The House of Walderne Part 36

"I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of Hubert's return."

"I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne."

"Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return."

"What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep."

"Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true heir."

"It is wisely thought, and shall be done," she replied. "And now, my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?"

"I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife's first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought to submit to the authorities whom G.o.d has seen fit to place in trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well."

What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their conversation from the adjoining closet.

What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.

It was a dismal dell--no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses, overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.

And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch. She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had left behind.

The reader must imagine the rest.

It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference.

She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of his return. She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some plan.

At length the old dame said:

"Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The butler places it nightly on the sideboard."

Let us precede Martin by only one minute.

Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is behind him and casts the shadow--The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner. The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark.

Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.

"Martin," she said, "hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have said?"

"I have repeated your kind words."

"And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return hither? which may G.o.d grant."

"I have."

"And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne."

Alas! man proposes but G.o.d disposes. On the following morning the Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont, appear at the morning ma.s.s in her chapel. At length, alarmed by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her. She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached. They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold. Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them. She slept that sleep:

Which men call death.

Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb.

Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.

Blessed are they which die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours.

He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself.

But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert returned--in trust for him.

But would he then release his hold?

Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord de facto of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil--only Martin knew this--and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch narrowly over his friend Hubert's interests, for he still believed that he lived, and would return home again.

"We are friends, Drogo?" said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the greenwood.

"Friends," said Drogo. "We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not?

Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons--keep to the greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be broken."

Chapter 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.

Ah, where was our Hubert?

No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the veil, after the fas.h.i.+on of storytellers.

It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes of Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters, beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in loose white robes and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of the sun to scorch. There is a young man who toils amidst those vines and melons--yet already he bears the scars of desperate combats, and trouble and adversity have wrought wrinkles on his brow, and added lines of care to a comely face.

A slave toiling in an Eastern garden--taskmasters set over him with loaded whips--alas! can this be our Hubert?

Indeed it is.

The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The Fleur de Lys had been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three others escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the deep, when a vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out their signals of distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at Antioch duly, whence Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at Walderne (which never arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of the Eastern summer--"when the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; when the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell"--in all this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three surviving members of his party set out to traverse the mountainous districts of Lebanon on their way to Jerusalem.

They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in company with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through the wondrous country beneath "The hill of Hermon" on their road southward. Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the cedars of Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a desperate but unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or taken prisoners. Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made captive, after doing all that valour could do, and bound. He saw his faithful squire lying dead on the field, and the other two survivors of the party which had set out in such high hope from Walderne, captives like himself.

Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them for ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the slave market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert prayed for death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and seeks the happy who cling to life.

An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner, had come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and comely, and Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished.

All men bowed before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw that he had become the property of "a prince among his people."

Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind him--taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the only Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him:

"Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope."

"Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain."