Part 8

She, poor girl, had passed by no means a happy time in her convent, where the good nuns devoutly prayed for the Lancastrians, and especially for her worthy father, upon every possible opportunity, and where she never had a chance of hearing any news of her lover, or of saying a kind word for him or any other of his party. At last, one day, the lady superior informed her with an air of triumph that news had come of the defeat of St. Aunay’s people by her father, and that the Count had been killed in the battle. The poor girl turned deadly pale, and swooned away at this intelligence. Fortunately for her, the Lady Superior, being a person of extraordinary intelligence, knew at once that such a result must certainly have been produced by Mathilde’s alarm for her father’s safety, and gratitude for his success. Having therefore taken the usual means to recover her from her fainting fit, the good lady loudly praised her filial affection, and held her up to the rest of the sisterhood as an example worthy of imitation, Mathilde thought it best to receive these compliments without taking any steps to alter the opinion of her worthy relative, but her suspense and anxiety were very {111}great, and all the more so from the fact that the difficulty of obtaining news of an authentic character was so considerable, that in all probability it would be weeks, and perhaps months, before she learned for certain whether her beloved Horace was alive or dead.

Days rolled on--days of miserable uncertainty, which was scarcely removed by a missive from her noble sire, which informed her indeed of the triumph of his arms, but at the same time only casually mentioned that the head of the rival house of St. Aunay had received a blow from which he would never recover. Now, it was obvious that this might be interpreted in two ways--either that the young Count had been grievously wounded in body, or that the fortunes of his house had been seriously injured. The latter was undoubtedly the case; but was the former also true? In this state of things uncertainty became madness, and Mathilde felt herself almost driven to desperation. This, however, being a condition of mind hardly suitable to a Norman lady of rank, she determined not to give way to it, but to take measures to relieve her anxiety. She resolved that she would, if possible, leave the convent and obtain, somehow or other, tidings of the being whom she so tenderly loved. It was not, however, in those days, a very easy thing to leave convents just when you pleased. If you were rich and well born, you could enter these institutions with but little difficulty; but quitting them was a different question altogether. Nor do I believe Mathilde would have accomplished her purpose had she not chanced to have a great friend in a worthy person who carried on the trade of a washerwoman in the town, and was fortunate enough to have secured the convent {112}custom. Being devoted to the Guerre-à-mort family, and especially so to the young Baroness, this worthy woman agreed to smuggle her out of the convent in a large basket of dirty linen, in which pleasant manner she successfully carried out her project.

Once free, the question which Mathilde naturally had to consider was, what should she do next? She had forgotten to settle this before leaving her late abode, and yet it was a question which must certainly be settled without delay. The poor washerwoman, who had incurred great peril by assisting the escape of an inmate of a religious house, dared not keep her a moment longer than she could avoid, and there was no one in the town to whom she could trust herself. Under these circumstances she thought that the best thing to be done was to wander forth into the country, and this she accordingly did, having made such alterations in her dress as appeared necessary to prevent her being recognised as something different from the peasant woman for whom she wished to pass. The police were not very efficient in those days, and there were no detectives to speak of, so that she was not likely to be discovered by such agency. Newspapers also had not yet begun, and the advertisement system was unknown; otherwise her escape might have been attended with greater difficulties than was actually the case. As it was, she walked away from Reading without anybody taking the slightest notice of her, and wandered for many miles perfectly unmolested.

At last, as luck would have it, she reached a large farmhouse, and as she had by this time become weary and hungry, she followed her natural instincts, knocked at {113}the door, and asked for victuals and leave to rest herself. It was an old woman who opened the door, whose husband was the occupier of the farm, and being kindly-disposed people, they granted Mathilde’s request, allowed her to sit down in the kitchen, and gave her a bowl of milk and a large piece of brown bread, which she gratefully devoured, and felt much the better for it. Then the old couple began to question her about her condition and ways of life, and when she had invented some tale about having seen better days, and being driven by misfortune to seek a living where she could get it, they expressed great pity, and professed themselves very willing to assist her in any manner within their power. True, they had not much to offer; but the boy who kept the pigs had lately gone off to the wars, and if pig-keeping was not beyond her, why, the place was very much at her service.

Now, if there was anything which Mathilde disliked, it was a pig. The greediness and dirtiness of the animal she deemed objectionable, and extended her dislike to it even when cooked and salted. She never touched roast pork, avoided it all the more when boiled, abhorred sausages, and looked the other way when anybody offered her bacon. But, having no very definite idea as to where she could go to if she left the farm, and thinking that, at all events, it might serve her as a temporary home until something better should turn up, she determined upon accepting the generous offer of the worthy couple, and expressed her gratitude in terms which increased the favourable opinion they had already formed of her manners and character.

That night she slept beneath their hospitable roof, and {114}next morning her duties were pointed out to her, and she wandered forth upon the side of the hill near the farm, in close attendance upon a herd of pigs, to watch whom would be her daily duty. Although Mathilde’s objection to the creatures may have been foolish and unreasonable, it will probably be conceded that the pig is not an animal which the majority of mankind would choose as a special pet or favourite; and to a person nurtured in the luxurious habits of a baronial castle, and trained in the intellectual refinement of conventual life, the occupation of keeping pigs on the side of a hill could hardly ever be congenial. It is, therefore, not surprising that Mathilde found it first monotonous, secondly tiresome, thirdly exceedingly disagreeable. She would sit for hours together, grasping in both hands her pig-driving stick, and musing upon things far removed from considerations of pigs or pork.

At nights she would return to the farmhouse, heavy and dispirited, so that the old farmer and his wife would rally her on her dejected appearance, and declare to each other that she must either be in love, or have committed some offence over which she now brooded with remorse. Yet her youth appeared to contradict the probability of the latter supposition, and she looked them both so straight in the face when she spoke, that the old man remarked that no one who did _that_ could be guilty of anything serious.

Meanwhile, it may be supposed that the Baron was not very well pleased when the news reached him that his daughter had disappeared. He hurried off at once to the convent, and refused for some time to believe that it {115}could really be the case. If he had lived a little later there would have been plenty of people to suggest to him that Mathilde’s disappearance was only an invention of the Lady Superior’s, and that the poor girl was certainly either bricked up alive, or immersed in some dungeon below the convent.

As it was, however, that age being comparatively ignorant, the Baron was told the simple truth, and actually believed it. His daughter had disappeared, and no one was more distressed thereat than the Lady Superior herself. The discipline of her convent was so good, and the sisterhood were all so much attached to her, that it was with difficulty that she could {116}bring herself to believe that any of them had assisted the runaway to escape; and as to the washerwoman, no thought of her connivance ever entered the Lady Superior’s head. Had it done so, indeed, she would never have believed that a daughter of the noble house of Guerre-à-mort would have so far demeaned herself as to hide in a box of dirty clothes, or wander forth, alone and unattended, into the country. The good Lady, never having admitted the god of love into her well-regulated breast, did not know his powers, which experience has proved to be such as are able to overcome all considerations of rank and dignity, and occasionally to make people do things even more strange and incongruous than hide in dirty-linen boxes or keep pigs on a hill-side.

The Baron was easily convinced that no blame was to be attributed to his saintly relative, but this by no means put an end to his trouble. His daughter had gone, and he had no clue whatever to her place of concealment. Under these circumstances, he determined that the best thing he could do was to consult the powers of magic, who in those days were the substitute for our present Rural Police, and occasionally discharged their functions in a manner equally satisfactory. Those were not days in which witches and warlocks were so common as in earlier ages; but, scattered about the country, there were a goodly number of the creatures; and the Baron had little difficulty in determining whom to consult.

The Witch of Salt Hill was a famous personage in those days. The vicinity of Eton and Slough was at that time a favourite resort of witches, who used to flit about {117}through Windsor Forest at nights, and, I suppose, preferred to have their day-residences not inconveniently remote therefrom. It is not improbable that they would have continued to frequent the neighbourhood down to the present day, but for the establishment of the sacred foundation of Eton College. There, as we know, the Provost and Fellows have, from the very earliest days of the college, been a body of men of singularly holy as well as learned reputation. Their blameless and saintly lives have driven evil far from the locality in which they dwell, and in the days of which I tell their power was already beginning to be felt. It gradually increased until, as I say, all witches and warlocks left the neighbourhood, although one of the last of them is said to have uttered a prophecy that the powers of evil should again return when Eton should be governed by others than her own children; and if what I have lately heard be true--namely, that the ancient government by Provost and Fellows has been superseded, and a new authority instituted, of which a portion is non-Etonian--it may be that the days of witchcraft will return, and the powers of darkness once more inhabit the neighbourhood. All this, however, has nothing to do with my present story.

No sooner had the Baron made up his mind that this was the best course to pursue than he rode off to Salt Hill to consult the celebrated witch whom I have mentioned. He found her with very little trouble, principally from knowing exactly where to look for her, which it is always well to ascertain, if you can, before you go in search of any one whom you wish to find. There was a very large thorn-tree, growing near a spring {118}at the side of a hill, close to which a species of rude cottage had been built into the hill, so that it had the appearance of being--and perhaps was--the way by which those who had the right, and the will to do so, could enter into the bowels of the earth. When the witch chose to come forth, she sat under the thorn-tree; at other times, those who sought her had to approach the door of the cottage, and strive to attract her attention in the best way they could.

When the Baron arrived near the place, with some dozen of retainers, he left his horse with the latter at a short distance from the spot, and walked up to the spring alone. The witch was not to be seen outside, so the anxious father strode up to the cottage, and would have knocked at the door, only there did not happen to be any. The place was built of huge stones, and the entrance was through a large hole, left open as if for a door, which had never been put up. It was as dark as pitch when you looked in, and the Baron, fearless as he was, felt a kind of unpleasant sensation stealing over him as he stood opposite the hole. However, he had come on business which could not be delayed; so, after a moment’s hesitation, he shouted out at the top of his voice, “Halloa! is any one within?” and waited for a reply. As none came, the Baron presently tried again, saying, in an equally loud voice, “I am come to consult the wise woman of Salt Hill. Is it here she dwells?” Still no answer came from within, and the haughty Norman stamped impatiently on the ground, chafing at the delay which his imperious spirit could have ill brooked at any time, but which was more than ever galling at the present moment, when his anxiety about his {119}daughter had thrown him into a state of feverish irritation and excitement. He doubted as to the next step which he should take, and was just considering whether he had omitted any form which ought to have been observed in approaching such a person as a witch, when a voice suddenly spoke from within the cottage, saying, in a somewhat gruff voice--

“Who comes to Salt Hill’s ancient dame? Tell both thine errand and thy name.”

Now the Baron was little accustomed to be addressed so unceremoniously, or to be asked his name in this manner, so his first impulse was to refuse to reply, or at least to rebuke the speaker for the incivility of the question. However, as he had come on important business, and was really desirous of obtaining information as to his beloved daughter, a moment’s reflection convinced him that it would be an act of folly on his part to fly into a passion about a trifle, or to stand upon ceremony with a power which might be able to assist him, and willing to do so or not according to his own behaviour. So he made up his mind to tell his name and errand at once, and was about to do so, when, even whilst he hesitated, the voice spoke again:--

“Our Norman lords are men of war, And love their foemen to defy; But, come he here from near or far, Who with the Guerre-à-mort can vie?”

At this unexpected mention of his own name, the Baron started back, but immediately recovering himself, he spoke in as reverential a tone as he could manage to find for the occasion. “Since thou knowest who I am, good {120}dame,” said he, “mine errand is very likely also known to thee. I want my beloved daughter, who has disappeared from the convent at Reading, and can nowhere be found. If thou canst find her for me and restore her to mine arms, I will grudge thee no reward that my castle can give.”

At these words a low sigh proceeded from the interior of the cottage, as if the offer of a bribe had given pain to its virtuous inmate, or the Baron’s request had been of an unexpected and afflicting character. However, after a few moments’ pause, the same voice again spoke:--

“Whi’st on this earth we live and move, Some sweetness in our lives is found; But what more sweet than children’s love, Our very heart-strings twined around?

Yet to each parent comes an hour (Though fain he would the same delay) When other and resistless power Will steal the youthful heart away.

And when a father here inquires For daughter lost; then, let him learn That daughters, though they love their sires, To other loves some day will turn;

Nor convent rules nor home’s own charms, Will keep them from a lover’s arms.”

As the voice uttered these strange and not altogether consoling words, the Baron stroked his beard, pulled his moustache, and racked his brains in the vain endeavour to bring to mind any lover with whom it was at all likely that his daughter should have eloped. The idea of her eloping at all was unpleasant; but those were strange times, and he knew well enough that such things had happened before, and would not improbably happen {121}again. The puzzle to him was as to the happy-individual upon whom Mathilde could possibly have placed her affections. He thought of all their acquaintances, turning over in his mind the circumstances under which his child had met them, and, one after the other, he rejected the possibility of any one of them being the favoured individual. There was Baron Eau-de-vie, who lived within calling distance, but his habits of intemperance put him at once out of the question; then the lord of Burnham was a worthy man, but being past eighty, and totally blind, was scarcely likely to have become the object of a maiden’s affection; these and various others he thought over, and remained musing for a short time before he spoke again.

Then it came into his head that perhaps it was all false after all, and the witch was either chaffing him, or knew nothing about it at all, and was making a guess at a solution of his difficulty, which, however likely to be correct as regarded the generality of young ladies, was most improbable with respect to a damsel of high degree, so well and carefully brought up as he considered his child to have been. As this thought struck him, he spoke out aloud at once. “What meanest thou?” he cried. “Men will woo, and girls will have lovers, as we all know full well; but to suppose that the young Baroness of Guerre-à-mort would fly from her convent with any lover that ever was born is an error and an insult to boot. Trifle not with me, then, whoever thou art, but tell me truly, an thou knowest, what has really become of my daughter?”

A low laugh issued from the cottage as the same voice replied to this appeal with the following words:--

“Oh mighty are Barons in battle array, Full swift are their steeds and full sharp are their swords; But the heart of a maiden must have its own way, And Love is far stronger than Barons and Lords.

He climbs the high walls of the castle so strong, In vain your defences your treasure to shield; To words which are whispered by lover’s true tongue, The peeress and peasant will equally yield.”

This {122}reply was by no means more satisfactory to the Baron than the first had been, and he saw that there was evidently but little information to be obtained from the Witch of Salt Hill. Turning away, therefore, with a moody air, he rejoined his servants, mounted his steed, and returned to his castle, very much disgusted with his want of success. Scarcely had he left the place before the head of an old woman peered forth from the entrance of the cottage, and presently the whole figure followed. It was that of an aged crone, clad in a long grey cloak, with a strange head-covering of handkerchiefs twined in the form of a turban, from which a few grey locks escaped and fluttered in the wind around the venerable head. She held in her hand a strong staff, upon which she leaned, whilst she carefully looked right and left to make sure that her visitors had all departed. As soon as she had convinced herself of this fact, she turned round again to the entrance of the cottage and called in a low voice--“It is quite safe; come forth, my lord, come forth!” Upon this there was a movement inside the place, and there presently stepped forth a young man, the pallor of whose handsome countenance betokened recent illness, and who supported himself upon a stout oaken staff. Had the Baron stood where he had been standing but a few {123}minutes before, he would scarcely have departed so easily, for in this individual he would have seen the hereditary enemy of his house standing close beside him.

In truth, Brother Rhine, the witch of Salt Hill had been, somehow or other, greatly indebted to the St. Aunay family; and after Count Horace had been wounded in his skirmish with the Baron, he had found a secure retreat in her abode at Salt Hill. There, carefully nursed, and perhaps doctored by some wondrous charms of which mortals who do not happen to be witches know nothing, the young nobleman had rapidly recovered from the effects of his wound. The country, however, was still so much under the control of the Lancastrian party, that Count Horace deemed it his wisest plan to remain for some time in concealment, especially since he found that the report of his death had evidently so far softened the Baron that he had not pursued his work of devastation as he probably would have done if he had believed that the head of the house of St. Aunay was still alive and likely to take the field against him upon a favourable opportunity. This, then, was the reason of the Count’s being in the cottage of the witch upon the very day of the Baron’s visit, and as soon as the latter had departed, the wise woman began to discuss the subject of his daughter and her supposed elopement. Whether or not her arts had enabled her to discover the direction of Mathilde’s flight, and her present place of abode, is a question we need hardly pause to ask. It is very likely that her statement to the Baron had been little more than a shrewd guess that if a young lady fled secretly from a convent, there was in all probability {124}a gentleman in the case, in which surmise she was certainly not far wrong. But if she had known where Mathilde was she certainly would not have disclosed it to the anxious father whilst St. Aunay was close by, nor indeed under any circumstances without the consent of the latter. He had informed her fully of the true state of the case between the young Baroness and himself, and after the Baron had gone off, eagerly inquired of her as to where the fair lady was really to be found.

Now witches, although exceedingly wise, cannot tell more than they know, and are not obliged to tell all that they _do_ know, except under extraordinary circumstances, therefore the witch of Salt Hill thought it best to assume a very grave and solemn air, and mysteriously assured her friend that all would be right, and that he would know everything that ought to be known as soon as the proper time for knowing it had arrived. This assurance was scarcely satisfactory to the young man, who pressed hard for an answer which should at least give him some indication of the course which he had better pursue in order to obtain tidings of the lost one. No such answer, however, could he obtain; and all that the old dame would tell him was to “keep his heart up,” and to “have patience”--two pieces of advice which are excellent in themselves, but little calculated to allay the impatience of a young man who has lost his sweetheart and wants to find her as soon as possible. Patience the young Count found it impossible to have, and, finding himself very much better the next day, he determined to set out and see what he could accomplish by his own exertions.