‘He started from the couch, and sought the gallery. A strange light glowed on the portrait. He knelt, and prayed to heaven. Deep peace descended upon his troubled mind, and he arose, calm and happy. He took the portrait down, kissed the mimic lips, and then sought his bridal chamber. Magdalene’s request was complied with most devoutly, and they were happy; but they did not forget Magdalene. The retainers affirmed that they had seen her wandering through the wood, and singing, as in other days, when De Norris was by her side. Her light step was occasionally recognized, ascending the corridor, and dancing in her own apartment.
‘De Norris, to perform fitting penance for his treachery, erected a Cross, at the eastern gate of Wigan, where Magdalene had often sat, and there he paid his stated pilgrimages. That, my children, is the portrait: the light over the features seems prophetic!’
Lady Mabel shuddered at the tale, and some dark forebodings crept over her soul. Yet these were not fears lest Sir William Bradshaigh should prove false; something more criminal on her part, which she dared not think of.
They left the gallery, and once more entered into the mirth of the banqueting scene.
Ten years have passed; and in that epoch, what changes visit man! Wisely did the ancient dramatists give to tragedy, the unity of time, the briefness of a day; to denote that a few hours are sufficient for the developement of awful, and unexpected consequences! How much more will the lapse of ten years mark the mutability of every lot, but that of the dead; and the altered condition of every home but the grave! Time decays not; it is only man. Speak of “Old Father Time:”—but is his step more sober, than when he rode over the unformed chaos of earth’s materials, or flew over the fragrant shade of Paradise? Does his pulse beat more slowly? Do moments become days; or days, years?
Ten years have elapsed, and Lady Mabel had arisen early. She sat alone in a room, which might have been more appropriately called a cell. Grief had anticipated the silvery touch of time, and grey hairs were visible amidst her raven locks. Yet, there was the same sweet and majestic countenance as before. Bathe the human countenance in heaven’s own dew, or in the gentle and clear stream, and it will beam joyfully; but bathe it in the heart’s tears, and it beams so sweetly! She counted her beads, and then looked up for pardon, as fondly and anxiously as a wife numbers the minutes before her lord’s return. She heeded not the fragrance which stole in at the small casement; it neither assisted nor marred her devotions. The sun was bright, and joyous, still she turned not her pale face to its cheering influence. She laid aside her rosary, and sat like a statue of sorrowful thought, if statues can be stamped with such an expression. At length she slowly arose and looked out of the casement into the deep wood, and sighed. Overpowered by disagreeable reflections, she wished to fly from the place, where she had no other view. But the door refused to give way to her repeated attempts. It was early noon, and all the day, so long and weary, must she remain there! She clasped her hands together, and bitterly exclaimed, whilst she gasped for breath, at the discovery,
“Gracious heaven! why, am I then a prisoner, and in mine own mansion! Ha! the very banner of my family waves over this tower, proudly; and yet I, the mistress of Haigh, must be confined, and denied the privilege of the meanest servant! It is but just, though I deserve it not from Sir Osmund. But hush, I hear footsteps. My soul, rise brave within me, and tell the usurper what he is, although he may be my—husband,” and she raised an hysterical laugh at the word, and drew herself proudly up.
A hasty scuffle was made in the passage, and an angry voice was heard; it was Sir Osmund Neville’s.