CHAPTER VII.
Fair, broad, and calm set the sun over the western woodlands. Hilda
stood on the mound, and looked with undazzled eyes on the sinking orb.
Beside her, Edith reclined on the sward, and seemed with idle hand
tracing characters in the air. The girl had grown paler still, since
Harold last parted from her on the same spot, and the same listless
and despondent apathy stamped her smileless lips and her bended head.
"See, child of my heart," said Hilda, addressing Edith, while she
still gazed on the western luminary, "see, the sun goes down to the
far deeps, where Rana and Aegir [136] watch over the worlds of the
sea; but with morning he comes from the halls of the Asas--the golden
gates of the East--and joy comes in his train. And yet then thinkest,
sad child, whose years have scarce passed into woman, that the sun,
once set, never comes back to life. But even while we speak, thy
morning draws near, and the dunness of cloud takes the hues of the
rose!"
Edith's hand paused from its vague employment, and fell droopingly on
her knee;--she turned with an unquiet and anxious eye to Hilda, and
after looking some moments wistfully at the Vala, the colour rose to
her cheek, and she said in a voice that had an accent half of anger:
"Hilda, thou art cruel!"
"So is Fate!" answered the Vala. "But men call not Fate cruel when it
smiles on their desires. Why callest thou Hilda cruel, when she reads
in the setting sun the runes of thy coming joy!"
"There is no joy for me," returned Edith, plaintively; and I have that
on my heart," she added, with a sudden and almost fierce change of
tone, "which at last I will dare to speak. I reproach thee, Hilda,
that thou hast marred all my life, that thou hast duped me with
dreams, and left me alone in despair."
"Speak on," said Hilda, calmly, as a nurse to a froward child.
"Hast thou not told me, from the first dawn of my wondering reason,
that my life and lot were inwoven with--with (the word, mad and
daring, must out)--with those of Harold the peerless? But for that,
which my infancy took from thy lips as a law, I had never been so vain
and so frantic! I had never watched each play of his face, and
treasured each word from his lips; I had never made my life but part
of his life--all my soul but the shadow of his sun. But for that, I
had hailed the calm of the cloister--but for that, I had glided in
peace to my grave. And now--now, O Hilda--" Edith paused, and that
break had more eloquence than any words she could command. "And," she
resumed quickly, "thou knowest that these hopes were but dreams--that
the law ever stood between him and me--and that it was guilt to love
him."
"I knew the law," answered Hilda, "but the law of fools is to the wise
as the cobweb swung over the brake to the wing of the bird. Ye are
sibbe to each other, some five times removed; and therefore an old man
at Rome saith that ye ought not to wed. When the shavelings obey the
old man at home, and put aside their own wives and frillas [137], and
abstain from the wine cup, and the chase, and the brawl, I will stoop
to hear of their laws,--with disrelish it may be, but without scorn.
[138] It is no sin to love Harold; and no monk and no law shall
prevent your union on the day appointed to bring ye together, form and
heart."
"Hilda! Hilda! madden me not with joy," cried Edith, starting up in
rapturous emotion, her young face dyed with blushes, and all her
renovated beauty so celestial that Hilda herself was almost awed, as
if by the vision of Freya, the northern Venus, charmed by a spell from
the halls of Asgard.
"But that day is distant," renewed the Vala.
"What matters! what matters!" cried the pure child of Nature; "I ask
but hope. Enough,--oh! enough, if we were but wedded on the borders
of the grave!"
"Lo, then," said Hilda, "behold, the sun of thy life dawns again!"
As she spoke, the Vala stretched her arm, and through the intersticed
columns of the fane, Edith saw the large shadow of a man cast over the
still sward. Presently into the space of the circle came Harold, her
beloved. His face was pale with grief yet recent; but, perhaps, more
than ever, dignity was in his step and command on his brow, for he
felt that now alone with him rested the might of Saxon England. And
what royal robe so invests with imperial majesty the form of a man as
the grave sense of power responsible, in an earnest soul?
"Thou comest," said Hilda, "in the hour I predicted; at the setting of
the sun and the rising of the star."
"Vala," said Harold, gloomily, "I will not oppose my sense to thy
prophecies; for who shall judge of that power of which he knows not
the elements? or despise the marvel of which he cannot detect the
imposture? But leave me, I pray thee, to walk in the broad light of
the common day. These hands are made to grapple with things palpable,
and these eyes to measure the forms that front my way. In my youth, I
turned in despair or disgust from the subtleties of the schoolmen,
which split upon hairs the brains of Lombard and Frank; in my busy and
stirring manhood entangle me not in the meshes which confuse all my
reason, and sicken my waking thoughts into dreams of awe. Mine be the
straight path and the plain goal!"
The Vala gazed on him with an earnest look, that partook of
admiration, and yet more of gloom; but she spoke not, and Harold
resumed:
"Let the dead rest, Hilda,--proud names with glory on earth and
shadows escaped from our ken, submissive to mercy in heaven. A vast
chasm have my steps overleapt since we met, O Hilda--sweet Edith; a
vast chasm, but a narrow grave." His voice faltered a moment, and
again he renewed,--" Thou weepest, Edith; ah, how thy tears console
me! Hilda, hear me! I love thy grandchild--loved her by irresistible
instinct since her blue eyes first smiled on mine. I loved her in her
childhood, as in her youth--in the blossom as in the flower. And thy
grandchild loves me. The laws of the Church proscribe our marriage,
and therefore we parted; but I feel, and thine Edith feels, that the
love remains as strong in absence: no other will be her wedded lord,
no other my wedded wife. Therefore, with heart made soft by sorrow,
and, in my father's death, sole lord of my fate, I return, and say to
thee in her presence, 'Suffer us to hope still!' The day may come
when under some king less enthralled than Edward by formal Church
laws, we may obtain from the Pope absolution for our nuptials--a day,
perhaps, far off; but we are both young, and love is strong and
patient: we can wait."
"O Harold," exclaimed Edith, "we can wait!"
"Have I not told thee, son of Godwin," said the Vala, solemnly, "that
Edith's skein of life was inwoven with thine? Dost thou deem that my
charms have not explored the destiny of the last of my race? Know
that it is in the decrees of the fates that ye are to be united, never
more to be divided. Know that there shall come a day, though I can
see not its morrow, and it lies dim and afar, which shall be the most
glorious of thy life, and on which Edith and fame shall be thine,--the
day of thy nativity, on which hitherto all things have prospered with
thee. In vain against the stars preach the mone and the priest: what
shall be, shall be. Wherefore, take hope and joy, O Children of Time!
And now, as I join your hands, I betroth your souls."
Rapture unalloyed and unprophetic, born of love deep and pure, shone
in the eyes of Harold, as he clasped the hand of his promised bride.
But an involuntary and mysterious shudder passed over Edith's frame,
and she leant close, close, for support upon Harold's breast. And, as
if by a vision, there rose distinct in her memory a stern brow, a form
of power and terror--the brow and the form of him who but once again
in her waking life the Prophetess had told her she should behold. The
vision passed away in the warm clasp of those protecting arms; and
looking up into Harold's face, she there beheld the mighty and deep
delight that transfused itself at once into her own soul.
Then Hilda, placing one hand over their heads, and raising the other
towards heaven, all radiant with bursting stars, said in her deep and
thrilling tones:
"Attest the betrothal of these young hearts, O ye Powers that draw
nature to nature by spells which no galdra can trace, and have wrought
in the secrets of creation no mystery so perfect as love,--Attest it,
thou temple, thou altar!--attest it, O sun and O air! While the forms
are divided, may the souls cling together--sorrow with sorrow, and joy
with joy. And when, at length, bride and bridegroom are one,--O
stars, may the trouble with which ye are charged have exhausted its
burthen; may no danger molest, and no malice disturb, but, over the
marriage-bed, shine in peace, O ye stars!"
Up rose the moon. May's nightingale called its mate from the
breathless boughs; and so Edith and Harold were betrothed by the grave
of the son of Cerdic. And from the line of Cerdic had come, since
Ethelbert, all the Saxon kings who with sword and with sceptre had
reigned over Saxon England.
