The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales

The Sexton of St. Hubert’s.

A Story of Old England

Chapter I

The Queen of the May

In a remote region in the northern part of England, the people still cherish an attachment to old usages and sports, and hold the observance of Christmas, May-day, and other time-honored festivals, a sacred obligation. One village, in particular, is famous for its May-day sports, which, as the curate is a little withered antiquary, are conducted with great ceremony and fidelity to old authorities. The May-pole is brought home, garlanded, and decked with ribbons, to the sound of pipe and tabor, surrounded by a laughing throng of sturdy yeomen and buxom maidens. It is erected on the great green, in the centre of the village, to the universal delight of old and young, and the dancing commences round it with high glee. The scene presented is like that described by Goldsmith,—

“Where all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.”

It was a delightful spring, that of 17—, and a softer sky never before smiled upon the village-green of Redwood, upon the 1st of May; and among the merry damsels dancing round the May-pole, no heart was happier, and no step was lighter, than that of Margaret Ellis, who, for the first time, joined in the sports of the day. She was a child of May, and this was the sixteenth anniversary of her birthday. A gay brunette, her sparkling eyes had all the fire and the mirth of the sunny and passionate south, while no lighter or more delicate foot than hers could have been found upon the merry green. A rich bloom mantled on her cheek, her lips were fresh and red, and her regular teeth, displayed as she panted in the dance, were white as unsullied snow. A tight little bodice, and a milk-white frock, set off the charms of her person in the best manner. Then there was an air of gayety and innocence about her which delighted every good-natured observer; and all the villagers allowed that Margaret Ellis deserved the tiara of flowers that crowned her Queen of the May. She blushed at the tokens of good will and approbation, as she placed her hand in that of a young and rustic stranger, who led her off triumphantly at the head of the dancers. The youth was fair-haired, ruddy, athletic, and active; and those who saw them in the dance could not help acknowledging that they were a lovely pair.

There was one who regarded them with eyes of jealous displeasure. This was a man of forty, of a handsome face and figure, but swarthy, dark-haired, and melancholy. He bent over the seat upon which old Farmer Ellis and his dame were seated, and whispered, “Do you know the young man who is dancing with your daughter?”

“Ah! he be a right good young mon, I warrant me,” said the dame. “He do come fra the next county. William Evans, he calls himself.”

“He calls himself!—umph!” muttered the person who had first spoken. “But what do others call him? Who knows any thing about him? Who can vouch for his character? I would not suffer a daughter of mine to be gadding about, and dancing with a stranger.”

“Whoy, for the matter o’ that,” said Farmer Ellis, “you were nought but a stranger yourself, when you first did come to see us, Maister Pembroke. We didn’t know you were the sexton of St. Hubert’s. And yet you turned out a right good friend to me, mon; for when ye first knew me, things were deadly cross wi’ me. What wi’ the rot among my sheep, and the murrain among my cattle, I were all but ruined. Short crops and a hard landlord are bitter bad things. But you were the salvation of me, and I’ll work my fingers to the bone, but what you shall have your own again, John Pembroke.”

“There is one way in which you can liquidate your debt.”

“Name it, Maister Pembroke,” said the farmer, eagerly.

“No matter,” muttered the sexton, and a hollow sigh escaped his lips. “I had an idea, but it is gone. Touching the stranger, in whom you both repose such confidence. In what manner does he earn his daily bread?”

“Whoy,” said the farmer, “in the way that Adam did, mon. He do say he is a gardener.”

“A likely tale!” ejaculated the sexton. “Look at his hands. Why, his fingers are delicate and white. Your gardener has horny fingers, and a palm of iron.”

“Dang it! so they be!” cried Ellis. “Well, I never noticed that afore. Whoy, dame, he may be an impostor And though he be so cruel koind, and deadly fond of the girl, now, he may forsake—may——”

“Look at, them, now,” said the sexton of St. Hubert’s. “See how he grasps her hand; and how, as he whispers his soft, insinuating flattery in her ear, she blushes and smiles upon him. Damnation!”

“Whoy, John!” exclaimed Dame Ellis; “what would the rector say to hear thee? Thou art surely distraught.”

And now, as Margaret, flushed and panting with exercise, was suffering her partner to lead her towards her seat, her father beckoned her to approach.

“Come hither, girl,” said he. The smiling maiden obeyed. “Margaret,” said the old man, “thou knowest I love thee. I ha’ always been cruel koind to thee, and so has thy mother, girl. If any harm was to happen to thee, I should take it desperately to heart. I should, indeed. It would kill thy father, Margaret. Now, William Evans may be a good young man, and he may not; but we must beware of strangers. Wait till we have tried him a bit. Many a handsome nag turns out a vicious one. So it be my pleasure, and the dame’s, that thou dost not dance any more to-day wi’ William Evans; and even if he speaks to thee, be a little offish loike to him.”

The poor girl sighed. “I hope, sir,” said she, glancing at the sexton, “that no person possessed of an unhappy and suspicious temper has been prejudicing you against poor William. I hope Mr. Pembroke——”

“Hush, girl—hush!” cried Ellis. “Doant thee say a word against that man. But for him we mought all ha’ been beggars. Do as I bid thee, girl, and doan’t thee ask no questions; for you know I’ve got no head to argury.”

Margaret slowly sank into a seat. The sexton leaned over her, and addressed to her some commonplace remarks, to all of which she returned answer in monosyllables. When the music recommenced a lively air, William advanced, and solicited her hand for the next dance. Poor Margaret bent her eyes upon the ground, and falteringly refused. Thinking he could not have heard her rightly, Evans again asked the question, and received, a second time, the same answer. For a moment his countenance expressed astonishment; the next there was a look of grief, and then his lip curled, and drawing himself up proudly, he stalked away. He was followed by the sexton of St. Hubert’s, who overtook him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. William turned fiercely, and endeavored to shake off the grasp.

“Young man,” said the sexton, “you are discovered!”

“Discovered!” exclaimed William. “What do you mean?”

“You understand me,” said the sexton; “your manners, your language, your figure, contradict the story you have fabricated. Margaret shall never be your victim. With her your boasted arts are valueless!”

“If you were a gentleman——” said William.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the sexton of St. Hubert’s. “Is this the resentment of a rustic? Go, young man; you have exposed yourself.”

“Remove your hand!” said the young man; “and think it unusual forbearance on my part, that I do not chastise you as you deserve. We shall meet again, and with a sterner greeting.” So they parted.

Chapter II

The Gypsy Camp

The clear, unshadowed sun, as it declined towards the western verge of the horizon, shone brightly upon the gypsy encampment, a few miles from Redwood. The wandering tribe had displayed their proverbial taste, in their selection of a spot wherein to pitch their tents. A green and glossy pasture was partly surrounded by a luxuriant forest of ancient oaks, which supplied the crew with firewood; while a beautiful and clear stream, the pride and boast of the county, curved into the waving grass land, and kept it ever fresh and verdant. Here and there its silvery bosom reflected a small tent, or the figure of an idler, bending over the bank, with fishing rod in hand, a perfect picture of patience and philosophy. Half a dozen tents served to accommodate the gregarious fraternity; and though the sail cloths which composed them were worn and weather-beaten, yet their brown hues harmonized well with the rich tints of the landscape, and showed distinct enough against the dark background of the forest. As the shades of the evening darkened the ancestral trees, a line of fire was lit up, the flames of which glared ruddily against the huge trunks of the woodland, and played and flickered in the rippling stream. Huge kettles, suspended on forked sticks, were beginning to send up a savory steam; and several swarthy beings, lounging round the fires, occasionally fed them, or basking in the blaze, watched the bubbling of the caldrons with intense anxiety. Even the king of the gypsies observed the preparations for supper with an eager air, which ill assorted with his lofty forehead and reverend white beard. Every moment some stroller would come in with a pilfered fowl, or a basket of eggs; and each addition to the feast was hailed with shouts of applause by the swarthy crew.

Somewhat remote from this scene of bustle and noise, at the door of a small tent, sat two female gypsies. One of these was the queen, an aged crone, who, though bent with age and care, and wrinkled by time and the indulgence of vehement passions, yet prided herself upon the unfrosted darkness of her raven tresses, which fell over her shoulders in profusion. A turban of rich crimson cloth crowned her head, and a shawl of the same color and material was wrapped around her shoulders. Her skinny hands were supported by a silver-headed staff, which was covered with quaint carvings. Her gown was of dark serge, and her shoes were pointed, and turned up in the Oriental fashion, and garnished with broad silver buckles. She sat apart, and the rising moon shone down upon her dusky figure, and threw her wild features into bold relief. At her feet sat a beautiful girl, with dark Grecian features, and a full, voluptuous form. She, too, had long, flowing, raven tresses, into which were twisted strings of pearl. From a necklace of topaz hung a little silver crucifix, resting upon a full and heaving bust, to which was fitted a close jacket, made of deep-blue cloth, and fastened together with loops and silver buttons. Her soft and round arms were naked, save at the shoulders, and her wrists were encircled with tarnished gold bracelets. Her white petticoat was short enough to display a well-turned ankle, and a small foot, encased in neat black slippers. Her features, dark and sun-browned, showed to more advantage in the pale moonlight than they would have done in the broad blaze of day. The gypsy girl sat at the feet of the queen, and looking up in her face, listened attentively to her discourse.

“Myra,” said the queen of the gypsies, “do you love him yet?”

“Love him!” repeated the girl. “Yes, mother—passionately. To obtain his hand—his heart, I would peril every thing!”

“Strange and mysterious passion!” said the crone, “which defies reason and law. Many years agone I loved with the same intense devotion. The same fiery blood courses in your veins; the same contempt of obstacles. Yet the man I loved was nobler and prouder than the sexton of St. Hubert’s. We lived among the Gitanos of Spain, when we were wedded. Five sons I bore to the partner of my cares. Where are they? One followed his father to the gibbet; a second hurled defiance at his enemies, as he perished in the flames of an auto da fe; the third and fourth died in the galleys; the fifth—the fifth, Myra—my best beloved, my brave, my beautiful, received his death wound in defending me from outrage. You are his child! Judge, then, how I love you, my daughter. You love the sexton of St. Hubert’s—he shall marry you.”

“Ah, mother!” said the gypsy girl, “I fear me he is lost. He is the accepted lover of Margaret Ellis. She did love a young stranger; but the sexton of St. Hubert’s has Farmer Ellis in his debt, and threatened to throw him in jail, if the latter did not grant him the hand of his daughter. He has done so, and the wedding day is fixed. Alas! before he saw his May-day queen, he loved me, and promised to marry me. Often beneath that very moon, mother, has he sat and told me his love. When I smiled at his protestations, he would speak of his wealth, and tell me of hidden stores of gold, for a thrifty and a rich man is the sexton of St. Hubert’s. I do not love him less because he does not frown upon our wandering tribe, but has lax principles that suit the fiery passions of our race. I know not in what consists the art by which he won me; it is enough for me to know that I am devoted to him. Alas! that knowledge is too much, since he has owned the fascination of the Queen of the May.”

“Enough said, daughter!” cried the crone. “Before the altar he shall marry you. He shall love you better than he loves the May queen. What are her attractions when compared to yours? Praise from the old is little to the young; yet let me say that I have wandered east and west, north and south; have seen the Georgian and Sicilian maids, have seen the dark-haired girls of Naples, and the donnas of Madrid; yet never did these aged eyes rest on a finer form or face than yours, my daughter.”

The gypsy girl smiled.

“Ay,” said the old woman, “now you look lovelier than ever. That smile is like a sunbeam to my heart; it thaws the frost of age. Believe me, Myra, the sexton of St. Hubert’s shall adore you.”

“Then you must have love charms,” said the gypsy girl, blushing.

“Love charms I have,” said the old woman, “and those of wondrous potency. We are a favored race, Myra. Descended from the old Egyptians, we inherit their mysterious learning. To a few among us, the queens and magi of our tribes, there has come down a knowledge of charms and medicine, and some of the secrets of astrology. Go, Myra; leave me. I will provide for your peace. Yes, yes, I have love charms. I have them!”

The gypsy girl smiled, rose, kissed the hand of her grandmother, and then bounded away like a fawn.

“Poor child!” muttered the old woman, when alone; “she must not die of a broken heart. Love charms, did she say! Yes—I have them for fools; but the love charm I shall use to give her joy is poison. The betrothed bride of the sexton of St. Hubert’s lies ill of an unknown malady. The physicians cannot do her good, for she is sick of a wounded heart. To-night the sexton of St. Hubert’s, who has faith in my skill, comes to seek a remedy. He shall have one. Does he think to spurn the poor gypsy girl? He is mistaken. He plighted his troth to her in the silence of the forest; they broke a piece of gold across a running brook; they swore truth and fidelity! One has broken the oath, but it shall be sworn anew. None but Myra shall wed the sexton of St. Hubert’s!”

Chapter III

Retribution

It was a fierce and stormy night. The wind howled around the houses of Redwood, and wherever a shutter had lost its fastening, it flapped to and fro with a frequent and alarming sound. The rain, too, descended in torrents, and flooded the streets of the village, while ever and anon heavy peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning increased the terror of the night. In the house of Farmer Ellis a few persons were assembled to witness the bridal of the sexton of St. Hubert’s. The bridegroom was as one excited by wine, for there was a wild radiance in his eyes and an unwonted smile upon his lips, and he occasionally gave utterance to some jest, and when it failed of producing the expected mirth, his own laugh sounded hollow and strange. The bride, too, so pearly pale, in her white dress, with white roses in her hair, seemed like the bride of Corinth in the German tale. A few of the guests, huddled anxiously together, whispered among themselves, “It is a churchyard bridal.”

Still the cake and wine went round, and the strange laugh of the bridegroom was more frequent. The night wore on, and the arrival of the clergyman was prolonged far beyond the expected time. At length he came, and the ceremony was about to take place, when the bride suddenly sank in the arms of her companions. They raised her, and applied the usual remedies resorted to in cases of fainting, but the vital spark itself had fled.

In the depth of a stormy night, the sexton of St. Hubert’s sought the queen of the gypsies. He was mounted on an active horse, and accompanied by the sheriff of the county and a few resolute men, well mounted and armed to the teeth. As he approached the river which bounded the gypsy camp upon one side, the sexton looked in vain for a guiding light—no fires blazed upon the green, no hidden glare was reflected in the mirror of the stream. Still he spurred on his horse, and followed hard by his companions, gallantly forded the stream and crossed the open meadows. The tents had all been struck, and no sound was heard in that deserted place, except the rushing of the boisterous wind and the tinkling of the raindrops as they fell upon the river. The parties reined up their horses, and the sexton and the sheriff held a brief conference together. While they were yet conversing, a broad and brilliant blaze shot up from the centre of the forest, illuminating a wide and well-trodden path which led directly to the light. The first flash of radiance dazzled the eyes of the horsemen, but when they became accustomed to the glare, they beheld distinctly several wild forms lounging around the fire, evidently unconscious of the approach of danger.

“Now is our time, my lads,” said the sheriff, in a low tone. “Forward, and we shall have them all.”

Every rowel was instantly employed, and the party pushed forward at a gallop. Bowing their heads to avoid the swaying branches, they bent over their horses’ necks in the intense ardor of pursuit. The sheriff and the sexton rode side by side, and had nearly attained their object, when their horses fell suddenly, and threw them to the ground with violence. In fine, the whole party had stumbled upon pitfalls dug for them, and not a horseman of the troop escaped an overthrow. While they were rolling on the ground, entangled in the stirrups, and receiving severe injuries from the struggling horses, a shrill cry arose from the depth of the woods, and a dozen stout ruffians set upon them, seized, and pinioned them. The sexton and the sheriff were conducted by two of the gang to the presence of the gypsy queen, who sat upon a rude form raised upon the trunk of a huge oak, and sheltered by an ample awning of oiled cloth. The sheriff’s followers were borne away in another direction. The wild woman and her wilder attendants were perfectly distinct in the ruddy firelight, though the whole scene had, to the eyes of the victims, the appearance of a vision of night.

“Well, sirs,” said the queen, “you came to see us, and you have found us. Have you not some message for us? You myrmidon of the law, have you no greeting for the queen of the gypsies?”

The sheriff looked at the queen and then at her attendants. They were fierce-looking, unshorn fellows, with butchers’ knives stuck in their rope girdles, and seemed but to await a nod from her tawny majesty to employ their formidable weapons.

“Have you nothing for us?” asked the dark lady.

“Nothing,” said the sheriff, faintly.

“Ho, ho!” laughed the wrinkled crone. “The man of law is forgetful. You, Dommerar, search him, and see if he speaks the truth.”

A sandy-haired little fellow advanced at the summons, and rifled the pockets of the sheriff with a dexterity which proved him an adept in the business. A teacher of music would have envied his fingering. Having caused the pockets of the sheriff to disgorge, he thus, in the canting language, enumerated their contents:—

“The moabite’s ribbin runs thin, (the sheriff’s cash runs low.) He has no mint, (gold,) and only a mopus or two.”

“Fool!” said the queen, “has he no paper?”

“Ay, ay, missus, here’s his fiddle,” (writ,) was the answer.

“Give it me,” cried the queen. “Here, you patrico, our eyes are bad. Read this scrawl, and acquaint us with the contents.”

The patrico, or hedge priest, a fellow in a rusty, black suit, with a beard of three weeks’ growth, bleared eyes, and a red, Bardolph nose, took the writ, which he had more difficulty in reading than Tony Lumpkin, when he received the letter of Hastings. At first, he held it upside down, then reversed it, looking at it at arm’s length, and then gave it a closer scrutiny. He finally gave it as his opinion, that it empowered the queer-cuffin (so he termed the sheriff) to seize upon the so called queen of the gypsies, accused of the crime of murder, and also to apprehend her followers. When he had concluded, the old crone snatched the writ from his hand, and, tearing it to pieces, flung the fragments into the face of the sheriff.

“Take him away,” said she, “and leave us alone with the sexton of St. Hubert’s. Guard him well, for we wish to show him how we administer justice among us. We will be judge and jury, and our upright man shall be the executioner.”

She waved her tawny hand with the air of a princess dismissing her courtiers, and her mandate was obeyed. She was left alone with the sexton of St. Hubert’s. Looking him steadily in the face, she said,—

“John Pembroke, I give you joy of your marriage.”

“Wretched woman!” said the sexton, “you poisoned her. By your hand she died.”

“You are mistaken,” answered the old woman, with a bitter smile. “She is not dead, but sleepeth. You see the devil can quote Scripture. It was my first intention to have poisoned her; but my second thoughts were better. So, instead of the medicine you sought, I gave you a powerful narcotic, which has thrown her into a deep sleep. She lies, at this moment, you know, in the chapel of St. Hubert’s. There are flowers on her coffin, and there is a shroud around her. If I am not very much mistaken, about this hour she awakes.”

“And perishes! Fiend in human shape, how you have deceived me! At this hour, remote from help, my Margaret is dying.”

“She is not your Margaret, neither is she dying,” said the crone. “Listen to me. I sent a trusty messenger to him that Margaret loves—to him who loves her fondly and faithfully—and if all things have gone as well as I anticipate, by this time she is in his arms. The draught she drank is harmless.”

“Cursed deceiver!” cried the sexton, struggling frantically to free himself from the ligatures which bound him. “You have done an accursed deed. You have deprived me of my betrothed bride.”

“Your betrothed bride!” said the queen of the gypsies. “Behold her!” She waved her hand, and Myra stood before the sexton of St. Hubert’s. “There she stands,” said the gypsy. “Have you forgotten that your troth is plighted to her? The bride and the priest are ready. Man of guilt and passion, wed her you may, wed her you must!”

“Never!” cried the sexton. “When I sought your lawless crew to indulge my love of revelling and pleasure, the person of Myra lighted a fire in my breast. But it was an unholy flame. I will never marry her. Let her live—live to be branded with infamy and disgrace!”

“Ha!” cried the crone, rising from her seat. “Is it so? Speak, Myra! child of my heart, is it so?”

The gypsy girl clasped her hands together, and hung her head in shame. Her cheeks were suffused with crimson; then they became deadly pale, and she sank lifeless on the ground.

“You have killed her!” shrieked the gypsy queen, “and dearly shall you rue it.”

She placed a whistle to her lips, and blew a shrill blast. But she received a far different answer than she had anticipated; for one of the sheriff’s men had succeeded in escaping from the hands of the gypsy crew, and galloped to the neighboring town, where a troop of horse was quartered. The commanding officer instantly repaired to the gypsy camp, where he arrived in time to apprehend the crew before they had committed any act of violence. The sexton of St. Hubert’s did not long survive this night, and Myra became a maniac. The fate of the lovers we shall next describe.

When the lover of Margaret received the message of the queen of the gypsies, he repaired to the spot where his mistress lay, to all appearance, in the arms of death. But life had not departed; and even as he hung gazing over her, a faint color mounted to her cheek, and her bosom began to heave beneath her white garment. He raised her in his arms, bore her to the air, and she revived. When her senses were fully restored, she consented to guard against another separation by marrying her lover and savior. William had provided a humble post-chaise to convey his bride far from the scene of her past perils and temptations. They journeyed by slow stages to the north, and at the close of a few days entered a romantic village. The lover bridegroom pointed out a gray and noble old pile, the turrets of which rose lofty above the waving trees of an ancient park. He asked if she should like to visit it. She replied in the affirmative, and they drove, unchallenged, through the gateway and along a noble avenue shaded by huge oaks. When they reached the portals of the building, the post-boy stopped the horses, dismounted, threw open the door of the chaise, and let down the steps. William lifted his companion from her seat in his arms.

“Margaret,” said he, “look up. This is Woodley Castle, and you are Lady Armitage.”