Legends of Lancashire 36

Legends of Lancashire 36

The boy disappeared through the concealed door, and Sir William

stationed himself beside his lady, his sword drawn.

 

“Ho, lights,” exclaimed Sir Osmund. “Must I fall, and break my

neck? Mab, take hold of my hands, and bring me to thee.”

 

The next moment he entered. But the twilight was so shady, that he

saw not the presence of the returned knight.

 

“Mab, sign this paper. Cliderhoe, come hither.”

 

“Here’s one,” replied Sir William, “who can do it. Ruffian, do you

know me. I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”

 

“Indeed,” sneeringly responded the parson. “You have got the name.”

 

“And the sword, thou hypocrite.”

 

“Very likely,” was the retort, “very likely. That proves thee a

thief, and not Sir William.”

 

“Sir Osmund Neville, I challenge thee to deadly combat for the

wrongs thou hast done me, and for thy cowardly and cruel treatment

to Mabel and our children. Come forth, else I will smite thee to

the death. Equal weapons, if thou willest: if not, I will stab thee

where thou standest.”

 

He rushed forward as he spoke, but instantly the door was secured

on the outside, and he and Lady Mabel were alone. The wily parson

and the Welsh knight had fled. The door resisted both foot and

sword, and stubbornly refused to give way to any forcible attempts.

Sir William distinguished the clattering of hoofs in the distance

becoming fainter and more faint, and he burned for the pursuit.

Mabel led him to the window, and gazed long and fondly upon his

noble features. Age had scarcely touched them. The bloom of youth

had, indeed, passed away, but there was the calm and mellow hue

of manhood. The locks were not as profusely clustered over his

brow as before, but the expansive forehead was more dignified

when unshaded. Tears came into her eyes, for, although he was but

slightly changed from the husband of her youth, and although no

feature was a stranger, still she thought why should she not have

been allowed to witness all the daily changes effected upon him. It

is painful, after a long absence, to return to the home of other

days. It is no longer a home; for new inmates have introduced new

arrangements. Humble may have been the household gods: only an

old chair standing in a corner, and a small table at the patched

window; yet they were the gods of the heart, and, although they

may have been replaced by the most costly and splendid furniture,

we refuse to call the house our home. Cover the bird’s nest with

leaves of gold, and after its flight and wanderings, would it then

take up its abode any more than it would although there were no

nest at all? But more painful is it when the loved one has changed.

The features may be more beautiful than before, but if all their

former peculiarity be gone, they are those of a stranger; and

as we would refuse to cross the threshold, much more to sit down

in the house, once our home, but now altogether changed, so we

cannot take hold of the hand, we cannot kiss the lips, we cannot

embrace the form of that one, once the idol of our heart, but now

a stranger. But Lady Mabel’s feelings were not akin to these;

although they were painful as well as extatic. He whom she now

gazed upon was Sir William Bradshaigh, every look, every movement,

every accent told her. Soon, however, loud steps were ascending the

corridor, and louder shouts announced them.

 

“Sir William! Sir William! welcome to Haigh Hall!”

 

The bar was removed, and a cordial greeting took place between the

returned palmer and his faithful retainers.

 

“Thanks, thanks my men. But the cowardly knight has fled. Help me

to horse! Haste! Mabel, my love, I return as soon as the wretch is

slain. Thou art more beautiful than ever, my own wife. But how can

you love the aged palmer? Farewell, Mabel.”

 

Proud were the retainers, when their lord stood among them with his

sword.

 

“Now,” as he mounted his steed, “follow me not. Alone I must be

the minister of vengeance. Hark! the Welshman’s horse has gained

the eminence. There is the echo of his hoofs. He must be passing

the steep descent.”

 

He dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and without a

curvet or a vault, it bounded forward. The influence of twilight is

mysterious, both upon man and beast. It gives speed and energy to

body as well as mind. In advance before him, there was a part of

the horizon beyond the trees which seemed rings of molten gold. The

sunset had not yet left it. Against its bright and radiant surface,

in haste, a horse plunged on. The rider, Sir Osmund, was lashing

it, for the motions of his arm were seen. The next moment it had

passed. Sir William furiously spurred his steed through the dark

wood, and, as a flash of his eye was shewn by some concealed light

of the sky bursting upon it, he seemed the very spirit of revenge

riding on the storm. His horse’s head was stretched forward,

eagerly and impatiently. He himself crouched down to the very mane,

and his eyes gleamed wildly upon the place where he supposed the

Welsh knight would be passing.

 

Swiftly did the noble courser paw the leaves, strewn on the path,

and soon he reached the highway, steep and rugged. The lights were

now reflected from Wigan, upon the air around. He drew near the

gate. The guards started up with their torches, and fixed them

against the wall.

 

“Stay, who art thou?” and they presented their halberds, whilst

they seized the reins of his horse. “Who art thou, thus pursuing

Sir Osmund Neville to the devil? He’ll lead thee wrong.”

 

“Stay me not, I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”

 

They started back. They had heard of spectre horsemen, who rode so

furiously, and they trembled. Taking advantage of their terror, he

struck up their halberds with his sword. The gate was open, and he

spurred through. A few of the townsmen who were loitering at their

doors, and in the streets, shouted after him; but none attempted

to prevent his course, and soon he had left Wigan far behind. The

moon arose brightly; he leaned forward anxiously, and thought that

he could descry the object of his pursuit, long before he heard the

hoofs of the steed. But soon, he had both heard and seen him. Fleet

was the Welsh knight’s courser, but that of Sir William gained at

every turn in the road, and their voices were heard by each other,

urging them on. Sir Osmund at an angle, avoided the highway, and

leapt his horse over into the large park, at Newton. Sir William

followed, and soon the sword of Bradshaigh revenged his own, and

Lady Mabel’s wrongs.

 

The dead knight was thrown from his horse, as it dashed on. As soon

as the deed of vengeance was over, Sir William’s enthusiasm began

to leave him. While in the act of striking, the happiness which

should now be his of once more being the lord of Haigh, the husband

of his Mabel, and the father of his gallant boys, passed vividly

before his mind, and forbade him to spare. But when the blow was

given, so strange is man’s nature, all these prospects faded. He

seemed to feel that now he had agreed to a miserable compact.

He almost wished that he had never returned to claim the little

which was left. Death as the arm of vengeance, could not bring him

back the past, although it had taken away the cause of change.

Sir Osmund Neville lay lifeless before him, never more to claim

ought;--but polluting traces were upon all he held dear. As long

as Mabel lived, there lived also the evidences. Nay, when she must

die, and repose along with him in the tomb, calumny might say, “it

was not always thus, for, side by side, when alive, she lay with

another.” As long as Haigh Hall stood, the family disgrace would

survive.

 

He writhed in agony at the thought.

 

“Mabel,” he exclaimed, as if she were present, “I cannot forgive

thee! Thou hast been faithless. I must touch thy hand, and know

that it was another’s, long after it had been pledged in love,

and given in marriage. Thy couch a ruffian’s kennel! This Welsh

bullock’s blood cannot wash out the stains which rest upon my name.

Oh! can it even purify my Mabel’s lips? Whenever they touch mine,

I feel that they have been polluted. My children alone survive for

me. Ha! merciful God, thanks unto thee, thanks most sincere, that

Mabel has no children, who cannot call me father. But when I call

her wife, methinks this Welshman’s spirit comes between us, and

breathes the same word;--and to whom will she then cling?”

 

The air was balmy, and the moonshine rested gently upon the green

meadows where he stood, and lambs, aroused from their slumbers by

the prancing of the horses, bounded past him. But they bleated

not to disturb the silence, and Sir William heard the violent

beating of his heart. Gradually, however, he relapsed into a state

of tranquility,--not the tranquility of joy, but of deep grief.

And as before, when under the excitement of intense revenge, he

spurred his steed to keep pace with his fiery spirit, so now, when

his feelings were different, he curbed the animal to a slow walk,

as he began to return. But he soon discovered that it was jaded

and weary, from the speed of the furious pursuit. He dismounted,

and led it for a mile or two. In the distance, so flat was the

surrounding district, then unbroken, save by towers and halls,

rising aginst the pure silvery vault of the moonlight sky, he

beheld lights in his own mansion at Haigh. He thought that he heard

sounds of mirth borne thence on the airy breezes.

 

“_She_ may rejoice,” he bitterly said, “but can I? She may be

merry, for I return the same, as when I departed, ten long years

since; though beautiful maidens there have been, who tried my

fidelity in Palestine. Ah! this night has made me an old man! Would

that my days had been spent amidst the holy tombs at Jerusalem,

and I might there have prayed for Mabel, my Mabel, all ignorant of

her frailty. But I must remount my steed. Poor Mabel, she has done

penance for me, and cannot that atone? Forgive her? Yes, and she

shall receive my blessing in a few minutes.”

 

He vaulted upon his horse, but in vain did he spur and lash. The

animal staggered, and but for great caution, would have fallen.

He again dismounted, and slowly led it to Wigan. The lights in

the town were extinguished. He passed the church. He stood, for

a moment, to gaze upon the venerable structure. The clock was

striking the hour of one, and within the low and grey cloisters,

which are now destroyed, a late vesper was tuned. The notes seemed

to be sung by some virgin-spirits. Heaven bless those whose sweet,

sweet voices are heard by none else, for oh, none else can bless

them; whose soft knees which a gallant husband might have gartered

oft and oft, in pride and sport, bend on the cold stones, at no domestic altar, through the long night.