XXVII. HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER CAME TO COSFORD
Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet withthe faded ferns--the fuzzy brown pelt which wraps the chilling earth.With whoop and scream the wild November wind sweeps over the greatrolling downs, tossing the branches of the Cosford beeches, and rattlingat the rude latticed windows. The stout old knight of Duplin, grown evena little stouter, with whiter beard to fringe an ever redder face, sitsas of yore at the head of his own board. A well-heaped platter flankedby a foaming tankard stands before him. At his right sits the Lady Mary,her dark, plain, queenly face marked deep with those years of wearywaiting, but bearing the gentle grace and dignity which only sorrow andrestraint can give. On his left is Matthew, the old priest. Long agothe golden-haired beauty had passed from Cosford to Fernhurst, wherethe young and beautiful Lady Edith Brocas is the belle of all Sussex, asunbeam of smiles and merriment, save perhaps when her thoughts for aninstant fly back to that dread night when she was plucked from under thevery talons of the foul hawk of Shalford.
The old knight looked up as a fresh gust of wind with a dash of rainbeat against the window behind him. "By Saint Hubert, it is a wildnight!" said he. "I had hoped to-morrow to have a flight at a heron ofthe pool or a mallard in the brook. How fares it with little Katherinethe peregrine, Mary?"
"I have joined the wing, father, and I have imped the feathers; but Ifear it will be Christmas ere she can fly again."
"This is a hard saying," said Sir John; "for indeed I have seen nobolder better bird. Her wing was broken by a heron's beak last Sabbathsennight, holy father, and Mary has the mending of it."
"I trust, my son, that you had heard mass ere you turned to worldlypleasure upon God's holy day," Father Matthew answered.
"Tut, tut!" said the old knight, laughing. "Shall I make confession atthe head of my own table? I can worship the good God amongst his ownworks, the woods and the fields, better than in yon pile of stone andwood. But I call to mind a charm for a wounded hawk which was taught meby the fowler of Gaston de Foix. How did it run? 'The lion of the Tribeof Judah, the root of David, has conquered.' Yes, those were the wordsto be said three times as you walk round the perch where the bird ismewed."
The old priest shook his head. "Nay, these charms are tricks of theDevil," said he. "Holy Church lends them no countenance, for they areneither good nor fair. But how is it now with your tapestry, Lady Mary?When last I was beneath this roof you had half done in five fair colorsthe story of Theseus and Ariadne."
"It is half done still, holy father."
"How is this, my daughter? Have you then so many calls?"
"Nay, holy father, her thoughts are otherwhere," Sir John answered."She will sit an hour at a time, the needle in her hand and her soul ahundred leagues from Cosford House. Ever since the Prince's battle--"
"Good father, I beg you--"
"Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor, Father Matthew.Ever since the Prince's battle, I say, when we heard that young Nigelhad won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits ever--well, even as yousee her now."
An intent look had come into Mary's eyes; her gaze was fixed upon thedark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from ivory, white-lippedand rigid, on which the old priest looked.
"What is it, my daughter? What do you see?"
"I see nothing, father."
"What is it then that disturbs you?"
"I hear, father."
"What do you hear?"
"There are horsemen on the road."
The old knight laughed. "So it goes on, father. What day is there that ahundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet every clink of hoofs setsher poor heart a-trembling. So strong and steadfast she has ever been,my Mary, and now no sound too slight to shake her to the soul! Nay,daughter, nay, I pray you!"
She had half-risen from her chair, her hands clenched and her dark,startled eyes still fixed upon the window. "I hear them, father! I hearthem amid the wind and the rain! Yes, yes, they are turning--they haveturned! My God, they are at our very door!"
"By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!" cried old Sir John, beating hisfist upon the board. "Ho, varlets, out with you to the yard! Set themulled wine on the blaze once more! There are travelers at the gate,and it is no night to keep a dog waiting at our door. Hurry, Hannekin!Hurry, I say, or I will haste you with my cudgel!"
Plainly to the ears of all men could be heard the stamping of thehorses. Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb. An eager step atthe threshold, the door was flung wide, and there in the opening stoodNigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his cheeks flushed withthe beating of the wind, his blue eyes shining with tenderness and love.Something held her by the throat, the light of the torches danced up anddown; but her strong spirit rose at the thought that others should seethat inner holy of holies of her soul. There is a heroism of women towhich no valor of man can attain. Her eyes only carried him her messageas she held out her hand.
"Welcome, Nigel!" said she.
He stooped and kissed it.
"Saint Catharine has brought me home," said he.
A merry supper it was at Cosford Manor that night, with Nigel at thehead betwixt the jovial old knight and the Lady Mary, whilst at thefarther end Samkin Aylward, wedged between two servant maids, kept hisneighbors in alternate laughter and terror as he told his tales of theFrench Wars. Nigel had to turn his doeskin heels and show his littlegolden spurs. As he spoke of what was passed Sir John clapped him on theshoulder, while Mary took his strong right hand in hers, and the goodold priest smiling blessed them both. Nigel had drawn a little goldenring from his pocket, and it twinkled in the torchlight.
"Did you say that you must go on your way to-morrow, father?" he askedthe priest.
"Indeed, fair son, the matter presses."
"But you may bide the morning?"
"It will suffice if I start at noon."
"Much may be done in a morning." He looked at Mary, who blushed andsmiled. "By Saint Paul! I have waited long enough."
"Good, good!" chuckled the old knight, with wheezy laughter. "Even so Iwooed your mother, Mary. Wooers were brisk in the olden time. To-morrowis Tuesday, and Tuesday is ever a lucky day. Alas! that the good DameErmyntrude is no longer with us to see it done! The old hound must runus down, Nigel, and I hear its bay upon my own heels; but my heart willrejoice that before the end I may call you son. Give me your hand, Mary,and yours, Nigel. Now, take an old man's blessing, and may God keep andguard you both, and give you your desert, for I believe on my soul thatin all this broad land there dwells no nobler man nor any woman morefitted to be his mate!"
There let us leave them, their hearts full of gentle joy, the goldenfuture of hope and promise stretching out before their youthful eyes.Alas for those green spring dreaming! How often do they fade and witheruntil they fall and rot, a dreary sight, by the wayside of life! Buthere, by God's blessing, it was not so, for they burgeoned and theygrew, ever fairer and more noble, until the whole wide world mightmarvel at the beauty of it.
It has been told elsewhere how as the years passed Nigel's name rosehigher in honor; but still Mary's would keep pace with it, each helpingand sustaining the other upon an ever higher path. In many lands didNigel carve his fame, and ever as he returned spent and weary from hiswork he drank fresh strength and fire and craving for honor from herwho glorified his home. At Twynham Castle they dwelled for many years,beloved and honored by all. Then in the fullness of time they came backto the Tilford Manor-house and spent their happy, healthy age amid thoseheather downs where Nigel had passed his first lusty youth, ere ever heturned his face to the wars. Thither also came Aylward when he had leftthe "Pied Merlin" where for many a year he sold ale to the men of theforest.
But the years pass; the old wheel turns and ever the thread runs out.The wise and the good, the noble and the brave, they come from thedarkness, and into the darkness they go, whence, whither and why, whomay say? Here is the slope of Hindhead. The fern still glows russ
etin November, the heather still burns red in July; but where now is theManor of Cosford? Where is the old house of Tilford? Where, but for afew scattered gray stones, is the mighty pile of Waverley? And yeteven gnawing Time has not eaten all things away. Walk with me towardGuildford, reader, upon the busy highway. Here, where the high greenmound rises before us, mark yonder roofless shrine which still standsfoursquare to the winds. It is St. Catharine's, where Nigel and Maryplighted their faith. Below lies the winding river, and over yonder youstill see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the bare summit,on which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the Martyr where thecomrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord of Shalford. Downyonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills one traces the road bywhich they made their journey to the wars. And now turn hither to thenorth, down this sunken winding path! It is all unchanged since Nigel'sday. Here is the Church of Compton. Pass under the aged and crumblingarch. Before the steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed,lies the dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of Maude theirdaughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse she was; their childrenand children's children are lying by their side. Here too, near theold yew in the churchyard, is the little mound which marks where SamkinAylward went back to that good soil from which he sprang.
So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever thatgreat old trunk of England, which still sheds forth another crop andanother, each as strong and as fair as the last. The body may lie inmoldering chancel, or in crumbling vault, but the rumor of noble lives,the record of valor and truth, can never die, but lives on in thesoul of the people. Our own work lies ready to our hands; and yet ourstrength may be the greater and our faith the firmer if we spare anhour from present toils to look back upon the women who were gentle andstrong, or the men who loved honor more than life, on this green stageof England where for a few short years we play our little part.
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