The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  On their way to the little hostel, whither they were conveying the poor pedlar, the party passed the church, and the sexton, who was digging a grave in the yard, came forward to look at them; but on seeing John Law he seemed to understand what had happened, and resumed his employment. A wide-spreading yew-tree grew in this part of the churchyard, and near it stood a small cross rudely carved in granite, marking the spot where, in the reign of Henry VI., Ralph Cliderhow, tenth abbot of Whalley, held a meeting of the tenantry, to check encroachments. Not far from this ancient cross the sexton, a hale old man, with a fresh complexion and silvery hair, was at work, and while the others went on, Master Potts paused to say a word to him.

  “You have a funeral here to-day, I suppose, Master Sexton?” he said.

  “Yeigh,” replied the man, gruffly.

  “One of the villagers?” inquired the attorney.

  “Neaw; hoo were na o’ Goldshey,” replied the sexton.

  “Where then — who was it?” persevered Potts.

  The sexton seemed disinclined to answer; but at length said, “Meary Baldwyn, the miller’s dowter o’ Rough Lee, os protty a lass os ever yo see, mester. Hoo wur the apple o’ her feyther’s ee, an he hasna had a dry ee sin hoo deed. Wall-a-dey! we mun aw go, owd an young — owd an young — an protty Meary Baldwyn went young enough. Poor lass! poor lass!” and he brushed the dew from his eyes with his brawny hand.

  “Was her death sudden?” asked Potts.

  “Neaw, not so sudden, mester,” replied the sexton. “Ruchot Baldwyn had fair warnin’. Six months ago Meary wur ta’en ill, an fro’ t’ furst he knoad how it wad eend.”

  “How so, friend?” asked Potts, whose curiosity began to be aroused.

  “Becose—” replied the sexton, and he stopped suddenly short.

  “She was bewitched?” suggested Potts.

  The sexton nodded his head, and began to ply his mattock vigorously.

  “By Mother Demdike?” inquired Potts, taking out his memorandum book.

  The sexton again nodded his head, but spake no word, and, meeting some obstruction in the ground, took up his pick to remove it.

  “Another case!” muttered Potts, making an entry. “Mary Baldwyn, daughter of Richard Baldwyn of Rough Lee, aged — How old was she, sexton?”

  “Throtteen,” replied the man; “boh dunna ax me ony more questions, mester. Th’ berrin takes place i’ an hour, an ey hanna half digg’d th’ grave.”

  “Your own name, Master Sexton, and I have done?” said Potts.

  “Zachariah Worms,” answered the man.

  “Worms — ha! an excellent name for a sexton,” cried Potts. “You provide food for your family, eh, Zachariah?”

  “Tut — tut,” rejoined the sexton, testily, “go an’ moind yer own bus’ness, mon, an’ leave me to moind mine.”

  “Very well, Zachariah,” replied Potts. And having obtained all he required, he proceeded to the little hostel, where, finding the rest of the party had dismounted, he consigned Flint to a cowherd, and entered the house.

  * * *

  CHAPTER V. — BESS’S O’ TH’ BOOTH.

  Bess’s o’ th’ Booth — for so the little hostel at Goldshaw was called, after its mistress Bess Whitaker — was far more comfortable and commodious than its unpretending exterior seemed to warrant. Stouter and brighter ale was not to be drunk in Lancashire than Bess brewed; nor was better sherris or clary to be found, go where you would, than in her cellars. The traveller crossing those dreary wastes, and riding from Burnley to Clithero, or from Colne to Whalley, as the case might be, might well halt at Bess’s, and be sure of a roast fowl for dinner, with the addition, perhaps, of some trout from Pendle Water, or, if the season permitted, a heath-cock or a pheasant; or, if he tarried there for the night, he was equally sure of a good supper and fair linen. It has already been mentioned, that at this period it was the custom of all classes in the northern counties, men and women, to resort to the alehouses to drink, and the hostel at Goldshaw was the general rendezvous of the neighbourhood. For those who could afford it Bess would brew incomparable sack; but if a guest called for wine, and she liked not his looks, she would flatly tell him her ale was good enough for him, and if it pleased him not he should have nothing. Submission always followed in such cases, for there was no disputing with Bess. Neither would she permit the frequenters of the hostel to sit later than she chose, and would clear the house in a way equally characteristic and effectual. At a certain hour, and that by no means a late one, she would take down a large horsewhip, which hung on a convenient peg in the principal room, and after bluntly ordering her guests to go home, if any resistance were offered, she would lay the whip across their shoulders, and forcibly eject them from the premises; but, as her determined character was well known, this violence was seldom necessary. In strength Bess was a match for any man, and assistance from her cowherds — for she was a farmer as well as hostess — was at hand if required. As will be surmised from the above, Bess was large and masculine-looking, but well-proportioned nevertheless, and possessed a certain coarse kind of beauty, which in earlier years had inflamed Richard Baldwyn, the miller of Rough Lee, who made overtures of marriage to her. These were favourably entertained, but a slight quarrel occurring between them, the lover, in her own phrase, got “his jacket soundly dusted” by her, and declared off, taking to wife a more docile and light-handed maiden. As to Bess, though she had given this unmistakable proof of her ability to manage a husband, she did not receive a second offer, nor, as she had now attained the mature age of forty, did it seem likely she would ever receive one.

  Bess’s o’ th’ Booth was an extremely clean and comfortable house. The floor, it is true, was of hard clay, and the windows little more than narrow slits, with heavy stone frames, further darkened by minute diamond panes; but the benches were scrupulously clean, and so was the long oak table in the centre of the principal and only large room in the house. A roundabout fireplace occupied one end of the chamber, sheltered from the draught of the door by a dark oak screen, with a bench on the warm side of it; and here, or in the deep ingle-nooks, on winter nights, the neighbours would sit and chat by the blazing hearth, discussing pots of “nappy ale, good and stale,” as the old ballad hath it; and as persons of both sexes came thither, young as well as old, many a match was struck up by Bess’s cheery fireside. From the blackened rafters hung a goodly supply of hams, sides of bacon, and dried tongues, with a profusion of oatcakes in a bread-flake; while, in case this store should be exhausted, means of replenishment were at hand in the huge, full-crammed meal-chest standing in one corner. Altogether, there was a look of abundance as well as of comfort about the place.

  Great was Bess’s consternation when the poor pedlar, who had quitted her house little more than an hour ago, full of health and spirits, was brought back to it in such a deplorable condition; and when she saw him deposited at her door, notwithstanding her masculine character, she had some difficulty in repressing a scream. She did not, however, yield to the weakness, but seeing at once what was best to be done, caused him to be transported by the grooms to the chamber he had occupied over-night, and laid upon the bed. Medical assistance was fortunately at hand; for it chanced that Master Sudall, the chirurgeon of Colne, was in the house at the time, having been brought to Goldshaw by the great sickness that prevailed at Sabden and elsewhere in the neighbourhood. Sudall was immediately in attendance upon the sufferer, and bled him copiously, after which the poor man seemed much easier; and Richard Assheton, taking the chirurgeon aside, asked his opinion of the case, and was told by Sudall that he did not think the pedlar’s life in danger, but he doubted whether he would ever recover the use of his limbs.

  “You do not attribute the attack to witchcraft, I suppose, Master Sudall?” said Richard.

  “I do not like to deliver an opinion, sir,” replied the chirurgeon. “It is impossible to decide, when all the appearances are precisely like those of an ordinary attack of paralysis. But a sad case has recently co
me under my observation, as to which I can have no doubt — I mean as to its being the result of witchcraft — but I will tell you more about it presently, for I must now return to my patient.”

  It being agreed among the party to rest for an hour at the little hostel, and partake of some refreshment, Nicholas went to look after the horses, while Roger Nowell and Richard remained in the room with the pedlar. Bess Whitaker owned an extensive farm-yard, provided with cow-houses, stables, and a large barn; and it was to the latter place that the two grooms proposed to repair with Sparshot and play a game at loggats on the clay floor. No one knew what had become of the reeve; for, on depositing the poor pedlar at the door of the hostel, he had mounted his horse and ridden away. Having ordered some fried eggs and bacon, Nicholas wended his way to the stable, while Bess, assisted by a stout kitchen wench, busied herself in preparing the eatables, and it was at this juncture that Master Potts entered the house.

  Bess eyed him narrowly, and was by no means prepossessed by his looks, while the muddy condition of his habiliments did not tend to exalt him in her opinion.

  “Yo mey yersel a’ whoam, mon, ey mun say,” she observed, as the attorney seated himself on the bench beside her.

  “To be sure,” rejoined Potts; “where should a man make himself at home, if not at an inn? Those eggs and bacon look very tempting. I’ll try some presently; and, as soon as you’ve done with the frying-pan, I’ll have a pottle of sack.”

  “Neaw, yo winna,” replied Bess. “Yo’n get nother eggs nor bacon nor sack here, ey can promise ye. Ele an whoat-kekes mun sarve your turn. Go to t’ barn wi’ t’ other grooms, and play at kittle-pins or nine-holes wi’ hin, an ey’n send ye some ele.”

  “I’m quite comfortable where I am, thank you, hostess,” replied Potts, “and have no desire to play at kittle-pins or nine-holes. But what does this bottle contain?”

  “Sherris,” replied Bess.

  “Sherris!” echoed Potts, “and yet you say I can have no sack. Get me some sugar and eggs, and I’ll show you how to brew the drink. I was taught the art by my friend, Ben Jonson — rare Ben — ha, ha!”

  “Set the bottle down,” cried Bess, angrily.

  “What do you mean, woman!” said Potts, staring at her in surprise. “I told you to fetch sugar and eggs, and I now repeat the order — sugar, and half-a-dozen eggs at least.”

  “An ey repeat my order to yo,” cried Bess, “to set the bottle down, or ey’st may ye.”

  “Make me! ha, ha! I like that,” cried Potts. “Let me tell you, woman, I am not accustomed to be ordered in this way. I shall do no such thing. If you will not bring the eggs I shall drink the wine, neat and unsophisticate.” And he filled a flagon near him.

  “If yo dun, yo shan pay dearly for it,” said Bess, putting aside the frying-pan and taking down the horsewhip.

  “I daresay I shall,” replied Potts merrily; “you hostesses generally do make one pay dearly. Very good sherris this, i’ faith! — the true nutty flavour. Now do go and fetch me some eggs, my good woman. You must have plenty, with all the poultry I saw in the farm-yard; and then I’ll teach you the whole art and mystery of brewing sack.”

  “Ey’n teach yo to dispute my orders,” cried Bess. And, catching the attorney by the collar, she began to belabour him soundly with the whip.

  “Holloa! ho! what’s the meaning of this?” cried Potts, struggling to get free. “Assault and battery; ho!”

  “Ey’n sawt an batter yo, ay, an baste yo too!” replied Bess, continuing to lay on the whip.

  “Why, zounds! this passes a joke,” cried the attorney. “How desperately strong she is! I shall be murdered! Help! help! The woman must be a witch.”

  “A witch! Ey’n teach yo’ to ca’ me feaw names,” cried the enraged hostess, laying on with greater fury.

  “Help! help!” roared Potts.

  At this moment Nicholas returned from the stables, and, seeing how matters stood, flew to the attorney’s assistance.

  “Come, come, Bess,” he cried, laying hold of her arm, “you’ve given him enough. What has Master Potts been about? Not insulting you, I hope?”

  “Neaw, ey’d tak keare he didna do that, squoire,” replied the hostess. “Ey towd him he’d get nowt boh ele here, an’ he made free wi’t wine bottle, so ey brought down t’ whip jist to teach him manners.”

  “You teach me! you ignorant and insolent hussy,” cried Potts, furiously; “do you think I’m to be taught manners by an overgrown Lancashire witch like you? I’ll teach you what it is to assault a gentleman. I’ll prefer an instant complaint against you to my singular good friend and client, Master Roger, who is in your house, and you’ll soon find whom you’ve got to deal with—”

  “Marry — kem — eawt!” exclaimed Bess; “who con it be? Ey took yo fo’ one o’t grooms, mon.”

  “Fire and fury!” exclaimed Potts; “this is intolerable. Master Nowell shall let you know who I am, woman.”

  “Nay, I’ll tell you, Bess,” interposed Nicholas, laughing. “This little gentleman is a London lawyer, who is going to Rough Lee on business with Master Roger Nowell. Unluckily, he got pitched into a quagmire in Read Park, and that is the reason why his countenance and habiliments have got begrimed.”

  “Eigh! ey thowt he wur i’ a strawnge fettle,” replied Bess; “an so he be a lawyer fro’ Lunnon, eh? Weel,” she added, laughing, and displaying two ranges of very white teeth, “he’ll remember Bess Whitaker, t’ next time he comes to Pendle Forest.”

  “And she’ll remember me,” rejoined Potts.

  “Neaw more sawce, mon,” cried Bess, “or ey’n raddle thy boans again.”

  “No you won’t, woman,” cried Potts, snatching up his horsewhip, which he had dropped in the previous scuffle, and brandishing it fiercely. “I dare you to touch me.”

  Nicholas was obliged once more to interfere, and as he passed his arms round the hostess’s waist, he thought a kiss might tend to bring matters to a peaceable issue, so he took one.

  “Ha’ done wi’ ye, squoire,” cried Bess, who, however, did not look very seriously offended by the liberty.

  “By my faith, your lips are so sweet that I must have another,” cried Nicholas. “I tell you what, Bess, you’re the finest woman in Lancashire, and you owe it to the county to get married.”

  “Whoy so?” said Bess.

  “Because it would be a pity to lose the breed,” replied Nicholas. “What say you to Master Potts there? Will he suit you?”

  “He — pooh! Do you think ey’d put up wi’ sich powsement os he! Neaw; when Bess Whitaker, the lonleydey o’ Goldshey, weds, it shan be to a mon, and nah to a ninny-hommer.”

  “Bravely resolved, Bess,” cried Nicholas. “You deserve another kiss for your spirit.”

  “Ha’ done, ey say,” cried Bess, dealing him a gentle tap that sounded very much like a buffet. “See how yon jobberknow is grinning at ye.”

  “Jobberknow and ninny-hammer,” cried Potts, furiously; “really, woman, I cannot permit such names to be applied to me.”

  “Os yo please, boh ey’st gi’ ye nah better,” rejoined the hostess.

  “Come, Bess, a truce to this,” observed Nicholas; “the eggs and bacon are spoiling, and I’m dying with hunger. There — there,” he added, clapping her on the shoulder, “set the dish before us, that’s a good soul — a couple of plates, some oatcakes and butter, and we shall do.”

  And while Bess attended to these requirements, he observed, “This sudden seizure of poor John Law is a bad business.”

  “‘Deed on it is, squoire,” replied Bess, “ey wur quite glopp’nt at seet on him. Lorjus o’ me! whoy, it’s scarcely an hour sin he left here, looking os strong an os ‘earty os yersel. Boh it’s a kazzardly onsartin loife we lead. Here to-day an gone the morrow, as Parson Houlden says. Wall-a-day!”

  “True, true, Bess,” replied the squire, “and the best plan therefore is, to make the most of the passing moment. So brew us each a lusty pottle of sack, and fry us some more eggs
and bacon.”

  And while the hostess proceeded to prepare the sack, Potts remarked to Nicholas, “I have got another case of witchcraft, squire. Mary Baldwyn, the miller’s daughter, of Rough Lee.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Nicholas. “What, is the poor girl bewitched?”

  “Bewitched to death — that’s all,” said Potts.

  “Eigh — poor Meary! hoo’s to be berried here this mornin,” observed Bess, emptying the bottle of sherris into a pot, and placing the latter on the fire.

  “And you think she was forespoken?” said Nicholas, addressing her.

  “Folk sayn so,” replied Bess; “boh I’d leyther howd my tung about it.”

  “Then I suppose you pay tribute to Mother Chattox, hostess?” cried Potts,— “butter, eggs, and milk from the farm, ale and wine from the cellar, with a flitch of bacon now and then, ey?”

  “Nay, by th’ maskins! ey gi’ her nowt,” cried Bess.

  “Then you bribe Mother Demdike, and that comes to the same thing,” said Potts.

  “Weel, yo’re neaw so fur fro’ t’ mark this time,” replied Bess, adding eggs, sugar, and spice to the now boiling wine, and stirring up the compound.

  “I wonder where your brother, the reeve of the forest, can be, Master Potts!” observed Nicholas. “I did not see either him or his horse at the stables.”

  “Perhaps the arch impostor has taken himself off altogether,” said Potts; “and if so, I shall be sorry, for I have not done with him.”

  The sack was now set before them, and pronounced excellent, and while they were engaged in discussing it, together with a fresh supply of eggs and bacon, fried by the kitchen wench, Roger Nowell came out of the inner room, accompanied by Richard and the chirurgeon.