“Give me that scalp, thou mischievous imp!” cries the hag, “I need it for the charm I am about to prepare. Give it me, I say!”
But the raven still held it fast, and hopped here and there so nimbly that she was unable to catch him. At length, when he had exhausted her patience, he alighted on Mistress Nutter’s shoulder, and dropped it into her lap. Engrossed by her own painful thoughts, the lady had paid no attention to what was passing, and she shuddered as she took up the fragment of mortality, and placed it upon the table. A few tufts of hair, the texture of which showed they had belonged to a female, still adhered to the scalp. Mistress Nutter regarded it fixedly, and with an interest for which she could not account.
After sharply chiding the raven, Mother Chattox put forth her hand to grasp the prize she had been robbed of, when Mistress Nutter checked her by observing, “You said you got this scalp from Goldshaw churchyard. Know you ought concerning it?”
“Ay, a good deal,” replied the old woman, chuckling. “It comes from a grave near the yew-tree, and not far from Abbot Cliderhow’s cross. Old Zachariah Worms, the sexton, digged it up for me. That yellow skull had once a fair face attached to it, and those few dull tufts were once bright flowing tresses. She who owned them died young; but, young as she was, she survived all her beauty. Hollow cheeks and hollow eyes, wasted flesh, and cruel cough, were hers — and she pined and pined away. Folks said she was forespoken, and that I had done it. I, forsooth! She had never done me harm. You know whether I was rightly accused, madam.”
“Take it away,” cried Mistress Nutter, hurriedly, and as if struggling against some overmastering feeling. “I cannot bear to look at it. I wanted not this horrible reminder of my crimes.”
“This was the reason, then, why Ralph stole the scalp from me,” muttered the hag, as she threw it, together with some other matters, into the caldron. “He wanted to show you his sagacity. I might have guessed as much.”
“I will go into the other room while you make your preparations,” said Mistress Nutter, rising; “the sight of them disturbs me. You can summon me when you are ready.”
“I will, madam,” replied the old hag, “and you must control your impatience, for the spell requires time for its confection.”
Mistress Nutter made no reply, but, walking into the inner room, closed the door, and threw herself upon the pallet. Here, despite her anxiety, sleep stole upon her, and though her dreams were troubled, she did not awake till Mother Chattox stood beside her.
“Have I slept long?” she inquired.
“More than three hours,” replied the hag.
“Three hours!” exclaimed Mistress Nutter. “Why did you not wake me before? You would have saved me from terrible dreams. We are not too late?”
“No, no,” replied Mother Chattox; “there is plenty of time. Come into the other room. All is ready.”
As Mistress Nutter followed the old hag into the adjoining room, a strong odour, arising from a chafing-dish, in which herbs, roots, and other ingredients were burning, assailed her, and, versed in all weird ceremonials, she knew that a powerful suffumigation had been made, though with what intent she had yet to learn. The scanty furniture had been cleared away, and a circle was described on the clay floor by skulls and bones, alternated by dried toads, adders, and other reptiles. In the midst of this magical circle, the caldron, which had been brought from the chimney, was placed, and, the lid being removed, a thick vapour arose from it. Mistress Nutter looked around for the raven, but the bird was nowhere to be seen, nor did any other living thing appear to be present beside themselves.
Taking the lady’s hand, Mother Chattox drew her into the circle, and began to mutter a spell; after which, still maintaining her hold of her companion, she bade her look into the caldron, and declare what she saw.
“I see nothing,” replied the lady, after she had gazed upon the bubbling waters for a few moments. “Ah! yes — I discern certain figures, but they are confused by the steam, and broken by the agitation of the water.”
“Caldron — cease boiling! and smoke — disperse!” cried Mother Chattox, stamping her foot. “Now, can you see more plainly?”
“I can,” replied Mistress Nutter; “I behold the subterranean chamber beneath Malkin Tower, with its nine ponderous columns, its altar in the midst of them, its demon image, and the well with waters black as Lethe beside it.”
“The water within the caldron came from that well,” said Mother Chattox, with a chuckling laugh; “my familiar risked his liberty to bring it, but he succeeded. Ha! ha! My precious Fancy, thou art the best of servants, and shalt have my best blood to reward thee to-morrow — thou shalt, my sweetheart, my chuck, my dandyprat. But hie thee back to Malkin Tower, and contrive that this lady may hear, as well as see, all that passes. Away!”
Mistress Nutter concluded that the injunction would be obeyed; but, as the familiar was invisible to her, she could not detect his departure.
“Do you see no one within the dungeon?” inquired Mother Chattox.
“Ah! yes,” exclaimed the lady; “I have at last discovered Alizon. She was behind one of the pillars. A little girl is with her. It is Jennet Device, and, from the spiteful looks of the latter, I judge she is mocking her. Oh! what malice lurks in the breast of that hateful child! She is a true descendant of Mother Demdike. But Alizon — sweet, patient Alizon — she seems to bear all her taunts with a meekness and resignation enough to move the hardest heart. I would weep for her if I could. And now Jennet shakes her hand at her, and leaves her. She is alone. What will she do now? Has she no thoughts of escape? Oh, yes! She looks about her distractedly — runs round the vault — tries the door of every cell: they are all bolted and barred — there is no outlet — none!”
“What next?” inquired the hag.
“She shrieks aloud,” rejoined Mistress Nutter, “and the cry thrills through every fibre in my frame. She calls upon me for aid — upon me, her mother, and little thinks I hear her, and am unable to help her. Oh! it is horrible. Take me to her, good Chattox — take me to her, I implore you!”
“Impossible!” replied the hag: “you must await the fitting time. If you cannot control yourself, I shall remove the caldron.”
“Oh! no, no,” cried the distracted lady. “I will be calm. Ah! what is this I see?” she added, belying her former words by sudden vehemence, while rage and astonishment were depicted upon her countenance. “What infernal delusion is practised upon my child! This is monstrous — intolerable. Oh! that I could undeceive her — could warn her of the snare!”
“What is the nature of the delusion?” asked Mother Chattox, with some curiosity. “I am so blind I cannot see the figures on the water.”
“It is an evil spirit in my likeness,” replied Mistress Nutter.
“In your likeness!” exclaimed the hag. “A cunning device — and worthy of old Demdike — ho! ho!”
“I can scarce bear to look on,” cried Mistress Nutter; “but I must, though it tears my heart in pieces to witness such cruelty. The poor girl has rushed to her false parent — has thrown her arms around her, and is weeping on her shoulder. Oh! it is a maddening sight. But it is nothing to what follows. The temptress, with the subtlety of the old serpent, is pouring lies into her ear, telling her they both are captives, and both will perish unless she consents to purchase their deliverance at the price of her soul, and she offers her a bond to sign — such a bond as, alas! thou and I, Chattox, have signed. But Alizon rejects it with horror, and gazes at her false mother as if she suspected the delusion. But the temptress is not to be beaten thus. She renews her entreaties, casts herself on the ground, and clasps my child’s knees in humblest supplication. Oh! that Alizon would place her foot upon her neck and crush her. But it is not so the good act. She raises her, and tells her she will willingly die for her; but her soul was given to her by her Creator, and must be returned to him. Oh! that I had thought of this.”
“And what answer makes the spirit?” asked the witch.
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p; “It laughs derisively,” replied Mistress Nutter; “and proceeds to use all those sophistical arguments, which we have so often heard, to pervert her mind, and overthrow her principles. But Alizon is proof against them all. Religion and virtue support her, and make her more than a match for her opponent. Equally vain are the spirit’s attempts to seduce her by the offer of a life of sinful enjoyment. She rejects it with angry scorn. Failing in argument and entreaty, the spirit now endeavours to work upon her fears, and paints, in appalling colours, the tortures she will have to endure, contrasting them with the delight she is voluntarily abandoning, with the lover she might espouse, with the high worldly position she might fill. ‘What are worldly joys and honours compared with those of heaven!’ exclaims Alizon; ‘I would not exchange them.’ The spirit then, in a vision, shows her her lover, Richard, and asks her if she can resist his entreaties. The trial is very sore, as she gazes on that beloved form, seeming, by its passionate gestures, to implore her to assent, but she is firm, and the vision disappears. The ordeal is now over. Alizon has triumphed over all their arts. The spirit in my likeness resumes its fiendish shape, and, with a dreadful menace against the poor girl, vanishes from her sight.”
“Mother Demdike has not done with her yet,” observed Chattox.
“You are right,” replied Mistress Nutter. “The old hag descends the staircase leading to the vault, and approaches the miserable captive. With her there are no supplications — no arguments; but commands and terrible threats. She is as unsuccessful as her envoy. Alizon has gained courage and defies her.”
“Ha! does she so?” exclaimed Mother Chattox. “I am glad of it.”
“The solid floor resounds with the stamping of the enraged witch,” pursued Mistress Nutter. “She tells Alizon she will take her to Pendle Hill at midnight, and there offer her up as a sacrifice to the Fiend. My child replies that she trusts for her deliverance to Heaven — that her body may be destroyed — that her soul cannot be harmed. Scarcely are the words uttered than a terrible clangour is heard. The walls of the dungeon seem breaking down, and the ponderous columns reel. The demon statue rises on its throne, and a stream of flame issues from its brow. The doors of the cells burst open, and with the clanking of chains, and other dismal noises, skeleton shapes stalk forth, from them, each with a pale blue light above its head. Monstrous beasts, like tiger-cats, with rough black skins and flaming eyes, are moving about, and looking as if they would spring upon the captive. Two gravestones are now pushed aside, and from the cold earth arise the forms of Blackburn, the robber, and his paramour, the dissolute Isole de Heton. She joins the grisly throng now approaching the distracted girl, who falls insensible to the ground.”
“Can you see aught more?” asked the hag, as Mistress Nutter still bent eagerly over the caldron.
“No; the whole chamber is buried in darkness,” replied the lady; “I can see nothing of my poor child. What will become of her?”
“I will question Fancy,” replied the hag, throwing some fresh ingredients into the chafing-dish; and, as the smoke arose, she vociferated, “Come hither, Fancy; I want thee, my fondling, my sweet. Come quickly! ha! thou art here.”
The familiar was still invisible to Mistress Nutter, but a slight sound made her aware of his presence.
“And now, my sweet Fancy,” pursued the hag, “tell us, if thou canst, what will be done with Alizon, and what course we must pursue to free her from old Demdike?”
“At present she is in a state of insensibility,” replied a harsh voice, “and she will be kept in that condition till she is conveyed to the summit of Pendle Hill. I have already told you it is useless to attempt to take her from Malkin Tower. It is too well guarded. Your only chance will be to interrupt the sacrifice.”
“But how, my sweet Fancy? how, my little darling?” inquired the hag.
“It is a perplexing question,” replied the voice; “for, by showing you how to obtain possession of the girl, I disobey my lord.”
“Ay, but you serve me — you please me, my pretty Fancy,” cried the hag. “You shall quaff your fill of blood on the morrow, if you do this for me. I want to get rid of my old enemy — to catch her in her own toils — to send her to a dungeon — to burn her — ha! ha! You must help me, my little sweetheart.”
“I will do all I can,” replied the voice; “but Mother Demdike is cunning and powerful, and high in favour with my lord. You must have mortal aid as well as mine. The officers of justice must be there to seize her at the moment when the victim is snatched from her, or she will baffle all your schemes.”
“And how shall we accomplish this?” asked Mother Chattox.
“I will tell you,” said Mistress Nutter to the hag. “Let him put on the form of Richard Assheton, and in that guise hasten to Rough Lee, where he will find the young man’s cousin, Nicholas, to whom he must make known the dreadful deed about to be enacted on Pendle Hill. Nicholas will at once engage to interrupt it. He can arm himself with the weapons of justice by taking with him Roger Nowell, the magistrate, and his myrmidon, Potts, the attorney, both of whom are detained prisoners in the house by my orders.”
“The scheme promises well, and shall be adopted,” replied the hag; “but suppose Richard himself should appear first on the scene. Dost know where he is, my sweet Fancy?”
“When I last saw him,” replied the voice, “he was lying senseless on the ground, at the foot of Malkin Tower, having been precipitated from the doorway by Mother Demdike. You need apprehend no interference from him.”
“It is well,” replied Mother Chattox. “Then take his form, my pet, though it is not half as handsome as thy own.”
“A black skin and goat-like limbs are to thy taste, I know,” replied the familiar, with a laugh.
“Let me look upon him before he goes, that I may be sure the likeness is exact,” said Mistress Nutter.
“Thou hearest, Fancy! Become visible to her,” cried the hag.
And as she spoke, a figure in all respects resembling Richard stood before them.
“What think you of him? Will he do?” said Mother Chattox.
“Ay,” replied the lady; “and now send him off at once. There is no time to lose.”
“I shall be there in the twinkling of an eye,” said the familiar; “but I own I like not the task.”
“There is no help for it, my sweet Fancy,” cried the hag. “I cannot forego my triumph over old Demdike. Now, away with thee, and when thou hast executed thy mission, return and tell us how thou hast sped in the matter.”
The familiar promised obedience to her commands, and disappeared.
* * *
CHAPTER XIV. — HOW ROUGH LEE WAS AGAIN BESIEGED.
Parson Holden, it will be remembered, left Rough Lee, charged by Potts with a message to Sir Ralph Assheton, informing him of his detention and that of Roger Nowell, by Mistress Nutter, and imploring him to come to their assistance without delay. Congratulating himself on his escape, but apprehensive of pursuit, the worthy rector, who, as a keen huntsman, was extremely well mounted, made the best of his way, and had already passed the gloomy gorge through which Pendle Water swept, had climbed the hill beyond it, and was crossing the moor now alone lying between him and Goldshaw, when he heard a shout behind him, and, turning at the sound, beheld Blackadder and another mounted serving-man issuing from a thicket, and spurring furiously after him. Relying upon the speed of his horse, he disregarded their cries, and accelerated his pace; but, in spite of this, his pursuers gained upon him rapidly.
While debating the question of resistance or surrender, the rector descried Bess Whitaker coming towards him from the opposite direction — a circumstance that greatly rejoiced him; for, aware of her strength and courage, he felt sure he could place as much dependence upon her in this emergency as on any man in the county. Bess was riding a stout, rough-looking nag, apparently well able to sustain her weight, and carried the redoubtable horsewhip with her.
On the other hand, Holden had been recognised by Bess, who
came up just as he was overtaken and seized by his assailants, one of whom caught hold of his cassock, and tore it from his back, while the other, seizing hold of his bridle, endeavoured, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, to turn his horse round. Many oaths, threats, and blows were exchanged during the scuffle, which no doubt would have terminated in the rector’s defeat, and his compulsory return to Rough Lee, had it not been for the opportune arrival of Bess, who, swearing as lustily as the serving-men, and brandishing the horsewhip, dashed into the scene of action, and, with a few well-applied cuts, liberated the divine. Enraged at her interference, and smarting from the application of the whip, Blackadder drew a petronel from his girdle, and levelled it at her head; but, ere he could discharge it, the weapon was stricken from his grasp, and a second blow on the head from the but-end of the whip felled him from his horse. Seeing the fate of his companion, the other serving-man fled, leaving Bess mistress of the field.
The rector thanked her heartily for the service she had rendered him, and complimented her on her prowess.
“Ey’n neaw dun mitch to boast on i’ leatherin’ them two seawr-feaced rapscallions,” said Bess, with becoming modesty. “Simon Blackadder an ey ha’ had mony a tussle together efore this, fo he’s a feaw tempert felly, an canna drink abowt fightin’, boh he has awlus found me more nor his match. Boh save us, your reverence, what were the ill-favort gullions ridin’ after ye for? Firrups tak ‘em! they didna mean to rob ye, surely?”
“Their object was to make me prisoner, and carry me back to Rough Lee, Bess,” replied Holden. “They wished to prevent my going to Whalley, whither I am bound, to procure help from Sir Ralph Assheton to liberate Master Roger Nowell and his attorney, who are forcibly detained by Mistress Nutter.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 413