arms.
‘“My bridal couch! Shew me the way. Dost hear me, knave. Oh no,
what sorry attendants on hymeneal delights!”
‘His bride met him. She kissed the cold features of the dead, and
forgave the living. William knelt at the feet of his wife, and
sought pardon for his treachery.
‘Again there were sounds of revelry, and by all, save the
bridegroom, poor Magdalene was forgotten! To a late hour the
banquet and the dance inspired them with pleasure, and wine and
song made them gay and merry.
‘De Norris and his bride retired to their apartment. The tapers
were extinguished, when a dim and beauteous light filled the room,
and Magdalene stood at the foot of their couch, attired in the
same dress as when William parted from her for the Holy Land. She
stood, her fair hands clasped together, as if earnestly imploring
them for some favour. Her air was slightly reproachful; but deep,
unending love was expressed. De Norris, in tones of horror,
addressed her,--
‘“Spirit of my Magdalene, why tormentest thou me and my innocent
bride? I have been faithless, but she saved my life, and how could
I repay her kindness, but with my heart’s love! Still Magdelene I
have not forgotten you--nor can I ever!”
‘“William,” a low and sweet voice uttered, and De Norris felt a
cold, yet loving kiss, upon his trembling lips--“William, grant me
but one favour, and I will bless you both. My portrait, which hangs
in the gallery, take it down, and every night when you retire to
rest, oh! lay it between you! Do this William, and I am yours in
the other world!”
‘He started from the couch, and sought the gallery. A strange light
glowed on the portrait. He knelt, and prayed to heaven. Deep peace
descended upon his troubled mind, and he arose, calm and happy.
He took the portrait down, kissed the mimic lips, and then sought
his bridal chamber. Magdalene’s request was complied with most
devoutly, and they were happy; but they did not forget Magdalene.
The retainers affirmed that they had seen her wandering through
the wood, and singing, as in other days, when De Norris was by her
side. Her light step was occasionally recognized, ascending the
corridor, and dancing in her own apartment.
‘De Norris, to perform fitting penance for his treachery, erected a
Cross, at the eastern gate of Wigan, where Magdalene had often sat,
and there he paid his stated pilgrimages. That, my children, is the
portrait: the light over the features seems prophetic!’
Lady Mabel shuddered at the tale, and some dark forebodings crept
over her soul. Yet these were not fears lest Sir William Bradshaigh
should prove false; something more criminal on her part, which she
dared not think of.
They left the gallery, and once more entered into the mirth of the
banqueting scene.
* * * * *
Ten years have passed; and in that epoch, what changes visit man!
Wisely did the ancient dramatists give to tragedy, the unity
of time, the briefness of a day; to denote that a few hours
are sufficient for the developement of awful, and unexpected
consequences! How much more will the lapse of ten years mark the
mutability of every lot, but that of the dead; and the altered
condition of every home but the grave! Time decays not; it is only
man. Speak of “Old Father Time:”--but is his step more sober, than
when he rode over the unformed chaos of earth’s materials, or flew
over the fragrant shade of Paradise? Does his pulse beat more
slowly? Do moments become days; or days, years?
Ten years have elapsed, and Lady Mabel had arisen early. She sat
alone in a room, which might have been more appropriately called
a cell. Grief had anticipated the silvery touch of time, and grey
hairs were visible amidst her raven locks. Yet, there was the
same sweet and majestic countenance as before. Bathe the human
countenance in heaven’s own dew, or in the gentle and clear stream,
and it will beam joyfully; but bathe it in the heart’s tears, and
it beams so sweetly! She counted her beads, and then looked up
for pardon, as fondly and anxiously as a wife numbers the minutes
before her lord’s return. She heeded not the fragrance which stole
in at the small casement; it neither assisted nor marred her
devotions. The sun was bright, and joyous, still she turned not her
pale face to its cheering influence. She laid aside her rosary, and
sat like a statue of sorrowful thought, if statues can be stamped
with such an expression. At length she slowly arose and looked out
of the casement into the deep wood, and sighed. Overpowered by
disagreeable reflections, she wished to fly from the place, where
she had no other view. But the door refused to give way to her
repeated attempts. It was early noon, and all the day, so long and
weary, must she remain there! She clasped her hands together, and
bitterly exclaimed, whilst she gasped for breath, at the discovery,
“Gracious heaven! why, am I then a prisoner, and in mine own
mansion! Ha! the very banner of my family waves over this tower,
proudly; and yet I, the mistress of Haigh, must be confined, and
denied the privilege of the meanest servant! It is but just, though
I deserve it not from Sir Osmund. But hush, I hear footsteps.
My soul, rise brave within me, and tell the usurper what he is,
although he may be my--husband,” and she raised an hysterical laugh
at the word, and drew herself proudly up.
A hasty scuffle was made in the passage, and an angry voice was
heard; it was Sir Osmund Neville’s.
“Dost hear me, boy! Back to thy crib! Dost wish to suck thy
dam--the wolf? Back--” and a heavy stroke enforced the words. But
no cry of pain was raised; it might have fallen on the wall, but
for the loud laugh of joy, raised by the tormentor. The scuffle
continued, when a weak, but firm voice was heard--
“Strike on, Sir Osmund; strike hard. I care not, for I _will_ see
my mother! This is a Bradshaigh’s resolution!”
“A Bradshaigh!” was the reply, “I have put horns upon the noble
head of the family, and have written Sir William a cuckold, by
marrying Mab!”
“Hold,--not a word,” returned the boy, in tones fierce and daring,
“a few years make me a knight, and then chastisement for the fat
and cowardly Welsh! Stand back, Sir Osmund, and let me see my
mother.”
The voice had gradually heightened until all the boy had vanished,
and the accents sounded manly and defying.
Lady Mabel shrieked, and exclaimed--
“My brave boy, the son of his father! Heaven bless and protect him,
to plead my cause, in fitting time and mode, and assert his own
rights!”
But the voice of the knight became louder and louder,
“Boy, minion! son of an ape! whose father pretended to bear the
cross, when he should have hung for his villanies, on the highest
in England! Go to my groom, and learn thy duty to my horse. He
reports to me that you are refractory. Well, your wages are due.
Take that, and that, and that,” and thrice the lash fell fiercely
on the noble boy. “Well” he resumed, “dost hear thy mother’s
voice? You know a mother’s shriek; that is her only tone! Oh fond
fool! Well, you wish to see your mother, fillial fool: my strokes
have given you a prettier face than a father’s art could patch up.
Come beautiful child, and shew yourself to the proud gaze of a
mother, on your cowardly father’s birthday.”
“Cowardly! He would have driven you, Sir Osmund, from this nest.
Cowardly!”
The door was burst open, and Lady Mabel beheld her eldest son (a
youth of fifteen) dragged in by the Welsh knight, her husband; his
face was bloody, and there were marks of a livid hue on his cheeks
and neck.