While, full of themselves, Harold and Edith wandered, hand in hand, through the neighbouring glades—while into that breast which had forestalled, at least, in this pure and sublime union, the wife’s privilege to soothe and console, the troubled man poured out the tale of the sole trial from which he had passed with defeat and shame,—Haco drew near to Thyra, and sate down by her side. Each was strangely attracted towards the other; there was something congenial in the gloom which they shared in common; though in the girl the sadness was soft and resigned, in the youth it was stern and solemn. They conversed in whispers, and their talk was strange for companions so young; for, whether suggested by Edith’s song, or the neighbourhood of the Saxon grave-stone, which gleamed on their eyes, grey and wan through the crommell, the theme they selected was of death. As if fascinated, as children often are, by the terrors of the Dark King, they dwelt on those images with which the northern fancy has associated the eternal rest, on—the shroud and the worm, and the mouldering bones—on the gibbering ghost, and the sorcerer’s spell that could call the spectre from the grave. They talked of the pain of the parting soul, parting while earth was yet fair, youth fresh, and joy not yet ripened from the blossom—of the wistful lingering look which glazing eyes would give to the latest sunlight it should behold on earth; and then he pictured the shivering and naked soul, forced from the reluctant clay, wandering through cheerless space to the intermediate tortures, which the Church taught that none were so pure as not for a whole to undergo; and hearing, as it wandered, the knell of the muffled bells and the burst of unavailing prayer. At length Haco paused abruptly and said:
“But thou, cousin, hast before thee love and sweet life, and these discourses are not for thee.”
Thyra shook her head mournfully:
“Not so, Haco; for when Hilda consulted the runes, while, last night, she mingled the herbs for my pain, which rests ever hot and sharp here,” and the girl laid her hand on her breast, “I saw that her face grew dark and overcast; and I felt, as I looked, that my doom was set. And when thou didst come so noiselessly to my side, with thy sad, cold eyes, O Haco, methought I saw the Messenger of Death. But thou art strong, Haco, and life will be long for thee; let us talk of life.”
Haco stooped down and pressed his lips upon the girl’s pale forehead.
“Kiss me too, Thyra.”
The child kissed him, and they sate silent and close by each other, while the sun set.
And as the stars rose, Harold and Edith joined them. Harold’s face was serene in the starlight, for the pure soul of his betrothed had breathed peace into his own; and, in his willing superstition, he felt as if, now restored to his guardian angel, the dead men’s bones had released their unhallowed hold.
But suddenly Edith’s hand trembled in his, and her form shuddered.—Her eyes were fixed upon those of Haco.
“Forgive me, young kinsman, that I forget thee so long,” said the Earl. “This is my brother’s son, Edith; thou hast not, that I remember, seen him before?”
“Yes, yes;” said Edith, falteringly.
“When, and where?”
Edith’s soul answered the question, “In a dream;” but her lips were silent.
And Haco, rising, took her by the hand, while the Earl turned to his sister—that sister whom he was pledged to send to the Norman court; and Thyra said, plaintively:
“Take me in thine arms, Harold, and wrap thy mantle round me, for the air is cold.”
The Earl lifted the child to his breast, and gazed on her cheek long and wistfully; then questioning her tenderly, he took her within the house; and Edith followed with Haco.
“Is Hilda within?” asked the son of Sweyn.
“Nay, she hath been in the forest since noon,” answered Edith with an effort, for she could not recover her awe of his presence.
“Then,” said Haco, halting at the threshold, “I will go across the woodland to your house, Harold, and prepare your ceorls for your coming.”
“I shall tarry here till Hilda returns,” answered Harold, and it may be late in the night ere I reach home; but Sexwolf already hath my orders. At sunrise we return to London, and thence we march on the insurgents.”
“All shall be ready. Farewell, noble Edith; and thou, Thyra my cousin, one kiss more to our meeting again.” The child fondly held out her arms to him, and as she kissed his cheek whispered:
“In the grave, Haco!”
The young man drew his mantle around him, and moved away. But he did not mount his steed, which still grazed by the road; while Harold’s, more familiar with the place, had found its way to the stall; nor did he take his path through the glades to the house of his kinsman. Entering the Druid temple, he stood musing by the Teuton tomb. The night grew deeper and deeper, the stars more luminous and the air more hushed, when a voice close at his side, said, clear and abrupt:
“What does Youth the restless, by Death the still?”
It was the peculiarity of Haco, that nothing ever seemed to startle or surprise him. In that brooding boyhood, the solemn, quiet, and sad experience all fore-armed, of age, had something in it terrible and preternatural; so without lifting his eyes from the stone, he answered:
“How sayest thou, O Hilda, that the dead are still?” Hilda placed her hand on his shoulder, and stooped to look into his face.
“Thy rebuke is just, son of Sweyn. In Time, and in the Universe, there is no stillness! Through all eternity the state impossible to the soul is repose!—So again thou art in thy native land?”
“And for what end, Prophetess? I remember, when but an infant, who till then had enjoyed the common air and the daily sun, thou didst rob me evermore of childhood and youth. For thou didst say to my father, that ‘dark was the woof of my fate, and that its most glorious hour should be its last!’”
“But thou wert surely too childlike, (see thee now as thou wert then, stretched on the grass, and playing with thy father’s falcon!)—too childlike to heed my words.”
“Does the new ground reject the germs of the sower, or the young heart the first lessons of wonder and awe? Since then, Prophetess, Night hath been my comrade, and Death my familiar. Rememberest thou again the hour when, stealing, a boy, from Harold’s house in his absence—the night ere I left my land—I stood on this mound by thy side? Then did I tell thee that the sole soft thought that relieved the bitterness of my soul, when all the rest of my kinsfolk seemed to behold in me but the heir of Sweyn, the outlaw and homicide, was the love that I bore to Harold; but that that love itself was mournful and bodeful as the hwata 209 of distant sorrow. And thou didst take me, O Prophetess, to thy bosom, and thy cold kiss touched my lips and my brow; and there, beside this altar and grave-mound, by leaf and by water, by staff and by song, thou didst bid me take comfort; for that as the mouse gnawed the toils of the lion, so the exile obscure should deliver from peril the pride and the prince of my House—that, from that hour with the skein of his fate should mine be entwined; and his fate was that of kings and of kingdoms. And then, when the joy flushed my cheek, and methought youth came back in warmth to the night of my soul—then, Hilda, I asked thee if my life would be spared till I had redeemed the name of my father. Thy seidstaff passed over the leaves that, burning with fire-sparks, symbolled the life of the man, and from the third leaf the flame leaped up and died; and again a voice from thy breast, hollow, as if borne from a hill-top afar, made answer, ‘At thine entrance to manhood life bursts into blaze, and shrivels up into ashes.’ So I knew that the doom of the infant still weighed unannealed on the years of the man; and I come here to my native land as to glory and the grave. But,” said the young man, with a wild enthusiasm, “still with mine links the fate which is loftiest in England; and the rill and the river shall rush in one to the Terrible Sea.”
“I know not that,” answered Hilda, pale, as if in awe of herself: “for never yet hath the rune, or the fount or the tomb, revealed to me clear and distinct the close of the great course of Harold; only know I through his own stars his glory and greatness; and where glory is dim, and greatness is menaced, I know it but from the stars of others, the rays of whose influence blend with his own. So long, at least, as the fair and the pure one keeps watch in the still House of Life, the dark and the troubled one cannot wholly prevail. For Edith is given to Harold as the Fylgia, that noiselessly blesses and saves: and thou—” Hilda checked herself, and lowered her hood over her face, so that it suddenly became invisible.
“And I?” asked Haco, moving near to her side.
“Away, son of Sweyn; thy feet trample the grave of the mighty dead!”
Then Hilda lingered no longer, but took her way towards the house. Haco’s eye followed her in silence. The cattle, grazing in the great space of the crumbling peristyle, looked up as she passed; the watch-dogs, wandering through the star-lit columns, came snorting round their mistress. And when she had vanished within the house, Haco turned to his steed:
“What matters,” he murmured, “the answer which the Vala cannot or dare not give? To me is not destined the love of woman, nor the ambition of life. All I know of human affection binds me to Harold; all I know of human ambition is to share in his fate. This love is strong as hate, and terrible as doom,—it is jealous, it admits no rival. As the shell and the sea-weed interlaced together, we are dashed on the rushing surge; whither? oh, whither?”
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