Legends of Lancashire 34

Legends of Lancashire 34

“Ho!--ho! take a cup,” exclaimed one of them. “Drink on Sir

William’s birth-day, a long health to his ghost! Here,” and he

thrust an empty cup into the palmer’s hand.

 

For a moment the holy man’s cowl was raised from his flashing eyes,

as if to make some discovery, and his arm was stretched forth

from the cloak in which he was so closely muffled, with the hand

clenched, and the veins almost leaping through the thin dried skin

which covered them. The next moment, he courteously declined the

Welshman’s proffer. But his cheek was deadly pale, and a livid hue

flitted over his lips. The elder boy started forward, and grasped

one of the short swords lying naked beside the men, and, like their

masters, sunning themselves.

 

“Cowards,” the youth white with rage cried out, “insult the holy

man but again, and I shall fill the empty cups with your blood.”

 

But his arm was arrested by the palmer.

 

“Nay, nay,” said he meekly, “thou art headstrong and rash. But our

Holy Mother inflicts a penance upon these men, for their irreverent

and unbecoming treatment of her humble son and servant. What!

profane wretches, do you laugh? Beware. If this crucifix brand the

curse, woe, woe unto you. Boy, lead them to the penance room, and I

myself will release them. Come.”

 

They dared not disobey; for then, every man, noble, or knight, or

menial, was the priest’s retainer. The ministers of the altar were

more powerful than the satellites of the throne, and beneath the

single pall and crosier of the one, lurked a vengeance which could

scathe and destroy the proud tiara of the other. How mysterious and

yet real was the influence concealed in the slightest external of

the Church!

 

The Welsh retainers groaned as they were compelled to rise, and

proceed into the dark and cheerless apartment, which, in later

times, served for a dungeon. The palmer turned the key, and

fastened it to his belt.

 

“They are safe,” he whispered to himself. They were now met by some

of Sir William’s old retainers, who bowed low to the holy man, and

seemed inclined, by their looks and haltings, to ask concerning

their dead lord.

 

Feudal times might be the times of slavery on the part of

retainers, but they were those also of fidelity and strong

attachment. These retainers might be treated as brutes, but if so,

they were treated like dogs, and in return they yielded a service

which no hire could have extorted. Their love for their lord was

powerful, and yet instinctive; their happiness was genuine, and

yet animal,--far from the happiness of man. Their privileges were

extensive; not scullions of the kitchen, they were the genii of the

old halls. Their attachment to places and domains,--was that of

the dog. As they were fond of loitering in old paths, or glancing

at the proud mansion, or seated at the porch, their feelings were

those of that animal, licking every part of the house, and lying

down on favourite spots. And when their lord departed they drooped

and pined; not as men sorrowing.

 

These reflections might have been awakened at a sight of the old

servants of the Bradshaigh family, as they gazed so anxiously and

inquiringly. Go to a house where the master has been long absent.

An affectionate dog answers to your knock, and whines so piteously,

and looks so fondly, as if begging to know tidings of him who has

gone. Such was the appearance of the aged retainers of Haigh.

 

The palmer blessed them, in low tones, but feelingly, and then

passed on with the boys.

 

They crept through the entrance, and were soon threading their way

through the dark labyrinth. They gained the staircase. The palmer

had taken the lead, evidently familiar with the place. He paused,

and listened to the gentle tread of Lady Mabel. He strained his

ears, as if expecting to hear the music of the voice, as well as

of the foot; not for the sake of the future, but of the past. The

setting rays, rich from the golden west, were streaming brightly

on a little lattice, which lighted a recess in the long gallery,

and meeting those which entered by the wide casement, they threw a

dull haze around. They prevented him from seeing distinctly, as he

looked through it; but the fluttering of a white robe, and the soft

motion of a fair hand at the further extremity could be perceived.

At that moment a horse was heard approaching the hall.

 

A suppresed shriek arose from within.

 

“It is Sir Osmund,” exclaimed the boys.

 

“Well,” returned the palmer in firm accents, and he seemed to

unbuckle some of his garments, whilst unconsciously he stamped in

fury.

 

The boys tapped at the lattice.

 

“Mother, open unto us. Here is a holy priest, and he will comfort

thee. He hath already blessed us, and so kindly. He hath wandered

in far-off lands, and his voice speaks a foreign tale, and speaks

it gently.”

 

Her small white hands opened the lattice.

 

“Stay for a moment, and the holy man shall be admitted. Long is it,

since religion was allowed to enter mine apartments, to cheer my

sadness; and now it has come to my cell. Cell!”

 

The lattice closed. The palmer stood in strange bewilderment.

Her face seemed to be a vision, and her voice a song of other

days, and all--not a dream. And why should _he_ think of other

and former days? Have priests and palmers boyhood and youth? Are

they not trees without a leaf, on which no bird of heaven alights

to charm the solitude? Do they know of the earthly transports of

love and hope? Beautiful is the holy Virgin--but cold and hard

are the stones where they kneel to worship her. And why should

England be the country to excite his feelings? He had travelled

through lands more fair. Greener was the earth’s bosom, and more

beautiful the sky’s face. Why should he be moved at the sorrows of

the noble matron? At the same hour of twilight, when bathing his

wearied feet in the little stream, afar from the glistening tents

on the mountain tops, he had listened to the mournful song of the

wandering Hebrew maid. He had passed by her and laid his hands upon

the high and noble brow blessing her beauty and her sorrows. And

why should he feel the ideal presence of romance, as he looked

upon the woody hills of Haigh. From the gorgeous mosques he had

beheld the Mount of Olives, and the feet of the prophet-girls

dancing there, while their light scarfs were hung, floating on the

trees which crowned the summit, like the garments of angels--the

airy clouds.

 

The door was slowly opened. Lady Mabel, as they entered, greeted

her boys, and kindly welcomed the holy man. As he took her extended

hand, a shuddering seized him; he averted his face, and caught a

glimpse of Sir Osmund dismounting, under the casement. For a few

moments, overcome by some strong emotions, he leaned upon his

palmer’s staff.

 

Meanwhile, gentle readers, be pleased to shut the door of the

gallery behind you, and walk down, leaning, as gently as possible,

on the Chronicler’s palsied arm. Do not extinguish the light,--else

we are left in total darkness, on the dangerous corridor. Let us

approach to serve the Welsh knight, who is now shouting lustily for

his servants to appear, and take his horse.

 

“Ho! my Welshmen,” and he blew his hunting horn; but they appeared

not.

 

“My other hounds,” he muttered, as he turned the horse, and lashed

it away to bound forth at perfect liberty, “my other hounds know

the horn. I shall see, presently, if these do not understand the

whip.”

 

He entered the porch, and was there met by Parson Cliderhoe. The

knight bowed reverently, and would have passed him.

 

“Sir Osmund Neville, will you grant me a short interview, upon a

matter of importance to both of us?”

 

“Please your reverence,” rejoined the knight, with a mixture of

humility and haughtiness--“is it to breathe a pater-noster over my

hunting expedition? You cannot return thanks for my success, as I

have run down nothing.”

 

Cliderhoe took him by the hand, and led him into a private

apartment. As they entered, Sir Osmund, who was fretted by his bad

luck in the chase, could ill brook the authoritative air which the

parson had assumed; and when he was angry, he usually expressed

himself in light blasphemy.

 

“Adam Cliderhoe, although your namesake Adam, was placed at the

head of the creation, and had all power and authority over it,

still, you have not the same, and have, therefore, no right to lead

me about wherever you list. And, reverend father, (by the way,

although you are sworn to celibacy, you have got, by some means or

other, a very large family of children, for every one calls you

father,) you, I say, have the advantage over Adam. Ah! then there

were no church lands. A pretty comfortable place that paradise--but

then he had to work, and it could not afford him a better fleece

than a few dry leaves. Now, father, these are warm robes of yours.”

 

“Child, do not blaspheme. You have done very little, you know, to

merit Haigh Hall, and yet you are the owner.”

 

“Not altogether,” returned the knight. “There is one exception.

Your very large demands.”

 

“We’ll speak of that further, Sir Osmund. Are we safe from ears and

listeners? because these do not suit secrets. Well, be seated,” and

he fastened the door.

 

Parson Cliderhoe was then dreaded throughout all the country. By

wiles and deceits he laid a firm hand upon property. But he was as

intriguing as he was avaricious, and his plots had been treasonable

in the highest degree. These would have involved him in utter ruin,

had not gold, that potent being, redeemed him. In consideration of

large sums of money, he had been released from prison, and restored

to his living and life, when both had been justly forfeited.

 

He had lately become an inmate of Haigh Hall, and might have been

considered its master. Sir Osmund Neville, it is true, could make

the parson the subject of jest: but the knight, in return, was the

subject of rule and command. To Lady Mabel and the boys, Cliderhoe

paid no attention, either in the shape of flattery or scorn.

 

On securing the door, he laid aside his priestly robes, drew

the table back from the view of the window, nearer to the Welsh

knight’s chair, and seated himself opposite. He was of tall

stature, and nature, in this specimen of her architecture, had not

been sparing of materials, although, certainly, she might have put

them better together. If we may be allowed the __EXPRESSION__, she had

not counted the cost with arithmetical accuracy. The head bore no

proportion to the other parts, as if her extravagance in these had

caused her to be penurious to that. Although the bones were well

cemented by fat, yet the structure was far from being elegant. It

was difficult to decide upon the true figure; and Euclid himself

must have abandoned the problem in despair. His head, which was

not shaven, but clipped closely, could not be compared to a globe;