Legends of Lancashire 39

Legends of Lancashire 39

“Rachel,” replied Hans, to a remark of the dame, upon the pleasures

of their retired life, “it is even so, and I would not exchange

places with the proudest lord in the land. Nay, I would not sell my

miller’s coat. This morning, as I walked into Lancaster, a stout,

stiff-necked lad came forward, and asked me to become a soldier,

promising great distinction. Says I, white is the colour of my

flag, and the only coat of of mail I shall ever consent to wear,

must be a coat of meal!”

 

“A soldier!” ejaculated Rachel.

 

“Aye, aye,” was the reply. “War is soon to be played. The governor

of our castle has gone to the High Court in London, to give

evidence against traitors, and many such traitors there are said

to be, whom the Parliament refuses to put down. I heard that the

king’s throne and head are in jeopardy.”

 

“Woe, woe to the land!” groaned the dame. “A handsome lad, and yet

to lose his crown and his life.”

 

“Well, well,” said Hans, “his majesty may thank his silly father.

What good, even to the tenth generation, could the race of the

ungodly man expect, who gave orders that the people should sport on

God’s holy day? Rachel, hast thou forgot the proclamation which he

caused the parson to read? I was but a youth then, and oft I could

have liked to visit you on Sunday. But the wish was blasphemous.

The parson said we were not to think our own thoughts, and as my

father thought I should not visit you, I took _his_ thoughts.”

 

“Not always,” returned the dame, as she took his hand, “not always,

even upon that subject.”

 

“Well, well, I give in to you, Rachel. But on that Sunday, after

the service was over, the parson drew from his robes a long roll

of paper, and, wiping his mouth very unmannerly, as he always did,

before his eyes, read that it was the King’s most gracious will

that the people, on leaving the church, should enjoy themselves in

all manner of recreations and sports. He added, that our Solomon

might well give laws to all his subjects. My father and I went

to a friend’s house, and there solemnly bewailed the state of

the country; the rulers of which scrupled not to enact the most

awful iniquity. As we returned home, in front of the church there

were dances, and games of archery, in which the parson himself

joined most heartily. His croaking voice shouted lustily, and his

stick-shanks leapt up in the air, while his broad skirts flapped

like a swallow’s wings. A smile was on his face, which was thrown

backwards as we passed. My father, in his righteous wrath, struck

the hypocrite to the earth. In the crowd we escaped, but never more

did we darken that house of prayer by our presence.”

 

“Yes, Hans, the Lord will be avenged for that proclamation of sport

on his own day. A silly King James was, indeed. My father saw him

as he passed through Preston, and he never spoke highly of kings

afterward.”

 

So interesting was the subject of their conversation, connected

with old remembrances, that for some time they were not aware

that the storm had altogether subsided. It was now a beautiful

calm, and soft breezes stole in at the opened window. Hans walked

forth to the mill, and thence gazed down upon the vale. A dim

reflection of the moon, pale with weeping, as she struggled through

the clouds, to gain some of the clear azure sky, which here and

there appeared, was resting on the swollen brook. A sound from the

distance fell upon his ear. He strained his eyes, and, at length,

recognized a form on horseback entering the vale.

 

“Rachel, Rachel, what can it be?” and there was terror, mingled

with curiosity, in the tones. His dame suddenly appeared, but to

her it was an equal mystery; not long to remain so, however, for

speedily the horse was reined up at the foot of the mountain.

 

“Ho!--help!--help!” exclaimed a man’s voice.

 

“Nay, nay, Hans, dost see that which he carries in his arms! My

God, look there,--that pale face, lifted to the moon. He is a

murderer! He gazes on it. Well may he shudder.”

 

“Help, good folks,” the voice repeated, in earnest tones. “Give

assistance to a lady. Good heavens, must my Mary die and follow her

father!”

 

A female shriek was heard, and the face raised itself to the

horseman, and small white arms were thrown around his neck. Hans

and his wife instantly hastened down the narrow winding path which

led to the barred entrance.

 

“Thank heaven, and you, good friends! Bayard, do not stir, as I

descend with my sweet burthen. Dame, will you give her shelter?”

 

“Aye, aye, sir. Beautiful creature! she seems asleep. Yet why

should she be abroad, and in your care, on such a night?”

 

“You must not question me,” was the reply, “at present; shew me

the way,” and he carried his companion, as gently as he would an

infant. “God bless thee, Mary,” he frequently muttered, as he put

the small face closer to his breast, and drew his cloak around her

form.

 

Rachel preceded him into the warm and comfortable room, and drew

a large easy chair from its place in the corner, to the fire. He

slowly bent on his knee, and seated his burden there. Her head

fell back, but her hands still grasped those of the horseman. She

was deadly pale, and might have been thought a corpse. There was a

mingled __EXPRESSION__ of madness, sorrow, and love, on the beautiful

outlines of her face. So long had they rode in the darkness, that

she could not open her eyes when the light fell upon them, and even

her finely pencilled lashes were still and motionless. Her little

feet, raised from the floor, quivered and trembled.

 

The good dame bustled about, and amid all her offices of kindness,

attested by her looks that she was plunged into a mystery, from

which she had no objections, instantly, to be extricated; only

she did not, in so many words, implore help. As she removed the

wet garments from the fair stranger, she gazed anxiously upon her

companion. He was young and handsome. He was nobly attired in a

cloak of deep mourning, and as it was thrown back in his motions, a

sword, belted by his side, was seen. His locks, as the fashion of

the times required from young gallants, were long, and they curled

gracefully down his shoulders. Since he entered, his eye had never

turned from the face of his companion.

 

“Mary, my Mary,” he at length said, as he played with the black

ringlets on her forehead, “look upon me, Mary.”

 

“Father, dost thou call? I’ll soon come to thee, soon,

soon--wherever thou art. But, I must see thy face. Oh! a headless

father to come to! yet, father, I _will_ come!” and she gave a loud

shriek of madness.

 

“Hush, Mary,--am I not spared to thee? Cannot we travel through

life together; and if we have no home through the wide world, all

in all to each other?”

 

No reply was made. He cast a look of anguish towards the dame and

her husband, who had then returned from sheltering the horse.

 

“She understands me not. Oh! who can comfort her now?”

 

“She is asleep,” said the dame, “and oh! young gentleman, if, as

I believe from her words concerning a father, you have removed

her from a father’s roof, you never, never can be happy. She is,

indeed, a beautiful creature to lie in your bosom, walk by your

side, and sing to you her own sweet dreams. But does the young bird

sing any more when taken from the nest? In every look, however

fond, you will behold a silent reproof for tearing her away from

her duties to an old father, without a blessing. The husband may

give the ring, but unless the father gives his blessing, she is

cursed. Oh, must that young head bow before a father’s curse? Look

at her slumbers, they ought to have been beneath the roof of her

own home. She might have perished in this awful night, and murder

had been added to your crime. Take her back to a father’s arms.”

 

“A father!” was the sorrowful reply. “She has no father; nor can

I as yet, claim over her the protection of a husband. Her father

perished, yesterday, by the order of a tyrant king, under the

false evidence of the governor of your castle. I had endeavoured

to convey her away from the scenes of her grief, and had engaged

a boat at Lancaster. But I dared not venture my precious freight

on such an awful night, and I have wandered, I know not whither.

Providence has brought me here to kind friends.”

 

“Young gentleman,” replied Hans, while tears were trickling freely

down his withered cheeks, “God will reward thee for thy care and

love to the orphan one. But whither would you bear her? Here she

may find a home, until happier days come, for I know that you will

seek the wars. She cannot depart at present.”

 

“No, no,” added the dame, “you must agree to leave her, and I shall

be a careful and affectionate mother, though an humble one.”

 

“Thanks, my good friends, both from the dead and the living! I

could not have hoped that so secure a home was awaiting her. O

nourish her for my sake, and when she speaks of her father, mention

my name, Henry Montressor, and assure her, that he will be father,

husband, all! I must leave her this moment. Should she awake, we

could never part. There is a purse of gold. Use it freely.”

 

“Not for ourselves,” replied the generous miller. “Although she

be of gentle blood, we make her our child. Her sorrows will be

lightened in our home, in this peaceful retreat.”

 

“Now,” said Montressor, and he gently disengaged his hands from

the grasp of his sleeping companion. He softly kissed her lips. He

started up, dreading that the tear which had fallen on her cheek,

would awake her. He raised his hands to heaven.

 

“God of mercy, if thou hast one whom in all the earth thou lovest

more than another, for innocence and misfortune, let that one be

Mary Evelyn! Let angels guard her, under the direction of her

sainted father. Send peace to her sorrows. Let thy balm drop into

every wound, thou gracious Being.”

 

“Amen,” responded the miller and his wife.

 

And surely God himself repeated the same Amen; for a sweet

beauty, shining in quiet happiness, rested upon the features of

the sleeping one. Montressor pointed to her, whilst he said in

anguish,--

 

“And should she wander in her mind, oh, soothe her. When she

awakens, tell her that I am safe, and that soon I am here again.

One kiss more, my Mary.”

 

Hans conducted him down to the pass, and soon the sound of the

horse’s hoofs were unheard in the distance. The moon was shining

brightly.“Never,” said Hans, “were the rays so sweet here before. And well

may they, such a beautiful face lies in our house!”