Legends of Lancashire 32

Legends of Lancashire 32

‘“William,” a low and sweet voice uttered, and De Norris felt a

cold, yet loving kiss, upon his trembling lips--“William, grant me

but one favour, and I will bless you both. My portrait, which hangs

in the gallery, take it down, and every night when you retire to

rest, oh! lay it between you! Do this William, and I am yours in

the other world!”

 

‘He started from the couch, and sought the gallery. A strange light

glowed on the portrait. He knelt, and prayed to heaven. Deep peace

descended upon his troubled mind, and he arose, calm and happy.

He took the portrait down, kissed the mimic lips, and then sought

his bridal chamber. Magdalene’s request was complied with most

devoutly, and they were happy; but they did not forget Magdalene.

The retainers affirmed that they had seen her wandering through

the wood, and singing, as in other days, when De Norris was by her

side. Her light step was occasionally recognized, ascending the

corridor, and dancing in her own apartment.

 

‘De Norris, to perform fitting penance for his treachery, erected a

Cross, at the eastern gate of Wigan, where Magdalene had often sat,

and there he paid his stated pilgrimages. That, my children, is the

portrait: the light over the features seems prophetic!’

 

Lady Mabel shuddered at the tale, and some dark forebodings crept

over her soul. Yet these were not fears lest Sir William Bradshaigh

should prove false; something more criminal on her part, which she

dared not think of.

 

They left the gallery, and once more entered into the mirth of the

banqueting scene.

 

* * * * *

 

Ten years have passed; and in that epoch, what changes visit man!

Wisely did the ancient dramatists give to tragedy, the unity

of time, the briefness of a day; to denote that a few hours

are sufficient for the developement of awful, and unexpected

consequences! How much more will the lapse of ten years mark the

mutability of every lot, but that of the dead; and the altered

condition of every home but the grave! Time decays not; it is only

man. Speak of “Old Father Time:”--but is his step more sober, than

when he rode over the unformed chaos of earth’s materials, or flew

over the fragrant shade of Paradise? Does his pulse beat more

slowly? Do moments become days; or days, years?

 

Ten years have elapsed, and Lady Mabel had arisen early. She sat

alone in a room, which might have been more appropriately called

a cell. Grief had anticipated the silvery touch of time, and grey

hairs were visible amidst her raven locks. Yet, there was the

same sweet and majestic countenance as before. Bathe the human

countenance in heaven’s own dew, or in the gentle and clear stream,

and it will beam joyfully; but bathe it in the heart’s tears, and

it beams so sweetly! She counted her beads, and then looked up

for pardon, as fondly and anxiously as a wife numbers the minutes

before her lord’s return. She heeded not the fragrance which stole

in at the small casement; it neither assisted nor marred her

devotions. The sun was bright, and joyous, still she turned not her

pale face to its cheering influence. She laid aside her rosary, and

sat like a statue of sorrowful thought, if statues can be stamped

with such an __EXPRESSION__. At length she slowly arose and looked out

of the casement into the deep wood, and sighed. Overpowered by

disagreeable reflections, she wished to fly from the place, where

she had no other view. But the door refused to give way to her

repeated attempts. It was early noon, and all the day, so long and

weary, must she remain there! She clasped her hands together, and

bitterly exclaimed, whilst she gasped for breath, at the discovery,

 

“Gracious heaven! why, am I then a prisoner, and in mine own

mansion! Ha! the very banner of my family waves over this tower,

proudly; and yet I, the mistress of Haigh, must be confined, and

denied the privilege of the meanest servant! It is but just, though

I deserve it not from Sir Osmund. But hush, I hear footsteps.

My soul, rise brave within me, and tell the usurper what he is,

although he may be my--husband,” and she raised an hysterical laugh

at the word, and drew herself proudly up.

 

A hasty scuffle was made in the passage, and an angry voice was

heard; it was Sir Osmund Neville’s.

 

“Dost hear me, boy! Back to thy crib! Dost wish to suck thy

dam--the wolf? Back--” and a heavy stroke enforced the words. But

no cry of pain was raised; it might have fallen on the wall, but

for the loud laugh of joy, raised by the tormentor. The scuffle

continued, when a weak, but firm voice was heard--

 

“Strike on, Sir Osmund; strike hard. I care not, for I _will_ see

my mother! This is a Bradshaigh’s resolution!”

 

“A Bradshaigh!” was the reply, “I have put horns upon the noble

head of the family, and have written Sir William a cuckold, by

marrying Mab!”

 

“Hold,--not a word,” returned the boy, in tones fierce and daring,

“a few years make me a knight, and then chastisement for the fat

and cowardly Welsh! Stand back, Sir Osmund, and let me see my

mother.”

 

The voice had gradually heightened until all the boy had vanished,

and the accents sounded manly and defying.

 

Lady Mabel shrieked, and exclaimed--

 

“My brave boy, the son of his father! Heaven bless and protect him,

to plead my cause, in fitting time and mode, and assert his own

rights!”

 

But the voice of the knight became louder and louder,

 

“Boy, minion! son of an ape! whose father pretended to bear the

cross, when he should have hung for his villanies, on the highest

in England! Go to my groom, and learn thy duty to my horse. He

reports to me that you are refractory. Well, your wages are due.

Take that, and that, and that,” and thrice the lash fell fiercely

on the noble boy. “Well” he resumed, “dost hear thy mother’s

voice? You know a mother’s shriek; that is her only tone! Oh fond

fool! Well, you wish to see your mother, fillial fool: my strokes

have given you a prettier face than a father’s art could patch up.

Come beautiful child, and shew yourself to the proud gaze of a

mother, on your cowardly father’s birthday.”

 

“Cowardly! He would have driven you, Sir Osmund, from this nest.

Cowardly!”

 

The door was burst open, and Lady Mabel beheld her eldest son (a

youth of fifteen) dragged in by the Welsh knight, her husband; his

face was bloody, and there were marks of a livid hue on his cheeks

and neck.

 

“Mother,” exclaimed the knight, laughing at his

blasphemy,--“mother, behold your son.” He approached, bowed his

unwieldy form in mock reverence at her feet, whilst his sinister

eye attempted to express sarcastic admiration and love. His hair

hung, matted, over his Welsh outline of a face, and his ill-formed

mouth, in smiling, became a hideous gash--gash!

 

The boy rushed to his mother, and fondly placed his hand beneath

her chin, to raise her countenance from the knight, kneeling in

mockery. She kissed his forehead, and with her lips wiped off the

blood, and hugged him to her bosom. He was a noble boy, and never

had he crouched to his mother’s husband.

 

“Mother, now I am safe.”

 

“It is the fool’s birth-day,” said Sir Osmund, as he left his

recumbent posture, “yes, it is, my sweet Mab. Rejoice, rejoice;

shall I send my jester to help thee to a laugh?”

 

“If in doing so” replied the spirited boy, “you send away yourself.”

 

Once more he was struck to the ground, by the enraged knight.

 

“Oh! Sir Osmund”--exclaimed Mabel, “save him! I shall tutor him to

love thee fondly!”

 

“That would be a difficult task, dear mother” answered the boy,

with great indifference, as he arose and fixed a stern look of

defiance upon Sir Osmund.

 

The knight paced the room in boiling wrath, but his rage dared not

meet the glance of that boyish eye, so powerful is innocence. He

turned abruptly upon Lady Mabel, and said,

 

“Harkee, Lady. Here you must be confined; these are my jailors,

four in number, trusty fellows,” and he pulled out four keys, as he

spoke. “Content yourself, good wife, and pray to Sir William to be

relieved from Sir Osmund.”

 

Mabel threw herself down on her knees, humbly before him.

 

Her locks fell from the slight silken band, which passed across her

forehead, as if to strengthen the power of her supplications. They

concealed the noble expansion of her brow, as if dignity ought then

to be lost in condescension. Her eyes were raised so mournfully,

although no tears were visible. But she might as well have

addressed herself to the stones, and the echoes would have given

a kinder reply. The knight stamped furiously, and impatiently, as

Mabel spoke.

 

“Sir Osmund, confine me not here. It is too, too near the picture

gallery, and I have been lately visited by such awful dreams and

sights there, that I shudder. For your own sake, my wedded--nay,

Sir Osmund, I will not speak falsehood; I cannot call you

husband;--Sir William, forgive me!”

 

In a moment, she forgot that she was supplicating a favour from the

ruffian knight. Her eyes were turned upon vacancy, but with such an earnest __EXPRESSION__! Her bosom heaved, her lips slightly quivered, and a strange light gleamed from her eyes. In a hollow voice she whispered, whilst her hands were clasped together,