Legends of Lancashire 35

Legends of Lancashire 35

neither was it like Atlas’s, between his shoulders. It moved

backwards and forwards with such velocity, and describing such

a large parabola, that one moment it seemed to be a few feet in

advance of the breast, and the next, its retreat was as distant.

His large ears (a true mark of villainy and vulgarity) were left

altogether exposed, stretching their wide shelter over his flabby

cheeks. His legs were not elastic, they might have been glass;

but his arms were electric, and they jerked about at every roll

and wriggle of his mis-shapen trunk. He took large strides, as if

his feet were not friendly to each other, save at the distance

of two yards. His complexion was dark. His eye, when it gazed on

vacancy, was dull; it only became bright from the reflection of

gold. But still, in spite of all these deformities, there was a

conscious power breathed over the appearance of Father Cliderhoe;

and, although villainy, deceit, and guile, are generally allied to

a more dwarfish form, you could not hesitate, upon seeing the man,

to pronounce that he was a habitation for such dark spirits.

 

Sir Osmund Neville looked suspiciously towards him, as he sat

silent on his chair, occasionally moving it about, as if anxious

for something which might introduce the subject he wished to be

considered.

 

“Father,” said the knight, “the room is but poorly lighted. Shall I

order the chandeliers to be trimmed?”

 

“Nay, Sir Osmund,” returned the parson with a hideous leer and

smile; “nay, we have light enough. You could sign your name by this

light, Sir Osmund? I can read my prayers then. Eh? You could sign

your name?”

 

“Sign my name!” furiously exclaimed the knight, whilst he arose and

stood upon the hearth. “Sign my name!”

 

“Sir Osmund, you are not, surely, ashamed of your name,” meekly

returned Cliderhoe. “A valiant knight is proud of it.”

 

“But to what, good father, must I give my name?” inquired the

knight, who, after the flash of first passion was over, thought it

most prudent to be calm, for he knew the character of him with whom

he had to deal.

 

“To this little document. Written in a fair clerk’s hand; is it

not? Ah! but you warriors write in blood! Yet, which is most

durable? Read the papers. You appear exhausted, Sir Osmund. Ah!

hunting is so fatiguing; to be sure, to be sure. Who can doubt

it? The couch, brave knight, should receive your wearied limbs

forthwith. Nay, nay, I will not trouble you with listening to these

papers. Just sign your name; a few strokes of the pen, and then you

may retire. I must have a care, brave knight, over your body: you

are so reckless, and should any accident occur, chivalry would lose

its brightest lance, and the church its firmest prop. Sir Osmund,

here is a pen; affix your name below that writing.”

 

In speaking, the parson had come nearer and nearer to the chair of

the knight. The latter started, as from the coil of a serpent.

 

“Never, never, Cliderhoe:--thou hypocrite,--base born!”

 

“Hush, hush,” said the parson, in tones which struck terror, from

their very whisper, into the knight’s soul, “do not give me any

more names than my natural father, and my spiritual mother the

church, have conferred. Beware. _I have never absolved one sin

against myself, during a lifetime! Beware!_”

 

Sir Osmund took the papers. His eye glanced quickly over them. He

laid them aside, and arose to leave the room.

 

“Father Cliderhoe, next time make proposals a little more

extravagant, and you shall precede me in my exit from this room!”

 

“Well,” thundered forth Cliderhoe, “bid adieu to Haigh Hall. Your

rejection of my proposal makes it necessary. But hear me, before

you go to ruin. I would yet spare you. Without my favour, you never

can lay claim to one tittle of this property. Hush, come hither,”

and he whispered earnestly, and smiled as he saw Sir Osmund’s cheek

grow pale.

 

“What!” Sir Osmund exclaimed, “Sir William was not slain! Then he

may return?”

 

“He may--he may; nay, he _will_! Haigh Hall is too goodly a mansion

for him to leave to strangers. False was the word which reported

him dead. But sign this document, giving to me the half of the

estate--and let him return--we are safe. The pilgrim shall find a

resting place, though I should be compelled to take my sword, and

secure it for him. Sir Osmund, there’s light enough to sign the

name. You are a knightly scholar; spell it quickly, else, you know,

you know. Every letter will be a security against Sir William. Ha!

the large O of your christian name will be his grave!”

 

Sir Osmund complied, and Father Cliderhoe added,

 

“Now, knight, you must get Lady Mabel’s name too. I’ll come in an

hour--have her signature by that time. Adieu for the present, Sir

Osmund.”

 

* * * * *

 

Let us return to the gallery. We have already noticed the

overpowering emotions which shook the frame of the palmer, as he

turned from Lady Mabel, and his eye fell on Sir Osmund, dismounting

at the porch.

 

“Holy pilgrim,” said the lady, “thou art fatigued, Be seated.

Alas! now, Haigh Hall is no home for the weary and the aged;--aye,

not even for its lawful owners. For me, it is now a cell. In other

days, there was not a room, however dark and gloomy--so happy was

I,--that I did not call my bower. Then you would have found rest

and refreshment, and your blessing in return, might have been felt

to be no mockery. Now, the ministers of religion and charity are

driven forth. But where hast thou been wandering?”

 

A long gaze, and a short verbal answer was the reply,

 

“Lady,--in the Holy Land.”

 

Mabel’s paleness, which had hitherto expressed so beautifully her

resignation to sorrow, was now indicative of that breathless fear

which longs to know more of danger and evil, or good and happiness;

and yet dares not. Its sweet light seemed doubtful whether or not

it should be turned upon the palmer to know more. She shaded her

face, whilst in low and trembling accents she meekly inquired,

 

“And in all thy wanderings didst thou ever hear of a gallant

English knight, who fought beneath the banner of the Holy Cross? He

was once the lord of this mansion, and my--”

 

“Brother?” interrupted the palmer, in a tone of melancholy, mingled

with scorn and severity, as he supplied the word “your brother?”

 

“Brother!” exclaimed the lady, “no, no. Nearer he was than the

twin brother of infancy, childhood, and youth. Yes, for we were

ever One,--One! Holy Father, thou knowest not the meaning of these

words; but every moment I have realized their truth. The marriage

of the heart, no earthly ceremony can constitute. Our relationship

was formed in heaven, and Heaven dropped down bands upon the holy

altar, to encircle and bind us to each other for ever and ever.”

 

“For ever, lady, dost thou say? And who dropped Sir Osmund’s bands

upon the altar? Nay, noble lady, be not offended, for I know that

all affection is changeable, and short-lived, dying with a glance

or a word; and husband is but a fashion, which to suit your taste

may be changed, like any other part of your apparel. Changes are

pleasant. Sir William to-day, Sir Osmund to-morrow! Woman’s love is

not like man’s. Man’s love is the sea, infinite and exhaustless.

It may ebb, and its sands be discovered, but soon the wave rolls

over, and again there is the mighty deep. Far down, in unfathomable

waters, are the crystal caves, for the heart’s whispers and

embraces. Woman’s love is the streamlet. Bathe in its pure waters

to-day;--return to-morrow, and it is dried up. Let the husband

leave his halls, and in ten years he is forgotten, and his spirit

would be driven from his own hearth!”

 

Mabel’s eye had flashed with indignation, and her majestic form had

become erect, and commanding. There was the proud heaving of her

bosom, and the compressed resolution of her lips. But all symptoms

of anger passed away, as a sigh escaped the palmer, and as his hand

was raised to brush away a tear.

 

“Holy man, these words are unkind; they are not the balm of

comfort. I have not been faithless to Sir William. He is enshrined

in my heart still, the holiest earthly image, which death alone can

break. And oh! in penance how I worship him now, as sincerely as

once I did in joy. Gaze upon all the little knolls of green, where

we sat together, on summer days. I know them, and there I have

gone, and asked pardon of my beloved, many a cold and dreary night.

But here, in this room, I suffer agonies which might atone even for

a wife’s infidelity to a living lord. The night before he left for

the Holy Land, our noble mother told us of an ancestor’s perjury

to the maiden of his troth. That is her portrait, holy father, on

which you are gazing. In my waking moments, for past weeks, I have

seen Magdalene Montfort (that was the beautiful maiden’s name)

walking with Sir William. They were both sad, and looked upon me

scornfully, for my treachery. They had been unfortunate, and,

therefore, were in each other’s company. I knew that it was but

fancy, but it had all the power of reality. Oh! is not this penance

enough! But, say, holy palmer, didst thou ever see Sir William

Bradshaigh?”

 

The palmer sighed and shook his head. “Many a gallant knight I have

known, who never reached his home. Some died, others were reported

to be dead, and their noble heritage, aye, and their beautiful

wives, became the property of strangers.”

 

“_Reported_ to be dead! Reported! Were they not dead? Was _he_ not

dead?”

 

“Mabel. Mabel Bradshaigh--_is_ he dead?”

 

And the palmer’s cloak was removed, and there stood Sir William

Bradshaigh!

 

“Come to mine arms, my faithful wife, dearer to me than ever. Come!

Thank God that we meet, never more to part. Awfully have our dismal

forebodings, the last time we were in this gallery, been fulfilled.”

 

“Sir William--reject me. I am unworthy. Nay, let me kneel at thy

feet.”

 

“Both together then, and at the feet of the Most High. Hush, Mabel,

here come the children. My boys, do you not know your father? Kiss

me. _I am_ your long-lost father.”

 

After the embrace, the boys exclaimed in terror, “Sir Osmund comes.”

 

Lady Mabel shrieked. Sir William unloosed a garment which was

closely wrapped round him, and unfurled a Paynim standard which his

arm had won.

 

“Stay, Mabel, I escape here, by this door. My old servants will

rally round me. Yet no, I cannot leave thee defenceless. William,

my brave boy, fly with this to my servants. Tell them that Sir William is returned. Bid them arm for me. Haste.”