Legends of Lancashire 31

Legends of Lancashire 31

Reserve is the heart’s own home,

Where music oft for One has swelled,

Where the heaving bosom breathes “come,”

Although the fair hand was with-held

From a stranger: it is the veil

Over Love’s holy temple, I wist,

Through which no bright eyes look a Hail

To any save to the high-priest!

 

It gives a dole to the pilgrim lone,

And to him a threshold seat;

It turns an ear to his troubled moan,

And stoops to bathe his aching feet!

But its sanctuary is for one,

For one! Sir William of Haigh Hall,

And Mabel there leads you alone!

Gentles, God’s blessing on you all.

 

Mabel arose from her seat, and with her own hands poured forth a

cup of the rosy wine, and placed it in the hands of the minstrel,

as his grateful reward. Meanwhile, the proud dame, Sir William’s

mother, had entered. She motioned him out of the room. He followed

her into the large winding gallery. The window at the eastern

extremity, seemed of the moonshine, and the rays mingled with

the dim light of the tapers. There were all the portraits of his

ancestors, and their faces were turned upon their youthful heir.

 

“My son,” said the dame, “thou hast now to leave a mother, a wife,

and a home, for the Holy Land. Gaze upon these faces of your race,

whilst I recount the deeds for which they have been distinguished.

Catch courage, from the tale, and let a mother rejoice in her boy.”

 

“Mother,” the knight replied, “I am my father’s son, and I wear my

father’s sword; but more, I am Sir William Bradshaigh! I need not

to seek, at present, courage from the valour of my forefathers. I

have long known their faces, and can sum up their achievements. I

have played here in boyhood, but, in their hallowed presence, never

could I play with any thing save a sword. From all their stern

array of features, I have turned to look upon that sweet lady, who,

so I have heard the worthy friar say, was not one of our race.”

 

“My son, wouldst thou know her history? But see here, Mabel has

followed thee. God bless ye both, my children.”

 

“Sir William, why hast thou uncourteously left the feast and me?”

asked Mabel, in a fond and chiding tone.

 

“Hush, Mabel, our mother is to rehearse the fate of the beautiful

girl.”

 

He led them to the middle of the gallery, and pointed to the

portrait of a young female. There was nothing but enthusiastic

beauty and love, beaming on her countenance, and her bosom was

exposed, after the fashion of the times. Her brow was noble and

open, and although the ringlets were thrown back all around, there

was nothing stern; all was so gentle and sweet. Her lips seemed

to open a promised heaven, and the moonbeams flickered around and

gleamed upon them like the fiery cherubim at the gates of Paradise,

to guard the sweet fruit of the knowledge of good and love. There

was a mingled __EXPRESSION__ of archness and simplicity, and the bright

head seemed to toss itself in coquetry, and deny what the loving

eyes confessed. A light drapery covered the arms, to the elbow, and

the under part was naked, whilst the pretty fingers might have been

thought to be playing with the rays, which danced upon the canvass.

Oh! Beauty! how powerful are thy charms, even by the painter’s art!

Whilst living in thyself, thou commandest the worship of genius,

wisdom, and valour, and all their trophies are laid at thy feet.

Their hand is placed upon the sounding harp, their hand turns over

the records of old sages, their hand is died in blood, only to win

a smile from thee! The Angel of death, is heaven’s painter of thee,

and he sketches thine undecaying form, in the light of our dreams.

And even in the illusion of a noble art, for ages thou receivest

homage, as free from hypocrisy, as from sinister motives, and in

the sigh and the tear, accompanying our glance, thy memory speaks

and moves!

 

Sir William and his lady, could have knelt and prayed for happiness

on the fate of that young female, as if it were yet in the future.

Their mother, after a short pause, seated herself opposite, and

began the tale.

 

‘When the lion-hearted Richard of England went to the Holy Land,

not a braver and more handsome knight was in his train, than the

youthful De Norris, your grandsire, Mabel. He was accomplished

in all the arts of peace and war. His trophy of the one, is that

Paynim standard, which hangs on the wall in decayed tatters; and of

the other, the love and the heart of that beautiful girl, Magdalene

Montfort, his young cousin.

 

‘Her residence, since her orphan childhood, had been the hall, and

William De Norris, her sole companion. Often have they wandered

together in this gallery, by moonlight, and the ghosts of the

warriors of her race, could not frighten their young love.’

 

“Mabel,” softly whispered Sir William Bradshaigh to his lady, “is

not this our own tale?”

 

The dame proceeded, ‘He took her to the neighbouring woods, and

there they passed whole days--he the shepherd, and she the rustic

maid. She often sat on his knee, while he combed her long golden

locks. But the crusade inspired in De Norris’s mind, thoughts and

desires for glory. He dreamt of nothing but the lakes and holy

mountains of Palestine, where the daring Richard should pitch his

camp, afterwards to become his court. The cross was ever before

him, and a warrior’s arms were glorious to behold, dipped in the

Saviour’s blood, and consecrated to his cause. Was the licentious

prophet to hold the inheritance of the meek and lowly Jesus? In

vain did Magdalene weep, and by tears and caresses, entreat her

William to stay in his father’s halls. He vowed that the cross must

seal their marriage, and that he would be faithful to his love.

Yet, proud was she, as the morn of parting came, and De Norris

mounted his fiery charger. He was so beautiful and gallant! He had

pronounced the tender farewell, as the trumpets sounded, and his

followers rallied around him. But a sudden thought brightened over

his features, and he spurred back to Magdalene, and sprang from

his steed.

 

‘“My own Magdalene, give me thy portrait that hangs in my

apartment, that in my tent, before and after our engagements, I may

think of thee, and implore thy blessing.”

 

‘“Nay, William De Norris,” she replied, with a feint sigh, “should

you be faithless, how would that silent resemblance, recall to thee

our past vows, and bitterly chide thee for thy falseness. I would

not even then, give thee uneasiness. But William, think of me as

fondly, as I will of you! Farewell!” and she threw her arms around

him, and wept on his neck.

 

‘Cœur De Lion, honoured your ancestor by marks of his favour, and

once embraced him in the royal tent, after a victory, in which De

Norris had distinguished himself. Four years he had been absent,

but Magdalene forgot him not, and as every palmer appeared at the

hall, she kindly led him into her own bower, expecting to hear of

the Holy Land, and her lover. She became sad, and pale, spoke of

none but William, and of nothing but his return.

 

‘One evening towards sunset, the family banner was suddenly raised,

for news was afloat that De Norris had returned, and was on his

way to the hall with a bride! Magdalene heard it, and from that

very moment became a maniac. She rushed out to meet him, among the

retainers.

 

‘Through the shady wood she beheld De Norris approaching. Banners

were floating over his head; and by his side rode a beautiful

lady, in white bridal robes. They were conversing together, yet

was the knight’s cheek deadly pale, and his lips quivered, as he

cast furtive glances around, which told that he expected to meet

One whom he had forsaken. But trees concealed her. To change his

emotions, he dashed the spurs into his furious steed, in order that

his spirit might be chafed in curbing it, when a loud shriek was

given, and the horse plunged madly on. A rush was made to the place

by his immediate attendants; and on looking back De Norris saw his

own Magdalene prostrate and mangled. He leaped down; a shudder

of despair and frenzy passed over his whole frame, and he flung

himself beside her. He called her by her name, kissed the bloody

brow, and threw back her disordered tresses.

 

‘“My own Magdalene, forgive me; still am I thine!”

 

‘Her eyes opened upon him. A convulsive heave of her panting

breast, a sudden grasp of her false lover’s hand, and then a

wring of bodily torture followed. The cold sweat of death was

already upon these beautiful features. They were not in the least

distorted. The hoofs of the horse had left their mark on the neck

and bosom torn and bloody! She cast one look upon him, raised her

head, and faintly muttered,

 

‘“William--am I faithful? Tell me so.”

 

‘She heard not the mad reply, and De Norris spoke to the dead!

 

‘His bride had fainted, and was, forthwith, carried to the hall.

Hours had passed, and the retainers dared not approach their lord.

But those stationed at the porch, at length beheld him approach,

with the shattered corpse of Magdalene in his arms.

 

‘“My bridal couch! Shew me the way. Dost hear me, knave. Oh no,

what sorry attendants on hymeneal delights!”

 

‘His bride met him. She kissed the cold features of the dead, and

forgave the living. William knelt at the feet of his wife, and

sought pardon for his treachery.

 

‘Again there were sounds of revelry, and by all, save the

bridegroom, poor Magdalene was forgotten! To a late hour the

banquet and the dance inspired them with pleasure, and wine and

song made them gay and merry.

 

‘De Norris and his bride retired to their apartment. The tapers

were extinguished, when a dim and beauteous light filled the room,

and Magdalene stood at the foot of their couch, attired in the

same dress as when William parted from her for the Holy Land. She

stood, her fair hands clasped together, as if earnestly imploring

them for some favour. Her air was slightly reproachful; but deep,

unending love was expressed. De Norris, in tones of horror,

addressed her,--

 

‘“Spirit of my Magdalene, why tormentest thou me and my innocent

bride? I have been faithless, but she saved my life, and how could

I repay her kindness, but with my heart’s love! Still Magdelene I have not forgotten you--nor can I ever!”