the table back from the view of the window, nearer to the Welsh
knight’s chair, and seated himself opposite. He was of tall
stature, and nature, in this specimen of her architecture, had not
been sparing of materials, although, certainly, she might have put
them better together. If we may be allowed the expression, she had
not counted the cost with arithmetical accuracy. The head bore no
proportion to the other parts, as if her extravagance in these had
caused her to be penurious to that. Although the bones were well
cemented by fat, yet the structure was far from being elegant. It
was difficult to decide upon the true figure; and Euclid himself
must have abandoned the problem in despair. His head, which was
not shaven, but clipped closely, could not be compared to a globe;
neither was it like Atlas’s, between his shoulders. It moved
backwards and forwards with such velocity, and describing such
a large parabola, that one moment it seemed to be a few feet in
advance of the breast, and the next, its retreat was as distant.
His large ears (a true mark of villainy and vulgarity) were left
altogether exposed, stretching their wide shelter over his flabby
cheeks. His legs were not elastic, they might have been glass;
but his arms were electric, and they jerked about at every roll
and wriggle of his mis-shapen trunk. He took large strides, as if
his feet were not friendly to each other, save at the distance
of two yards. His complexion was dark. His eye, when it gazed on
vacancy, was dull; it only became bright from the reflection of
gold. But still, in spite of all these deformities, there was a
conscious power breathed over the appearance of Father Cliderhoe;
and, although villainy, deceit, and guile, are generally allied to
a more dwarfish form, you could not hesitate, upon seeing the man,
to pronounce that he was a habitation for such dark spirits.
Sir Osmund Neville looked suspiciously towards him, as he sat
silent on his chair, occasionally moving it about, as if anxious
for something which might introduce the subject he wished to be
considered.
“Father,” said the knight, “the room is but poorly lighted. Shall I
order the chandeliers to be trimmed?”
“Nay, Sir Osmund,” returned the parson with a hideous leer and
smile; “nay, we have light enough. You could sign your name by this
light, Sir Osmund? I can read my prayers then. Eh? You could sign
your name?”
“Sign my name!” furiously exclaimed the knight, whilst he arose and
stood upon the hearth. “Sign my name!”
“Sir Osmund, you are not, surely, ashamed of your name,” meekly
returned Cliderhoe. “A valiant knight is proud of it.”
“But to what, good father, must I give my name?” inquired the
knight, who, after the flash of first passion was over, thought it
most prudent to be calm, for he knew the character of him with whom
he had to deal.
“To this little document. Written in a fair clerk’s hand; is it
not? Ah! but you warriors write in blood! Yet, which is most
durable? Read the papers. You appear exhausted, Sir Osmund. Ah!
hunting is so fatiguing; to be sure, to be sure. Who can doubt
it? The couch, brave knight, should receive your wearied limbs
forthwith. Nay, nay, I will not trouble you with listening to these
papers. Just sign your name; a few strokes of the pen, and then you
may retire. I must have a care, brave knight, over your body: you
are so reckless, and should any accident occur, chivalry would lose
its brightest lance, and the church its firmest prop. Sir Osmund,
here is a pen; affix your name below that writing.”
In speaking, the parson had come nearer and nearer to the chair of
the knight. The latter started, as from the coil of a serpent.
“Never, never, Cliderhoe:--thou hypocrite,--base born!”
“Hush, hush,” said the parson, in tones which struck terror, from
their very whisper, into the knight’s soul, “do not give me any
more names than my natural father, and my spiritual mother the
church, have conferred. Beware. _I have never absolved one sin
against myself, during a lifetime! Beware!_”
Sir Osmund took the papers. His eye glanced quickly over them. He
laid them aside, and arose to leave the room.
“Father Cliderhoe, next time make proposals a little more
extravagant, and you shall precede me in my exit from this room!”
“Well,” thundered forth Cliderhoe, “bid adieu to Haigh Hall. Your
rejection of my proposal makes it necessary. But hear me, before
you go to ruin. I would yet spare you. Without my favour, you never
can lay claim to one tittle of this property. Hush, come hither,”
and he whispered earnestly, and smiled as he saw Sir Osmund’s cheek
grow pale.
“What!” Sir Osmund exclaimed, “Sir William was not slain! Then he
may return?”
“He may--he may; nay, he _will_! Haigh Hall is too goodly a mansion
for him to leave to strangers. False was the word which reported
him dead. But sign this document, giving to me the half of the
estate--and let him return--we are safe. The pilgrim shall find a
resting place, though I should be compelled to take my sword, and
secure it for him. Sir Osmund, there’s light enough to sign the
name. You are a knightly scholar; spell it quickly, else, you know,
you know. Every letter will be a security against Sir William. Ha!
the large O of your christian name will be his grave!”
Sir Osmund complied, and Father Cliderhoe added,
“Now, knight, you must get Lady Mabel’s name too. I’ll come in an
hour--have her signature by that time. Adieu for the present, Sir
Osmund.”
* * * * *
Let us return to the gallery. We have already noticed the
overpowering emotions which shook the frame of the palmer, as he
turned from Lady Mabel, and his eye fell on Sir Osmund, dismounting
at the porch.
“Holy pilgrim,” said the lady, “thou art fatigued, Be seated.
Alas! now, Haigh Hall is no home for the weary and the aged;--aye,
not even for its lawful owners. For me, it is now a cell. In other
days, there was not a room, however dark and gloomy--so happy was
I,--that I did not call my bower. Then you would have found rest
and refreshment, and your blessing in return, might have been felt
to be no mockery. Now, the ministers of religion and charity are
driven forth. But where hast thou been wandering?”
A long gaze, and a short verbal answer was the reply,
“Lady,--in the Holy Land.”
Mabel’s paleness, which had hitherto expressed so beautifully her
resignation to sorrow, was now indicative of that breathless fear
which longs to know more of danger and evil, or good and happiness;
and yet dares not. Its sweet light seemed doubtful whether or not
it should be turned upon the palmer to know more. She shaded her
face, whilst in low and trembling accents she meekly inquired,
“And in all thy wanderings didst thou ever hear of a gallant
English knight, who fought beneath the banner of the Holy Cross? He
was once the lord of this mansion, and my--”
“Brother?” interrupted the palmer, in a tone of melancholy, mingled
with scorn and severity, as he supplied the word “your brother?”
“Brother!” exclaimed the lady, “no, no. Nearer he was than the
twin brother of infancy, childhood, and youth. Yes, for we were
ever One,--One! Holy Father, thou knowest not the meaning of these
words; but every moment I have realized their truth. The marriage
of the heart, no earthly ceremony can constitute. Our relationship
was formed in heaven, and Heaven dropped down bands upon the holy
altar, to encircle and bind us to each other for ever and ever.”
“For ever, lady, dost thou say? And who dropped Sir Osmund’s bands
upon the altar? Nay, noble lady, be not offended, for I know that
all affection is changeable, and short-lived, dying with a glance
or a word; and husband is but a fashion, which to suit your taste
may be changed, like any other part of your apparel. Changes are
pleasant. Sir William to-day, Sir Osmund to-morrow! Woman’s love is
not like man’s. Man’s love is the sea, infinite and exhaustless.
It may ebb, and its sands be discovered, but soon the wave rolls
over, and again there is the mighty deep. Far down, in unfathomable
waters, are the crystal caves, for the heart’s whispers and
embraces. Woman’s love is the streamlet. Bathe in its pure waters
to-day;--return to-morrow, and it is dried up. Let the husband
leave his halls, and in ten years he is forgotten, and his spirit
would be driven from his own hearth!”
Mabel’s eye had flashed with indignation, and her majestic form had
become erect, and commanding. There was the proud heaving of her
bosom, and the compressed resolution of her lips. But all symptoms
of anger passed away, as a sigh escaped the palmer, and as his hand
was raised to brush away a tear.
“Holy man, these words are unkind; they are not the balm of
comfort. I have not been faithless to Sir William. He is enshrined
in my heart still, the holiest earthly image, which death alone can
break. And oh! in penance how I worship him now, as sincerely as
once I did in joy. Gaze upon all the little knolls of green, where
we sat together, on summer days. I know them, and there I have
gone, and asked pardon of my beloved, many a cold and dreary night.
But here, in this room, I suffer agonies which might atone even for
a wife’s infidelity to a living lord. The night before he left for
the Holy Land, our noble mother told us of an ancestor’s perjury
to the maiden of his troth. That is her portrait, holy father, on
which you are gazing. In my waking moments, for past weeks, I have
seen Magdalene Montfort (that was the beautiful maiden’s name)
walking with Sir William. They were both sad, and looked upon me
scornfully, for my treachery. They had been unfortunate, and,
therefore, were in each other’s company. I knew that it was but
fancy, but it had all the power of reality. Oh! is not this penance
enough! But, say, holy palmer, didst thou ever see Sir William
Bradshaigh?”
The palmer sighed and shook his head. “Many a gallant knight I have
known, who never reached his home. Some died, others were reported
to be dead, and their noble heritage, aye, and their beautiful
wives, became the property of strangers.”
“_Reported_ to be dead! Reported! Were they not dead? Was _he_ not
dead?”
“Mabel. Mabel Bradshaigh--_is_ he dead?”
And the palmer’s cloak was removed, and there stood Sir William
Bradshaigh!
“Come to mine arms, my faithful wife, dearer to me than ever. Come!
Thank God that we meet, never more to part. Awfully have our dismal
forebodings, the last time we were in this gallery, been fulfilled.”
“Sir William--reject me. I am unworthy. Nay, let me kneel at thy
feet.”
“Both together then, and at the feet of the Most High. Hush, Mabel,
here come the children. My boys, do you not know your father? Kiss
me. _I am_ your long-lost father.”
After the embrace, the boys exclaimed in terror, “Sir Osmund comes.”
Lady Mabel shrieked. Sir William unloosed a garment which was
closely wrapped round him, and unfurled a Paynim standard which his
arm had won.
“Stay, Mabel, I escape here, by this door. My old servants will
rally round me. Yet no, I cannot leave thee defenceless. William,
my brave boy, fly with this to my servants. Tell them that Sir
William is returned. Bid them arm for me. Haste.”
The boy disappeared through the concealed door, and Sir William
stationed himself beside his lady, his sword drawn.
“Ho, lights,” exclaimed Sir Osmund. “Must I fall, and break my
neck? Mab, take hold of my hands, and bring me to thee.”
The next moment he entered. But the twilight was so shady, that he
saw not the presence of the returned knight.
“Mab, sign this paper. Cliderhoe, come hither.”
“Here’s one,” replied Sir William, “who can do it. Ruffian, do you
know me. I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”
“Indeed,” sneeringly responded the parson. “You have got the name.”
“And the sword, thou hypocrite.”
“Very likely,” was the retort, “very likely. That proves thee a
thief, and not Sir William.”
“Sir Osmund Neville, I challenge thee to deadly combat for the
wrongs thou hast done me, and for thy cowardly and cruel treatment
to Mabel and our children. Come forth, else I will smite thee to
the death. Equal weapons, if thou willest: if not, I will stab thee
where thou standest.”
He rushed forward as he spoke, but instantly the door was secured
on the outside, and he and Lady Mabel were alone. The wily parson
and the Welsh knight had fled. The door resisted both foot and
sword, and stubbornly refused to give way to any forcible attempts.
Sir William distinguished the clattering of hoofs in the distance
becoming fainter and more faint, and he burned for the pursuit.
Mabel led him to the window, and gazed long and fondly upon his
noble features. Age had scarcely touched them. The bloom of youth
had, indeed, passed away, but there was the calm and mellow hue
of manhood. The locks were not as profusely clustered over his
brow as before, but the expansive forehead was more dignified
when unshaded. Tears came into her eyes, for, although he was but
slightly changed from the husband of her youth, and although no
feature was a stranger, still she thought why should she not have
been allowed to witness all the daily changes effected upon him. It
is painful, after a long absence, to return to the home of other
days. It is no longer a home; for new inmates have introduced new
arrangements. Humble may have been the household gods: only an
old chair standing in a corner, and a small table at the patched
window; yet they were the gods of the heart, and, although they
may have been replaced by the most costly and splendid furniture,
we refuse to call the house our home. Cover the bird’s nest with
leaves of gold, and after its flight and wanderings, would it then
take up its abode any more than it would although there were no
nest at all? But more painful is it when the loved one has changed.
The features may be more beautiful than before, but if all their
former peculiarity be gone, they are those of a stranger; and
as we would refuse to cross the threshold, much more to sit down
in the house, once our home, but now altogether changed, so we
cannot take hold of the hand, we cannot kiss the lips, we cannot
embrace the form of that one, once the idol of our heart, but now
a stranger. But Lady Mabel’s feelings were not akin to these;
although they were painful as well as extatic. He whom she now
gazed upon was Sir William Bradshaigh, every look, every movement,
every accent told her. Soon, however, loud steps were ascending the
corridor, and louder shouts announced them.
“Sir William! Sir William! welcome to Haigh Hall!”
The bar was removed, and a cordial greeting took place between the
returned palmer and his faithful retainers.
“Thanks, thanks my men. But the cowardly knight has fled. Help me
to horse! Haste! Mabel, my love, I return as soon as the wretch is
slain. Thou art more beautiful than ever, my own wife. But how can
you love the aged palmer? Farewell, Mabel.”
Proud were the retainers, when their lord stood among them with his
sword.
“Now,” as he mounted his steed, “follow me not. Alone I must be
the minister of vengeance. Hark! the Welshman’s horse has gained
the eminence. There is the echo of his hoofs. He must be passing
the steep descent.”
He dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and without a
curvet or a vault, it bounded forward. The influence of twilight is
mysterious, both upon man and beast. It gives speed and energy to
body as well as mind. In advance before him, there was a part of
the horizon beyond the trees which seemed rings of molten gold. The
sunset had not yet left it. Against its bright and radiant surface,
in haste, a horse plunged on. The rider, Sir Osmund, was lashing
it, for the motions of his arm were seen. The next moment it had
passed. Sir William furiously spurred his steed through the dark
wood, and, as a flash of his eye was shewn by some concealed light
of the sky bursting upon it, he seemed the very spirit of revenge
riding on the storm. His horse’s head was stretched forward,
eagerly and impatiently. He himself crouched down to the very mane,
and his eyes gleamed wildly upon the place where he supposed the
Welsh knight would be passing.
Swiftly did the noble courser paw the leaves, strewn on the path,
and soon he reached the highway, steep and rugged. The lights were
now reflected from Wigan, upon the air around. He drew near the
gate. The guards started up with their torches, and fixed them
against the wall.
“Stay, who art thou?” and they presented their halberds, whilst
they seized the reins of his horse. “Who art thou, thus pursuing
Sir Osmund Neville to the devil? He’ll lead thee wrong.”
“Stay me not, I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”
They started back. They had heard of spectre horsemen, who rode so
furiously, and they trembled. Taking advantage of their terror, he
struck up their halberds with his sword. The gate was open, and he
spurred through. A few of the townsmen who were loitering at their
doors, and in the streets, shouted after him; but none attempted
to prevent his course, and soon he had left Wigan far behind. The
moon arose brightly; he leaned forward anxiously, and thought that
he could descry the object of his pursuit, long before he heard the
hoofs of the steed. But soon, he had both heard and seen him. Fleet
was the Welsh knight’s courser, but that of Sir William gained at
every turn in the road, and their voices were heard by each other,
urging them on. Sir Osmund at an angle, avoided the highway, and
leapt his horse over into the large park, at Newton. Sir William
followed, and soon the sword of Bradshaigh revenged his own, and
Lady Mabel’s wrongs.
The dead knight was thrown from his horse, as it dashed on. As soon
as the deed of vengeance was over, Sir William’s enthusiasm began
to leave him. While in the act of striking, the happiness which
should now be his of once more being the lord of Haigh, the husband
of his Mabel, and the father of his gallant boys, passed vividly
before his mind, and forbade him to spare. But when the blow was
given, so strange is man’s nature, all these prospects faded. He
seemed to feel that now he had agreed to a miserable compact.
He almost wished that he had never returned to claim the little
which was left. Death as the arm of vengeance, could not bring him
back the past, although it had taken away the cause of change.
Sir Osmund Neville lay lifeless before him, never more to claim
ought;--but polluting traces were upon all he held dear. As long
as Mabel lived, there lived also the evidences. Nay, when she must
die, and repose along with him in the tomb, calumny might say, “it
was not always thus, for, side by side, when alive, she lay with
another.” As long as Haigh Hall stood, the family disgrace would
survive.
He writhed in agony at the thought.
“Mabel,” he exclaimed, as if she were present, “I cannot forgive
thee! Thou hast been faithless. I must touch thy hand, and know
that it was another’s, long after it had been pledged in love,
and given in marriage. Thy couch a ruffian’s kennel! This Welsh
bullock’s blood cannot wash out the stains which rest upon my name.
Oh! can it even purify my Mabel’s lips? Whenever they touch mine,
I feel that they have been polluted. My children alone survive for
me. Ha! merciful God, thanks unto thee, thanks most sincere, that
Mabel has no children, who cannot call me father. But when I call
her wife, methinks this Welshman’s spirit comes between us, and
breathes the same word;--and to whom will she then cling?”
The air was balmy, and the moonshine rested gently upon the green
meadows where he stood, and lambs, aroused from their slumbers by
the prancing of the horses, bounded past him. But they bleated
not to disturb the silence, and Sir William heard the violent
beating of his heart. Gradually, however, he relapsed into a state
of tranquility,--not the tranquility of joy, but of deep grief.
And as before, when under the excitement of intense revenge, he
spurred his steed to keep pace with his fiery spirit, so now, when
his feelings were different, he curbed the animal to a slow walk,
as he began to return. But he soon discovered that it was jaded
and weary, from the speed of the furious pursuit. He dismounted,
and led it for a mile or two. In the distance, so flat was the
surrounding district, then unbroken, save by towers and halls,
rising aginst the pure silvery vault of the moonlight sky, he
beheld lights in his own mansion at Haigh. He thought that he heard
sounds of mirth borne thence on the airy breezes.
“_She_ may rejoice,” he bitterly said, “but can I? She may be
merry, for I return the same, as when I departed, ten long years
since; though beautiful maidens there have been, who tried my
fidelity in Palestine. Ah! this night has made me an old man! Would
that my days had been spent amidst the holy tombs at Jerusalem,
and I might there have prayed for Mabel, my Mabel, all ignorant of
her frailty. But I must remount my steed. Poor Mabel, she has done
penance for me, and cannot that atone? Forgive her? Yes, and she
shall receive my blessing in a few minutes.”
He vaulted upon his horse, but in vain did he spur and lash. The
animal staggered, and but for great caution, would have fallen.
He again dismounted, and slowly led it to Wigan. The lights in
the town were extinguished. He passed the church. He stood, for
a moment, to gaze upon the venerable structure. The clock was
striking the hour of one, and within the low and grey cloisters,
which are now destroyed, a late vesper was tuned. The notes seemed
to be sung by some virgin-spirits. Heaven bless those whose sweet,
sweet voices are heard by none else, for oh, none else can bless
them; whose soft knees which a gallant husband might have gartered
oft and oft, in pride and sport, bend on the cold stones, at no
domestic altar, through the long night.
What a holy calm fell upon Sir William’s troubled spirit!
“Here Mabel and I may sleep peaceably together in death, if we
cannot in life. God bless our union then. No blood will be the seal
of the renewed covenant. If we cannot live happily now, since she
has been--no, I cannot say faithless, but oh! frail, frail;--why
the grave may hush our discords.”
He turned into the Hall-gate, with the purpose of leaving his horse
at an hostelrie, for he knew that it could not proceed to Haigh
hall forthwith. He still kept his eye upon the holy place, when he
was suddenly seized by two armed men. They were the sentries of the
gate.
“So, nightingale,” exclaimed the stoutest, “we have caught thee.
Resist not. We have orders to bear thee to the Mayor, and, by and
by, you may expect to be caged.”
“Stand back, knaves, and keep your distance. What would ye with me?”
“Aye, aye, bold enough,” was the reply. “Thou art the horseman who
passed our fellows at the other gate, in pursuit of Sir Osmund
Neville. They called thee a ghost. Ho, ho. But” and he brought
the lamp which he carried to bear closer upon the person of Sir
William; “here is blood, blood. Come in, else we strike thee to
the ground.”
It was in vain, the knight saw, to remonstrate; vainer still, on
account of his weakness to assault. He gave his horse to the charge
of one of the guards, who soon obtained accommodation for it; and
allowed himself to be conducted, without resistance, to the house
of the mayor.
At that moment his worshipful worship was fast asleep, all save the
nose, which buzzed as if it were filled with flies. His slumbers
were so deep that his worthy rib might have been taken from his
side without his knowledge, and a noted shrew given to some man.
But, gentle reader, why hast thou broken into the Mayor’s house,
and entered the private chamber of him and his dear spouse? Let us
make a speedy retreat, else we may be tried for burglary.
The house stood solitary, and at the door two halberds were bravely
stationed, either to assist or repel thieves or murderers. The
guards knocked; after a short interval, voices in loud dispute,
were heard, and a window on the second story was thrown up. A long
bright sword, slowly peeped out of it, very politely inquiring what
was wanted! A female head (the gender was known, _a priori_ by
the cap on it; and _a posteriori_ by the volubility of the tongue
within it) followed, and after reconnoitering for some length of
time, good substantial shoulders ventured out to assist the head.
“Madam,” humbly said one of the guards, “is my Lord Mayor at
liberty, to examine this man, whom he gave orders to take into
custody and bring hither?”
The sword was brought into a dangerous line with the anxious
inquirer’s head; but he started more at the shrill voice which
greeted him.
“Impudent rascals, begone. At liberty! No,” and she exhausted
a pretty good stock of abuse which she had acquired with all a
woman’s skill, and expended with all a woman’s generosity.
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed another voice, without a head however, “I am
at liberty.”
The sword was drawn in, and it remains a matter of doubt until
this day, whether it was not called upon to exercise its functions
against the last speaker. At least the noise of a considerable
bustle was made, which ended in the door being opened; and Sir
William, with the guards, was shewn into a room by a servant boy.
An hour had almost elapsed before the wig had been arranged, and
the spectacles disposed on the frontispiece of the Mayor, so
properly as to allow him to be seen. He entered with a slow step to
convey notions of a solemn dignity, and a pretty strong calf was
by no means a bad interpreter. After mounting the glasses on the
higher regions of the head, he rubbed his eyes as hard as if they
were flint, and as if he wished them to strike light, in order
to enable him to see. His face was good-humoured, and had no more
expression than a well-stuffed pudding. He then looked gravely upon
Sir William, when the knight addressed him,
“Why am I brought here? I had no desire to be regaled with a breeze
of thy far sounding nose,” (the mayor, be it observed, was snoring
even then) “nor to behold thee in undress.”
The Mayor started at the sounds of the knight’s voice;
“Sir William Bradshaigh thou art. It was no ghost. I know thee
well; and no wonder that thou pursued the Welsh knight. Where is
he?”
Sir William slowly unsheathed his sword, all bloody.
“That is the best answer; is it not intelligible?”