Part 15

‘Cœur De Lion, honoured your ancestor by marks of his favour, and once embraced him in the royal tent, after a victory, in which De Norris had distinguished himself. Four years he had been absent, but Magdalene forgot him not, and as every palmer appeared at the hall, she kindly led him into her own bower, expecting to hear of the Holy Land, and her lover. She became sad, and pale, spoke of none but William, and of nothing but his return.

‘One evening towards sunset, the family banner was suddenly raised, for news was afloat that De Norris had returned, and was on his way to the hall with a bride! Magdalene heard it, and from that very moment became a maniac. She rushed out to meet him, among the retainers.

‘Through the shady wood she beheld De Norris approaching. Banners were floating over his head; and by his side rode a beautiful lady, in white bridal robes. They were conversing together, yet was the knight’s cheek deadly pale, and his lips quivered, as he cast furtive glances around, which told that he expected to meet One whom he had forsaken. But trees concealed her. To change his emotions, he dashed the spurs into his furious steed, in order that his spirit might be chafed in curbing it, when a loud shriek was given, and the horse plunged madly on. A rush was made to the place by his immediate attendants; and on looking back De Norris saw his own Magdalene prostrate and mangled. He leaped down; a shudder of despair and frenzy passed over his whole frame, and he flung himself beside her. He called her by her name, kissed the bloody brow, and threw back her disordered tresses.

‘“My own Magdalene, forgive me; still am I thine!”

‘Her eyes opened upon him. A convulsive heave of her panting breast, a sudden grasp of her false lover’s hand, and then a wring of bodily torture followed. The cold sweat of death was already upon these beautiful features. They were not in the least distorted. The hoofs of the horse had left their mark on the neck and bosom torn and bloody! She cast one look upon him, raised her head, and faintly muttered,

‘“William--am I faithful? Tell me so.”

‘She heard not the mad reply, and De Norris spoke to the dead!

‘His bride had fainted, and was, forthwith, carried to the hall. Hours had passed, and the retainers dared not approach their lord. But those stationed at the porch, at length beheld him approach, with the shattered corpse of Magdalene in his arms.

‘“My bridal couch! Shew me the way. Dost hear me, knave. Oh no, what sorry attendants on hymeneal delights!”

‘His bride met him. She kissed the cold features of the dead, and forgave the living. William knelt at the feet of his wife, and sought pardon for his treachery.

‘Again there were sounds of revelry, and by all, save the bridegroom, poor Magdalene was forgotten! To a late hour the banquet and the dance inspired them with pleasure, and wine and song made them gay and merry.

‘De Norris and his bride retired to their apartment. The tapers were extinguished, when a dim and beauteous light filled the room, and Magdalene stood at the foot of their couch, attired in the same dress as when William parted from her for the Holy Land. She stood, her fair hands clasped together, as if earnestly imploring them for some favour. Her air was slightly reproachful; but deep, unending love was expressed. De Norris, in tones of horror, addressed her,--

‘“Spirit of my Magdalene, why tormentest thou me and my innocent bride? I have been faithless, but she saved my life, and how could I repay her kindness, but with my heart’s love! Still Magdelene I have not forgotten you--nor can I ever!”

‘“William,” a low and sweet voice uttered, and De Norris felt a cold, yet loving kiss, upon his trembling lips--“William, grant me but one favour, and I will bless you both. My portrait, which hangs in the gallery, take it down, and every night when you retire to rest, oh! lay it between you! Do this William, and I am yours in the other world!”

‘He started from the couch, and sought the gallery. A strange light glowed on the portrait. He knelt, and prayed to heaven. Deep peace descended upon his troubled mind, and he arose, calm and happy. He took the portrait down, kissed the mimic lips, and then sought his bridal chamber. Magdalene’s request was complied with most devoutly, and they were happy; but they did not forget Magdalene. The retainers affirmed that they had seen her wandering through the wood, and singing, as in other days, when De Norris was by her side. Her light step was occasionally recognized, ascending the corridor, and dancing in her own apartment.

‘De Norris, to perform fitting penance for his treachery, erected a Cross, at the eastern gate of Wigan, where Magdalene had often sat, and there he paid his stated pilgrimages. That, my children, is the portrait: the light over the features seems prophetic!’

Lady Mabel shuddered at the tale, and some dark forebodings crept over her soul. Yet these were not fears lest Sir William Bradshaigh should prove false; something more criminal on her part, which she dared not think of.

They left the gallery, and once more entered into the mirth of the banqueting scene.

* * * * *

Ten years have passed; and in that epoch, what changes visit man! Wisely did the ancient dramatists give to tragedy, the unity of time, the briefness of a day; to denote that a few hours are sufficient for the developement of awful, and unexpected consequences! How much more will the lapse of ten years mark the mutability of every lot, but that of the dead; and the altered condition of every home but the grave! Time decays not; it is only man. Speak of “Old Father Time:”--but is his step more sober, than when he rode over the unformed chaos of earth’s materials, or flew over the fragrant shade of Paradise? Does his pulse beat more slowly? Do moments become days; or days, years?

Ten years have elapsed, and Lady Mabel had arisen early. She sat alone in a room, which might have been more appropriately called a cell. Grief had anticipated the silvery touch of time, and grey hairs were visible amidst her raven locks. Yet, there was the same sweet and majestic countenance as before. Bathe the human countenance in heaven’s own dew, or in the gentle and clear stream, and it will beam joyfully; but bathe it in the heart’s tears, and it beams so sweetly! She counted her beads, and then looked up for pardon, as fondly and anxiously as a wife numbers the minutes before her lord’s return. She heeded not the fragrance which stole in at the small casement; it neither assisted nor marred her devotions. The sun was bright, and joyous, still she turned not her pale face to its cheering influence. She laid aside her rosary, and sat like a statue of sorrowful thought, if statues can be stamped with such an expression. At length she slowly arose and looked out of the casement into the deep wood, and sighed. Overpowered by disagreeable reflections, she wished to fly from the place, where she had no other view. But the door refused to give way to her repeated attempts. It was early noon, and all the day, so long and weary, must she remain there! She clasped her hands together, and bitterly exclaimed, whilst she gasped for breath, at the discovery,

“Gracious heaven! why, am I then a prisoner, and in mine own mansion! Ha! the very banner of my family waves over this tower, proudly; and yet I, the mistress of Haigh, must be confined, and denied the privilege of the meanest servant! It is but just, though I deserve it not from Sir Osmund. But hush, I hear footsteps. My soul, rise brave within me, and tell the usurper what he is, although he may be my--husband,” and she raised an hysterical laugh at the word, and drew herself proudly up.

A hasty scuffle was made in the passage, and an angry voice was heard; it was Sir Osmund Neville’s.

“Dost hear me, boy! Back to thy crib! Dost wish to suck thy dam--the wolf? Back--” and a heavy stroke enforced the words. But no cry of pain was raised; it might have fallen on the wall, but for the loud laugh of joy, raised by the tormentor. The scuffle continued, when a weak, but firm voice was heard--

“Strike on, Sir Osmund; strike hard. I care not, for I _will_ see my mother! This is a Bradshaigh’s resolution!”

“A Bradshaigh!” was the reply, “I have put horns upon the noble head of the family, and have written Sir William a cuckold, by marrying Mab!”

“Hold,--not a word,” returned the boy, in tones fierce and daring, “a few years make me a knight, and then chastisement for the fat and cowardly Welsh! Stand back, Sir Osmund, and let me see my mother.”

The voice had gradually heightened until all the boy had vanished, and the accents sounded manly and defying.

Lady Mabel shrieked, and exclaimed--

“My brave boy, the son of his father! Heaven bless and protect him, to plead my cause, in fitting time and mode, and assert his own rights!”

But the voice of the knight became louder and louder,

“Boy, minion! son of an ape! whose father pretended to bear the cross, when he should have hung for his villanies, on the highest in England! Go to my groom, and learn thy duty to my horse. He reports to me that you are refractory. Well, your wages are due. Take that, and that, and that,” and thrice the lash fell fiercely on the noble boy. “Well” he resumed, “dost hear thy mother’s voice? You know a mother’s shriek; that is her only tone! Oh fond fool! Well, you wish to see your mother, fillial fool: my strokes have given you a prettier face than a father’s art could patch up. Come beautiful child, and shew yourself to the proud gaze of a mother, on your cowardly father’s birthday.”

“Cowardly! He would have driven you, Sir Osmund, from this nest. Cowardly!”

The door was burst open, and Lady Mabel beheld her eldest son (a youth of fifteen) dragged in by the Welsh knight, her husband; his face was bloody, and there were marks of a livid hue on his cheeks and neck.

“Mother,” exclaimed the knight, laughing at his 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.”