The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “The two gentlemen you have named are perfectly safe and contented in their quarters,” replied Nicholas; “and as to the foul and false aspersions you have thrown out against Mistress Nutter, I cast them back in your teeth. Your purpose in coming hither is to redress some private wrong. How is it you have such a rout with you? How is it I behold two notorious bravos by your side — men who have stood in the pillory, and undergone other ignominious punishment for their offences? You cannot answer, and their oaths and threats go for nothing. I now tell you, Sir Thomas, if you do not instantly withdraw your men, and quit these premises, grievous consequences will ensue to you and them.”

  “I will hear no more,” cried Sir Thomas, infuriated to the last degree. “Follow me into the house, and spare none who oppose you.”

  “You are not in yet,” cried Nicholas.

  And as he spoke a row of pikes bristled around him, holding the knight at bay, while a hook was fixed in the doublet of each of the Alsatian captains, and they were plucked forward and dragged into the house. This done, Nicholas and his men quickly retreated, and the door was closed and barred upon the enraged and discomfited knight.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV. — THE PHANTOM MONK.

  Many hours had passed by, and night had come on — a night profoundly dark. Richard was still lying where he had fallen at the foot of Malkin Tower; for though he had regained his sensibility, he was so bruised and shaken as to be wholly unable to move. His limbs, stiffened and powerless, refused their office, and, after each unsuccessful effort, he sank back with a groan.

  His sole hope was that Mistress Nutter, alarmed by his prolonged absence, might come to her daughter’s assistance, and so discover his forlorn situation; but as time flew by, and nothing occurred, he gave himself up for lost.

  On a sudden the gloom was dispersed, and a silvery light shed over the scene. The moon had broken through a rack of clouds, and illumined the tall mysterious tower, and the dreary waste around it. With the light a ghostly figure near him became visible to Richard, which under other circumstances would have excited terror in his breast, but which now only filled him with wonder. It was that of a Cistertian monk; the vestments were old and faded, the visage white and corpse-like. Richard at once recognised the phantom he had seen in the banquet-hall at the Abbey, and had afterwards so rashly followed to the conventual church. It touched him with its icy fingers, and a dullness like death shot through his heart.

  “Why dost thou trouble me thus, unhappy spirit?” said the young man. “Leave me, I adjure thee, and let me die in peace!”

  “Thou wilt not die yet, Richard Assheton,” returned the phantom; “and my intention is not to trouble thee, but to serve thee. Without my aid thou wouldst perish where thou liest, but I will raise thee up, and set thee on thy way.”

  “Wilt thou help me to liberate Alizon?” demanded Richard.

  “Do not concern thyself further about her,” replied the phantom; “she must pass through an ordeal with which nothing human may interfere. If she escape it you will meet again. If not, it were better thou shouldst be in thy grave than see her. Take this phial. Drink thou the liquid it contains, and thy strength will return to thee.”

  “How do I know thou art not sent hither by Mother Demdike to tempt me?” demanded Richard, doubtfully. “I have already fallen into her snares,” he added, with a groan.

  The Phantom Monk.

  “I am Mother Demdike’s enemy, and the appointed instrument of her punishment,” replied the monk, in a tone that did not admit of question. “Drink, and fear nothing.”

  Richard obeyed, and the next moment sprang to his feet.

  “Thou hast indeed restored me!” he cried. “I would fain reach the secret entrance to the tower.”

  “Attempt it not, I charge thee!” cried the phantom; “but depart instantly for Pendle Hill.”

  “Wherefore should I go thither?” demanded Richard.

  “Thou wilt learn anon,” returned the monk. “I cannot tell thee more now. Dismount at the foot of the hill, and proceed to the beacon. Thou know’st it?”

  “I do,” replied Richard. “There a fire was lighted which was meant to set all England in a blaze.”

  “And which led many good men to destruction,” said the monk, in a tone of indescribable sadness. “Alas! for him who kindled it. The offence is not yet worked out. But depart without more delay; and look not back.”

  As Richard hastened towards the spot where he had left Merlin, he fancied he was followed by the phantom; but, obedient to the injunction he received, he did not turn his head. As he mounted the horse, who neighed cheerily as he drew near, he found he was right in supposing the monk to be behind him, for he heard his voice calling out, “Linger not by the way. To the beacon! — to the beacon!”

  Thus exhorted, the young man dashed off, and, to his great surprise, found Merlin as fresh as if he had undergone no fatigue during the day. It would almost seem, from his spirit, that he had partaken of the same wondrous elixir which had revived his master. Down the hill he plunged, regardless of the steep descent, and soon entered the thicket where the storm had fallen upon them, and where so many acts of witchcraft were performed. Now, neither accident nor obstacle occurred to check the headlong pace of the animal, though the stones rattled after him as he struck them with his flying hoof. The moonlight quivered on the branches of the trees, and on the tender spray, and all looked as tranquil and beautiful as it had so lately been gloomy and disturbed. The wood was passed, and the last and steepest descent cleared. The little bridge was at hand, and beneath was Pendle Water, rushing over its rocky bed, and glittering like silver in the moon’s rays. But here Richard had wellnigh received a check. A party of armed men, it proved, occupied the road leading to Rough Lee, about a bow-shot from the bridge, and as soon as they perceived he was taking the opposite course, with the apparent intention of avoiding them, they shouted to him to stay. This shout made Richard aware of their presence, for he had not before observed them, as they were concealed by the intervention of some small trees; but though surprised at the circumstance, and not without apprehension that they might be there with a hostile design to Mistress Nutter, he did not slacken his pace. A horseman, who appeared to be their leader, rode after him for a short distance, but finding pursuit futile, he desisted, pouring forth a volley of oaths and threats, in a voice that proclaimed him as Sir Thomas Metcalfe. This discovery confirmed Richard in his supposition that mischief was intended Mistress Nutter; but even this conviction, strengthened by his antipathy to Metcalfe, was not sufficiently strong to induce him to stop. Promising himself to return on the morrow, and settle accounts with the insolent knight, he speeded on, and, passing the mill, tracked the rocky gorge above it, and began to mount another hill. Despite the ascent, Merlin never slackened his pace, but, though his master would have restrained him, held on as before. But the brow of the hill attained, Richard compelled him to a brief halt.

  By this time the sky was comparatively clear, but small clouds were sailing across the heavens, and at one moment the moon would be obscured by them, and the next, burst forth with sudden effulgence. These alternations produced corresponding effects on the broad, brown, heathy plain extending below, and fantastic shadows were cast upon it, which it needed not Richard’s heated imagination to liken to evil beings flying past. The wind, too, lay in the direction of the north end of Pendle Hill, whither Richard was about to shape his course, and the shadows consequently trooped off towards that quarter. The vast mass of Pendle rose in gloomy majesty before him, being thrown into shade, except at its crown, where a flood of radiance rested.

  Like an eagle swooping upon his prey, Richard descended into the valley, and like a stag pursued by the huntsman he speeded across it. Neither dyke, morass, nor stone wall checked him, or made him turn aside; and almost as fast as the clouds hurrying above him, and their shadows travelling at his feet, did he reach the base of Pendle Hill.

  Making up to a shed, which, though em
pty, luckily contained a wisp or two of hay, he turned Merlin into it, and commenced the ascent of the hill on foot. After attaining a considerable elevation, he looked down from the giddy heights upon the valley he had just traversed. A few huts, forming the little village of Barley, lay sleeping in the moonlight beneath him, while further off could be just discerned Goldshaw, with its embowered church. A line of thin vapour marked the course of Pendle Water, and thicker mists hovered over the mosses. The shadows were still passing over the plain.

  Pressing on, Richard soon came among the rocks protruding from the higher part of the hill, and as the path was here not more than a foot wide, rarely taken except by the sheep and their guardians, it was necessary to proceed with the utmost caution, as a single false step would have been fatal. After some toil, and not without considerable risk, he reached the summit of the hill.

  As he bounded over the springy turf, and inhaled the pure air of that exalted region, his spirits revived, and new elasticity was communicated to his limbs. He shaped his course near the edge of the hill, so that the extensive view it commanded was fully displayed. But his eye rested on the mountainous range on the opposite side of the valley, where Malkin Tower was situated. Even in broad day the accursed structure would have been invisible, as it stood on the further side of the hill, overlooking Barrowford and Colne; but Richard knew its position well, and while his gaze was fixed upon the point, he saw a star shoot down from the heavens and apparently alight near the spot. The circumstance alarmed him, for he could not help thinking it ominous of ill to Alizon.

  Nothing, however, followed to increase his misgivings, and erelong he came in sight of the beacon. The ground had been gradually rising, and if he had proceeded a few hundred yards further, a vast panorama would have opened upon him, comprising a large part of Lancashire on the one hand, and on the other an equally extensive portion of Yorkshire. Forest and fell, black moor and bright stream, old castle and stately hall, would have then been laid before him as in a map. But other thoughts engrossed him, and he went straight on. As far as he could discern he was alone on the hill top; and the silence and solitude, coupled with the ill report of the place, which at this hour was said to be often visited by foul hags, for the performance of their unhallowed rites, awakened superstitious fears in his breast.

  He was soon by the side of the beacon. The stones were still standing as they had been reared by Paslew, and on looking at them he was astonished to find the hollow within them filled with dry furze, brushwood, and fagots, as if in readiness for another signal. In passing round the circle, his surprise was still further increased by discovering a torch, and not far from it, in one of the interstices of the stones, a dark lantern, in which, on removing the shade, he found a candle burning. It was now clear the beacon was to be kindled that night, though for what end he could not conjecture, and equally clear that he was brought thither to fire it. He put back the lantern into its place, took up the torch, and held himself in readiness.

  Half an hour elapsed, and nothing occurred. During this interval it had become dark. A curtain of clouds was drawn over the moon and stars.

  Suddenly, a hurtling noise was heard in the air, and it seemed to the watcher as if a troop of witches were alighting at a distance from him.

  A loud hubbub of voices ensued — then there was a trampling of feet, accompanied by discordant strains of music — after which a momentary silence ensued, and a harsh voice asked —

  “Why are we brought hither?”

  “It is not for a sabbath,” shouted another voice, “for there is neither fire nor caldron.”

  “Mother Demdike would not summon us without good reason,” cried a third. “We shall learn presently what we have to do.”

  “The more mischief the better,” rejoined another voice.

  “Ay, mischief! mischief! mischief!” echoed the rest of the crew.

  “You shall have enough of it to content you,” rejoined Mother Demdike. “I have called you hither to be present at a sacrifice.”

  Hideous screams of laughter followed this announcement, and the voice that had spoken first asked —

  “A sacrifice of whom?”

  “An unbaptised babe, stolen from its sleeping mother’s breast,” rejoined another. “Mother Demdike has often played that trick before — ho! ho!”

  “Peace!” thundered the hag— “It is no babe I am about to kill, but a full-grown maid — ay, and one of rarest beauty, too. What think ye of Alizon Device?”

  “Thy grand-daughter!” cried several voices, in surprise.

  “Alice Nutter’s daughter — for such she is,” rejoined the hag. “I have held her captive in Malkin Tower, and have subjected her to every trial and temptation I could devise, but I have failed in shaking her courage, or in winning her over to our master. All the horrors of the vault have been tried upon her in vain. Even the last terrible ordeal, which no one has hitherto sustained, proved ineffectual. She went through it unmoved.”

  “Heaven be praised!” murmured Richard.

  “It seems I have no power over her soul” pursued the hag; “but I have over her body, and she shall die here, and by my hand. But mind me, not a drop of blood must fall to the ground.”

  “Have no fear,” cried several voices, “we will catch it in our palms and quaff it.”

  “Hast thou thy knife, Mould-heels?” asked Mother Demdike.

  “Ay,” replied the other, “it is long and sharp, and will do thy business well. Thy grandson, Jem Device, notched it by killing swine, and my goodman ground it only yesterday. Take it.”

  “I will plunge it to her heart!” cried Mother Demdike, with an infernal laugh. “And now I will tell you why we have neither fire nor caldron. On questioning the ebon image in the vault as to the place where the sacrifice should be made, I received for answer that it must be here, and in darkness. No human eye but our own must behold it. We are safe on this score, for no one is likely to come hither at this hour. No fire must be kindled, or the sacrifice will result in destruction to us all. Ye have heard, and understand?”

  “We do,” replied several husky voices.

  “And so do I,” said Richard, taking hold of the dark lantern.

  “And now for the girl,” cried Mother Demdike.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVI. — ONE O’CLOCK!

  Mistress Nutter and Mother Chattox were still at the hut, impatiently awaiting the return of Fancy. But nearly an hour elapsed before he appeared.

  “What has detained thee so long?” demanded the hag, sharply, as he stood before them.

  “You shall hear, mistress,” replied Fancy: “I have had a busy time of it, I assure you, and thought I should never accomplish my errand. On arriving at Rough Lee, I found the place invested by Sir Thomas Metcalfe and a host of armed men, who had been sent thither by Parson Holden, for the joint purpose of arresting you, madam,” addressing Mistress Nutter, “and liberating Nowell and Potts. The knight was in a great fume; for, in spite of the force brought against it, the house had been stoutly defended by Nicholas Assheton, who had worsted the besieging party, and captured two Alsatian captains, hangers on of Sir Thomas. Appearing in the character of an enemy, I was immediately surrounded by Metcalfe and his men, who swore they would cut my throat unless I undertook to procure the liberation of the two bravos in question, as well as that of Nowell and Potts. I told them I was come for the express purpose of setting free the two last-named gentlemen; but, with respect to the former, I had no instructions, and they must arrange the matter with Master Nicholas himself. Upon this Sir Thomas became exceedingly wroth and insolent, and proceeded to such lengths that I resolved to chastise him, and in so doing performed a feat which will tend greatly to exalt Richard’s character for courage and strength.”

  “Let us hear it, my doughty champion,” cried Mother Chattox.

  “While Metcalfe was pouring forth his rage, and menacing me with uplifted hand,” pursued the familiar, “I seized him by the throat, dragged him from hi
s horse, and in spite of the efforts of his men, whose blows fell upon me thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, I bore him through the garden to the back of the house, where my shouts soon brought Nicholas and others to my assistance, and after delivering my captive to them, I dismounted. The squire, you will imagine, was astonished to see me, and greatly applauded my prowess. I replied, with the modesty becoming my assumed character, that I had done nothing, and, in reality, the feat was nothing to me; but I told him I had something of the utmost importance to communicate, and which could not be delayed a moment; whereupon he led me to a small room adjoining the hall, while the crestfallen knight was left to vent his rage and mortification on the grooms to whose custody he was committed.”

  “You acted your part to perfection,” said Mistress Nutter.

  “Ay, trust my sweet Fancy for that,” said the hag— “there is no familiar like him — none whatever.”

  “Your praises make me blush,” rejoined Fancy. “But to proceed. I fulfilled your instructions to the letter, and excited Nicholas’s horror and indignation by the tale I told him. I laughed in my sleeve all the while, but I maintained a very different countenance with him. He thought me full of anguish and despair. He questioned me as to my proceedings at Malkin Tower, and I amazed him with the description of a fearful storm I had encountered — of my interview with old Demdike, and her atrocious treatment of Alizon — to all of which he listened with profound interest. Richard himself could not have moved him more — perhaps not so much. As soon as I had finished, he vowed he would rescue Alizon from the murtherous hag, and prevent the latter from committing further mischief; and bidding me come with him, we repaired to the room in which Nowell and Potts were confined. We found them both fast asleep in their chairs; but Nicholas quickly awakened them, and some explanations ensued, which did not at first appear very clear and satisfactory to either magistrate or attorney, but in the end they agreed to accompany us on the expedition, Master Potts declaring it would compensate him for all his mischances if he could arrest Mother Demdike.”