blasphemy,--“mother, behold your son.” He approached, bowed his
unwieldy form in mock reverence at her feet, whilst his sinister
eye attempted to express sarcastic admiration and love. His hair
hung, matted, over his Welsh outline of a face, and his ill-formed
mouth, in smiling, became a hideous gash--gash!
The boy rushed to his mother, and fondly placed his hand beneath
her chin, to raise her countenance from the knight, kneeling in
mockery. She kissed his forehead, and with her lips wiped off the
blood, and hugged him to her bosom. He was a noble boy, and never
had he crouched to his mother’s husband.
“Mother, now I am safe.”
“It is the fool’s birth-day,” said Sir Osmund, as he left his
recumbent posture, “yes, it is, my sweet Mab. Rejoice, rejoice;
shall I send my jester to help thee to a laugh?”
“If in doing so” replied the spirited boy, “you send away yourself.”
Once more he was struck to the ground, by the enraged knight.
“Oh! Sir Osmund”--exclaimed Mabel, “save him! I shall tutor him to
love thee fondly!”
“That would be a difficult task, dear mother” answered the boy,
with great indifference, as he arose and fixed a stern look of
defiance upon Sir Osmund.
The knight paced the room in boiling wrath, but his rage dared not
meet the glance of that boyish eye, so powerful is innocence. He
turned abruptly upon Lady Mabel, and said,
“Harkee, Lady. Here you must be confined; these are my jailors,
four in number, trusty fellows,” and he pulled out four keys, as he
spoke. “Content yourself, good wife, and pray to Sir William to be
relieved from Sir Osmund.”
Mabel threw herself down on her knees, humbly before him.
Her locks fell from the slight silken band, which passed across her
forehead, as if to strengthen the power of her supplications. They
concealed the noble expansion of her brow, as if dignity ought then
to be lost in condescension. Her eyes were raised so mournfully,
although no tears were visible. But she might as well have
addressed herself to the stones, and the echoes would have given
a kinder reply. The knight stamped furiously, and impatiently, as
Mabel spoke.
“Sir Osmund, confine me not here. It is too, too near the picture
gallery, and I have been lately visited by such awful dreams and
sights there, that I shudder. For your own sake, my wedded--nay,
Sir Osmund, I will not speak falsehood; I cannot call you
husband;--Sir William, forgive me!”
In a moment, she forgot that she was supplicating a favour from the
ruffian knight. Her eyes were turned upon vacancy, but with such an
earnest expression! Her bosom heaved, her lips slightly quivered,
and a strange light gleamed from her eyes. In a hollow voice she
whispered, whilst her hands were clasped together,
“Spirit of the departed! forgive me for my treachery to thy memory.
No--no; I have not been faithless to thee for ten long years, if
silent and lonely vigils can conjure up what thou wert; if penance
dark and painful can change me to thee, from what I am, to what I
once was! Oh! cannot that which withers all the bloom and freshness
of my youth, on the cold, cold stones, likewise efface every other
name but Mabel Bradshaigh: dear, dear name! Our noble mother was
gone to thee before I consented to be another’s, in name; and even
then, but for our children, thy grave should have been my second
nuptial couch!”
“Would that you would hasten to its delights, then” interrupted
the brutal knight, as he approached and patted her head in scorn.
“Call on your torch bearers, for Hymen’s light; bid them be quick,
and consummate the ceremony. But to turn from this fine reverie of
your’s, sweet Mab, you must leave this room and follow me into that
frightful gallery. You may then make orisons to all the painted
heroes; and improve yourself so much as to become a holy father.
But, methinks that you are here visited also by strange sights,
and you will have more space, in the other room to fly from them.
Come, not a moment’s disobedience, and there dream of Sir William.
It is his birthday, and he ought to appear unto you, as a matter of
courtesy. And oh, do not be faithless, and treacherous to him! Go
after him, and leave me Haigh! Ha, ha! And as for the young fry, it
matters not where he be confined; he may go to the devil, and dance
on the holiday of his father’s birth. Come Mabel; aye, you may kiss
the boy, wipe the blood from off his face, and he wont pollute the
clear fountains before the porch. Come, sweet Mab.”
Mabel embraced her son, and followed Sir Osmund into the gallery,
and as he retired she heard the heavy bar secured on the outside.
Meantime, the boy found his younger brother, and they wandered
forth, together, into the wood. They sat down and gazed upon the
window of the room, where their lady mother was confined, and long
and affectionately they spoke of her wrongs. The younger, clapped
his hands and shouted, as he beheld her handkerchief waving from
the casement; a sure proof that she had observed them. It was a
pleasant day, in the most pleasant season; and soon their young
hearts became free and happy, and they thought of some knight
of romance spurring forward on a black steed, with glorious and
shining arms, to free their mother from her shameful durance. They
found their bows, and gay archers, shot through the wood, making
it resound with their gladness. Oh what a blessing a young heart
is! It has in itself a balm for all its grief! Spring and summer
have many flowers, but childhood and youth have as many hopes; and
they even descend from a mother’s arms into the grave without being
withered.
They rambled, hand in hand, down the steep hill, which by a
circuitous rout, leads to Wigan. The way was then romantic, and
all around, beautiful glens were lying in the arms of majestic
eminences, and every thing bore the stamp of feudal and chivalrous
days. The Church turrets were seen against the cloudless sky like
the pencillings of Hope, and Charity; whilst the quiet vales were
sprinkled over with tamed lambs. The boys, at intervals, on their
way looked back to the hall of their ancestors, admiring the broad
pendant which floated over the stately tower. At length they
reached the Cross, erected on the outside of Standishgate. There
the town guards were in conversation with a holy palmer. He seemed
to speak little, and only put a few questions. His piercing eyes
glanced from beneath his large cowl. His hands played with the
crucifix which was suspended from his neck; and on his sable cloak
were embroidered Peter’s keys.
“Here, reverend father,” said one of the guards, “here are Sir
William’s boys; they will shew thee the way to the hall.”
The palmer started at the words. He eagerly looked upon the boys,
and raising his hands above their heads, implored a blessing.
“Yes, yes,” they both exclaimed, and took hold of his hands.
“Is it near the hour of vespers at the Haigh?” inquired the palmer.
“Many, many years have elapsed since they were chanted there in my
hearing. How sweetly the hymn stole up through the little echoes.
Who, then, sat beside me? Ha! who now will? But, boys, how is your
lady mother?” and he waited breathlessly for the answer, with his
eyes intently fixed upon their countenances.
“Holy father,” the eldest replied, “she is well, but needs comfort.”
The noble mansion of Haigh was now seen through an opening in the
woods. Long and anxiously did the palmer look thereon; yet his was
not the gaze of a stranger; for many emotions, arising from many
recollections, were marked in the motions of his head.
“My boys, why does the banner float over Haigh?”
“It is our father’s birth-day,” was the reply, “and oh, in your
nightly orisons, pray for his gallant soul,--he was slain in
battle.”
“Slain in battle!” exclaimed the palmer, with a fierceness half
concealed. “Who bore the message:--who told you that you were
orphans?”
“A friar had shrived the soul of one of his retainers, who
confessed that he had seen his noble master die, and a Welsh knight
confirmed it.”
The holy men paused, and struck his hand violently against his
breast.
“But your mother--how did she receive the news of your father’s
death?”
“Oh, father, do not ask me to think of her sorrows. For a year she
walked not forth with us, as before, to speak of Palestine and him.
We were clasped to her bosom: still we dreaded the embrace, for
there was a violent heaving of her heart, which made us shudder,
and the black, black robes of her widowhood, were close upon our
cheeks: we could not endure her kisses, for, as she raised us to
her lips, tears fell upon our faces.”
The reverend palmer put his arms kindly around them.
“Oh,” cried the elder boy, “you pity my mother and us. Heaven bless
your affectionate heart! I was not old enough, when he departed, to
tell him how brave I would be, and perhaps he died in doubts, lest
I might disgrace his name.”
“Brave boy;” and as the palmer spoke, he took the youth’s hand and
shook it, as a warrior would the hand of his brother, “you will not
disgrace his name. But let us sit down beneath this tree, for I am
wearied with a long pilgrimage.”
He had before walked slowly, and now proposed to be seated, as if
he wished to delay the time. And who does not pause, when, after a
long absence, he returns home, and fortify his bosom to know the
worst. We dare not open the door, as if that would disclose too
wide a scene to our view; but we gaze in at the small lattice,
just to recognize one object, and know that all is not lost. We
refuse the light of day to shew us home, and eve is the time of our
welcome to all its hallowed joys--if these still survive.
He took the bow from the hands of the elder boy, and examined it
long.
“It is my father’s bow,” said the youth, “and, at a long distance,
he could pierce the first arrow with the second. My mother loves
it. See, their names are carved upon it.”
The palmer laid it down, and leaned against the tree.
“Father, art thou weary? Alas, Haigh Hall, now cannot afford thee a
shelter. Sir Osmund Neville--”
“Who is he?” said the holy palmer, starting up. His cowl fell from
his face, and gave to view a calm and manly forehead, with auburn
locks curling on it. It was pale, but commanding. “Who is Sir
Osmund Neville?”
The boys looked with astonishment.
“Hast thou been a warrior?” asked the younger. “Thou resemblest
what my mother tells us our father was; and he was a brave warrior.
But, holy man, Sir Osmond is my mother’s--”
“Husband!”--exclaimed the palmer with a faint shriek. He turned
aside. “Good God!--what a return! My own halls cast me forth. My
wife’s pillow refuses to give rest to my wearied head! Sir William
is a stranger in Haigh! Would that the report had been true. Yet
now I will dare the worst.” He replaced his cowl. “Where is Sir
Osmund?”
“He is now a hunting, and has confined my mother to an apartment
where none can visit her. He struck me wantonly, but I shall yet
repay him for my mother’s wrongs.”
“Couldst thou conduct me to thy mother, to give her holy comfort?”
“Thank thee, heaven thank thee! I know a secret passage to the
picture gallery, where she is now in durance. All the retainers
keep to their duties, and they love me for my father’s sake. They
would not inform Sir Osmund. Come on, holy father, the brow of the
hill is soon passed!”
They hastened their steps, and soon arrived at the hall.
“There my mother stands at the window.”
The palmer gave a quick glance upwards, in the direction, and then
turned away.
The boys took each a hand, and led him to the left tower, where was
a small entrance, communicating by a long and intricate passage
with the staircase which led to the gallery. Before them, a few of
Sir Osmund’s men were lying, with their faces, broad and bluff,
turned upwards. They were sunning themselves, in imitation of
the cattle in the park, and, certainly, there was no reason why
they should not follow such an excellent example, especially for
kindred’s sake. Their large eyes were shut, but had just as much
expression as when they were open. Their mouth, however, the use of
which they were not altogether so lazy as to abandon, was stretched
out, covering their cans of ale, which, by no common strength of
suction, they were fast emptying. Their breasts were heaving with
the zeal of the application, and the delight of the fermentation.
At length a pause was made. They turned to each other. They spoke
not by words, and yet their thick, ruddy lips, bedewed with the
liquor, were very expressive. A loud laugh followed, which was
feelingly responded to, and prolonged by, the lowing oxen. They
looked round upon the holy palmer, as his steps were heard.
“Ho!--ho! take a cup,” exclaimed one of them. “Drink on Sir
William’s birth-day, a long health to his ghost! Here,” and he
thrust an empty cup into the palmer’s hand.
For a moment the holy man’s cowl was raised from his flashing eyes,
as if to make some discovery, and his arm was stretched forth
from the cloak in which he was so closely muffled, with the hand
clenched, and the veins almost leaping through the thin dried skin
which covered them. The next moment, he courteously declined the
Welshman’s proffer. But his cheek was deadly pale, and a livid hue
flitted over his lips. The elder boy started forward, and grasped
one of the short swords lying naked beside the men, and, like their
masters, sunning themselves.
“Cowards,” the youth white with rage cried out, “insult the holy
man but again, and I shall fill the empty cups with your blood.”
But his arm was arrested by the palmer.
“Nay, nay,” said he meekly, “thou art headstrong and rash. But our
Holy Mother inflicts a penance upon these men, for their irreverent
and unbecoming treatment of her humble son and servant. What!
profane wretches, do you laugh? Beware. If this crucifix brand the
curse, woe, woe unto you. Boy, lead them to the penance room, and I
myself will release them. Come.”
They dared not disobey; for then, every man, noble, or knight, or
menial, was the priest’s retainer. The ministers of the altar were
more powerful than the satellites of the throne, and beneath the
single pall and crosier of the one, lurked a vengeance which could
scathe and destroy the proud tiara of the other. How mysterious and
yet real was the influence concealed in the slightest external of
the Church!
The Welsh retainers groaned as they were compelled to rise, and
proceed into the dark and cheerless apartment, which, in later
times, served for a dungeon. The palmer turned the key, and
fastened it to his belt.
“They are safe,” he whispered to himself. They were now met by some
of Sir William’s old retainers, who bowed low to the holy man, and
seemed inclined, by their looks and haltings, to ask concerning
their dead lord.
Feudal times might be the times of slavery on the part of
retainers, but they were those also of fidelity and strong
attachment. These retainers might be treated as brutes, but if so,
they were treated like dogs, and in return they yielded a service
which no hire could have extorted. Their love for their lord was
powerful, and yet instinctive; their happiness was genuine, and
yet animal,--far from the happiness of man. Their privileges were
extensive; not scullions of the kitchen, they were the genii of the
old halls. Their attachment to places and domains,--was that of
the dog. As they were fond of loitering in old paths, or glancing
at the proud mansion, or seated at the porch, their feelings were
those of that animal, licking every part of the house, and lying
down on favourite spots. And when their lord departed they drooped
and pined; not as men sorrowing.
These reflections might have been awakened at a sight of the old
servants of the Bradshaigh family, as they gazed so anxiously and
inquiringly. Go to a house where the master has been long absent.
An affectionate dog answers to your knock, and whines so piteously,
and looks so fondly, as if begging to know tidings of him who has
gone. Such was the appearance of the aged retainers of Haigh.
The palmer blessed them, in low tones, but feelingly, and then
passed on with the boys.
They crept through the entrance, and were soon threading their way
through the dark labyrinth. They gained the staircase. The palmer
had taken the lead, evidently familiar with the place. He paused,
and listened to the gentle tread of Lady Mabel. He strained his
ears, as if expecting to hear the music of the voice, as well as
of the foot; not for the sake of the future, but of the past. The
setting rays, rich from the golden west, were streaming brightly
on a little lattice, which lighted a recess in the long gallery,
and meeting those which entered by the wide casement, they threw a
dull haze around. They prevented him from seeing distinctly, as he
looked through it; but the fluttering of a white robe, and the soft
motion of a fair hand at the further extremity could be perceived.
At that moment a horse was heard approaching the hall.
A suppresed shriek arose from within.
“It is Sir Osmund,” exclaimed the boys.
“Well,” returned the palmer in firm accents, and he seemed to
unbuckle some of his garments, whilst unconsciously he stamped in
fury.
The boys tapped at the lattice.
“Mother, open unto us. Here is a holy priest, and he will comfort
thee. He hath already blessed us, and so kindly. He hath wandered
in far-off lands, and his voice speaks a foreign tale, and speaks
it gently.”
Her small white hands opened the lattice.
“Stay for a moment, and the holy man shall be admitted. Long is it,
since religion was allowed to enter mine apartments, to cheer my
sadness; and now it has come to my cell. Cell!”
The lattice closed. The palmer stood in strange bewilderment.
Her face seemed to be a vision, and her voice a song of other
days, and all--not a dream. And why should _he_ think of other
and former days? Have priests and palmers boyhood and youth? Are
they not trees without a leaf, on which no bird of heaven alights
to charm the solitude? Do they know of the earthly transports of
love and hope? Beautiful is the holy Virgin--but cold and hard
are the stones where they kneel to worship her. And why should
England be the country to excite his feelings? He had travelled
through lands more fair. Greener was the earth’s bosom, and more
beautiful the sky’s face. Why should he be moved at the sorrows of
the noble matron? At the same hour of twilight, when bathing his
wearied feet in the little stream, afar from the glistening tents
on the mountain tops, he had listened to the mournful song of the
wandering Hebrew maid. He had passed by her and laid his hands upon
the high and noble brow blessing her beauty and her sorrows. And
why should he feel the ideal presence of romance, as he looked
upon the woody hills of Haigh. From the gorgeous mosques he had
beheld the Mount of Olives, and the feet of the prophet-girls
dancing there, while their light scarfs were hung, floating on the
trees which crowned the summit, like the garments of angels--the
airy clouds.
The door was slowly opened. Lady Mabel, as they entered, greeted
her boys, and kindly welcomed the holy man. As he took her extended
hand, a shuddering seized him; he averted his face, and caught a
glimpse of Sir Osmund dismounting, under the casement. For a few
moments, overcome by some strong emotions, he leaned upon his
palmer’s staff.
Meanwhile, gentle readers, be pleased to shut the door of the
gallery behind you, and walk down, leaning, as gently as possible,
on the Chronicler’s palsied arm. Do not extinguish the light,--else
we are left in total darkness, on the dangerous corridor. Let us
approach to serve the Welsh knight, who is now shouting lustily for
his servants to appear, and take his horse.
“Ho! my Welshmen,” and he blew his hunting horn; but they appeared
not.
“My other hounds,” he muttered, as he turned the horse, and lashed
it away to bound forth at perfect liberty, “my other hounds know
the horn. I shall see, presently, if these do not understand the
whip.”
He entered the porch, and was there met by Parson Cliderhoe. The
knight bowed reverently, and would have passed him.
“Sir Osmund Neville, will you grant me a short interview, upon a
matter of importance to both of us?”
“Please your reverence,” rejoined the knight, with a mixture of
humility and haughtiness--“is it to breathe a pater-noster over my
hunting expedition? You cannot return thanks for my success, as I
have run down nothing.”
Cliderhoe took him by the hand, and led him into a private
apartment. As they entered, Sir Osmund, who was fretted by his bad
luck in the chase, could ill brook the authoritative air which the
parson had assumed; and when he was angry, he usually expressed
himself in light blasphemy.
“Adam Cliderhoe, although your namesake Adam, was placed at the
head of the creation, and had all power and authority over it,
still, you have not the same, and have, therefore, no right to lead
me about wherever you list. And, reverend father, (by the way,
although you are sworn to celibacy, you have got, by some means or
other, a very large family of children, for every one calls you
father,) you, I say, have the advantage over Adam. Ah! then there
were no church lands. A pretty comfortable place that paradise--but
then he had to work, and it could not afford him a better fleece
than a few dry leaves. Now, father, these are warm robes of yours.”
“Child, do not blaspheme. You have done very little, you know, to
merit Haigh Hall, and yet you are the owner.”
“Not altogether,” returned the knight. “There is one exception.
Your very large demands.”
“We’ll speak of that further, Sir Osmund. Are we safe from ears and
listeners? because these do not suit secrets. Well, be seated,” and
he fastened the door.
Parson Cliderhoe was then dreaded throughout all the country. By
wiles and deceits he laid a firm hand upon property. But he was as
intriguing as he was avaricious, and his plots had been treasonable
in the highest degree. These would have involved him in utter ruin,
had not gold, that potent being, redeemed him. In consideration of
large sums of money, he had been released from prison, and restored
to his living and life, when both had been justly forfeited.
He had lately become an inmate of Haigh Hall, and might have been
considered its master. Sir Osmund Neville, it is true, could make
the parson the subject of jest: but the knight, in return, was the
subject of rule and command. To Lady Mabel and the boys, Cliderhoe
paid no attention, either in the shape of flattery or scorn.