Hildebrand; or, The Days of Queen Elizabeth, An Historic Romance, Vol. 3 of 3

It was on the same evening that closed the preceding chapter of this history, and while the dusk was hardly yet apparent, that the maiden Abigail passed up the principal staircase of the mansion of Master Shedlock, known as New Bethlehem, to a chamber on the upper floor.

Whatever might be her reason, she affected to step forward with excessive gentleness; but her shoes, being of the very strongest material, and hobnailed withal, were not the best adapted to give her purpose effect, and, in her way upward, her foot made a heavy stamp at every step. But, judging from the expression of her face, she appeared to be insensible of this, and to consider that her progress was unattended by any intimation of her tread.

On reaching the summit of the stairs, she hastened along the passage beyond, on which the stairs opened, to a neighbouring door, leading to an inner chamber. She opened the door with great caution; and after a moment’s pause, as if for the purpose of listening, made a step forward, and passed into the chamber.

It was a bed-room, and, from various appearances around, was evidently occupied by an invalid. Indeed, such a person was, on a close survey, observed to be in possession of the bed; and her peculiar head-gear announced her to be a woman. It was Dame Shedlock.

That poor lady’s ardent powers of endurance had been overwhelmed, at last. And what powers, of mere earthly constitution, could bear up unshaken against one uninterrupted tide of oppression and persecution? Since she last appeared on the stage of our history, her trials had, in point of bitterness and violence, even increased, and she was now subject to even more galling mortifications. The temper and habits of the hypocritical Shedlock had become more tyrannical than ever, and, as his passive and uncomplaining victim, she was the only object on which his spleen could fall.

We are told, that “the wicked shall flourish,” not only in a great degree, but with such marked and decided vigour, that their progress shall be compared to the rapid growth and prosperity of “a green bay-tree.” We see this remarkable declaration so effectively and exactly fulfilled, on looking out on the open stage of the world, that, if borne well in mind, it must lend the troubled heart the most soothing assurance. If the wicked are so to flourish here, how inconceivably happier must be the portion of the good man, relying on perfect equity, and love beyond the apprehension of human sense, in the world to come! The future reward is promised as surely, as decidedly, and as distinctly, as the present advantage; and we have, even in a temporal respect, a more attractive incitement to virtue, than all the glory and riches of the world can insure to vice.

But, in our progress onward, we often see the man of crime, after a long course of prosperity and success, suddenly checked in his career, and overwhelmned with disaster even in the present life. His subtlety, his craft, his cunning, and his shrewd calculations, on which he had relied with such advantage hitherto, all at once fail of their end; one after the other, his schemes and pursuits bring him only disappointment; and events which fall with lightness on others, and the general effect of which is scarcely noticeable, act with surprising accuracy to work his utter ruin.

Shedlock’s course of uninterrupted prosperity had seemed to meet a sudden and sensible check. From the moment that, in the manner described heretofore, he had sought to effect the destruction of Sir Edgar de Neville, his fortunes had taken a new turn, and had brought him nothing but crosses. Instead of advancing in favour of the minister, which he conceived that his show of zeal would certainly prefer him to, and which, indeed, was the expectation that led to his interference, the part he had taken in the affair of Sir Edgar appeared to have given offence; and he had, moreover, the mortification to see the prosecution quashed, and Sir Edgar cleared from all imputation. His vexation at this result was increased, if possible, by other incidents. Sir Edgar had hardly returned to the Grange, when one of the new functionaries called concealers, appointed to investigate suspected tenures, challenged him to show by what right and authority he held possession of Clifford Place. Although, after considerable trouble, he appeared to satisfy the official of the integrity and validity of his possession, the fact of his tenure being even questioned, when no claimant to it seemed to have come forward, showed him to be a marked and doubted holder. Some serious losses in his commercial pursuits, from which he had expected to reap an enormous profit, happened about the same time; and, altogether, his affairs assumed a very gloomy and unpromising aspect.

Shedlock’s temper was not of the kind that would be subdued by these reverses. The adverse influence that they involved, instead of arousing in him the voice of remorse, only rendered him more stubbornly vile; and he became more morose, violent, and tyrannical at each visitation. His bitter temper was a torment to all who were any way connected with him; at home, it plagued his household; abroad, it haunted his tenants; but more than all, sleeping or waking, day or night, it dealt its fullest violence on his loving and patient wife.

Dame Shedlock sank under it fast. Long suffering, through years of unmitigated tribulation, had already introduced disease into her delicate frame; and increased persecution gave it strength and root. As it continued to press upon her, she gradually grew feebler and more feeble; and ultimately, yet without drawing from her one complaint, or any way impairing that abject love and submission which she invariably rendered its heartless minister, it reduced her to the melancholy and cheerless helplessness of a sick-bed.

At the moment that it has been deemed necessary to recall her to the stage of our history, she was lying awake, yet perfectly still, with her eyes turned towards heaven. Her general complexion was deadly pale; but on either cheek, crowning the surrounding whiteness, there was a bright spot of red, looking more like fever than genuine bloom. Her eyes, too, though wearing a serene expression, sparkled like fire, and, on a close inspection, seemed to ache with their own light.

She retained the rapt look described for a full minute, when, hearing a step approach, she turned her glance towards the door, and discerned Abigail. That eccentric domestic, having continued her progress, had by this time made good way, and come close to the bed. She caught the glance of her mistress on the instant; and in a manly voice, and with her accustomed brevity, but more kindness than her face promised, proceeded to explain what had brought her to her presence.

“The man’s come,” she said.

“What man?” asked Dame Shedlock, anxiously. “Ah! I remember me! Thou meanest Bernard Gray?”

Abigail nodded her head, affirmatively. “And where is he?” faltered the dame.

“A-reading the Word,” answered Abigail.

“The Lord lend him light!” ejaculated the dame, in faint accents. “Be thou watchful, Abigail; and bring the man hither!”

Abigail, merely nodding her head in reply, hereupon turned away, and stepped slowly from the chamber. In a few minutes she returned, and, in the same cautious manner, ushered into the room the already announced visiter.

Bernard Gray--for it was no other--did not wear his usual aspect. There was, indeed, still a degree of sadness on his brow; but his air of profound melancholy, which formerly he presented at all times, and which was far from becoming, had quite disappeared. Moreover, his eyes, if regarded closely, revealed a softer expression, and, in their more natural and subdued light, looked kindlier and more gentle. An improvement was also visible in his attire. Though his habits, if examined attentively, were still very unpretending, they were arranged with more taste, and had evidently been put on with some regard to appearance. For all this, he still looked mournful; and as he entered fairly into the room, and observed the position of Dame Shedlock, the expression of his face became heavier, and seemed even more sad and gloomy.

He waved Abigail to retire after he had glanced at the bed; and that ancient maiden, though somewhat sulkily, accordingly passed out, and left him alone with her mistress.

Having carefully closed the door, Bernard turned round, and advanced silently to the bed.

Dame Shedlock, though still lying down (for, as there was no drapery to the bed, the view was uninterrupted), had kept her eyes upon him from the first moment of his entry, and, to all appearance, without being the least disturbed. As he drew nigh, however, her serenity gave way, and she became visibly agitated.

“No! no!” she said, in faltering accents: “not now! I cannot tell thee now!”

“Well, well, mistress, be it anon, then,” answered Bernard, mildly. “Whatever it affect, give thyself no care, I prithee. How is it with thee?”

“Grievous! grievous!” rejoined Dame Shedlock. “I am dying!”

“Alack!” exclaimed Bernard.

“’Tis even so,” resumed the dame. “The Lord calls me; and must not I, his servant, give his voice good heed? So be it; for as grass we are green in the morning, and at night are cut down, and withered.”

Bernard’s eyes brightened. “Set thy lamp in order, then,” he said, “that, when the bridegroom comes, thou be not like the foolish virgins, but have thine oil ready.”

“’Twas for that I bid thee hither,” replied the dame, faintly. “And, verily, I must despatch, while life yet serves me, or I shall be as the condemned of the parable.”

She paused here; and the short, strained breaths which she exhaled, with her increased paleness, showed that she had exerted herself beyond her powers. After a brief interval, however, during which Bernard regarded her anxiously, but made no oral observation, she appeared to recover herself, and resumed.

“The boy--the man, now,” she said--“Hildebrand Clifford; ’twas of him I would speak.”

“He is well,” answered Bernard, “and, as I am advised, in England--in Lantwell.”

Though she had hitherto seemed quite helpless, his auditor, on hearing this unexpected intelligence, abruptly raised herself in the bed, and gazed doubtingly in his face.

“In Lantwell?” she said.

“Even so,” returned Bernard.

“Then, can I not ease my poor conscience,” observed the dame, feebly wringing her hands. “No! no! ’twere a greater sin to wrong him, old and lonely as I shall leave him.”

“Yet wrong not thyself, or thy precious soul,” suggested Bernard, with his wonted sternness.

The dame shuddered.

“Take comfort!” said Bernard, more kindly.

“I have it!” resumed the dame, eagerly, yet in subdued accents. “An’ I give thee that will establish young Clifford’s rights, wilt thou suffer him, who is now old, and near his time, to hold them till he depart?”