River Legends; Or, Father Thames and Father Rhine
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Fellows has been superseded, and a new authority instituted, of which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