CHAPTER II.
While these conferences took place in the house of Godwin, Harold, on
his way to London, dismissed his train to precede him to his father's
roof, and, striking across the country, rode fast and alone towards
the old Roman abode of Hilda. Months had elapsed since he had seen or
heard of Edith. News at that time, I need not say, was rare and
scarce, and limited to public events, either transmitted by special
nuncius or passing pilgrim, or borne from lip to lip by the talk of
the scattered multitude. But even in his busy and anxious duties,
Harold had in vain sought to banish from his heart the image of that
young girl, whose life he needed no Vala to predict to him was
interwoven with the fibres of his own. The obstacles which, while he
yielded to, he held unjust and tyrannical, obstacles allowed by his
reluctant reason and his secret ambition--not sanctified by
conscience--only inflamed the deep strength of the solitary passion
his life had known; a passion that, dating from the very childhood of
Edith, had, often unknown to himself, animated his desire of fame, and
mingled with his visions of power. Nor, though hope was far and dim,
was it extinct. The legitimate heir of Edward the Confessor was a
prince living in the Court of the Emperor, of fair repute, and himself
wedded; and Edward's health, always precarious, seemed to forbid any
very prolonged existence to the reigning king. Therefore, he thought
that through the successor, whose throne would rest in safety upon
Harold's support, he might easily obtain that dispensation from the
Pope which he knew the present king would never ask--a dispensation
rarely indeed, if ever, accorded to any subject, and which, therefore,
needed all a king's power to back it.
So in that hope, and fearful lest it should be quenched for ever by
Edith's adoption of the veil and the irrevocable vow, with a beating,
disturbed, but joyful heart he rode over field and through forest to
the old Roman house.
He emerged at length to the rear of the villa, and the sun, fast
hastening to its decline, shone full upon the rude columns of the
Druid temple. And there, as he had seen her before, when he had first
spoken of love and its barriers, he beheld the young maiden.
He sprang from his horse, and leaving the well-trained animal loose to
browse on the waste land, he ascended the knoll. He stole noiselessly
behind Edith, and his foot stumbled against the grave-stone of the
dead Titan-Saxon of old. But the apparition, whether real or fancied,
and the dream that had followed, had long passed from his memory, and
no superstition was in the heart springing to the lips, that cried
"Edith" once again.
The girl started, looked round, and fell upon his breast. It was some
moments before she recovered consciousness, and then, withdrawing
herself gently from his arms, she leant for support against the Teuton
altar.
She was much changed since Harold had seen her last: her cheek had
grown pale and thin, and her rounded form seemed wasted; and sharp
grief, as he gazed, shot through the soul of Harold.
"Thou hast pined, thou hast suffered," said he, mournfully: "and I,
who would shed my life's blood to take one from thy sorrows, or add to
one of thy joys, have been afar, unable to comfort, perhaps only a
cause of thy woe."
"No, Harold," said Edith, faintly, "never of woe; always of comfort,
even in absence. I have been ill, and Hilda hath tried rune and charm
all in vain. But I am better, now that Spring hath come tardily
forth, and I look on the fresh flowers, and hear the song of the
birds."
But tears were in the sound of her voice, while she spoke.
"And they have not tormented thee again with the thoughts of the
convent?"
"They? no;--but my soul, yes. O Harold, release me from my promise;
for the time already hath come that thy sister foretold to me; the
silver cord is loosened, and the golden bowl is broken, and I would
fain take the wings of the dove, and be at peace."
"Is it so?--Is there peace in the home where the thought of Harold
becomes a sin?"
"Not sin then and there, Harold, not sin. Thy sister hailed the
convent when she thought of prayer for those she loved."
"Prate not to me of my sister!" said Harold, through his set teeth.
"It is but a mockery to talk of prayer for the heart that thou thyself
rendest in twain. Where is Hilda? I would see her."
"She hath gone to thy father's house with a gift; and it was to watch
for her return that I sate on the green knoll."
The Earl then drew near and took her hand, and sate by her side, and
they conversed long. But Harold saw with a fierce pang that Edith's
heart was set upon the convent, and that even in his presence, and
despite his soothing words, she was broken-spirited and despondent.
It seemed as if her youth and life had gone from her, and the day had
come in which she said, "There is no pleasure."
Never had he seen her thus; and, deeply moved as well as keenly stung,
he rose at length to depart; her hand lay passive in his parting
clasp, and a slight shiver went over her frame.
"Farewell, Edith; when I return from Windshore, I shall be at my old
home yonder, and we shall meet again."
Edith's lips murmured inaudibly, and she bent her eyes to the ground.
Slowly Harold regained his steed, and as he rode on, he looked behind
and waved oft his hand. But Edith sate motionless, her eyes still on
the ground, and he saw not the tears that fell from them fast and
burning; nor heard he the low voice that groaned amidst the heathen
ruins, "Mary, sweet mother, shelter me from my own heart!"
The sun had set before Harold gained the long and spacious abode of
his father. All around it lay the roofs and huts of the great Earl's
special tradesmen, for even his goldsmith was but his freed ceorl.
The house itself stretched far from the Thames inland, with several
low courts built only of timber, rugged and shapeless, but filled with
bold men, then the great furniture of a noble's halls.
Amidst the shouts of hundreds, eager to hold his stirrup, the Earl
dismounted, passed the swarming hall, and entered the room, in which
he found Hilda and Githa, and Godwin, who had preceded his entry but a
few minutes.
In the beautiful reverence of son to father, which made one of the
loveliest features of the Saxon character [126] (as the frequent want
of it makes the most hateful of the Norman vices), the all-powerful
Harold bowed his knee to the old Earl, who placed his hand on his head
in benediction, and then kissed him on the cheek and brow.
"Thy kiss, too, dear mother," said the younger Earl; and Githa's
embrace, if more cordial than her lord's, was not, perhaps, more fond.
"Greet Hilda, my son," said Godwin, "she hath brought me a gift, and
she hath tarried to place it under thy special care. Thou alone must
heed the treasure, and open the casket. But when and where, my
kinswoman?"
"On the sixth day after thy coming to the King's hall," answered
Hilda, not returning the smile with which Godwin spoke,--"on the sixth
day, Harold, open the chest, and take out the robe which hath been
spun in the house of Hilda for Godwin the Earl. And now, Godwin, I
have clasped thine hand, and I have looked on thy brow, and my mission
is done, and I must wend homeward."
"That shalt thou not, Hilda," said the hospitable Earl; "the meanest
wayfarer hath a right to bed and board in this house for a night and a
day, and thou wilt not disgrace us by leaving our threshold, the bread
unbroken, and the couch unpressed. Old friend, we were young
together, and thy face is welcome to me as the memory of former days."
Hilda shook her head, and one of those rare, and for that reason most
touching, expressions of tenderness of which the calm and rigid
character of her features, when in repose, seemed scarcely
susceptible, softened her eye, and relaxed the firm lines of her lips.
"Son of Wolnoth," said she, gently, "not under thy roof-tree should
lodge the raven of bode. Bread have I not broken since yestere'en,
and sleep will be far from my eyes to-night. Fear not, for my people
without are stout and armed, and for the rest there lives not the man
whose arm can have power over Hilda."
She took Harold's hand as she spoke, and leading him forth, whispered
in his ear, "I would have a word with thee ere we part." Then,
reaching the threshold, she waved her hand thrice over the floor, and
muttered in the Danish tongue a rude verse, which, translated, ran
somewhat thus:
"All free from the knot
Glide the thread of the skein,
And rest to the labour,
And peace to the pain!"
"It is a death-dirge," said Githa, with whitening lips, but she spoke
inly, and neither husband nor son heard her words.
Hilda and Harold passed in silence through the hall, and the Vala's
attendants, with spears and torches, rose from the settles, and went
before to the outer court, where snorted impatiently her black
palfrey.
Halting in the midst of the court, she said to Harold, in a low voice:
"At sunset we part--at sunset we shall meet again. And behold, the
star rises on the sunset; and the star, broader and brighter, shall
rise on the sunset then! When thy hand draws the robe from the chest,
think on Hilda, and know that at that hour she stands by the grave of
the Saxon warrior, and that from the grave dawns the future. Farewell
to thee!"
Harold longed to speak to her of Edith, but a strange awe at his heart
chained his lips; so he stood silent by the great wooden gates of the
rude house. The torches flamed round him, and Hilda's face seemed
lurid in the glare. There he stood musing long after torch and ceorl
had passed away, nor did he wake from his reverie till Gurth,
springing from his panting horse, passed his arm round the Earl's
shoulder, and cried:
"How did I miss thee, my brother? and why didst thou forsake thy
train?"
"I will tell thee anon. Gurth, has my father ailed? There is that in
his face which I like not."
"He hath not complained of misease," said Gurth, startled; "but now
thou speakest of it, his mood hath altered of late, and he hath
wandered much alone, or only with the old hound and the old falcon."
Then Harold turned back, and, his heart was full; and, when he reached
the house, his father was sitting in the hall on his chair of state;
and Githa sate on his right hand, and a little below her sate Tostig
and Leofwine, who had come in from the bear-hunt by the river-gate,
and were talking loud and merrily; and thegns and cnehts sate all
around, and there was wassail as Harold entered. But the Earl looked
only to his father, and he saw that his eyes were absent from the
glee, and that he was bending his head over the old falcon, which sate
on his wrist.
