Part 9

It {125}was a lovely morning, and as St. Aunay walked through the fields, he felt new life rising in his’ veins, and his whole being seemed reinvigorated by the bright sun and fresh air. He walked for miles without any very definite idea as to where he was going or what he should do, in which it will be observed he strongly resembled the condition of his beloved Mathilde. Still, disguised in the garb of a peasant, he wandered on, and towards evening reached no other place than the very farm at which the young Baroness was employed as a pig-keeper. Nor was this his only piece of good fortune, for, as luck would have it, he came upon the fair damsel herself, disconsolately sitting by the side of her pigs, and wishing herself anywhere else. This wish, as may easily be imagined, was immediately changed when she found that the strange peasant who approached was no other than her own Horace. She flew into his arms with the smallest possible delay, and he was forthwith able satisfactorily to explain to her that he was by no means dead, and almost entirely recovered from his wound.

The prospects of the two lovers did not, however, seem particularly bright even after they had thus met; and after a long discussion they could hardly make up their minds what would be the best course to pursue. Mathilde had the greatest objection to returning home, where she should hear nothing but abuse of her Horace and his family, not improbably coupled with reproaches directed against herself for having quitted the convent. To return to the latter was out of the question, and equally so to accompany the Count, who had no home to which he could take her. The only conclusion, therefore, at which {126}they found themselves able to arrive was that the lady had better continue her pig-keeping at least for a time, and that they should both wait patiently until better days. This arrangement though not exactly pleasant to either of them, seemed most expedient upon the whole, and having finally come to the determination that such was the case, they took an affectionate leave of each other, and again separated.

From that day Mathilde passed several months of weary suspense, being quite unable to content herself with the unusual pastime of looking after pigs, although she found some consolation in reading and writing--two accomplishments in which she had become tolerably perfect during her stay in the convent. Books, however, were, not in those days what they now are, and those young ladies who depend for their literary amusement upon circulating libraries and sensation novels, may thank the good fortune which decreed that they should come into the world some few centuries later than the days I speak of. Mathilde had one vast book of curious manuscript, which she had discovered in the farmhouse, and which was her constant companion. I am not sure as to the subjects of which it treated, but as it was probably of monkish compilation, it is most likely that it dealt either with the lives of saints or the theories of cookery, which were two subjects much in favour with the Eccelesiastical fraternities of that day. Whatever it was however, Mathilde made it the subject of her constant study, and varied her amusement by the use of the quill pens which she manufactured, from the good farmer’s geese. You must not ask me questions, Brother Rhine, as to the manner in which she obtained paper and {127}ink. None of these particulars have ever been handed down, and I have never cared to inquire. I can only say that in a certain noble family a huge scroll, covered with curious writing, has been long preserved, which tradition attributes to the ancestress who once kept pigs on that. Berkshire hill-side; and if the tradition is not strictly true, I would merely observe that it is just as provable as many another, upon the veracity of which the scoffer has never ventured to cast a doubt.

During this time the Baron de Guerre-à-mort was not sitting idly at home. He made every inquiry for his daughter, and was exceedingly vexed at his total want of success in discovering where she was. It is likely enough that he would have found her if she had been further off or more carefully concealed. But it may be observed as a rule which obtains pretty generally, that the things which are immediately under our noses escape our observation more than those which require a careful search. A hare sometimes squats-securely in the middle of a ploughed field whilst the sportsman is seeking her in the thick wood; the nest of the grey thrush, built in the bare cleft of a laurel-tree, often escapes the eye of the school-boy more easily than the nest more carefully hidden in the thick bushes; or, to take another comparison an elderly gentleman sometimes makes entirely ineffectual search for the spectacles which he has pushed up from his nose to his forehead, whereas, had they been hidden among papers, or left in some unusual place, he would quickly have discovered them. So it was, at any rate, that the Baron sought far and wide for his daughter without success, whilst she, poor girl, was keeping pigs on the hill-side all the time, a very {128}few miles distant from the castle of her respected parent.

The good man, however, found that before long he had other business to attend to than the agreeable occupation of daughter-hunting. The fortunes of the two great parties in the state underwent a considerable change. Instead of being any longer in the ascendant, the Lancastrians experienced heavy reverses, and those who had espoused the cause of the House of York gained ground continually on every side. In those times it was not so easy to change one’s politics or one’s party as has been the case in some later periods of the history of this country, especially if one had supported one’s opinions by the carrying of fire and sword into the territory of one’s opponents. Therefore the old Baron, who, as we have seen, had adopted this old-fashioned method of proceeding, would have found it somewhat difficult to change sides even if he had wished to do so. Nothing, however, could have been further from his intention. He believed the cause of the House of Lancaster to be just and right, and even if he had thought otherwise, I do not believe that he would ever have deserted a cause which he had once thoroughly espoused. So he remained loyal to the Lancastrian standard, and was as ready to fight for it in adversity as he had ever been when it seemed likely to triumph. The consequences, however, were not likely to be agreeable.

The Yorkists were daily gathering strength, and so devoted an adherent of the rival house could hardly escape their kind attention. Moreover, those who had seen their own homes despoiled by the Baron’s invasion were not unmindful of their oppressor when the opportunity {129}for revenge appeared to present itself. So it came about that the Baron’s position was somewhat precarious. Some of his outlying farms were plundered; his retainers, when caught singly or in small numbers, were insulted and rudely treated, and threats of something worse likely to happen occasionally reached his ears. As yet, however, no armed body of Yorkists had appeared in the neighbourhood, and the strength of his castle, as well as the number and devotion of his followers, rendered the Baron de Guerre-à-mort tolerably secure against any attack save one from a powerful and well-organized force. Still he could see the storm lowering in the distance, and gathering in strength sufficient to give him cause for uneasiness. At last it seemed ready to burst. Small bands of Yorkists had been reported as hovering about various places in the vicinity of the castle, and rumour now had it that these bands were likely to be united at Reading under the command of some leader of note, who would forthwith proceed to march through Berkshire and Buckinghamshire, putting down all those who still dared to uphold the falling fortunes of the House of Lancaster.

Up to this time the Baron had remained within his castle walls, gloomily watching the signs of the times, and only taking precautions to preserve the efficiency of his troops by constant drill, and to protect his fortress and people against possible attack. But as soon as the above-mentioned rumours became well authenticated, he bethought himself that some more active steps should be taken. If the enemy should once concentrate his forces at Reading, he would probably carry all before him, and resistance would be doubly difficult, if not impossible. {130}But if such concentration could be prevented, and the various bodies of Yorkists, who were said to be scattered over the face of the country, could be attacked and routed in detail, the tide might even yet be turned, and the drooping flag of Lancaster be once more raised as high as ever. Animated by such thoughts as these, and determined, if possible, to carry out the plan which appeared to him, and which probably was, the best under the circumstances, the Baron summoned his men, and leaving a small detachment to guard the castle, sallied forth with the intention of cutting off the advance of the Yorkists upon Reading.

It is difficult, however, for one body of men, unless greatly superior in numbers, position, and generalship, to act with success against four or five, and so it happened that before he had been many days in the field the Baron de Guerre-à-mort found that he had before him a task beyond his powers. A detachment of Yorkists was marching from Oxford, whilst at the same moment another party moved from Windsor; and from the direction of Basingstoke in one quarter, and Marlborough in another, a third and fourth body converged towards the same point. It will be easily understood that the Baron now ran no inconsiderable risk in his daring attempt. In the first place, he was by no means certain that his army was more numerous than any one of the Yorkist parties; and in the second, if he should engage and defeat one, he might have another on his flank before he was by any means ready to renew the combat. Prudence, therefore, would have seemed to dictate a retreat, unless indeed he could be sure of encountering his various enemies at the place and moment of his own choosing.

Such {131}was the state of things on one lovely day in June, when Mathilde was engaged in her usual employment, which day by day grew more irksome to her as time wore on. She was seated under a tree, shading herself from the rays of the summer sun, her pen held listlessly in her hand, her scroll and book by her side, whilst she mused on the past, made plans for the future, and forgot the present, after the custom of persons when pretty comfortably seated and rather sleepily inclined. A distant noise aroused her from her reverie after a time, and as it drew nearer and nearer she knew but too well that she heard the shouts of men engaged in battle, and that one of those struggles was taking place which at that time, alas! were but too common in unhappy England.

From the tree under which she was seated she commanded an extensive view over the plain below, and ere long she was able to discern the contending forces as they issued from a pass between the hills, one party being apparently driven before the other. In the plain they rallied, and a desperate combat appeared to be going on; then, whilst the wave of men surged to and fro, horse and foot apparently mingled in an undistinguishable mass, a third body appeared upon the scene, marching round the base of one of the hills, and joining themselves to those who had first emerged from the pass. For a time all was confusion and clamour, and, amid the dust and din, Mathilde could make out nothing as to the exact character of the combatants. Presently, however, a light breeze lifted the dust, and she had a clearer view of the sight before her eyes. The reinforcements which had just arrived had at once altered the {132}fortunes of the battle, and the party which had at first driven its opponents victoriously before it was now evidently giving way. It needed no second glance to tell which was the winning side, for the banner of the white rose floated on high, and triumphant shouts of “A York! a York!” rent the air.

Baffled and beaten, the Lancastrians vainly endeavoured to hold together; slowly but surely they gave way before the pressure of superior numbers, and it was evident that the question was now only between an orderly retreat and an utter rout. Straining her eyes to the utmost, {133}Mathilde beheld at the head of the retreating party a tall and martial figure which she recognised but too clearly. Conspicuous among the throng by his height and noble bearing, and carrying him right gallantly even when matters were going so decidedly against him, the noble old Baron little knew whose eyes were fixed upon him with eager and agonized gaze.

At that moment I doubt whether Mathilde had a thought even for the lover for whose sake she had suffered so much; her father, the fond parent who had nurtured her from earliest infancy, upon whose knees she had sat and prattled, whose eyes had never lighted on her save with glances of tender love, whose conduct towards her had been one continued indulgence from the first hour of her recollection,--the father, moreover, whom she had selfishly left to live alone and bear his solitary lot in the world without his idolised child--that father was now in peril of his life, and probably about to perish before the very eyes of his ungrateful daughter. There she saw him, the brave old man, sitting upon his charger as if he were part of the animal, dealing blows right and left with the strength and vigour of a far younger man, parrying strokes aimed with right good will at his devoted head, and ever and anon shielding from attack some wounded follower, and covering the retreat of some retiring friends. And whilst the battle raged furiously around him, ever and anon the old man raised his war-cry aloud, “A Guerre-à-mort! a Guerre-à-mort!” and at each cry it seemed as if a new spirit animated his yielding troops, and with fresh energy they rallied and made head against the superior forces of their opponents. But the fight was too unequal to last. {134}That had happened which might have been anticipated. The Baron had attacked and partially routed a Yorkist band, when another party, directed by the shouts of battle, had hastened from their line of march and arrived in time to take part in the fray, and to throw a great preponderance of numbers on the side of the cause for which they fought.

The Baron strove in vain to perform an impossibility, and to convert defeat into victory. His men fell fast by his side, and he was soon left almost alone, surrounded by the triumphant enemy. Mathilde could bear the sight no longer, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a flood of tears. But even thus the suspense was too terrible to bear. Presently, she lifted her eyes, and beheld the Lancastrians scattering in headlong flight, pursued by the triumphant partisans of the House of York. But where, oh! where was her father? She had not far to look. The old horse she knew so well lay dead upon the plain, but around him were clustered a group of men, evidently still engaged in some fierce conflict. In another moment they fell back, and she perceived a figure recumbent upon the ground, whilst a second figure stood over it, not to destroy, but to guard it from the blows of others. Could she--was it possible that she could--be mistaken? No: it was as she thought and hoped--her own Horace standing over the prostrate body of her father, was guarding his hereditary enemy from the destroying Yorkists.

Aye, so it was indeed, Brother Rhine, nor was this the first nor the last instance where love has proved stronger than hate in this curious world, and where chivalrous and valiant men have respected in others the bravery {135}which they so well knew how to practise themselves. St. Aunay was the commander of the Yorkist party who had turned the tide of that day’s battle. Recognising his ancient foe, he would no doubt have sought him out with every intention of then and there taking his revenge for the past, had it not been for the special reasons which induced him to adopt a contrary course of proceeding. He watched, with an admiration which it was impossible to withhold, the gallant behaviour of the old nobleman when fighting against fearful odds. He refrained from interference whilst it could do no good; but when he saw the Baron’s horse slain by the thrust of a pike, and its rider thrown upon the ground, he rushed forward to protect the fallen leader from those who would otherwise very speedily have disposed of him after a ruthless fashion. It was no easy or pleasant task; for the soldiery were excited by the stubborn resistance of the old Baron, and St. Aunay had to strike, strongly and fiercely, before he could rescue his foe from his own friends. He succeeded, however, and, in a few moments, the Baron, who had been partially stunned, as well by his fall, as by several blows by no means of a light character, which he had received in spite of St. Aunay’s efforts for his preservation, rose from the ground without having sustained any such vital injury as had recently appeared to be almost inevitable. Bitter, however, were his feelings when he discovered to whom it was that he owed his life; for so deeply had the family feud become engraven upon his heart, that it is almost doubtful whether he would not have preferred death, to escape therefrom by means of the aid of a St. Aunay.

There {136}was no time, however, for much to be said on either side. The Yorkists were pursuing their flying foes, and but few were left around the two noblemen, when from the hill-side, but a short distance off, they beheld a female figure hurrying towards them with eager gestures and evident excitement. Both recognised her at the same moment--both hastened to meet her--and in a brief space of time Mathilde was once more folded to her father’s heart. Horace de St. Aunay could have wished that another breast had been the resting-place, but could hardly have expected it under the peculiar circumstances. He waited patiently, therefore (having no other reasonable alternative), until the father and daughter had indulged their natural affection for each other, and had entered upon certain mutual explanations, which appeared upon the whole to be satisfactory. Then the Baron turned to him, and for some time was unable to utter a word. The struggle was severe in his heart between his natural affection for his child and his cherished hatred for the foe of his house. But, luckily for all parties, the former prevailed.

The Baron was no fool, and probably felt that if Mathilde had run away once to look for her lover, it was exceedingly likely that she might do it again. Moreover, the Lancastrian cause was now in that condition that those who still upheld it would ere long have nothing else to uphold, and, whatever might become of himself, the old Baron had no desire to see his beloved daughter dispossessed of her patrimony, and possibly driven from house and home, or reduced to that employment as a necessity which she had recently adopted as a temporary--though most uncongenial--occupation.

So, {137}like a sensible man, he allowed his reason and common sense to overcome his prejudice, and gave his consent to his daughter’s marriage with the Count of St. Aunay. He could not have done a wiser thing. The Count’s influence with the winning party in the state was naturally considerable, and was efficiently exercised in favour of his father-in-law, who was allowed to retain his castle and property, when others, less fortunate in their daughters’ marriages, lost both on account of their political opinions.

Horace and Mathilde were speedily united, and, as old story-books usually say, “they lived very happily all the rest of their lives.” It will also be doubtless satisfactory to you to know that none of the convent authorities ever discovered that the old washerwoman had had anything whatever to do with the disappearance of the young Baroness; that the farmer and his wife were liberally rewarded for their kindness to the latter; and that the followers and believers in the Witch of Salt Hill had a higher opinion than ever of her supernatural powers, since it had so plainly been proved that it was, as she had said, on account of a lover that the Baron’s daughter had left the convent. And this is the way that there came a happy termination to “The Family Feud.”

Father Thames here paused, and took a deep draught of ale; whilst he was engaged with which, his brother of the Rhine calmly and gravely put to him the singular question: “And what became of the pigs, Brother Thames?”

The potentate of our English river hastily put down his {138}glass, choked violently as he did so, and then answered with a laugh, “Confound your jokes, Brother Rhine, you made my liquor go the wrong way, which is a very unpleasant thing, let me tell you. But, after all, the rebuke was deserved, for my cross-questioning you so closely after your last legend. I own that legends are things which should be received with much faith and no questions, or the beauty of them is lost at once.”

“I quite agree with you,” responded he of the Rhine, “and it was with the object of bringing you to express your concurrence in this view that I asked the remarkably stupid question about the pigs. There are some people who always want to know a great deal more than is good for them, and who insist upon asking what became of each and every character of whom mention has been made in a legend. This is simply ridiculous, and very disagreeable to the teller of the story, who is obliged to introduce many minor characters into his tale, in order to fill up gaps, and illustrate the position of the principal personages, but who cannot be expected to know the final history and eventual fate of them all. Since, then, you agree with me, Brother Thames, I shall ask you to be good enough to listen to my next legend with a sincere determination to believe it if you can, and in any case to demand no explanation of circumstances which may seem strange, or with regard to persons who may appear to be unusual in name or character, or in both the two together.”

“I promise to do as you wish,” replied Father Thames to this request, upon which the other commenced at once as follows:--

THE GIANT BRAMBLE-BUFFER

“There {139}was once a Daddyroarer--”

“What the deuce is a Daddyroarer?” hastily interposed Father Thames.

The monarch of the Rhine gave him an indignant glance. “Is this the way you keep your promise?” he inquired, in a tone of some severity. “Another such interruption and I shall decline to continue the amusement of legend-telling. I have no objection, however, to inform you that the word Daddyroarer signifies a giant, though whence its derivation I am unable to tell you with any degree of certainty. It probably comes from two Teutonic words, but I should be sorry to attempt to give them in the original. There is something about the name, however, which conveys the idea of a giant. ‘Daddy,’ indeed, being the familiar appellation by which children occasionally designate their male parent, points, not so much to the paternal relationship of a giant with mankind, as to his size and proportions, which are as much larger than those of man as are the proportions and size of a father to those of his young children. I presume that the term ‘roarer’ is not intended to convey, as in the case of a horse, the notion of broken wind, but has rather reference to the gruff and deep-toned voice which usually characterizes the giant.