Traditions of Lancashire Volume II Part 55

"The bat haunts the tower, And the redbreast the bower, And the merry little sparrow by the chimney hops, Good e'en, hoots master owl, To-whoo, to-whoo, his troll, Sing heigho, swing the can with"----

"What, thee, Tim! Is that thy stupid face?" said Gervase, breaking in upon his ditty, and right glad to be delivered from supernatural fears, though the object of them proved only this strolling minstrel.

"Thou might as well kill us outright as frighten us to death."

He that stood before them was one of those wandering musicians that haunt fairs and merry-makings, wakes, and such like pastimes; playing the fiddle and jewtrump too at weddings and alehouses; in short, any sort of idleness never came amiss to these representatives of the old Troubadours. A tight oval cap covered his s.h.a.ggy poll; he was clad in a coa.r.s.e doublet or jerkin slashed in the fashion of the time, while his nether integuments were fastened in the primitive mode by a wooden skewer. He could conjure too, and play antics to set the folks agape; but as to his honesty, it was of that dubious sort that few cared to have it in trust. He was apt at these alehouse ditties--many of them his own invention. He knew all the choicest ballads too, so that his vocation was much akin to the _jogleurs_ or _jongleurs_ of more ancient times, when Richard of the Lion's Heart and other renowned monarchs disdained not "_the gentle craft of poesie_."

Wherever was a feast, let it be a wedding or a funeral, Tim, like the harpies of old, scented the meat, and some of his many vocations were generally in request.

This important functionary now stood whistling and singing by turns with the most admired unconcern.

"What's thy business here?" cried Gervase, approaching him.

"The maid was fair, and the maid was coy, But the lover left, and the maid said 'Why?'

Sing O the green willow!"

"Answerest thou me with thy trumpery ditties? I'll have thee put i'

the stocks, sirrah."

"Oh, ha' mercy, master! there's naught amiss 'at I know. I'm but takin' roost here wi' the owls an' jackdaws a bit, maybe for want o'

better lyin'."

"It were hard to have a better knack at lying than thou hast already.

Hast gotten the weather into thy lodgings? When didst flit to thy new quarters?"

"Th' hay-mow at Clegg is ower savoured wi' the new crop, an' I want fresh air for my studies."

"Now art thou lying"----

"Like a lover to his sweetheart," said Tim, interrupting him, and finishing the sentence.

"Peace, knave! There's some mischief i' the wind. Thou'rt after no good, I trow."

"What te d.i.c.kons do I ail here? Is't aught 'at a man can lift off but stone wa's an' ivy-boughs? Marry, my little poke man ha' summut else to thrive on nor these."

"There's been great outcry about poultry an' other farmyard appendances amissing of late, besides eggs and such like dainties enow to furnish pancakes and fritters for the whole parish. Hast gotten company in thy den above there?"

"Jacks an' ouzles, if ye like, Master Gervase. Clim' up, clim' up, lad, an there'll be a prial on us. Ha, ha! What! our little sweetheart there would liefer t' be gangin.' Weel, weel, 'tis natural, as a body may say--

"One is good, and two is good, But three's no company."

"Answer me quick, thou rogue. Is there any other but thyself yonder above?"

"When I'm there I'm not here, an' when I'm here"----

"Sirrah, I'll flog the wind out o' thy worthless carcase. Hast any pilfering companions about thee? I do smell a savoury refection--victuals are cooking, or my nose belies its office."

"Fair speech, friend, wins a quiet answer; a soft word and a smooth tongue all the world over. What for mayn't I sup as well as my betters?"

"As well?--better belike. There's no such savour in our hall at eventide, nor in the best kitchen in the parish."

"It's not my fau't, is't?"

"By'r lady, there's somebody in the chamber there. I saw the leaves fluttering from the loophole. Villain, who bears thee company?"

"Daft, daft. What fool would turn into roost wi' me? Clean gone crazy, sure as I'm livin'."

"Nay, nay, there's some plot here--some mischief hatching. I'll see, or"----

He was just going to make the attempt; but Tim withstood him, and in a peremptory manner barred the way.

"How! am I barred by thee, and to my face?"

"It's no business o' thine, Master Gervase. What's hatching there concerns not thee. Keep back, I say, or"----

"Ha! Thou jingle-pated rascal, stand off, or I'll wring thy neck round as I would a Jackdaw."

"Do not, do not, Gervase!" said Grace Ashton, fearful of some unlucky strife. "Let us begone. We are too late already, and 'tis no business of ours."

"What! and be o'erfoughten by this scurvy lack-wit. Once more, who is there above?"

"An' what if I shouldn't tell thee?"

"I'll baste thy carcase to a mummy; I'll make thee tender for the hounds."

"Another word to that, master, an' it's a bargain."

"Let me pa.s.s."

"Not without my company."

He whistled, and in a moment Gervase felt himself pinioned from behind. Looking round, he saw two stout fellows with their faces covered; and any other possibility of recognition was impracticable in the heavy twilight.

"Who's i' t' stocks now?" cried the malicious rogue, laughing.

"Unhand me, or ye'll rue that ever ye wrought this outrage."

"Nay, nay, that were a pretty stave, when we've gotten the bird, to open the trap," said Tim.

Gervase immediately saw that another party had seized Grace Ashton. He raved and stamped until his maledictions were put an end to by an effectual gag, and he did not doubt but she had suffered the same treatment, for a short sharp scream only was heard. Being immediately blindfolded, he could only surmise that her usage was of a similar nature.

He was so stupefied with surprise that for a short period he was hardly sensible to their further proceedings. When able to reflect, he found himself pinioned, and in a sitting posture. A damp chill was on his forehead. He had been dragged downwards, and, from the motion, steps were the medium of descent. A door or two had been raised or opened, a narrow pa.s.sage previously traversed, and a short time only elapsed from the cool freshness of the evening air to the damp and stifling atmosphere that he now breathed. What could be the cause of his seizure he was quite incompetent to guess. He could not recollect that he had either pique or grudge on his hands; and what should be the result he only bewildered and wearied himself by striving to antic.i.p.ate.

It was surely a dream. He heard a voice of ravishing sweetness; such pure and silvery tones, that aught earthly could have produced it was out of the question; it was like the swell of some aeolian lyre--words, too, modifying and enhancing that liquid harmony. It was a hymn, but in a foreign tongue. He soon recognised the evening hymn to the Virgin--

"Mater amata, intemerata, Ora, ora, pro n.o.bis."

So sweetly did the music melt into his soul, that he quite forgot his thrall, and every sense was attuned to the melody. When the sound ceased he made an effort to get free. He loosened his hands, and immediately tore off the bandage from his eyes. A few seconds elapsed, when he saw a light streaming through a crevice. Looking through, he saw a taper burning before a little shrine, where two females in white raiment, closely veiled, were kneeling.