Part 17

He dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and without a curvet or a vault, it bounded forward. The influence of twilight is mysterious, both upon man and beast. It gives speed and energy to body as well as mind. In advance before him, there was a part of the horizon beyond the trees which seemed rings of molten gold. The sunset had not yet left it. Against its bright and radiant surface, in haste, a horse plunged on. The rider, Sir Osmund, was lashing it, for the motions of his arm were seen. The next moment it had passed. Sir William furiously spurred his steed through the dark wood, and, as a flash of his eye was shewn by some concealed light of the sky bursting upon it, he seemed the very spirit of revenge riding on the storm. His horse’s head was stretched forward, eagerly and impatiently. He himself crouched down to the very mane, and his eyes gleamed wildly upon the place where he supposed the Welsh knight would be passing.

Swiftly did the noble courser paw the leaves, strewn on the path, and soon he reached the highway, steep and rugged. The lights were now reflected from Wigan, upon the air around. He drew near the gate. The guards started up with their torches, and fixed them against the wall.

“Stay, who art thou?” and they presented their halberds, whilst they seized the reins of his horse. “Who art thou, thus pursuing Sir Osmund Neville to the devil? He’ll lead thee wrong.”

“Stay me not, I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”

They started back. They had heard of spectre horsemen, who rode so furiously, and they trembled. Taking advantage of their terror, he struck up their halberds with his sword. The gate was open, and he spurred through. A few of the townsmen who were loitering at their doors, and in the streets, shouted after him; but none attempted to prevent his course, and soon he had left Wigan far behind. The moon arose brightly; he leaned forward anxiously, and thought that he could descry the object of his pursuit, long before he heard the hoofs of the steed. But soon, he had both heard and seen him. Fleet was the Welsh knight’s courser, but that of Sir William gained at every turn in the road, and their voices were heard by each other, urging them on. Sir Osmund at an angle, avoided the highway, and leapt his horse over into the large park, at Newton. Sir William followed, and soon the sword of Bradshaigh revenged his own, and Lady Mabel’s wrongs.

The dead knight was thrown from his horse, as it dashed on. As soon as the deed of vengeance was over, Sir William’s enthusiasm began to leave him. While in the act of striking, the happiness which should now be his of once more being the lord of Haigh, the husband of his Mabel, and the father of his gallant boys, passed vividly before his mind, and forbade him to spare. But when the blow was given, so strange is man’s nature, all these prospects faded. He seemed to feel that now he had agreed to a miserable compact. He almost wished that he had never returned to claim the little which was left. Death as the arm of vengeance, could not bring him back the past, although it had taken away the cause of change. Sir Osmund Neville lay lifeless before him, never more to claim ought;--but polluting traces were upon all he held dear. As long as Mabel lived, there lived also the evidences. Nay, when she must die, and repose along with him in the tomb, calumny might say, “it was not always thus, for, side by side, when alive, she lay with another.” As long as Haigh Hall stood, the family disgrace would survive.

He writhed in agony at the thought.

“Mabel,” he exclaimed, as if she were present, “I cannot forgive thee! Thou hast been faithless. I must touch thy hand, and know that it was another’s, long after it had been pledged in love, and given in marriage. Thy couch a ruffian’s kennel! This Welsh bullock’s blood cannot wash out the stains which rest upon my name. Oh! can it even purify my Mabel’s lips? Whenever they touch mine, I feel that they have been polluted. My children alone survive for me. Ha! merciful God, thanks unto thee, thanks most sincere, that Mabel has no children, who cannot call me father. But when I call her wife, methinks this Welshman’s spirit comes between us, and breathes the same word;--and to whom will she then cling?”

The air was balmy, and the moonshine rested gently upon the green meadows where he stood, and lambs, aroused from their slumbers by the prancing of the horses, bounded past him. But they bleated not to disturb the silence, and Sir William heard the violent beating of his heart. Gradually, however, he relapsed into a state of tranquility,--not the tranquility of joy, but of deep grief. And as before, when under the excitement of intense revenge, he spurred his steed to keep pace with his fiery spirit, so now, when his feelings were different, he curbed the animal to a slow walk, as he began to return. But he soon discovered that it was jaded and weary, from the speed of the furious pursuit. He dismounted, and led it for a mile or two. In the distance, so flat was the surrounding district, then unbroken, save by towers and halls, rising aginst the pure silvery vault of the moonlight sky, he beheld lights in his own mansion at Haigh. He thought that he heard sounds of mirth borne thence on the airy breezes.

“_She_ may rejoice,” he bitterly said, “but can I? She may be merry, for I return the same, as when I departed, ten long years since; though beautiful maidens there have been, who tried my fidelity in Palestine. Ah! this night has made me an old man! Would that my days had been spent amidst the holy tombs at Jerusalem, and I might there have prayed for Mabel, my Mabel, all ignorant of her frailty. But I must remount my steed. Poor Mabel, she has done penance for me, and cannot that atone? Forgive her? Yes, and she shall receive my blessing in a few minutes.”

He vaulted upon his horse, but in vain did he spur and lash. The animal staggered, and but for great caution, would have fallen. He again dismounted, and slowly led it to Wigan. The lights in the town were extinguished. He passed the church. He stood, for a moment, to gaze upon the venerable structure. The clock was striking the hour of one, and within the low and grey cloisters, which are now destroyed, a late vesper was tuned. The notes seemed to be sung by some virgin-spirits. Heaven bless those whose sweet, sweet voices are heard by none else, for oh, none else can bless them; whose soft knees which a gallant husband might have gartered oft and oft, in pride and sport, bend on the cold stones, at no domestic altar, through the long night.

What a holy calm fell upon Sir William’s troubled spirit!

“Here Mabel and I may sleep peaceably together in death, if we cannot in life. God bless our union then. No blood will be the seal of the renewed covenant. If we cannot live happily now, since she has been--no, I cannot say faithless, but oh! frail, frail;--why the grave may hush our discords.”

He turned into the Hall-gate, with the purpose of leaving his horse at an hostelrie, for he knew that it could not proceed to Haigh hall forthwith. He still kept his eye upon the holy place, when he was suddenly seized by two armed men. They were the sentries of the gate.

“So, nightingale,” exclaimed the stoutest, “we have caught thee. Resist not. We have orders to bear thee to the Mayor, and, by and by, you may expect to be caged.”

“Stand back, knaves, and keep your distance. What would ye with me?”

“Aye, aye, bold enough,” was the reply. “Thou art the horseman who passed our fellows at the other gate, in pursuit of Sir Osmund Neville. They called thee a ghost. Ho, ho. But” and he brought the lamp which he carried to bear closer upon the person of Sir William; “here is blood, blood. Come in, else we strike thee to the ground.”

It was in vain, the knight saw, to remonstrate; vainer still, on account of his weakness to assault. He gave his horse to the charge of one of the guards, who soon obtained accommodation for it; and allowed himself to be conducted, without resistance, to the house of the mayor.

At that moment his worshipful worship was fast asleep, all save the nose, which buzzed as if it were filled with flies. His slumbers were so deep that his worthy rib might have been taken from his side without his knowledge, and a noted shrew given to some man. But, gentle reader, why hast thou broken into the Mayor’s house, and entered the private chamber of him and his dear spouse? Let us make a speedy retreat, else we may be tried for burglary.

The house stood solitary, and at the door two halberds were bravely stationed, either to assist or repel thieves or murderers. The guards knocked; after a short interval, voices in loud dispute, were heard, and a window on the second story was thrown up. A long bright sword, slowly peeped out of it, very politely inquiring what was wanted! A female head (the gender was known, _a priori_ by the cap on it; and _a posteriori_ by the volubility of the tongue within it) followed, and after reconnoitering for some length of time, good substantial shoulders ventured out to assist the head.

“Madam,” humbly said one of the guards, “is my Lord Mayor at liberty, to examine this man, whom he gave orders to take into custody and bring hither?”

The sword was brought into a dangerous line with the anxious inquirer’s head; but he started more at the shrill voice which greeted him.

“Impudent rascals, begone. At liberty! No,” and she exhausted a pretty good stock of abuse which she had acquired with all a woman’s skill, and expended with all a woman’s generosity.

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed another voice, without a head however, “I am at liberty.”

The sword was drawn in, and it remains a matter of doubt until this day, whether it was not called upon to exercise its functions against the last speaker. At least the noise of a considerable bustle was made, which ended in the door being opened; and Sir William, with the guards, was shewn into a room by a servant boy.

An hour had almost elapsed before the wig had been arranged, and the spectacles disposed on the frontispiece of the Mayor, so properly as to allow him to be seen. He entered with a slow step to convey notions of a solemn dignity, and a pretty strong calf was by no means a bad interpreter. After mounting the glasses on the higher regions of the head, he rubbed his eyes as hard as if they were flint, and as if he wished them to strike light, in order to enable him to see. His face was good-humoured, and had no more expression than a well-stuffed pudding. He then looked gravely upon Sir William, when the knight addressed him,

“Why am I brought here? I had no desire to be regaled with a breeze of thy far sounding nose,” (the mayor, be it observed, was snoring even then) “nor to behold thee in undress.”

The Mayor started at the sounds of the knight’s voice;

“Sir William Bradshaigh thou art. It was no ghost. I know thee well; and no wonder that thou pursued the Welsh knight. Where is he?”

Sir William slowly unsheathed his sword, all bloody.

“That is the best answer; is it not intelligible?”

The worthy Mayor held up his hands in nervous terror.

“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

“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.”