Part 16

They dared not disobey; for then, every man, noble, or knight, or menial, was the priest’s retainer. The ministers of the altar were more powerful than the satellites of the throne, and beneath the single pall and crosier of the one, lurked a vengeance which could scathe and destroy the proud tiara of the other. How mysterious and yet real was the influence concealed in the slightest external of the Church!

The Welsh retainers groaned as they were compelled to rise, and proceed into the dark and cheerless apartment, which, in later times, served for a dungeon. The palmer turned the key, and fastened it to his belt.

“They are safe,” he whispered to himself. They were now met by some of Sir William’s old retainers, who bowed low to the holy man, and seemed inclined, by their looks and haltings, to ask concerning their dead lord.

Feudal times might be the times of slavery on the part of retainers, but they were those also of fidelity and strong attachment. These retainers might be treated as brutes, but if so, they were treated like dogs, and in return they yielded a service which no hire could have extorted. Their love for their lord was powerful, and yet instinctive; their happiness was genuine, and yet animal,--far from the happiness of man. Their privileges were extensive; not scullions of the kitchen, they were the genii of the old halls. Their attachment to places and domains,--was that of the dog. As they were fond of loitering in old paths, or glancing at the proud mansion, or seated at the porch, their feelings were those of that animal, licking every part of the house, and lying down on favourite spots. And when their lord departed they drooped and pined; not as men sorrowing.

These reflections might have been awakened at a sight of the old servants of the Bradshaigh family, as they gazed so anxiously and inquiringly. Go to a house where the master has been long absent. An affectionate dog answers to your knock, and whines so piteously, and looks so fondly, as if begging to know tidings of him who has gone. Such was the appearance of the aged retainers of Haigh.

The palmer blessed them, in low tones, but feelingly, and then passed on with the boys.

They crept through the entrance, and were soon threading their way through the dark labyrinth. They gained the staircase. The palmer had taken the lead, evidently familiar with the place. He paused, and listened to the gentle tread of Lady Mabel. He strained his ears, as if expecting to hear the music of the voice, as well as of the foot; not for the sake of the future, but of the past. The setting rays, rich from the golden west, were streaming brightly on a little lattice, which lighted a recess in the long gallery, and meeting those which entered by the wide casement, they threw a dull haze around. They prevented him from seeing distinctly, as he looked through it; but the fluttering of a white robe, and the soft motion of a fair hand at the further extremity could be perceived. At that moment a horse was heard approaching the hall.

A suppresed shriek arose from within.

“It is Sir Osmund,” exclaimed the boys.

“Well,” returned the palmer in firm accents, and he seemed to unbuckle some of his garments, whilst unconsciously he stamped in fury.

The boys tapped at the lattice.

“Mother, open unto us. Here is a holy priest, and he will comfort thee. He hath already blessed us, and so kindly. He hath wandered in far-off lands, and his voice speaks a foreign tale, and speaks it gently.”

Her small white hands opened the lattice.

“Stay for a moment, and the holy man shall be admitted. Long is it, since religion was allowed to enter mine apartments, to cheer my sadness; and now it has come to my cell. Cell!”

The lattice closed. The palmer stood in strange bewilderment. Her face seemed to be a vision, and her voice a song of other days, and all--not a dream. And why should _he_ think of other and former days? Have priests and palmers boyhood and youth? Are they not trees without a leaf, on which no bird of heaven alights to charm the solitude? Do they know of the earthly transports of love and hope? Beautiful is the holy Virgin--but cold and hard are the stones where they kneel to worship her. And why should England be the country to excite his feelings? He had travelled through lands more fair. Greener was the earth’s bosom, and more beautiful the sky’s face. Why should he be moved at the sorrows of the noble matron? At the same hour of twilight, when bathing his wearied feet in the little stream, afar from the glistening tents on the mountain tops, he had listened to the mournful song of the wandering Hebrew maid. He had passed by her and laid his hands upon the high and noble brow blessing her beauty and her sorrows. And why should he feel the ideal presence of romance, as he looked upon the woody hills of Haigh. From the gorgeous mosques he had beheld the Mount of Olives, and the feet of the prophet-girls dancing there, while their light scarfs were hung, floating on the trees which crowned the summit, like the garments of angels--the airy clouds.

The door was slowly opened. Lady Mabel, as they entered, greeted her boys, and kindly welcomed the holy man. As he took her extended hand, a shuddering seized him; he averted his face, and caught a glimpse of Sir Osmund dismounting, under the casement. For a few moments, overcome by some strong emotions, he leaned upon his palmer’s staff.

Meanwhile, gentle readers, be pleased to shut the door of the gallery behind you, and walk down, leaning, as gently as possible, on the Chronicler’s palsied arm. Do not extinguish the light,--else we are left in total darkness, on the dangerous corridor. Let us approach to serve the Welsh knight, who is now shouting lustily for his servants to appear, and take his horse.

“Ho! my Welshmen,” and he blew his hunting horn; but they appeared not.

“My other hounds,” he muttered, as he turned the horse, and lashed it away to bound forth at perfect liberty, “my other hounds know the horn. I shall see, presently, if these do not understand the whip.”

He entered the porch, and was there met by Parson Cliderhoe. The knight bowed reverently, and would have passed him.

“Sir Osmund Neville, will you grant me a short interview, upon a matter of importance to both of us?”

“Please your reverence,” rejoined the knight, with a mixture of humility and haughtiness--“is it to breathe a pater-noster over my hunting expedition? You cannot return thanks for my success, as I have run down nothing.”

Cliderhoe took him by the hand, and led him into a private apartment. As they entered, Sir Osmund, who was fretted by his bad luck in the chase, could ill brook the authoritative air which the parson had assumed; and when he was angry, he usually expressed himself in light blasphemy.

“Adam Cliderhoe, although your namesake Adam, was placed at the head of the creation, and had all power and authority over it, still, you have not the same, and have, therefore, no right to lead me about wherever you list. And, reverend father, (by the way, although you are sworn to celibacy, you have got, by some means or other, a very large family of children, for every one calls you father,) you, I say, have the advantage over Adam. Ah! then there were no church lands. A pretty comfortable place that paradise--but then he had to work, and it could not afford him a better fleece than a few dry leaves. Now, father, these are warm robes of yours.”

“Child, do not blaspheme. You have done very little, you know, to merit Haigh Hall, and yet you are the owner.”

“Not altogether,” returned the knight. “There is one exception. Your very large demands.”

“We’ll speak of that further, Sir Osmund. Are we safe from ears and listeners? because these do not suit secrets. Well, be seated,” and he fastened the door.

Parson Cliderhoe was then dreaded throughout all the country. By wiles and deceits he laid a firm hand upon property. But he was as intriguing as he was avaricious, and his plots had been treasonable in the highest degree. These would have involved him in utter ruin, had not gold, that potent being, redeemed him. In consideration of large sums of money, he had been released from prison, and restored to his living and life, when both had been justly forfeited.

He had lately become an inmate of Haigh Hall, and might have been considered its master. Sir Osmund Neville, it is true, could make the parson the subject of jest: but the knight, in return, was the subject of rule and command. To Lady Mabel and the boys, Cliderhoe paid no attention, either in the shape of flattery or scorn.

On securing the door, he laid aside his priestly robes, drew 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.”