Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet with the faded ferns—the fuzzy brown pelt1 which wraps the chilling earth. With whoop2 and scream the wild November wind sweeps over the great rolling downs, tossing the branches of the Cosford beeches3, and rattling4 at the rude latticed windows. The stout5 old knight6 of Duplin, grown even a little stouter7, with whiter beard to fringe an ever redder face, sits as of yore at the head of his own board. A well-heaped platter flanked by a foaming8 tankard stands before him. At his right sits the Lady Mary, her dark, plain, queenly face marked deep with those years of weary waiting, but bearing the gentle grace and dignity which only sorrow and restraint can give. On his left is Matthew, the old priest. Long ago the golden-haired beauty had passed from Cosford to Fernhurst, where the young and beautiful Lady Edith Brocas is the belle9 of all Sussex, a sunbeam of smiles and merriment, save perhaps when her thoughts for an instant fly back to that dread10 night when she was plucked from under the very talons11 of the foul12 hawk13 of Shalford.
The old knight looked up as a fresh gust14 of wind with a dash of rain beat against the window behind him. “By Saint Hubert, it is a wild night!” said he. “I had hoped to-morrow to have a flight at a heron of the pool or a mallard in the brook15. How fares it with little Katherine the peregrine, Mary?”
“I have joined the wing, father, and I have imped the feathers; but I fear it will be Christmas ere she can fly again.”
“This is a hard saying,” said Sir John; “for indeed I have seen no bolder better bird. Her wing was broken by a heron's beak16 last Sabbath sennight, holy father, and Mary has the mending of it.”
“I trust, my son, that you had heard mass ere you turned to worldly pleasure upon God's holy day,” Father Matthew answered.
“Tut, tut!” said the old knight, laughing. “Shall I make confession17 at the head of my own table? I can worship the good God amongst his own works, the woods and the fields, better than in yon pile of stone and wood. But I call to mind a charm for a wounded hawk which was taught me by the fowler of Gaston de Foix. How did it run? 'The lion of the Tribe of Judah, the root of David, has conquered.' Yes, those were the words to be said three times as you walk round the perch18 where the bird is mewed.”
The old priest shook his head. “Nay19, these charms are tricks of the Devil,” said he. “Holy Church lends them no countenance20, for they are neither good nor fair. But how is it now with your tapestry21, Lady Mary? When last I was beneath this roof you had half done in five fair colors the 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 a hundred 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 Nigel had won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits ever—well, even as you see her now.”
An intent look had come into Mary's eyes; her gaze was fixed22 upon the dark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from ivory, white-lipped and rigid23, 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 a hundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet every clink of hoofs24 sets her poor heart a-trembling. So strong and steadfast25 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 clenched26 and her dark, startled eyes still fixed upon the window. “I hear them, father! I hear them amid the wind and the rain! Yes, yes, they are turning—they have turned! My God, they are at our very door!”
“By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!” cried old Sir John, beating his fist upon the board. “Ho, varlets, out with you to the yard! Set the mulled 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 the horses. Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb. An eager step at the threshold, the door was flung wide, and there in the opening stood Nigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his cheeks flushed with the 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 and down; but her strong spirit rose at the thought that others should see that inner holy of holies of her soul. There is a heroism27 of women to which no valor28 of man can attain29. Her eyes only carried him her message as 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 Manor30 that night, with Nigel at the head betwixt the jovial31 old knight and the Lady Mary, whilst at the farther end Samkin Aylward, wedged between two servant maids, kept his neighbors in alternate laughter and terror as he told his tales of the French Wars. Nigel had to turn his doeskin heels and show his little golden spurs. As he spoke32 of what was passed Sir John clapped him on the shoulder, while Mary took his strong right hand in hers, and the good old priest smiling blessed them both. Nigel had drawn33 a little golden ring from his pocket, and it twinkled in the torchlight.
“Did you say that you must go on your way to-morrow, father?” he asked the priest.
“Indeed, fair son, the matter presses.”
“It will suffice if I start at noon.”
“Much may be done in a morning.” He looked at Mary, who blushed and smiled. “By Saint Paul! I have waited long enough.”
“Good, good!” chuckled35 the old knight, with wheezy laughter. “Even so I wooed your mother, Mary. Wooers were brisk in the olden time. To-morrow is Tuesday, and Tuesday is ever a lucky day. Alas36! that the good Dame37 Ermyntrude is no longer with us to see it done! The old hound must run us down, Nigel, and I hear its bay upon my own heels; but my heart will rejoice that before the end I may call you son. Give me your hand, Mary, and yours, Nigel. Now, take an old man's blessing38, and may God keep and guard you both, and give you your desert, for I believe on my soul that in all this broad land there dwells no nobler man nor any woman more fitted to be his mate!”
There let us leave them, their hearts full of gentle joy, the golden future of hope and promise stretching out before their youthful eyes. Alas for those green spring dreaming! How often do they fade and wither39 until they fall and rot, a dreary40 sight, by the wayside of life! But here, by God's blessing, it was not so, for they burgeoned41 and they grew, ever fairer and more noble, until the whole wide world might marvel42 at the beauty of it.
It has been told elsewhere how as the years passed Nigel's name rose higher in honor; but still Mary's would keep pace with it, each helping43 and sustaining the other upon an ever higher path. In many lands did Nigel carve his fame, and ever as he returned spent and weary from his work he drank fresh strength and fire and craving44 for honor from her who glorified45 his home. At Twynham Castle they dwelled for many years, beloved and honored by all. Then in the fullness of time they came back to the Tilford Manor-house and spent their happy, healthy age amid those heather downs where Nigel had passed his first lusty youth, ere ever he turned his face to the wars. Thither46 also came Aylward when he had left the “Pied Merlin” where for many a year he sold ale to the men of the forest.
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 the darkness, and into the darkness they go, whence, whither and why, who may say? Here is the slope of Hindhead. The fern still glows russet in November, the heather still burns red in July; but where now is the Manor of Cosford? Where is the old house of Tilford? Where, but for a few scattered47 gray stones, is the mighty48 pile of Waverley? And yet even gnawing49 Time has not eaten all things away. Walk with me toward Guildford, reader, upon the busy highway. Here, where the high green mound50 rises before us, mark yonder roofless shrine51 which still stands foursquare to the winds. It is St. Catharine's, where Nigel and Mary plighted52 their faith. Below lies the winding53 river, and over yonder you still see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the bare summit, on which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel54 of the Martyr55 where the comrades beat off the archers56 of the crooked57 Lord of Shalford. Down yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills one traces the road by which they made their journey to the wars. And now turn hither to the north, down this sunken winding path! It is all unchanged since Nigel's day. Here is the Church of Compton. Pass under the aged58 and crumbling59 arch. Before the steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed, lies the dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of Maude their daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse60 she was; their children and children's children are lying by their side. Here too, near the old yew61 in the churchyard, is the little mound which marks where Samkin Aylward went back to that good soil from which he sprang.
So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever that great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth62 another crop and another, each as strong and as fair as the last. The body may lie in moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault63, but the rumor64 of noble lives, the record of valor and truth, can never die, but lives on in the soul of the people. Our own work lies ready to our hands; and yet our strength may be the greater and our faith the firmer if we spare an hour from present toils65 to look back upon the women who were gentle and strong, or the men who loved honor more than life, on this green stage of England where for a few short years we play our little part.
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1
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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12
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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32
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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33
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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40
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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41
burgeoned
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| v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的过去式和过去分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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42
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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43
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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44
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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45
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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46
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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47
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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48
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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49
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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50
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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51
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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52
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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54
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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56
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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57
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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58
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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60
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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