The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Well, Master Sudall, how goes on your patient?” inquired Nicholas of the latter.

  “Much more favourably than I expected, squire,” replied the chirurgeon. “He will be better left alone for awhile, and, as I shall not quit the village till evening, I shall be able to look well after him.”

  “You think the attack occasioned by witchcraft of course, sir?” said Potts.

  “The poor fellow affirms it to be so, but I can give no opinion,” replied Sudall, evasively.

  “You must make up your mind as to the matter, for I think it right to tell you your evidence will be required,” said Potts. “Perhaps, you may have seen poor Mary Baldwyn, the miller’s daughter of Rough Lee, and can speak more positively as to her case.”

  “I can, sir,” replied the chirurgeon, seating himself beside Potts, while Roger Nowell and Richard placed themselves on the opposite side of the table. “This is the case I referred to a short time ago, when answering your inquiries on the same subject, Master Richard, and a most afflicting one it is. But you shall have the particulars. Six months ago, Mary Baldwyn was as lovely and blooming a lass as could be seen, the joy of her widowed father’s heart. A hot-headed, obstinate man is Richard Baldwyn, and he was unwise enough to incur the displeasure of Mother Demdike, by favouring her rival, old Chattox, to whom he gave flour and meal, while he refused the same tribute to the other. The first time Mother Demdike was dismissed without the customary dole, one of his millstones broke, and, instead of taking this as a warning, he became more obstinate. She came a second time, and he sent her away with curses. Then all his flour grew damp and musty, and no one would buy it. Still he remained obstinate, and, when she appeared again, he would have laid hands upon her. But she raised her staff, and the blows fell short. ‘I have given thee two warnings, Richard,’ she said, ‘and thou hast paid no heed to them. Now I will make thee smart, lad, in right earnest. That which thou lovest best thou shalt lose.’ Upon this, bethinking him that the dearest thing he had in the world was his daughter Mary, and afraid of harm happening to her, Richard would fain have made up his quarrel with the old witch; but it had now gone too far, and she would not listen to him, but uttering some words, with which the name of the girl was mingled, shook her staff at the house and departed. The next day poor Mary was taken ill, and her father, in despair, applied to old Chattox, who promised him help, and did her best, I make no doubt — for she would have willingly thwarted her rival, and robbed her of her prey; but the latter was too strong for her, and the hapless victim got daily worse and worse. Her blooming cheek grew white and hollow, her dark eyes glistened with unnatural lustre, and she was seen no more on the banks of Pendle water. Before this my aid had been called in by the afflicted father — and I did all I could — but I knew she would die — and I told him so. The information I feared had killed him, for he fell down like a stone — and I repented having spoken. However he recovered, and made a last appeal to Mother Demdike; but the unrelenting hag derided him and cursed him, telling him if he brought her all his mill contained, and added to that all his substance, she would not spare his child. He returned heart-broken, and never quitted the poor girl’s bedside till she breathed her last.”

  “Poor Ruchot! Robb’d o’ his ownly dowter — an neaw woife to cheer him! Ey pity him fro’ t’ bottom o’ my heart,” said Bess, whose tears had flowed freely during the narration.

  “He is wellnigh crazed with grief,” said the chirurgeon. “I hope he will commit no rash act.”

  Expressions of deep commiseration for the untimely death of the miller’s daughter had been uttered by all the party, and they were talking over the strange circumstances attending it, when they were roused by the trampling of horses’ feet at the door, and the moment after, a middle-aged man, clad in deep mourning, but put on in a manner that betrayed the disorder of his mind, entered the house. His looks were wild and frenzied, his cheeks haggard, and he rushed into the room so abruptly that he did not at first observe the company assembled.

  “Why, Richard Baldwyn, is that you?” cried the chirurgeon.

  “What! is this the father?” exclaimed Potts, taking out his memorandum-book; “I must prepare to interrogate him.”

  “Sit thee down, Ruchot, — sit thee down, mon,” said Bess, taking his hand kindly, and leading him to a bench. “Con ey get thee onny thing?”

  “Neaw — neaw, Bess,” replied the miller; “ey ha lost aw ey vallied i’ this warlt, an ey care na how soon ey quit it mysel.”

  “Neigh, dunna talk on thus, Ruchot,” said Bess, in accents of sincere sympathy. “Theaw win live to see happier an brighter days.”

  “Ey win live to be revenged, Bess,” cried the miller, rising suddenly, and stamping his foot on the ground,— “that accursed witch has robbed me o’ my’ eart’s chief treasure — hoo has crushed a poor innocent os never injured her i’ thowt or deed — an has struck the heaviest blow that could be dealt me; but by the heaven above us ey win requite her! A feyther’s deep an lasting curse leet on her guilty heoad, an on those of aw her accursed race. Nah rest, neet nor day, win ey know, till ey ha brought em to the stake.”

  “Right — right — my good friend — an excellent resolution — bring them to the stake!” cried Potts.

  But his enthusiasm was suddenly checked by observing the reeve of the forest peeping from behind the wainscot, and earnestly regarding the miller, and he called the attention of the latter to him.

  Richard Baldwyn mechanically followed the expressive gestures of the attorney, — but he saw no one, for the reeve had disappeared.

  The incident passed unnoticed by the others, who had been, too deeply moved by poor Baldwyn’s outburst of grief to pay attention to it.

  After a little while Bess Whitaker succeeded in prevailing upon the miller to sit down, and when he became more composed he told her that the funeral procession, consisting of some of his neighbours who had undertaken to attend his ill-fated daughter to her last home, was coming from Rough Lee to Goldshaw, but that, unable to bear them company, he had ridden on by himself. It appeared also, from his muttered threats, that he had meditated some wild project of vengeance against Mother Demdike, which he intended to put into execution, before the day was over; but Master Potts endeavoured to dissuade him from this course, assuring him that the most certain and efficacious mode of revenge he could adopt would be through the medium of the law, and that he would give him his best advice and assistance in the matter. While they were talking thus, the bell began to toll, and every stroke seemed to vibrate through the heart of the afflicted father, who was at last so overpowered by grief, that the hostess deemed it expedient to lead him into an inner room, where he might indulge his sorrow unobserved.

  Without awaiting the issue of this painful scene, Richard, who was much affected by it, went forth, and taking his horse from the stable, with the intention of riding on slowly before the others, led the animal towards the churchyard. When within a short distance of the grey old fabric he paused. The bell continued to toll mournfully, and deepened the melancholy hue of his thoughts. The sad tale he had heard held possession of his mind, and while he pitied poor Mary Baldwyn, he began to entertain apprehensions that Alizon might meet a similar fate. So many strange circumstances had taken place during the morning’s ride; he had listened to so many dismal relations, that, coupled with the dark and mysterious events of the previous night, he was quite bewildered, and felt oppressed as if by a hideous nightmare, which it was impossible to shake off. He thought of Mothers Demdike and Chattox. Could these dread beings be permitted to exercise such baneful influence over mankind? With all the apparent proofs of their power he had received, he still strove to doubt, and to persuade himself that the various cases of witchcraft described to him were only held to be such by the timid and the credulous.

  Full of these meditations, he tied his horse to a tree and entered the churchyard, and while pursuing a path shaded by a row of young lime-trees leading to the porch, he perceived at a little d
istance from him, near the cross erected by Abbot Cliderhow, two persons who attracted his attention. One was the sexton, who was now deep in the grave; and the other an old woman, with her back towards him. Neither had remarked his approach, and, influenced by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, he stood still to watch their proceedings. Presently, the sexton, who was shovelling out the mould, paused in his task; and the old woman, in a hoarse voice, which seemed familiar to the listener, said, “What hast found, Zachariah?”

  Richard Overhears the Mother Chattox and the Sexton.

  “That which yo lack, mother,” replied the sexton, “a mazzard wi’ aw th’ teeth in’t.”

  “Pluck out eight, and give them me,” replied the hag.

  And, as the sexton complied with her injunction, she added, “Now I must have three scalps.”

  “Here they be, mother,” replied Zachariah, uncovering a heap of mould with his spade. “Two brain-pans bleached loike snow, an the third wi’ more hewr on it than ey ha’ o’ my own sconce. Fro’ its size an shape ey should tak it to be a female. Ey ha’ laid these three skulls aside fo’ ye. Whot dun yo mean to do wi’ ‘em?”

  “Question me not, Zachariah,” said the hag, sternly; “now give me some pieces of the mouldering coffin, and fill this box with the dust of the corpse it contained.”

  The sexton complied with her request.

  “Now yo ha’ getten aw yo seek, mother,” he said, “ey wad pray you to tay your departure, fo’ the berrin folk win be here presently.”

  “I’m going,” replied the hag, “but first I must have my funeral rites performed — ha! ha! Bury this for me, Zachariah,” she said, giving him a small clay figure. “Bury it deep, and as it moulders away, may she it represents pine and wither, till she come to the grave likewise!”

  “An whoam doth it represent, mother?” asked the sexton, regarding the image with curiosity. “Ey dunna knoa the feace?”

  “How should you know it, fool, since you have never seen her in whose likeness it is made?” replied the hag. “She is connected with the race I hate.”

  “Wi’ the Demdikes?” inquired the sexton.

  “Ay,” replied the hag, “with the Demdikes. She passes for one of them — but she is not of them. Nevertheless, I hate her as though she were.”

  “Yo dunna mean Alizon Device?” said the sexton. “Ey ha’ heerd say hoo be varry comely an kind-hearted, an ey should be sorry onny harm befell her.”

  “Mary Baldwyn, who will soon lie there, was quite as comely and kind-hearted as Alizon,” cried the hag, “and yet Mother Demdike had no pity on her.”

  “An that’s true,” replied the sexton. “Weel, weel; ey’n do your bidding.”

  “Hold!” exclaimed Richard, stepping forward. “I will not suffer this abomination to be practised.”

  “Who is it speaks to me?” cried the hag, turning round, and disclosing the hideous countenance of Mother Chattox. “The voice is that of Richard Assheton.”

  “It is Richard Assheton who speaks,” cried the young man, “and I command you to desist from this wickedness. Give me that clay image,” he cried, snatching it from the sexton, and trampling it to dust beneath his feet. “Thus I destroy thy impious handiwork, and defeat thy evil intentions.”

  “Ah! think’st thou so, lad,” rejoined Mother Chattox. “Thou wilt find thyself mistaken. My curse has already alighted upon thee, and it shall work. Thou lov’st Alizon. — I know it. But she shall never be thine. Now, go thy ways.”

  “I will go,” replied Richard— “but you shall come with me, old woman.”

  “Dare you lay hands on me?” screamed the hag.

  “Nay, let her be, mester,” interposed the sexton, “yo had better.”

  “You are as bad as she is,” said Richard, “and deserve equal punishment. You escaped yesterday at Whalley, old woman, but you shall not escape me now.”

  “Be not too sure of that,” cried the hag, disabling him for the moment, by a severe blow on the arm from her staff. And shuffling off with an agility which could scarcely have been expected from her, she passed through a gate near her, and disappeared behind a high wall.

  Richard would have followed, but he was detained by the sexton, who besought him, as he valued his life, not to interfere, and when at last he broke away from the old man, he could see nothing of her, and only heard the sound of horses’ feet in the distance. Either his eyes deceived him, or at a turn in the woody lane skirting the church he descried the reeve of the forest galloping off with the old woman behind him. This lane led towards Rough Lee, and, without a moment’s hesitation, Richard flew to the spot where he had left his horse, and, mounting him, rode swiftly along it.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI. — THE TEMPTATION.

  Shortly after Richard’s departure, a round, rosy-faced personage, whose rusty black cassock, hastily huddled over a dark riding-dress, proclaimed him a churchman, entered the hostel. This was the rector of Goldshaw, Parson Holden, a very worthy little man, though rather, perhaps, too fond of the sports of the field and the bottle. To Roger Nowell and Nicholas Assheton he was of course well known, and was much esteemed by the latter, often riding over to hunt and fish, or carouse, at Downham. Parson Holden had been sent for by Bess to administer spiritual consolation to poor Richard Baldwyn, who she thought stood in need of it, and having respectfully saluted the magistrate, of whom he stood somewhat in awe, and shaken hands cordially with Nicholas, who was delighted to see him, he repaired to the inner room, promising to come back speedily. And he kept his word; for in less than five minutes he reappeared with the satisfactory intelligence that the afflicted miller was considerably calmer, and had listened to his counsels with much edification.

  “Take him a glass of aquavitæ, Bess,” he said to the hostess. “He is evidently a cup too low, and will be the better for it. Strong water is a specific I always recommend under such circumstances, Master Sudall, and indeed adopt myself, and I am sure you will approve of it. — Harkee, Bess, when you have ministered to poor Baldwyn’s wants, I must crave your attention to my own, and beg you to fill me a tankard with your oldest ale, and toast me an oatcake to eat with it. — I must keep up my spirits, worthy sir,” he added to Roger Nowell, “for I have a painful duty to perform. I do not know when I have been more shocked than by the death of poor Mary Baldwyn. A fair flower, and early nipped.”

  “Nipped, indeed, if all we have heard be correct,” rejoined Newell. “The forest is in a sad state, reverend sir. It would seem as if the enemy of mankind, by means of his abominable agents, were permitted to exercise uncontrolled dominion over it. I must needs say, the forlorn condition of the people reflects little credit on those who have them in charge. The powers of darkness could never have prevailed to such an extent if duly resisted.”

  “I lament to hear you say so, good Master Nowell,” replied the rector. “I have done my best, I assure you, to keep my small and widely-scattered flock together, and to save them from the ravening wolves and cunning foxes that infest the country; and if now and then some sheep have gone astray, or a poor lamb, as in the instance of Mary Baldwyn, hath fallen a victim, I am scarcely to blame for the mischance. Rather let me say, sir, that you, as an active and zealous magistrate, should take the matter in hand, and by severe dealing with the offenders, arrest the progress of the evil. No defence, spiritual or otherwise, as yet set up against them, has proved effectual.”

  “Justly remarked, reverend sir,” observed Potts, looking up from the memorandum book in which he was writing, “and I am sure your advice will not be lost upon Master Roger Nowell. As regards the persons who may be afflicted by witchcraft, hath not our sagacious monarch observed, that ‘There are three kind of folks who may be tempted or troubled: the wicked for their horrible sins, to punish them in the like measure; the godly that are sleeping in any great sins or infirmities, and weakness in faith, to waken them up the faster by such an uncouth form; and even some of the best, that their patience may be tried before the world
as Job’s was tried. For why may not God use any kind of extraordinary punishment, when it pleases Him, as well as the ordinary rods of sickness, or other adversities?’”

  “Very true, sir,” replied Holden. “And we are undergoing this severe trial now. Fortunate are they who profit by it!”

  “Hear what is said further, sir, by the king,” pursued Potts. “‘No man,’ declares that wise prince, ‘ought to presume so far as to promise any impunity to himself.’ But further on he gives us courage, for he adds, ‘and yet we ought not to be afraid for that, of any thing that the devil and his wicked instruments can do against us, for we daily fight against him in a hundred other ways, and therefore as a valiant captain affrays no more being at the combat, nor stays from his purpose for the rummishing shot of a cannon, nor the small clack of a pistolet; not being certain what may light on him; even so ought we boldly to go forward in fighting against the devil without any greater terror, for these his rarest weapons, than the ordinary, whereof we have daily the proof.’”

  “His majesty is quite right,” observed Holden, “and I am glad to hear his convincing words so judiciously cited. I myself have no fear of these wicked instruments of Satan.”

  “In what manner, may I ask, have you proved your courage, sir?” inquired Roger Nowell. “Have you preached against them, and denounced their wickedness, menacing them with the thunders of the Church?”

  “I cannot say I have,” replied Holden, rather abashed, “but I shall henceforth adopt a very different course. — Ah! here comes the ale!” he added, taking the foaming tankard from Bess; “this is the best cordial wherewith to sustain one’s courage in these trying times.”

  “Some remedy must be found for this intolerable grievance,” observed Roger Nowell, after a few moments’ reflection. “Till this morning I was not aware of the extent of the evil, but supposed that the two malignant hags, who seem to reign supreme here, confined their operations to blighting corn, maiming cattle, turning milk sour; and even these reports I fancied were greatly exaggerated; but I now find, from what I have seen at Sabden and elsewhere, that they fall very far short of the reality.”