Part 12

As it was, however, that age being comparatively ignorant, the Baron was told the simple truth, and actually believed it. His daughter had disappeared, and no one was more distressed thereat than the Lady Superior herself. The discipline of her convent was so good, and the sisterhood were all so much attached to her, that it was with difficulty that she could {116}bring herself to believe that any of them had assisted the runaway to escape; and as to the washerwoman, no thought of her connivance ever entered the Lady Superior’s head. Had it done so, indeed, she would never have believed that a daughter of the noble house of Guerre-à-mort would have so far demeaned herself as to hide in a box of dirty clothes, or wander forth, alone and unattended, into the country. The good Lady, never having admitted the god of love into her well-regulated breast, did not know his powers, which experience has proved to be such as are able to overcome all considerations of rank and dignity, and occasionally to make people do things even more strange and incongruous than hide in dirty-linen boxes or keep pigs on a hill-side.

The Baron was easily convinced that no blame was to be attributed to his saintly relative, but this by no means put an end to his trouble. His daughter had gone, and he had no clue whatever to her place of concealment. Under these circumstances, he determined that the best thing he could do was to consult the powers of magic, who in those days were the substitute for our present Rural Police, and occasionally discharged their functions in a manner equally satisfactory. Those were not days in which witches and warlocks were so common as in earlier ages; but, scattered about the country, there were a goodly number of the creatures; and the Baron had little difficulty in determining whom to consult.

The Witch of Salt Hill was a famous personage in those days. The vicinity of Eton and Slough was at that time a favourite resort of witches, who used to flit about {117}through Windsor Forest at nights, and, I suppose, preferred to have their day-residences not inconveniently remote therefrom. It is not improbable that they would have continued to frequent the neighbourhood down to the present day, but for the establishment of the sacred foundation of Eton College. There, as we know, the Provost and Fellows have, from the very earliest days of the college, been a body of men of singularly holy as well as learned reputation. Their blameless and saintly lives have driven evil far from the locality in which they dwell, and in the days of which I tell their power was already beginning to be felt. It gradually increased until, as I say, all witches and warlocks left the neighbourhood, although one of the last of them is said to have uttered a prophecy that the powers of evil should again return when Eton should be governed by others than her own children; and if what I have lately heard be true--namely, that the ancient government by Provost and Fellows has been superseded, and a new authority instituted, of which a portion is non-Etonian--it may be that the days of witchcraft will return, and the powers of darkness once more inhabit the neighbourhood. All this, however, has nothing to do with my present story.

No sooner had the Baron made up his mind that this was the best course to pursue than he rode off to Salt Hill to consult the celebrated witch whom I have mentioned. He found her with very little trouble, principally from knowing exactly where to look for her, which it is always well to ascertain, if you can, before you go in search of any one whom you wish to find. There was a very large thorn-tree, growing near a spring {118}at the side of a hill, close to which a species of rude cottage had been built into the hill, so that it had the appearance of being--and perhaps was--the way by which those who had the right, and the will to do so, could enter into the bowels of the earth. When the witch chose to come forth, she sat under the thorn-tree; at other times, those who sought her had to approach the door of the cottage, and strive to attract her attention in the best way they could.

When the Baron arrived near the place, with some dozen of retainers, he left his horse with the latter at a short distance from the spot, and walked up to the spring alone. The witch was not to be seen outside, so the anxious father strode up to the cottage, and would have knocked at the door, only there did not happen to be any. The place was built of huge stones, and the entrance was through a large hole, left open as if for a door, which had never been put up. It was as dark as pitch when you looked in, and the Baron, fearless as he was, felt a kind of unpleasant sensation stealing over him as he stood opposite the hole. However, he had come on business which could not be delayed; so, after a moment’s hesitation, he shouted out at the top of his voice, “Halloa! is any one within?” and waited for a reply. As none came, the Baron presently tried again, saying, in an equally loud voice, “I am come to consult the wise woman of Salt Hill. Is it here she dwells?” Still no answer came from within, and the haughty Norman stamped impatiently on the ground, chafing at the delay which his imperious spirit could have ill brooked at any time, but which was more than ever galling at the present moment, when his anxiety about his {119}daughter had thrown him into a state of feverish irritation and excitement. He doubted as to the next step which he should take, and was just considering whether he had omitted any form which ought to have been observed in approaching such a person as a witch, when a voice suddenly spoke from within the cottage, saying, in a somewhat gruff voice--

“Who comes to Salt Hill’s ancient dame? Tell both thine errand and thy name.”

Now the Baron was little accustomed to be addressed so unceremoniously, or to be asked his name in this manner, so his first impulse was to refuse to reply, or at least to rebuke the speaker for the incivility of the question. However, as he had come on important business, and was really desirous of obtaining information as to his beloved daughter, a moment’s reflection convinced him that it would be an act of folly on his part to fly into a passion about a trifle, or to stand upon ceremony with a power which might be able to assist him, and willing to do so or not according to his own behaviour. So he made up his mind to tell his name and errand at once, and was about to do so, when, even whilst he hesitated, the voice spoke again:--

“Our Norman lords are men of war, And love their foemen to defy; But, come he here from near or far, Who with the Guerre-à-mort can vie?”

At this unexpected mention of his own name, the Baron started back, but immediately recovering himself, he spoke in as reverential a tone as he could manage to find for the occasion. “Since thou knowest who I am, good {120}dame,” said he, “mine errand is very likely also known to thee. I want my beloved daughter, who has disappeared from the convent at Reading, and can nowhere be found. If thou canst find her for me and restore her to mine arms, I will grudge thee no reward that my castle can give.”

At these words a low sigh proceeded from the interior of the cottage, as if the offer of a bribe had given pain to its virtuous inmate, or the Baron’s request had been of an unexpected and afflicting character. However, after a few moments’ pause, the same voice again spoke:--

“Whi’st on this earth we live and move, Some sweetness in our lives is found; But what more sweet than children’s love, Our very heart-strings twined around?

Yet to each parent comes an hour (Though fain he would the same delay) When other and resistless power Will steal the youthful heart away.

And when a father here inquires For daughter lost; then, let him learn That daughters, though they love their sires, To other loves some day will turn;

Nor convent rules nor home’s own charms, Will keep them from a lover’s arms.”

As the voice uttered these strange and not altogether consoling words, the Baron stroked his beard, pulled his moustache, and racked his brains in the vain endeavour to bring to mind any lover with whom it was at all likely that his daughter should have eloped. The idea of her eloping at all was unpleasant; but those were strange times, and he knew well enough that such things had happened before, and would not improbably happen {121}again. The puzzle to him was as to the happy-individual upon whom Mathilde could possibly have placed her affections. He thought of all their acquaintances, turning over in his mind the circumstances under which his child had met them, and, one after the other, he rejected the possibility of any one of them being the favoured individual. There was Baron Eau-de-vie, who lived within calling distance, but his habits of intemperance put him at once out of the question; then the lord of Burnham was a worthy man, but being past eighty, and totally blind, was scarcely likely to have become the object of a maiden’s affection; these and various others he thought over, and remained musing for a short time before he spoke again.

Then it came into his head that perhaps it was all false after all, and the witch was either chaffing him, or knew nothing about it at all, and was making a guess at a solution of his difficulty, which, however likely to be correct as regarded the generality of young ladies, was most improbable with respect to a damsel of high degree, so well and carefully brought up as he considered his child to have been. As this thought struck him, he spoke out aloud at once. “What meanest thou?” he cried. “Men will woo, and girls will have lovers, as we all know full well; but to suppose that the young Baroness of Guerre-à-mort would fly from her convent with any lover that ever was born is an error and an insult to boot. Trifle not with me, then, whoever thou art, but tell me truly, an thou knowest, what has really become of my daughter?”

A low laugh issued from the cottage as the same voice replied to this appeal with the following words:--

“Oh mighty are Barons in battle array, Full swift are their steeds and full sharp are their swords; But the heart of a maiden must have its own way, And Love is far stronger than Barons and Lords.

He climbs the high walls of the castle so strong, In vain your defences your treasure to shield; To words which are whispered by lover’s true tongue, The peeress and peasant will equally yield.”

This {122}reply was by no means more satisfactory to the Baron than the first had been, and he saw that there was evidently but little information to be obtained from the Witch of Salt Hill. Turning away, therefore, with a moody air, he rejoined his servants, mounted his steed, and returned to his castle, very much disgusted with his want of success. Scarcely had he left the place before the head of an old woman peered forth from the entrance of the cottage, and presently the whole figure followed. It was that of an aged crone, clad in a long grey cloak, with a strange head-covering of handkerchiefs twined in the form of a turban, from which a few grey locks escaped and fluttered in the wind around the venerable head. She held in her hand a strong staff, upon which she leaned, whilst she carefully looked right and left to make sure that her visitors had all departed. As soon as she had convinced herself of this fact, she turned round again to the entrance of the cottage and called in a low voice--“It is quite safe; come forth, my lord, come forth!” Upon this there was a movement inside the place, and there presently stepped forth a young man, the pallor of whose handsome countenance betokened recent illness, and who supported himself upon a stout oaken staff. Had the Baron stood where he had been standing but a few {123}minutes before, he would scarcely have departed so easily, for in this individual he would have seen the hereditary enemy of his house standing close beside him.

In truth, Brother Rhine, the witch of Salt Hill had been, somehow or other, greatly indebted to the St. Aunay family; and after Count Horace had been wounded in his skirmish with the Baron, he had found a secure retreat in her abode at Salt Hill. There, carefully nursed, and perhaps doctored by some wondrous charms of which mortals who do not happen to be witches know nothing, the young nobleman had rapidly recovered from the effects of his wound. The country, however, was still so much under the control of the Lancastrian party, that Count Horace deemed it his wisest plan to remain for some time in concealment, especially since he found that the report of his death had evidently so far softened the Baron that he had not pursued his work of devastation as he probably would have done if he had believed that the head of the house of St. Aunay was still alive and likely to take the field against him upon a favourable opportunity. This, then, was the reason of the Count’s being in the cottage of the witch upon the very day of the Baron’s visit, and as soon as the latter had departed, the wise woman began to discuss the subject of his daughter and her supposed elopement. Whether or not her arts had enabled her to discover the direction of Mathilde’s flight, and her present place of abode, is a question we need hardly pause to ask. It is very likely that her statement to the Baron had been little more than a shrewd guess that if a young lady fled secretly from a convent, there was in all probability {124}a gentleman in the case, in which surmise she was certainly not far wrong. But if she had known where Mathilde was she certainly would not have disclosed it to the anxious father whilst St. Aunay was close by, nor indeed under any circumstances without the consent of the latter. He had informed her fully of the true state of the case between the young Baroness and himself, and after the Baron had gone off, eagerly inquired of her as to where the fair lady was really to be found.

Now witches, although exceedingly wise, cannot tell more than they know, and are not obliged to tell all that they do know, except under extraordinary circumstances, therefore the witch of Salt Hill thought it best to assume a very grave and solemn air, and mysteriously assured her friend that all would be right, and that he would know everything that ought to be known as soon as the proper time for knowing it had arrived. This assurance was scarcely satisfactory to the young man, who pressed hard for an answer which should at least give him some indication of the course which he had better pursue in order to obtain tidings of the lost one. No such answer, however, could he obtain; and all that the old dame would tell him was to “keep his heart up,” and to “have patience”--two pieces of advice which are excellent in themselves, but little calculated to allay the impatience of a young man who has lost his sweetheart and wants to find her as soon as possible. Patience the young Count found it impossible to have, and, finding himself very much better the next day, he determined to set out and see what he could accomplish by his own exertions.

It {125}was a lovely morning, and as St. Aunay walked through the fields, he felt new life rising in his’ veins, and his whole being seemed reinvigorated by the bright sun and fresh air. He walked for miles without any very definite idea as to where he was going or what he should do, in which it will be observed he strongly resembled the condition of his beloved Mathilde. Still, disguised in the garb of a peasant, he wandered on, and towards evening reached no other place than the very farm at which the young Baroness was employed as a pig-keeper. Nor was this his only piece of good fortune, for, as luck would have it, he came upon the fair damsel herself, disconsolately sitting by the side of her pigs, and wishing herself anywhere else. This wish, as may easily be imagined, was immediately changed when she found that the strange peasant who approached was no other than her own Horace. She flew into his arms with the smallest possible delay, and he was forthwith able satisfactorily to explain to her that he was by no means dead, and almost entirely recovered from his wound.

The prospects of the two lovers did not, however, seem particularly bright even after they had thus met; and after a long discussion they could hardly make up their minds what would be the best course to pursue. Mathilde had the greatest objection to returning home, where she should hear nothing but abuse of her Horace and his family, not improbably coupled with reproaches directed against herself for having quitted the convent. To return to the latter was out of the question, and equally so to accompany the Count, who had no home to which he could take her. The only conclusion, therefore, at which {126}they found themselves able to arrive was that the lady had better continue her pig-keeping at least for a time, and that they should both wait patiently until better days. This arrangement though not exactly pleasant to either of them, seemed most expedient upon the whole, and having finally come to the determination that such was the case, they took an affectionate leave of each other, and again separated.

From that day Mathilde passed several months of weary suspense, being quite unable to content herself with the unusual pastime of looking after pigs, although she found some consolation in reading and writing--two accomplishments in which she had become tolerably perfect during her stay in the convent. Books, however, were, not in those days what they now are, and those young ladies who depend for their literary amusement upon circulating libraries and sensation novels, may thank the good fortune which decreed that they should come into the world some few centuries later than the days I speak of. Mathilde had one vast book of curious manuscript, which she had discovered in the farmhouse, and which was her constant companion. I am not sure as to the subjects of which it treated, but as it was probably of monkish compilation, it is most likely that it dealt either with the lives of saints or the theories of cookery, which were two subjects much in favour with the Eccelesiastical fraternities of that day. Whatever it was however, Mathilde made it the subject of her constant study, and varied her amusement by the use of the quill pens which she manufactured, from the good farmer’s geese. You must not ask me questions, Brother Rhine, as to the manner in which she obtained paper and {127}ink. None of these particulars have ever been handed down, and I have never cared to inquire. I can only say that in a certain noble family a huge scroll, covered with curious writing, has been long preserved, which tradition attributes to the ancestress who once kept pigs on that. Berkshire hill-side; and if the tradition is not strictly true, I would merely observe that it is just as provable as many another, upon the veracity of which the scoffer has never ventured to cast a doubt.

During this time the Baron de Guerre-à-mort was not sitting idly at home. He made every inquiry for his daughter, and was exceedingly vexed at his total want of success in discovering where she was. It is likely enough that he would have found her if she had been further off or more carefully concealed. But it may be observed as a rule which obtains pretty generally, that the things which are immediately under our noses escape our observation more than those which require a careful search. A hare sometimes squats-securely in the middle of a ploughed field whilst the sportsman is seeking her in the thick wood; the nest of the grey thrush, built in the bare cleft of a laurel-tree, often escapes the eye of the school-boy more easily than the nest more carefully hidden in the thick bushes; or, to take another comparison an elderly gentleman sometimes makes entirely ineffectual search for the spectacles which he has pushed up from his nose to his forehead, whereas, had they been hidden among papers, or left in some unusual place, he would quickly have discovered them. So it was, at any rate, that the Baron sought far and wide for his daughter without success, whilst she, poor girl, was keeping pigs on the hill-side all the time, a very {128}few miles distant from the castle of her respected parent.

The good man, however, found that before long he had other business to attend to than the agreeable occupation of daughter-hunting. The fortunes of the two great parties in the state underwent a considerable change. Instead of being any longer in the ascendant, the Lancastrians experienced heavy reverses, and those who had espoused the cause of the House of York gained ground continually on every side. In those times it was not so easy to change one’s politics or one’s party as has been the case in some later periods of the history of this country, especially if one had supported one’s opinions by the carrying of fire and sword into the territory of one’s opponents. Therefore the old Baron, who, as we have seen, had adopted this old-fashioned method of proceeding, would have found it somewhat difficult to change sides even if he had wished to do so. Nothing, however, could have been further from his intention. He believed the cause of the House of Lancaster to be just and right, and even if he had thought otherwise, I do not believe that he would ever have deserted a cause which he had once thoroughly espoused. So he remained loyal to the Lancastrian standard, and was as ready to fight for it in adversity as he had ever been when it seemed likely to triumph. The consequences, however, were not likely to be agreeable.

The Yorkists were daily gathering strength, and so devoted an adherent of the rival house could hardly escape their kind attention. Moreover, those who had seen their own homes despoiled by the Baron’s invasion were not unmindful of their oppressor when the opportunity {129}for revenge appeared to present itself. So it came about that the Baron’s position was somewhat precarious. Some of his outlying farms were plundered; his retainers, when caught singly or in small numbers, were insulted and rudely treated, and threats of something worse likely to happen occasionally reached his ears. As yet, however, no armed body of Yorkists had appeared in the neighbourhood, and the strength of his castle, as well as the number and devotion of his followers, rendered the Baron de Guerre-à-mort tolerably secure against any attack save one from a powerful and well-organized force. Still he could see the storm lowering in the distance, and gathering in strength sufficient to give him cause for uneasiness. At last it seemed ready to burst. Small bands of Yorkists had been reported as hovering about various places in the vicinity of the castle, and rumour now had it that these bands were likely to be united at Reading under the command of some leader of note, who would forthwith proceed to march through Berkshire and Buckinghamshire, putting down all those who still dared to uphold the falling fortunes of the House of Lancaster.