The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV. — LANCASTER CASTLE.

  Behold the grim and giant fabric, rebuilt and strengthened by

  “Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lancaster!”

  Within one of its turrets called John of Gaunt’s Chair, and at eventide, stands a lady under the care of a jailer. It is the last sunset she will ever see — the last time she will look upon the beauties of earth; for she is a prisoner, condemned to die an ignominious and terrible death, and her execution will take place on the morrow. Leaving her alone within the turret, the jailer locks the door and stands outside it. The lady casts a long, lingering look around. All nature seems so beautiful — so attractive. The sunset upon the broad watery sands of Morecambe Bay is exquisite in varied tints. The fells of Furness look black and bold, and the windings of the Lune are clearly traced out. But she casts a wistful glance towards the mountainous ridges of Lancashire, and fancies she can detect amongst the heights the rounded summit of Pendle Hill. Then her gaze settles upon the grey old town beneath her, and, as her glance wanders over it, certain terrible objects arrest it. In the area before the Castle she sees a ring of tall stakes. She knows well their purpose, and counts them. They are thirteen in number. Thirteen wretched beings are to be burned on the morrow. Not far from the stakes are an enormous pile of fagots. All is prepared. Fascinated by the sight, she remains gazing at the place of execution for some time, and when she turns, she beholds a tall dark man standing beside her. At first she thinks it is the jailer, and is about to tell the man she is ready to descend to her cell, when she recognises him, and recoils in terror.

  “Thou here — again!” she cried.

  “I can save thee from the stake, if thou wilt, Alice Nutter,” he said.

  “Hence!” she exclaimed. “Thou temptest me in vain. Hence!”

  And with a howl of rage the demon disappeared.

  Conveyed back to her cell, situated within the dread Dungeon Tower, Alice Nutter passed the whole of that night in prayer. Towards four o’clock, wearied out, she dropped into a slumber; and when the clergyman, from whom she had received spiritual consolation, came to her cell, he found her still sleeping, but with a sweet smile upon her lips — the first he had ever beheld there.

  Unwilling to disturb her, he knelt down and prayed by her side. At length the jailer came, and the executioner’s aids. The divine then laid his hand upon her shoulder, and she instantly arose.

  “I am ready,” she said, cheerfully.

  “You have had a happy dream, daughter,” he observed.

  “A blessed dream, reverend sir,” she replied. “I thought I saw my children, Richard and Alizon, in a fair garden — oh! how angelic they looked — and they told me I should be with them soon.”

  “And I doubt not the vision will be realised,” replied the clergyman. “Your redemption is fully worked out, and your salvation, I trust, secured. And now you must prepare for your last trial.”

  “I am fully prepared,” she replied; “but will you not go to the others?”

  “Alas! my dear daughter,” he replied, “they all, excepting Nance Redferne, refuse my services, and will perish in their iniquities.”

  “Then go to her, sir, I entreat of you,” she said; “she may yet be saved. But what of Jennet? Is she, too, to die?”

  “No,” replied the divine; “being evidence against her relatives, her life is spared.”

  “Heaven grant she do no more mischief!” exclaimed Alice Nutter.

  She then submitted herself to the executioner’s assistants, and was led forth. On issuing into the open air a change came over her, and such an exceeding faintness that she had to be supported. She was led towards the stake in this state; but she grew fainter and fainter, and at last fell back in the arms of the men that supported her. Still they carried her on. When the executioner put out his hand to receive her from his aids, she was found to be quite dead. Nevertheless, he tied her to the stake, and her body was consumed. Hundreds of spectators beheld those terrible fires, and exulted in the torments of the miserable sufferers. Their shrieks and blasphemies were terrific, and the place resembled a hell upon earth.

  Jennet escaped, to the dismay of Master Potts, who feared she would wreak her threatened vengeance upon him. And, indeed, he did suffer from aches and cramps, which he attributed to her; but which were more reasonably supposed to be owing to rheum caught in the marshes of Pendle Forest. He had, however, the pleasure of assisting at her execution, when some years afterwards retributive justice overtook her.

  Jennet was the last of the Lancashire Witches. Ever since then witchcraft has taken a new form with the ladies of the county — though their fascination and spells are as potent as ever. Few can now escape them, — few desire to do so. But to all who are afraid of a bright eye and a blooming cheek, and who desire to adhere to a bachelor’s condition — to such I should say, “BEWARE OF THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES!”

  THE END

  THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MERVYN CLITHEROE

  CONTENTS

  BOOK THE FIRST.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  BOOK THE SECOND.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  BOOK THE THIRD.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  PROLOGUE:1599

  The original frontispiece

  INSCRIBED

  TO

  MY CONTEMPORARIES

  AT THE

  MANCHESTER SCHOOL.

  BOOK THE FIRST.

  CHAPTER I.

  SHOWING HOW, ALTHOUGH I LOSE MY BEST FRIEND JUST AS I BEGIN LIFE, I AM FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND ANOTHER FRIEND, TOGETHER WITH A GOOD HOME.

  I AM the only son, by his first marriage, of Captain Charles Clitheroe, of Clitheroe, in Lancashire. My mother’s maiden name was Clara Leyburne. She was an orphan, and was brought up by a benevolent lady, a near relation of her own, Mrs. Mervyn, after whom I was named. She was only seventeen when she was united to my father, and extremely beautiful. I have but an indistinct recollection of her, but remember she had very dark eyes and very dark hair, and an expression of countenance which I thought angelic. I also remember she talked to me a great deal about my papa, and showed me his picture, telling me how tall and handsome he was, and hoping I should grow up like him. He was a long way off, fighting in India, she said, and she didn’t think she should ever see him again, and the thought made her extremely unhappy. She told me I must never be a soldier, as, when I went away to the wars, I should make those who loved me unhappy. I promised I would not; and on this she pressed me to her bosom, and wept over me; and I wept too for company. She had always looked pale and thin, but she now began to look paler and thinner, and even I noticed the change. Sometimes, casting wistful
looks at me, she would say, “What will become of you, Mervyn, if I leave you?” I told her she mustn’t leave me; but she shook her head despondingly, and said, “Alas! I cannot help it.” Soon after this she became very ill, and kept her bed, where I was often taken to see her; and very pretty she looked, though quite white, like a sheet. At such times she would kiss me, and cry over me. One day, when the nurse was carrying me out of the room, she desired her to bring me back, and, raising herself with difficulty, for she was extremely feeble, she placed her hands on my head, and said, “God bless you, my dear Mervyn! Don’t forget mamma when she is gone. Never desert those who love you, dear. Good-by, my dearest child.” And, kissing me tenderly, she sank back on the pillow quite exhausted. So Jane, the nurse, hurried me out of the room, for I had begun to cry bitterly.

  On that night a circumstance took place for which I could never account, but it has remained graven on my memory, and I pledge myself as to its actual occurrence. I had been put to bed, and was very restless, for there was an unusual agitation and disturbance in the house, and I thought Jane would never come to me. I heard the clock strike several times, and at last it struck one, and soon after that she did make her appearance. I asked her what made her so late, but she didn’t answer me; and, seeing I was regarding her inquisitively, for I thought she was crying, she bade me, in a broken voice, go to sleep. I tried to do so, but couldn’t; and when Jane got into bed she felt very cold, and wept audibly.

  I didn’t like to speak to her, and was, besides, occupied by my own thoughts, which ran involuntarily on my poor mother, and on what she said about leaving me. Just when Jane became more composed, and seemed to be dropping asleep, I distinctly heard three knocks! Yes, three dull, heavy knocks, as if struck with the poker against the back of the fireplace in my mother’s room, which was next to mine.

  “Good gracious! what’s that?” exclaimed Jane, starting up in bed. “Did you hear anything, Master Mervyn?”

  “To be sure,” I replied; “I heard the knocks plain enough. It must be mamma — she wants something. Go to her, Jane.”

  But, to my surprise, Jane, though ordinarily ready to obey the slightest summons from my mother, did not move, but looked petrified with terror.

  “What can it be?” she ejaculated, at length. “There’s no one in the room.”

  “No one!” I cried, in alarm. “Is mamma gone, then? Has she really left me?”

  “Yes — no,” stammered Jane.

  “I’ll go and see myself,” I said. “I’m sure she wants something.”

  “No, no; you mustn’t go, dear,” cried Jane, detaining me. “Your mamma is there, but she wants nothing now, poor thing! Besides, you can’t get in. The door’s locked. Don’t you see the key there, near the lamp?”

  I couldn’t conceive why she had locked poor mamma in her room, and thought it very unkind of her to stay in bed when she was summoned, and begged hard to be allowed to go myself, though I don’t think I could have unlocked the door if she had let me try. But at last I was persuaded to be quiet, and fell asleep.

  My first inquiries, next morning, were after mamma, and whether the door was unlocked; and I implored so earnestly to see her, that at last Jane consented.

  “You mustn’t make a noise if you go, dear,” she said.

  Jane opened the door of the adjoining room very softly, and entered with noiseless footsteps.

  “Is mamma asleep?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear, — sound asleep,” Jane replied, in a low tone.

  The room appeared dark, for the window-blinds were down, and there was a deathlike stillness about it that frightened me. I looked at Jane, and she seemed frightened too.

  The white curtains were drawn closely round the bed. I had never seen them so before. Jane opened them, and showed me mamma, apparently fast asleep, and looking paler and prettier than ever. Her dark hair was parted smoothly over her marble forehead, and an angelic smile, which has haunted me ever since, hovered about her parted lips. One arm, very white and very thin, lay out of the covering. Jane held me down to kiss mamma’s cheek. Its icy coldness startled me, and made me cry out.

  Jane snatched me away, and, as she closed the door, I said — for I was very much troubled—” I hope mamma will waken soon.”

  “Alas! dear,” she replied, “she will never waken more.”

  My mother was buried in the churchyard of Marston, a small village in Cheshire, where an uncle of my father’s resided, and a fitter resting-place for so gentle a creature could not have been chosen. Often arid often have I lingered by that grave, and have thought of its once lovely tenant — of her brief, reproachless career — of her devotion to my father, whose long absence broke her heart — of her tenderness to me. Many a bitter tear have I shed there, and many a lamentation uttered; but I never sought it without being cheered and comforted as if by a mother’s love.

  My mother was only twenty-three when she died, and I was not five years old at the time. As yet I had never seen my father, nor did I see him for years afterwards. My mother was in an interesting condition when he quitted England with his regiment, and was to follow him; but he wrote to say she had better not come out for some months; and when that time expired, he enjoined further delay. Eventually, he directed her to remain at home altogether, and take care of the boy she had brought him, adding, that he should soon be able to obtain a long furlough, and would join her in England.

  Though heartbroken at the prolonged separation, my poor mother could not disobey her husband’s injunctions. Feeling she could not have acted in like manner towards him, she began to fear his affections must be estranged; and the distress occasioned by this idea ended in undermining her already delicate health. But she never complained, nor would she allow any intelligence of her illness to be conveyed to my father. Indeed, only three days after her death, and before she was laid in her grave, a letter arrived from him, stating that he had at length obtained a furlough, and trusted to be with her before the expiration of three months. He spoke in ardent terms of the rapturous delight it would afford him to clasp his darling wife again to his bosom, and behold his little boy, of whom she had written him such charming accounts. If this letter had arrived a month sooner, the physician who attended my mother in her last illness afterwards told me, her life might possibly have been saved. But hope had been utterly extinguished.

  Of course the sad tidings were immediately conveyed to my father, and, as he was totally unprepared for them, the shock must have been terrible. How severely he reproached himself, and how bitterly he lamented the loss he had sustained, was evident from his letters on this melancholy occasion. But he gave up all present idea of returning to England, and, making the needful remittances, willingly committed me to the care of Mrs. Mervyn, who had offered to take charge of me.

  I was too young to feel deeply the irreparable loss I had sustained, and, as Mrs. Mervyn was very kind to me, and her house exceedingly comfortable, I soon became quite reconciled and happy. Mrs, Mervyn, for, though a spinster, she had taken brevet rank, was an elderly lady of a most charitable disposition, living at a very pretty place called the Anchorite’s, about three miles from the great manufacturing town of Cottonborough, in Lancashire. She was the descendant of a stanch Jacobite family — her great-grandfather, Ambrose Mervyn, having, in November, 1715, joined the insurgent army at Penrith, and marched with it to Preston, where, on the surrender of the town to the government generals, he was taken, and, having been particularly zealous in promoting the cause of the Chevalier Saint George, aiding it with funds and followers, was executed, and his head set upon a pike in the market-place at Cottonborough. His son, Stuart Mervyn, who was a boy at the time of this catastrophe, came to a similar end, for in 1745 he was one of the most zealous supporters of the Young Chevalier during his progress through Lancashire, and received a French commission. The memory of these unfortunate persons was warmly cherished by Mrs. Mervyn, who regarded them as martyrs. Their portraits were placed in her bedroom, and this circumst
ance made me afraid to enter the chamber, thinking it impossible such troubled spirits could rest in their graves. Ambrose Mervyn in particular used to inspire me with intense awe, for he was represented as a swarthy, stern looking fellow, with great searching black eyes, which seemed to follow me about.

  Mrs. Mervyn used frequently to talk to me about her Jacobite predecessors; and, though ordinarily very calm in manner, grew quite excited by the theme, and launched forth into such glowing and enthusiastic descriptions of Prince Charles Edward, that I almost wished he was alive still, that I might fight for him like the two brave Mervyns. But her account of their executions shook my desire to be a rebel. She showed me a couple of prints representing the terrible scenes; pointing out in one of them little Stuart, who appeared to be taking an eternal farewell of his father, before the latter submitted himself to the ghastly apparatus of death; and she told me how Ambrose had then enjoined his son never to forsake the good cause, which, dying command was implicitly obeyed, as I have related, l am afraid I unintentionally shocked Mrs. Mervyn’s feelings a good deal, by inquiring what became of their heads, and whether she had them preserved in a box.

  “No, my dear Mervyn,” she replied, very gravely; “they are both deposited with the mutilated trunks in our family vault in the Old Church. You may read the inscription on the monument.”

  Mrs. Mervyn was always richly dressed in black, and with remarkable precision and care. She had a grave and somewhat austere aspect, which belied the extreme kindliness of her nature, and but rarely smiled. Nothing strongly excited her, except some matter connected with the bygone Jacobite cause.

  Her predilections were exhibited even in her household, almost every member of which came of a Jacobite stock. Her old butler, Mr. Comberbach, numbered two unfortunate adherents to the good cause in his pedigree — imprimis, a great-grandsire, a barber, whose head was barbarously cut oft’ in 1716, and set upon his own pole, as an example to all his brethren of the razor and strap not to meddle with affairs of state; and, secondly, a grandsire, who having dressed the Prince’s peruke during his stay in Cottonborough, afterwards joined the regiment raised by Colonel Townley, with the intention of avenging his father’s death; but he paid the penalty of his rashness — and a second barber’s head was brought to the block. This similarity of fate between their respective ancestors, formed a link between the mistress and the butler, and consequently Mr. Comberbach was much favoured, and became a very important personage in the establishment at the Anchorite’s. But he was far more blinded and intolerant than his mistress; the spirit of the old barbers burnt within his breast; and he was sometimes rather disloyal in his expressions touching the Hanoverian dynasty. Among his relics he preserved the family powder-puff which had been exercised on the princely peruke, and the basin from which the august chin had been lathered, and which I told him resembled Mambrino’s helmet. When a little exhilarated, which was not unfrequently the case, he would sing old Jacobite songs, and take off a glass to the memory of the last of the unfortunate house of Stuart. But, notwithstanding his love of good cheer, like his mistress he observed the anniversaries of certain terrible events as rigorous fast-days, and put on mourning as she did. In fact, the house was very dismal altogether on these occasions, and I was glad when they were over; for Mrs. Mervyn moved about like a shade, and would eat nothing, and Mr. Comberbach stalked after her like a grim attendant ghost, and would eat nothing too; and, what was worse, would scarcely let me eat anything; while all the rest of the servants followed, or pretended to follow, their example. It was mainly owing to the butler’s exertions that Mrs. Mervyn was so well supplied with Jacobites. He found out Mrs. Chadwick, the housekeeper, — a lineal descendant of a tallow-chandler, whose zeal being inflamed, like one of his own candles, by the Young Chevalier’s arrival in Cottonborough, was afterwards very sudden snuffed out. He likewise discovered the cook, Molly Bailey, whose great-uncle had kept the Hog Inn when Lord George Murray, the Prince’s secretary, was quartered there, and who possessed some old receipts of dishes that his Highness was known to be fond of, and was, moreover, so skilful in her art, that she was worthy to have been his cook, if he had ever come to the throne, and she had lived in his days. He engaged Hudson, the coachman, who affirmed that his grandfather was the first person that came to the assistance of Sergeant Hickson, when he took the town of Cottonborough, attended only by a drummer and a sutler-wench, and afterwards joined him as a recruit. And Mr. Comberbach likewise unearthed Banks, the gardener, who declared he was a Jacobite every inch; for his “forefaythers” had kept the little inn at Didsbury, where the Jacobite Club used to meet, and drink the “King over the water.” All the rest had some pretences or other of a like nature to Mrs. Mervyn’s consideration, and she never investigated their claims too narrowly, but rested content with the butler’s assurance of their eligibility. In short, we were all Jacobites, and the common folks nicknamed our place of abode “Jacobite’s Hall.”