“He was bewitched to death — so, at least, it is affirmed,” said Richard Assheton, with a smile. “But I believe in one evil influence just as much as in the other.”
“It matters not how the destiny be accomplished, so it come to pass,” rejoined the squire, turning away. “Heaven shield you from it!”
“Stay!” said Richard, picking up the wreath. “Who, think you, can have placed this funeral garland on the abbot’s grave?”
“I cannot guess!” cried Nicholas, staring at it in amazement— “an enemy of ours, most likely. It is neither customary nor lawful in our Protestant country so to ornament graves. Put it down, Dick.”
“I shall not displace it, certainly,” replied Richard, laying it down again; “but I as little think it has been placed here by a hostile hand, as I do that harm will ensue to me from standing here. To relieve your anxiety, however, I will come forth,” he added, stepping into the aisle. “Why should an enemy deposit a garland on the abbot’s tomb, since it was by mere chance that it hath met my eyes?”
“Mere chance!” cried Nicholas; “every thing is mere chance with you philosophers. There is more than chance in it. My mind misgives me strangely. That terrible old Abbot Paslew is as troublesome to us in death, as he was during life to our predecessor, Richard Assheton. Not content with making his tombstone a weapon of destruction to us, he pays the Abbey itself an occasional visit, and his appearance always betides some disaster to the family. I have never seen him myself, and trust I never shall; but other people have, and have been nigh scared out of their senses by the apparition.”
“Idle tales, the invention of overheated brains,” rejoined Richard. “Trust me, the abbot’s rest will not be broken till the day when all shall rise from their tombs; though if ever the dead (supposing such a thing possible) could be justified in injuring and affrighting the living, it might be in his case, since he mainly owed his destruction to our ancestor. On the same principle it has been held that church-lands are unlucky to their lay possessors; but see how this superstitious notion has been disproved in our own family, to whom Whalley Abbey and its domains have brought wealth, power, and worldly happiness.”
“There is something in the notion, nevertheless,” replied Nicholas; “and though our case may, I hope, continue an exception to the rule, most grantees of ecclesiastical houses have found them a curse, and the time may come when the Abbey may prove so to our descendants. But, without discussing the point, there is one instance in which the malignant influence of the vindictive abbot has undoubtedly extended long after his death. You have heard, I suppose, that he pronounced a dreadful anathema upon the child of a man who had the reputation of being a wizard, and who afterwards acted as his executioner. I know not the whole particulars of the dark story, but I know that Paslew fixed a curse upon the child, declaring it should become a witch, and the mother of witches. And the prediction has been verified. Nigh eighty years have flown by since then, and the infant still lives — a fearful and mischievous witch — and all her family are similarly fated — all are witches.”
“I never heard the story before,” said Richard, somewhat thoughtfully; “but I guess to whom you allude — Mother Demdike of Pendle Forest, and her family.”
“Precisely,” rejoined Nicholas; “they are a brood of witches.”
“In that case Alizon Device must be a witch,” cried Richard; “and I think you will hardly venture upon such an assertion after what you have seen of her to-day. If she be a witch, I would there were many such — as fair and gentle. And see you not how easily the matter is explained? ‘Give a dog an ill name and hang him’ — a proverb with which you are familiar enough. So with Mother Demdike. Whether really uttered or not, the abbot’s curse upon her and her issue has been bruited abroad, and hence she is made a witch, and her children are supposed to inherit the infamous taint. So it is with yon tomb. It is said to be dangerous to our family, and dangerous no doubt it is to those who believe in the saying, which, luckily, I do not. The prophecy works its own fulfilment. The absurdity and injustice of yielding to the opinion are manifest. No wrong can have been done the abbot by Mother Demdike, any more than by her children, and yet they are to be punished for the misdeeds of their predecessor.”
“Ay, just as you and I, who are of the third and fourth generation, may be punished for the sins of our fathers,” rejoined Nicholas. “You have Scripture against you, Dick. The only thing I see in favour of your argument is, the instance you allege of Alizon. She does not look like a witch, certainly; but there is no saying. She may be only the more dangerous for her rare beauty, and apparent innocence!”
“I would answer for her truth with my life,” cried Richard, quickly. “It is impossible to look at her countenance, in which candour and purity shine forth, and doubt her goodness.”
“She hath cast her spells over you, Dick, that is certain,” rejoined Nicholas, laughing; “but to be serious. Alizon, I admit, is an exception to the rest of the family, but that only strengthens the general rule. Did you ever remark the strange look they all — save the fair maid in question — have about the eyes?”
Richard answered in the negative.
“It is very singular, and I wonder you have not noticed it,” pursued Nicholas; “but the question of reputed witchcraft in Mother Demdike has some chance of being speedily settled; for Master Potts, the little London lawyer, who goes with us to Pendle Forest to-morrow, is about to have her arrested and examined before a magistrate.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Richard, “this must be prevented.”
“Why so?” exclaimed Nicholas, in surprise.
“Because the prejudice existing against her is sure to convict and destroy her,” replied Richard. “Her great age, infirmities, and poverty, will be proofs against her. How can she, or any old enfeebled creature like her, whose decrepitude and misery should move compassion rather than excite fear — how can such a person defend herself against charges easily made, and impossible to refute? I do not deny the possibility of witchcraft, even in our own days, though I think it of very unlikely occurrence; but I would determinately resist giving credit to any tales told by the superstitious vulgar, who, naturally prone to cruelty, have so many motives for revenging imaginary wrongs. It is placing a dreadful weapon in their hands, of which they have cunning enough to know the use, but neither mercy nor justice enough to restrain them from using it. Better let one guilty person escape, than many innocent perish. So many undefined charges have been brought against Mother Demdike, that at last they have fixed a stigma on her name, and made her an object of dread and suspicion. She is endowed with mysterious power, which would have no effect if not believed in; and now must be burned because she is called a witch, and is doting and vain enough to accept the title.”
“There is something in a witch difficult, nay, almost impossible to describe,” said Nicholas, “but you cannot be mistaken about her. By her general ill course of life, by repeated acts of mischief, and by threats, followed by the consequences menaced, she becomes known. There is much mystery in the matter, not permitted human knowledge entirely to penetrate; but, as we know from the Scriptures that the sin of witchcraft did exist, and as we have no evidence that it has ceased, so it is fair to conclude, that there may be practisers of the dark offence in our own days, and such I hold to be Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox. Rival potentates in evil, they contend which shall do most mischief, but it must be admitted the former bears away the bell.”
“If all the ill attributed to her were really caused by her machinations, this might be correct,” replied Richard, “but it only shows her to be more calumniated than the other. In a word, cousin Nicholas, I look upon them as two poor old creatures, who, persuaded they really possess the supernatural power accorded to them by the vulgar, strive to act up to their parts, and are mainly assisted in doing so by the credulity and fears of their audience.”
“Admitting the blind credulity of the multitude,” said Nicholas, “and their pronen
ess to discern the hand of the witch in the most trifling accidents; admitting also, their readiness to accuse any old crone unlucky enough to offend them of sorcery; I still believe that there are actual practisers of the black art, who, for a brief term of power, have entered into a league with Satan, worship him and attend his sabbaths, and have a familiar, in the shape of a cat, dog, toad, or mole, to obey their behests, transform themselves into various shapes — as a hound, horse, or hare, — raise storms of wind or hail, maim cattle, bewitch and slay human beings, and ride whither they will on broomsticks. But, holding the contrary opinion, you will not, I apprehend, aid Master Potts in his quest of witches.”
“I will not,” rejoined Richard. “On the contrary, I will oppose him. But enough of this. Let us go forth.”
And they quitted the church together.
As they issued into the churchyard, they found the principal arbours occupied by the morris-dancers, Robin Hood and his troop, Doctor Ormerod and Sir Ralph having retired to the vicarage-house.
Many merry groups were scattered about, talking, laughing, and singing; but two persons, seemingly objects of suspicion and alarm, and shunned by every one who crossed their path, were advancing slowly towards the three crosses of Paullinus, which stood in a line, not far from the church-porch. They were females, one about five-and-twenty, very comely, and habited in smart holiday attire, put on with considerable rustic coquetry, so as to display a very neat foot and ankle, and with plenty of ribands in her fine chestnut hair. The other was a very different person, far advanced in years, bent almost double, palsy-stricken, her arms and limbs shaking, her head nodding, her chin wagging, her snowy locks hanging about her wrinkled visage, her brows and upper lip frore, and her eyes almost sightless, the pupils being cased with a thin white film. Her dress, of antiquated make and faded stuff, had been once deep red in colour, and her old black hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed. She partly aided herself in walking with a crutch-handled stick, and partly leaned upon her younger companion for support.
“Why, there is one of the old women we have just been speaking of — Mother Chattox,” said Richard, pointing them out, “and with her, her grand-daughter, pretty Nan Redferne.”
“So it is,” cried Nicholas, “what makes the old hag here, I marvel! I will go question her.”
So saying, he strode quickly towards her.
“How now, Mother Chattox!” he cried. “What mischief is afoot? What makes the darkness-loving owl abroad in the glare of day? What brings the grisly she-wolf from her forest lair? Back to thy den, old witch! Ar’t crazed, as well as blind and palsied, that thou knowest not that this is a merry-making, and not a devil’s sabbath? Back to thy hut, I say! These sacred precincts are no place for thee.”
“Who is it speaks to me?” demanded the old hag, halting, and fixing her glazed eyes upon him.
“One thou hast much injured,” replied Nicholas. “One into whose house thou hast brought quick-wasting sickness and death by thy infernal arts. One thou hast good reason to fear; for learn, to thy confusion, thou damned and murtherous witch, it is Nicholas, brother to thy victim, Richard Assheton of Downham, who speaks to thee.”
“I know none I have reason to fear,” replied Mother Chattox; “especially thee, Nicholas Assheton. Thy brother was no victim of mine. Thou wert the gainer by his death, not I. Why should I slay him?”
“I will tell thee why, old hag,” cried Nicholas; “he was inflamed by the beauty of thy grand-daughter Nancy here, and it was to please Tom Redferne, her sweetheart then, but her spouse since, that thou bewitchedst him to death.”
“That reason will not avail thee, Nicholas,” rejoined Mother Chattox, with a derisive laugh. “If I had any hand in his death, it was to serve and pleasure thee, and that all men shall know, if I am questioned on the subject — ha! ha! Take me to the crosses, Nance.”
“Thou shalt not ‘scape thus, thou murtherous hag,” cried Nicholas, furiously.
“Nay, let her go her way,” said Richard, who had drawn near during the colloquy. “No good will come of meddling with her.”
“Who’s that?” asked Mother Chattox, quickly.
Nan Redferne and Mother Chattox.
“Master Richard Assheton, o’ Middleton,” whispered Nan Redferne.
“Another of these accursed Asshetons,” cried Mother Chattox. “A plague seize them!”
“Boh he’s weel-favourt an kindly,” remarked her grand-daughter.
“Well-favoured or not, kindly or cruel, I hate them all,” cried Mother Chattox. “To the crosses, I say!”
But Nicholas placed himself in their path.
“Is it to pray to Beelzebub, thy master, that thou wouldst go to the crosses?” he asked.
“Out of my way, pestilent fool!” cried the hag.
“Thou shalt not stir till I have had an answer,” rejoined Nicholas. “They say those are Runic obelisks, and not Christian crosses, and that the carvings upon them have a magical signification. The first, it is averred, is written o’er with deadly curses, and the forms in which they are traced, as serpentine, triangular, or round, indicate and rule their swift or slow effect. The second bears charms against diseases, storms, and lightning. And on the third is inscribed a verse which will render him who can read it rightly, invisible to mortal view. Thou shouldst be learned in such lore, old Pythoness. Is it so?”
The hag’s chin wagged fearfully, and her frame trembled with passion, but she spoke not.
“Have you been in the church, old woman?” interposed Richard.
“Ay, wherefore?” she rejoined.
“Some one has placed a cypress wreath on Abbot Paslew’s grave. Was it you?” he asked.
“What! hast thou found it?” cried the hag. “It shall bring thee rare luck, lad — rare luck. Now let me pass.”
“Not yet,” cried Nicholas, forcibly grasping her withered arm.
The hag uttered a scream of rage.
“Let me go, Nicholas Assheton,” she shrieked, “or thou shalt rue it. Cramps and aches shall wring and rack thy flesh and bones; fever shall consume thee; ague shake thee — shake thee — ha!”
And Nicholas recoiled, appalled by her fearful gestures.
“You carry your malignity too far, old woman,” said Richard severely.
“And thou darest tell me so,” cried the hag. “Set me before him, Nance, that I may curse him,” she added, raising her palsied arm.
“Nah, nah — yo’n cursed ower much already, grandmother,” cried Nan Redferne, endeavouring to drag her away. But the old woman resisted.
“I will teach him to cross my path,” she vociferated, in accents shrill and jarring as the cry of the goat-sucker.
“Handsome he is, it may be, now, but he shall not be so long. The bloom shall fade from his cheek, the fire be extinguished in his eyes, the strength depart from his limbs. Sorrow shall be her portion who loves him — sorrow and shame!”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Richard, endeavouring to exclude the voice of the crone, which pierced his ears like some sharp instrument.
“Ha! ha! you fear me now,” she cried. “By this, and this, the spell shall work,” she added, describing a circle in the air with her stick, then crossing it twice, and finally scattering over him a handful of grave dust, snatched from an adjoining hillock.
“Now lead me quickly to the smaller cross, Nance,” she added, in a low tone.
Her grand-daughter complied, with a glance of deep commiseration at Richard, who remained stupefied at the ominous proceeding.
“Ah! this must indeed be a witch!” he cried, recovering from the momentary shock.
“So you are convinced at last,” rejoined Nicholas. “I can take breath now the old hell-cat is gone. But she shall not escape us. Keep an eye upon her, while I see if Simon Sparshot, the beadle, be within the churchyard, and if so he shall take her into custody, and lock her in the cage.”
With this, he ran towards the throng, shouting lustily for the beadle. Presently a big, burly fellow, in
a scarlet doublet, laced with gold, a black velvet cap trimmed with red ribands, yellow hose, and shoes with great roses in them, and bearing a long silver-headed staff, answered the summons, and upon being told why his services were required, immediately roared out at the top of a stentorian voice, “A witch, lads! — a witch!”
All was astir in an instant. Robin Hood and his merry men, with the morris-dancers, rushed out of their bowers, and the whole churchyard was in agitation. Above the din was heard the loud voice of Simon Sparshot, still shouting, “A witch! — witch! — Mother Chattox!”
“Where — where?” demanded several voices.
“Yonder,” replied Nicholas, pointing to the further cross.
A general movement took place in that direction, the crowd being headed by the squire and the beadle, but when they came up, they found only Nan Redferne standing behind the obelisk.
“Where the devil is the old witch gone, Dick?” cried Nicholas, in dismay.
“I thought I saw her standing there with her grand-daughter,” replied Richard; “but in truth I did not watch very closely.”
“Search for her — search for her,” cried Nicholas.
But neither behind the crosses, nor behind any monument, nor in any hole or corner, nor on the other side of the churchyard wall, nor at the back of the little hermitage or chapel, though all were quickly examined, could the old hag be found.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 381
