“You are rather describing the course pursued by certain members of your own profession, Master Potts,” said Richard. “The devil behaves with greater fairness to his clients.”
“You are not going to defend him, I hope, sir?” said the attorney.
“No; I only desire to give him his due,” returned Richard.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Nicholas. “You had better have done, Master Potts; you will never get the better in the argument. But we must be moving, or we shall not get our business done before nightfall. As to you, Numps,” he added, to the poor man, “we will not forget you. If any thing can be done for your relief, rely upon it, it shall not be neglected.”
“Ay, ay,” said Nowell, “the matter shall be looked into — and speedily.”
“And the witches brought to justice,” said Potts; “comfort yourself with that, good Humphrey Etcetera.”
“Ay, comfort yourself with that,” observed Nicholas.
Soon after this they entered a wide dreary waste forming the bottom of the valley, lying between the heights of Padiham and Pendle Hill, and while wending their way across it, they heard a shout from the hill-side, and presently afterwards perceived a man, mounted on a powerful black horse, galloping swiftly towards them. The party awaited his approach, and the stranger speedily came up. He was a small man habited in a suit of rusty black, and bore a most extraordinary and marked resemblance to Master Potts. He had the same perky features, the same parchment complexion, the same yellow forehead, as the little attorney. So surprising was the likeness, that Nicholas unconsciously looked round for Potts, and beheld him staring at the new-comer in angry wonder.
* * *
CHAPTER IV. — THE REEVE OF THE FOREST.
The surprise of the party was by no means diminished when the stranger spoke. His voice exactly resembled the sharp cracked tones of the attorney.
“I crave pardon for the freedom I have taken in stopping you, good masters,” he said, doffing his cap, and saluting them respectfully; “but, being aware of your errand, I am come to attend you on it.”
“And who are you, fellow, who thus volunteer your services?” demanded Roger Nowell, sharply.
“I am one of the reeves of the forest of Blackburnshire, worshipful sir,” replied the stranger, “and as such my presence, at the intended perambulation of the boundaries of her property, has been deemed necessary by Mrs. Nutter, as I shall have to make a representation of the matter at the next court of swainmote.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Nowell, “but how knew you we were coming?”
“Mistress Nutter sent me word last night,” replied the reeve, “that Master Nicholas Assheton and certain other gentlemen, would come to Rough Lee for the purpose of ascertaining the marks, meres, and boundaries of her property, early this morning, and desired my attendance on the occasion. Accordingly I stationed myself on yon high ground to look out for you, and have been on the watch for more than an hour.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Roger Nowell, “and you live in the forest?”
“I live at Barrowford, worshipful sir,” replied the reeve, “but I have only lately come there, having succeeded Maurice Mottisfont, the other reeve, who has been removed by the master forester to Rossendale, where I formerly dwelt.”
“That may account for my not having seen you before,” rejoined Nowell. “You are well mounted, sirrah. I did not know the master forester allowed his men such horses as the one you ride.”
“This horse does not belong to me, sir,” replied the reeve; “it has been lent me by Mistress Nutter.”
“Aha! I see how it is now,” cried Nowell; “you are suborned to give false testimony, knave. I object to his attendance, Master Nicholas.”
“Nay, I think you do the man injustice,” said the squire. “He speaks frankly and fairly enough, and seems to know his business. The worst that can be said against him is, that he resembles somewhat too closely our little legal friend there. That, however, ought to be no objection to you, Master Nowell, but rather the contrary.”
“Well, take the responsibility of the matter upon your own shoulders,” said Nowell; “if any ill comes of it I shall blame you.”
“Be it so,” replied the squire; “my shoulders are broad enough to bear the burthen. You may ride with us, master reeve.”
“May I inquire your name, friend?” said Potts, as the stranger fell back to the rear of the party.
“Thomas Potts, at your service, sir,” replied the reeve.
“What! — Thomas Potts!” exclaimed the astonished attorney.
“That is my name, sir,” replied the reeve, quietly.
“Why, zounds!” exclaimed Nicholas, who overheard the reply, “you do not mean to say your name is Thomas Potts? This is more wonderful still. You must be this gentleman’s twin brother.”
“The gentleman certainly seems to resemble me very strongly,” replied the reeve, apparently surprised in his turn. “Is he of these parts?”
“No, I am not,” returned Potts, angrily, “I am from London, where I reside in Chancery-lane, and practise the law, though I likewise attend as clerk of the court at the assizes at Lancaster, where I may possibly, one of these days, have the pleasure of seeing you, my pretended namesake.”
“Possibly, sir,” said the reeve, with provoking calmness. “I myself am from Chester, and like yourself was brought up to the law, but I abandoned my profession, or rather it abandoned me, for I had few clients; so I took to an honester calling, and became a forester, as you see. My father was a draper in the city I have mentioned, and dwelt in Watergate-street — his name was Peter Potts.”
“Peter Potts your father!” exclaimed the attorney, in the last state of astonishment— “Why, he was mine! But I am his only son.”
“Up to this moment I conceived myself an only son,” said the reeve; “but it seems I was mistaken, since I find I have an elder brother.”
“Elder brother!” exclaimed Potts, wrathfully. “You are older than I am by twenty years. But it is all a fabrication. I deny the relationship entirely.”
“You cannot make me other than the son of my father,” said the reeve, with a smile.
“Well, Master Potts,” interposed Nicholas, laughing, “I see no reason why you should be ashamed of your brother. There is a strong family likeness between you. So old Peter Potts, the draper of Chester, was your father, eh? I was not aware of the circumstance before — ha, ha!”
“And, but for this intrusive fellow, you would never have become aware of it,” muttered the attorney. “Give ear to me, squire,” he said, urging Flint close up to the other’s side, and speaking in a low tone, “I do not like the fellow’s looks at all.”
“I am surprised at that,” rejoined the squire, “for he exactly resembles you.”
“That is why I do not like him,” said Potts; “I believe him to be a wizard.”
“You are no wizard to think so,” rejoined the squire. And he rode on to join Roger Nowell, who was a little in advance.
“I will try him on the subject of witchcraft,” thought Potts. “As you dwell in the forest,” he said to the reeve, “you have no doubt seen those two terrible beings, Mothers Demdike and Chattox.”
“Frequently,” replied the reeve, “but I would rather not talk about them in their own territories. You may judge of their power by the appearance of the village you have just quitted. The inhabitants of that unlucky place refused them their customary tributes, and have therefore incurred their resentment. You will meet other instances of the like kind before you have gone far.”
“I am glad of it, for I want to collect as many cases as I can of witchcraft,” observed Potts.
“They will be of little use to you,” observed the reeve.
“How so?” inquired Potts.
“Because if the witches discover what you are about, as they will not fail to do, you will never leave the forest alive,” returned the other.
“You think not?” cried Potts.
“I a
m sure of it,” replied the reeve.
“I will not be deterred from the performance of my duty,” said Potts. “I defy the devil and all his works.”
“You may have reason to repent your temerity,” replied the reeve.
And anxious, apparently, to avoid further conversation on the subject, he drew in the rein for a moment, and allowed the attorney to pass on.
Notwithstanding his boasting, Master Potts was not without much secret misgiving; but his constitutional obstinacy made him determine to prosecute his plans at any risk, and he comforted himself by recalling the opinion of his sovereign authority on such matters.
“Let me ponder over the exact words of our British Solomon,” he thought. “I have his learned treatise by heart, and it is fortunate my memory serves me so well, for the sagacious prince’s dictum will fortify me in my resolution, which has been somewhat shaken by this fellow, whom I believe to be no better than he should be, for all he calls himself my father’s son, and hath assumed my likeness, doubtless for some mischievous purpose. ‘If the magistrate,’ saith the King, ‘be slothful towards witches, God is very able to make them instruments to waken and punish his sloth.’ No one can accuse me of slothfulness and want of zeal. My best exertions have been used against the accursed creatures. And now for the rest. ‘But if, on the contrary, he be diligent in examining and punishing them, God will not permit their master to trouble or hinder so good a work!’ Exactly what I have done. I am quite easy now, and shall go on fearlessly as before. I am one of the ‘lawful lieutenants’ described by the King, and cannot be ‘defrauded or deprived’ of my office.”
As these thoughts passed through the attorney’s mind a low derisive laugh sounded in his ears, and, connecting it with the reeve, he looked back and found the object of his suspicions gazing at him, and chuckling maliciously. So fiendishly malignant, indeed, was the gaze fixed upon him, that Potts was glad to turn his head away to avoid it.
“I am confirmed in my suspicions,” he thought; “he is evidently a wizard, if he be not—”
Again the mocking laugh sounded in his ears, but he did not venture to look round this time, being fearful of once more encountering the terrible gaze.
Meanwhile the party had traversed the valley, and to avoid a dangerous morass stretching across its lower extremity, and shorten the distance — for the ordinary road would have led them too much to the right — they began to climb one of the ridges of Pendle Hill, which lay between them and the vale they wished to gain. On obtaining the top of this eminence, an extensive view on either side opened upon them. Behind was the sterile valley they had just crossed, its black soil, hoary grass, and heathy wastes, only enlivened at one end by patches of bright sulphur-coloured moss, which masked a treacherous quagmire lurking beneath it. Some of the cottages in Sabden were visible, and, from the sad circumstances connected with them, and which oppressed the thoughts of the beholders, added to the dreary character of the prospect. The day, too, had lost its previous splendour, and there were clouds overhead which cast deep shadows on the ground. But on the crest of Pendle Hill, which rose above them, a sun-burst fell, and attracted attention from its brilliant contrast to the prevailing gloom. Before them lay a deep gully, the sinuosities of which could be traced from the elevated position where they stood, though its termination was hidden by other projecting ridges. Further on, the sides of the mountain were bare and rugged, and covered with shelving stone. Beyond the defile before mentioned, and over the last mountain ridge, lay a wide valley, bounded on the further side by the hills overlooking Colne, and the mountain defile, now laid open to the travellers, exhibiting in the midst of the dark heathy ranges, which were its distinguishing features, some marks of cultivation. In parts it was inclosed and divided into paddocks by stone walls, and here and there a few cottages were collected together, dignified, as in the case of Sabden, by the name of a village. Amongst these were the Hey-houses, an assemblage of small stone tenements, the earliest that arose in the forest; Goldshaw Booth, now a populous place, and even then the largest hamlet in the district; and in the distance Ogden and Barley, the two latter scarcely comprising a dozen habitations, and those little better than huts. In some sheltered nook on the hill-side might be discerned the solitary cottage of a cowherd, and not far from it the certain accompaniment of a sheepfold. Throughout this weird region, thinly peopled it is true, but still of great extent, and apparently abandoned to the powers of darkness, only one edifice could be found where its inhabitants could meet to pray, and this was an ancient chapel at Goldshaw Booth, originally erected in the reign of Henry III., though subsequently in part rebuilt in 1544, and which, with its low grey tower peeping from out the trees, was just discernible. Two halls were in view; one of which, Sabden, was of considerable antiquity, and gave its name to the village; and the other was Hoarstones, a much more recently erected mansion, strikingly situated on an acclivity of Pendle Hill. In general, the upper parts of this mountain monarch of the waste were bare and heathy, while the heights overhanging Ogden and Barley were rocky, shelving, and precipitous; but the lower ridges were well covered with wood, and a thicket, once forming part of the ancieut forest, ran far out into the plain near Goldshaw Booth. Numerous springs burst from the mountain side, and these collecting their forces, formed a considerable stream, which, under the name of Pendle Water, flowed through the valley above described, and, after many picturesque windings, entered the rugged glen in which Rough Lee was situated, and swept past the foot of Mistress Nutter’s residence.
Descending the hill, and passing through the thicket, the party came within a short distance of Goldshaw Booth, when they were met by a cowherd, who, with looks of great alarm, told them that John Law, the pedlar, had fallen down in a fit in the clough, and would perish if they did not stay to help him. As the poor man in question was well known both to Nicholas and Roger Nowell, they immediately agreed to go to his assistance, and accompanied the cowherd along a by-road which led through the clough to the village. They had not gone far when they heard loud groans, and presently afterwards found the unfortunate pedlar lying on his back, and writhing in agony. He was a large, powerfully-built man, of middle age, and had been in the full enjoyment of health and vigour, so that his sudden prostration was the more terrible. His face was greatly disfigured, the mouth and neck drawn awry, the left eye pulled down, and the whole power of the same side gone.
“Why, John, this is a bad business,” cried Nicholas. “You have had a paralytic stroke, I fear.”
“Nah — nah — squoire,” replied the sufferer, speaking with difficulty, “it’s neaw nat’ral ailment — it’s witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft!” exclaimed Potts, who had come up, and producing his memorandum book. “Another case. Your name and description, friend?”
“John Law o’ Cown, pedlar,” replied the man.
“John Law of Colne, I suppose, petty chapman,” said Potts, making an entry. “Now, John, my good man, be pleased to tell us by whom you have been bewitched?”
“By Mother Demdike,” groaned the man.
“Mother Demdike, ah?” exclaimed Potts, “good! very good. Now, John, as to the cause of your quarrel with the old hag?”
“Ey con scarcely rekillect it, my head be so confused, mester,” replied the pedlar.
“Make an effort, John,” persisted Potts; “it is most desirable such a dreadful offender should not escape justice.”
“Weel, weel, ey’n try an tell it then,” replied the pedlar. “Yo mun knoa ey wur crossing the hill fro’ Cown to Rough Lee, wi’ my pack upon my shouthers, when who should ey meet boh Mother Demdike, an hoo axt me to gi’ her some scithers an pins, boh, os ill luck wad ha’ it, ey refused. ‘Yo had better do it, John,’ hoo said, ‘or yo’ll rue it efore to-morrow neet.’ Ey laughed at her, an trudged on, boh when I looked back, an seed her shakin’ her skinny hond at me, ey repented and thowt ey would go back, an gi’ her the choice o’ my wares. Boh my pride wur too strong, an ey walked on to Barley an Og
den, an slept at Bess’s o th’ Booth, an woke this mornin’ stout and strong, fully persuaded th’ owd witch’s threat would come to nowt. Alack-a-day! ey wur out i’ my reckonin’, fo’ scarcely had ey reached this kloof, o’ my way to Sabden, than ey wur seized wi’ a sudden shock, os if a thunder-bowt had hit me, an ey lost the use o’ my lower limbs, an t’ laft soide, an should ha’ deed most likely, if it hadna bin fo’ Ebil o’ Jem’s o’ Dan’s who spied me out, an brought me help.”
“Yours is a deplorable case indeed, John,” said Richard— “especially if it be the result of witchcraft.”
“You do not surely doubt that it is so, Master Richard?” cried Potts.
“I offer no opinion,” replied the young man; “but a paralytic stroke would produce the same effect. But, instead of discussing the matter, the best thing we can do will be to transport the poor man to Bess’s o’ th’ Booth, where he can be attended to.”
“Tom and I can carry him there, if Abel will take charge of his pack,” said one of the grooms.
“That I win,” replied the cowherd, unstrapping the box, upon which the sufferer’s head rested, and placing it on his own shoulders.
Meanwhile, a gate having been taken from its hinges by Sparshot and the reeve, the poor pedlar, who groaned deeply during the operation, was placed upon it by the men, and borne towards the village, followed by the others, leading their horses.
Great consternation was occasioned in Goldshaw Booth by the entrance of the cavalcade, and still more, when it became known that John Law, the pedlar, who was a favourite with all, had had a frightful seizure. Old and young flocked forth to see him, and the former shook their heads, while the latter were appalled at the hideous sight. Master Potts took care to tell them that the poor fellow was bewitched by Mother Demdike; but the information failed to produce the effect he anticipated, and served rather to repress than heighten their sympathy for the sufferer. The attorney concluded, and justly, that they were afraid of incurring the displeasure of the vindictive old hag by an open expression of interest in his fate. So strongly did this feeling operate, that after bestowing a glance of commiseration at the pedlar, most of them returned, without a word, to their dwellings.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 399
