Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  As the good monks would favour find.”

  XXV.

  Fitzharding, in the chapel near,

  When he Duke Richard’s lofty word,

  Demanding certain chieftains, heard,

  Felt shuddering dread for kinsman dear.

  Breathless attention now he paid

  To hear each claim, that Richard made.

  At first, as every name went by,

  This was the Father’s prompt reply,

  “He knew not that such Chief was here;

  He might be — laid upon his bier.”

  Duke Richard then Earl D’Arcy named,

  And the Knight’s sire for prisoner claimed.

  The Abbot paused; then faltering said,

  “He lies within the Abbey — dead!”

  XXVI.

  In sudden shock of grief, the son

  Clasped his strong gauntlet hands on high,

  And moved with hasty step of one,

  Who every fortune would defy.

  Duke Richard turned a distant glance;

  His looks his true surmise reveal;

  “Methought I heard the clash of steel

  That voice recalled the Knight to sense;

  He checked the footstep in advance.

  Ill might his dread the Abbot hide.,

  Or the Duke’s searching eye abide,

  As sternly from his chair he rose

  The lurking danger to expose: —

  “I pray — Lord Abbot — pardon me,

  If I suspect an enemy.” —

  “My Lord, no enemy is near,

  Whom you have any cause to fear.

  Pass not into my private cell,

  Forbear, my Lord! — it were not well.”

  The Abbot’s voice with terror shook,

  But prudently he ruled his look.

  XXVII.

  Duke Richard paused, and turned away,

  Awed partly by this just reproof;

  But he had motives, too, aloof

  From such as on the surface lay,

  For yielding to the Abbot’s sway.

  “This sudden crash of hidden arms,”

  He said, might justify alarms.” —

  “No hidden arms are here, my lord;

  And trust, I pray, my solemn word

  (The Abbot spoke to be o’erheard)

  Who first that sacred ground assails,

  Be he or enemy or friend,

  On him the Ban of Church prevails;

  And he beneath that scourge shall bend.”

  XXVIII.

  Slowly the Duke resumed his chair,

  “‘Tis well!” he said; “ so let it fare;

  For that same chief, whom last I named,

  In this day’s fatal business famed —

  For him, he rests within your wall,

  But not beneath the funeral pall;

  He lives within your Abbey gate;

  In chamber near, perchance, may wait.” —

  He viewed the chapel-door, and frowned,

  Where the son sheltered in it’s bound,

  Thrilled by conflicting hopes and fears,

  Those words of unmeant comfort hears.

  XXIX.

  Vainly the Father might deny

  Such Chief were here in sanctuary;

  As vainly Richard spoke of proof,

  That he now lived beneath this roof.

  The Abbot told of monks, who viewed

  The body stretched upon a bier,

  And borne through aisle and chancel near;

  Such solemn proof could not delude!

  The corpse passed Abbot Hugo’s tomb,

  At evening-bell, through twilight gloom,

  While chantry-priests bewailed his doom!

  XXX.

  These words o’erheard, swift to the heart

  Of the pale son their poison dart.

  But Richard’s accents, once again,

  Assuaged the keenness of his pain:

  He almost loved his direst foe,

  Who thus threw hope upon his woe:

  “How might they view,” Duke Richard said,

  “The visage of the warrior dead,

  If o’er it evening-gloom were spread

  The Abbot sadly smiled, and sighed,

  And falteringly, again replied:

  “The tapers on that chantry-shrine,

  As solemn witnesses, did shine

  Full on the dead man’s brow;

  So those who chaunted requiem, know.”

  XXXI.

  Duke Richard said, “That might not be.

  He had himself strange certainty —

  Strange tale! — he would not farther speak

  Of that, which made the bravest weak,

  Of Superstition’s gloomy spell;

  But clear and simple fact would tell.”

  And then he spoke of “certain men,

  Pikemen, on guard within the porch,

  (The curfew-bell was sounding then)

  Who saw that Knight, in arms all plain,

  March by and pass beneath the arch,

  Or saw him rather run than march, —

  They saw him by their own watch-torch!

  He went before a warrior dead,

  Yet heard they not his iron tread,

  Though clad in arms from heel to head.

  It might be that he stepped so light

  To ‘scape unknown the pikemen’s sight.

  They did not challenge him, ‘twas true;

  But he passed clearly to their view.

  His vizor up, his beaver down,

  Disclosed the fixtness of his frown;

  Yet could they not his face have seen,

  Like ghastly shade,” they said, “between,

  (Richard gave smile of satire keen)

  But that a warder dropped his pike,

  Which he might think just raised to strike,

  And, as he turned a sudden glance,

  Seeming to couch his demi-lance,

  Their torch flashed full upon his brow,

  And showed the frowning eye below.

  Yet checked they not his path, through dread

  Of thwarting spirit of the dead!

  But, fixed by terror of his eye,

  Watched him in warlike march pass by.

  Thus to their Knight they story told

  Of spectre of a warrior cold.

  Such strange and wayward humours sway

  Men, who dread nought, on battle day!”

  XXXII.

  He ceased, while grave the Abbot sate,

  As pondering on some tale of fate;

  And on his face an awful thrill

  Spoke, more than words, some dread of ill.

  Duke Richard felt that thrilling look;

  His mind with wondering doubt was shook;

  And, though he scorned each monkish spell,

  A secret dread he might not quell

  Lay on his soul, like sullen gloom

  On hills, ere yet the storm is come.

  He spoke not; all was still around

  In the wide chamber’s dusky bound, —

  So still, you might have heard the sound,

  Far off and doubtful to the ear,

  Of that low, sullen thunder growl,

  From clouds, that on th’ horizon scowl —

  The herald of the storm’s career! —

  So still, you might have heard a cry

  Of faint lament from distant aisle;

  Or step, in secret gallery,

  Stealing upon some deed of guile;

  Or whisper in the Chapel nigh

  Of the lone Knight’s heavy sigh.

  XXXIII.

  Still mused the Sire in deepest thought,

  His look with fearful meaning fraught.

  “‘Twas strange!” (at length he raised his face)

  Such warlike port and silent pace!

  And strange that soldiers at a glance

  Should stand appalled, nor step adva
nce

  To thwart a living warrior,

  From whom in fight they would not stir.”

  He mused again, with brow intent;

  While Richard, silent, forward bent.

  The Father raised not up his head,

  While, pausing oft, he slowly said,

  “If such an image they have seen,

  I guess it wore not earthly mien.

  It might be spirit lingering near

  It’s mortal corpse, borne on the bier.

  And that same hour of curfew, too,

  Tended to make the tale seem true.

  That the guard failed to summon, straight,

  Some reverend priest to th’ Abbey gate

  I marvel much: for such good men

  Were gathered round the wounded then,

  Whose presence and whose single word

  Had stronger proved than pike or sword.”

  XXXIV.

  Duke Richard checked a scornful smile,

  And said, with meaning fraught with guile,

  “Earl D’Arcy lives; his son, perchance,

  May rest here in some mortal trance,

  And, by a strong similitude,

  Have caused his semblance to delude.

  But, if he live — that younger Knight,

  Who sought me in this morning’s fight,

  Baron Fitzharding I would claim,

  Though fire and sword should thwart my aim.

  Nay, wife or kinsman I would take,

  Till he surrendered for their sake!”

  XXXV.

  “It could not be such knight, my Lord— “

  The Abbot checked his thoughtless word,

  And paused confused; then tried to speak

  While sudden crimson flushed his cheek;

  And, when again he raised his brow,

  He met Duke Richard’s searching glance,

  Fixed, watchful, o’er his silent trance,

  And reading all his fears might show.

  “That knight,” said Richard, “in the fray,

  I drove in headlong flight away— “

  Guileful he spoke — He fled my blow,

  And fell by other hand, THEY SAY”

  Again the Duke his dark eye bent

  Upon the Abbot’s face, intent.

  XXXVI.

  But, ere the Father might reply,

  The Baron’s step in Chapel nigh

  Confirmed his fearful agony.

  Not tamely could Fitzharding hear

  Richard’s false tales of flight and fear.

  His heart and every nerve throbbed high

  With indignation and disdain

  Of yielding to so foul a stain.

  He turned toward the chamber-door

  (So, for a moment, did he err)

  To dare his artful slanderer,

  And grasped his sword — but checked his

  For shall the Father’s chilling age

  JBe shocked with view of human gore,

  Shed — even his feeble sight before?

  And — for himself — was this a time

  To seek a contest, when no crime

  Could seem so great as victory,

  Or rouse such fell malignity,

  Or place him in such jeopardy?

  XXXVII.

  But Richard had that footstep heard,

  And, while his eye with anger burned,

  He sternly to the Abbot turned,

  And claimed again his solemn word,

  Truly and promptly now to tell

  What footstep paced within his cell.

  He guessed that place did foe conceal,

  For surely it was foot of steel.

  He grasped his dagger while he spoke.

  So did the thought his rage provoke.

  The Father, that the Knight might hear,

  Spoke loud— “My Lord, upon this ground

  You have not enemy to fear;

  No man so desperate may be found

  To threaten life, or draw blood here.”

  The Duke’s dark aspect proved too well

  He read the Abbot’s warning speech.

  And that he judged within the cell

  An enemy lay in his reach.

  He answered, “Ere from hence I go,

  You must yourself, Lord Abbot, show

  Who clad in arms, what warrior bold,

  Makes a monk’s cell his secret hold.

  He bears, perchance, some noble name,

  And has achieved high deeds of fame;

  Yet — him for prisoner I claim!”

  XXXVIII.

  While to these words his taunting eye

  Gave double point and energy,

  He rose, and near the Chapel drew;

  But with deliberate step he went,

  And gesture made, as if to sue

  The Abbot for his full consent;

  And signed, that he should lead the way,

  And from his cell dislodge the prey.

  The Father, seeing it were vain

  Longer the struggle to maintain,

  Sought only to ward off the blow,

  And warn the sheltered Knight to go,

  Toward the chapel, lingering slow,

  He paced, and spoke in lofty tone

  Duke Richard’s name, and would alone

  Have passed; but this increased distrust.

  And Richard, straight, the portal burst!

  XXXIX.

  All sullenly he gazed around

  The pillared Chapel’s lighted bound;

  A gloomy fire flashed in his eye,

  The lightning of a stormy sky;

  Knight, priest, nor warrior, there was found.

  But, when he saw St. Dunstan’s door,

  He strode athwart the solid floor;

  And, with a firm, impatient grasp,

  Struggled to force the iron-clasp.

  St. Dunstan seemed the pass to guard,

  The Saxon door held faithful ward.

  XL.

  The Abbot, now no more subdued

  By terrors for the Knight,

  Quickly regained his tranquil mood,

  And stood upon his right

  Of undisturbed possession there,

  Whether of chamber, cell, or stair,

  He grieved intrusive step to see,

  Profane his private sanctuary.

  Duke Richard coldly said, “‘Twas plain

  His enemies had not been thought

  That sanctuary to profane,

  Or here they had not refuge sought.”

  XLI.

  He spoke; and pointed to the sword

  The Knight had laid, with pious word,

  Upon the altar nigh,

  When he had there himself resigned,

  Where only he could comfort find,

  And balm for misery!

  Duke Richard held the sword aloof

  Before the Abbot, in sure proof

  He there had screened some enemy;

  That sword the Father might not see

  But with a mingled agony

  Of gratitude, respect and fear,

  For him, who was, alas! too near.

  XLII.

  With saintly smile the Abbot viewed

  This offering of a mind subdued;

  Duke Richard, in amazement, frowned,

  And every generous thought disowned.

  Some way he hoped to find, ere long,

  Might reach those hid within these walls,

  Whose shelter he thought bitter wrong.

  “Lord Abbot! whatsoe’er befalls,

  Blame not the deeds may hence ensue;

  These deeds have been provoked by you!”

  XLIII.

  With haughty eye and cheek, that burned,

  Straight to the Abbot’s hall he turned,

  Bearing the falchion of his foe,

  While vengeance dark sat on his brow.

  A parting gesture slight he gave;

  Stately the Abbot stood and g
rave,

  Nor sought, by look, or argument,

  To win his passions to relent.

  And, as he drew near to the screen,

  The Abbot’s page, “with humble mien,

  Brought message brief from Warwick’s lord, —

  Required Duke Richard’s present word

  On subject high, that might not wait; —

  The board were sitting in debate.

  XLIV.

  Straight, Richard to the council went;

  And thus, in mutual discontent,

  Parted the victor and the sire —

  The victor, with disdainful ire,

  The Abbot, with a meek desire

  To save Fitzharding’s threatened life,

  And keep from sacrilegious strife,

  From envious and irreverend search,

  His Abbey-precincts and his Church.

  He sought the Knight; but still his guard,

  The Saxon door, held sturdy ward.

  No voice beyond in gallery

  Gave to his friendly call reply;

  And, with a weary sigh, he sought

  His cell, though peopled ‘twas with thought,

  With spectre-cares of many a day,

  Still thronging where he silent lay:

  There he resolved awhile to lie,

  Hoping Fitzharding might be nigh.

  XLV.

  Wearied and worn with grief and fears,

  Vainly he mourned, that at his years

  He took the burthen up again

  Of Abbey-honours he thought vain,

  And had resigned, foreseeing crime

  And tumult in this fearful time;

  But, weary of a long repose,

  He, whom, his grateful monks re-chose,

  Resumed his honours at life’s close,

  To be the lord and slave of men.

  And now was come that evil day,

  When the land bore divided sway.

  Behold him now, in mitred chair

  Of rule, of honour and of care;

  Behold his trembling age reclined

  On thorny pillows, ‘broidered o’er

  With pageantries, that ceased to blind

  The vanities of years before;

  And hear him mourn his comfort lost,

  Wisdom, o’ercome by love of power,

  The peace of age by worldly passion tossed.

  XLVI.

  Yet kindly conscious was the thought

  That his last toil had not been vain,

  To save from rage, or thirst of gain,