Kitabı oku: «Windsor Castle», sayfa 21
II
How Sir Thomas Wyat found Mabel in the Sandstone Cave, and what happened to him there
A week after the foregoing occurrence, the Earl of Surrey was set free. But his joy at regaining his liberty was damped by learning that the Fair Geraldine had departed for Ireland. She had left the tenderest messages for him with his sister, the Lady Mary Howard, accompanied with assurances of unalterable attachment.
But other changes had taken place, which were calculated to afford him some consolation. Ever since the night on which he had been told the Lady Mary was not indifferent to him, Richmond had devoted himself entirely to her; and matters had already proceeded so far, that he had asked her in marriage of the Duke of Norfolk, who, after ascertaining the king’s pleasure on the subject, had gladly given his consent, and the youthful pair were affianced to each other. Surrey and Richmond now became closer friends than ever; and if, amid the thousand distractions of Henry’s gay and festive court, the young earl did not forget the Fair Geraldine, he did not, at least, find the time hang heavily on his hands.
About a week after Wolsey’s dismissal, while the court was still sojourning at Windsor, Surrey proposed to Richmond to ride one morning with him in the great park. The Duke willingly assented, and mounting their steeds, they galloped towards Snow Hill, wholly unattended. While mounting this charming ascent at a more leisurely pace, the earl said to his companion, “I will now tell you why I proposed this ride to you, Richmond. I have long determined to follow up the adventure of Herne the Hunter, and I wish to confer with you about it, and ascertain whether you are disposed to join me.”
“I know not what to say, Surrey,” replied the duke gravely, and speaking in a low tone. “The king, my father, failed in his endeavours to expel the demon, who still lords it in the forest.”
“The greater glory to us if we succeed,” said Surrey.
“I will take counsel with Lady Mary on the subject before I give an answer,” rejoined Richmond.
“Then there is little doubt what your grace’s decision will be,” laughed Surrey. “To speak truth, it was the fear of your consulting her that made me bring you here. What say you to a ride in the forest to-morrow night?”
“I have little fancy for it,” replied Richmond; “and if you will be ruled by me, you will not attempt the enterprise yourself.”
“My resolution is taken,” said the earl; “but now, since we have reached the brow of the hill, let us push forward to the lake.”
A rapid ride of some twenty minutes brought them to the edge of the lake, and they proceeded along the verdant path leading to the forester’s hut. On arriving at the dwelling, it appeared wholly deserted, but they nevertheless dismounted, and tying their horses to the trees at the back of the cottage, entered it. While they were examining the lower room, the plash of oars reached their ears, and rushing to the window, they descried the skiff rapidly approaching the shore. A man was seated within it, whose attire, though sombre, seemed to proclaim him of some rank, but as his back was towards them, they could not discern his features. In another instant the skiff touched the strand, and the rower leaping ashore, proved to be Sir Thomas Wyat. On making this discovery they both ran out to him, and the warmest greetings passed between them. When these were over, Surrey expressed his surprise to Wyat at seeing him there, declaring he was wholly unaware of his return from the court of France.
“I came back about a month ago,” said Wyat. “His majesty supposes me at Allington; nor shall I return to court without a summons.”
“I am not sorry to hear it,” said Surrey; “but what are you doing here?”
“My errand is a strange and adventurous one,” replied Wyat. “You may have heard that before I departed for France I passed some days in the forest in company with Herne the Hunter. What then happened to me I may not disclose; but I vowed never to rest till I have freed this forest from the weird being who troubles it.”
“Say you so?” cried Surrey; “then you are most fortunately encountered, Sir Thomas, for I myself, as Richmond will tell you, am equally bent upon the fiend’s expulsion. We will be companions in the adventure.”
“We will speak of that anon,” replied Wyat. “I was sorry to find this cottage uninhabited, and the fair damsel who dwelt within it, when I beheld it last, gone. What has become of her?
“It is a strange story,” said Richmond. And he proceeded to relate all that was known to have befallen Mabel.
Wyat listened with profound attention to the recital, and at its close, said, “I think I can find a clue to this mystery, but to obtain it I must go alone. Meet me here at midnight to-morrow, and I doubt not we shall be able to accomplish our design.”
“May I not ask for some explanation of your scheme?” said Surrey.
“Not yet,” rejoined Wyat. “But I will freely confess to you that there is much danger in the enterprise—danger that I would not willingly any one should share with me, especially you, Surrey, to whom I owe so much. If you do not find me here, therefore, to-morrow night, conclude that I have perished, or am captive.”
“Well, be it as you will, Wyat,” said Surrey; “but I would gladly accompany you, and share your danger.”
“I know it, and I thank you,” returned Wyat, warmly grasping the other’s hand; “but much—nay, all—may remain to be done to-morrow night. You had better bring some force with you, for we may need it.”
“I will bring half a dozen stout archers,” replied Surrey—“and if you come not, depend upon it, I will either release you or avenge you.”
“I did not intend to prosecute this adventure further,” said Richmond; “but since you are both resolved to embark in it, I will not desert you.”
Soon after this, the friends separated,—Surrey and Richmond taking horse and returning to the castle, discoursing on the unlooked—for meeting with Wyat, while the latter again entered the skiff, and rowed down the lake. As soon as the hut was clear, two persons descended the steps of a ladder leading to a sort of loft in the roof, and sprang upon the floor of the hut.
“Ho! ho! Ho!” laughed the foremost, whose antlered helm and wild garb proclaimed him to be Herne; “they little dreamed who were the hearers of their conference. So they think to take me, Fenwolf—ha!”
“They know not whom they have to deal with,” rejoined the latter.
“They should do so by this time,” said Herne; “but I will tell thee why Sir Thomas Wyat has undertaken this enterprise. It is not to capture me, though that may be one object that moves him. But he wishes to see Mabel Lyndwood. The momentary glimpse he caught of her bright eyes was sufficient to inflame him.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwolf, “think you so?”
“I am assured of it,” replied Herne. “He knows the secret of the cave, and will find her there.”
“But he will never return to tell what he has seen,” said Fenwolf moodily.
“I know not that,” replied Herne. “I have my own views respecting him. I want to renew my band.”
“He will never join you,” rejoined Fenwolf.
“What if I offer him Mabel as a bait?” said Herne.
“You will not do so, dread master?” rejoined Fenwolf, trembling and turning pale. “She belongs to me.”
“To thee, fool!” cried Herne, with a derisive laugh. “Thinkest thou I would resign such a treasure to thee? No, no. But rest easy, I will not give her to Wyat.”
“You mean her for yourself, then?” said Fenwolf.
“Darest thou to question me?” cried Herne, striking him with the hand armed with the iron gyves. “This to teach thee respect.”
And this to prove whether thou art mortal or rejoined Fenwolf, plucking his hunting-knife from his belt, and striking it with all his force against the other’s breast. But though surely and forcibly dealt, the blow glanced off as if the demon were cased in steel, and the intended assassin fell back in amazement, while an unearthly laugh rang in his ears. Never had Fenwolf seen Herne wear so formidable a look as he at that moment assumed. His giant frame dilated, his eyes flashed fire, and the expression of his countenance was so fearful that Fenwolf shielded his eyes with his hands.
“Ah, miserable dog!” thundered Herne; “dost thou think I am to be hurt by mortal hands, or mortal weapons? Thy former experience should have taught thee differently. But since thou hast provoked it, take thy fate!”
Uttering these words, he seized Fenwolf by the throat, clutching him with a terrific gripe, and in a few seconds the miserable wretch would have paid the penalty of his rashness, if a person had not at the moment appeared at the doorway. Flinging his prey hastily backwards, Herne turned at the interruption, and perceived old Tristram Lyndwood, who looked appalled at what he beheld.
“Ah, it is thou, Tristram?” cried Herne; “thou art just in time to witness the punishment of this rebellious hound.”
“Spare him, dread master! oh, spare him!” cried Tristram imploringly.
“Well,” said Herne, gazing at the half-strangled caitiff, “he may live. He will not offend again. But why hast thou ventured from thy hiding-place, Tristram?”
“I came to inform you that I have just observed a person row across the lake in the skiff,” replied the old man. “He appears to be taking the direction of the secret entrance to the cave.”
“It is Sir Thomas Wyat,” replied Herne, “I am aware of his proceedings. Stay with Fenwolf till he is able to move, and then proceed with him to the cave. But mark me, no violence must be done to Wyat if you find him there. Any neglect of my orders in this respect will be followed by severe punishment. I shall be at the cave ere long; but, meanwhile, I have other business to transact.”
And quitting the hut, he plunged into the wood.
Meanwhile, Sir Thomas Wyat, having crossed the lake, landed, and fastened the skiff to a tree, struck into the wood, and presently reached the open space in which lay the secret entrance to the cave. He was not long in finding the stone, though it was so artfully concealed by the brushwood that it would have escaped any uninstructed eye, and removing it, the narrow entrance to the cave was revealed.
Committing himself to the protection of Heaven, Wyat entered, and having taken the precaution of drawing the stone after him, which was easily accomplished by a handle fixed to the inner side of it, he commenced the descent. At first, he had to creep along, but the passage gradually got higher, until at length, on reaching the level ground, he was able to stand upright. There was no light to guide him, but by feeling against the sides of the passage, he found that he was in the long gallery he had formerly threaded. Uncertain which way to turn, he determined to trust to chance for taking the right direction, and drawing his sword, proceeded slowly to the right.
For some time he encountered no obstacle, neither could he detect the slightest sound, but he perceived that the atmosphere grew damp, and that the sides of the passage were covered with moisture. Thus warned, he proceeded with great caution, and presently found, after emerging into a more open space, and striking off on the left, that he had arrived at the edge of the pool of water which he knew lay at the end of the large cavern.
While considering how he should next proceed, a faint gleam of light became visible at the upper end of the vault. Changing his position, for the pillars prevented him from seeing the source of the glimmer, he discovered that it issued from a lamp borne by a female hand, who he had no doubt was Mabel. On making this discovery, he sprang forwards, and called to her, but instantly repented his rashness, for as he uttered the cry the light was extinguished.
Wyat was now completely at a loss how to proceed. He was satisfied that Mabel was in the vault; but in what way to guide himself to her retreat he could not tell, and it was evident she herself would not assist him. Persuaded, however, if he could but make himself known, he should no longer be shunned, he entered one of the lateral passages, and ever and anon, as he proceeded, repeated Mabel’s name in a low, soft tone. The stratagem was successful. Presently he heard a light footstep approaching him, and a gentle voice inquired—“Who calls me?”
“A friend,” replied Wyat.
“Your name?” she demanded.
“You will not know me if I declare myself, Mabel,” he replied, “but I am called Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“The name is well known to me,” she replied, in trembling tones; “and I have seen you once—at my grandfather’s cottage. But why have you come here? Do you know where you are?
“I know that I am in the cave of Herne the Hunter,” replied Wyat; “and one of my motives for seeking it was to set you free. But there is nothing to prevent your flight now.”
“Alas! there is,” she replied. “I am chained here by bonds I cannot break. Herne has declared that any attempt at escape on my part shall be followed by the death of my grandsire. And he does not threaten idly, as no doubt you know. Besides, the most terrible vengeance would fall on my own head. No,—I cannot—dare not fly. But let us not talk in the dark. Come with me to procure a light. Give me your hand, and I will lead you to my cell.”
Taking the small, trembling hand offered him, Wyat followed his conductress down the passage. A few steps brought them to a door, which she pushed aside, and disclosed a small chamber, hewn out of the rock, in a recess of which a lamp was burning. Lighting the lamp which she had recently extinguished, she placed it on a rude table.
“Have you been long a prisoner here?” asked Wyat, fixing his regards upon her countenance, which, though it had lost somewhat of its bloom, had gained much in interest and beauty.
“For three months, I suppose,” she replied; “but I am not able to calculate the lapse of time. It has seemed very—very long. Oh that I could behold the sun again, and breathe the fresh, pure air!
“Come with me, and you shall do so,” rejoined Wyat.
“I have told you I cannot fly,” she answered. “I cannot sacrifice my grandsire.”
“But if he is leagued with this demon he deserves the worst fate that can befall him,” said Wyat. “You should think only of your own safety. What can be the motive of your detention?”
“I tremble to think of it,” she replied; “but I fear that Herne has conceived a passion for me.”
“Then indeed you must fly,” cried Wyat; “such unhallowed love will tend to perdition of soul and body.”
“Oh that there was any hope for me!” she ejaculated.
“There is hope,” replied Wyat. “I will protect you—will care for you—will love you.”
“Love me!” exclaimed Mabel, a deep blush overspreading her pale features. “You love another.”
“Absence has enabled me to overcome the vehemence of my passion,” replied Wyat, “and I feel that my heart is susceptible of new emotions. But you, maiden,” he added coldly, “you are captivated by the admiration of the king.”
“My love, like yours, is past,” she answered, with a faint smile; “but if I were out of Herne’s power I feel that I could love again, and far more deeply than I loved before—for that, in fact, was rather the result of vanity than of real regard.”
“Mabel,” said Wyat, taking her hand, and gazing into her eyes, “if I set you free, will you love me?”
“I love you already,” she replied; “but if that could be, my whole life should be devoted to you. Ha!” she exclaimed with a sudden change of tone, “footsteps are approaching; it is Fenwolf. Hide yourself within that recess.”
Though doubting the prudence of the course, Wyat yielded to her terrified and imploring looks, and concealed himself in the manner she had indicated. He was scarcely ensconed in the recess, when the door opened, and Morgan Fenwolf stepped in, followed by her grandfather. Fenwolf gazed suspiciously round the little chamber, and then glanced significantly at old Tristram, but he made no remark.
“What brings you here?” demanded Mabel tremblingly.
“You are wanted in the cave,” said Fenwolf.
“I will follow you anon,” she replied.
“You must come at once,” rejoined Fenwolf authoritatively. “Herne will become impatient.”
Upon this Mabel rose, and, without daring to cast a look towards the spot where Wyat was concealed, quitted the cell with them. No sooner were they all out, than Fenwolf, hastily shutting the door, turned the key in the lock, and taking it out, exclaimed, “So we have secured you, Sir Thomas Wyat. No fear of your revealing the secret of the cave now, or flying with Mabel—ha! ha!” to here.
III
In what manner Herne declared his Passion for Mabel.
Utterly disregarding her cries and entreaties, Fenwolf dragged Mabel into the great cavern, and forced her to take a seat on a bench near the spot where a heap of ashes showed that the fire was ordinarily lighted. All this while, her grandfather had averted his face from her, as if fearing to meet her regards, and he now busied himself in striking a light and setting fire to a pile of fagots and small logs of wood.
“I thought you told me Herne was here,” said Mabel in a tone of bitter reproach, to Fenwolf, who seated himself beside her on the bench.
“He will be here ere long,” he replied sullenly.
“Oh, do not detain Sir Thomas Wyat!” cried Mabel piteously; “do not deliver him to your dread master! Do what you will with me—but let him go.”
“I will tell you what I will do,” replied Fenwolf, in a low tone; “I will set Sir Thomas at liberty, and run all risks of Herne’s displeasure, if you will promise to be mine.”
Mabel replied by a look of unutterable disgust.
“Then he will await Herne’s coming where he is,” rejoined Fenwolf.
Saying which he arose, and, pushing a table near the bench, took the remains of a huge venison pasty and a loaf from a hutch standing on one side of the cavern.
By this time Old Tristram, having succeeded in lighting the fire, placed himself at the farther end of the table, and fell to work upon the viands with Fenwolf. Mabel was pressed to partake of the repast, but she declined the offer. A large stone bottle was next produced and emptied of its contents by the pair, who seemed well contented with their regale.
Meanwhile Mabel was revolving the possibility of flight, and had more than once determined to make an attempt, but fear restrained her. Her grandsire, as has been stated, sedulously avoided her gaze, and turned a deaf ear to her complaints and entreaties. But once, when Fenwolf’s back was turned, she caught him gazing at her with peculiar significance, and then comprehended the meaning of his strange conduct. He evidently only awaited an opportunity to assist her.
Satisfied of this, she became more tranquil, and about an hour having elapsed, during which nothing was said by the party, the low winding of a horn was heard, and Fenwolf started to his feet, exclaiming—
“It is Herne!”
The next moment the demon huntsman rode from one of the lateral passages into the cave. He was mounted on a wild-looking black horse, with flowing mane and tail, eyes glowing like carbuncles, and in all respects resembling the sable steed he had lost in the forest.
Springing to the ground, he exchanged a few words with Fenwolf in a low tone, and delivering his steed to him, with orders to take it to the stable, signed to Tristram to go with him, and approached Mabel.
“So you have seen Sir Thomas Wyat, I find,” he said, in a stern tone.
Mabel made no answer, and did not even raise her eyes towards him.
“And he has told you he loves you, and has urged you to fly with him—ha?” pursued Herne.
Mabel still did not dare to look up, but a deep blush overspread her cheek.
“He was mad to venture hither,” continued Herne; “but having done so, he must take the consequences.”
“You will not destroy him?” cried Mabel imploringly.
“He will perish by a hand as terrible as mine,” laughed Herne—“by that of famine. He will never quit the dungeon alive unless—”
“Unless what?” gasped Mabel.
“Unless he is leagued with me,” replied Herne. “And now let him pass, for I would speak of myself. I have already told you that I love you, and am resolved to make you mine. You shudder, but wherefore? It is a glorious destiny to be the’ bride of the wild hunter—the fiend who rules the forest, and who, in his broad domain, is more powerful than the king. The old forester, Robin Hood, had his maid Marian; and what was he compared to me? He had neither my skill nor my power. Be mine, and you shall accompany me on my midnight rides; shall watch the fleet stag dart over the moonlight glade, or down the lengthened vista. You shall feel all the unutterable excitement of the chase. You shall thread with me the tangled grove, swim the river and the lake, and enjoy a thousand pleasures hitherto unknown to you. Be mine, and I will make you mistress of all my secrets, and compel the band whom I will gather round me to pay you homage. Be mine, and you shall have power of life and death over them, as if you were absolute queen. And from me, whom all fear, and all obey, you shall have love and worship.”
“And he would have taken her hand; but she recoiled from horror.
“Though I now inspire you with terror and aversion,” pursued “the time will come when you will love me as passionately as I was beloved by one of whom you are the image.”
And she is dead? “asked Mabel, with curiosity.
“Dead!” exclaimed Herne. “Thrice fifty years have flown since she dwelt upon earth. The acorn which was shed in the forest has grown into a lusty oak, while trees at that time in their pride have fallen and decayed away. Dead!—yes, she has passed from all memory save mine, where she will ever dwell. Generations of men have gone down to the grave since her time—a succession of kings have lodged within the castle but I am still a denizen of the forest. For crimes I then committed I am doomed to wander within it, and I shall haunt it, unless released, till the crack of doom.”
“Liberate me!” cried Mabel; “liberate your other prisoner and we will pray for your release.”
“No more of this!” cried Herne fiercely. “If you would not call down instant and terrible punishment on your head—punishment that I cannot avert, and must inflict—you will mention nothing sacred in my hearing, and never allude to prayer, I am beyond the reach of salvation.”
“Oh, say not so!” cried Mabel, in a tone of commiseration. “I will tell you how my doom was accomplished,” rejoined Herne wildly. “To gain her of whom I have just spoken, and who was already vowed to Heaven, I invoked the powers of darkness. I proffered my soul to the Evil One if he would secure her to me, and the condition demanded by him was that I should become what I am—the fiend of the forest, with power to terrify and to tempt, and with other more fearful and fatal powers besides.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mabel.
“I grasped at the offer,” pursued Herne. “She I loved became mine. But she was speedily snatched from me by death, and since then I have known no human passion except hatred and revenge. I have dwelt in this forest, sometimes alone, sometimes at the head of a numerous band, but always exerting a baneful influence over mankind. At last, I saw the image of her I loved again appear before me, and the old passion was revived within my breast. Chance has thrown you in my way, and mine you shall be, Mabel.”
“I will die rather,” she replied, with a shudder.
“You cannot escape me,” rejoined He me, with a triumphant laugh; “you cannot avoid your fate. But I want not to deal harshly with you. I love you, and would win you rather by persuasion than by force. Consent to be mine, then, and I give Wyat his life and liberty.”
“I cannot—I cannot!” she replied.
“Not only do I offer you Wyat’s life as the price of your compliance,” persevered Herne; “but you shall have what ever else you may seek—jewels, ornaments, costly attire, treasure—for of such I possess a goodly store.”
“And of what use would they be to me here?” said Mabel.
“I will not always confine you to this cave,” replied Herne. “You shall go where you please, and live as you please, but you must come to me whenever I summon you.”
“And what of my grandsire?” she demanded.
“Tristram Lyndwood is no relative of yours,” replied Herne. “I will now clear up the mystery that hangs over your birth. You are the offspring of one who for years has exercised greater sway than the king within this realm, but who is now disgraced and ruined, and nigh his end. His priestly vows forbid him to own you, even if he desired to do so.”
“Have I seen him?” demanded Mabel.
“You have,” replied Herne; “and he has seen you—and little did he know when he sought you out, that he was essaying to maintain his own power, and overturn that of another, by the dishonour of his daughter—though if he had done so,” he added, with a scoffing laugh, “it might not have restrained him.”
“I know whom you mean,” said Mabel. “And is it possible he can be my father?”
“It is as I have told you,” replied Herne. “You now know my resolve. To-morrow at midnight our nuptials shall take place.”
“Nuptials!” echoed Mabel.
“Ay, at that altar,” he cried, pointing to the Druid pile of stones; “there you shall vow yourself to me and I to you, before terrible witnesses. I shall have no fear that you will break your oath. Reflect upon what I have said.”
With this he placed the bugle to his lips, blew a low call upon it, and Fenwolf and Tristram immediately answering the summons, he whispered some instructions to the former, and disappeared down one of the side passages.
Fenwolf’s, deportment was now more sullen than before. In vain did Mabel inquire from him what Herne was about to do with Sir Thomas Wyat. He returned no answer, and at last, wearied by her importunity, desired her to hold her peace. Just then, Tristram quitted the cavern for a moment, when he instantly changed his manner, and ‘said to her quickly, “I overheard what passed between you and Herne. Consent to be mine, and I will deliver you from him.”
“That were to exchange one evil for another,” she replied, “If you would serve me, deliver Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“I will only deliver him on the terms I have mentioned,” replied Fenwolf.
At this moment, Tristram returned, and the conversation ceased.
Fresh logs were then thrown on the fire by Fenwolf, and, at his request, Tristram proceeded to a hole in the rock, which served as a sort of larder, and brought from it some pieces of venison, which were broiled upon the embers.
At the close of the repast, of which she sparingly partook, Mabel was conducted by Morgan Fenwolf into a small chamber opening out of the great cavern, which was furnished like the cell she had lately occupied, with a small straw pallet. Leaving her a lamp, Fenwolf locked the door, and placed the key in his girdle.
