The banner was waving over the goodly mansion of Haigh Hall, on the twenty-sixth anniversary of Sir William Bradshaigh’s birth, and all the retainers, from the scullion to the seneschal were boisterously enjoying themselves, in a hearty eating, drinking, and laughing. On every eminence in view, small flags had been placed, and some of these sported their colours on the loftiest trees, in the adjoining woods. But, although much good cheer had been placed near these, to attract a small company, they were left solitary, as tokens to strangers, for all the knight’s men were assembled at the porch of the Hall, quaffing the foaming goblet to his honour and prosperity, and to his success in his intended expedition as a Crusader. With earliest morn the appropriate demonstrations had commenced, but they became more ardent and joyous towards sunset. A chair was then placed on the threshold, for the minstrel whose chivalrous strains were to be heard by all, in praise of his noble master. One burst of merry applause greeted him, as the aged man took his seat, and as he gently touched the strings to Sir William’s glory, within, the fair bosom of Lady Mabel, heaved with answering sympathy. She embraced her children, and looking upwards, prayed that they might be good, and brave as their father; and when Sir William joined her, she added, as handsome and beautiful.
Sir William Bradshaigh, in person, enjoyed the aristocracy of nature, as well as of birth. His stature was not tall, neither was his frame muscular; yet not a limb, not a feature, seemed out of keeping with the impress of his mind. His was the true nobility of face and form, and as he appeared sheathed in armour, with the cross embroidered on the scarf over his breast, he brought along with him ideas of the mournful and weeping spirit of Palestine, trusting to his arm for relief, from the scourge and the tread of the daring Infidel. On gazing at some persons, you feel convinced that they are entirely fitted by nature for that which has given them fame. The very hands, as well as the features, seem to be stamped with it, and the soul, visibly looks through every part and limb. Thus was it with Sir William. You could not doubt, on beholding his form, that he was a knight of unequalled bravery and skill, although young and slender. The small white hands were locked in those of his beautiful Mabel, but they seemed as well fitted for grasping the sword.
Well might Lady Mabel be his match. The faultless symmetry of her majestic person, added to her raven tresses, and brightly glowing eye, were for the wife, a perfect counterpart to the husband. A meek beauty rested upon her countenance, which every thought and feeling, gently disturbed. She was naturally pale, and this circumstance tended to make her features better interpreters of her mind; for colour, although it be the most pure and delicate, frequently hides under its roses the play and change of the passions. She was now emerging from the sprightliness of the maiden, into the holy serenity of the matron; and as the mother of his babes, the knight loved her more than as his young mistress. Her locks were braided simply over her brow.
“My own Mabel,” said the knight, “where are thy jewels? Shame on their beauties that they dread a comparison with the light of those eyes!”
“Sir William,” answered the lady with a sigh, “would you have a widow deck herself with the mimicry of gladness?”
“Yes, love, in order that she may wile another to take away the dark veil of her loneliness.”
“Another,” shrieked Mabel faintly. “Cruel.”
“Nay,” returned Sir William, “you are not yet a widow;—you are my wife. Nor will I doubt your constancy when I am gone to the wars. These” embracing his children as he spoke, “are the pledges of your faith. But, Mabel, where are the jewels for your forehead? ’Tis meet that for the banquet you appear among the other ladies as the most beautiful.”