Legends of Lancashire 30

Legends of Lancashire 30

and on a stormy one, that of a heavy

coach. The first night after his funeral, it came. I started up,

thinking that his associates had resolved to insult me. I rushed to

the window, but saw nothing. It tarried the usual time, and then

dashed away. I heard my brother’s voice distinctly! I stood for

hours, unable to move,--when it was heard returning. It halted, the

door opened, and a light step mounted the staircase, close by this

window, and struck against Henry’s door. In mad phrenzy I followed,

but saw nothing! All his associates have died; still, the Phantom

Coach calls regularly upon them, and takes them to their place of

rendezvous!”

 

She again arose, and went to the window.

 

The horrible tale had fallen like a nightmare upon the energies

and happiness of Arthur Govenloch. He sat motionless;--when his

mistress returned, and resumed the subject.

 

“One night--this is the anniversary of it, the first of May,--he

went out early, and told me to admit him when he knocked, without

delay. Long I watched. Mine eyes, or the bright moon, became pale;

and, at last, I fell asleep. In the midst of happy dreams I was

awoke by a loud knocking at the door. I rushed to the staircase,

and, in my hurry, fell down. I could scarcely arise to open the

door, but my love prevailed, and as Henry entered, he struck me!

yes, struck his sister! cursed my delay, and threatened worse

punishment for the next offence. This is the night when I should

have been asked to watch for and admit him, and those awful words

follow me! I knew that he afterwards wept over his cruelty--but

these words!”

 

In vain did Arthur attempt to turn away her thoughts from the

subject, and when he failed, he requested permission to bear her

company until the morning. Often did she express a wish that she

could only see the coach and her brother.

 

“I hear his voice, and sometimes it sounds like the tones of his

boyhood, happy and free; and yet, I cannot see him!”

 

The night was far advanced, and they went to the window. The sky

was dark and clouded. The moon could no longer be seen.

 

“Arthur!” Elizabeth exclaimed in a voice of terror, “I hear the

coach; it dashes furiously along. Nay, do not hold me.”

 

The noise was distinctly heard;--it became loud and louder. Henry’s

voice was above all, laughing, shouting, cursing. It halted. A

knocking was instantly made at the house door.

 

“It is my brother; I cannot delay. Arthur, I must go alone. I will

speedily return to you. But I must admit Henry. Will he give me

worse than before?”

 

She rushed out of the door as the knocking was redoubled. The door

opened, and the next moment a step was mounting the stairs. Arthur

tarried for a time; still, Elizabeth came not. He snatched a light,

and when he reached the door, there she was lying with her head on

the pavement,--dead! dead!

 

The Spectre Coach of the Infidels, at the hour of midnight,

stopping at their old abodes, is said still to be heard. Coachmen

have anxiously looked before them, expecting to come into collision

with it. Dogs commence to howl, and yet are frightened; and many a

traveller has heard, but none ever seen “the Spectre Coach.”

 

 

 

 

THE CROSS AND LADY MABEL.

 

[Illustration]

 

THE CHRONICLER, IN THE FOLLOWING LEGEND, ADHERES TO THE STATEMENTS

OF THE GENEALOGICAL ROLL OF THE BRADSHAIGH FAMILY, IN REFERENCE TO

THE KNIGHTLY HERO’S EXPEDITION TO THE HOLY LAND.

 

 

The banner was waving over the goodly mansion of Haigh Hall, on the

twenty-sixth anniversary of Sir William Bradshaigh’s birth, and all

the retainers, from the scullion to the seneschal were boisterously

enjoying themselves, in a hearty eating, drinking, and laughing. On

every eminence in view, small flags had been placed, and some of

these sported their colours on the loftiest trees, in the adjoining

woods. But, although much good cheer had been placed near these,

to attract a small company, they were left solitary, as tokens to

strangers, for all the knight’s men were assembled at the porch of

the Hall, quaffing the foaming goblet to his honour and prosperity,

and to his success in his intended expedition as a Crusader. With

earliest morn the appropriate demonstrations had commenced, but

they became more ardent and joyous towards sunset. A chair was then

placed on the threshold, for the minstrel whose chivalrous strains

were to be heard by all, in praise of his noble master. One burst

of merry applause greeted him, as the aged man took his seat, and

as he gently touched the strings to Sir William’s glory, within,

the fair bosom of Lady Mabel, heaved with answering sympathy. She

embraced her children, and looking upwards, prayed that they might

be good, and brave as their father; and when Sir William joined

her, she added, as handsome and beautiful.

 

Sir William Bradshaigh, in person, enjoyed the aristocracy of

nature, as well as of birth. His stature was not tall, neither was

his frame muscular; yet not a limb, not a feature, seemed out of

keeping with the impress of his mind. His was the true nobility

of face and form, and as he appeared sheathed in armour, with the

cross embroidered on the scarf over his breast, he brought along

with him ideas of the mournful and weeping spirit of Palestine,

trusting to his arm for relief, from the scourge and the tread of

the daring Infidel. On gazing at some persons, you feel convinced

that they are entirely fitted by nature for that which has given

them fame. The very hands, as well as the features, seem to be

stamped with it, and the soul, visibly looks through every part

and limb. Thus was it with Sir William. You could not doubt, on

beholding his form, that he was a knight of unequalled bravery

and skill, although young and slender. The small white hands were

locked in those of his beautiful Mabel, but they seemed as well

fitted for grasping the sword.

 

Well might Lady Mabel be his match. The faultless symmetry of her

majestic person, added to her raven tresses, and brightly glowing

eye, were for the wife, a perfect counterpart to the husband.

A meek beauty rested upon her countenance, which every thought

and feeling, gently disturbed. She was naturally pale, and this

circumstance tended to make her features better interpreters of

her mind; for colour, although it be the most pure and delicate,

frequently hides under its roses the play and change of the

passions. She was now emerging from the sprightliness of the

maiden, into the holy serenity of the matron; and as the mother of

his babes, the knight loved her more than as his young mistress.

Her locks were braided simply over her brow.

 

“My own Mabel,” said the knight, “where are thy jewels? Shame on

their beauties that they dread a comparison with the light of those

eyes!”

 

“Sir William,” answered the lady with a sigh, “would you have a

widow deck herself with the mimicry of gladness?”

 

“Yes, love, in order that she may wile another to take away the

dark veil of her loneliness.”

 

“Another,” shrieked Mabel faintly. “Cruel.”

 

“Nay,” returned Sir William, “you are not yet a widow;--you are my

wife. Nor will I doubt your constancy when I am gone to the wars.

These” embracing his children as he spoke, “are the pledges of your

faith. But, Mabel, where are the jewels for your forehead? ’Tis

meet that for the banquet you appear among the other ladies as the

most beautiful.”

 

“Give my brow a few kisses,” replied his lady, as she threw her

arms around his neck, “these Sir William, are my jewels.”

 

“But for thine absence, love, I would have been completely happy

in Palestine, with all the dreams of its former loveliness and

greatness haunting me, beside its still fountains and on its

heavenly hills. Could the breezes of the Holy Land but fan my

Mabel’s cheek as they will do mine, there I could die. But we must

go forth, and greet our trusty retainers. Ho! hither, page, and

lead my children!”

 

Lady Mabel took her husband’s arm, and the page followed with the

children. She appeared fonder than ever, and frequently gazed on

the Cross which Sir William wore, with something of pride, but more

of sorrow; and at this, many of the retainers were for a moment

silent, and passed a rough hand across their eyes, to wipe away the

tears which had gathered there. But the minstrel’s lay became loud

and thrilling, and they rushed forward, with less respect than

otherwise, and took their master by the hand. He warmly responded

to this __EXPRESSION__ of their attachment. He passed them and wandered

on to the highest peak on the range of elevated ground adjoining.

Nature, too, kept her holiday, and revelled in smiles. She was

attired in her richest dress of summer. Her music, filling the

air, was sweet, and echoed from her very throne, amidst the depths

of the grove and vale; and her breath was bland. Before them, and

around them were deep glens, and towering mountains in miniature.

Ay, there seemed to be the miniature of the world itself; for the

prospect of many counties was stretched out, and the far off sea,

with its blue waves, leaping to the sun.

 

But night’s curtain fell over the scene, and to it Sir William

then pronounced his farewell, and to ease his heart lifted up his

youngest child in his arms, and fondled him playfully.

 

All was song and mirth in the evening banquet. The minstrel assayed

his art, and ladies fair crowded around him, whilst lords gazed

upon their wine-cups unemptied, as they listened to his strains.

He played of the dark eyes, gazing in the pale light of the moon

at the lattice, for the expected lover. But as he met the downcast

and pensive eye of Lady Mabel, he changed his notes, and the harp

tuned the following ditty to her praise.

 

Age, quit the strings: a vesper song--all sweet,

Not for the dance, let moonlight’s spirits wake,

With wild, yet modest touch, from snowy feet,

As they fly o’er, with music-shells the lake

Has coloured and attuned, to Mabel fair,

Sounding of happiness beyond all care--

And let the song be given,

To pure Reserve--the child of heaven.

 

In the gay hall of dazzling light,

There is a seat apart from all;

Where radiance, soothing, yet not bright,

And music soft, so gently fall;--

It is the calm recess:--no nerve

Is needed for the light, and sound;

Such is to love--the heart’s reserve,

Where truth and peace are ever found.