The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Fear it not,” returned Dorothy, earnestly.

  While thus conversing, they gradually strayed away from the cherry-tree, and taking a winding path leading in that direction, entered the conventual church, about the middle of the south aisle. After gazing with wonder and delight at the still majestic pillars, that, like ghosts of the departed brethren, seemed to protest against the desolation around them, they took their way along the nave, through broken arches, and over prostrate fragments of stone, to the eastern extremity of the fane, and having admired the light shafts and clerestory windows of the choir, as well as the magnificent painted glass over the altar, they stopped before an arched doorway on the right, with two Gothic niches, in one of which was a small stone statue of Saint Agnes with her lamb, and in the other a similar representation of Saint Margaret, crowned, and piercing the dragon with a cross. Both were sculptures of much merit, and it was wonderful they had escaped destruction. The door was closed, but it easily opened when tried by Dorothy, and they found themselves in a small but beautiful chapel. What struck them chiefly in it was a magnificent monument of white marble, enriched with numerous small shields, painted and gilt, supporting two recumbent figures, representing Henry de Lacy, one of the founders of the Abbey, and his consort. The knight was cased in plate armour, covered with a surcoat, emblazoned with his arms, and his feet resting upon a hound. This superb monument was wholly uninjured, the painting and gilding being still fresh and bright. Behind it a flag had been removed, discovering a flight of steep stone steps, leading to a vault, or other subterranean chamber.

  After looking round this chapel, Dorothy remarked, “There is something else that has just occurred to me. When a child, a strange dark tale was told me, to the effect that the last ill-fated Abbot of Whalley laid his dying curse upon your grandmother, then an infant, predicting that she should be a witch, and the mother of witches.”

  “I have heard the dread tradition, too,” rejoined Alizon; “but I cannot, will not, believe it. An all-benign Power will never sanction such terrible imprecations.”

  “Far be it from me to affirm the contrary,” replied Dorothy; “but it is undoubted that some families have been, and are, under the influence of an inevitable fatality. In one respect, connected also with the same unfortunate prelate, I might instance our own family. Abbot Paslew is said to be unlucky to us even in his grave. If such a curse, as I have described, hangs over the head of your family, all your efforts to remove it will be ineffectual.”

  “I trust not,” said Alizon. “Oh! dear young lady, you have now penetrated the secret of my heart. The mystery of my life is laid open to you. Disguise it as I may, I cannot but believe my mother to be under some baneful influence. Her unholy life, her strange actions, all impress me with the idea. And there is the same tendency in Jennet.”

  “You have a brother, have you not?” inquired Dorothy.

  “I have,” returned Alizon, slightly colouring; “but I see little of him, for he lives near my grandmother, in Pendle Forest, and always avoids me in his rare visits here. You will think it strange when I tell you I have never beheld my grandmother Demdike.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” exclaimed Dorothy.

  “I have never even been to Pendle,” pursued Alizon, “though Jennet and my mother go there frequently. At one time I much wished to see my aged relative, and pressed my mother to take me with her; but she refused, and now I have no desire to go.”

  “Strange!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Every thing you tell me strengthens the idea I conceived, the moment I saw you, and which my brother also entertained, that you are not the daughter of Elizabeth Device.”

  “Did your brother think this?” cried Alizon, eagerly. But she immediately cast down her eyes.

  “He did,” replied Dorothy, not noticing her confusion. “‘It is impossible,’ he said, ‘that that lovely girl can be sprung from’ — but I will not wound you by adding the rest.”

  “I cannot disown my kindred,” said Alizon. “Still, I must confess that some notions of the sort have crossed me, arising, probably, from my mother’s extraordinary treatment, and from many other circumstances, which, though trifling in themselves, were not without weight in leading me to the conclusion. Hitherto I have treated it only as a passing fancy, but if you and Master Richard Assheton” — and her voice slightly faltered as she pronounced the name— “think so, it may warrant me in more seriously considering the matter.”

  “Do consider it most seriously, dear Alizon,” cried Dorothy. “I have made up my mind, and Richard has made up his mind, too, that you are not Mother Demdike’s grand-daughter, nor Elizabeth Device’s daughter, nor Jennet’s sister — nor any relation of theirs. We are sure of it, and we will have you of our mind.”

  The fair and animated speaker could not help noticing the blushes that mantled Alizon’s cheeks as she spoke, but she attributed them to other than the true cause. Nor did she mend the matter as she proceeded.

  “I am sure you are well born, Alizon,” she said, “and so it will be found in the end. And Richard thinks so, too, for he said so to me; and Richard is my oracle, Alizon.”

  In spite of herself Alizon’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; but she speedily checked the emotion.

  “I must not indulge the dream,” she said, with a sigh.

  “Why not?” cried Dorothy. “I will have strict inquiries made as to your history.”

  “I cannot consent to it,” replied Alizon. “I cannot leave one who, if she be not my parent, has stood to me in that relation. Neither can I have her brought into trouble on my account. What will she think of me, if she learns I have indulged such a notion? She will say, and with truth, that I am the most ungrateful of human beings, as well as the most unnatural of children. No, dear young lady, it must not be. These fancies are brilliant, but fallacious, and, like bubbles, burst as soon as formed.”

  “I admire your sentiments, though I do not admit the justice of your reasoning,” rejoined Dorothy. “It is not on your own account merely, though that is much, that the secret of your birth — if there be one — ought to be cleared up; but, for the sake of those with whom you may be connected. There may be a mother, like mine, weeping for you as lost — a brother, like Richard, mourning you as dead. Think of the sad hearts your restoration will make joyful. As to Elizabeth Device, no consideration should be shown her. If she has stolen you from your parents, as I suspect, she deserves no pity.”

  “All this is mere surmise, dear young lady,” replied Alizon.

  At this juncture they were startled, by seeing an old woman come from behind the monument and plant herself before them. Both uttered a cry, and would have fled, but a gesture from the crone detained them. Very old was she, and of strange and sinister aspect, almost blind, bent double, with frosted brows and chin, and shaking with palsy.

  “Stay where you are,” cried the hag, in an imperious tone. “I want to speak to you. Come nearer to me, my pretty wheans; nearer — nearer.”

  And as they complied, drawn towards her by an impulse they could not resist, the old woman caught hold of Alizon’s arm, and said with a chuckle. “So you are the wench they call Alizon Device, eh!”

  “Ay,” replied Alizon, trembling like a dove in the talons of a hawk.

  “Do you know who I am?” cried the hag, grasping her yet more tightly. “Do you know who I am, I say? If not, I will tell you. I am Mother Chattox of Pendle Forest, the rival of Mother Demdike, and the enemy of all her accursed brood. Now, do you know me, wench? Men call me witch. Whether I am so or not, I have some power, as they and you shall find. Mother Demdike has often defied me — often injured me, but I will have my revenge upon her — ha! ha!”

  “Let me go,” cried Alizon, greatly terrified.

  “I will run and bring assistance,” cried Dorothy. And she flew to the door, but it resisted her attempts to open it.

  “Come back,” screamed the hag. “You strive in vain. The door is fast shut — fast shut. Come back, I say. Who are you
?” she added, as the maid drew near, ready to sink with terror. “Your voice is an Assheton’s voice. I know you now. You are Dorothy Assheton — whey-skinned, blue-eyed Dorothy. Listen to me, Dorothy. I owe your family a grudge, and, if you provoke me, I will pay it off in part on you. Stir not, as you value your life.”

  The poor girl did not dare to move, and Alizon remained as if fascinated by the terrible old woman.

  “I will tell you what has happened, Dorothy,” pursued Mother Chattox. “I came hither to Whalley on business of my own; meddling with no one; harming no one. Tread upon the adder and it will bite; and, when molested, I bite like the adder. Your cousin, Nick Assheton, came in my way, called me ‘witch,’ and menaced me. I cursed him — ha! ha! And then your brother, Richard—”

  Mother Chattox, Alizon, and Dorothy.

  “What of him, in Heaven’s name?” almost shrieked Alizon.

  “How’s this?” exclaimed Mother Chattox, placing her hand on the beating heart of the girl.

  “What of Richard Assheton?” repeated Alizon.

  “You love him, I feel you do, wench,” cried the old crone with fierce exultation.

  “Release me, wicked woman,” cried Alizon.

  “Wicked, am I? ha! ha!” rejoined Mother Chattox, chuckling maliciously, “because, forsooth, I read thy heart, and betray its secrets. Wicked, eh! I tell thee wench again, Richard Assheton is lord and master here. Every pulse in thy bosom beats for him — for him alone. But beware of his love. Beware of it, I say. It shall bring thee ruin and despair.”

  “For pity’s sake, release me,” implored Alizon.

  “Not yet,” replied the inexorable old woman, “not yet. My tale is not half told. My curse fell on Richard’s head, as it did on Nicholas’s. And then the hell-hounds thought to catch me; but they were at fault. I tricked them nicely — ha! ha! However, they took my Nance — my pretty Nance — they seized her, bound her, bore her to the Calder — and there swam her. Curses light on them all! — all! — but chief on him who did it!”

  “Who was he?” inquired Alizon, tremblingly.

  “Jem Device,” replied the old woman— “it was he who bound her — he who plunged her in the river, he who swam her. But I will pinch and plague him for it, I will strew his couch with nettles, and all wholesome food shall be poison to him. His blood shall be as water, and his flesh shrink from his bones. He shall waste away slowly — slowly — slowly — till he drops like a skeleton into the grave ready digged for him. All connected with him shall feel my fury. I would kill thee now, if thou wert aught of his.”

  “Aught of his! What mean you, old woman?” demanded Alizon.

  “Why, this,” rejoined Mother Chattox, “and let the knowledge work in thee, to the confusion of Bess Device. Thou art not her daughter.”

  “It is as I thought,” cried Dorothy Assheton, roused by the intelligence from her terror.

  “I tell thee not this secret to pleasure thee,” continued Mother Chattox, “but to confound Elizabeth Device. I have no other motive. She hath provoked my vengeance, and she shall feel it. Thou art not her child, I say. The secret of thy birth is known to me, but the time is not yet come for its disclosure. It shall out, one day, to the confusion of those who offend me. When thou goest home tell thy reputed mother what I have said, and mark how she takes the information. Ha! who comes here?”

  The hag’s last exclamation was occasioned by the sudden appearance of Mistress Nutter, who opened the door of the chapel, and, staring in astonishment at the group, came quickly forward.

  “What makes you here, Mother Chattox?” she cried.

  “I came here to avoid pursuit,” replied the old hag, with a cowed manner, and in accents sounding strangely submissive after her late infuriated tone.

  “What have you been saying to these girls?” demanded Mistress Nutter, authoritatively.

  “Ask them,” the hag replied.

  “She declares that Alizon is not the daughter of Elizabeth Device,” cried Dorothy Assheton.

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Mistress Nutter quickly, and as if a spring of extraordinary interest had been suddenly touched. “What reason hast thou for this assertion?”

  “No good reason,” replied the old woman evasively, yet with evident apprehension of her questioner.

  “Good reason or bad, I will have it,” cried Mistress Nutter.

  “What you, too, take an interest in the wench, like the rest!” returned Mother Chattox. “Is she so very winning?”

  “That is no answer to my question,” said the lady. “Whose child is she?”

  “Ask Bess Device, or Mother Demdike,” replied Mother Chattox; “they know more about the matter than me.”

  “I will have thee speak, and to the purpose,” cried the lady, angrily.

  “Many an one has lost a child who would gladly have it back again,” said the old hag, mysteriously.

  “Who has lost one?” asked Mistress Nutter.

  “Nay, it passeth me to tell,” replied the old woman with affected ignorance. “Question those who stole her. I have set you on the track. If you fail in pursuing it, come to me. You know where to find me.”

  “You shall not go thus,” said Mistress Nutter. “I will have a direct answer now.”

  And as she spoke she waved her hands twice or thrice over the old woman. In doing this her figure seemed to dilate, and her countenance underwent a marked and fearful change. All her beauty vanished, her eyes blazed, and terror sat on her wrinkled brow. The hag, on the contrary, crouched lower down, and seemed to dwindle less than her ordinary size. Writhing as from heavy blows, and with a mixture of malice and fear in her countenance, she cried, “Were I to speak, you would not thank me. Let me go.”

  “Answer,” vociferated Mistress Nutter, disregarding the caution, and speaking in a sharp piercing voice, strangely contrasting with her ordinary utterance. “Answer, I say, or I will beat thee to the dust.”

  And she continued her gestures, while the sufferings of the old hag evidently increased, and she crouched nearer and nearer to the ground, moaning out the words, “Do not force me to speak. You will repent it! — you will repent it!”

  “Do not torment her thus, madam,” cried Alizon, who with Dorothy looked at the strange scene with mingled apprehension and wonderment. “Much as I desire to know the secret of my birth, I would not obtain it thus.”

  As she uttered these words, the old woman contrived to shuffle off, and disappeared behind the tomb.

  “Why did you interpose, Alizon,” cried Mistress Nutter, somewhat angrily, and dropping her hands. “You broke the power I had over her. I would have compelled her to speak.”

  “I thank you, gracious lady, for your consideration,” replied Alizon, gratefully; “but the sight was too painful.”

  “What has become of her — where is she gone?” cried Dorothy, peeping behind the tomb. “She has crept into this vault, I suppose.”

  “Do not trouble yourelf about her more, Dorothy,” said Mistress Nutter, resuming her wonted voice and wonted looks. “Let us return to the house. Thus much is ascertained, Alizon, that you are no child of your supposed parent. Wait a little, and the rest shall be found out for you. And, meantime, be assured that I take strong interest in you.”

  “That we all do,” added Dorothy.

  “Thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Alizon, almost overpowered.

  With this they went forth, and, traversing the shafted aisle, quitted the conventual church, and took their way along the alley leading to the garden.

  “Say not a word at present to Elizabeth Device of the information you have obtained, Alizon,” observed Mistress Nutter. “I have reasons for this counsel, which I will afterwards explain to you. And do you keep silence on the subject, Dorothy.”

  “May I not tell Richard?” said the young lady.

  “Not Richard — not any one,” returned Mistress Nutter, “or you may seriously affect Alizon’s prospects.”

  “You have cautioned me in time,” cried Do
rothy, “for here comes my brother with our cousin Nicholas.”

  And as she spoke a turn in the alley showed Richard and Nicholas Assheton advancing towards them.

  A strange revolution had been produced in Alizon’s feelings by the events of the last half hour. The opinions expressed by Dorothy Assheton, as to her birth, had been singularly confirmed by Mother Chattox; but could reliance be placed on the old woman’s assertions? Might they not have been made with mischievous intent? And was it not possible, nay, probable, that, in her place of concealment behind the tomb, the vindictive hag had overheard the previous conversation with Dorothy, and based her own declaration upon it? All these suggestions occurred to Alizon, but the previous idea having once gained admission to her breast, soon established itself firmly there, in spite of doubts and misgivings, and began to mix itself up with new thoughts and wishes, with which other persons were connected; for she could not help fancying she might be well-born, and if so the vast distance heretofore existing between her and Richard Assheton might be greatly diminished, if not altogether removed. So rapid is the progress of thought, that only a few minutes were required for this long train of reflections to pass through her mind, and it was merely put to flight by the approach of the main object of her thoughts.

  On joining the party, Richard Assheton saw plainly that something had happened; but as both his sister and Alizon laboured under evident embarrassment, he abstained from making inquiries as to its cause for the present, hoping a better opportunity of doing so would occur, and the conversation was kept up by Nicholas Assheton, who described, in his wonted lively manner, the encounter with Mother Chattox and Nance Redferne, the swimming of the latter, and the trickery and punishment of Potts. During the recital Mistress Nutter often glanced uneasily at the two girls, but neither of them offered any interruption until Nicholas had finished, when Dorothy, taking her brother’s hand, said, with a look of affectionate admiration, “You acted like yourself, dear Richard.”