The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “I must show you this treasure, Mr. Clitheroe; it is a rare little treatise, called the ‘Antidemon of Macon,’ containing a true and particular relation of what a demon said and did in the house of Father Perreaud. Let me read you a few passages from it. They are highly instructive, and well worth hearing, I assure you.”

  “I have no doubt of it, my good sir,” I replied, impatiently. “But just now I have too much on my mind to attend to Father Perreaud. I want to open your eyes to the true character of the soi-disant Doctor Hooker, whom I must denounce as a charlatan — an impostor — and something worse.”

  “You denounced him yesterday,” Old Hazy rejoined, petulantly. “Why persist in assailing him? Doctor Dee was called a charlatan, an impostor, and something worse; and so were Paracelsus, Cornelius Agrippa, and the Alberts, Great and Little. There is hardly one amongst the professors of occult philosophy whose works load these shelves who has not been calumniated and reviled. But I shall ever protest against such injustice, Mr. Clitheroe. Here, in this sanctum, a true disciple of those glorious sages shall never be treated with opprobrium. Doctor Hooker is a second Doctor Dee. As a physiognomist, he is equal to Taxil and Jeane Indagine; in chiromancy, to Praetorius and Cocles; he can read the celestial influences as well as Father Francis; can cast a horoscope as well as Joseph de Tertiis; and pronounce a judgment upon a nativity as well as Fevrier and Ranzonius., “He practises a great many more tricks than you are aware of, Mr. Hazilrigge,” I rejoined. “I have discovered something about him that will astonish you. What do you think, sir? — last night he personated the ghost of Jotham Shocklach.”

  “Ah! my good young sir,” the old gentleman cried, regarding me with compassion, “you are deceived. You are unacquainted with the subtleties and devices of evil spirits. If the ghost of Jotham Shocklach did not actually appear to you — as is more than probable — it was an evil spirit in the guise of the defunct assassin — not Doctor Hooker.”

  “This is idle, sir,” I cried, almost out of patience. “Suffer me to say that, in this rascal, who personated the ghost of Jotham, and who calls himself Doctor Hooker, I discovered—”

  “An evil spirit — I know it,” Old Hazy exclaimed.

  “No sir, not an evil spirit, but a knave who has cheated me and duped you — and who continues to dupe you, sir.”

  Mr. Hazilrigge shook his head.

  “A diabolical illusion, my good young friend. I can produce plenty of instances of the kind from Father Perreaud and Taillepied. Permit me to cite some of them.”

  “Pest take Fathers Perreaud and Taillepied!” I cried impatiently. “Am I not to trust the evidence of my own eyes and my own ears?”

  “Assuredly not, in a case of this kind. You ought to discredit all you see and hear. The plainer and more palpable the thing appears, the more certain is the delusion. Such is the opinion of Father Perreaud, and I will refer to him for some observations in support of my argument. Attend to what he says in his eighth chapter touching demoniacal illusions: ‘It cannot be doubted that demons can charm the eyes and ears in such manner externally, putting between the eye and the ear, and the thing seen or heard, a body which produces the effect they desire.’ And further on he adds: ‘ Demons, who are beyond comparison more subtle than all the most subtle of men, can deceive and elude our senses by a thousand false and deceitful appearances. This they can do either immediately of themselves or mediately by magicians and sorcerers.’ You hear the opinion of this erudite man. In your case the delusion has been practised immediately; that is, without intervention, by an evil spirit.”

  “Pshaw!” I cried, “I am dealing with the material world. I told you the other night, sir, that I have no belief in evil spirits.”

  “I am sorry to hear you confess so much after your recent experience. As to the existence of evil spirits, I must again refer to Father Perreaud. Observe how he closes his first discourse, which is directed against those who, like yourself, are perverse and sceptical: ‘It ought to be sufficient for us, after what we have heard, drawn from the word of God and from experience, that we are assured, or ought to be so, that spirits of evil exist in great abundance.’ I will give you the father’s words in his own language: ‘Qu’il y a vrayement et d’effect des diables et malins esprits, voire une grandissime et innombrable quantite!’ — Une grandissime quantite! Mark that!” he added, regarding me with an air of triumph.

  I did not attempt to reply; feeling it was useless to reason with him. I merely observed, therefore, “I sincerely wish you could divest yourself of this strange opinion for a moment, sir. Why should not the person you call Doctor Hooker have found his way to my room?”

  “For the best of all reasons — he was far away. No, no; trust me, Mr. Clitheroe, you have been deluded. Shall I give you another quotation from Father Perreaud?”

  “On no account,” I replied hastily. “One more question, Mr. Hazilrigge, and I have done. Did you not overhear what was passing in my room last night?”

  “I overhear what was passing!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes. Were you not summoned by three blows of a mallet on the floor? Did you not knock at my door, and inquire what was the matter?”

  “Ah, my good young friend!” he cried, shaking his head compassionately, “if anything could convince you, this ought to do so. Why, sir, I was fast asleep in bed, and if there was a knock at your door, as you assert, and a voice heard like mine, it must have been a diabolic delusion. Taillepied gives an infallible test whereby you may know whether a demon has appeared to you. ‘ If the person whose semblance the spirit puts on strives to tempt you, or counsels a wicked action, you may be assured that the spirit is evil.’ Was it so in your case?”

  “I must confess,” I replied, unable to refrain from laughter, “that the rascal did give me evil counsel, and tried to incite me to wrong.”

  “An evil spirit, beyond all question. Doctor Hooker would never have acted so. No, no, the demon has assumed the doctor’s shape in order to beguile you.” —

  “Then you absolutely refuse to believe that it was Doctor Hooker who visited me last night?”

  “Absolutely and entirely.”

  “And you likewise refuse to believe that I recognised in the soi-disant Hooker a knavish and runaway barber from Marston.”

  “I entirely disbelieve it. You have been deluded by evil spirits, who, I grieve to say, abound in this house. Suffer me to read you a few passages from Thirseus ‘De locis infestis ob molestantes dsemoniorum et defunctorum spiritus.’”

  But I had had quite enough. While he was searching for his tiresome “ThirseusBoissier’s “Recueil de Lettres au sujet des Malefices et du Sortilege “Martinus de Arles;” and some other works of a like nature, which he particularised, but the titles of which I now forget, — I took to flight.

  As soon as I got into the hall, I snatched up my hat and rushed out into the garden, where I soon regained my tranquillity.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  LOVE IN A MAZE.

  TAKE it altogether, I have never seen a more perfect specimen of an old-fashioned garden than that of Owlarton Grange. I have said little about it hitherto, because I have waited for a favourable opportunity of describing it.

  The garden was originally laid out more than a couple of centuries ago, and its general plan was still carefully maintained. Some few alterations had no doubt been made in certain parts, but they were so slight as not to interfere with the principal features. The broad terrace walks, with the smooth green slopes, the stone steps for the mimic waterfalls, the “pleached bowers,”

  “Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, —

  Forbid the sun to enter—” the mossy seats upon the slopes — all these were the same as heretofore. The garden-knots, moreover, were extremely quaint and curious and no departure from their pristine shape was permitted. There you could see the cinquefoil, the trefoil, the fleur-de-lis, the fret, and other designs, that had charmed the loiterers in this Eden during the time of James the First, still em
broidering the parterres. The preservation of the garden in its integrity was chiefly owing to Miss Hazilrigge, who paid great attention to it, and allowed nothing to be disturbed. She abominated “landscape gardeners,” and said they had spoiled many of the finest old places in England. The garden at Owlarton Grange thus continued intact. Its long, dark, green alleys of clipped yew-trees — its magnificent hedges of holly — its marvellous specimens of topiarian art, exhibited in groups of trees, trimmed and twisted into a variety of fantastical devices, some of which looked as if Ovid’s Metamorphoses had been put into action upon the lawns — its statues — dial — fountains — maze — and mound, with summer-house on the top, overlooking the moat — all these formed the admiration of the neighbourhood, and would have made the garden of Owlarton Grange one of the “sights” of that part of Cheshire, if its owner would have allowed it to be shown.

  As the hall would have been incomplete without its garden, so the garden would not have been perfect without the hall. One was an indispensable adjunct to the other. The picturesque old pile was seen to the greatest advantage from the smooth-shaven lawn; while the garden looked enchanting as the bowers of Armida when beheld from the house.

  I was wandering about this delightful garden — admiring its various objects of interest — now looking at a little fountain with a curious mechanical contrivance that caused a musical sound — now at a bay-tree, trimmed and twined into a representation of Daphne — now at a marble statue of Leda and the Swan, weather-stained, and crusted with lichens — now pausing to look at the old hall, as it displayed itself under some new and picturesque aspect — when I perceived Ora hastening towards me across the lawn, and I instantly flew to meet her.

  We walked together for some time, conversing upon indifferent topics, but I could perceive that she had something upon her mind, which she desired to mention, though she hesitated, long ere coming to the point. At last she spoke of John Brideoake, and inquired, with some anxiety, whether I thought him alarmingly ill?

  “I am indeed seriously apprehensive about him,” I replied. “He is suffering in mind as well as in body.”

  “But, perhaps, some remedy might be found,” she cried, quickly. “If your friend has a secret sorrow, no doubt he imparted it to you — and it may, possibly, be relieved. Don’t you think so?”

  I looked at her fixedly.

  “If hope could be once more kindled in John’s breast,” I said, “he might perchance recover. At present, life is a blank to him. My poor friend has no secrets from me, Miss Doveton, and has laid bare his innermost heart to me. He has had the temerity to fix his affections on an object utterly unattainable, and is now paying the penalty of his folly.”

  “But why should he conclude that the object is unattainable?” Ora rejoined.

  “Because he feels that it would be the height of presumption in him to think otherwise. How should he — a poor curate — dare to aspire to the hand of a young and lovely heiress?”

  “Some men have aspired, and successfully, Mr. Clitheroe.”

  “Would you have him — the most modest of men — imitate the most audacious, Miss Doveton?” I exclaimed.

  “I would have him get well — I would help to bring about his cure, if I could,” she replied.

  “A word from you will do it. You have only to make the experiment to see what a result will follow. Will you authorise me to give my friend a hope?”

  “I cannot prevent you from saying anything you choose to him,” she answered, smiling.

  “That is hardly sufficient. You must promise that you will not contradict what I do say. Suppose I were to tell him that the fair being whom he thinks only laughed at him, takes a real interest in him, and grieves for the despairing state into which he has been thrown?”

  “Enough! enough!” she interrupted. “No doubt you will say a dreat deal more than you ought to do — more than I shall ever authorise you to say. But at any rate, you may say that I sincerely hope he will get better.”

  “For your sake?” I said.

  “You may add, ‘for my sake,’ if you think proper,” she replied. I uttered a joyful exclamation.

  “If John is not too far gone already, I will answer for his cure,” I cried. “I am now bound for his cottage, and shall, indeed, be the bearer of good tidings.”

  “Do not go till you have seen my aunt,” Ora said. “Perhaps she may drive over to Weverham in the course of the day, and if so I will accompany her.”

  “That will be a very kind act. It will do John an infinitude of good to see you. I will prepare him for the visit.”

  “Well, let us find my aunt,” Ora cried, in a far more lively tone, for her spirits seemed to have wonderfully improved within the last few minutes, “and learn what she has to say about it. I have no doubt she will go, unless she has fixed some other plan with Mr. Spring. They are somewhere in the garden — very likely in the maze. I saw them straying in that direction just before I joined you.”

  To the maze accordingly we repaired.

  On entering the leafy labyrinth, we could distinctly hear the voices of the elderly couple, though, of course, they were hidden by the tall ranges of privet.

  Ora stopped for a moment, gave me an arch look, and put her finger to her lips to impose silence.

  “Well, here we are, I declare, in the very centre of the maze,” Cuthbert Spring exclaimed. “I should never be able to find my way back through all its intricate windings without guidance.”

  “I have a good mind to leave you, and let you try,” the elderly spinster replied, with a laugh.

  “Oh! no, don’t, I entreat of you,” Mr. Spring rejoined. “Nay, indeed, I must detain you. This is the most inviting spot imaginable for a tête-à-tête. Let us be seated upon this bench, which seems contrived for lovers. No fear of interruption here, my dear Miss Hazilrigge.”

  “I don’t know that,” she replied. “Ora and Mr. Clitheroe are in the garden, i saw them as we emerged from the allee verte just now.”

  “I did not observe them,” Cuthbert returned; “and in truth I had no eyes save for the charming person at my side.”

  “A truce to compliments, Mr. Spring,” the elderly spinster simpered. “You have paid me too many already.”

  “Not one more than you deserve,” my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” Cuthbert said. “Shall I tell you what the meanderings of this maze have put into my head?”

  “Pray do, Mr. Spring,” she answered. “I am curious to know what they have suggested to you.”

  “They have convinced me that I should find my way much more readily through the twists and turnings which I have yet to take in life if I had some one to direct me.”

  “You have got on very well hitherto without assistance, Mr. Spring,” Miss Hazilrigge replied. —

  Here Ora could not repress her laughter. —

  “What was that, Mr. Spring?” the elderly spinster cried. “I am sure I heard something. I hope there are no listeners near us.”

  “Have no fear, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” Cuthbert cried, in a more impassioned tone than he had yet assumed — I almost fancied he must have thrown himself upon his knees. “This is the moment when my fate must be sealed. You have it in your power to make me the happiest of men. Speak and decide!”..

  “Dear heart a-day! Mr. Spring,” the lady rejoined, evidently quite in a flutter, “you have taken me quite by surprise. I don’t, know what to say, I am sure. Your proposal is very flattering, but it requires consideration. Before answering you positively, I think — nay, I am quite sure — that I ought to consult my brother.”

  “By all means, my dear Miss Hazilrigge. Very proper! very proper. But I am confident my friend Hazilrigge won’t oppose your wishes, when he learns which way they tend. So, after all, the decision will rest with you. You do not bid me despair.”

  “A regular proposal, I declare!” Ora exclaimed. “Oh, aunt!”

  “Who’s that?” Miss Hazilrigge cried, in alarm. “I am sure it must be Ora. Where are you, child
? What are you doing?”

  “I am making my way to you, aunt, through the maze, as fast as I can, with Mr. Clitheroe,” Ora replied.. —

  So saying, she hurried on, trying to repress her laughter, and the next moment we stood before the elderly pair of turtledoves, both of whom, though they strove to put a good face upon the matter, looked excessively annoyed, as well they might, at the interruption.—’

  “We were searching for you, aunt,” Ora said. “Mr. Clitheroe is going to Weverham. I told him you would probably drive there in the course of the day. Have you any message for Mr. Brideoake?”

  “Is that all?” Miss Hazilrigge cried, rather tartly. “There was no occasion to come to me on such a trivial matter. My message to Mr. Brideoake — which I beg Mr. Clitheroe will be good enough to deliver to his friend — is that my brother and myself hope that the dear young man will make arrangements to come and stay with us for a month. We can make him, perhaps, a little more comfortable than he is in his cottage, and he shall be well nursed.”

  “I will not fail to deliver your kind message to him,” I replied, “and when you come, he will give you his answer.”

  “Nay, I will have no refusal,” Miss Hazilrigge returned. “I mean to bring him away in the carriage.”

  “Be sure to tell him so,” Ora subjoined. “And now, Mr.

  Clitheroe,” she cried, with an arch look, “do not stir till I clap my hands, and then try to catch me. You must promise not to break through the fences, for that would not be fair.”

  She then disappeared, and in another moment I heard the signal given, accompanied by a merry laugh, and I set off after her — much to the relief, I am sure, of the elderly couple. But though I ran on and on, I must, somehow, have taken a wrong turn, and greatly to my surprise and annoyance found myself once more near the centre of the maze. Despairing of getting out unaided, I went into the little enclosure, where I found the elderly couple seated close together on the bench.