Part 14
A little before midnight, Arthur was once more in the street, on his way to the abode of his mistress. All was silent and lonely. The glare of lamps was feeble and sickly, mingling with, while yet distinguishable from, the light of the moon. The breezes blew gently, and carried perfumes, as tranquilizing as they were sweet. Few persons were abroad: and save the light dress of the unfortunate and the guilty, revealing itself occasionally, at a corner of the street, as he passed, and the song of the bachanalian, coming from cellars, and greeting him, Arthur found nothing to turn his attention from the thoughts and love which he cherished to the fair Orphan. All boyish feelings, save one, had been forgotten, and, as he trod his native town, he felt that in it he was a stranger. But the brother shared his thoughts, as well as the sister, and he wished that he had enquired of Elizabeth where his grave was, that even there he might pay an early visit, after his return, to the friend and companion of his boyhood. He reached the lane which opened into the square. It was a dark, close, and filthy way. Trees were on every side, but the leaves appeared to be beds of worms and reptiles, and a sharp breeze coming from the harbour, blew some of them against Arthur’s cheek, and they were damp and polluting to the touch.
Suddenly he heard shouts of revelry behind, and the sound of a coach starting. The whip was loudly urging on the steeds, and their hoofs clattered fast and furious. He looked back, and to his astonishment and terror, saw nothing. Still the noise came near and nearer, and at length he distinctly heard a coach dash past him. At that moment a loud shout was heard, and the whip was cracked close to his ears. The blood curdled within him. He could not be deceived. He ran on, and the nearer he came, he heard the rolling of the wheels, the pawing and breathing of the horses, the cracking of the whip, and even the oaths and tones of those who sat in it, with greater assurance. He seemed close upon it, when all at once it stopped, and then he found himself at the house of Elizabeth Woodville, and there, horrible to think, the Spectre Coach was waiting, unseen! He moved backwards and forwards, and fancied that he heard whispers near the place, and occasionally the stroke of a hoof, on the flinty road. A flavour of wine and tobacco was in the air around. In a little, the door of the house was half opened: a light and merry step was on the pavement, and instantly a loud holloo, in the tones of one, quite familiar to his ear, arose, and once more the coach dashed away. Arthur stood motionless, what could this awful prodigy mean? He looked at the door, and there stood Elizabeth! He rushed forward. Her eyes fell upon his form, enveloped in a cloak, and shrieking, she fell. He raised her from the earth, bleeding and senseless. He shouted for the domestics, and committed her to their care. He entered another room. In a short time, one of them returned, and announced that her mistress had recovered, and was desirous of speaking with him.
“My young lady,” she added “every night watches for that coach. It comes for her brother regularly, as usual. Oh! Sir, would you persuade her to retire before the hour? It renews her grief.”
Arthur started at these words: and truths of an awful nature flashed across his mind. But he heard Elizabeth’s voice, and he hurried into her apartment. She sat, reclining on a sofa; her countenance was pale; her eyes bright, but an expression of horror and wildness in them.
“Did you not, Arthur,” she exclaimed, as she wrung her hands, and with them covered her face, “did you not hear Henry’s voice, so free and merry. What an awful apparition of his last ghost! I have gazed for months, and hoped that I would see him, but in vain. The tale is one of horror, and one which I have realized.”
She paused, and leaving her seat, went to the window, and listened eagerly.
“It comes not yet--no--it is not the appointed time, and I may proceed with the relation. But for God’s sake, Arthur, if you hear a noise, if you hear the rolling of the coach, interrupt me not! I must answer his call. Nay, rise not. I am calm, dear Arthur. You knew my brother Henry--None could be more innocent and happy. But after you left us, he listened to wicked men, and imbibed their poisonous doctrines, and Henry Woodville, the beautiful and the good, became a dark infidel! In place of the Holy book, from which you read to us--was the accursed text book of the wretch, Paine. You knew that when he read, he placed a chair for me, and with his cheek against mine, invited me, laughingly, to examine whether he read correctly. One evening, out on the terrace,--thus we sat down to read, and mine eyes fell upon the words before he uttered them; “There is no God, and christianity is all priests’ fables.” I warmly told him to throw away such blasphemy. He laughed, and added that it was his bible, and that he would sell the old one for a penny! From step to step he went on, and became a drunkard and a debauchee. He was so entangled with companions, that he would not abandon their society. Still he loved me, wept as I wept, and said that he was sorry for his conduct, and then laughed like a fiend. Every night his associates came, in a coach, and took him away to their foul orgies. In the outskirts of the town,--for, Arthur, I have followed, though concealed--they lighted a fire, burned the Bible, and then drove to the haunts of depravity. Henry’s handsome form became emaciated, and almost loathsome; but I embraced him more fondly than ever. His full bright eyes were sunk and bloodshot. One night, he promised to stay with me at home, and all my hopes revived. What happy hours we spent! He led me to my apartment, and kissed me. He even implored God’s blessing upon me. I saw him kneel before his Maker. I heard him plead love for his sister, aye, and forgiveness for himself. I sank to sleep, overpowered with a delirium of joy! And yet, Arthur, he deceived me. He joined his companions, and in the coach, they repaired to a vale, and there began to make a sacrament to the devil! Prayers and praises to him were made in the midst of mirth and wine; and they literally took the cup of damnation in their hands, and quaffed it off. They invoked the enemy. The inhabitants of the suburbs were aroused from their repose by awful noises. They went to the place whence they seemed to proceed, and my brother, and two of his associates, were found dead, and horribly mangled. A black form was said to hover near them. What a corpse Henry was! And yet, I watched every minute beside it, kissed the hideous lips, until he was taken to the grave. Every night that coach comes for him as usual. It is a Phantom Coach. On a beautiful night, it has the sound of a light coach; and on a stormy one, that of a heavy coach. The first night after his funeral, it came. I started up, thinking that his associates had resolved to insult me. I rushed to the window, but saw nothing. It tarried the usual time, and then dashed away. I heard my brother’s voice distinctly! I stood for hours, unable to move,--when it was heard returning. It halted, the door opened, and a light step mounted the staircase, close by this window, and struck against Henry’s door. In mad phrenzy I followed, but saw nothing! All his associates have died; still, the Phantom Coach calls regularly upon them, and takes them to their place of rendezvous!”
She again arose, and went to the window.
The horrible tale had fallen like a nightmare upon the energies and happiness of Arthur Govenloch. He sat motionless;--when his mistress returned, and resumed the subject.
“One night--this is the anniversary of it, the first of May,--he went out early, and told me to admit him when he knocked, without delay. Long I watched. Mine eyes, or the bright moon, became pale; and, at last, I fell asleep. In the midst of happy dreams I was awoke by a loud knocking at the door. I rushed to the staircase, and, in my hurry, fell down. I could scarcely arise to open the door, but my love prevailed, and as Henry entered, he struck me! yes, struck his sister! cursed my delay, and threatened worse punishment for the next offence. This is the night when I should have been asked to watch for and admit him, and those awful words follow me! I knew that he afterwards wept over his cruelty--but these words!”
In vain did Arthur attempt to turn away her thoughts from the subject, and when he failed, he requested permission to bear her company until the morning. Often did she express a wish that she could only see the coach and her brother.
“I hear his voice, and sometimes it sounds like the tones of his boyhood, happy and free; and yet, I cannot see him!”
The night was far advanced, and they went to the window. The sky was dark and clouded. The moon could no longer be seen.
“Arthur!” Elizabeth exclaimed in a voice of terror, “I hear the coach; it dashes furiously along. Nay, do not hold me.”
The noise was distinctly heard;--it became loud and louder. Henry’s 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.
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.