Traditions of Lancashire Volume I Part 35

"It is about a three month agone since this same wild man was first seen," said the old seneschal, whose office, though of little use, was still filled up in the more ancient establishments. "I saw him myself once, but I shook until the very flesh seemed to crawl over my bones.

They say he neither eats nor drinks, but is kept alive in the body by glamour and witchcraft. He'll stay here until his time is done, and then his tormentors will fetch him to his prison-house again. Ye should not have tarried in the wood after sunset."

"That would I not," sharply replied Agnes; "but the child, poor thing, would look at the daylight as it lingered on the hill-top, and I thought no harm in't."

"Like enough. He dares not abroad, if so much as the value or size of my thumb-nail of the sun's rim were left above the hill!"

"Come, Gaffer, strike up a merry trowl," said a thin, squeaking voice, from a personage almost hidden behind a copious supper of broken meat and pastry. But whether the party thus addressed was too much alarmed to let the current of his spirit run bubbling from the spring of either mirth or minstrelsy, or he was too deeply buried in his own thoughts, it were needless to inquire. The request for a while pa.s.sed by unheeded.

Gaffer Gee was the ballad-monger of the whole district. He kept on a comfortable and vagabond sort of existence, by visiting the different mansions where good cheer was to be had, and where he was generally a welcome guest, both in bower and hall. His legendary lore seemed inexhaustible; and, indeed, his memory was like an old chest full of sc.r.a.ps continually rummaged. He knew all the scandal and family secrets throughout the parish, and had a quick eye at detecting either a love affair or a feud. He composed a number of the wild ballads that he sang or recited, or at least put them into that jingling and quaint rhythm, acquired by habitual intercourse with the phraseology peculiar to these popular descants. On hearing a story he could readily shape it into verse, extempore, too, upon occasion; and many were the jokes that rebounded from his theme, whether in hall or kitchen. It was pleasant to watch his little grey eye, and the twinkling lashes, as they rose and fell, varying the expression of his lips. A slight lisp gave an air of simplicity to his ditties, which never failed to charm his auditors. He could throw the simplest expression over his features, which made the keen edge of his rebukes infinitely more cutting and effective. But the prevailing tone of feeling in him was sad and oppressive. These wandering minstrels had, from remote ages, been held as seers, and a peep into futurity was often supposed to accompany their poetical inspirations--a superst.i.tion not confined to any particular locality, but obtaining a widely disseminated belief in all climes and nations where imagination a.s.sumes her sway, and dares to a.s.sert her power.

After a short s.p.a.ce, and without any invitation, the ballad-maker, like some Pythian priestess on her tripod, began to exhibit manifestations of the _afflatus_. The spirit of song seemed to be stealing upon him, and in a moment the listening auditory were still. In substance, he half recited, half sung, the following ballad:--

"'Maiden, braid those tresses bright, Wreathe thy ringlets from the blast; Why those locks of curling light Heedless to the rude winds cast?

"'Maiden, why that darkened brow?

From those eyes, once dimmed with weeping, Lurid gleams are gathering now, O'er their pale wan shadows creeping.'

"Silent still the maid pa.s.sed by, Near nor voice nor footstep came.

Sudden cleaving earth and sky, Flashed a brand of arrowy flame!

"'Maiden, turn that gaze on me, Onwards why so madly bent?'

Still no stay, no pause made she Through that kindling element.

"Now, the midnight chant is stealing, Ma.s.s and requiem breathing near; Hushed the blast, as if revealing Sounds to earth that Heaven might hear.

"From yon pile, soft voices swelling Dirge and anthem for the dead;-- Demon shrieks, their lost doom yelling, Tend Lord Rudolph's dying bed.

"Holy men, with song and prayer, Fain would shrive the pa.s.sing soul; Fiend-like whispers, to his ear.

Winds, in muttering curses, roll.

"Ere his last lone shuddering cry, To his couch the maiden came; On his breast she silently Bent an eye of ravening flame.

"One wild shriek the sufferer sent, Ere life's last frail link might sever; Laughed the maiden, as she leant O'er that form, to cling for ever.

"Closer to his heart she pressed; Scorched, the quivering flesh recoiled; Unconsumed his burning breast, While that grim tormentor smiled.

"'Now revenge!' the maiden cried, 'I have bartered heaven for this; Mine thou art, proud Rudolph's bride, Mine, by this last demon kiss.'

"Tower, and battlement, and hall, Scathed as with the thunder-stroke, Flashed through midnight's dusky pall, Twined in wreaths of livid smoke.

"O'er that gulph of yawning flame Horrid shapes are hovering; Monstrous forms, of hideous name, To the bridal-bed they bring.

"'They come!--they come!' their frantic yell.

On a wave of billowy light Sudden rose (so marvellers tell) The maiden and her traitor knight.

"The moon looks bright on Rudolph's towers, The breeze laughs lightly by, But dark and silent sleep the hours, The lone brook murmuring nigh.

"The lank weed waves round thy domain, The fox creeps to thy gate; Dark is thy dwelling, proud chieftain, Thy halls are desolate!"

The legend we have thus rendered. His own idiom and versification, as we have already observed, were of a more unintelligible sort, though better suited, perhaps, to the fas.h.i.+on of the time and the capacity of his hearers.

But a gloom still pervaded the once cheerful hearth, and the night wore on without the usual symptoms of mirth and hilarity.

Holt of Grislehurst held the manorial rights, and was feudal lord over a widely-extended domain, the manor of Spotland descending to him by succession from his grandfather. His character was that of a quiet, unostentatious country gentleman; but withal of a proud spirit, not brooking either insult or neglect. This night, an unaccountable depression stole upon him. He strode rapidly across the chamber, moody and alone. The taper was nigh extinguished; the wasted billet grew pale, a few sparks starting up the chimney, as the wind roared in short and hasty gusts round the dwelling. The old family portraits seemed to flit from their dark panels, wavering with the tremulous motion of the blaze.

Holt was still pacing the chamber with a disturbed and agitated step. A few words, rapid and unconnected, fell from his lips.

"Rebel!--Outcast! I cannot betray thee!"

"Betray me!" echoed a voice from behind. Turning, the speaker stood before him. It was the athletic form of the stranger, wrapped in his grey cloak and cap of coa.r.s.e felt, plumed from the falcon's wing.

"And who speaks the word that shall betray me? A king,--a fugitive! Yet, not all the means that treachery can compa.s.s shall trammel one hair upon this brow without my privity or consent."

"Comest thou like the sharp wind into my dwelling?" inquired Holt, in a voice tremulous with amazement.

"Free as the unconfined air; yet fettered by a lighter bond,--a woman's love!" returned the intruder. "Thou hast a daughter."

The Lord of Grislehurst grew pale at these words. Some terrific meaning clung to them. After a short pause the stranger continued:--

"Thus speak the legends of Tigernach, and the bards of Ulster, rapt into visions of the future:--'_When a king of Erin shall flee at the voice of a woman, then shall the distaff and spindle conquer whom the sword and buckler shall not subdue_.' That woman is yon heretic queen. A usurper, an intruder on our birthright. Never were the O'Neales conquered but by woman! I have lingered here when the war-cry hath rung from the sh.o.r.es of my country. Again the shout hath come, and the impatient chiefs wait for my return. But"----

The warrior seemed to writhe during the conflict. His hands were clenched, and every muscle stiffened with agony. Scorn at his own weakness, and dread, horrible undefinable dread, as he felt the omnipotent power mastering his proud spirit. The man who would have laughed at the shaking of a spear, and the loud rush of the battle, quailed before a woman's hate and a woman's love.

"And what is thy request to-night?" said Holt.

The stranger answered in a voice of thunder--

"Thy daughter!"

Tyrone, for it was he, seemed nigh choking with the emotion he sought to suppress.

"Nay," he continued, "it must not be. Oh! did I love her less, she had been mine!"

"Thine?" suddenly retorted her father, somewhat scornfully. "And who gave thee this power over woman's spirit? Thou hast not even had speech of her, much less the means to win her favour."

An almost supernatural expression seemed to gather on the features of the chieftain. His eye, rolling through the vista of past years, began to pause, appalled as it approached the dark threshold of the future. He appeared lost to the presence of surrounding objects, as he thus exclaimed with a terrific solemnity--

"When the dark-browed Norah nursed me on her lap, and her eye, though dark to outward sense, saw through the dim veil of destiny, it was thus she sung as she guarded my slumbers, and the hated Sa.s.senach was in the hall:--

"'Rest thee, baby! light and darkness Mingling o'er thy path shall play; Hope shall flee when thou pursuest, Lost amid life's trackless way.

"'Rest thee, baby! woman's breast Thou shalt darken o'er with woe; None thou lookest on or lovest, Joy or hope hereafter know.

Many a maid thy glance shall rue, Where it smites it shall subdue.'

"It was an evil hour, old man, when I looked upon thy daughter."