“Come up with me to my own apartment, Sir William. We must consult
upon your safety. You will be outlawed for murder. Come, and allow
me to introduce you to my lady. She wont frighten you as she
does--.”
The look which accompanied the pause and omission well supplied the
personal pronoun.
“You cannot return to Haigh Hall until the morning. Guards, you may
depart. Do honour to Sir William.” They raised a loud shout, which
brought the lady down in a quick dance.
Early in the morning, after an hour’s sleep, Sir William left the
Mayor’s house. It was dull and rainy, and his spirits were more
melancholy than on the previous evening. There was none of that
longing desire to see a home and a wife, although for many years
they had both been strangers. The atmosphere was oppressive.
Nature had neither beautiful sights, nor fragrant scents to please
him. The street was muddy, and the houses were darkened with the
overhanging clouds.
He had passed the gate leading to Standish, when his attention was
arrested by a female kneeling at the Cross which De Norris had
erected. She looked upwards with an eye of sorrow, and prayer.
He started as he recognized the beautiful features of Mabel
Bradshaigh. Heedless of the rain, and exposed to the cold, she had
assumed the lowly posture. He heard the words breathed earnestly,
“Oh! heaven, and Sir William, forgive me, and accept of this my
penance!”
She raised herself as his steps were nearer. What deep delight,
tinged however with penitence, glowed on her countenance as she
beheld her returned lord.
“Thank heaven! but oh! let me kneel to thee. Wilt thou forgive me,
Sir William? This cross, was raised by a faithless ancestor to the
shades of the maid whom his perjury had destroyed, and here I must
do penance thus. But oh, look not upon me, exposed as I am,”--and
she blushed as her eyes fell upon her naked legs and feet.
“Mabel, this penance is cruel to both of us. What! those beautiful
legs, and small feet, must they trample upon the mud and the
stones! Remember, Mabel, that I will wash them myself this morning,
in the fountain. Nay, no more penance.”
“It must not be, Sir William. I have made a vow that every week I
will travel thus, from Haigh, to this Cross. And oh, do not prevent
me;--you must not, otherwise I cannot be happy in your company.
Penance is necessary for love injured.”
Mabel spoke the truth. Injured love requires it, though it only be
paid with a tear, a sigh, or a sorrowful look. Yes, penance, thou
art holy, and necessary; for where is the love which is not injured?
All the discontent and melancholy of Sir William passed away.
He loved Mabel more fondly than ever, even for the self imposed
penance. She might have decked herself in splendid attire to meet
her lord, but the lowly garb secured his affections more firmly.
The rich sandals of the time might have confined her feet, but
naked as they were, Sir William gazed more proudly upon them.
They walked on together. Mabel knew Sir Osmund’s fate, by the very
air of Sir William, but she questioned him not. A full bright cloud
now began to widen and widen over the stately towers of Haigh Hall.
Sir William in silence pointed to it as a happy omen, and as its
deep tints were reflected upon the structure, glory and fortune
seemed to hover over it. They were passing a narrow winding, into
the plantations, when their younger boy rushed forth.
“Father, father, bless your little son.”
“Hugh, my beautiful and brave boy, dost thou know me?”
The knight looked oft, in sorrow as well as pride, on the boy’s
countenance; it was so delicately fair, that the very life seemed
trembling on it.
“Father, I could die this morning, I am so happy.”
The knight started.
“Die! my little Hugh. No, no, you will live to be a warrior.”
Loud were the acclamations raised by the retainers, as Sir William
and his lady appeared. A whole week was devoted to festivity and
merriment, and all were happy.
Regularly every week, Mabel repaired barefoot and bare-legged
to the Cross, which still stands associated with her name. The
penance gave happiness. For months she had her sad moments, and
Sir William, with all his love and attention, could not wile
away the dark spirit of grief and remorse. But, by degrees, time
and religion banished the evil spirit, and even in her solitary
moments, no longer did it haunt her.
In a few weeks after the brave knight’s return, little Hugh
Bradshaigh was taken from earth. One morning, as the sun was
shining brightly, and the birds were merry of note, his mother went
to awake him to receive her blessing; but he had already received
the blessing of angels, and Jesus:--he was dead. The treatment
and the sorrows which had befallen him, in his former years, had
been too much for his young soul; and as a bird, which has with
difficulty braved the sternness of winter, dies when genial spring
comes, with its blossoms and hymns, and its last note is faintly
raised from its green bed of leaves, up to the laughing sky; so, as
soon as happiness visited him, little Hugh pined away, as if every
touch, every voice of affection raised him from earth. So strange
is life, that he might not have died so soon, but for his father’s
return. Yes, affection kills the mournful young. Every gentle
stroke, as his mother sheds the fair hair of the boy, is a touch
of death; languid and slow, but sure. Hugh Bradshaigh’s pillow
was, ever after, unpressed by any head, and for hours Sir William
and his lady sat by the little white couch, as if his spirit were
there.
He lay in no cloister, chancel, or vault. Verdant was his grave. An
evergreen was the curtain of his little bed, and the feet of birds
were all that trod upon the flowery sod.
* * * * *
Reader, wilt thou for the sake of the aged Chronicler, pay one
visit to “Mab’s Cross?” If so, go at earliest morn, or latest eve,
and all noise and bustle being hushed, your thoughts may pass over
centuries, and return invested with the remembrance of Magdalene
Montfort, and Mabel Bradshaigh. The cross stands apparently no
greater object of interest, than an indifferent structure of three
stones. Yet, when the beautiful Mabel did penance there, flowers
were growing around its sides. And even, for four generations
after, a small plot of grass was trimmed and cultivated around it.
But when Wigan became the seat of the civil wars in Lancashire,
Mab’s Cross being considered as a popish relic, a tooth of the
beast, suffered at the hands of Roundheads. It has since been
reconstructed, but stands entirely destitute of ornament, on or
around it.
LANCASTER CASTLE
[Illustration]
“A TRADITION PREVAILS THAT THIS FORTRESS HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY TAKEN
BY CROMWELL, AND THAT HE PLANTED HIS CANNON ON A CIRCULAR MOUNT
AT THE SOUTH-WEST SIDE OF THE TOWN, ON HILL MEADOW.”--_Baines’s
History of Lancashire._
Well does Lancaster deserve the name which the Romans gave to
it, of the green city; and the beautiful scenery, for many miles
around, may be considered as its delightful gardens. There are
no huge rocks frowning, like tyrants, in the country which they
have ruined, and blighting with sickness and poverty, all that
is healthful and rich. Such mountain scenery only affords an
observatory, whence we may gaze into the distance, upon other and
more charming spots,--the home-glens of the happy and free--where
every noise, even of the world, is hushed into sweetness, and
the forest of the recluse and the hunter, where light and shade,
all the day, agree to make a religious twilight. Often has the
wanderer, on the majestic hills of Cumberland, looked down in
rapture upon the north coast of Lancashire, stretching out like a
gentle surface and web of ether, on which, at sunset, the shades
fall, as if they were kindred to each other.
Nor is the scenery around Lancaster tame. There are beautiful
eminences, which may be termed the voluptuous breasts of Nature,
on which thin mists from the river float for a covering. Amidst
all the undulations of the glens also, harsher features may be
seen, which the deep woods have not altogether concealed. At the
distance of five miles from the town, there is a rugged mountain,
at the foot of which a cave, called Dunald Mill Hole, formed of
natural rock, and vaulted with great strength, may well attract
the curiosity of the stranger. A brook falls into it;--in one part
it forms a terrific cascade, and in another, small lakes in the
cavities. Above it, on a cliff, stands a mill, to which a neat
cottage was attached. In the vale below, sheep were browsing, and
no human feet ever disturbed the solitude, except those of some
wandering patriarch coming to Dunald Mill upon business, or walking
out, on Sabbath eve, in a holy, contemplative mood, and treading
gently for the sake of the flowers, which taught him of the Great
Being who gave them beauty.
But why should we speak of beautiful scenes, when civil war has
been let loose, and when the dew, falling there at morn and
night, is blood, the blood of brethren? Cannot spring and summer
be barren, when they are only to weave garlands for war? Why speak
of a delightful retreat, when the tramp of soldiers, the clash of
arms, and the fierce engagement have chosen it for their theatre?
Let the altar of home be dashed down, when it can no longer give a
shelter to the holiest worshiper! Let the holy shade become a waste
heath. Oh! if war is a game which must be played, let it be in
large cities. There its ravages may please the Antiquary of after
ages. The mark of a cannon ball may become and dignify the noble
fortress, and the splendid palace; but, when it is found on the
wall of a white cottage, it is sad and disfiguring. Curse him who
launched it there! Send forth soldiers among the rabble and mob of
a town; but keep them from the patriarchs of the vale.
* * * * *
A dark September evening had even darkened the beautifully
white-washed cottage of Hans Skippon, which stood at the distance
of a few feet from Dunald Mill, where, in happy content, he earned
his bread, by grinding it for others. The loud fury of the tempest
had silenced the flowing of the Meerbeck, which turned the mill,
and the changing noise of the cascade, which it incessantly formed
as it fell into the deep cave below, at the foot of the mountain.
Nature seemed to be acting the part of an arrant scold, who first
puts all the fretting children to bed, and then commences the storm
herself. The spray which had gathered on the brook was driven
against the window by continual gusts, and, occasionally, angry
and sullen growls of thunder rolled up the wide and sweeping glen,
against the eminence. The thunder might have been a fearful angel
speaking to the wind a rebellious mortal. Had Hans’ mill been put
in motion by all the “Lancashire Witches,” with their own tongues
to boot, as the worthy miller himself remarked, the noise would not
have been heard amidst the wrath of the tempest.
Hans and his dame were snug within. They crept close to the fire,
which blazed upon the clean hearth, but closer to each other. They
were well advanced in years. They were older than the cottage that
sheltered them: it had been built when they were made man and wife.
But no change had been wrought by time upon their affection, and
Rachel could gaze upon the furrowed countenance of her husband,
with as much fondness as she had ever displayed when it was
smoother. Nay, we ought to have said with more, because three times
a day she induced Hans to wash off the meal and flour, which was
plentifully sprinkled there, in order that she might be proud of
his natural appearance.
“The white flour, my dear Hans,” she would say, as she gave him a
salute, “covers all the red flowers of your cheek, and, although
the first is good for the teeth, the second is better for the
lips,” and she smacked her lips with great relish.
On the present occasion, however, his face was just as it had left
the mill, and no white sweep could look more enticing. But Rachel,
by and by, assisted him in his ablutions, as, to her imagination,
heightened by the loud raging of the storm, he appeared rather
frightful previously. She had drawn him towards a small mirror
at the window, to satisfy himself, when a furious gust drove the
latter in. They started. An awful flash of lightning gleamed into
the room!
“Hans, what a night! Blessed be God that we are alone. We see each
other, and know our fate. Had we been blessed with children, as we
often, often wished, aye, prayed to Him who ruleth all things, they
might have been abroad at this very hour. At least they could not
all have been here. God is merciful, even in his trials.”
“He is, Rachel. Let us take a seat beside our comfortable hearth.
Well, well, I never knew what the word window meant before. It
signifies, I suppose, a place for the wind to come in at. Some of
the old witches, who were executed at Lancaster, on the day of our
marriage, may have come to the cave, to raise such a squall. The
mill is safe, and so is this house. But oh, how many there will be
who are shelterless!”
They again sat down, and, for a time, their conversation was
inaudible. The wind raved louder, and went to the highest note
in the maniac gamut. At intervals, when the storm subsided into
low meanings, and dying sounds, the lightning flashed vividly,
as if the glances of nature were still angry, although her voice
was hushed. The miller and his dame crept closer together. When
they could not speak, they listened to the wind tremblingly, like
children over some fireside tale of terror. Rachel rested one hand
upon her husband’s shoulders, and the other, sometimes, sought his
neck. Both shuddered, as they turned their eyes to the window, but
had perfect confidence when they gazed upon each other’s face,
illuminated by the cheerful light of the hearth. There is magic
in that blaze to man and wife. Not even sunset, with its gorgeous
hues lighting up the window beside which they sit, much less the
soft artificial rays thrown from the finely polished marble of the
ceiling, can reveal the same sources of inexpressible domestic
happiness! Wealth, laugh not at the affection of the poor. Love is
within the breast, and flutters not on spangled garments of costly
quality and workmanship, or haunts palaces. Love dwelt with the
first pair, when they were driven from Paradise, and were only
covered with leaves. The language of the poor to you may appear
rude; but there are some to whom it is music, as sweet as it is
sincere. Their touch to you may appear hard, but there are some
who thrill under the beating of its every pulse. And youth, laugh
not at the affection of the aged, for the heart is never leafless
and sapless! When they are about to step into the grave, they walk
closer together, and every movement is an embrace.
Accordingly, no young couple could have been more loving than Hans
and Rachel Skippon, and the storm led them to speak of their many
comforts.
“Rachel,” replied Hans, to a remark of the dame, upon the pleasures
of their retired life, “it is even so, and I would not exchange
places with the proudest lord in the land. Nay, I would not sell my
miller’s coat. This morning, as I walked into Lancaster, a stout,
stiff-necked lad came forward, and asked me to become a soldier,
promising great distinction. Says I, white is the colour of my
flag, and the only coat of of mail I shall ever consent to wear,
must be a coat of meal!”
“A soldier!” ejaculated Rachel.
“Aye, aye,” was the reply. “War is soon to be played. The governor
of our castle has gone to the High Court in London, to give
evidence against traitors, and many such traitors there are said
to be, whom the Parliament refuses to put down. I heard that the
king’s throne and head are in jeopardy.”
“Woe, woe to the land!” groaned the dame. “A handsome lad, and yet
to lose his crown and his life.”
“Well, well,” said Hans, “his majesty may thank his silly father.
What good, even to the tenth generation, could the race of the
ungodly man expect, who gave orders that the people should sport on
God’s holy day? Rachel, hast thou forgot the proclamation which he
caused the parson to read? I was but a youth then, and oft I could
have liked to visit you on Sunday. But the wish was blasphemous.
The parson said we were not to think our own thoughts, and as my
father thought I should not visit you, I took _his_ thoughts.”
“Not always,” returned the dame, as she took his hand, “not always,
even upon that subject.”
“Well, well, I give in to you, Rachel. But on that Sunday, after
the service was over, the parson drew from his robes a long roll
of paper, and, wiping his mouth very unmannerly, as he always did,
before his eyes, read that it was the King’s most gracious will
that the people, on leaving the church, should enjoy themselves in
all manner of recreations and sports. He added, that our Solomon
might well give laws to all his subjects. My father and I went
to a friend’s house, and there solemnly bewailed the state of
the country; the rulers of which scrupled not to enact the most
awful iniquity. As we returned home, in front of the church there
were dances, and games of archery, in which the parson himself
joined most heartily. His croaking voice shouted lustily, and his
stick-shanks leapt up in the air, while his broad skirts flapped
like a swallow’s wings. A smile was on his face, which was thrown
backwards as we passed. My father, in his righteous wrath, struck
the hypocrite to the earth. In the crowd we escaped, but never more
did we darken that house of prayer by our presence.”
“Yes, Hans, the Lord will be avenged for that proclamation of sport
on his own day. A silly King James was, indeed. My father saw him
as he passed through Preston, and he never spoke highly of kings
afterward.”
So interesting was the subject of their conversation, connected
with old remembrances, that for some time they were not aware
that the storm had altogether subsided. It was now a beautiful
calm, and soft breezes stole in at the opened window. Hans walked
forth to the mill, and thence gazed down upon the vale. A dim
reflection of the moon, pale with weeping, as she struggled through
the clouds, to gain some of the clear azure sky, which here and
there appeared, was resting on the swollen brook. A sound from the
distance fell upon his ear. He strained his eyes, and, at length,
recognized a form on horseback entering the vale.
“Rachel, Rachel, what can it be?” and there was terror, mingled
with curiosity, in the tones. His dame suddenly appeared, but to
her it was an equal mystery; not long to remain so, however, for
speedily the horse was reined up at the foot of the mountain.
“Ho!--help!--help!” exclaimed a man’s voice.
“Nay, nay, Hans, dost see that which he carries in his arms! My
God, look there,--that pale face, lifted to the moon. He is a
murderer! He gazes on it. Well may he shudder.”
“Help, good folks,” the voice repeated, in earnest tones. “Give
assistance to a lady. Good heavens, must my Mary die and follow her
father!”
A female shriek was heard, and the face raised itself to the
horseman, and small white arms were thrown around his neck. Hans
and his wife instantly hastened down the narrow winding path which
led to the barred entrance.
“Thank heaven, and you, good friends! Bayard, do not stir, as I
descend with my sweet burthen. Dame, will you give her shelter?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Beautiful creature! she seems asleep. Yet why
should she be abroad, and in your care, on such a night?”
“You must not question me,” was the reply, “at present; shew me
the way,” and he carried his companion, as gently as he would an
infant. “God bless thee, Mary,” he frequently muttered, as he put
the small face closer to his breast, and drew his cloak around her
form.
Rachel preceded him into the warm and comfortable room, and drew
a large easy chair from its place in the corner, to the fire. He
slowly bent on his knee, and seated his burden there. Her head
fell back, but her hands still grasped those of the horseman. She
was deadly pale, and might have been thought a corpse. There was a
mingled expression of madness, sorrow, and love, on the beautiful
outlines of her face. So long had they rode in the darkness, that
she could not open her eyes when the light fell upon them, and even
her finely pencilled lashes were still and motionless. Her little
feet, raised from the floor, quivered and trembled.
The good dame bustled about, and amid all her offices of kindness,
attested by her looks that she was plunged into a mystery, from
which she had no objections, instantly, to be extricated; only
she did not, in so many words, implore help. As she removed the
wet garments from the fair stranger, she gazed anxiously upon her
companion. He was young and handsome. He was nobly attired in a
cloak of deep mourning, and as it was thrown back in his motions, a
sword, belted by his side, was seen. His locks, as the fashion of
the times required from young gallants, were long, and they curled
gracefully down his shoulders. Since he entered, his eye had never
turned from the face of his companion.
“Mary, my Mary,” he at length said, as he played with the black
ringlets on her forehead, “look upon me, Mary.”
“Father, dost thou call? I’ll soon come to thee, soon,
soon--wherever thou art. But, I must see thy face. Oh! a headless
father to come to! yet, father, I _will_ come!” and she gave a loud
shriek of madness.
“Hush, Mary,--am I not spared to thee? Cannot we travel through
life together; and if we have no home through the wide world, all
in all to each other?”
No reply was made. He cast a look of anguish towards the dame and
her husband, who had then returned from sheltering the horse.
“She understands me not. Oh! who can comfort her now?”
“She is asleep,” said the dame, “and oh! young gentleman, if, as
I believe from her words concerning a father, you have removed
her from a father’s roof, you never, never can be happy. She is,
indeed, a beautiful creature to lie in your bosom, walk by your
side, and sing to you her own sweet dreams. But does the young bird
sing any more when taken from the nest? In every look, however
fond, you will behold a silent reproof for tearing her away from
her duties to an old father, without a blessing. The husband may
give the ring, but unless the father gives his blessing, she is
cursed. Oh, must that young head bow before a father’s curse? Look
at her slumbers, they ought to have been beneath the roof of her
own home. She might have perished in this awful night, and murder
had been added to your crime. Take her back to a father’s arms.”
“A father!” was the sorrowful reply. “She has no father; nor can
I as yet, claim over her the protection of a husband. Her father
perished, yesterday, by the order of a tyrant king, under the
false evidence of the governor of your castle. I had endeavoured
to convey her away from the scenes of her grief, and had engaged
a boat at Lancaster. But I dared not venture my precious freight
on such an awful night, and I have wandered, I know not whither.
Providence has brought me here to kind friends.”
“Young gentleman,” replied Hans, while tears were trickling freely
down his withered cheeks, “God will reward thee for thy care and
love to the orphan one. But whither would you bear her? Here she
may find a home, until happier days come, for I know that you will
seek the wars. She cannot depart at present.”
“No, no,” added the dame, “you must agree to leave her, and I shall
be a careful and affectionate mother, though an humble one.”
“Thanks, my good friends, both from the dead and the living! I
could not have hoped that so secure a home was awaiting her. O
nourish her for my sake, and when she speaks of her father, mention
my name, Henry Montressor, and assure her, that he will be father,
husband, all! I must leave her this moment. Should she awake, we
could never part. There is a purse of gold. Use it freely.”
“Not for ourselves,” replied the generous miller. “Although she
be of gentle blood, we make her our child. Her sorrows will be
lightened in our home, in this peaceful retreat.”
“Now,” said Montressor, and he gently disengaged his hands from
the grasp of his sleeping companion. He softly kissed her lips. He
started up, dreading that the tear which had fallen on her cheek,
would awake her. He raised his hands to heaven.