The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth

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"Upon one occasion it chanced that he made a visit in
disguise to Whalley Abbey, and, passing the little hermitage
near the church, beheld the votaress who tenanted it. This
was Isole de Heton. Ravished by her wondrous beauty,
Blackburn soon found an opportunity of making his passion
known to her, and his handsome though fierce lineaments
pleasing her, he did not long sigh in vain. He frequently
visited her in the garb of a Cistertian monk, and, being
taken for one of the brethren, his conduct brought great
scandal upon the Abbey. The abandoned votaress bore him a
daughter, and the infant was conveyed away by the lover, and
placed under the care of a peasant's wife, at Barrowford.
From that child sprung Bess Blackburn, the mother of old
Demdike; so that the witch is a direct descendant of Isole de
Heton.

"Notwithstanding all precautions, Isole's dark offence became
known, and she would have paid the penalty of it at the
stake, if she had not fled. In scaling Whalley Nab, in the
woody heights of which she was to remain concealed till her
lover could come to her, she fell from a rock, shattering her
limbs, and disfiguring her features. Some say she was lamed
for life, and became as hideous as she had heretofore been
lovely; but this is erroneous, for apprehensive of such a
result, attended by the loss of her lover, she invoked the
powers of darkness, and proffered her soul in return for five
years of unimpaired beauty.

"The compact was made, and when Blackburn came he found her
more beautiful than ever. Enraptured, he conveyed her to
Malkin Tower, and lived with her there in security, laughing
to scorn the menaces of Abbot Eccles, by whom he was
excommunicated.

"Time went on, and as Isole's charms underwent no change, her
lover's ardour continued unabated. Five years passed in
guilty pleasures, and the last day of the allotted term
arrived. No change was manifest in Isole's demeanour; neither
remorse nor fear were exhibited by her. Never had she
appeared more lovely, never in higher or more exuberant
spirits. She besought her lover, who was still madly
intoxicated by her infernal charms, to give a banquet that
night to ten of his trustiest followers. He willingly
assented, and bade them to the feast. They ate and drank
merrily, and the gayest of the company was the lovely Isole.
Her spirits seemed somewhat too wild even to Blackburn, but
he did not check her, though surprised at the excessive
liveliness and freedom of her sallies. Her eyes flashed like
fire, and there was not a man present but was madly in love
with her, and ready to dispute for her smiles with his
captain.

"The wine flowed freely, and song and jest went on till
midnight. When the hour struck, Isole filled a cup to the
brim, and called upon them to pledge her. All arose, and
drained their goblets enthusiastically. 'It was a farewell
cup,' she said; 'I am going away with one of you.' 'How!'
exclaimed Blackburn, in angry surprise. 'Let any one but
touch your hand, and I will strike him dead at my feet.' The
rest of the company regarded each other with surprise, and it
was then discovered that a stranger was amongst them; a tall
dark man, whose looks were so terrible and demoniacal that no
one dared lay hands upon him. 'I am come,' he said, with
fearful significance, to Isole. 'And I am ready,' she
answered boldly. 'I will go with you were it to the
bottomless pit,' cried Blackburn catching hold of her. 'It is
thither I am going,' she answered with a scream of laughter.
'I shall be glad of a companion.'

"When the paroxysm of laughter was over, she fell down on the
floor. Her lover would have raised her, when what was his
horror to find that he held in his arms an old woman, with
frightfully disfigured features, and evidently in the agonies
of death. She fixed one look upon him and expired.

"Terrified by the occurrence the guests hurried away, and
when they returned next day, they found Blackburn stretched
on the floor, and quite dead. They cast his body, together
with that of the wretched Isole, into the vault beneath the
room where they were lying, and then, taking possession of
his treasure, removed to some other retreat.

"Thenceforth, Malkin Tower became haunted. Though wholly
deserted, lights were constantly seen shining from it at
night, and sounds of wild revelry, succeeded by shrieks and
groans, issued from it. The figure of Isole was often seen to
come forth, and flit across the wastes in the direction of
Whalley Abbey. On stormy nights a huge black cat, with
flaming eyes, was frequently descried on the summit of the
structure, whence it obtained its name of Grimalkin, or
Malkin Tower. The ill-omened pile ultimately came into the
possession of the Nutter family, but it was never tenanted,
until assigned, as I have already mentioned, to Mother
Demdike."

* * * * *

The chirurgeon's marvellous story was listened to with great attention
by his auditors. Most of them were familiar with different versions of
it; but to Master Potts it was altogether new, and he made rapid notes
of it, questioning the narrator as to one or two points which appeared
to him to require explanation. Nicholas, as may be supposed, was
particularly interested in that part of the legend which referred to
Isole de Heton. He now for the first time heard of her unhallowed
intercourse with the freebooter Blackburn, of her compact on Whalley Nab
with the fiend, of her mysterious connection with Malkin Tower, and of
her being the ancestress of Mother Demdike. The consideration of all
these points, coupled with a vivid recollection of his own strange
adventure with the impious votaress at the Abbey on the previous night,
plunged him into a deep train of thought, and he began seriously to
consider whether he might not have committed some heinous sin, and,
indeed, jeopardised his soul's welfare by dancing with her. "What if I
should share the same fate as the robber Blackburn," he ruminated, "and
be dragged to perdition by her? It is a very awful reflection. But
though my fate might operate as a warning to others, I am by no means
anxious to be held up as a moral scarecrow. Rather let me take warning
myself, amend my life, abandon intemperance, which leads to all manner
of wickedness, and suffer myself no more to be ensnared by the wiles and
delusions of the tempter in the form of a fair woman. No--no--I will
alter and amend my life."

I regret, however, to say that these praiseworthy resolutions were but
transient, and that the squire, quite forgetting that the work of
reform, if intended to be really accomplished, ought to commence at
once, and by no means be postponed till the morrow, yielded to the
seductions of a fresh pottle of sack, which was presented to him at the
moment by Bess, and in taking it could not help squeezing the hand of
the bouncing hostess, and gazing at her more tenderly than became a
married man. Oh! Nicholas--Nicholas--the work of reform, I am afraid,
proceeds very slowly and imperfectly with you. Your friend, Parson.
Dewhurst, would have told you that it is much easier to form good
resolutions than to keep them.

Leaving the squire, however, to his cogitations and his sack, the
attorney to his memorandum-book, in which he was still engaged in
writing, and the others to their talk, we shall proceed to the chamber
whither the poor miller had been led by Bess. When visited by the
rector, he had been apparently soothed by the worthy man's consolatory
advice, but when left alone he speedily relapsed into his former dark
and gloomy state of mind. He did not notice Bess, who, according to
Holden's directions, placed the aquavitae bottle before him, but, as long
as she stayed, remained with his face buried in his hands. As soon as
she was gone he arose, and began to pace the room to and fro. The window
was open, and he could hear the funeral bell tolling mournfully at
intervals. Each recurrence of the dismal sound added sharpness and
intensity to his grief. His sufferings became almost intolerable, and
drove him to the very verge of despair and madness. If a weapon had
been at hand, he might have seized it, and put a sudden period to his
existence. His breast was a chaos of fierce and troubled thoughts, in
which one black and terrible idea arose and overpowered all the rest. It
was the desire of vengeance, deep and complete, upon her whom he looked
upon as the murderess of his child. He cared not how it were
accomplished so it were done; but such was the opinion he entertained of
the old hag's power, that he doubted his ability to the task. Still, as
the bell tolled on, the furies at his heart lashed and goaded him on,
and yelled in his ear revenge--revenge! Now, indeed, he was crazed with
grief and rage; he tore off handfuls of hair, plunged his nails deeply
into his breast, and while committing these and other wild excesses,
with frantic imprecations he called down Heaven's judgments on his own
head. He was in that lost and helpless state when the enemy of mankind
has power over man. Nor was the opportunity neglected; for when the
wretched Baldwyn, who, exhausted by the violence of his motions, had
leaned for a moment against the wall, he perceived to his surprise that
there was a man in the room--a small personage attired in rusty black,
whom he thought had been one of the party in the adjoining chamber.

There was an expression of mockery about this person's countenance which
did not please the miller, and he asked him, sternly, what he wanted.

"Leave off grinnin, mon," he said, fiercely, "or ey may be tempted to
tay yo be t' throttle, an may yo laugh o't wrong side o' your mouth."

"No, no, you will not, Richard Baldwyn, when you know my errand,"
replied the man. "You are thirsting for vengeance upon Mother Demdike.
You shall have it."

"Eigh, eigh, you promised me vengeance efore," cried the
miller--"vengeance by the law. Boh ey mun wait lung for it. Ey wad ha'
it swift and sure--deep and deadly. Ey wad blast her wi' curses, os hoo
blasted my poor Meary. Ey wad strike her deeod at my feet. That's my
vengeance, mon."

"You shall have it," replied the other.

"Yo talk differently fro' what yo did just now, mon," said the miller,
regarding him narrowly and distrustfully. "An yo look differently too.
There's a queer glimmer abowt your een that ey didna notice efore, and
that ey mislike."

The man laughed bitterly.

"Leave off grinnin' or begone," cried Baldwyn, furiously. And he raised
his hand to strike the man, but he instantly dropped it, appalled by a
look which the other threw at him. "Who the dule are yo?"

"The dule must answer you, since you appeal to him," replied the other,
with the same mocking smile; "but you are mistaken in supposing that you
have spoken to me before. He with whom you conversed in the other room,
resembles me in more respects than one, but he does not possess power
equal to mine. The law will not aid you against Mother Demdike. She will
escape all the snares laid for her. But she will not escape _me_."

"Who are ye?" cried the miller, his hair erecting on his head, and cold
damps breaking out upon his brow. "Yo are nah mortal, an nah good, to
tawk i' this fashion."

"Heed not who and what I am," replied the other; "I am known here as a
reeve of the forest--that is enough. Would you have vengeance on the
murtheress of your child?"

"Yeigh," rejoined Baldwyn.

"And you are willing to pay for it at the price of your soul?" demanded
the other, advancing towards him.

Baldwyn reeled. He saw at once the fearful peril in which he was placed,
and averted his gaze from the scorching glance of the reeve.

At this moment the door was tried without, and the voice of Bess was
heard, saying, "Who ha' yo got wi' yo, Ruchot; and whoy ha' yo fastened
t' door?"

"Your answer?" demanded the reeve.

"Ey canna gi' it now," replied the miller. "Come in, Bess; come in."

"Ey conna," she replied. "Open t' door, mon."

"Your answer, I say?" said the reeve.

"Gi' me an hour to think on't," said the miller.

"Agreed," replied the other. "I will be with you after the funeral."

And he sprang through the window, and disappeared before Baldwyn could
open the door and admit Bess.

CHAPTER VII.--THE PERAMBULATION OF THE BOUNDARIES.

The lane along which Richard Assheton galloped in pursuit of Mother
Chattox, made so many turns, and was, moreover, so completely hemmed in
by high banks and hedges, that he could sec nothing on either side of
him, and very little in advance; but, guided by the clatter of hoofs, he
urged Merlin to his utmost speed, fancying he should soon come up with
the fugitives. In this, however, he was deceived. The sound that had led
him on became fainter and fainter, till at last it died away altogether;
and on quitting the lane and gaining the moor, where the view was wholly
uninterrupted, no traces either of witch or reeve could be discerned.

With a feeling of angry disappointment, Richard was about to turn back,
when a large black greyhound came from out an adjoining clough, and
made towards him. The singularity of the circumstance induced him to
halt and regard the dog with attention. On nearing him, the animal
looked wistfully in his face, and seemed to invite him to follow; and
the young man was so struck by the dog's manner, that he complied, and
had not gone far when a hare of unusual size and grey with age bounded
from beneath a gorse-bush and speeded away, the greyhound starting in
pursuit.

Aware of the prevailing notion, that a witch most commonly assumed such
a form when desirous of escaping, or performing some act of mischief,
such as drying the milk of kine, Richard at once came to the conclusion
that the hare could be no other than Mother Chattox; and without pausing
to inquire what the hound could be, or why it should appear at such a
singular and apparently fortunate juncture, he at once joined the run,
and cheered on the dog with whoop and holloa.

Old as it was, apparently, the hare ran with extraordinary swiftness,
clearing every stone wall and other impediment in the way, and more than
once cunningly doubling upon its pursuers. But every feint and stratagem
were defeated by the fleet and sagacious hound, and the hunted animal at
length took to the open waste, where the run became so rapid, that
Richard had enough to do to keep up with it, though Merlin, almost as
furiously excited as his master, strained every sinew to the task.

In this way the chasers and the chased scoured the dark and heathy
plain, skirting moss-pool and clearing dyke, till they almost reached
the but-end of Pendle Hill, which rose like an impassable barrier before
them. Hitherto the chances had seemed in favour of the hare; but they
now began to turn, and as it seemed certain she must fall into the
hound's jaws, Richard expected every moment to find her resume her
natural form. The run having brought him within, a quarter of a mile of
Barley, the rude hovels composing which little booth were clearly
discernible, the young man began to think the hag's dwelling must he
among them, and that she was hurrying thither as to a place of refuge.
But before this could be accomplished, he hoped to effect her capture,
and once more cheered on the hound, and plunged his spurs into Merlin's
sides. An obstacle, however, occurred which he had not counted on.
Directly in the course taken by the hare lay a deep, disused limestone
quarry, completely screened from view by a fringe of brushwood. When
within a few yards of this pit, the hound made a dash at the flying
hare, but eluding him, the latter sprang forward, and both went over the
edge of the quarry together. Richard had wellnigh followed, and in that
case would have been inevitably dashed in pieces; but, discovering the
danger ere it was too late, by a powerful effort, which threw Merlin
upon his haunches, he pulled him back on the very brink of the pit.

The young man shuddered as he gazed into the depths of the quarry, and
saw the jagged points and heaps of broken stone that would have received
him; but he looked in vain for the old witch, whose mangled body,
together with that of the hound, he expected to behold; and he then
asked himself whether the chase might not have been a snare set for him
by the hag and her familiar, with the intent of luring him to
destruction. If so, he had been providentially preserved.

Quitting the pit, his first idea was to proceed to Barley, which was now
only a few hundred yards off, to make inquiries respecting Mother
Chattox, and ascertain whether she really dwelt there; but, on further
consideration, he judged it best to return without further delay to
Goldshaw, lest his friends, ignorant as to what had befallen him, might
become alarmed on his account; but he resolved, as soon as he had
disposed of the business in hand, to prosecute his search after the hag.
Riding rapidly, he soon cleared the ground between the quarry and
Goldshaw Lane, and was about to enter the latter, when the sound of
voices singing a funeral hymn caught his ear, and, pausing to listen to
it, he beheld a little procession, the meaning of which he readily
comprehended, wending its slow and melancholy way in the same direction
as himself. It was headed by four men in deep mourning, bearing upon
their shoulders a small coffin, covered with a pall, and having a
garland of white flowers in front of it. Behind them followed about a
dozen young men and maidens, likewise in mourning, walking two and two,
with gait and aspect of unfeigned affliction. Many of the women, though
merely rustics, seemed to possess considerable personal attraction; but
their features were in a great measure concealed by their large white
kerchiefs, disposed in the form of hoods. All carried sprigs of rosemary
and bunches of flowers in their hands. Plaintive was the hymn they sang,
and their voices, though untaught, were sweet and touching, and went to
the heart of the listener.

Much moved, Richard suffered the funeral procession to precede him along
the deep and devious lane, and as it winded beneath the hedges, the
sight was inexpressibly affecting. Fastening his horse to a tree at the
end of the lane, Richard followed on foot. Notice of the approach of the
train having been given in the village, all the inhabitants flocked
forth to meet it, and there was scarcely a dry eye among them. Arrived
within a short distance of the church, the coffin was met by the
minister, attended by the clerk, behind whom came Roger Nowell,
Nicholas, and the rest of the company from the hostel. With great
difficulty poor Baldwyn could be brought to take his place as chief
mourner. These arrangements completed, the body of the ill-fated girl
was borne into the churchyard, the minister reading the solemn texts
appointed for the occasion, and leading the way to the grave, beside
which stood the sexton, together with the beadle of Goldshaw and
Sparshot. The coffin was then laid on trestles, and amidst profound
silence, broken only by the sobs of the mourners, the service was read,
and preparations made for lowering the body into the grave.

Then it was that poor Baldwyn, with a wild, heart-piercing cry, flung
himself upon the shell containing all that remained of his lost
treasure, and could with difficulty be removed from it by Bess and
Sudall, both of whom were in attendance. The bunches of flowers and
sprigs of rosemary having been laid upon the coffin by the maidens,
amidst loud sobbing and audibly expressed lamentations from the
bystanders, it was let down into the grave, and earth thrown over it.

Earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust.

The ceremony was over, the mourners betook themselves to the little
hostel, and the spectators slowly dispersed; but the bereaved father
still lingered, unable to tear himself away. Leaning for support against
the yew-tree, he fiercely bade Bess, who would have led him home with
her, begone. The kind-hearted hostess complied in appearance, but
remained nigh at hand though concealed from view.

Once more the dark cloud overshadowed the spirit of the wretched
man--once more the same infernal desire of vengeance possessed him--once
more he subjected himself to temptation. Striding to the foot of the
grave he raised his hand, and with terrible imprecations vowed to lay
the murtheress of his child as low as she herself was now laid. At that
moment he felt an eye like a burning-glass fixed upon him, and, looking
up, beheld the reeve of the forest standing on the further side of the
grave.

"Kneel down, and swear to be mine, and your wish shall be gratified,"
said the reeve.

Beside himself with grief and rage, Baldwyn would have complied, but he
was arrested by a powerful grasp. Fearing he was about to commit some
rash act, Bess rushed forward and caught hold of his doublet.

"Bethink thee whot theaw has just heerd fro' t' minister, Ruchot," she
cried in a voice of solemn warning. "'Blessed are the dead that dee i'
the Lord, for they rest fro their labours.' An again, 'Suffer us not at
our last hour, for onny pains o' death, to fa' fro thee.' Oh Ruchot,
dear! fo' the love theaw hadst fo' thy poor chilt, who is now delivert
fro' the burthen o' th' flesh, an' dwellin' i' joy an felicity wi' God
an his angels, dunna endanger thy precious sowl. Pray that theaw may'st
depart hence i' th' Lord, wi' whom are the sowls of the faithful, an
Meary's, ey trust, among the number. Pray that thy eend may be like
hers."

"Ey conna pray, Bess," replied the miller, striking his breast. "The
Lord has turned his feace fro' me."

"Becose thy heart is hardened, Ruchot," she replied. "Theaw 'rt
nourishin' nowt boh black an wicked thowts. Cast em off ye, I adjure
thee, an come whoam wi me."

Meanwhile, the reeve had sprung across the grave.

"Thy answer at once," he said, grasping the miller's arm, and breathing
the words in his ears. "Vengeance is in thy power. A word, and it is
thine."

The miller groaned bitterly. He was sorely tempted.

"What is that mon sayin' to thee, Ruchot?" inquired Bess.

"Dunna ax, boh tak me away," he answered. "Ey am lost else."

"Let him lay a finger on yo if he dare," said Bess, sturdily.

"Leave him alone--yo dunna knoa who he is," whispered the miller.

"Ey con partly guess," she rejoined; "boh ey care nother fo' mon nor
dule when ey'm acting reetly. Come along wi' me, Ruchot."

"Fool!" cried the reeve, in the same low tone as before; "you will lose
your revenge, but you will not escape me."

And he turned away, while Bess almost carried the trembling and
enfeebled miller towards the hostel.

Roger Nowell and his friends had only waited the conclusion of the
funeral to set forth, and their horses being in readiness, they mounted
them on leaving the churchyard, and rode slowly along the lane leading
towards Rough Lee. The melancholy scene they had witnessed, and the
afflicting circumstances connected with it, had painfully affected the
party, and little conversation occurred until they were overtaken by
Parson Holden, who, having been made acquainted with their errand by
Nicholas, was desirous of accompanying them. Soon after this, also, the
reeve of the forest joined them, and on seeing him, Richard sternly
demanded why he had aided Mother Chattox in her night from the
churchyard, and what had become of her.

"You are entirely mistaken, sir," replied the reeve, with affected
astonishment. "I have seen nothing whatever of the old hag, and would
rather lend a hand to her capture than abet her flight. I hold all
witches in abhorrence, and Mother Chattox especially so."

"Your horse looks fresh enough, certainly," said Richard, somewhat
shaken in his suspicions. "Where have you been during our stay at
Goldshaw? You did not put up at the hostel?"

"I went to Farmer Johnson's," replied the reeve, "and you will find upon
inquiry that my horse has not been out of his stables for the last hour.
I myself have been loitering about Bess's grange and farmyard, as your
grooms will testify, for they have seen me."

"Humph!" exclaimed Richard, "I suppose I must credit assertions made
with such confidence, but I could have sworn I saw you ride off with the
hag behind you."

"I hope I shall never be caught in such bad company, sir," replied the
reeve, with a laugh. "If I ride off with any one, it shall not be with
an old witch, depend upon it."

Though by no means satisfied with the explanation, Richard was forced to
be content with it; but he thought he would address a few more questions
to the reeve.

"Have you any knowledge," he said, "when the boundaries of Pendle Forest
were first settled and appointed?"

"The first perambulation was made by Henry de Lacy, about the middle of
the twelfth century," replied the reeve. "Pendle Forest, you may be
aware, sir, is one of the four divisions of the great forest of
Blackburnshire, of which the Lacys were lords, the three other divisions
being Accrington, Trawden, and Rossendale, and it comprehends an extent
of about twenty-five miles, part of which you have traversed to-day. At
a later period, namely in 1311, after the death of another Henry de
Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, the last of his line, and one of the bravest of
Edward the First's barons, an inquisition was held in the forest, and it
was subdivided into eleven vaccaries, one of which is the place to which
you are bound, Rough Lee."