Legends of Lancashire 37

Legends of Lancashire 37

What a holy calm fell upon Sir William’s troubled spirit!

 

“Here Mabel and I may sleep peaceably together in death, if we

cannot in life. God bless our union then. No blood will be the seal

of the renewed covenant. If we cannot live happily now, since she

has been--no, I cannot say faithless, but oh! frail, frail;--why

the grave may hush our discords.”

 

He turned into the Hall-gate, with the purpose of leaving his horse

at an hostelrie, for he knew that it could not proceed to Haigh

hall forthwith. He still kept his eye upon the holy place, when he

was suddenly seized by two armed men. They were the sentries of the

gate.

 

“So, nightingale,” exclaimed the stoutest, “we have caught thee.

Resist not. We have orders to bear thee to the Mayor, and, by and

by, you may expect to be caged.”

 

“Stand back, knaves, and keep your distance. What would ye with me?”

 

“Aye, aye, bold enough,” was the reply. “Thou art the horseman who

passed our fellows at the other gate, in pursuit of Sir Osmund

Neville. They called thee a ghost. Ho, ho. But” and he brought

the lamp which he carried to bear closer upon the person of Sir

William; “here is blood, blood. Come in, else we strike thee to

the ground.”

 

It was in vain, the knight saw, to remonstrate; vainer still, on

account of his weakness to assault. He gave his horse to the charge

of one of the guards, who soon obtained accommodation for it; and

allowed himself to be conducted, without resistance, to the house

of the mayor.

 

At that moment his worshipful worship was fast asleep, all save the

nose, which buzzed as if it were filled with flies. His slumbers

were so deep that his worthy rib might have been taken from his

side without his knowledge, and a noted shrew given to some man.

But, gentle reader, why hast thou broken into the Mayor’s house,

and entered the private chamber of him and his dear spouse? Let us

make a speedy retreat, else we may be tried for burglary.

 

The house stood solitary, and at the door two halberds were bravely

stationed, either to assist or repel thieves or murderers. The

guards knocked; after a short interval, voices in loud dispute,

were heard, and a window on the second story was thrown up. A long

bright sword, slowly peeped out of it, very politely inquiring what

was wanted! A female head (the gender was known, _a priori_ by

the cap on it; and _a posteriori_ by the volubility of the tongue

within it) followed, and after reconnoitering for some length of

time, good substantial shoulders ventured out to assist the head.

 

“Madam,” humbly said one of the guards, “is my Lord Mayor at

liberty, to examine this man, whom he gave orders to take into

custody and bring hither?”

 

The sword was brought into a dangerous line with the anxious

inquirer’s head; but he started more at the shrill voice which

greeted him.

 

“Impudent rascals, begone. At liberty! No,” and she exhausted

a pretty good stock of abuse which she had acquired with all a

woman’s skill, and expended with all a woman’s generosity.

 

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed another voice, without a head however, “I am

at liberty.”

 

The sword was drawn in, and it remains a matter of doubt until

this day, whether it was not called upon to exercise its functions

against the last speaker. At least the noise of a considerable

bustle was made, which ended in the door being opened; and Sir

William, with the guards, was shewn into a room by a servant boy.

 

An hour had almost elapsed before the wig had been arranged, and

the spectacles disposed on the frontispiece of the Mayor, so

properly as to allow him to be seen. He entered with a slow step to

convey notions of a solemn dignity, and a pretty strong calf was

by no means a bad interpreter. After mounting the glasses on the

higher regions of the head, he rubbed his eyes as hard as if they

were flint, and as if he wished them to strike light, in order

to enable him to see. His face was good-humoured, and had no more

__EXPRESSION__ than a well-stuffed pudding. He then looked gravely upon

Sir William, when the knight addressed him,

 

“Why am I brought here? I had no desire to be regaled with a breeze

of thy far sounding nose,” (the mayor, be it observed, was snoring

even then) “nor to behold thee in undress.”

 

The Mayor started at the sounds of the knight’s voice;

 

“Sir William Bradshaigh thou art. It was no ghost. I know thee

well; and no wonder that thou pursued the Welsh knight. Where is

he?”

 

Sir William slowly unsheathed his sword, all bloody.

 

“That is the best answer; is it not intelligible?”

 

The worthy Mayor held up his hands in nervous terror.

 

“Come up with me to my own apartment, Sir William. We must consult

upon your safety. You will be outlawed for murder. Come, and allow

me to introduce you to my lady. She wont frighten you as she

does--.”

 

The look which accompanied the pause and omission well supplied the

personal pronoun.

 

“You cannot return to Haigh Hall until the morning. Guards, you may

depart. Do honour to Sir William.” They raised a loud shout, which

brought the lady down in a quick dance.

 

Early in the morning, after an hour’s sleep, Sir William left the

Mayor’s house. It was dull and rainy, and his spirits were more

melancholy than on the previous evening. There was none of that

longing desire to see a home and a wife, although for many years

they had both been strangers. The atmosphere was oppressive.

Nature had neither beautiful sights, nor fragrant scents to please

him. The street was muddy, and the houses were darkened with the

overhanging clouds.

 

He had passed the gate leading to Standish, when his attention was

arrested by a female kneeling at the Cross which De Norris had

erected. She looked upwards with an eye of sorrow, and prayer.

He started as he recognized the beautiful features of Mabel

Bradshaigh. Heedless of the rain, and exposed to the cold, she had

assumed the lowly posture. He heard the words breathed earnestly,

 

“Oh! heaven, and Sir William, forgive me, and accept of this my

penance!”

 

She raised herself as his steps were nearer. What deep delight,

tinged however with penitence, glowed on her countenance as she

beheld her returned lord.

 

“Thank heaven! but oh! let me kneel to thee. Wilt thou forgive me,

Sir William? This cross, was raised by a faithless ancestor to the

shades of the maid whom his perjury had destroyed, and here I must

do penance thus. But oh, look not upon me, exposed as I am,”--and

she blushed as her eyes fell upon her naked legs and feet.

 

“Mabel, this penance is cruel to both of us. What! those beautiful

legs, and small feet, must they trample upon the mud and the

stones! Remember, Mabel, that I will wash them myself this morning,

in the fountain. Nay, no more penance.”

 

“It must not be, Sir William. I have made a vow that every week I

will travel thus, from Haigh, to this Cross. And oh, do not prevent

me;--you must not, otherwise I cannot be happy in your company.

Penance is necessary for love injured.”

 

Mabel spoke the truth. Injured love requires it, though it only be

paid with a tear, a sigh, or a sorrowful look. Yes, penance, thou

art holy, and necessary; for where is the love which is not injured?

 

All the discontent and melancholy of Sir William passed away.

He loved Mabel more fondly than ever, even for the self imposed

penance. She might have decked herself in splendid attire to meet

her lord, but the lowly garb secured his affections more firmly.

The rich sandals of the time might have confined her feet, but

naked as they were, Sir William gazed more proudly upon them.

 

They walked on together. Mabel knew Sir Osmund’s fate, by the very

air of Sir William, but she questioned him not. A full bright cloud

now began to widen and widen over the stately towers of Haigh Hall.

Sir William in silence pointed to it as a happy omen, and as its

deep tints were reflected upon the structure, glory and fortune

seemed to hover over it. They were passing a narrow winding, into

the plantations, when their younger boy rushed forth.

 

“Father, father, bless your little son.”

 

“Hugh, my beautiful and brave boy, dost thou know me?”

 

The knight looked oft, in sorrow as well as pride, on the boy’s

countenance; it was so delicately fair, that the very life seemed

trembling on it.

 

“Father, I could die this morning, I am so happy.”

 

The knight started.

 

“Die! my little Hugh. No, no, you will live to be a warrior.”

 

Loud were the acclamations raised by the retainers, as Sir William

and his lady appeared. A whole week was devoted to festivity and

merriment, and all were happy.

 

Regularly every week, Mabel repaired barefoot and bare-legged

to the Cross, which still stands associated with her name. The

penance gave happiness. For months she had her sad moments, and

Sir William, with all his love and attention, could not wile

away the dark spirit of grief and remorse. But, by degrees, time

and religion banished the evil spirit, and even in her solitary moments, no longer did it haunt her.