Rebecca and Rowena

my poor kinsman Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe? They say he fought well at

  Chalus!"

  "My sweet lord," again interposed Rowena, "mention him not."

  "Why? Because thou and he were so tender in days of yore when you

  could not bear my plain face, being all in love with his pale one?"

  "Those times are past now, dear Athelstane," said his affectionate

  wife, looking up to the ceiling.

  "Marry, thou never could st forgive him the Jewess, Rowena."

  "The odious hussy! don't mention the name of the unbelieving

  creature," exclaimed the lady.

  "Well, well, poor Wil was a good lad a thought melancholy and milksop

  though. Why, a pint of sack fuddled his poor brains."

  "Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was a good lance," said the friar.

  "I have heard there was none better in Christendom. He lay in our

  convent after his wounds, and it was there we tended him till he died.

  He was buried in our north cloister."

  "And there's an end of him," said Athelstane. "But come, this is

  dismal talk. Where's Wamba the Jester? Let us have a song. Stir up,

  Wamba, and don't lie like a dog in the fire! Sing us a song, thou

  crack-brained jester, and leave off whimpering for bygones. Tush, man!

  There be many good fellows left in this world."

  "There be buzzards in eagles' nests," Wamba said, who was lying

  stretched before the fire, sharing the hearth with the Thane's dogs.

  "There be dead men alive, and live men dead. There be merry songs and

  dismal songs. Marry, and the merriest are the saddest sometimes. I

  will leave off motley and wear black, gossip Athelstane. I will turn

  howler at funerals, and then, perhaps, I shall be merry. Motley is fit

  for mutes, and black for fools. Give me some drink, gossip, for my

  voice is as cracked as my brain."

  "Drink and sing, thou beast, and cease prating," the Thane said.

  And Wamba, touching his re beck wildly, sat up in the chimney-side and

  curled his lean shanks together and began:

  LOVE AT TWO SCORE.

  "Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin,

  That never has known the barber's shear,

  All your aim is woman to win This is the way that boys begin Wait till

  you've come to forty year!

  "Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,

  Billing and cooing is all your cheer,

  Sighing and singing of midnight strains

  Under Bonnybells' window-panes.

  Wait till you've come to forty year!

  "Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,

  Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;

  Then you know a boy is an ass,

  Then you know the worth of a lass,

  Once you have come to forty year.

  "Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

  All good fellows whose beards are gray:

  Did not the fairest of the fair

  Common grow, and wearisome, ere

  Ever a month was passed away?

  "The reddest lips that ever have kissed,

  The brightest eyes that ever have shone,

  May pray and whisper and we not list,

  Or took away and never be missed,

  Ere yet ever a month was gone.

  "Gillian's dead, Heaven rest her bier,

  How I loved her twenty years sync!

  Marian's married, but I sit here,

  Alive and merry at forty year,

  Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine."

  "Who taught thee that merry lay, Wamba, thou son of Witless?" roared

  Athelstane, clattering his cup on the table and shouting the chorus.

  "It was a good and holy hermit, sir, the pious clerk of Copmanhurst,

  that you wot of, who played many a prank with us in the days that we

  knew King Richard. Ah, noble sir, that was a jovial time and a good

  priest."

  "They say the holy priest is sure of the next bishopric, my love," said

  Rowena. "His Majesty hath taken him into much favor. My Lord of

  Huntingdon looked very well at the last ball; but I never could see any

  beauty in the Countess a freckled, blowsy thing, whom they used to call

  Maid Marian: though for the matter of that, what between her

  flirtations with Major Littlejohn and Captain Scarlett, really-"

  "Jealous again haw! haw!" laughed Athelstane.

  "I am above jealousy, and scorn it," Rowena answered, drawing herself

  up very majestically.

  "Well, well, Wamba's was a good song," Athelstane said.

  "Nay, a wicked song," said Rowena, turning up her eyes as usual. "What!

  rail at woman's love? Prefer a filthy wine-cup to a true wife?

  Woman's love is eternal, my Athelstane. He who questions it would be a

  blasphemer were he not a fool. The well-born and well-nurtured

  gentlewoman loves once and once only.

  "I pray you, madam, pardon me, I - I am not well," said the gray friar,

  rising abruptly from his settle, and tottering down the steps of the

  dais. Wamba sprung after him, his bells jingling as he rose, and

  casting his arms around the apparently fainting man, he led him away

  into the court. "There be dead men alive and live men dead," whispered

  he. "There be coffins to laugh at and marriages to cry over. Said I

  not sooth, holy friar?" And when they had got out into the solitary

  court, which was deserted by all the followers of the Thane, who were

  mingling in the drunken revelry in the hall, Wamba, seeing that none

  were by knelt down, and kissing the friar's garment, said, "I knew

  thee, I knew thee, my lord and my liege!"

  "Get up," said Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, scarcely able to articulate: "only

  fools are faithful."

  And he passed on, and into the little chapel where his father lay

  buried. All night long the friar spent there: and Wamba the Jester lay

  outside watching as mute as the saint over the porch.

  When the morning came, Wamba was gone; and the knave being in the habit

  of wandering hither and thither as he chose, little notice was taken of

  his absence by a master and mistress who had not much sense of humor.

  As for Sir Wilfrid, a gentleman of his delicacy or feelings could not

  be expected to remain in a house where things so naturally disagreeable

  to him were occurring, and he quitted Rotherwood incontinently, after

  paying a dutiful visit to the tomb where his old father, Cedric, was

  buried; and hastened on to York, at which city he made himself renown

  to the family attorney, a most respectable man, in whose hands his

  ready money was deposited, and took up a sum sufficient to fit himself

  out with credit, and a handsome retinue, as became a knight of

  consideration. But he changed his name, wore a wig and spectacles, and

  disguised himself entirely, so that it was impossible his friends or

  the public should know him, and thus metamorphosed, went about

  whithersoever his fancy led him. He was present at a public ball at

  York, which the lord mayor gave, danced Sir Roger de Coverley in the

  very same set with Rowena (who was disgusted that Maid Marian took

  precedence of her) he saw little Athelstane overeat himself at the

  supper and pledge his big father in a cup of sack; he met the Reverend

  Mr. Tuck at a missionary meeting, where he seconded a resolution

  proposed by that eminent divine; in fine, he saw a score of his old

/>   acquaintances, none of whom recognized in him the warrior of Palestine

  and Templestowe. Having a large fortune and nothing to do, he went

  about this country performing charities, slaying robbers, rescuing the

  distressed, and achieving noble feats of arms. Dragons and giants

  existed in his day no more, or be sure he would have had a fling at

  them: for the truth is, Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was somewhat sick of the

  life which the hermits of Chalus had restored to him, and felt himself

  so friendless and solitary that he would not have been sorry to come to

  an end of it. Ah, my dear friends and intelligent British public, are

  there not others who are melancholy under a mask of gayety, and who, in

  the midst of crowds, are lonely? Liston was a most melancholy man;

  Grimaldi had feelings; and there are others I wot of: but psha! let us

  have the next chapter.

  CHAPTER V.

  IVAN HOE TO THE RESCUE.

  THE rascally manner in which the chicken-livered successor of Richard

  of the Lion-heart conducted himself to all parties, to his relatives,

  his nobles, and his people, is a matter notorious, and set forth

  clearly in the Historic Page: hence, although nothing, except perhaps

  success, can, in my opinion, excuse disaffection to the sovereign, or

  appearance in armed rebellion against him, the loyal reader will make

  allowance for two of the principal personages of this narrative, who

  will have to appear in the present chapter in the odious character of

  rebels to their lord and king. It must be remembered, in partial

  exculpation of the fault of Athelstane and Rowena. (a fault for which

  they were bitterly punished, as you shall presently hear,) that the

  monarch exasperated his subjects in a variety, of ways, that before he

  murdered his royal nephew, Prince Arthur, there was a great question

  whether he was the rightful king of England at all, that his behavior

  as an uncle, and a family man, was likely to wound the feelings of any

  lady and mother, finally, that there were palliations for the conduct

  of Rowena and Ivanhoe, which it now becomes our duty to relate.

  When his Majesty destroyed Prince Arthur, the Lady Rowena, who was one

  of the ladies of honor to the Queen, gave up her place at court at

  once, and retired to her castle of Rotherwood.

  Expressions made use of by her, and derogatory to the character of the

  sovereign, were carried to the monarch's ears, by some of those

  parasites, doubtless, by whom it is the curse of kings to be attended;

  and John swore, by St. Peter's teeth, that he would be revenged upon

  the haughty Saxon lady a kind of oath which, though he did not trouble

  himself about all other oaths, he was never known to break. It was not

  for some years after he had registered this vow, that he was enabled to

  keep it.

  Had Ivanhoe been present at Rouen, when the King meditated his horrid

  designs against his nephew, there is little doubt that Sir Wilfrid

  would have prevented them, and rescued the boy: for Ivanhoe was, as we

  need scarcely say, a hero of romance; and it is the custom and duty of

  all gentlemen of that profession to be present on all occasions of

  historic interest, to be engaged in all conspiracies, royal interviews,

  and remarkable occurrences: and hence Sir Wilfrid would certainly have

  rescued the young Prince, had he been anywhere in the neighborhood of

  Rouen, where the foul tragedy occurred. But he was a couple of hundred

  leagues off, at Chalus, when the circumstance happened; tied down in

  his bed as crazy as a Bedlamite, and raving ceaselessly in the Hebrew

  tongue (which he had caught up during a previous illness in which he

  was tended by a maiden of that nation) about a certain Rebecca Ben

  Isaacs, of whom, being a married man, he never would have thought, had

  he been in his sound senses. During this delirium, what were politics

  to him, or he to politics? King John or King Arthur was entirely

  indifferent to a man who announced to his nurse-tenders, the good

  hermits of Chalus before mentioned, that he was the Marquis of Jericho,

  and about to marry Rebecca the Queen of Sheba. In a word, he only

  heard of what had occurred when he reached England, and his senses were

  restored to him. Whether was he happier, sound of brain and entirely

  miserable, (as any man would be who found so admirable a wife as Rowena

  married again,) or perfectly crazy, the husband of the beautiful

  Rebecca? I don't know which he liked best.

  Howbeit the conduct of King John inspired Sir Wilfrid with so thorough

  a detestation of that sovereign, that he never could be brought to take

  service under him; to get himself presented at St. James's, or in any

  way to acknowledge, but by stern acquiescence, the authority of the

  sanguinary successor of his beloved King Richard. It was Sir Wilfrid

  of Ivanhoe, I need scarcely say, who got the Barons of England to

  league together and extort from the king that famous instrument and

  palladium of our liberties at present in the British Museum, Great

  Russell Street, Bloomsbury the Magna Charta. His name does not

  naturally appear in the list of Barons, because he was only a knight,

  and a knight in disguise too: nor does Athelstane's signature figure on

  that document. Athelstane, in the first place, could not write; nor

  did he care a penny piece about politics, so long as he could drink his

  wine at home undisturbed, and have his hunting and shooting in quiet.

  It was not until the King wanted to interfere with the sport of every

  gentleman in England (as we know by reference to the Historic Page that

  this odious monarch did), that Athelstane broke out into open

  rebellion, along with several Yorkshire squires and noblemen. It is

  recorded of the King, that he forbade every man to hunt his own deer;

  and, in order to secure an obedience to his orders, this Herod of a

  monarch wanted to secure the eldest sons of all the nobility and

  gentry, as hostages for the good behavior of their parents.

  Athelstane was anxious about his game Rowena was anxious about her son.

  The former swore that he would hunt his deer in spite of all Norman

  tyrants the latter asked, should she give up her boy to the ruffian who

  had murdered his own nephew? - (* See Hume, Giraldus Cambrensis, The

  Monk of Croyland, and Pinnock's Catechism.) The speeches of both were

  brought to the King at York; and, furious, he ordered an instant attack

  upon Rotherwood, and that the lord and lady of that castle should be

  brought before him dead or alive.

  Ah, where was Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, the unconquerable champion, to defend

  the castle against the royal party? A few thrusts from his lance would

  have spitted the leading warriors of the King's host: a few cuts from

  his sword would have put John's forces to rout. But the lance and

  sword of Ivanhoe were idle on this occasion. "No, be hanged to me!"

  said the knight, bitterly, "this is a quarrel in which I can't

  interfere. Common politeness forbids. Let yonder ale-swilling

  Athelstane defend his ha, ha _wife; and my Lady Rowena guard her ha,

  ha, ha _son."
And he laughed wildly and madly; and the sarcastic, way

  in which he choked and gurgled out the words "wife" and "son" would

  have made you shudder to hear.

  When he heard, however, that, on the fourth day of the siege,

  Athelstane had been slain by a cannon-ball, (and this time for good,

  and not to come to life again as he had done before,) and that the

  widow (if so the innocent bigamist may be called) was conducting the

  defence of Rotherwood herself with the greatest intrepidity, showing

  herself upon the walls with her little son, (who bellowed like a bull,

  and did not like the fighting at all,) pointing the guns and

  encouraging the garrison in every way better feelings returned to the

  bosom of the Knight of Ivanhoe, and summoning his men, he armed himself

  quickly and determined to go forth to the rescue.

  He rode without stepping for two days and two nights in the direction

  of Rotherwood, with such swiftness and disregard for refreshment,

  indeed, that his men dropped one by one upon the road, and he arrived

  alone at the lodge-gate of the park. The windows were smashed; the

  door stove in; the lodge, a neat little Swiss cottage, with a garden

  where the pinafores of Mrs. Gurth's children might have been seen

  hanging on the gooseberry-bushes in more peaceful times, was now a

  ghastly heap of smoking ruins: cottage, bushes, pinafores, children lay

  mangled together, destroyed by the licentious soldiery of a infuriate

  monarch! Far be it from me to excuse the disobedience of Athelstane

  and Rowena to their sovereign; but surely, surely this cruelty might

  have been spared.

  Gurth, who was lodge-keeper, was lying dreadfully wounded and expiring

  at the flaming and violated threshold of his lately picturesque home. A

  catapult and a couple of mangonels had done his business. The faithful

  fellow, recognizing his master, who had put up his visor and forgotten

  his wig and spectacles in the agitation of the moment, exclaimed, " Sir

  Wilfrid! my dear master praised be St. Waltheof there may be yet time

  my beloved mistr- master Atheist ..." He sank back, and never spoke

  again.

  Ivanhoe spurred on his horse Bavieca madly up the chestnut avenue. The

  castle was before him; the western tower was in flames; the besiegers

  were pressing at the southern gate; Athelstane's banner, the bull

  rampant, was still on the northern bartizan. "An Ivanhoe, an Ivanhoe!"

  he bellowed out, with shout that overcame all the din of battle"

  "Nostre Dame a la rescous se And to hurl his lance through the midriff

  of Reginald de Bracy, who was commanding the assault who fell howling

  with anguish to wave his battle-axe over his own head, and cut off

  those of thirteen men-at-arms, was the work of an instant. "An

  Ivanhoe, an Ivanhoe!" he still shouted, and down went a man as sure as

  he said "hoe!"

  "Ivanhoe! Ivanhoe" a shrill voice cried from the top of the northern

  bartizan. Ivanhoe knew it.

  "Rowena my love, I come!" he roared on his part. "Villains!

  touch but a hair of her head, and I ..."

  Here, with a sudden plunge and a squeal of agony, Bavieca sprang

  forward wildly, and fell as wildly on her back, rolling over and over

  upon the knight. All was dark before him; his brain reeled; it

  whizzed; something came crashing down on his forehead. St. Waltheof

  and all the saints of the Saxon calendar protect the knight! ... When

  he came to himself, Wamba and the lieutenant of his lances were leaning

  over him with a bottle of the hermit's elixir. "We arrived here the

  day after the battle," said the fool; "marry, I have a knack of

  that."

  "Your worship rode so deucedly quick, there was no keeping up with your

  worship," said the lieutenant.